Man Swappers

by Cairo

  “Where was she found again?” I ask. She tells me Branch Brook Park in Newark. “Did they ever find the person behind it?”

  She slowly shakes her head, then takes another sip of her drink. “She refused to cooperate.”

  I raise my brow, cutting an eye over at Porsha and Paris. “That’s strange, don’t you think? Why wouldn’t she want the police to get whoever was responsible for kidnapping and beating her off the streets?”

  Felecia shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine. It’s like she’s protecting whoever did it.”

  “Maybe she does know,” I say with raised brow.

  “Mmmm,” Porsha says, pursing her lips. “Or she’s trying to keep something from coming out.”

  Felecia glances around the room at the three of us. “I don’t even wanna go there. She swore she didn’t know who the men were.”

  “Men?” Paris asks, cupping her hand over her mouth. “Ohmygod, all this time I thought it was only one man who did that to her.”

  “No, it was like six or seven of ’em involved.”

  Porsha, Paris and I gasp, clutching our chests. “Ohmygod,” we say in unison.

  “I can see one or two niggas kidnapping someone,” Porsha states, disgusted. “But you talking six niggas, and she got beat…” She pauses, letting her words float around the room. “I’m sorry, but the more I’m hearing, the more I’m convinced that wasn’t some random act. No, it was personal.”

  Felecia tosses back her drink. “You said it. Not me. But, between us…” she looks around the room like she’s expecting someone else to walk into the room. She leans in. “There was a lot of crazy shit happening a few months prior to her being kidnapped.”

  Porsha cuts her eye at me. I tilt my head. “What kind of crazy shit?” Paris asks. Felecia sits back in her seat and pours the dirt. Tells us about some strange man constantly calling the shop asking for her, and when she’d hang up on him, he’d keep calling back. She tells us about someone throwing a brick through the back window of her car. Then, a week or so later, someone smashing out the shop’s window with a steel pipe.

  “My God,” I say, shaking my head. “The plot thickens.”

  “Girl, let me get another drink,” Felecia says, reaching for the pitcher. I’ve lost count of how many this is for her, at least eight or nine. But she’s well on her way to finishing this pitcher practically all by herself. “You haven’t heard the half of it.”

  “You mean to tell me there’s more?”

  “Chile, y’all did not hear any of this from me. Pasha would have my head for sure. But, a few months before she got kidnapped, some young nigga came up in the shop and straight disrespected her in front of all of us.”

  Ohmygod, Felecia’s splashing some juicy shit up on us tonight. I knew Pasha’s ass was a hot-ass mess!

  She goes into full detail about a guy walking into the shop, requesting a deep throat special from Pasha. Telling her he had heard had she sucked a good dick. That she had sucked one of his boys in his car while he was driving down Route 22. Then she tells us about her being attacked by some masked man who jumped out of the bushes when she was putting her key in her front door. And how she didn’t report it, or want Jasper to know about it. Paris, Porsha and I are sitting here with our jaws dropped as she tells us this. By the time Felecia finishes dishing the dirt, it’s almost one o’clock in the damn morning and my head is literally spinning.

  Porsha

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “Girl, you know I still can’t get over what Felecia told us the other night.” I’m on the phone talking to Paris, sitting behind my desk with my feet propped up. We’ve been on the phone for almost forty minutes recapping that whole evening. Since Felecia’s visit, we hadn’t really talked about it until now.

  “Me either. I’m just glad Pasha’s okay.”

  “Is she really?” I ask, wondering how she could be. I mean, if what Felecia said is true, then I don’t know how anyone could be okay. Not without some kind of counseling at least. And the truth of the matter is we haven’t had a chance to really talk to her. The times we’ve spoken have been real brief conversations about other things, like her being pregnant, then having the baby, and now her wedding.

  “I hope she is,” Paris says thoughtfully. “We used to all be so close growing up. It’s sad how we’ve grown so far apart over the years.”

  Truth is Paris and I were the ones closest to Pasha growing up. She and Felecia would sometimes spend the weekends at our house when their grandmother worked the overnight shift at Beth Israel in Newark. She was a nurse and oftentimes would work double shifts on the weekends so that she could be home with Pasha and Felecia during the week. We’d be up laughing and playing with our dolls and other toys while Persia kept her distance. Persia wouldn’t allow them to come into her bedroom, or play with any of her toys. She’d tolerate them if they were only visiting for the day. But, when they stayed over, she’d oftentimes be very mean and nasty toward them. I never understood why. Felecia one time said it was because Persia was jealous. That turned into a terrible fistfight between the two of them and with both of them getting ass whippings for fighting each other. We were expected to get along, and be there for each other. Not fight one another.

  “Yeah, I know. Relationships might change, but the love doesn’t ever have to.”

  “You’re right. It’s a shame, though.” She pauses. “Promise me we’ll never let anything come between us.”

  “Girl, please. We’re thick as thieves. There’s nothing that could ever break our bond.” My phone beeps. I remove the phone my ear, glancing at the screen. It’s our mother. “Mom is calling in; let me take this call.”

  “And try to be nice to her.”

  “Bye, hooker.” She starts laughing and disconnects. “Well, this is a nice surprise,” I answer. “How are you?”

  “I’m doing fine. We haven’t talked since brunch so I wanted to call to see how you were.”

  I smile. “That was sweet of you. I’m doing good; thanks. How are things with you?”

  “I’m doing great. But of course you wouldn’t have known that unless I called you, which is why I decided to reach out to you, first, instead of waiting for you to call me. Fanny thinks it’s ridiculous that I have to—”

  I shake my head. “Mother, stop,” I say, cutting her off. I pause. Think before I speak. “I’m happy to hear from you, okay. So let’s not turn this into a situation where I wish I hadn’t answered the phone, please.”

  “Porsha, I’m not looking to get into an argument with you. I’m simply saying it would be nice if you’d call me sometimes; that’s all.”

  “You’re right. I apologize. I promise I will try to do better.”

  “Apology accepted,” she says. “I still don’t understand why you treat me with such indifference. I’m your mother. It’s like you let Persia turn you against me when I’ve done nothing but love you girls.”

  “And talk about us, Mother. Let’s not forget that.”

  “I can’t help it if I don’t like some of the choices you and your sisters have made; especially with this whole sleeping with the same—”

  I cut her off. I know this is my mother, and I love her, but I swear, sometimes I really don’t like her. Like right now when she’s getting ready to start her shit. “I know, Mother. We’ve heard this I-don’t-like-the-nasty-shit-you-girls-are-doing speech a thousand times already. And it still hasn’t changed anything. And you wanna know why? Because we don’t care what you think.”

  “Porsha, I’m your mother. You girls should care about what I think. Does what your father thinks matter?”

  “Mother, we’re grown. You and Daddy and anyone else are entitled to your opinions. And none of you have to like what we do. But we’re not living our lives for you, for Daddy, or for anyone else. I don’t know how many times we have to keep having this conversation, but it’s not going to change anything. At the end of the day, it really doesn’t matter what you think. That doesn’t mea
n that we don’t love you. It simply means we want you to please keep your comments to yourself.”

  “Okay, Porsha,” she says, sounding aggravated. “This is not why I called you.”

  “Then why did you call?”

  “For three reasons: I was thinking about you. I wanted to see how you were doing.”

  Without thought, I smile. My attitude softens. Truth is I really do miss spending time with her. And I realize our—well, Paris’s and mine because she and Persia have never gotten along—relationship with her deteriorated the minute she learned we were fucking the same men. She’s said a lot of hurtful things because of it.

  “Mom, I love you. And I don’t wanna fight with you, anymore. But sometimes you make it hard to like you.”

  “It’s terrible how you girls treat me,” she says, disregarding everything I’ve said. “I made sure you girls had the best of everything.”

  “Yes, you did, Mom. And you don’t have to keep reminding us of that, either. Trust me. We appreciate everything you and Daddy did for us. But, that doesn’t mean we have to live our lives according to how you want us to, or how you think we should.” Another call rings in. It’s Emerson. I let out a sigh of relief. This conversation was starting to give me a headache. “Mom, I gotta go. I have another call I need to take. I’ll call you toward the end of the week, okay?”

  “Okay, go take your call. I need to get ready to meet Fanny, anyway.” We say our goodbyes, then disconnect.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, baby. How you?”

  “I’m better now,” I say, smiling.

  “Oh yeah, why are you better?” In my mind’s eye, I see him grinning ear to ear.

  “’Cause I’m hearing your voice,” I tell him, swiveling in my chair. I cross my legs, feeling my pussy tingle.

  “Aaah, I like that, baby. What are you doing for lunch?”

  I glance at the clock over on the shelf of my mahogany bookcase that’s lined with rows of books on accounting and tax laws. It’s almost eleven. The morning has been quiet, but I have several clients coming in to have their taxes done this afternoon, starting at one up until my last appointment at eight o’clock. One of the good things about being a tax preparer, it’s seasonal. And with about twenty or more clients a week, I literally make thousands of dollars a month in a four-month span. However, when it’s over it’s over, which is why I also do accounting to ensure I have a steady flow of income throughout the year. Owning my own business was the best thing I could’ve ever done for myself. The whole idea of being chained to a desk, working for someone else and making them rich off of my hard work did not sit well with me. I tried it for two years and it was torture. So armed with a CPA and only twenty-five thousand dollars in savings, I stepped out on faith and started my own home-based accounting business. Then, two years later, I moved into an office space in West Orange. Now here I am, four years later, despite an uncertain economy, still standing.

  I smile. “Nothing, why?”

  “I was thinking I’d swing by and we could have lunch together.”

  “Em, I don’t know if that’s a good idea. What if Persia came here?”

  He sighs. “So what if she did? She’s going to find out sooner or later, anyway.”

  “I know, but…not like that. I want to tell her in my own time.”

  He sighs. “Okay, your sister; your way. Handle it how you want. But, I still wanna see you. So how you wanna handle lunch?” I tell him I’ll come to him. “Is there anything specific you’d like to eat?”

  I smile. “Yes…you.”

  “Then lunch is ready. I’ll see you when you get here.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I say, logging off my computer, then grabbing my purse and keys.

  “I’ll be naked and ready.”

  “My mouth and pussy are already watering.”

  Paris

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “Paradise Boutique. How can I help you?”

  “Hey, beautiful,” the voice on the other end says. “I wanna spend another day in Paradise.” His masculinity oozes through the phone, causing my clit to tingle.

  I press my thighs together, feeling the furnace between my legs ignite. “Umm, who am I speaking to?” I ask, playfully. “You might have the wrong number.”

  He laughs. “Nah, beautiful, I got the right number. And you know who it is; don’t front, ma.”

  “No, seriously,” I joke. “Who is this? Sammie? Laron? Craig?”

  “Oh, damn, it’s like that. That’s how you doin’ it?”

  I laugh. “Let me stop messing with you. How are you?”

  “I’m good. Thinking about you. You closin’ at six, right?” I tell him yes. “I wanna take you out tonight.”

  Girl, don’t do it. He’ll be tryna turn this into a relationship. You’ve already fucked him more than enough times. Then laid up with his ass down in Atlantic City. Now he’s tryna take you out, again. Not good. You see where this is going?

  It’s only a date. What harm can that do?

  Girl, you’re asking for trouble.

  Sometimes a girl needs a little trouble. It’ll be one last time for the road. I grin, ignoring the voices in my head. “And where would you like to take me?”

  “Nowhere special; someplace simple to grab a bite to eat, then have a little fun. Uh, you do like to have fun, don’t you?”

  “That depends on the activity,” I say coyly.

  “It’s whatever, baby. But for now, it’s dinner. You wit’ it or what?”

  It’s only dinner, I reason in my head. It’s not like he’s asking me to marry him or anything. “Listen. I’m not looking for a man,” I decide to tell him. Not wanting there to be any room for confusion.

  He laughs. “Yo, ma, breathe easy. We’re kickin’ it. I’m not looking for a man, either.”

  I laugh. “Real funny. You know what I mean.”

  “Relax, ma. You jumpin’ way ahead of ya’self. All I’m tryna do is chill with you. Not turn this into a relationship. Not yet, anyway. I told you I wanted to snatch you up, but, uh…I need to see if you worthy of a man like me, first.”

  I suck my teeth, still laughing. “Oh, please. You may not be worthy of me.”

  “Yeah, aiight. Then I guess there’s only one way for the both of us to find out. Isn’t there?”

  I smile. “I guess there is. But you already know this pussy’s well worth it.”

  He laughs. “Oh, and this dick isn’t?”

  “Oh, the dick is definitely worth it,” I say seductively. “Still doesn’t mean you’re worthy of being my man.”

  “Yeah, aiight. We’ll see about all that. Where you want me to pick you up, at the store or ya crib?”

  My crib? Oh hell no. I can’t have him picking me up at the house. Persia and Porsha will think he’s on the menu and wanna know when they can fuck him. They’ll be ready to pounce on his ass real quick. And this one…I wanna keep him all to myself a little while longer. I tell him he can pick me up here at the boutique. He tells me he’ll be here at six. “Okay, I’ll see you later,” I say as three middle-aged women walk through the door. “I have to get back to work.”

  “Oh, aiiight. Go do your thing. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  “Before I go…where did you say you were taking me?”

  “I didn’t,” he says, lowering his voice.

  “I need to know how to dress.” He tells me to dress comfortable. That he’s taking me into the city to a spot I’ve probably never been to. “Ohhhhkaaaaay, Mister Elusive. Do you mind elaborating a little more?”

  “Nah. You’ll see when we get there, aiiight?”

  “And who is this again?” I joke.

  He chuckles. “Yeah, aiiight. I’ll refresh ya memory tonight when I see you.” We exchange a few more words, then hang up. I tend to my customers, then for the rest of the day I find myself watching the clock, anxiously waiting for six o’clock to roll around.

  Sitting in the passenger seat of Desmond’
s 2010 silver CL600 Benz on our way into the city, I feel completely comfortable. Drake’s album Thank Me Later is playing out of the 600-watt sound system. And we’re both kind of in our zones, bobbing our heads to “Over.”

  “Yo, you aiiight?” he asks, reaching over and touching my chin.

  I shift in my seat, bring my attention to him. “I’m good.”

  He smiles, looking over at me. “So what you over there thinking about?”

  “Nothing really,” I lie, pulling my bag into my arms. I realize someone’s trying to call me when I feel my phone vibrating. I fish it out of my bag, checking to see who’s calling me. I have three missed calls. The first two are from my mother. And the last missed call is from Persia. Shit, I forgot to call her to let her know I won’t be home until later, I think, sending her a text, letting her know I’m out and won’t be home until late tonight.

  Desmond looks over at me, smirking. “So who you texting, ya man?”

  I laugh. “I don’t have a man.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Trust me, if I had a man, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you. I don’t play the cheating game. Been there, done that.”

  “Oh, word?” he asks, shocked. “You don’t seem like the cheating kind.”

  “I’m not. He cheated on me.”

  He shakes his head, focusing his attention back on the road ahead. “Damn, he’s a real sucker for that. So is that why you done banned relationships?”

  I laugh. “No, not at all. I wouldn’t say I’ve banned relationships. I’ve put them on hold for a minute. I haven’t found the right man, yet. And until I do, I’m not gonna settle. I’d rather be single than deal with a bunch of BS.”

  “I feel you.” He glances over at me. “So, what’s really good with you? You sexy as hell, and you don’t have a man. You got friends? You got somebody you fuckin’ wit’ on a regular? Wassup?”

  “I have a few friends,” I tell him, gauging his reaction. There is none.

  “Oh, word? And they all hittin’ that?”