Nobody's Girl (11 page)

“Say that again?” Jade placed her index finger behind her ear. “You fed Jaysin?”

“Yeah, what you deaf?” Mills chuckled.

“Wow,” Jade said in disbelief. “I guess pigs can fly.” She pulled the covers back and got out of bed.

Jade wore the tiniest pair of cotton-striped booty shorts that exposed the cheeks of her ample ass. Just the sight of her behind made Mills's dick hard. Memories of him bending her over the bed, couch, or sink and his thick dick sliding in and out of her wet pussy, while the cheeks of her ass bounced uncontrollably, tortured his mind. Mills had to get out of the room quick.

“Hurry up and put some water on that.” He pointed to her crotch. “It's getting' a li'l ripe up in here,” he joked.

“Shut up!” Jade grabbed a pillow and threw it at his head as he walked out.

Almost an hour later Jade entered her kitchen, feeling clean and revived.

“For a minute there I thought you had fallin' in.” Mills sat at the island, holding Jaysin.

“Hey, my baby.” Jade kissed Jaysin on the cheek. “I can't thank you enough, Mills, for all of your help. All the things you got Jaysin and hiring Mrs. Whitmore and the nurse was so needed.”

“You ain't gotta thank me. I should'a been did it. What you can do is hook a nigga up wit' some lunch. My stomach over here growlin' like a muthafucka.”

“You serious about me feeding you, huh? Yo' wife didn't feed you before you left home?” Jade opened the fridge.

“Nah, she outta the country on business,” Mills replied, with a twinge of sadness in his voice.

“Trouble on the home front?” Jade placed a bag of chicken wings, russet potatoes, flour, cooking oil, and various seasonings on the countertop.

“Oh word, you gettin' ready to fry me up some chicken and fries?” Mills ignored her question and smiled brightly.

“It's your favorite, right?” Jade arched her eyebrow.

“Fuck, yeah. I can't even front, yo' fried chicken is the bomb. Can't nobody hook it up like you.”

“I don't think your wife would like to hear you say that.” Jade began to season the chicken.

“Shit, that's real. Farrah can't even boil water,” Mills joked.

“Wow,” Jade arched her eyebrow and laughed.

“Yeah, Jaysin,” Mills held her up to face him. “Yo' mama can burn in the kitchen, but she can't dance for shit.”

“Boy, please, you better get yo' life and put it back in yo' chest. I murder the dance floor,” Jade checked him.

“No, she don't,” Mills looked at Jaysin and shook his head.

“I got more rhythm in my left thumb than yo' mama got in her whole entire body. But you gon' be straight 'cause we gon' put you in tap, hip-hop, and ballet classes. And as soon as you can walk, Daddy gon' get you a bike so you can learn how to ride just like me.” Mills kissed Jaysin on the forehead.

An overwhelming amount of joy washed over Jade as she looked on while Mills played with their daughter. It was as if they were a real family, taking pleasure in each other's company and creating memories that would be cherished forever. This was the picture she'd envisioned while giving birth and even though she knew this moment wouldn't last long, she secretly wished this was her reality. She regretted ever having stepped out on Mills. She got so caught up with the lavish lifestyle, messing with Rock from the NBA that she lost a good man. Now here she was living in regret, wishing that somehow she could turn back the hands of time and never messed up her relationship.

–Stacy Barthe, “Never Did”

 

The trip to Paris had been nothing but business and a never-ending therapy session for Farrah. She'd gone to the Louis Vuitton show where head designer Marc Jacobs had the models descend down from escalators in bold checkerboard prints. She'd visited Giambattista Valli showroom and got a private viewing of his 2014 fall collection. Farrah's mission to find the fiercest award-season gowns was accomplished. She'd personally put dibs on gowns from Jean Paul Gaultier, Lanvin, and her go-to designer Vivienne Westwood.

In between attending fashion shows, she pondered what would be the outcome of her and Mills's marriage when she returned home. She lay in bed at night looking up at the ceiling and prayed constantly to God for discernment. But no matter how heavy her heart felt at times, she still made it a priority to do her best and enjoy her time in Paris. There was no use in dwelling about things she couldn't change or act on until she got back to the States.

And with that perseverant attitude and resilience to keep moving forward, there was no way she could visit Paris and not indulge in some of her favorite guilty pleasures. She and London had to have lunch at L'Astrance. A meal at Astrance could only be described as an investment.

The restaurant was quaint. Upon entrance, you were instantly taken in by its high ceilings, mirrored walls, widely spaced tables, and friendly service. Chef Pascal Barbot offered his decidedly twenty-first-century take on French haute cuisine and did not disappoint. After an amazing lunch she and London hit up her favorite vintage store, Didier Ludot. Each time Farrah set foot inside the nostalgic store, she became lost in a couture fantasy land. Each of Didier Ludot's three locations at the Palais-Royal specialized in a specific category of clothing: evening couture, ready-to-wear, and one shop of just little black dresses.

Farrah adored that Ludot specialized in vintage pieces from French designers, such as Chanel, Balenciaga, Givenchy, Balmain, YSL, Lanvin, and Hermès, to name a few. Farrah didn't have any qualms about dropping stacks on the designer duds. Shopping always served as a distraction and put a smile on her face. With all the drama in her life she needed to smile. Even though at night when she got in bed, she felt scared and weary of what might happen when she got home and faced Mills, she still did her best to have the best time in Paris.

Farrah only had two more days left to enjoy her trip and she was going to soak up every second of being in the city of love. It was an unusual sunny afternoon in Paris. Farrah and London walked leisurely down the street with tons of shopping bags in their hands. Farrah couldn't wait to get back to her suite and rest before attending the ultra-exclusive spring preview party for Stella McCartney.

Solange Knowles would be on the ones and twos and pop sensation and Karl Lagerfeld muse Azealia Banks was slated to perform. It would be a night of glitz, glamour, and incredible food and expensive champagne.

“I think I'ma go back to Didier.” London stopped mid-stride.

“You don't listen,” Farrah remarked. “I told you to get that Hermès cuff.”

“I know, but I already spent ten grand. I ain't wanna drop another stack.”

“Well, what you gon' do?” Farrah huffed.

“I'ma go back. Here, will you take my bags back to the hotel for me?” London poked out her bottom lip.

“Yeah heffa,” Farrah groaned, taking the bags.

“Thanks, doll face,” London air-kissed her cheek, then ran off down the street.

Bogged down with bags, Farrah continued on walking toward the hotel. As she crossed the street she was stopped in her tracks by a black Fisker bumpin' Wale's “Let A Nigga Know”
,
abruptly stopping just inches away from hitting her. It was almost as if the driver did it on purpose.

“What the hell?” she shrieked, scared out of her mind.

“Excuse you!” She hit the hood of the car, still with bag in hand.

“My bad, I ain't mean to scare you, beautiful.” J.R. rolled down the window and laughed. He pulled the car over and parked on the side of the street.

“Well, stalkers are usually frightening.” Farrah snapped back, realizing it was him and continued walking.

“Don't say that, 'cause that's how I feel, like a stalker runnin' into you like this,” J.R. said, jumping out of his car and hurriedly trying to catch up to her.

“Well, stop stalkin' me
stalker
!” Farrah put an extra amount of bounce into her walk and picked up her pace.

“I can't 'cause I haven't gotten your attention yet,” J.R. flirted as he caught up to her.

Farrah paused and smiled. She hated that J.R.'s sweet nothings always made her blush.

“Okay, you got my attention, now what?” She cocked her head to the side and placed her hand on her hip.

“You know what this is about, right?” J.R. asked as he reached for her shopping bags to relieve her of them.

“What? What is this about? 'Cause the last time I checked this shit was illegal.”

“This is about me liking you and you really liking me, but you playin' hard to get,” J.R. replied, with an intense look of desire in his eyes.

“I'm not up to be gotten. News flash,” Farrah raised her left hand to show off her rings. “I'm married.” She resumed walking.

“Where yo' husband at then?” J.R. quizzed, walking alongside of her.

“Home.”

“See? And that's exactly my point. You keep telling me you're married and all, but everytime I see you all you have is a ring, but not a husband. Why you keep bringing him up for?”

Farrah stopped walking again and inhaled deep.

“Sounds like I hit a spot with that one. Now are you gon' ride or are you gon' make me walk with all these bags? I can't be seen walking around carrying all these pink and red shopping bags. Nigga got a rep to keep up with.” J.R. smiled and cocked his head to the side.

“Neither one. That's my hotel across the street. I'll take it from here, thanks,” she replied as she reached for the items.

“It's cool, I got 'chu, boo,” J.R. said as he jerked his arms away from Farrah's reach. “What kind of gentleman would I be letting you carry all this by yourself across the street.”

J.R. and Farrah crossed the street and made their way up to the hotel entrance.

“Pierre, eh . . .” Farrah paused, “
pouvez-vous prendre cela en compte dans ma chambre s'il vous plaît?”
Farrah asked as she pointed the doorman toward her bags. She hoped she had used the correct words. Over the years she had learned a little bit of French, but she really didn't know much of the language. She was limited to just a few phrases and words.

“Right away, ma'am,” replied the doorman with a thick French accent. “Oh, thank God you speak English! Please tell me I didn't make a fool out myself and say the wrong phrase, Pierre?” Farrah questioned, feeling relieved that she didn't have to struggle to communicate with the man.

“No, ma'am,” Pierre chuckled. “You say, right thing to me.” He took the bags from J.R. and walked them over to a cart where he had a concierge take it from there. Farrah thanked the man and gave him a tip.

“Look, what is this really about?” She spun back around to face J.R. and folded her arms across her chest.

“I need you to style me for my show tonight,” J.R. confessed.

“You could've called my office for that.”

“Not when I can ask you face-to-face.” J.R. pinched the tip of her nose.

“You don't need my help. It doesn't seem like you have any trouble putting your outfits together. You look like you have that under control.” Farrah examined his outfit.

J.R. resembled a ghetto thug in a green camouflage jacket, gold chain, YSL logo T-shirt, jeans, and Tims. Ironically, Farrah wore a very similar outfit. Farrah looked like a sexy round-the-way-girl. She was thugged out in an army fatigue jacket, Celine T-shirt, denim booty shorts, and Tims. A gold chain that read
Queen Bitch
adorned her neck and a diamond-studded Cartier watch gleamed from her wrist.

“That's why I came to you, 'cause you got good taste.” He gave her a warm smile.

“I'm sorry, I can't do it,” Farrah stated bluntly.

“Why not?” J.R. wrinkled his brow.

“'Cause I already have plans tonight.”

“C'mon, wifey, I need you. I can't go out on stage lookin' tore up.”

“First I'm your girlfriend, now I'm your wifey. Next thing you know we gon' be gettin' a divorce.” She gave him a mock glare and grinned.

“I don't believe in divorce. Me and you gon' be together forever,” J.R. said in a serious tone.

“Whatever,” Farrah waved him off. “If I help you I'ma charge you extra for it being so last minute.”

“That's cool.”

“
Huhhhhhhhhhhhh
I can't stand you! Okay,” Farrah groaned. “I'll help you.”

“I knew I could count on you.”

“Yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah.” Farrah rolled her eyes. “What size do you wear?”

 

 

After spending the rest of the afternoon pulling clothes for J.R., Farrah made it to the venue with racks of clothes and shoes. Her assistant Sydney was there by her side to organize and display all of J.R.'s options. It was 8:20 p.m and he had less than an hour to decide what he was going to wear. The only problem was that J.R. hadn't arrived yet.

Farrah and Sydney had been waiting patiently inside his dressing room for two hours, awaiting his arrival. Each second that passed and he wasn't there Farrah's anger increased. She didn't have time to be waiting around on some inconsiderate, cocky asshole who'd asked her to do him a favor.
I knew I shouldn't have wasted my time,
she thought, chewing on a piece of gum.

Outside the dressing room it was complete mayhem. Farrah never knew so much behind- the-scenes work went into producing an hour-long show. People kept running by frantically rushing to complete their tasks. Stagehands, sound guys, the band, J.R's publicist, entourage, and barber were all awaiting their chance to have a moment with the star, who still hadn't shown up.

What Farrah didn't know was that J.R.'s sound check had gone past schedule, which resulted in him being late for his meet-and-greet with his fans and there was no way he would cancel on his fans. Even with him skipping dinner and taking no breaks, he still wasn't able to catch up to the original time constraints. Once he did arrive, J.R. bypassed everyone and went straight to his dressing room. His intentions were never to have anyone waiting on him, especially Farrah.

“My bad, love,” he huffed, out of breath. “I ain't mean to be late.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Farrah sucked her teeth and stood up. “Look, let's just get this over wit' so I can go. You've wasted enough of my time.”

“You mad at me?” J.R. made her stop and look at him.

“What would I be mad at you for? This is strictly business, boo.”

“Excuse me,” J.R. said to Farrah's assistant. “What's your name?”

“Sydney.” She extended her hand.

“Nice to meet you, Sydney.” J.R. shook her hand. “Could you do me a favor and step out for a minute?” J.R. flashed his memorizing smile.

“Umm . . .” Sydney eyed Farrah, unsure.

“It's okay.” Farrah nodded her head in assurance.

Once Sydney was out of the room, J.R. gently took Farrah by both of her arms and said, “You and I both know this is more than just business, but if that's what you need to tell yourself then I'll roll with it . . . for now. On everything I love, I ain't ask you here to be on some bullshit. I got caught up and ran behind schedule. For that I sincerely apologize. You forgive me?”

Farrah really wanted to stay upset with him and be able to give him her ass to kiss, but she was taken in by his presence. One look into J.R.'s pretty brown eyes and all of her defenses were melted.

“You good.” Farrah turned her back and started rummaging through the racks of clothes. “Hurry up, we gotta get you dressed.”

“Bet.” J.R. pulled his shirt over his head.

“Here.” Farrah spun around and damn near stumbled backwards into the racks.

“Whoa, you all right?” J.R. caught her before she fell.

“I'm okay.” She accidently slapped his hand. “I just . . .” Farrah cleared her throat, trying her damnest to avoid starring at his bare midriff. “Lost my balance a little bit.”

She had no idea that what lay underneath J.R.'s shirt were six rows of mouthwatering abs. His chocolate-brown complexion had a slight golden hue to it and looked soft as silk.

“Goddamn,” she said in awe, giving in to her thoughts. “Nigga, is that real?” She unconsciously slid her fingertips down his stomach.

“You mean to tell me all I had to do was take off my shirt to get you droolin' over me?” J.R. beamed.

Farrah abruptly came to her senses and spat, “Chile bye. You betta check ya' e-mail. Ain't nobody trippin' off you.”

“That's what ya' mouth say, but your eyes are telling me something completely different.” J.R. grinned, putting the T-shirt on.

“I think you should wear these Rick Owens jeans with that.” Farrah handed him the pants.

“Yeah, these are sick.” J.R. unzipped his jeans.

“Uh-uh, bruh,” Farrah shouted, covering her eyes. “I think not. You will go into the bathroom and change,” she said, pointing.

“I bet you don't say that to all of your other male clients?”