“Here, Rowanda, take this money and buy us some food. I won’t tell nobody else that you smoked up all your money. I won’t say nothing. I know I be too fresh, I know I’m bad, but I’m sorry. You forgive me? Now, please, can I stay?”
“You gotta go.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause I’ma damn fiend, girl.”
“So? Ain’t everybody ’cept the social worker and the teacher a fiend?”
“No, they is not. And look, I ain’t got shit and I can’t give you shit! And they is not gon’ let me keep you.”
“I ain’t goin’. ”
The social worker placed a hand on Vera’s shoulder.
“Get offa me!”
Rowanda snatched Vera off the floor and carried her outside to the social worker’s car. “You gettin’ yo’ ass outta here! You not gon’ stay here like this! Told you I ain’t got shit and you tryna hold on. Open the damn door!” She screamed at the social worker, who nervously snatched it open.
“Mommy, please! Rowanda, please. I’ma be good!”
Rowanda peeled Vera off her, quickly placed her in the back seat, and slammed the door.
“Why is you doing this?!” Vera cried as she thrashed around in the back seat desperately trying to get out.
“ ’Cause I’m your damn mother!” she spat as she stood there, watching the social worker hop into the driver’s seat and ride off into the distance.
Vera did her best to blink away her memory. She swallowed and tried to see her mother for who she was today. It was a struggle. “Leave the shit alone,” she spat. “Now either you want some damn wine,” Vera snatched two glasses from the cabinet. “Or you don’t.” She filled only one. “But all this mother-daughter confessions session shit you’re trying to have with me is not about to happen. Now I’m warning you, drink up or take your ass back to bed!”
“I’m warning you to watch your damn mouth and don’t speak to me like that!”
“Speak to you like what?” Vera frowned. “Let’s not pretend here. The only reason you even show up here every year—this damn time—is to make yourself feel better and to bask in my success. What the fuck do you want? Fame? Fortune? A standing ovation? Yeah, that’s it.” Vera clapped her hands. “Job well done, Rowanda. You did a wonderful job of gettin’ high, helping me into foster care, and giving me a boatload of goddamn trust issues. Wonder-fucking-full!”
“I did my best!”
“Then you need to up your damn standards!”
“I’m trying to tell you—”
“I don’t need you trying to tell me shit! When I needed you, you gave me away!”
“I made sure that Cookie was able to raise you!”
“I wasn’t her child! Like you said, you’re my damn mother! You should’ve raised me! Instead, all you did was get high and whore your ass in the street! And now that you’re clean—off of my dime—and you live out in the suburbs of Chicago with your husband, mega pastor Doctor Reverend, you think you can come and tell me about my husband? Never. Because you and I both know that the only damn man you’ve ever consistently been with is a glass dick!”
Whap!!!!
Rowanda slapped Vera so hard that her ears rang and her neck twisted to the left. She fell into the counter, knocking the wine bottle and the glasses over. Vera lifted her eyes and peered at her mother as she pressed a palm against her burning cheek.
Rowanda pointed a finger in Vera’s face. “Don’t you ever speak to me like that again! Or I will knock your damn head off! And yes, I’m your damn mother and no, I didn’t raise you! And yes, I was a damn junkie and a whore! But I made sure that you lived with someone who could love you and give you more than I could. I couldn’t have you going from dope house to dope house! That’s not a life for a little girl! Why can’t you understand that?!”
Silence.
“I’ve been sober for six damn years and every year we do this same damn dance! You want me to come and when I get here you constantly bring up my past. You don’t take me around your friends—you keep me here and I stay here hoping and praying that if I please you and do what you want me to do, that you’ll accept me. But enough of that shit.”
Silence.
Rowanda continued, “Don’t you think I know what I’ve done and who I am?! Trust me. I have a lot of shit that I deal with every day! Half of it you can’t even begin to imagine! And if I had to do it all over again yes, I would have gotten off drugs and raised my own babies! But I couldn’t do that then! And I need you to understand that!”
Tears poured down Vera’s cheeks as she pressed her back against the counter and slid to the floor. “I’m sorry.” She cried. “I never meant to hurt you or take it out on you. I’m just . . . just so confused and hurt. And I want to move on, but it’s soooo hard. It’s so hard. I want to accept you as my mother and the woman you are today, but I don’t know how.”
“Just give me a chance to be your mother and you be my daughter. Be my baby girl for once.” She kneeled before Vera and pulled her head into her chest.”
“I feel like I’m losing everything.”
“But you don’t have to, baby. I’m here. I love you and I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“But Taj—”
“He loves you too. All you have to do is go and get him.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
Vera stared off into the distance, then brought her eyes back to meet Rowanda’s. “I just can’t.” She rose from the floor and brushed invisible dust from her robe. She wiped tears from her cheeks. “I guess we’ve had one helluva night.”
“Vera—”
“Rowanda, please. I don’t wanna talk about it. The only thing I can promise right now is that I’m going to do my best to get things right between us. That’s it.”
“And Taj?”
“I’m divorcing him.”
CHAPTER 20
MILAN
The Next Day . . .
Keep it classy.
Milan tapped the tip of her manicured index finger on the marble counter. “Run that past me again. He’s not what?” She looked at the hotel clerk.
“Ma’am, just as I told you last night when you arrived and am telling you again, this morning, for the third time”—the clerk clenched her teeth—“there’s no one here by the name of Kendu Malik.”
“Try Knott Harris, Kaareem Davis, or Carl Worthington.” Milan rattled off the aliases Kendu had been known to use when he traveled and wanted to avoid the ballyhoo of the press and the fans.
The clerk, a middle-aged black woman with mahogany skin and blond hair, pursed her lips and struggled to keep her attitude intact. She pushed her wire frames up the bridge of her broad nose and scanned the computer screen. “No one’s here by any of those names. Either.”
“I need to speak to the manager. Now.”
“I am the manager.”
“Then get me the goddamn CEO, because I don’t like your attitude, Shaquita. Apparently you don’t know who I am.”
“My name is Helen. It doesn’t matter who you are, ma’am, because your husband still isn’t going to be here.”
Oh no this bitch didn’t! “I will have your job! Don’t you ever speak to me like that, because hopping over this counter and beating your Poise-wearing ass will be just the stress reliever I need!”
“Ma’am—”
“And don’t call me another motherfuckin’ ‘ma’am,’ Sophia! You’re standing here trying to tell me that you haven’t seen a six-three, two-hundred-fifty-pound, double-dipped in molasses football legend and number one ESPN commentator, that everybody in American seems to know, except your lopsided, wig-wearing ass! What the fuck, do you have cataracts?!”
The clerk arched one brow and then the other. “If you and those cameras do not step away from the counter and leave, I will call security and have you removed!”
“Call ’em. I’m not scared of security! Fuck security!”
“Milan,” came from behind her.
&n
bsp; The rubber soles of Milan’s sneakers squeaked as she spun around. There stood Kendu. The invisible drop kick that he’d imprinted deep in her chest, before he left, rose to the surface. Pressure filled her neck and her eyes grew wide. She quietly watched him cross the threshold and walk into the lobby, dressed in a navy blue Versace suit, a crisp white shirt with the top two buttons open, and a briefcase in his left hand.
He looked at the cameras and then back to Milan. Twice.
There was a rising buzz among the guests in the lobby, some who eased through with a simple, “What’s going on?” but never staying long enough for an answer. And others who stopped and became a part of the action by snickering, whipping out their cell phones, snapping pictures, and recording. “You came a day early,” Kendu said, looking perplexed. “Let’s go upstairs.” He walked toward Milan.
Despite the building crowd, all Milan could focus on was Kendu. She curled her lips and said sarcastically, “Go upstairs?! Where? To the rooftop? ’Cause according to Mable over there”—she pointed to the hotel clerk—“you don’t have a room up in this here bitch! And I’m here a day early, motherfucker? No. I’m right on time. Yo’ ass is here a day motherfuckin’ late. Now where were you? And don’t lie, because I’ve been calling you, and calling you, and calling you, for two goddamn days and you haven’t answered any of my calls!”
“I lost my phone when I was at the convention. Now can we—”
“Stop lying! Because I went to that whack-ass convention center yesterday and guess what? There was no convention! I’ve been to your favorite restaurants and nobody has seen you! I’ve been all over this damn city, not to mention that I’ve been at this motherfuckin’ counter, twice since last night, and guess what? You ain’t been here either! Now where were you?”
“Milan—”
“Just spit it out!” She pointed in his face. “What ho are you fucking down here, ’cause your stringy-haired crazy white bitch is in New York strolling your black baby around and stalking our goddamn house!”
“What?!”
“Cut the stupid act! Now where the fuck were you?”
“Listen—”
Milan balled a fist and released a finger with every word, starting with her pinky. “Your statement needs to start with your exact location, then go to who’s the bitch down here, and end with you explaining why I got some blond-haired, wet-dog-smelling whore showing up at my front fuckin’ door, with some baby, saying to me that she was hoping that you had told me about the two of you! Now I need some answers! And don’t lie, ’cause tricks are for kids and clearly I am not in a good fuckin’ mood. So don’t give me any bullshit!”
“Milan—”
“There you go again about to lie!” She pounded a right fist into her left palm. “Why don’t you just tell the damn truth? ’Cause in a minute it’s gon’ be some slow singing and flower bringing! Now who are you fuckkinnnnn’?! Why couldn’t I get you on the phooooone?! Why did you lie about the conven-tioooon ? Why was there some crazy-ass white bitch at my front dooooor?! Who is that goddamn babeeee? Why does it look just like your asssss?! And why did Miss Celie over there say you didn’t have a room in this motherfuckerrrrr?” Milan turned toward the clerk. Back to Kendu. “Or are you fuckin’ that bitch? Is that it? What kind of Tiger Woods shit are you into? So you down here dusting off rude-ass old bitches now! You just a dick slangin’ motherfucker! You ain’t shit! I have asked you at least fifty goddamn times for explanation after explanation and you haven’t said one damn word. Not one. Now. I’m asking you nicely—please stop fucking with me because in a minute it’s going to be a deadly misunderstanding.”
“Milan—”
“You know what; you know what.” She took two steps back from Kendu, lunged four steps forward, and shoved him in his chest. “I have to get the fuck out of here. ’Cause I can’t listen to another one of your lies. I’m tired of your shit. I’ve been bitching about you since I was eight years old and it’s time to make a motherfuckin’ change. So I’m going to just leave you here with that old bitch who’s obviously suckin’ your dick! Because if I stay here a moment longer, they’ll be drawing white chalk around your ass!”
“Milan—” Kendu reached for her hand and she snatched it away, stormed through the crowd of shocked picture-snapping and video-recording people in the lobby, and rushed into the limo that awaited her, with Bridget and Carl on her heels.
Tears knocked at the back of her eyes. You’d better not cry.
“Take me to the airport,” Milan ordered the driver. “I need to get home.”
“Milan,” Bridget called, doing her best to hold back her smile. “Tell the camera how you feel right now.”
Silence. Instead of responding or busting Bridget in the mouth, which Milan desperately wanted to do, she turned toward the window and did her best to swallow the iron fist that had wedged its way into her throat and pushed tears through her eyes.
CHAPTER 21
CHAUNCI
I don’t believe this....
Chaunci sat on her sofa in pure darkness. Lights off. Blinds closed.
Everything has been taken.
My dreams.
My plans.
My company.
My secrets . . .
She held her face in her hands. I promised myself that I would go to hell before I’d ever step back into seven-inch glass slippers and pussy pop on a handstand, but I think I might need to reconsider things. After all, this is hell.
Knock . . . knock . . .
Startled, Chaunci looked from side to side in the darkness.
Knock . . . knock . . . “Chaunci!”
“That cannot be.” Chaunci hopped off the sofa and turned the light on.
Knock . . . knock . . . “Chaunci, are you there?”
“Milan!” Chaunci opened the door in disbelief. “What are you doing here at midnight?”
“I need a drink,” Milan slurred, holding a large brown paper bag in her hand. “And I need to tell you some shit.” She stumbled a bit as she walked in.
Chaunci closed the door behind Milan and she said, “Where are you coming from?”
“LA. With the exception of the stop I made at the liquor store.” Milan sat her bag on the marble coffee table.
“Why were you in the liquor store? You have a personal assistant. Why couldn’t she go to the winery for you?”
“Bitch, fuck that bitch. And the rest of them personal assistant bitches. All they do is gather all your business,” she slurred, “and write a book about you. And I don’t need that bitch writing a book about me and telling anydamnbody how I liked to go to the damn liquor sto’.” Milan flopped down on the sofa. “And besides, I’m from the Bronx and I can go into the goddamn liquor sto’ and get my own shit if I want to!”
Chaunci looked astonished. “You are drunk as hell. And you need some coffee.”
Milan wagged an index finger. “Why would you say something like that? All I had was four shots of Cîroc on the plane. I have enough rumors being spread about me. Don’t add to ’em. I am not . . . not . . . not . . . ummm . . . drunk. I just have a li’l preparty buzz on.”
Chaunci frowned. “Preparty? There’s no party over here.”
“I brought the party with me.” Milan pulled two bottles of Merlot out of the bag, along with a corkscrew and two extremely long and bendable straws. She looked up at Chaunci. “Would you sit your ass down? You’re making me nervous. And where have you been for four damn days? Do you know the whole world has been looking for you?”
“Yes,” Chaunci snapped. “I know that because everydamnbody keeps telling me that. Shit, I’m entitled to go somewhere without everyone knowing my every move. Damn. And for your information, I was in France.”
“France? Heifer, you were supposed to be with me at that miserable network party, meeting your new costar, Journee Dupree.”
Oh, please. “So you met her. You like her?” Chaunci uncorked the two bottles of Merlot and handed Milan a straw.
Mi
lan leaned back on the arm of the sofa. “Remember in high school how it was that one particular girl you always promised that you would beat her ass on the last day of school?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Journee would be that bitch for me.”
Me too.
Milan continued, “I can’t stand her.”
Me either.
“And I want to punch her so hard in the throat,” Milan carried on, “that she would feel like I just put her in a choke hold.”
“Damn.” Chaunci fell out laughing.
“Let me tell you, I tried to be nice to that bitch and she tried to play me. That whore has the ghetto in her turned on extra high. And do you know who she’s married to?”
Of course I do. “Who?”
“Two-hundred-year-old Zachary Dupree. Now how the hell is she riding that brittle-ass dick?”
“I don’t think she is.”
“That’s probably what the hell her problem is. She needs some dick. That’s a whole other category of pitiful women.” Milan pointed into the air and shook an index finger with every word. “Those. Who. Need. To. Be. Fucked.”
Chaunci chuckled as she slid her straw into her bottle. “Now you didn’t come over here to talk about Journee, so wassup?”
“First, let me make a toast.” Milan held her bottle in the air and Chaunci followed suit. “To men. Fuck. Each. And. Every. One. Of. Them. All of ’em!”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause they ain’t shit. They ain’t worth shit. And the richer they are, the bigger pieces of shit they are!”
They clinked their bottles.
“Now would you like to tell me what that was about?” Chaunci sipped.
“Kendu’s a cheatin’ motherfucker,” Milan said casually. “That’s what that was about.”
It took everything in Chaunci not to spit out her drink. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“What happened?”
“Well, starting a little over a month ago, I began seeing this white chick everywhere I went. The park, The Met Gala, et cetera, et cetera. But of course Kendu claimed he didn’t know who she was.”
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