The Vow

by Denene Millner

  8

  AMAYA

  Well, ladies, did I or did I not tell you that it was going to be the truth?” I ask Trista and Viv as we head into the Pleasure Center’s deserted steam room to unwind after our two-hour private Blow and Get Low class.

  “I feel like a porn star,” Vivian laughs. “Who knew my big ol’ booty could twist like that. What was that move called where we flip over and grab our ankles, again?”

  “I believe that one was ‘the jackhammer,’” I reply.

  “Yeah, well, just call me the queen of the jackhammers, because that bad boy is about to become my signature move,” boasts Viv with a wicked grin.

  “What about all the different ways to give great head?” Trista chimes in. “I might have to start including ‘Good Head Girl’ on my résumé from now on!”

  “Yeah, you were definitely doing your thing, Tris. But did you see how wide ol’ girl opened her mouth during her demonstration?” Vivian asks, tightening the towel around her body. “She must’ve unhinged her jaw to get that entire dildo to fit in there…”

  “All I can say is, meet your competition,” I answer seriously. “It’s women like Joy—friendly, fairly attractive, good bodies, and with the jaws of a python—that are taking all the good men right from underneath our noses. And I don’t know about you, but I want to learn every last thing that she knows, even if it costs me a couple hundred a pop.”

  “Truth be told, she kind of reminds me of the bimbo I saw Sean with,” grumbles Viv.

  “Well, please believe, I got my money’s worth today,” Trista states firmly.

  “I know that’s right. I saw you in the corner getting your deep throat on,” I tease.

  “Jesus, Amaya!” exclaims Vivian.

  “Amaya, what?” I respond, tossing her a look that dares her to say something smart. “Vivian, you more than either of us needs to be right up in here with me, especially now that you know Sean is sleeping with the enemy. White women don’t play.”

  “I don’t even want to think about it,” she replies softly.

  “You need to be doing more than just thinking,” I retort. “You need to be plotting, planning, and figuring out what you have to do to get your man back.”

  “And just what do you think I have been doing, Amaya?” she says defensively.

  “I don’t know, but from the looks of that tired-ass ponytail and baggy sweatsuit, it doesn’t look like much to me,” I sigh, turning over onto my stomach.

  “Excuse me, I didn’t realize that I was here to audition for a spot on the catwalk, Amaya,” Vivian continues as she turns away in the opposite direction with a huff.

  “Amaya may sound like she’s being a bitch,” Trista interjects as she cut her eyes at me and gently turns Viv back around to face us, “but unfortunately she does have a point, Viv. Every aspect of your life needs to be on point 24/7.”

  “I’ve been trying, y’all,” she states, clearly overwhelmed, “but I’m so busy working, taking care of Corey, and halfway keeping up my house, I just don’t have a moment to think about myself.”

  “If you need help, Viv, just ask,” I reply, in a much softer tone. “But you’ve got to get serious. I’m talking a new haircut, a new wardrobe, and a new attitude.”

  “And don’t doubt our connections,” Trista said, cutting Vivian’s pity party short. “I know an amazing trainer who owes me a favor for a walk-on I got her in the last Ben Stiller flick. You can work out with her. Not only will Monica come to you, morning or night, but she guarantees to tighten and tone in three weeks.”

  “Hold up, what does my shape have to do with anything? When I first met Sean I was full figured and he loved every single inch. So what if I’ve put on a couple of pounds? Hello? I gave birth to his only son. Unlike Amaya,” she hisses, cutting her eyes at me, “my livelihood isn’t based on my jean size. I ain’t about to go on no goddamn diet for no man!”

  “Woah, woah, woah. Viv, ain’t nobody asking you to go on a diet. We just want you to take better care of you so that you can handle your bizness, girl!” Trista responds.

  “I’m-I’m-I’m just saying…” she stammers.

  “Just saying what? Just saying that you’re so glad we’re here to help you stay focused, correct?” I immediately counter.

  “I hate it when you guys are right,” she finally concedes. “All right, I’ll work with the trainer. We’ll see.”

  “Yes, you will,” says Trista and we quickly share a look of victory.

  “Okay, that’s more than enough about me and mine,” Viv says, suddenly switching gears, “I want to know whatever happened at the Rap Renegade party. Last I saw, you were looking extra fabulous on the red carpet with that fine basketball player, then I lost you in the crowd. Break it down. I want details!”

  “Oh, that’s right!” Trista exclaims. “We sure haven’t heard what happened at the party. Come on, Amaya, spill the beans.”

  “Well, let’s just say that the way things are going, your girl might have two proposals before the end of the year,” I hedge.

  “What?!” they screech in unison.

  “Listen, you guys can keep playing if you want,” I say with a smirk as I stand up and wrap my towel around my body. “I’m ’bout handling my business.”

  “Whatever, gangsta boo, just break it down,” sarcastically answers Trista as she follows me out of the sauna and into the showers. “What the hell went on at the party?”

  “Okay, okay, you know I’m not one to kiss and tell, but here’s how it went down: So Troy and I arrived at El Centro right in the middle of all the red carpet frenzy. And just like I planned, the paparazzi went bananas. Chile, I don’t know if it was our spiritual connection or the low-cut, sheer Richard Tyler dress, but your boy was sporting me like a new winter coat…” I laugh from inside my shower stall.

  “The only connection I could sense was between everyone’s eyes and your breasts,” Vivian interrupts. “Tris, your girl had on the hottest dress of the evening. Even Beyoncé’s little satin B-Wear number was suspect next to Ms. Thing.”

  “I saw all the photos on Industrywhispers. com,” Trista responds dryly.

  “Er-um, like I was saying, we must have spent at least twenty minutes just trying to get down the carpet and into the actual party. In fact, I was having such a good time that I didn’t even notice Keith until we ran up into him and his little raggedy entourage.”

  “I can’t believe I missed that!” screams Vivian.

  “Yes sir, literally ran up into them. Why, Troy almost knocked one of Keith’s little bugaboo boys over by mistake! It was too funny. But not as funny as the look on Keith’s face when he realized that Troy and I were together.”

  “I know he was sick,” Trista mocks.

  “Girl, that ain’t even the half! ’Cause you know that it’s basketball season, so everyone is sweating Troy like a fever. Even Keith’s posse was trying to get him to come sit at their table in VIP and what not.”

  “So were you like, ‘Let’s go’?”

  “Hell no, I wasn’t like, let’s go,” I respond sarcastically, turning my shower off. “I was, like, it’s whatever. I just kept smiling and holding Troy’s hand like I was supposed to do. Keith might’ve saved those dirty looks for the woman he has at home.”

  “Amaya, I know you’re crazy but please don’t tell me that you were sitting up at the Beat Down Records table with Troy,” Trista questions, concern filling her voice.

  “I’m crazy but not retarded,” I laugh. “Troy reserved a table in VIP exclusively for us. But it really didn’t matter because we spent the whole night on the dance floor. Kid Capri and Biz Markie were on the turntables, so the music was bananas. Considering how tall he is, Troy was working it out. I don’t think I’ve had that much fun in years.”

  “So, okay, you had a blast with Troy and pissed off Keith. What makes you think that’s going to get you two proposals?” Vivian interrupts as we sit down to dry off and dress in the green-marble locker room.


  “May I finish?” I answer with a quick eye-roll. “So right before we left the party, I went to the ladies’ room to freshen up my makeup and this fool Keith followed me. As I’m coming out, he steps directly in my face and asks me if I’m satisfied.”

  “Satisfied? What kind of ridiculous question is that?” Trista inquires with a huff.

  “Girl, that’s the same thing I was thinking. And I assume the expression on my face reflected it because before I could respond he grabbed my wrist and dragged me into some random nook under the stairs to the Blue Smoke Room.”

  “You mean to tell me he dragged you?” questions Vivian incredulously. “Come on now, Amaya, I can’t see anyone dragging your loud behind anywhere quietly!”

  “For real, he was holding my wrist so tightly, I just shut the hell up. Of course when we finally got into the corner, I snatched my wrist back and was like, ‘What in the world!…’ He got all up in my space again and was like, ‘I will not tolerate seeing you with anyone else.’ At this point, I’m catching a major attitude. I mean, I’m not the chick that you can just drag around. I haven’t spoken to Keith’s dumb ass in over two months, and this certainly was not scoring any points in my books. So I said to him, ‘You made your choice. She’s at home waiting for you.’ So he said, ‘I promise you, that shit is a wrap. Seeing you with money tonight almost made me murder son for no reason. Stop playing with me, Amaya. You know you belong with me!’”

  “Now, I’m going to keep it real. I really love Keith, and he’s the one I want to be with at the end of the day. But I’ve been down this road too many times. So I told him not to be mad because I’ve found someone who wants to be with only me. I was like, ‘I told you I don’t do number two.’ Next thing I know this Negro is kissing me so hard I thought I was going to suffocate. And his hand is up my dress. PS, I wasn’t wearing panties. So you figure it out!”

  “Omigod, you are the worst!” Trista says with a mixture of disgust and glee.

  “On the real, I didn’t know whether I was going to die from the orgasm or the lack of oxygen. Either way, just as suddenly as he started, he stopped, straightened up his clothes and left my ass standing there.”

  “Shut up!” they both scream.

  “I promise you. It was a mess. My dress was twisted, lipstick was smeared, hair just looking crazy, I still can’t believe no one saw what happened, but that’s L.A. for you…” I ended with a shake of the head.

  “What the hell did Troy say about you being gone for so long?” follows Vivian.

  “Thankfully he was talking to some ball players and barely noticed I was gone.”

  “Jesus, Amaya, your shit is crazy! You gotta be careful,” cautioned Vivian.

  “Who are you telling? And the worst part is, after that encounter with Keith, I was so horny I scratched all my good intentions to make Troy wait for the booty. I put it on him like Heather Hunter,” I say with a sly grin. “It jumped off as we were sitting in his car outside of my apartment. One minute we’re talking, the next he’s lifting me out of my seat and I’m on his lap—in his 745i, mind you—getting my dry grind on like a damn teenager! Just like that, the Richard Tyler was down around my waist and he was sucking my nipples so hard I thought milk was going to squirt out.”

  “Thank God for tinted windows,” Trista interjects sarcastically.

  “You said it, not me. So we’re kissing all crazy and I can feel his erection pressing on my inner thigh. I pry myself off of him and hop back in the passenger seat. Then before he can say anything, I drop down and suck his little man like my nickname is Hoover 2000. All he could manage to say, was, ‘Oh shit, oh shit.’ Then right as he was about to come, I stopped, pinched the tip and told him that I wanted to take it upstairs. You should have seen his eyes bug out, but I was dressed and out of that truck before he could string a sentence together. And thank God I got a head start, because as soon as he got inside, Troy had me pinned up against the wall in the hallway. Honestly, I don’t remember my feet even touching the ground the entire time we were doing it. One thing I do know is that his shit is so damn long he was tickling my tonsils with each thrust. From there it was a freaking marathon, we sexed in damn near every room in my crib. When I woke up the next morning, my lil’ girl was swollen and hanging out. Luckily, Troy was more than happy to provide an early-morning mouth-to-mouth, if you know what I’m saying.”

  “Aww, damn,” says Trista as she zips up her pants in the full-length mirror.

  “Say what you want, all I know is that Troy has been at my house damn near every night since. We do all the corny things, like go to theL.A. Zoo, take drives up the coast to Santa Barbara, watch the sunset at

  the pier, and I still can’t get enough of him.”

  “What about Keith?” Viv questions as she pulls her hair up into a neat ponytail.

  “Ah, Keith…” I answer with a sly grin. “Yeah, well, the reason that Troy and I are together every other night is because when it’s Troy’s night off, Keith is on! A couple days after the party we got together, talked everything out, and your boy has been making it his business to spend quality time. As a matter of fact, we’ve even been house hunting for his new spot when he moves out. Can you believe it?”

  “What I can’t believe is that you’re just now telling us,” exclaims Trista.

  “Oh, please, between juggling the two of them and all these little nickel-and-dime jobs I’ve been auditioning for, I barely have time to breathe.”

  “Wow, clearly I need to get on my job,” Trista admits as we leave the Center.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” I respond, while digging through my gym bag for my shades. “Speaking of jobs, I got to run and meet my little hookup at the Armani showroom. I gotta pick out my outfits for all the Awards Week after-parties.”

  “Mmm, Armani… very nice. I remember seeing Gabrielle Union in a hot black Armani dress at the BET Awards once,” Trista comments. “Now, who’s this hookup?”

  “This stylist Amber that I’m cool with. She’s actually really good friends with that new designer Yana K.”

  “Yeah, well, it must be nice,” Viv sighs. “The overseer only granted me the first half of the day off, so I’ve got to get back to the plantation. What about you, Tris?”

  “I’m headed into the office my damn self,” empathizes Trista. “By the way, with all your juicy gossip, I almost forgot to tell you that I saw that new Pyrotech cookware infomercial you did last night after Leno. As always, you were gorgeous.”

  “Thanks, babe,” I say with a wistful grin as I hand the cute little valet a ten-dollar bill and jump into my car. “Hopefully it will be one of my last.”

  As soon as I pull out of the Center I call my girl Amber to let her know that I’m on my way. I met Amber at one of the first open calls I’d answered shortly after moving to Los Angeles. We were both painfully new to the scene. So when all the more-experienced actresses and models refused to even make eye contact with us, we instantly gravitated toward each other and bonded. An Alicia Silverstone look-alike, she’s one of the most down white girls I’ve ever met. For the first couple of years, whenever I couldn’t convince Trista or Viv to come out on a weeknight and hang, Amber and I were an unstoppable duo in the club scene—there was no party too exclusive for us, no VIP we couldn’t infiltrate. We went through men and their money like water. Like me, Amber was a natural hustler; while I continued pursuing acting, she landed an exclusive styling contract with Robot Films for all the Chris Robinson videos, and hit it big in the fashion game.

  “Hey, chica! Just wanted to let you know that I’m on my way,” I inform her as soon as Amber picks up the line.

  “Okay, babe, I’m in the middle of fitting someone now. Hopefully, she’ll be out of here by the time you arrive. Either way, it’s cool,” she responds.

  “Bet. Hugs and kisses,” I answer before hanging up.

  Since she started styling in L.A., Amber has really made a name for herself among the “it” urban crowd. I g
uess that’s because her lily-white complexion grants her easy access to designers and the pick of the collections, while black stylists with the same amount of experience are left to beg for the scraps. Yet it’s hardly a surprise, considering most designers really don’t see the benefits of loaning their items to black actors and actresses to begin with. At the end of the day, the photographers are only going to shoot so many photos of the black talent before moving on to the next white thing sashaying down the carpet—even if she only has a five-minute cameo under her belt.

  I wondered who Amber is working with, since she didn’t bother to mention a name. Armani is an acquired taste for most of the younger urban crowd, who normally go straight for the Gucci, Versace, or Louis Vuitton. Knowing how fast the good dresses can disappear, I pick up the pace and arrive at the showroom in a mere fifteen minutes.

  The parking gods are working in my favor and I land a spot in the parking garage right across the street from the Armani entrance. As I wait for the light to cross the road I overhear two young women who really should have been in somebody’s high school discussing my favorite Marc Jacobs jeans.

  “Ugh, like, I cannot believe she has those MJs on. I waited an entire season for that wash and they totally never came in stock,” complains the willowy brunette.

  “Like, omigod, don’t even worry about it. She probably works in a stockroom and stole a pair,” her ash-blond friend offers.

  Works in a stockroom? Who the hell were they referring to? I was so tempted to turn around and read the little trust-fund babies from head to toe that my palms started itching. But instead I decide to ignore them and keep it moving. Besides, with my luck, they’d turn out to be the daughters of some important film executive. Speaking of which, I haven’t received my daily update call from Clarence about the Soular Son film. I make a mental note to call as soon as I finish with Amber.

  When the light finally changes, I make sure to put a smile on my face and swing my hips extra hard because I know that those hateful girls are watching as they walk behind me. Then just as we arrive at the corner and start to go our separate ways, I reconsider my decision of silence. When I blow up, it’s going to be so big a couple of whiny, hungry-looking white girls won’t be able to stop me. So I say over my right shoulder, “Pathetic bitches,” without breaking my stride or my smile. As I continue walking away, out of the corner of my eye, I can see them standing there in disbelief. Touché, wenches!