Gold Diggers Page 6

  Before Reese knew what a technical foul was, she decided that plan A was to marry a professional athlete, preferably a basketball player, and the Tar Heels always had a great team with an impressive draft record. Besides, most of the females among the hicks of Carolina offered negligible competition, so catching one of those country bumpkins with a good jump shot would be like snaring fish in a barrel for someone as clever and cunning as she was.

  The Pro Plan, as she referred to it, was a step-by-step guide, outlining the tactics necessary to marry a professional athlete. It took Reese barely one week to scout out the players in each class who were favored to go pro. An NBA recruiter couldn’t have done a more thorough job at picking promising talent. Her number one draft pick, LaShawn Brown, was a senior from Raleigh, North Carolina, who was a shoo-in for a high lottery pick. He was destined for a lucrative NBA contract and years of product endorsements. The boy had flashes of brilliance like Jordan, with the personal charisma of Magic. He was a true star. The only problem was that Reese was about two years too late to bag him. LaShawn already had more women in his life than he had brain cells in his head. Like most star athletes he had a main girlfriend and a second string of three or four extras, and even his bench warmers ran three deep.

  It wasn’t that Reese didn’t feel qualified for the job or up to the challenge, but she was nothing if not realistic. After all, this wasn’t sport for her; she was on a mission. Reese figured that she had only two good shots at catching the prize. The third time a girl was linked to a player she was automatically labeled a groupie—or worse, a whore, in which case, she was no longer marriage material to anyone of significance. Therefore, Reese’s operation called for extreme selectivity and a well-thought-out strategy. She was playing for keeps, not for one-night stands.

  Her second-draft pick was Carl Hightower, a junior who was definitely a comer. In fact, if LaShawn weren’t such a star, Carl would already be flashing in the center of everyone’s radar. Fortunately LaShawn was graduating this year; then everyone would realize that Carl had the only three-point jump shot. As promising as he was on the stat sheet, the boy also had a diction problem that was hard on the ears, but nothing that a few extra zeros in a bank account couldn’t mitigate.

  Her third and fourth picks were both sophomores (freshmen were too risky—who knew if a brilliant performance in high school was simply a flash in the pan or the real thing?). One was Chris Nolan, who so far showed real promise, but he was somewhat inconsistent with his game; he was also as boring as reruns of Gilligan’s Island. If it weren’t for his eye/hand coordination the boy wouldn’t be able to buy pussy at a fire sale.

  The other contender was Buster Russell, a ghetto kid straight out of the projects of Newark, New Jersey. He was six feet, eight inches of street thug. The boy was good—in fact, really good—but his attitude set him back just as far as his skills got him. Of them all, he was definitely the most fuckable to Reese; she loved a bad boy, but this mission wasn’t about sex—or love, for that matter. She was keeping it real. It was all about the Benjamins, baby.

  While the amateur groupies were busying themselves staking out locker rooms and lurking courtside at every home game, Reese was much more subversive in her approach. Her secret fuck-buddy was Bobby Hicks, the dorky team manager who was happy to catch any of the leftover tail that the team didn’t consume. Reese was given the scoop on players in exchange for rounds of sex between the sheets. Through him, she found out which classes Carl would be taking the next semester, and promptly registered for his English Literature course. The first day of class she hung around outside the auditorium until she saw him go in. After he took a seat—predictably in the back—Reese quietly sat one row in front of him and one seat over, knowing that most people kept the same seat throughout the semester. Her moves were as smooth as Michael Jordan’s during the play-offs. Carl never even saw the slam dunk coming.

  The first two classes she wore short (but not too short) baby doll skirts that accentuated her long, curvy legs. The low sandal was just enough to further elongate her calves, but not too much to show gross premeditation. Of course, the sweaters she wore were fitted to highlight a full C-cup, but the pièce de résistance was her long, wavy hair, which she would shake and toss periodically to make sure that he was paying full attention. Aside from all of that, she did nothing for a couple of weeks! No coy batting of the eyelashes, no babbling on about his latest on-court theatrics; hers was a slow, steady seduction.

  Reese lay in the cut, patiently waiting for just the right moment to hook and reel him in. It came one day as they were leaving class. She was walking ahead of Carl as a group of boys, who were horsing around, ran out in front of her, giving Reese a good excuse to stumble and almost fall, her books and bag spilling forward. Just as she predicted, Carl reached out and grabbed her, breaking her fall in the process. As rough around the edges as he was, the boy was raised by his grandmother to be a bona fide Southern gentleman.

  “I’m so sorry,” she gushed. “How clumsy of me.” Reese played the damsel in distress to the hilt: eyelashes batting rapidly and manicured fingers spread across her clavicle as she tried to catch her breath.

  “You aaiight?” he asked in a deep Southern drawl.

  “I’m fine, just embarrassed.” She smiled awkwardly, and quickly begin gathering her things, which had scattered to the ground.

  He bent his lanky, six-foot-five-inch frame to help her. While stacking her papers and books in a neat pile, he stopped abruptly when he saw tickets to an upcoming NASCAR race at the Bristol Motor Speedway in Tennessee. “These here yours?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” She shrugged as though it were perfectly normal for a beautiful young girl from New York to have tickets to a NASCAR race.

  “That’s gon’ be some race.” His eyes lit up like fireflies in June.

  “It should be awesome, Earnhardt Junior and Danica are both racing,” she replied, as though she gave a rat’s ass about the sport, and got no greater thrill than seeing cars run around a track a million times over. What a thrill!

  After the last of her things were gathered they both stood up. “Are you a racing fan?” she asked as though the thought had just occurred to her, when her pillow talk with Bobby had uncovered the fact that he was mad about both NASCAR and Formula One racing. Not exactly a black man’s sport, and most certainly not a black woman’s. She’d purchased the tickets immediately and had carried them to class for a week, waiting for the opportunity to bait her trap.

  “Man, I love racing.” A big cheese-eating grin spread across his face. “I can’t say I eva met a woman who did. Most women can’t stand it.” By now he was eating out of her well-manicured hand, so she continued to feed him one morsel at a time.

  “I’m not most women,” she said, lowering the books that she’d been holding to give him a peak at two very enticing morsels. As with most men, the sight of mammary flesh had the desired effect, killing smart brain cells by the hundreds, while multiplying the stupid ones.

  From his towering perspective, Carl had a bird’s-eye view down the fold of her cleavage. “I see.” His mouth had slacked open, and he wore the goofiest expression on his face.

  She smiled coyly, then turned to walk away, stumbling just as her weight landed on her right ankle. Again he was Johnny-on-the-spot, ready to catch her. “You sho’ you okay?”

  Reese grimaced, feigning pain. “It does hurt,” she whined.

  “You should go to the infirmary. Here, I’ll help ya.” He took all of her books in one arm and supported her with the other.

  She limped along gingerly, clinging to him as though her life depended on it, and to Reese it did. “No, I’m sure I just need to prop it up and put some ice on it, but maybe you can help me to my room.” She gave him the doe-eyed look.

  “I’d be happy to,” he answered. “Anything I can do to help.”

  Game.

  Set.

 
Match.

  SEVEN

  “Hello, may I speak to Brandon Russell?” Paulette stood just inches from Gillian like an eager puppy, hanging on to her every word. If she could have gotten away with placing her ear right alongside Gillian’s next to the phone’s receiver, she would have done it. Paulette was one of those sadly desperate women who jump full-throttle at any opportunity—real or imagined—and the chance to meet Brandon Russell was definitely an opportunity that she could not let pass. She hadn’t built a successful public relations firm on two coasts by being passive or bashful.

  A man with a stuffy British accent answered the phone. “And who may I say is calling?” He stretched the word who out several seconds, turning the question into an accusation. Gillian automatically envisioned an English butler with a stiff upper lip, an upturned nose, and bad teeth.

  “This is Gillian. Gillian Tillman.”

  “And may I ask the nature of your call?”

  This man was really getting on her nerves. She was barely able to swallow her irritation at having lost her luggage after suffering such a horrible flight. All she really wanted was a hot bath, a cold glass of wine, and a long nap. Gillian had to bite her tongue to keep from saying, “No, you may not.” Instead, she remembered her luggage full of pricey designer gear, so she checked her attitude and gave him an answer. “There was a mix-up at the airport. I have Mr. Russell’s luggage, and I hope he has mine.”

  “Oh, dear,” the man murmured. “Mind if I place you on hold?”

  Before she could respond one way or the other, a click ensued, followed by chords of classical music. Gillian sighed impatiently and wondered, What black music industry executive programs classical music for his home phone line?

  “Brandon Russell here.” His voice was pretentiously rich and melodic, smoothing over a distant twang of country. As an actress, Gillian had a keen ear for those who were cultivating an accent. Given his huffy British manservant and clearly pretentious tone, someone less exposed might believe that Brandon Russell was to the manor born, but Gillian could sniff out a fake from miles away, even through phone lines. After all, she was her mother’s child.

  “I’m Gillian Tillman. I must have been on your flight from New York earlier today, and somehow I accidentally picked up your luggage. I have the same bag.” Next to her, Paulette looked gleeful, as though she might actually clap her hands together, jump up, and click her heels like Dorothy.

  “I just walked in the door, and hadn’t even realized there’d been a mix-up,” Brandon said.

  “So, you do have my bag?”

  “I do,” he answered. Unlike Paulette, Gillian didn’t care if he was Prince Charles; her bag was all that mattered. Between Paulette and Reese she wasn’t sure who was the bigger opportunist.

  Gillian breathed a sigh of relief, happy that her designer garbs were indeed within reach.

  “Let me have your address and I’ll be right over,” Brandon suggested. “I’m in Beverly Hills.”

  “If you don’t mind, let’s meet somewhere public.” The man could have been an ax murderer, for all she knew, but her real reason for not letting him come near Paulette’s apartment had less to do with fear for her personal safety than it did with not being embarrassed by her fawning friend, who would no doubt use the opportunity to do some shameless social climbing. There was no way that Paulette would miss an opportunity to place a couple of well-placed footholds in Brandon Russell.

  “Why don’t we meet at the Ivy in, say, thirty minutes?” Brandon proposed.

  “I’ll be there.”

  Before Gillian put the phone down, Paulette was inches from her face. “So where are you meeting him? What did he say? Does he have your bag?”

  “The Ivy. Nothing really, and yes.” This was truly annoying.

  “Perfect!” Paulette was effervescent as she rubbed her palms together like a devilish child plotting to hold up Santa Claus. “So, what are you wearing?” she asked, turning her nose up at Gillian’s stained shirt.

  “Who cares?” Gillian asked, exasperated. “I’m exchanging bags with him, not bodily fluids.”

  “Maybe not yet.” Paulette gave Gillian a sly look, and when she didn’t get a favorable response she grabbed Gillian’s hand and dragged her into the bedroom. “You just never know how he could help you, so at the very least please change tops,” she insisted, opening up her closet as though it were Fort Knox.

  Only her sense of decorum kept Gillian from turning her nose up at the predictably trendy and tacky garments that hung in Paulette’s closet. In New York, where style was a way of life, tacky Paulette was certainly challenged enough, but now that she was spending half her time in L.A. with no barometer, her lack of fashion sense was even worse. There was something about living in L.A. that triggered serious style maladies for those who were so prone. In Paulette’s mind she was a size six, only trapped in a size-twelve body, so she was oblivious to the long list of fashion don’ts she continually violated. While Gillian flipped through the hangers as if they were contaminated with the Ebola virus, Paulette disappeared into the living room.

  Minutes later Gillian found a top that was marginally suitable to wear in this pinch. The fabric looked okay from afar, but up close—particularly when worn—it was only a few grades above industrial burlap. Fortunately, Gillian’s Prada mules would upgrade the overall look, so she wouldn’t have to stoop to wearing the atrocious Payless quality of shoes that littered the floor of Paulette’s closet.

  “You find anything?” Paulette yelled from the living room.

  “Yep,” Gillian replied as she fluffed her hair in front of the vanity’s mirror. Now she was anxious to get going, pick up her bag, and get back, so she could yank off Paulette’s shirt before she suffered a severe allergic reaction to it.

  “The washcloths are in the bathroom closet; why don’t you go ahead and freshen up.”

  I’m just exchanging a bag, not going to the prom. “Sure, but I’ve gotta hurry.”

  When she emerged five minutes later, Paulette had her handbag tossed over her shoulder and was standing by Brandon’s now-closed suitcase, idling by the door. She was ready to go.

  This was not good. “You don’t have to go with me; it’s not far. Plus, I thought you’d want to get ready for the party later?” Gillian prompted.

  “I have to drive you there.” At this point a barreling freight train couldn’t have kept her from meeting Brandon, and it quietly infuriated Paulette that Gillian, like Lauren, could be so blasé about such things. But she supposed that a life of privilege resulted in such a dismissive attitude.

  “Paulette, I have my driver’s license, and I probably know L.A better than you do.” As an actress and model, she’d been hanging out on the West Coast for many years. Besides, Paulette’s driving skills left much to be desired.

  “I’d rather drive you.” Paulette wasn’t budging; this was her only reasonable excuse to horn in on the opportunity to meet Brandon.

  Gillian knew right away that this living arrangement wasn’t going to work for long. She was accustomed to her independence, coming and going as she pleased, even as a child. Imelda was usually too busy chasing the next rich husband to keep up with her. “Okay, but just drop me off. I’ll call a taxi to get back.”

  This appeared to stump Paulette. “If you insist, but it’s a waste of money,” she said, as if she gave a damn about anyone else’s financial situation. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll drop you off in front and run down the street to pick up a sundress I have on hold. You can call me on my cell whenever you’re ready.”

  “Whatever.” Gillian grabbed her bag and Brandon’s luggage and headed out the door.

  After more than fifteen years, the Ivy was still the premier place to see and be seen in L.A. Along with great food, it offered some of the best people-watching in the world, especially at the choice tables that sat along the white picket fence
, only a sidewalk away from ritzy Robertson Boulevard.

  Gillian hopped out of Paulette’s car in front of the restaurant’s valet stand. She walked around to the trunk to retrieve the luggage, and, of course, Paulette hadn’t pulled the latch to open it. As onlookers surveyed the new arrivals, Gillian hurried around to the driver’s window, motioning for Paulette to open the trunk. Instead of simply pushing the little button that sat conveniently located within arm’s reach, Paulette made an orchestrated show of hopping out of the car, busts bouncing buoyantly, to open it by hand with her key. Gillian smirked, and now knew why Paulette had also changed tops to simply run an errand. She now wore a plunging, bright lime green, paper-thin cotton T-shirt that was three times too small and read, I SWALLOW. The skimpy fabric hoisted and uplifted every plump centimeter of her thirty-eight-D-size chest. It was quite a sight. To make the most of her wardrobe change, after opening the trunk she proceeded to bend over deeply to help lift the large bag out of it, bringing the twin mountains ever closer to spilling out of the tight, flimsy material. Leaving the apartment only minutes earlier, she hadn’t lifted a finger to help Gillian put the bag in. Now, having pushed the envelope as far as she could, she flashed a smile to those seated on the terrace, hoping to spy Brandon, in which case she would force an introduction. When that ploy fizzled, she teetered back behind the wheel, leaving Gillian to pull the behemoth-sized suitcase up the brick stairs to the hostess stand, which also sat outside. She felt like a rank, tacky tourist every laborious step of the way. But at least the luggage was Louis Vuitton.

  “I’m Gillian. I’m here to meet Brandon Russell.” The über-cool, L.A.-blond hostess assessed her and her luggage with a question mark on her deeply tanned face. Somehow, despite the tacky khaki green blouse from Paulette’s closet, and the fact that she was rolling up pulling a piece of luggage, Gillian still managed to pass muster.