Man Swappers

by Cairo

  “My God,” Persia says, taking in the sprawling lawn. “Pasha’s salon does well, but there’s no way she’s able to afford this unless there’s a whole lot of dirty money up in here.”

  “Well,” I say, driving up toward the valet area and pulling behind a Range Rover. “I ain’t one to gossip, but we do know who she’s marrying.”

  “Mmmph,” Paris and Persia grunt as three young attendants open our car doors. They take our hands and help us out of the car, then loop their arms with ours and usher us down a long, white carpet that leads to the back of the estate. There are torches lit everywhere as we approach two large white tents. On the other side of the property, we see the bridal party over by a beautiful man-made lake, taking pictures. We spot Pasha in her gown but can’t make out the rest of the group.

  Ohmygod, this is beautiful, I think as the young attendants walk us to the entrance of the first tent where the guests mix and mingle and have cocktails until the bridal party arrives.

  “Oh, she really outdid herself,” Paris says, pulling out her camera and snapping pictures.

  “Yes, she did,” Persia agrees. “I hope those tents are air conditioned ’cause this damn heat is brutal today.” We’re relieved when one of the attendants tells us that both tents are. “My God, there are some fine men here tonight.”

  Even I have to cut my eyes and do a few double-takes. There are beautiful men and women all over the place prancing around in Gucci, Versace, and Armani. The sun’s rays are hitting so much bling that it’s blinding.

  Paris

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Everything is breathtaking, I think, feeling as if I’ve stepped into a paradise the minute we cross the entrance of the white-carpeted cocktail tent. Cool air greets us as we step in. The tent is adorned in white draperies, candles, and cube seating with gorgeous white couches arranged throughout the tent. Crisp and pristine, the whole setting is simply elegant. There are literally hundreds of gorgeous white roses and candles everywhere. This is definitely going to be one wedding none of us will ever forget.

  I spot the wedding planner flitting around the room in a beautiful pale pink dress suit, giving orders to the wait staff. There’s a handsome young man walking around with a 35-millimeter camera taking pictures of guests. “Oooh, look, there go Mother and Daddy over there,” Porsha says, pointing.

  “Oh, great,” Persia groans. “I’m going over to the bar.”

  “Oh no, you’re not,” I state, grabbing her by the arm. “You’re going to greet our parents. I wonder who that couple is they’re talking to.”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care. I don’t wanna be anywhere near that woman.”

  “Well, too bad,” I say through clenched teeth. “Now smile.”

  Dad spots us first, smiling. “There they are,” he says, giving the three of us a hug and kisses on the cheeks.

  “Fashionably late as usual,” Mother says, glancing at her timepiece. She eyes me. “Looks like you’ve picked up some weight. I hope you’re not going to let yourself get out of shape.” Daddy shoots her a look.

  I smile. “No, Mother, trust me. I’m not.”

  “Out of shape or not,” the strapping man with the beautiful woman on his arm says, grinning. “You still look—”

  The three of us scream as he faces us. “Garreeeeeeett, it’s so good to see you.” We hug and kiss him.

  “And you must be Bianca,” I say, extending my hand. “It’s so good to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  She smiles. “Same here. Garrett tells me how close the four of you were growing up.”

  “Oh, please,” Persia says teasingly. “We couldn’t stand his big head. Hi, I’m Persia.” She shakes her hand. Porsha introduces herself next.

  Garrett pulls Persia into a big hug. “Yeah, right, Apple Head. Tell the truth. You couldn’t stand not having me around.” We share a laugh until this cocoa brown woman walks by, distracting all of us. She’s wrapped in a form-fitting, white silk gown with thigh-high slits that leaves very little to the imagination. Her designer clutch is tucked under her arm. I glance down at her shoes as she sashays by. They’re a gorgeous pair of high-heel, platform ankle-straps in white satin. But it’s not her expensive wears or the blinding diamonds wrapped around her wrist or in her lobes that has us glued to her. It’s her sculpted body, and her humongous ass that has us all mesmerized.

  “My God, she’s wearing that dress,” Porsha says, eyeing her.

  “Mmmmph, that chile has a whole lot of ass,” Mother says, cutting her eyes over at Daddy who keeps them locked on her backside until she’s out of view. Garrett shifts his eyes when Bianca catches him staring too long.

  “Oh, she stops traffic wherever she goes,” Bianca states, stealing a sideways glance at her.

  “You know her?” Garrett asks curiously.

  “Not personally. I’ve seen her down at Pasha’s salon a few times. Her name is Cassandra. But in the streets they call her Big Booty.”

  “And I see why,” Persia says, shaking her head. “If I had her body, I’d be dangerous.”

  Mother grunts but is cut off by Daddy. “Oh, look,” he says, pointing toward the back of the tent. “They’re about to start the receiving line.”

  We spot Aunt Harriett dressed in a white, ankle-length dress-suit with a portrait collar bolero jacket. She’s first in the receiving line, followed by another woman who I assume to be the groom’s mother. She’s smartly dressed in a bone-colored gown standing next to a man who looks like a taller version of the groom. Standing next to him is Pasha.

  “Ohmygod, she looks beautiful,” I whisper to Porsha and Persia. Mother and Father are in back of us, followed by Garrett and Bianca. Pasha looks gorgeous in a white silk, backless, beaded gown with a deep-pleated train. “Her gown looks absolutely stunning from here.”

  “I’m so glad she didn’t wear a veil,” Mother says to no one in particular.

  Numerous waiters donned in crisp white tuxedo shirts, white slacks and white tuxedo vests walk by offering flutes of Krug, Clos Du Mesnil and Dom Rose—two of the most expensive champagnes—to guests as we wait to move through the line.

  Standing next to Pasha is the handsome groom, Jasper, decked out in a black tux with white vest and tie. “I hate to say this, but her man is fine,” Persia whispers in my ear. Porsha and I agree. “I wonder if he has any single brothers.”

  “I’m sure he has some in the wedding party,” I say, craning my neck to look past him. Standing next to him is Felecia, who is Pasha’s maid of honor. Next to her are three bridesmaids.

  “I don’t see any of the groomsmen,” Porsha says, eyeing the line as she sips her champagne. I tell her it’s optional to have all of the wedding party members in the line, or not.

  “With all these guests,” Persia adds, looking around at the line. “We’d be standing in this line for hours if they did.” She grabs another flute of champagne, sitting her empty glass up on the tray when a waiter comes by. I take another glass as well.

  As the guests move through the receiving line, they’re then led through an archway that leads into another tent where dinner will be served. I watch as everyone in the bridal party stays focused, smiles painted on their faces, as each guest is greeted. Thirty people ahead of us, the woman with the big ass who Garrett’s fiancée called Big Booty, shakes Aunt Harriett’s hand, moving down the line. I watch as she hugs Pasha, then Jasper, kissing him on the cheek.

  Porsha and I eye each other with a raised brow. “I bet you these eight-hundred-dollar heels they’ve fucked,” she whispers.

  “I hope not,” I say.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he has, though, since he used to cheat on her before he went off to prison,” Persia notes. I watch as she gives Felecia a hug, then says a few words to the three bridesmaids before walking off. “Speaking of groomsmen,” she says in a hushed tone, “there’s two of them right there. And they both look like they might be fine.”

  Two men, one tall and dar
k-skinned and the other the color of caramel, in white tuxedos, walk up to Jasper. The dark-skinned man leans in and whispers something into Jasper’s ear. The three of them share a laugh. I can’t make out who he is since my view is now being blocked by the other groomsmen and a thin woman and her extremely large date who are shaking hands with Pasha, then saying something to Jasper and the two groomsmen.

  As we move closer to the line, the dark-skinned groomsman standing in front of Jasper turns slightly to the side, letting the couple go by. I catch a glimpse of his side profile. Persia abruptly gets out of line, almost knocking over one of the waiters and his tray. I turn in her direction, ask where she’s going. “I gotta use the bathroom.”

  “Well, hurry up,” I state, turning back toward the receiving line. I drop my drink, gasping. “Oh my God,” I say in a whisper.

  “What is it?” Porsha asks.

  “It’s him.”

  “Who?” Her eyes follow the direction of my stare.

  “Desmond,” I whisper as he turns his head in our direction and locks his eyes on mine.

  Persia

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  “Champagne?” the waiter asks as I rush by, almost bumping into him. I nod, taking my third flute as I grip my white satin Judith Leiber clutch and race out of the tent. I toss back my drink as I walk-run, gulping down my nervousness. I find refuge in the bathroom, a luxury air-conditioned mobile trailer unit, shutting myself in one of the private stalls. Ohmyfuckinggod, I don’t believe this shit! My worst nightmare is about to unfold!

  “How the fuck am I going to get myself out of this mess?” I ask myself, stepping out of the stall and walking over to the sink. I freshen my lipstick, then smack my lips together. Right now I wish I could click my heels three times and disappear.

  Felecia and the girl with the big ass come into the bathroom. “Oh hey, cuz,” Felecia says, walking over and giving me a hug. “I was wondering where you were. Paris and Porsha have been looking for you.”

  “Girl, I had to use the bathroom. I’ll catch up to them in a minute.”

  “I don’t know if the two of you have met, but this is Cassandra, one of the salon’s most faithful clients. Cassandra, this here is my cousin, Persia.” We exchange customary hellos.

  “I spotted you earlier in the cocktail tent,” I say, forcing a smile. “And girl, you’re wearing the hell out of that dress.”

  “Oooh, thank you, boo,” she says, smoothing out the front of her dress. “I had to get hit off with a few stacks from one of my young boy toys to…” she stops herself, giving me a confused look. “Wait a minute. I know Mother done tossed back a few rounds, but a bitch ain’t sauced. Now, out there I met twins, right?”

  “No, girl,” Felecia says, laughing. “There are three of them.”

  I force a smile. “Yes, we’re triplets.”

  “Oooh, girl, thank Gawd y’all cleared that up. For a minute I thought I was—”

  “You sneaky, lying bitch!” Paris yells, swinging open the bathroom door. “You had to fuck him, didn’t you?”

  Felecia blinks.

  Cassandra purses her cherry wine painted lips.

  “Paris…I didn’t,” I stammer, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

  “You didn’t what, Persia? Didn’t mean to suck his dick? Didn’t mean to fuck him? Didn’t mean to trick him into thinking you were me? Or you didn’t mean to get caught? Which one is it?”

  “I’m—”

  “What, sorry? Bitch, please. Not this time.”

  I cut my eyes over at Felecia and Cassandra, who opens her clutch and turns toward the sink, pulling out her lipstick while watching this whole mess unfold in the mirror. “Paris, let’s not do this here,” I plead. “We can talk about this somewhere more private.”

  “Oh, no, bitch. We’re gonna talk about this right here, and right now. I don’t give a damn who hears the shit.”

  Paris shoots a look over at Felecia whose mouth is wide open. “C’mon, Cassandra,” she says, “Let’s give them some privacy.”

  “Oh, no, Miss Fe-Fe, I was here first. You can run along, but I’m stayin’ right here. This is ’bout to be some real juicy shit. And I ain’t missin’ one bit of it.”

  Felecia opens her mouth to say something to Paris, but she shuts her down, putting a hand up. “Don’t; not a word. This is between me and my whorin’-ass sister.” She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. One hand is up on her hip and the other pointing a finger at me.

  Porsha pushes open the door, racing in. “Paris, no, girl. Not here. This isn’t the place to get into it.”

  Paris has a crazed look in her eyes. And if looks could kill, I’d already be dead. She ignores Porsha. “How many times did you fuck him? And where?”

  “Paris, please. Let’s not do this here. I promise you. I’ll tell you everything. Let’s go somewhere and talk in private.”

  “No, bitch, we’re going to either talk here or fight here. You choose.” I sigh, giving in. The last thing I want to do is get into a fist-fight with my pregnant sister. I tell her nine or ten times. She holds her stomach like she’s going to be sick. “Oh, God. Where?”

  I’m so embarrassed that she wants to air this out in front of Felecia and this nosey ass woman with the big ass. “Paris, I realize you’re upset; you have every right to be. But I’m not going to do this with you here. What happened was a mistake.”

  “A fucking mistake?” she repeats incredulously. “Bitch, are you serious?! You purposefully slept with him. You pretended to be me, fucked him, then gave him your phone number and deliberately erased the numbers from my caller ID so I wouldn’t be able to have contact with him. Yeah, bitch, that was Desmond—you know, the man you fucked—standing up there at the receiving line. And when I asked him why he’d stop calling me he told me that I broke it off with him. When the fuck did I break it off with him, Persia?” I am at a loss for words. “I’m waiting, bitch! I asked you if anyone had called for me and you told me no. Then after I told you I was pregnant by him, you still acted like you didn’t know who or what the fuck I was talking about. You’re a fucking lying-ass bitch! You looked me in my face, knowing you had fucked him behind my back.”

  “Paris, I swear to you, I stopped sleeping with him right after you told me and Porsha you were pregnant.”

  “And then you still didn’t open your mouth and say shit. So tell me. Was sucking his dick and fucking him worth it to you?”

  I steal a glance at Porsha. She glares back at me, eyes smoldering. I can tell she’s pissed, too. Felecia decides she’s heard enough and finally decides to leave. I’m sure so she can run off and start blabbing to everyone. Nosey-ass Cassandra leans back on the sink with her arms folded, determined not to miss a drop of dirt.

  I’ve never seen Paris like this. I’m truly hurt, that I’ve hurt her. “Paris, you have to believe me when I say I’m so sorry. I know what I did was—”

  “Fuck you, and fuck your goddamn apology, you selfish-ass bitch! I don’t have to believe shit. All I wanna know is how many times you sucked his dick, or let him fuck you in that nasty, whore ass of yours?”

  Three other women walk into the bathroom. “Paris, please,” Porsha says, pulling her by the arm. “This is Pasha’s wedding. Let’s deal with this at home. We don’t need anyone else hearing all this.”

  She stares at me long and hard. “You know what, you’re right. Let me get the fuck away from this bitch. I don’t know how the fuck she’s getting home, but her ass is not riding in the same car with us. The bitch can walk or suck her way home as far as I’m concerned.”

  She swings open the bathroom door, storming out with Porsha hot on her heels. I turn to look at myself in the mirror, turning on the water. I’m wrecked.

  Miss Nosey with the Big Ass toots her lips up. “Oooooh, Miss Girl, you a real messy one, I see. And I looooove it!” She snaps her clutch shut and heads for the door. She glances over her sholder. “Good luck, boo-boo, ’cause girlfriend looks like she’s gonna who
op that ass.”

  Bitch!

  Porsha

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  “For the love of God, what in the hell is going on?” Mother asks as soon as we approach the table. “Felecia came over here saying you were yelling and screaming at Persia.”

  “Mother, not now,” Paris says, kissing her on the cheek. Then walks over and kisses our father. “We’re leaving. If you want to know what’s going on, ask your messy-ass daughter.”

  “Paris,” Mother huffs.

  Daddy gives Mother a stern look. “Let her be.”

  “I most certainly will not. I want to know what in the hell is this mess about you being pregnant and you fighting with your sister, airing your filth here.”

  Paris snatches her clutch from off the table. “Yes, Mother. I am pregnant. And I’m keeping it, okay?”

  Everyone at the table gasps. Aunt Fanny and Aunt Lucky shoot each other the eye. Mother falls back in her seat, her jaw slack. Daddy lowers his head. This night has gone from bad to worse.

  I open my mouth to say something when I spot Desmond walking over toward our table. But he’s already in earshot of everything Paris is saying.

  “And that fucking bitch pretended to be me so she could fuck the father of my baby behind my back. Let’s go, Porsha. I’m through.” She spins on her heels, stopping dead in her tracks. Desmond’s standing in back of her, frozen with shock, hearing that she’s pregnant.

  I glance over at the bridal table and see Felecia standing in back of Pasha, leaning in her ear, pointing over at us. I’m sure giving her all the juicy details of what happened in the bathroom. Pasha stares over in our direction as Paris runs out of the tent.

  Paris

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Right now, I’m too fucking pissed to be embarrassed over the scene I’ve caused. I have to get the hell out of here, and fast. I find myself running in heels out of the tent with Porsha chasing behind me, and Desmond calling out to me. But, I keep running.