Counterfeit Wives

by Phillip Thomas Duck

  I read the letter a third time just to make sure.

  Didn’t know what was stronger, my anger or my excitement.

  Well, I had somewhere to go, at least. I had somewhere to go.

  CHAPTER 19

  NIKKI

  I said, “This is what you are, Nikki. Accept it, bitch.”

  I asked God if She’d be a light unto my path and walked inside the building I’d been watching intently for close to twenty minutes. It was dark, musty-smelling, and the only lights in the place had a blue glow and shit. Same as I always knew these places to be. Music shook the walls. LL Cool J’s “Doin’ It.” That damn near messed up my mood. Ladies Love Cool James. Ain’t that a bitch? James, James, James. Reminders everywhere I went. Whatever. I wasn’t letting that get me down, wasn’t letting that keep me from getting some much needed cream. If I was going to be independent, raise my baby on my own, I needed money. That was a simple truth. Wasn’t no way around that shit. Money.

  A buff dude, with Security stamped on his black T-shirt, intercepted me at the door. Despite the muscles, he was fugly. Fucking ugly. His skin was in bad need of that Vanessa Williams shit. The shit she hawked in those bullshit infomercials. I asked him, “How do I go about getting a job?”

  “Dancing?”

  I nodded.

  “Mitch.”

  I said, “Where’s Mitch at?”

  “I could get him for you.”

  I batted my eyes. “Would you?”

  His smile was brighter than the blue lights.

  That wasn’t very bright, but homeboy was trying.

  He said, “Hold tight.”

  I said, “Oh, I’m tight.”

  He smirked and stepped off. I took in some air. I hated that bullshit. Hated working up some kind of sexy persona just so I could stomach an audition. I couldn’t even imagine taking my clothes off to make my ends meet again. But that’s how it was going to have to be. I had a baby to think about. Until Zelda got in my ass, I hadn’t been doing too much thinking about the baby. It was all about Nikki.

  That had to change, obviously.

  I bopped my head to the music, tried to calm myself.

  Flo Rida. I didn’t have on Apple Bottoms jeans or boots with the fur.

  But I could definitely get low.

  “You’ve got some rhythm, that’s good.”

  I said, “That I do.”

  “And you look like the girl Tyra Banks brought in the game. Forget the girl’s name.”

  I said, “Eva. I get that a lot.”

  “Yeah, you’re a good-looking girl.”

  Girl. I wanted to be a woman.

  I said, “Mitch, I presume?”

  He smiled. “You presume? You went to college or something?”

  “I’m Nikki.”

  “Nikki?”

  I added, “With two Ks.”

  Mitch said, “Ain’t any other way.”

  Mitch looked like Charles Barkley.

  Just a foot shorter and about fifty pounds heavier.

  I liked him. He wasn’t creepy, at least. I could see myself working for him.

  He said, “Let’s hit my office.”

  I followed him through a winding maze of tables, past the bar and stage, to an office in the back of the club. He had autographed pictures of strippers on his wall, a Playboy calendar, a frame with the first dollar made up in that bitch. Shit was kinda nice.

  I closed the door behind me.

  He got right to business. “You have experience?”

  “Yes. I danced at a place called the Liquid Kitty.”

  I expected some more questions.

  I got, “Show me your titties, Nikki.”

  “Excuse me? Don’t you want to ask me any more questions?”

  “No, I’m straight. That’s what it’s all about, baby girl. Tits and ass. Let me see what you’re working with.”

  I had on a hoodie and sweats. I eased the hoodie off first, slid out of my bra, gave him a quick peek and then quickly covered up with my hands.

  Mitch said, “This ain’t Rolling Stone magazine. And you ain’t Janet Jackson. Let me see those tits, baby girl.”

  I hesitated.

  Mitch said, “Well?”

  I dropped my hands down to my sides. I was shaking. I couldn’t stop.

  Mitch said, “You ain’t gonna get the tit men. Let me see your ass.”

  I swallowed, eased down my sweats.

  Mitch made a circular motion with his hand. “Turn, please.”

  I turned.

  I got, “Yeah, baby girl. You got a fat ass, for sure. That will definitely work.”

  I turned back around, picked up my hoodie and sweats.

  Mitch said, “I can see you making some heavy paper with lap dances.”

  That disappointed me. Thought I was done with that shit.

  I hated lap dances. Dudes’ hard dicks rubbing on your ass cheeks. More than a few of ’em dropped that lotion load while I rubbed my ass on them at the Liquid Kitty. The shit just always disgusted the fuck out of me. Damn.

  Mitch said, “When can you start?”

  I heard myself say, “As soon as you need me.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Cool, cool.”

  Mitch said, “How long since you danced?”

  I told him.

  “Damn, what you been up to?”

  I shrugged. I said, “This and that. Writing my poetry. You know.”

  Mitch laughed. “You a poet, baby girl?”

  I said, “I dabble.”

  Another laugh. “You dabble?”

  “Yes.”

  “Roses are red,” he said, “and violets are blue. Give me a dollar and I’ll take my G-string off for you.”

  He laughed until he coughed. “That needs a little work.”

  I quietly dressed.

  He said, “I’m just fucking with you, baby girl. Don’t take it to the head.”

  I said, “I’m cool.”

  I wasn’t. I hated everything. I hated being demeaned.

  He explained their payment system, my schedule and his management style. I was listening to him butthewordswerealljustrunningtogetherinmyhead.

  It was depressing.

  He said, “You got all of that?”

  “Yes.”

  I went to shake his hand.

  He grabbed it and pulled me into a hug and kissed me on the lips.

  I was his, wasn’t shit I could say about that. I was Mitch’s bitch.

  That shit rhymed like poetry. See that.

  He walked me to the door, then slapped me on my ass and sent me on my way.

  Sela was on the couch when I came back in. She said, “Got a package from DHL. I put it on your bed.” That was the most she’d said to me in recent memory.

  I didn’t say anything. Just nodded, walked by and climbed the stairs for my room. There wasn’t any love in the house, not between Sela and me, definitely not between me and Zelda. Fuck it. It is what it is.

  I wondered about the DHL package, though.

  I wondered what that was about. Who would send me anything?

  It wasn’t a package. A letter, sent from DNA Girl, Inc. I’d never heard of them. I ripped the letter open. Read it.

  My heartbeat was off the hook. I couldn’t believe the shit.

  I said, “Roses are red. Violets are blue. I’m ’bout to be out, so, Mitch, fuck you.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Her parents had kissed her skin and given it the most beautiful coffee-with-cream complexion. Even from a distance, I could tell that her eyes were arresting. They weren’t hazel, but I knew they were beautiful just the same. She was mixed, exotic, a stunning woman. Part Trini, part Dominican. Dinners at her house would consist of either roti or tasajo y yucca. I could picture her on an island beach somewhere, funneling white sand between her exquisite toes, smiling at the sun-filled sky through her Louis Vuitton shades, sipping a mojito, listening to the ocean as its waves sung her a happy song. Carefree as the day she was
born.

  That happy song wouldn’t last long, though.

  Not for her, at least. I’d see to that myself.

  She had her hair pulled back tight in a neat bun; if let free, I knew it was long enough to touch her waist. She moved graceful like a summer breeze, walking on the opposite flow side of the mall from where I was. My senses were on point that day. I’d spotted her right away. Not that she was easy to miss. I pivoted at once and followed her. Followed her knowing it was all about to come to a head.

  She was the reason. For everything I did. For all of the wives.

  Jacqueline, Dawn and Nikki. I thought of my love with her hazel eyes.

  For her, too.

  She was the reason, this Trini/Dominican beauty.

  Mi cielo. That meant my sky, my everything. That Spanish phrase came to mind the moment I spotted her walking through the mall.

  It was all about to come to a head.

  She took the escalator up to the next level. I followed, using the stairs instead. I wanted the exercise, to really get my heart pumping blood. I needed to be sharp, ready to move in for the kill. Spiritually, emotionally, physically.

  Her walk was seductive. Slow and deliberate. Sensual. Men wanted to fuck her. Men wanted to marry her.

  Her options were many.

  She carried an expensive Coach purse, swinging her arm like a schoolgirl as she walked, jostling whatever contents were in her bag. I briefly wondered if it held Claritin allergy medicine, a pack of tropical-flavored Life Savers, a Razr cell phone, her key ring. At some point I was going to have to stop her, strike up a conversation, introduce myself. My words would be effortless. I’d prepared for her forever. Through all of the wives, it had all really been about her.

  Careful planning made me comfortable.

  I knew what I’d say. How I’d react. The smile I’d display.

  The way my eyes would narrow as I stood before her.

  I’d run through it all in my mind a million times. Two million times.

  She entered Jimmy Choo, the upscale ’40s-inspired shoe boudoir. I stopped by the Venetian benches just outside of the store, sat down and watched her for a bit. I already knew most of her nuances, but I wanted to feel her essence for a moment before I approached, wanted to tap into the soul of her before I shattered her world. It was all about to come to a head.

  She chatted with an attractive saleswoman inside the store. They shared more than a few laughs, comfortable as girlfriends, great camaraderie. Good for her. Life was close to perfect in her world.

  She worked at Jimmy Choo.

  I stood from the bench after a while, headed in the direction of the store.

  The key to my success with women was quick decision. I didn’t mull over situations. I moved to action. And my actions were kinetic, happened naturally.

  I walked into the store, as confident as ever.

  I moved to a display of shoes close to the Trini/Dominican beauty.

  She was kinetic, as well, moved to me swiftly.

  “How are you today, sir?” she said in a soft, tender voice, a very assured and womanly voice.

  I picked up a pair of shoes, flipped them over in my hands, and purposely didn’t answer her. Lines formed in my forehead, my eyes were tight, and I had a determined set to my jaw. I wanted her to see me as brooding and intense.

  “Are you interested in those?”

  I finally acknowledged her. Smiled. Gave her penetrating eye contact. “Yes. I’m interested in these.” Suede, open toe, gold heels set with enamel stones.

  She said, “You have a good eye. I’m impressed. They’re absolutely beautiful. Your wife’s a lucky woman.”

  I didn’t mention I had three wives, was looking for my fourth.

  She offered, “Consider matching them with this season’s ‘it’ bag—Saba. That would be a great look.”

  I said, “I’ll think about that.”

  “What size would you like, sir?”

  I didn’t hesitate. “Six.”

  She smiled. “My size. Good call.”

  I knew that. I knew her dress size, too: a four.

  She called out to the other saleswoman, “Me puedes ensenar esto sapatos, en la taje seis?” while holding up the pair of shoes I’d requested.

  “Seis?” the other woman asked with emphasis.

  “Yes.”

  She turned back to face me then, all smiles. Her teeth were perfect, not a blemish to be found on her skin, eyes as clear as the day she was born. She really was exquisite. She said, “It’ll just be a moment. In the meantime, would you allow me to show you the Saba handbag I was speaking of before? It really would go lovely with these shoes.”

  I ignored all of that, said, “You’re Trini and Dominican.”

  She looked at me deeper, surprised. “How did you know…?”

  I said, “That’s a beautiful combination,” and added, “At least in your case.”

  She swallowed, touched her chest with a delicate hand, whispered, “Thank you.”

  I was having an effect on her.

  I said, “No. Thank you.”

  “For?”

  I just smiled. Tension wedged between us. Silence was king.

  Finally she said, “Couple hours until my shift ends.” Hugged herself. “I’ve got a date with a hot bath and a good book.”

  “Novel? Nonfiction?”

  “Fiction, always. I read a couple novels a week, probably.” She continued, “The one I’m reading is called Hunger. It’s an Essence magazine pick.”

  I said, “Erica Simone Turnipseed, her follow-up to A Love Noire.”

  The Trini/Dominican beauty’s eyes shone surprise. “I’m…impressed.”

  They always were.

  I said, “What other authors do you enjoy?”

  “I couldn’t even begin to tell you. There are so many.”

  I moved on, said, “Every night can’t end with a hot bath and a good book, though.”

  “Stay out of trouble that way.”

  I said, “You make trouble sound like a bad thing.”

  “A very bad thing,” she said.

  “What about in moderation?”

  She smiled. “Are you suggesting small doses of trouble every now and then?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting. It’s good for your heart. Didn’t you know that?”

  The other woman emerged from the back carrying a box. She was a Latina, as well. I spotted traces of Cuban. She was pretty in her own right, but my Trini/Dominican beauty owned the store, the mall. She handed the shoe box to my girl and gave me a quick once over before she moved away. She wasn’t subtle.

  “Would you like to look at them, sir?”

  “Yes, please, Simona.”

  The Trini/Dominican beauty’s head snapped up. “How did you…?” Then she caught herself, touched her name tag in reflex, cheeks cherry-blossomed from embarrassment. She handed me the box, averting eye contact. I didn’t reach for it, just watched her, a smile playing on my handsome face. I knew that would get her. I have a great smile.

  Her eyes found me. She said, “Sir?” in a trembling voice.

  “You’re nervous, Simona. Why is that?”

  She touched her neck. “I’m fine.”

  “Do I make you nervous, Simona?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure about that, Simona?”

  “Positive.”

  “You are a beautiful woman, Simona.”

  I kept saying her name, knowing it put her on edge.

  Hand on her neck again. “Thank you.”

  She attempted to hand me the shoe box a second time. Again I didn’t reach for it. I had her flustered. She looked at me, puzzlement playing on her face.

  She said, “Your wife’s shoes.”

  I said, “Can wait…Simona.”

  She swallowed, licked her lips.

  I said, “You have beautiful eyes, Simona.”

  She didn’t reply.

  I said, “Your mother must have
beautiful eyes, Simona.”

  Still no reply.

  “Do you like my compliments, Simona? Or do they bother you?”

  “It’s nice to be appreciated,” she said. Her voice was flat.

  “Isn’t it, though?”

  She said again, “Your wife’s shoes.”

  I repeated the same refrain. “Can wait.”

  She sighed.

  I said, “Yes. Your mother must have beautiful eyes, Simona.”

  She shook her head, tapped her foot. “Are you going to purchase these shoes, sir?”

  I said, “I think not, Camille.”

  That stopped her foot from tapping. She took a step back.

  I took a step forward.

  She said, “Camille. My middle name. And it’s not on my name tag.”

  I nodded. “That’s correct, mi cielo.”

  She swallowed a large gulp, touched a hand to her chest. “Do I know you?”

  “Yes. And I know you. I’m hurt you don’t recognize me.”

  She said, “Don’t recognize you?”

  I nodded. “You should, Simona.”

  It was all about to come to a head.

  She asked, “And you are?”

  I told her, with a devilish smile on my face.

  A moment later, I casually reached down and picked up the shoe box that had slipped from her hands. I tried to hand it to her. She wasn’t able to take it.

  The other Latina rushed over, was busy consoling Simona, trying to help dry her tears and ease her screams.

  Mi cielo, I thought. My sky. My everything.

  Sometime later, front of the mall, Simona stepped out, Coach bag slung over her shoulder. She looked much better, the color had returned to her face. I idled at the curb in Nikki’s Audi, the engine purring softly like a contented cat. She moved to the car, bent and looked in the passenger-side window. I noticed her swallow, a bundle of nerves and anxiety. I can’t say I could blame her for that.

  “Get in,” I said. Then I softened my voice. “We have a lot to discuss.”

  She took a deep breath, opened the passenger-side door, silently slid in.

  I asked, “Everything okay at your job?”

  “Celia believes I should see a doctor. I assured her I’m fine.”

  “I do apologize for that.”

  “Your visit was just so…unsettling. I’m sorry.”