immediately rolled her slanted mocha eyes heavenward as she reached in her Dolce & Gabbana bag for her always on-hand soft pack of Newport cigarettes. She lit one quickly, her peach-tinted lip gloss staining the butt. “This is my first weekend off in a month, and for one, I ain’t even trying to be around kids screaming and playing in that dirty-ass ocean all day. Secondly, if I’m gone to give up chillin’ with my man for y’all, it gots to be for more than South Jersey, ya heard me?”
A long and narrow tunnel of exhaled smoke followed her declaration.
I was used to Dom’s supposed tough-girl exterior, so I ignored her. “Moët, we already know you cannot go. So, Alizé, what do you think?”
“Let’s go to Myrtle Beach for Biker’s Week,” came a soft reply.
All our eyes darted to Moët in surprise.
“Big Mo,” Alizé teased, raising her hands to the roof with two quick pumps.
Dom watched Moët through eyes that she squinted against the silver sliver of smoke. “What the hell you gonna tell Reverend Ike and Sister Shirley Caesar?” she asked, her raspy voice condescending.
“Dom, I told you not to call my parents that,” Moët snapped, her round pretty face twisted with irritation.
Dom just shrugged a slender ebony shoulder, running her two-inch acrylic nails through her short-cropped hair before she exhaled more smoke from her nostrils.
I was wondering how long it would take for me to Febreze all the cigarette odors from my apartment. I glanced pointedly at the cigarette, and Dom pointedly ignored me. I rose, walked over to the large bay windows, and flung them open wide.
“An-y-way,” Moët said. “Y’all down or what?”
“Ain’t nothing but a thing. Let’s ride,” Alizé said, fingering her necklace. “Rah gave me some money to go shopping today. I only spent a hundred of it, so I still got plenty left.”
I studied the chain Rah gave Alizé just two weeks ago. Even though it was probably from one of those Chinese-owned jewelry stores downtown, it still was a nice piece. I preferred Cartier, Cassis, Tiffany & Co., or the custom pieces of that brother Chris Aire. I could not afford it, but I definitely preferred it.
“That man spends that money, huh?” I asked, tucking my bare feet under me on the couch.
Alizé gave me a look like “Say what!” “Shit, getting money out of him is easier than rain in April,” she bragged, with a little feeling good shimmy of her shoulders.
“That’s all well and good, but I still could not deal with thugs,” I told her as I reached for Dom’s steadily disappearing pack of cigarettes and put them on the end table by me.
“Rah’s out the game, Cristal.”
I looked at her and raised a perfectly arched brow. “Yes, but in or out of the game he still has the clothes, the mean face, and the attitude of a thug. But do you.”
“Oh, and you know this,” she answered, knocking her leg against my knee.
“Yeah, but is he still whack in the bedroom?” Dom asked, a sly smile on her lips.
Alizé laughed. “Girl, please. His thing looks like a damn gherkin.”
We all joined her in laughter.
I could not help but picture Rah standing with his hands on his hips, with all his business—what little there was—hanging out.
“Shit,” she said, drawing out the vowel. “I pray every time we do the do that his ass don’t give me a damn D & C.”
“I can’t stand an itty-bitty short-dick man for no amount of money,” Moët added.
“Are you getting any kind of dick, Mo?” Dom asked as she tapped her cigarette ashes into her hands.
I did not have ashtrays. Dom refused to get the hint.
“I got a man, thank you.”
“I’m just saying, you never talk about him.”
“Don’t worry. He got twelve inches and plenty of money, Dom,” Moët snapped, her eyes flashing.
“How about Atlanta?” I suggested, trying to change the subject before an argument ensued. Plus, I wanted to steer my girls to the high road, away from the upcoming freak central in Myrtle Beach. I mean please.
Biker’s Week, the largest rally for African-American motorcycle riders, was held at Atlantic Beach in Myrtle Beach, SC. It was more for a man’s enjoyment than a woman’s. Lots of bikes, loud music, wall-to-wall bodies—most half-naked females. Since I did not care for motorcycles, nor did I plan on shaking my derriere in front of anyone’s video camera, there really was no need for me to go there. Okay? All right.
“Ain’t Ludacris and Usher from ATL?” Dom asked with a wicked lick of her lips.
“I’ll take that as a yes for Atlanta from Dom,” I said, turning to Alizé. “Cool?”
“Cool,” she answered.
“Moët, you sure your ass can go?” Dom asked.
Good point. I looked at Moët, and I could see her embarrassment. Her parents were sickening.
“I’ll think of something,” was her reply.
Enough said.
“Ladies, now that we have chosen our destination, I have to get my hands on some money,” I admitted. Being in between “friends” had put a definite strain on my resources.
“Call Ezekial—” Alizé began, reaching in her purse and pulling out her compact and tube of IMAN lip gloss.
“Everett,” I corrected her on the name of my last companion.
“Yeah, whatever. Call him. He’s a big-time corporate lawyer,” she stated as she applied the gloss to her lips.
“But don’t tell him what you really want it for,” Moët added, her voice soft—almost fairylike. “Tell him you got a bill due or something.”
It was funny that little Moët was trying to school me on men. Inside I was asking the same question as Dom: just who was Moët’s mystery man? I asked once and I did not get an answer. I was not going to ask her again. I guessed she would tell us in her own time.
“Cristal, you gonna call him?” Alizé asked.
“I do not deal with him anymore.” I unfolded my slim frame to walk over to my desk, reaching for my black crocodile address book.
Dom used slender fingers to hold her cigarette. “You need to leave them damn corporate suits alone.”
I glanced over at her, pausing in my perusal. “What should I do, get a thug in my life?”
“Damn right,” Alizé and Dom said in unison, finishing that off with a round of pounds and
