Gold Diggers

by Tracie Howard

  Finally he would set himself apart from the cadre of other black music-industry titans by making his long-awaited move into film. It was the deal that Brandon had been praying for every day as he struggled to build his empire. Just as he’d fled the Delta and never looked back, he now wanted to rid himself of the grit and grime of hip-hop. When he was younger, dealing with the madness was one thing, but now that he was in his mid-forties it was not good for his health or his sanity. Decades ago, when he envisioned making millions, he did not foresee working with drug dealers, gangsters, and thugs forever, and recently things had gotten even worse. These days a rap artist without a couple of felonies or bullet wounds to his credit wasn’t even marketable. He craved a more dignified life producing films, traveling between the States and a hillside villa in the South of France that he planned to buy, and simply enjoying the finer things in life. He’d say good-bye to all of the lame chicken heads with bad grammar and worse weaves, and the stupid, ignorant gangbangers, and spend his time with a real lady, like Gillian, someone with class. He loved the regal way she carried herself, and how she never seemed affected or impressed by wealth. In other words, his Bentley didn’t cause her tongue to hang from her mouth and saliva to drool from its corners. Unlike most women he met, she wasn’t a gold digger. She was perfect for him; she looked good on his arm, she was well educated—Brown University, no less—and he could apply his star-building skills to make her the next award-winning superstar actress. They’d be the perfect power couple.

  Meanwhile, back in her hotel suite Imelda slipped half an Am-bien into Stephan’s tonic water and slipped herself into a Swarovski crystal–covered cocktail dress and matching sling-backs, before scurrying to the hotel’s loading dock. She’d bribed one of the managers to allow her driver to pick her up in the back of the hotel, so that she could then be chauffeured around to the front, where she’d make her grand entrance stepping out of the limo in front of the star-studded gathering. Her brilliant plan could be ruined if anyone happened to see her hovering around the loading dock before taking a limo to the other side of the hotel. What a desperate loser she’d look like!

  While her mother was concocting her scheme, Gillian was strongly considering not going to the party at all. She could tell from the look of glee in Imelda’s eyes when she said that Brandon had invited her that there was sure to be drama involved. After the phone call Imelda rushed through dinner, anxious to get back to the hotel to dress for the party. At first Gillian couldn’t figure out why her mother would be so excited about going to a record-industry hip-hop party, but it didn’t take long for her to come to the conclusion that it was related to Imelda’s favorite accessory: green cash money. Knowing Imelda, she realized that there would be entertainment executives there, both black and white, who were flush with cash. But what about her fiancé? And whatever had happened to her husband?

  Gillian’s cell phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Hey, babe, it’s me.”

  “Hi, Brandon.”

  “Just wanted to make sure you got my message earlier.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Also, I’m sending Charles for you. He’ll be downstairs in an hour.”

  Gillian didn’t reply; she was still considering whether she wanted to go or not.

  “Also, William’s coming, and he wants to spend some time getting to know you better, now that we’ve gotten the film fully funded.” He let the last few words sink in.

  When they did, Gillian jumped up from the couch. “Did you say that you got the film funded?” Miss Calm, Cool, and Unaffected was now affected. It was one thing to have a film in development, where most died a slow death, but quite another to have it funded for production.

  “Absolutely, and you’re gonna be the star. So get here within the hour and we’ll open a bottle of champagne.”

  She plopped back down onto the couch, dumbstruck. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Don’t forget to really work the red carpet. You are about to be a big star. I’ll instruct our publicist to make sure that you get plenty of coverage from Access Hollywood, Extra, and the print media.”

  “No problem with that.”

  “Cool. Oh, by the way, your mom sounds great.”

  “She’s a piece of work.”

  “I can’t wait to meet her. Gotta run.”

  Gillian hung up the phone in a daze. She had become so accustomed to disappointment that even after meeting the famed producer and hearing Brandon talk about the film nonstop, she never really expected that it would happen. The good news vanquished all thoughts of her mother.

  Thankful that Paulette wasn’t there to give her the third degree, Gillian slipped into a tangerine-colored Roberto Cavalli cocktail dress, bronze mules, a stunning Ethos Art Collection necklace, and long chandelier earrings that brushed her perfectly sculptured shoulders seductively, preparing for her own grand entrance. She practically skipped down to the lobby, where Charles stood ready to open the door for her to climb into the black Bentley. Maybach, Bentley, it didn’t matter—he could have sent a horse and carriage and she would have been just as happy. Finally, she was on the verge of starting her film career.

  The red carpet in front of the Four Seasons was a swarm of press, handlers, partygoers, and onlookers waiting to catch a glimpse of the next celebrity to make an appearance. So far they’d feasted their eyes on Jay-Z, Beyoncé, Denzel, Kanye West, 50 Cent, and Terrence Howard, and were salivating for the next boldface name. When the black Bentley pulled up, every head turned to see who would step out of it. Dutifully Charles hopped out, dressed in his formal uniform, replete with black cap, and opened the door as though Gillian were the Queen Mum. Ever elegant and in control, Gillian set one smooth, long leg on the pavement, followed by the other, until all five feet and ten inches of her stood up in total splendor. Aside from being gorgeous, her look was so un-L.A., so non-fake-boob-wearing and light-skin obsessed, that she was literally a breath of fresh air, causing a pause from those gathered.

  Brandon’s publicist, CoAnne Wilshire, rushed to her side bearing a clipboard and a fake smile. After a brief introduction she ushered Gillian to the red carpet, where camera flashes immediately burst in the night like fireflies. Gillian could hear a chorus of:

  “Who is that?”

  “She’s gorgeous, but who is she?”

  “She looks familiar; was she in the last Rainforest film?”

  Everyone played the Gillian guessing game, which was just what Brandon wanted to accomplish. As cameras continued to flash, Gillian handled the red carpet like a seasoned pro, gliding along without stopping to pose for every available cameraman, as many an aspiring actress would be tasteless enough to do. The trick was always to appear unaffected. Toward the end, CoAnne guided her to Shaun Robinson from Access Hollywood for an on-camera interview.

  “Gillian, you look amazing. I guess L.A. agrees with you.” Shaun flashed a bright Hollywood smile and put the microphone to Gillian’s face.

  “I’ve always loved L.A.,” she lied fluidly.

  “I caught you on Broadway a couple of years ago and you were great. What are you working on now?” This was also a well-executed lie; Shaun had simply read the notes provide by CoAnne, realizing it was best to appear to know the beautiful creature in front of her, even though she’d never laid eyes on her before in her life. She had been in the business long enough to know a comer when she saw one.

  “Thank you…” But before Gillian could answer the question posed, she caught a blur of crystal and platinum moving toward her at a swift clip. She turned to see what the moving galaxy was, and there stood Imelda, already hovering over Shaun’s microphone and wearing a smile as bright as her garb.

  “My daughter is in L.A. to star in a new film by William Rutherford and Brandon Russell. Oh, by the way, I’m Gillian’s mother, Imelda von Glich.” She gave Shaun an unexpected kiss on each cheek, as though they were long-
lost friends, while Gillian silently fumed.

  “Mother, why don’t we get inside,” Gillian said, managing a tight smile. When she felt her mother hesitate, she latched on to Imelda’s elbow and firmly guided her away, stopping only for a moment to say to Shaun, “Let’s catch up soon.”

  After they were off the red carpet, Gillian demanded in a harsh whisper, “Mom, what the hell are you doing?” Imelda would wait to appear until it was time for Gillian’s close-up. She was truly insufferable.

  Imelda stuck her nose in the air arrogantly. “I was only trying to help.”

  The rest of the night proceeded downhill fast. After they joined Brandon, who was holding court in the VIP area, Imelda flirted with him shamelessly before latching on to Samuel Becks, the chairman of UTI Entertainment, a multimedia conglomerate. He was an old, gray, but distinguished-looking and filthy-rich man. He was also a legend and titan of the entertainment business, and was there along with many other prominent and wealthy men to show support for Brandon, who was the current golden black boy in the industry. Men and money were everywhere, and Imelda was like a hungry pig in a field full of black truffles; she smelled money all around her, and wasn’t quite sure where to dig first.

  By the time Gillian caught up to her, the woman was three sheets to the wind and flying high. After much prodding, Gillian managed to coerce her into the ladies’ room. Once inside she grabbed Imelda by her forearm and turned her around. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Indignant, Imelda pulled her arm away and smoothed her dress down over her hips. “I am just fine.”

  “Mom, you are drunk!” Gillian nearly screamed. “And you’re hanging all over one man, while some guy you say you’re planning to marry is upstairs, and another guy who was supposed to be your husband—the last I heard—is in Europe!” she fumed. “What the hell is going on with you?”

  Imelda was a master at ignoring reality, but to hear her life so harshly articulated by her daughter stunned her. Tears began to burn her eyes, and her lips quivered as she fought back emotions that she never bothered to face. “My husband has no money, and neither do I. I have nothing!” she sobbed.

  This made no sense to Gillian at all. “But I thought he was a baron or something.”

  Imelda sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes, pouting. “Yeah, but a very broke one. It would be my luck. All the man has is a title, a big, cold castle, and a bunch of land. You can’t exactly go shopping on the Champs-Elysées with that, now, can you?” she snipped.

  “So, you’re divorcing him for that?” Gillian couldn’t believe her ears. It was one thing to be a gold digger, but to be so callous was another.

  “What better reason?” Her tears had dried up, and Imelda became as serious as a heart attack.

  “But I thought you loved him,” Gillian naively said.

  Imelda fixed her with steady, cold eyes and said, “What’s love got to do with it?”

  TWENTY

  “Mommy, why don’t you live here with me and Daddy anymore?” Rowe looked at Reese with big, round, quizzical eyes and a pout on his upturned face. He was a cute but precocious little boy. Reese sighed, tired of having to answer this same question during each visit. Her attorney, Justin Brookes, a colleague of Max’s, had insisted that she maintain a regular visitation schedule whether she wanted to or not. It was important that she begin establishing a track record as a good mother.

  “I told you, Mommy and Daddy are not together anymore,” Reese said in a barely patient tone. “But I’m still your mommy, and we’ll see each other all the time.” Rowe’s three-year-old’s attention span had already latched on to something of greater interest. He was happily pulling things out of Reese’s bag while Reese sat nearby, distracted by thoughts of her recent bank statement. Rowe struck pay dirt upon finding a tube of MAC lipstick, and prepared to make a magenta mess on the cream-colored carpet.

  “Rowe, you’re not to play with Mommy’s things. Where is your paint set? You can paint in your playroom, but not in here.”

  “But I like this paint,” the child whined, putting a death grip on the tube of lipstick. When she took it away from him he folded his arms firmly across his little chest and stamped angrily on the floor.

  “This is for adults, not kids.” On some level Reese did love her son; however, she’d just never managed to truly bond with him, mainly because his birth began as a means to financial end.

  “But I waaaannnnttt iiiit,” Rowe whined, as he began stamping his feet adamantly in place. The child was becoming increasingly spoiled, due to the fact that his mother ignored him, his father was never home, and his nanny thought her job was to comfort and entertain him, rather than instill discipline. Having his grandmother around hadn’t helped the situation; her solution to everything was another home-baked cookie.

  “What did I say?” Reese asked sternly. The little tyrant, Reese thought. When she was a kid a fit like this would have been brought to a swift resolution with the help of a well-worn belt, but these days you could barely raise your voice at your own child without the risk of being reported to the authorities.

  “I don’t care what you said! You’re mean! And you’re not my mommy anymore anyway.” Rowe stuck his tongue out at her defiantly. “I have a new mommy now.”

  Reese was about to snatch the little brat up by his collar and call out for his nanny, until she realized what the child had said. “You have a new mommy?” she repeated, her unwaxed brow furrowed in question.

  By now, Rowe had sidetracked his hissy fit, and was sitting on the floor calmly playing with a jigsaw puzzle. “Yes, and she’s very pretty,” Rowe said without looking up.

  Reese calmed herself down and clasped her hands together, stemming the nearly irresistible urge to wrap them around the boy’s neck. “What’s your new mommy’s name?” She’d known it was only a matter of time before Chris would have some hoochie up in there, but so soon? She wouldn’t admit it—even to herself—but some part of her was still in denial, and was sure that Chris would come back to his senses, and realize that he still loved her madly and couldn’t possibly live without her. It was irrelevant that she didn’t want him; this was a matter only of ego and her own selfish principles. She should be the one to end it, not him.

  Rowe looked up, leveling a steady gaze, wanting to witness his mother’s reaction. “Auntie Kira.” Even at his tender age, Rowe instinctively knew that what he said would punish his mother, but he had no idea the impact of the bombshell he’d lobbed her way.

  Reese’s face froze in shock, and her mind reeled back to her sordid deal with the devil, and how the horn-wearing bitch had disappeared like Casper the Friendly Ghost after the shit hit the fan. Heat rose through her body like vinegar separating from oil. Her anger started from the very core of her being, and steamed upward and out. The nerve of that fucking slut-bitch! No wonder the whore hadn’t bothered returning her calls; she’d been too busy getting in position to stick the knife farther into her back.

  Calm down, she told herself. She had to get more information. “Does your new mommy live here?” she nonchalantly inquired. By now Rowe was over the fleeting excitement of delivering bad news and was back to his puzzle, trying to fit a square-shaped piece into a round hole.

  “She just visits, like you,” Rowe said, smiling sweetly, but devilishly.

  She left him in the living room and charged into the library, making a beeline for Chris’s cabinet, where he kept his bills. Reese began rummaging through the files with an obsessive vengeance. She cursed and flipped folders until she came across the one she wanted, a file containing his cell phone records. Starting with the most recent one, she scanned the log with a chipped nail until she came across the familiar numbers she’d called to contact Kira herself. “That bitch!” she screamed. She cursed herself for not continuing to try reaching Kira, but after her life hit the skids, she’d become most preoccupied with figuring out how to sur
vive, and easily assumed that their plan hadn’t worked and Kira had just gotten busy. She was right on that account: The backstabbing hussy had gotten busy, all right—busy stealing her husband. She may have hired Kira to fuck him, but that certainly didn’t give her leeway to be his damned girlfriend!

  She stuffed the bill into her back pocket and snatched up the phone, frantically pounding out Kira’s phone number.

  “Hello?” Kira answered on the fifth ring, sounding like she’d just woken from a dead sleep, or, more likely in her case, she’d just rolled over from a good romp in the sack.

  “Wake the fuck up, bitch,” Reese spit.

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “The woman whose husband you stole. Though I’m sure that where a whore like you is concerned, that’s not much of a distinction; it only makes me one of many.” She’d always heard that Kira was a guiltless barracuda, but she never imagined that the woman would bare her fangs at her.

  “Oh, it’s you.”

  “You damned right it’s me, and I want you to stay away from my husband.”

  “The last time we spoke you wanted to pay me to fuck him, so why don’t you make up your mind? Which is it?”

  Reese’s nostrils flared in anger. “You don’t know who you’re fucking with, Kira. I’ll kick your sorry yellow ass.” The south Bronx surfaced, smothering years of social exfoliation.

  “Listen, Reese, you need to chill. If you hadn’t been so damned greedy this never would have happened. You asked for it; now you deal with it.”

  “You fuckin’ bitch—” Before she could finish the sentence, the phone was snatched from her hand.

  Reese spun around to find Chris standing behind her, pissed off and ready to spit hollow-points.

  “I should have known you were fucking around with that slut!”

  Chris put the phone back on the receiver. “It takes one to know one.” He turned to leave.

  She silently prayed that Kira hadn’t told Chris all about their scheme to trap him in bed with her. That would only make her settlement discussions with him that much harder. Maybe she had only told him about her affair with Shaun. Reese ran around him, blocking his exit. “What did she tell you?” she demanded.