Millionaire Wives Club (2 page)

As he turned away Jaise let out a sigh of relief. She sat down at one of the tables and lit a cigarette, and Evan sat across from her. As Jaise eased her feet from her four-inch heels, she said, “I hope
I can survive this shit.” She looked at Evan and took a pull. “I keep thinking and rethinking what to say and what not to say.” She let out the smoke. “I swear somebody is going to think I’m crazy.”

“Girl,” Evan said, as she watched Milan and Chaunci laugh and converse at the bar, “just be yourself.”

“Be myself?” Jaise smirked. “Yeah, right.”

“No seriously, I mean, hell, I have no problems being me. I meant what I said to the reporter.”

“Well, I’m not that put together. I’m stressed and sometimes I feel beat down. And you know that’s too real for TV.”

“It’s
reality TV,”
Evan insisted. “Speak to the camera as if you were talking to me.”

Jaise laughed. “Okay, I’ma relax this bill collector’s voice, put on my Brooklyn-mami twang, and say, ‘I’m so goddamn tired of faking the funk. The truth is my sixteen-year-old son needs a man to call daddy and, hell, I do too.’”

Evan laughed, but her eyes were on Milan. She couldn’t help but wonder what Milan had that she didn’t. Why had Kendu chosen Milan for his best friend and why was Milan able to touch places and parts of Kendu that he wouldn’t dare let Evan into? Kendu’s rejection of her had steadily become Evan’s obsession.

“What are you thinking about?” Jaise asked Evan once she realized she’d lost her attention. Jaise followed Evan’s gaze to Chaunci and Milan. “Fuck them.”

“That’s it!” Bridget unexpectedly walked over to their table and said, “That’s the spirit. Fuck them, and just so you know, they just finished calling you two a buncha rats’ asses.”

“What?” Jaise said, slipping her shoes back on. “They don’t even know me.”

“And from the sound of it,” Bridget said, “they don’t want to.”

“Let’s go and straighten this out.” Jaise looked at Evan as she rose from her chair.

“Sit down,” Evan warned Jaise. “I wouldn’t give those low-budget bitches the satisfaction.”

“Low-budget”—Bridget grabbed a napkin and a pen and scribbled down what Evan had just said—“bitches.”

“I thought most producers didn’t get involved with the cast,” Evan snapped.

Bridget, who resembled a redheaded Heidi Klum, smiled and tossed her red hair over her shoulders. “Meet the new and improved way to produce.”

“Anyway,” Evan said, looking back at Jaise, “we have more going for us than to argue with a pair of half-dollar hos.”

“So what makes you different from all the other women?” the
E! News
reporter asked Chaunci.

Chaunci did her best to hold a steady smile and act sober considering she and Milan had had one too many shots of Patrón and glasses of white wine. Milan smiled sweetly, knowing that if her friend said even one word it was sure to be slurred.

“Well,” Chaunci attempted to speak in a steady tone, although her being tipsy was evident, “what makes me different is that I have my own, and all the rest of these women are uppity skeezers on the stroll.” She turned to Milan: “No offense.” Turning back toward the reporter she continued, “I’m not upset with them, though, not one bit. What woman wouldn’t want to marry well?”

“But then they’d have to worry about groupies,” Milan managed to add without slurring.

“Any advice about that?” the reporter asked.

Chaunci laughed. “Certainly, I have some advice. As soon as some groupie comes shakin’ it around your man, bust a cap in her ass and then put one in him. Shit, I can’t say he won’t cheat, but make sure he’s a handicap motherfucker doin’ it. Alright.” She and Milan exchanged high fives again.

“So what do you think people will learn from the show?” the reporter asked Chaunci.

“That when these Jones come down”—she sipped her drink
with one hand and pointed her index finger with the other—“it’s gon’ be a motherfucker.”

“And there you have it.” The
E! News
reporter turned to face the camera. “I present to you the ladies of
Millionaire Wives Club
. Stay tuned!”

E
van’s French-manicured nails tapped nervously on the lava vanity in her guests’ bathroom as she looked in the mirror and wondered if all the luxuries she had were worth the burning feeling lining her stomach.

Never had Evan begged a man—any man—let alone her husband, to make love to her—at least not until last night. Kendu had told her that they needed to talk. But she couldn’t bear to listen. She didn’t want to face what his actions had already said. He didn’t love her, didn’t want her, and she wasn’t good enough to change his mind. So instead of listening she had kneeled before him, slid down his chest, and filled her mouth.

To fight off the anxiety heightened by the mixed emotions she felt, Evan took a bottle of Vicodin from her purse and popped two in her mouth.

The Vicodin always calmed her, but the fact that she needed a pill to do that made her feel as if she was less than perfect and more like a beautiful freak. Three years ago after a failed suicide attempt, where Evan slit her wrist and was prescribed Vicodin for
the physical pain and lithium, which she took, off and on, for the mental, she quickly became addicted to the cocktail high.

Evan continued to stare in the mirror. Her heart raced, and instead of seeing her own reflection she saw her mother’s face. Instantly her mother’s voice filled her head: “I hate you! You and your young pussy wanna take my husband away from me!”

“He makes me do it,” Evan responded to her mother’s voice, while pressing her fingers deeply into her temples.

“You’re lying!” her mother’s voice responded. “You wanted it, because you think you’re better than me! But you ain’t shit! And you’ll never be more than a whore!”

“Stop it!” Evan shook her head feverishly and wiped the sweat from her face with the back of her hand. She looked around the bathroom, and made sure the voice was only in her head, especially since her mother had long been dead.

Evan pushed herself away from the sink and lit a cigarette. She tried to clear her mind, but as soon as the flashback of her mother left, the disarray with Kendu took over her thoughts. She eased smoke from the corner of her mouth and watched it do an evaporating dance.
I have to swallow the fucked-up feeling and handle my business
, she thought.
Besides, I have this … it doesn’t have me. And if that fails, then fuck it. I’ll lay down the law and let him know
—she anxiously took a toke—
that at the end of the day I don’t need a man …
She released the smoke.
All I need is to stay black and die … Shit
—she gave a slight chuckle as she sucked the butt of her cigarette—
I already told him I’m tired of feeling like the only one loving me is me. And if he wants to leave, then I’ll gladly open the door and watch his ass disappear into the elements
.

Evan took one last pull off her cigarette before walking over to the toilet, dropping the burning butt into the water, and listening to the hiss of the dying flame before flushing it away.

She popped a stick of gum into her mouth, cracked the door open, and caught the smell of the burning food she had left on the stovetop half an hour ago.

Once in the kitchen she looked at Kendu, who sat on the sectional in the den area of the kitchen, sipping a cup of java and reading the morning paper. “What’s your problem? You can’t smell and shit?” she snapped. “If you would stop being so cheap and giving the chef every other weekend off, I wouldn’t have to deal with this cooking shit.”

Instead of responding, Kendu rattled the paper and flipped a page.

“I know you’re not ignoring me.” Evan shook her head. This was not what she had planned. Already her emotions had her going against her “be calm” constitution.

Kendu didn’t budge; instead he continued what he was doing.

Evan hated to be ignored; it enraged her and she felt she was slowly unraveling out of control. Her head was spinning and her mind kept telling her to relax. She walked over to the refrigerator, removed the orange juice, and set it on the counter.

“Evan,” Kendu said, looking toward her, “we need to go someplace and talk.”

Evan slammed a glass on the island. “Oh, I know damn well you’re not speaking to me now?” She pointed to her chest. “I thought you were reading the paper? Well, read the motherfucker then.” She knew she was starting to spaz a little too much.

“Evan…,” Kendu called.

She swallowed. The tone of Kendu’s voice rang in her head like raging drums.

“Evan—”

“What?!” she screamed.

Kendu sighed. “I’m asking you nicely to please let’s go to lunch, dinner, or something—”

“I’m so sick of motherfuckers,” she said more to herself than to him.

“Evan, it’s not my intention to hurt you. I just think we need to live in two different places.”

“For how long?”

“How am I supposed to answer that?”

“It was your bitch-ass idea. I mean really, since we’re being so fuckin’ adult”—she threw her hands in the air—“let me ask you this: Are you gon’ still fuck me, or you bouncin’ wit’ the dick too?”

“I’m not doing this with you,” he said.

“Oh really, I thought we were keepin’ it real. Tell me, Kendu, we gon’ still fuck or does your leaving come attached with the line of ‘we can still be friends’? Or are you”—she made air quotes—“‘honest’ enough to admit that you’re looking for some groupie-ass bitch?!”

Kendu narrowed his eyes. “That’s enough.”

“I thought we were talking, Mr. I-Need-Some-Space.” Evan spun on her heels. “You know I’m not stupid, don’t you?! I know you’ve been out there on the road after one of your games, fucking some bitch! I know it; I should’ve known I was too good for your ass!”

“Too good? Have you lost your goddamn—” Kendu paused and started pacing the room, the cuffs of his black Versace pants swayed over his matching Prada loafers. The arguing and cussing, especially like this, was taking him out of his element. He was used to being cool, calm, and collected, with the ability to say how he felt and bring peace to the situation, all while never having to raise his voice. It was how he’d remained one of the New York Giants’ star players and had avoided scandal.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know what he’d said to Evan was hurtful; he did, but, shit, it was hurting him even more to look in her face. “Like I said: This is done,” he said. He grabbed his keys and walked toward the front door.

“You must be cheating on me!” Evan blocked his path and shoved him. “I’ma kill that bitch! I promise you I’ma kill her! Who is she?!” Evan yelled so loud that specks of spit flew into his face. “Just admit that it’s Milan!” Evan attempted to shake Kendu, but he was too big, too strong, and his six-foot-three muscular frame was too burly for her to move him.

Evan could tell he was getting angrier by the second because of how his jaw tightened and his pecs thumped twice. She knew she was pushing her luck, but there was no way she could stop now. “How could you do this to me?!” She slapped him.

Kendu lifted his hand and, midway into his instantaneous reflex to slap her ass back, he stopped. “Didn’t I tell you before to keep your hands to yourself?” he warned. “Stop fuckin’ putting your hands on me. Because if I bring it, I will knock your ass down and you will not get up.” He turned away from her and toward the door.

Evan ran around him and blocked his path once more. “Oh, you wanna hit me!” she screamed. “You wanna beat me now?! Do it! Just do it. I know you want to.” She shoved him again.

Kendu looked at Evan in disgust. He was tired of the dramatics, of her mental instability, and her constant nagging and begging. He didn’t hate her, but he was starting to, and if she continued to put her hands on him when they were arguing, he knew it would be only a matter of time before he blew his fuse and gave her what she’d been asking for.

Even though he was the athlete, Evan was the one who’d had the affair, citing Kendu’s long playing hours and constant time on the road as the cause. And yeah, maybe he was away a bit much. And yeah, maybe instead of nursing his injury and entertaining plans of going back to the team, he needed to consider retiring so he could spend some time with his family, yet still, he had never expected that his wife would throw a tantrum by fucking another man, and then act as if he’d asked for it.

Didn’t she understand that although he was famous and had enough money to last him several lifetimes, he was a man and that he hurt too? That he didn’t deserve to be making love to his wife and smelling another man’s scent? He didn’t deserve having to find out from their daughter that Mommy had a new friend who was some played-out one-hit wonder named Cash. And then when he asked Evan if she knew Cash, she lied and forced Kendu to find
out the truth by secretly following her to a hotel. After he caused a scene, Kendu left her and promised he’d be gone forever.

But then there was Evan’s suicide attempt and Aiyanna suddenly became ill, which made him feel guilty, as if he needed to work things out with his family. Which ultimately he did … but things were never the same. He fucked Evan, yeah, laughed with her, yeah, but there was always something in the pit of his stomach, something that ached his backbone and aggravated his pride that never allowed him to get over Evan having an affair.

And it wasn’t the friendship Evan may have had with the other man, or the emotional attachment to the attention that Cash may have paid her. What bugged Kendu was his imagination and the dreams of his wife sucking another man’s dick, riding it, and cumin’ all over it. The nagging-ass question of if she called this man’s name, if he was hittin’ it from the back, and making her say who the best was and who her pussy belonged to.

That was the shit he couldn’t deal with, and no matter how many times he tried to rid the thoughts from his head, it never worked. Instead, six months later after he’d come back home, he found himself pissed that he was still married to this chick.

“For the
last time,”
Kendu said, “this conversation is finished.”