Champagne Life (7 page)

“W
hat has gotten into you tonight, D?” M.J., one of the bartenders, and DeShaun's best friend asked. “You've been stomping around here like a bitch who caught her man cheating. And old man Stiles is on your ass too? You'd better act right; you know that old, Italian dude is looking for a reason to fire one of our black asses. I ain't tryin' to be the one tonight.”

Tonight, it was a full house at the restaurant and there was much money to be made, but DeShaun was in no mood. Two nights ago, after the argument with Naomi, he couldn't think about anything else except her throwing his lack of finances in his face. That pissed him off.

DeShaun shoved past M.J. “Man, I don't have time for this. I don't care if he does fire me. He'd be doing me a favor by getting rid of me.”

M.J. raised his brow. “Oh really? How much of a favor will it be when you get your lights shut off and your raggedy car repossessed?”

DeShaun shot him a warning look. “Watch it, man. I'm not in the mood.”

“I'm only trying to tell you that firing you won't affect those rich, white folk.” M.J. nodded toward the outside patio, where guests chatted with one another while sipping champagne. “Look at 'em, so happy with all their money. You're merely a skid mark in their designer drawers. And look at the missus. Your black ass
ain't even good enough to spit shine her Red Bottoms. You can probably use your bald shiny head to buff her kitchen floors. Hey, if you're lucky, you might be able to call yourself Bojangles and dance the jig at one her parties. Call her up and see if you can—”

“Do you ever run out of jokes?” DeShaun cut his eyes. If his boy didn't tone it down tonight, they would probably come to blows by the end of the night. But he didn't want to lose the business over some stupid fight. Stiles, his manager at the restaurant, was still pissed that the Herjavecs didn't contact him for their party. He didn't want to blow this gig, or his job for that matter, if the other party didn't work out for whatever reason.

M.J. raised his hands in the air. “C'mon, man, you know how I do. I like to bust your chops.”

DeShaun looked into the crowd and singled out Jenn amongst all the partygoers. She was grinding on some dude who was a friend of the Herjavecs. DeShaun only knew the guy as Liam and that he owned several fabric factories overseas. Liam's hands rubbed up and down Jenn's thighs. She was getting into it too. She lifted her leg and wrapped it around his waist as she threw her head back.

DeShaun spotted Mr. Herjavec at the other end of the grounds, talking to a few of his business colleagues. It was hard to believe that he didn't catch his wife on the dance floor, moving like the featured dancer at the strip club.

“You will never be in their rich world,” M.J. said. “You could maybe be their personal server or butler, but that's it. Maybe you should change your name to Jeffrey. What about Benson?”

“Seriously,” DeShaun warned. “Knock that shit off.”

DeShaun was tired of talking about how much money everyone else had and how much money he
didn't
have. When he and Naomi had that huge blow out, he was ready to grab a bag and walk out
the front door for good. He didn't remember ever being that angry at his wife. He would never hit her, but after that scraps comment she threw at him, he was closer than ever before. Naomi had apologized as soon as the words left her lips. They had even made love that night, but something was different. He saw it in her eyes as she laid underneath him during their lovemaking. When he ran his fingertips down her thigh, her body tensed up. He wasn't certain, but he believed she even faked it that night. When he had rolled off her after reaching his climax, Naomi hopped out of the bed, asked if he wanted a glass of water and disappeared down the steps before he even gave an answer.

Granted, sex with his wife wasn't always fireworks and explosions. Not one married couple he knew could say sex with their spouse was, but he and Naomi, at the very least, always left each other satisfied. That evening he was fulfilled—physically at least, but was she?

DeShaun looked out at the sea of porcelain white faces in the restaurant. He had never noticed before, but those old school folks with money seemed to have paler skin, as if a sun-kissed complexion indicated less prestige and power. On the contrary, the younger affluent crowd—meaning age fifty and younger—seemed to not mind a little tint to their complexions. Mrs. Herjavec was part of the tanned crowd but mostly because of her Armenian heritage, although DeShaun heard her talking about hitting the tanning salon a few times.

This evening, Mr. Herjavec was in rare form during his wife's party. He made rounds with several different men and women throughout the crowd. Although DeShaun couldn't hear what they were saying, Mr. Herjavec's actions suggested business. First, he'd start off by walking up to a couple. He would shake hands with the men and kiss the women on the cheek. Then the small
talk started. DeShaun imagined them talking about vacationing at the Hamptons or visiting a local winery, the shit white folks did. Then Mr. Herjavec would start in on business. DeShaun could tell because every time Mr. Herjavec talked business, he used his hands a lot. By the end of the conversation, business cards were exchanged, they'd shake hands once again and off he'd go to another couple. It was like that every single time. That was probably why Mr. Herjavec never noticed his wife drunkenly blowing kisses at DeShaun.

As Mr. Herjavec exchanged business cards with the gentleman, Mrs. Herjavec sauntered up behind her husband and put her arms around his waist. She planted a kiss on his cheek. Without missing a syllable, Mr. Herjavec bent down and placed a gratuitous sloppy, wet kiss on her cheek, no doubt for show. He then took hold of her arm and gently pushed her to the side. Mrs. Herjavec smiled politely to the couple and headed off, probably in search of another drink.

“Can a lady get a glass of champagne around here?” Countess Vargas, one of the richest women on the East Coast, was standing dangerously close to DeShaun. She leaned in and whispered, “It gets sooooo hot in here. What does a girl need to do to help cool her off?”

DeShaun handed her a glass of champagne from his tray. “Is this good?”

Countess Vargas reached up and patted down her silver-colored bouffant wig. “This is splendid.”

Countess Vargas had diamonds the size of chandeliers hanging from her earlobes and wore a diamond detailed necklace that was equally as stunning. Her husband, Count Vargas, had died years ago, leaving her more money than she knew what to do with. The latest conquest to her boy toy collection was a young kid named
Esteban Molina, who, if you didn't know, spoke like he only came to the U.S. a week ago. He had actually been in the U.S. for over twelve years. He and DeShaun used to work private parties together a few years back, but that was way before the Countess decided to deal with Esteban on a one-on-one basis. DeShaun had seen Esteban at four or five parties with the Countess, which was a record for her. Most guys didn't last two or three. Rumor had it Esteban was handpicked by the Countess because of his lack of English-speaking skills, which meant for the Countess, she wouldn't have to put up with any backtalk. The poor kid had no idea what he was getting into when he hooked up with her. If Esteban thought he was getting an old lady who preferred a quiet game of chess, he was sadly mistaken. The Countess had a libido that would put any twenty-five-year-old to shame.

The Countess took a sip of wine. “Perfect.” She reached around and grabbed DeShaun's backside. DeShaun jumped, almost knocking over the remaining glasses on his tray. “In fact,
you're
perfect.”

“You have to stop doing that,” DeShaun whispered. “Your boyfriend is right over there.” DeShaun felt weird referring to any man as the Countess's boyfriend, especially one so young.

The Countess looked over. She extended a veiney, ghostly white manicured hand in the air and waved to Esteban, who stood alone at the other end of the room, looking completely uncomfortable amongst the crowd around him. Esteban may have no longer been a waiter, but he definitely wasn't accepted into this crowd. People with any hint of color rarely were.

“It doesn't matter,” she whispered. “He enjoys watching me with other men.”

Like he had a choice.

DeShaun studied the Countess. She had to have been closing in on eighty and was not very attractive either. On some occasions,
she could even be classified as downright revolting with her stale cigar and brandy breath. The Countess was skeletal thin and insisted on wearing the boldest reds in lip and nail color to contrast her pale complexion. Her completely gray hair was always pulled back into a puffed-up bun that made her receding hairline even more prevalent. Even though her husband left the Countess close to one billion dollars, the talk was that she had already blown through a good portion of it before she turned seventy, buying men, jewels and toys like it was going out of fashion.

“If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.” The Countess reached down and grabbed DeShaun's package. The remaining champagne glasses toppled over on the tray, making a loud, clinking noise. Everyone in the party turned.

When Jenn looked over, she saw DeShaun. Immediately, her expression brightened. She waved her arm high in the air to get his attention.

“Looks like her highness is beckoning you,” M.J. said. “She probably wants you to blow on her soup to cool it off. Must be nice to be white.”

“Nah. They're exactly like us.”

“Are you crazy, man?” M.J. said. “They'd be exactly like us if they had bad credit, had on the lesser side of ten bucks in the bank and were standing here in this penguin getup, running around like Kunta Kinte, with a tray in their hands. When that day happens, then you can say some shit like that.”

DeShaun sighed, tired of listening to his boy's rantings. He grabbed a glass of champagne from the tray M.J. was holding and headed off in Jenn's direction. When he reached her, she instantly grabbed him and gave him a small peck on his lips.

“What was that for?” DeShaun asked, surprised. Mr. Herjavec was less than thirty feet away, talking to another couple.

“We're celebrating the graduation of my son, Berti's stepson. With his stepdaddy's money and influence, Kyle has finally managed to eke his way out of college after seven years. What a proud Momma I am,” she said with a slight slur. “That's much better than his broke deadbeat father could have done.”

“Uh, congratulations,” DeShaun said.

“The party is more for us than for him. Do you know how much yearly tuition is at Harvard?”

DeShaun shook his head.

“Too much. And he even had the nerve to graduate with an art history major. What in the world does he plan to do with that?”

DeShaun shrugged. “I don't know.”

“I'll tell you one thing,” Mrs. Herjavec said, leaning closer. “If he plans to sponge off Mommy and Daddy, he'd better think again. The upkeep on this face and body is expensive. If Kyle wants to mooch, he'd better find himself a sugar momma. Am I right or am I right?”

Not knowing how to respond, DeShaun simply nodded.

“I'm only kidding,” she said, taking a sip from her glass. “I would do anything for my only child.”

DeShaun grew increasingly uncomfortable. “That's good.”

“Let me ask you something, DeShaun,” Jenn said. “Do you consider me attractive? I've had work done but nothing major. You should see what some of these women do around here and I don't think they look half as good as me. I'll tell you what, DeShaun.” She leaned in closer and whispered in his ear. “What you see is mostly hard work with only minimal help from a plastic surgeon. What do you think? Do I look good to you?”

DeShaun pulled back. “You look good.”

“How about great?” she asked. Her eyes drifted downward toward DeShaun's mid-section. “I bet you could handle this, couldn't you?”
Mrs. Herjavec swigged down the last of the contents in her glass. It was official. She was drunk. “Women would kill to look like me. Don't you agree? These women are jealous of my Armenian heritage. You know why? Because their old white asses are falling apart, and there's nothing they can do about it. Look at my wavy, dark hair. It's beautiful, isn't it?. And I don't have to wear those god-awful wigs or extensions, either.”

“Mrs. Herjavec?”

“Please call me Jenn.”

“Jenn.” DeShaun took another step backward, but she took another step toward him, this time closer than before. “You look good. I'm sure Mr. Herjavec appreciates it.”

“HA! I wish he did. Now you, I bet a man like you would appreciate all I do to stay looking good. If you think this is good,” she said, running her thick fingers down the side of her dress, “you should see what I look like naked. Don't let the extra pounds fool you. I'm thick in all the right places. Isn't that what black men like—a thick woman?”

“I really need to get back to work.” He grabbed an empty tray from the table and practically sprinted back to the kitchen. As he plopped the tray onto the countertop, she grabbed his backside and held on tight.

“You didn't believe you were going to get away from me that easily, did you?” She pressed her body against his. Her full, firm breasts heaved up and down against his chest. He felt her erect nipples through his shirt.

“We shouldn't be doing this,” he whispered, looking around to make sure no one was nearby.

She didn't care. She leaned up and grabbed the back of his head. She drew him to her and planted a sensual kiss on his lips. “That
feels good, doesn't it? If you like that, I have something that will make you feel even better.”

She hiked up her skirt mere inches from exposing downtown. Quickly, she grabbed his hand and guided it down the inside of her bare thigh.