Hooker to Housewife (4 page)

As they stepped out of the limo, Chantal smiled and gave her standard beauty pageant wave to all the cameras and fans. She was just as beautiful as any other celebrity walking the red carpet. This was the East Coast premiere for Halle Berry and Bruce Willis's new movie
Perfect Stranger.
Everyone from Denzel Washington to Julia Roberts was in attendance. The Hollywood elite were so different than their normal music industry peers. Everyone here looked refined; whereas the music industry set looked like brand new about to go broke money.

This crowd here was right up Chantal's alley; as for the other crowd, she had been there and done that, literally. Chantal had basically fucked every music bigwig and couldn't get any of them to sponsor her on a long-term basis. She was their trophy piece for a minute and then after they had twisted her back out and partied with her every which way, they traded her in for the next hot chick. Thank goodness she met Andre when she did, because Chantal Morgan had come one step from being a has-been in this town.

As they made there way to their seats, Andre stopped to chat with Tom Hanks and Harvey Weinstein. While he was doing that, Chantal checked out the competition in the room; Catherine Zeta-Jones
was looking gorgeous in a red Chloe dress. The new up-and-coming It Girl of Hollywood, Tyler Blake, had on an unbelievable white Zac Posen dress and, of course, the now divorced Jennifer Aniston had on her standard but beautiful black dress. Still, in Chantal's mind none of them could hold a candle to her.

By the time the movie ended Chantal was ready to get the hell out of there. She never liked sitting through a long movie, especially one that was borderline boring, and all movies were boring to Chantal unless it was one she was making in the privacy of her home. When Andre finally located their limo she just sat back and poured herself a glass of champagne. She was beginning to relax when Andre caught her eye with his devilish grin. Chantal could always tell when he was horny because his eyes would start dancing and he would give her a lustful half-smirk.

“Baby, why don't you come over here and kiss Daddy's dick?” Andre said.

Why not? If Chantal didn't, the next bitch would. She had no problem giving Andre head or whatever else he wanted anytime he pleased. She tried to fulfill every sexual fantasy he had and then some. The way these chicks were putting it out she had to stay on top of her game. Chantal gladly got down on her hands and knees in her new $10,000 dress and deep throated her man's penis and had him cumming before they reached the third stop light.

Seeing how aroused Andre was got Chantal all worked up, so she massaged his dick to get it back to a rock-hard position. Since she never wore panties, she simply lifted up her dress and straddled her man. Andre was grabbing at her dress trying to get a hold of her voluptuous breasts. Once he did he put his warm mouth around her erect nipple and squeezed the other breast, going back and forth. Andre was moaning in pleasure and they continued to fuck until the driver told them they had reached their destination. Even then they stayed in the limo for another fifteen minutes until both reached their climax.

Chantal had to throw it on Andre like that every so often so he
wouldn't forget who had the best pussy out there. Everybody has a gift and seducing a man was Chantal's gift. She knew how to put it on her man like a professional. Sometimes she wondered if she was too good. Andre knew about her past for the most part, but at the same time she thought it bothered him a little when she screwed his brains out. She assumed it made him think that every man had gotten the complete mojo package like that and not just him. But what in the hell did Andre expect? Being the baddest bitch inside and outside of the bedroom used to be Chantal's livelihood. That's how she got him and that's how she planned on keeping him, too.

When Chantal met
Andre in the spring of 2002 she was about to get evicted from her $7,500-a-month apartment on the Upper West Side; she could barely pay her electric bill. Times were hard. She had been dating this big time rapper and a superstar basketball player, and both were hitting her off lovely. She was pushing a drop-top Benz, traveling to all the hot spots, and chilling. By this time she was ready to lock one of the cats down and have a baby to guarantee some steady income. The problem was she was fucking them both raw and she couldn't take the chance of not knowing who the father was. She decided it was time to cut one of them off and reasoned the rapper had to go. Rappers make good money, but not that superstar NBA paper. Plus, the rapper already had a baby mama. He could never spend a holiday with Chantal and would constantly cancel at the last minute because his child's mother would call for some emergency regarding their snot-nosed kid.
Chantal never liked playing second fiddle and her NBA player was child-free and perfect for the taking.

When Chantal cut off her rapper friend, he wigged out. He went through all her belongings and found out that she was messing with Michael Mitchell. He whined, “You not dealing wit me no more for that punk-ass basketball nigga? Fuck that!”

When Breezy-B spotted Michael at a club he put her on blast like a scorned lover. He told Michael all the different positions he had dicked down Chantal and about the ménage à trois they did with this stripper chick who worked at Magic City in Atlanta. He just put all her business on Front Street.

Later that night Michael came over and cursed Chantal out. “You trick-ass bitch. You ain't nothing but a tired-ass ho. Take that contaminated pussy elsewhere. I don't want no part of it.” After calling her all sorts of sluts and hoes, he then took the keys to the Benz and had the dealership people pick it up the next day. He took back every piece of jewelry he ever bought her and some that she didn't even think he gave her. To make matters worse, he snatched up the last bit of stash money that he would always put in her top drawer, too. Talk about being devastated: Chantal's cash cow checked out leaving her destitute.

The next day Chantal stayed in bed and cried her heart out. She had no man, no money, and no car. She didn't know what to do. She couldn't sell her jewelry because Michael took it all. She had no savings and no one to call for help. Chantal called Michael hundreds of times trying to get him to take her back, but he wasn't hearing it. She was so desperate she finally broke down and called the scorned rapper.

“Yo, please help me out. Because of that shit you told Michael, he ain't fucking with me no more. I'm dead-ass broke,” she pleaded.

The bitch-ass rapper chuckled before saying, “I got you, shorty.” Chantal let out a deep sigh of relief. “There's only one catch,” he added.

“What's that?” she asked, figuring he wanted to get between her legs one more time, which she was more than willing to do under her humbling circumstances.

“I'll hit you off with some cash. You just have to let me and my five homeboys run a train on your trifling ass.”

“You sick son of a bitch. I'm bad off but not that bad.” Chantal slammed down the phone. By the time the second month rolled around the building manager was trying to put her out on the street.

Chantal's back was nailed against the wall and all her options were gone. She couldn't go back to Chicago because her parents were still pissed that she stole money from them and had never attended college, just to pursue what they considered the faulty glamorous hoochie-mama life. She had no friends that could put her up because they, too, were holding on to their last dime and wondering where the next one would come from.

One night while mourning over her predicament, Chantal's girlfriend Arlene called and told her Jay-Z was having a listening party and they should stop through. She was in no mood to go to an industry party, but Arlene said they could have a couple of drinks and unwind. It sounded good, especially because of the depressing mood Chantal was in. She put on some skintight jeans with a red, low-cut sweater and a pair of high heel boots. She brushed her hair back in a ponytail and spread red lip gloss across her luscious lips.

When they arrived at the Fiesta Lounge it was on and popping. Mad heads were holding court in the Euro-style spot. The décor had touches of red, exotic greenery, mixed with Asian accents to create a dynamic atmosphere. Chantal clicked her heels on the bamboo floors as she rushed the open bar and immediately had a shot of Hennessy. She was trying to forget about the shambles her life was in at the moment. Arlene was sitting on an ivory Barcelona chair, mingling with some A&R guy.

Chantal was downing her fourth drink when she heard a man say, “You are the prettiest thing I've ever seen.”

Chantal slowly turned around and the deepest, most intense eyes were staring her in the face. Despite her buzz she knew that the eyes she was gazing into were those of the famous Andre Jackson. His videos were in rapid rotation on MTV and BET. He had endorsements out the ass and had just launched his own high-end clothing line.

“What did you say?” Chantal asked, starstruck.

“I said you are the prettiest thing I've ever seen. Why don't you come over to my table and share a bottle of champagne with me?”

“That's okay, I've already had too much to drink.”

“Then why don't you come sit with me and keep me company?”

Chantal's head was starting to spin and sitting down sounded awfully nice, plus Andre was fine. She followed him to an elevated, glass-enclosed VIP area that overlooked the room. It had an unobstructed view of the stage so she could still observe the action, but then again there was no one in the spot that could give her better action than Andre Jackson.

“So what's your name, beautiful?”

“Chantal.”

“I'm Andre Jackson.”

“Oh, you trying to be funny. I know who you are; everybody knows who you are,” Chantal said sarcastically.

“I apologize. I wasn't trying to be funny. I figured it would be rude not to formally introduce myself.”

“No need to apologize. I'm enjoying being in your company,” Chantal purred.

“Likewise. So what is your profession, Chantal?”

“I'm a model/actress,” she answered knowing full well that was the job description every wannabe industry trick out there used instead of the title “well-paid hooker.”

“How nice,” Andre said, sounding amused since he hadn't
seen her in jack. “Would you like to be the lead in my next music video?” he asked, fully expecting she'd jump at the opportunity.

“Is it paying?”

“Of course, all jobs do, or at least they should,” Andre said.

“No doubt then, just give me the day and time and I'm there,” she said, giving Andre the answer he already expected.

He figured why not give her the part. If it wasn't her it would be some other groupie that sucked off the director for the role and they wouldn't be half as pretty as Chantal.

As Chantal sat back talking to Andre she considered that the sun might be shining bright for her again. Maybe all hope wasn't lost. If she could bag Andre Jackson then she, their kids, and grandkids would be set for life. So when he said the magic words, “Would you like to go home with me?” Chantal jumped at the opportunity. She quickly looked around for Arlene to tell her, but when she wasn't within reaching distance, Chantal was like, “Oh well.”

All eyes in the club followed the fabulous-looking pair as they hit the exit. They couldn't help but wonder who the lucky beauty was leaving with the most eligible bachelor in New York. As they walked outside and the valet pulled Andre's red Ferrari to the front, they hopped in and sped off into the night.

Andre was zooming so fast on 208 North he almost missed the Summit Avenue exit. He eventually drove up to a long winding driveway that led to his fabulous mansion in Franklin Lakes, New Jersey. Over three and a half acres surrounded the architectural masterpiece situated on the crest of a hill. The stunning Tuscan-style estate had a gated entrance and a state-of-the-art security system. Chantal reflected back to the first mansion she ever laid eyes on in Chicago when she was ten years old. This was just the kind of home she envisioned herself luxuriating in.

When they entered the palace, Chantal was overwhelmed by the soaring mahogany ceilings, massive rooms, walls of glass, and
marble, cherry, and limestone throughout. She followed Andre to the luxurious sunken living room that was enhanced by a television projection system, ashwood floors, and cherry-trimmed doors opening to a courtyard. She almost hesitated to sit down on the pristine plush white couches, because growing up in the Southside of Chicago, houses like this didn't exist. Even after hitting New York and fucking with top-notch bailers none of them was doing it like this. When Sheila E. sang “The Glamorous Life,” this had to be it. Chantal sat back admiring how amazing Andre's digs were and how she could definitely imagine coming home to this every day.

While Chantal was scheming on how to make this her permanent residence, Andre was standing near the wet bar looking her up and down, imagining what her body was like underneath the tight jeans and revealing top. “Why don't you try a line of coke?” he offered, preparing her for the sex down.