Sixty-Nine

by Pynk

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  She frowned, logged off, disconnected, and remembered how her grandmother would tell her, what you don’t know won’t hurt you.

  But still, for Magnolia, it was both the feeling of knowing and not knowing that was killing her.

  Her grandmother was correct.

  She was not yet over Neal the Heartbreaker Graham.

  Four

  “Try It on My Own”

  Darla

  EXT.—DARLA’S CAR—DOWNTOWN MIAMI—LATE MORNING

  January 2, 2009

  The powder blue skies were barely tickled by the slight playful morning breeze.

  It was the second day of almost summer-like temperatures, so soon after the chill of the last day of 2008. It was another day of oddly sudden, orange blazing sunshine that had won its fight with the clouds, shining the warmth of its light on Southeast Florida with a bold glare.

  Riding along the northern streets of Miami in her midnight blue Maxima, Darla, wearing her Bluetooth headset, paid close attention to the street signs and street numbers as she said to her friend Rebe, “Hey, sis.”

  “Cool. So what’s up with you?” Rebe was at home, voice sounding like she could have been soaking in the luxury of a warm bubble bath.

  “I’m good. The question is, what’s up with you?”

  “I’m good, too.”

  “I guess you are. Running off with a strange man and all. Magnolia and I got two little text messages. One that you were in the VIP area with him, and the other that you were on your way up to his hotel room.”

  Rebe’s voice was low and slow. “Darla, he had a room at the same Fontainebleau hotel. No big deal.”

  “No big deal that you didn’t call the rest of the night and all day yesterday.”

  “You know I texted you both yesterday, and again to say Happy Birthday. I was home all day yesterday, making gumbo for the New Year, hoping Trinity would come home, but she was out all night, again. Besides, I’m calling you now so can we talk, please? ”

  “Okay. But if it were me, I would’ve called first thing yesterday morning, if not sooner. Screw a dang text. Whatever happened to picking up the phone?” Darla asked, still watching every street number along the way.

  Rebe paused. Her sigh was audible. “Darla, why is it you act like Mother Teresa all the time? Especially after we sat there on New Year’s Eve night and agreed to lighten the hell up, and here you are, the second day of 2009, still with your panties in a bunch. I’m gonna start calling you my energy vampire. You suck all the fun right out of me.”

  “Well, excuse me for giving a darn. All I can say is at least he wasn’t an ax murderer. I mean, you are still alive.” Darla sped up a bit, realizing she had a few more blocks to go. “But believe me, I listened to every word of that conversation we had about our resolutions. That’s why I’m driving around looking at places to open my store right now.”

  Rebe’s voice sparked. “You are? Very good.”

  “Somebody’s gotta be good.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Where’ve you been looking?”

  “Right now I’m in Miami.” Darla ducked her head to see the addresses. “Downtown on Northwest 40th between 1st and 2nd, looking for this one place that’s somewhere over here, suppose to be a corner spot. And then I’m headed over near Midtown.”

  “I’m really proud of you for not wasting any time.”

  “Well thanks. You didn’t waste time either, obviously. I’ll let you slide, though. So what happened anyway? Magnolia said you beat us to the punch in getting deflowered for 2009.”

  “Yeah.” Rebe spoke with more energy. “And I’ll tell you this, just like I told her, for the first time in my life I went back to a man’s place. In this case, a man’s hotel room. A man who I’d just met, and we had sex. And when I say sex, it was a freaking sex extravaganza, Darla. This man went all night long. I swear he must’ve been on Viagra or something.”

  Darla had a momentary impressed look on her face. “Oh my. Who is he?”

  “His name is DeMarius. DeMarius Collins, he told me. And girl, the trip is, he told me he’s actually an escort.”

  Darla waited at the traffic light. “An escort? Rebe, you had sex with an escort?”

  “I did. And it was the best sex I’ve ever had in my entire life.”

  “That’s total TMI on his part. Unless he was trying to get you to pay him, I can’t believe he even told you that. That’s not something I’d imagine a person admitting.”

  “I can tell you for sure he was not trying to get paid with money. He was getting paid with pussy dollars, maybe. Girl, I thought he was gonna eat me alive.” Rebe laughed and then moaned in remembrance.

  Darla replied, “I’m sure that man gets all the sex he can handle. Why was he sitting at a bar on New Year’s Eve all alone?”

  “He was in town for a job and it just so happened to be around New Year’s.”

  “I would think New Year’s Eve would be a big money making night for escorts. With all the single women who don’t want to bring in the new year alone, fine as he was, he should’ve been booked.”

  “Whatever. As they say, he was cute for a drive-by, but not a vacation. It was a one-nighter. All I know is, I got mine and it didn’t cost me anything.”

  Darla proceeded as the light turned green. “I guess not. But did you even ask him if he lives here?”

  “He’s from New York, actually here for an interview. A track coach position at our old alma mater.”

  “Track, huh? As tall as that man is. He’d tip over trying to run a dang relay. That’d be a funny sight.” Darla giggled.

  Rebe sounded serious. “Oh, please. I’ve seen some pretty tall guys running track. Usain Bolt is like six foot five.” Rebe waited a second. “You trying to say he was lying to me, or what?”

  “Just sounds odd.”

  “Why would he lie about something as simple as interviewing for a coaching job? Especially after being open enough to admit he’s an escort.”

  “You did at least exchange numbers, right?”

  “No. After he told me what he did, I was like, let me just cut my losses.”

  Darla slowed down again and then stopped at a crosswalk, allowing the plentiful weekend crowd of pedestrians to cross the street. “I can understand that.”

  “Yeah.” Rebe’s voice was again relaxed.

  “So anyway, what about your pole dancing classes? When does that start?”

  “I’ll have my first class tomorrow.”

  “Maybe that’s what I need to be doing. Rebe, honestly, my ass is getting bigger by the day.” Darla proceeded on cautiously.

  “You should come with.”

  “What I need to do first is get this weight off me before I can even begin to go sliding down some doggone pole.”

  “You look great to me.”

  “Thank you. Like Mo’Nique says, ‘I’m skinny fat.’ ”

  Rebe laughed. “No.”

  “The only reason you don’t say how big I am is because you love me, right?”

  “Yes, I do, in spite of your annoying motherly ways. But you also know the best way to get on my bad side is to keep acting like a mother. Keep it up.”

  “Speaking of a mother, I just wonder sometimes if you’re curious about how she’s holding up. I mean, she’s been in jail for what now, more than twenty-five years?”

  “Next topic. You talk to your mother-in-law lately?” Rebe asked.

  Darla pulled over. “I did yesterday. She called me, not texted me, mind you, to wish me a happy birthday. Always cries when we get on the phone. Lost her only child. When I hang up I feel like crap.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Darla parallel parked along the curb in front of a newer shopping complex. “Well, Rebe, I guess I’ll go ahead and get out of this car. Maybe I can peek in a few windows to see what these places look like inside.” She put the car in park and eyed the brand-new development, in particular, the store on the corner with the white brick
and tan stucco. “It looks pretty nice. But I doubt I could afford this.”

  “You never know. Go ahead and check it out. I’m gonna take a nap. I’m still worn out from marathon man.”

  “Yeah, you do that. Plus, you’re going to need your energy for your stripper class tomorrow.” Darla turned off the engine.

  “True.”

  “You be good.”

  Rebe’s voice was half asleep. “I’ll try.”

  Darla rushed her words, speaking louder. “Oh, and Rebe.”

  “Yes.”

  Darla took a deep breath. “I wanted to ask you.”

  “Uh huh.”

  She took an even deeper breath, searching for the words and the nerve. “You know, I just might need a, well, I have this, what I’m saying is, I might need, need to call you back after you get some rest, once I see these places. You know, get your feedback.”

  “Sure. Call me back.”

  “I will. Bye.”

  Darla hung up, grabbing her purse and taking the keys from the ignition, ready to get a closer look at the storefront.

  The store she had the nerve to even look at, considering she’d almost just asked her rich friend for a loan. A loan not only to open a store, but also a loan to help her pay her most basic of bills.

  Because unbeknownst to her friends, Darla Clark was flat busted broke.

  Five

  “Ex Factor”

  Rebe

  INT.—REBE’S CORAL GABLES HOME—COCONUT GROVE—EARLY EVENING

  January 3, 2009

  It was the next day, a Saturday, and Rebe sat down after devouring leftovers of her traditional New Year’s chicken and sausage gumbo. The smell of her spicy stew still lingered in the air.

  She had upgraded the oversized chef’s kitchen with all-black cabinets, dark hardwood floors, and the best brand of fitted stainless steel appliances. The empire cherry island was so big it could have served as a queen-sized bed.

  Rebe’s custom-built estate home was in an elite section of a city called Coral Gables, compliments of one cheating ex-husband named Randall.

  Rebe didn’t come from money, but for the moment, she was swimming in it…eight million dollars’ worth of swimming. Two million for each year they were married.

  Wearing a yellow pair of tights, a hoodie, and track shoes, Rebe sat on a leather barstool at the island, thinking about her life as she rummaged through a stack of mail. She looked around at her beautiful home and thought about the small house she and her brother grew up in. Her thoughts were dark. Her mood dipped.

  It was a run-down, two-bedroom apartment, in a public housing complex in Ocala, Florida. It was the place where all hell broke loose.

  Just like her daughter Trinity did after her birth father died, Rebe had learned to live without her father, who moved back to Hawaii once Rebe got pregnant and moved in with Trent. He’d never even met his own grandchild. Never made an attempt.

  But Rebe wanted to be all that Trinity didn’t have as far as extended family. She made sure to be there for her daughter, almost to the point of being overprotective. And Rebe had no choice but to learn to live without her mother, who was locked up. The woman whom Rebe called the she-devil.

  Right out of college, Rebe worked as a customer service representative at a bank with Magnolia, but all Rebe ever wanted to do was be a dancer. Though never encouraged at home, she loved dance class in high school, and one thing she made sure to do in college was take modern dance and ballet. Dancing was her passion.

  Back in 2001, when Trinity was fourteen, Rebe attended a tryout for the Miami Dolphins cheerleading squad. She didn’t get the spot, but she did catch the eye of one of the guys on the practice field, Randall Richardson, who back then was a star tight end for the Dolphins. Within one month, she quit her job and she and Trinity moved in with Randall, though some warned Rebe it was way too soon. But the whirlwind romance led to them getting married six months after that. Five years later, she was awarded alimony after filing for divorce. It was not nasty. He gave her what she wanted in the divorce, but not his fidelity in the marriage.

  According to Rebe, their marriage fell apart because Randall arrived back in town after an away game and called to say he’d be home in a few hours after he made a stop by the coach’s house. Well, he did go by his coach’s house, but when he left, he didn’t head straight home, and Rebe was hot on his trail, following right behind him in her Benz, straight to the W South Beach.

  Rebe watched him pull up to the front of the hotel and hand the keys to his silver Porsche to the black-vest-wearing valet. He went inside as Rebe and her nervous heart waited. And waited. Adrenaline was in overdrive.

  Halfway into the second hour, Randall came out hand-in-hand with a woman, a woman with platinum hair, whom Rebe recognized as one of the team’s cheerleaders. The valet pulled around the woman’s brand-new black Mustang and then stood with the door ajar, and by the time the woman finished hugging Randall, ready to scoot her narrow hips into the driver’s seat, Rebe came booting it along the circular driveway in her Adidas, like she was Flo Jo, and she commenced to swinging. Swinging at Randall, at the woman, and toward the valet who stepped forward to try to block the door so the woman could get in her car. He shut the door, and she drove away. Randall restrained Rebe, grabbing her arms while she shook and kicked and squirmed to release herself from his grip.

  “You bastard ass muthafucka. I’m so sick of you telling all these damn lies. You’re never where you say you are. You flew into town and lied as soon as you landed, knowing I’m waiting for your sorry ass to come home. And I recognize that scrawny bitch anyway. Isn’t her name Kandi? What the hell?”

  Another valet pulled up who was driving Randall’s Porsche and Randall shoved Rebe away, hopped in, and sped off, all without saying a word, pedal to the metal. Rebe went sprinting down the street, trying to get to her car fast enough, but by the time she did, he was out of sight.

  Rebe breathed hard like it would be her last, and pressed redial on her cell in a repeated panic, but Randall didn’t pick up. She yelled so loud her ears popped. “Pick up the phone, Randall. You fucking dog ass punk, you!”

  She hurried home and waited, crying, pacing, imagining, and dialing again for over two hours, all while Trinity slept down the hall.

  Then, Randall simply walked in the bedroom with a stroll, calm and casual, like nothing had happened. He never even gave her eye contact. But her angry eyes made precise contact with him.

  Rebe was seated on the bed, legs crossed, bouncing her foot, focusing on his every move. Her nose and upper lip were sweating and she was shaking like a crack addict.

  He went straight to the closet, packed a small suitcase, and casually walked out of the room.

  Rebe begged her bad side to stay right where it was, though she wanted to handle him so bad she could taste it. She counted to three, stood, and screamed toward his exit, “Horny ass bastard. That’ll be the most expensive pussy run of your entire life.” Instead of hurrying down the stairs, chasing behind him, as much as her nerve tried to convince her to, she ran to the bedroom window, parting the ebony pleated curtains and eyeing him again, praying looks could kill.

  He approached his Porsche, which was parked in the circular driveway, and tossed the suitcase inside, jumping in, revving his engine, and driving off.

  At her side as she watched him leave, Rebe was holding a large red hammer she’d hidden behind her back, and as much as she had it in her to throw it through the window like a heat-seeking cheater missile, something made her drop it onto the hardwood floor. It hit with a thud and chipped a strip of mahogany, and she crumbled to the floor, fighting with all her might to chase away the feeling of wanting to kill him with one blow. It was in her.

  That night Rebe realized what it felt like to want to kill someone.

  Him.

  Or herself.

  Also that night, Randall Richardson’s W hotel mistress, who was indeed named Kandi, the woman whom he’d just bought the new Must
ang for, got pregnant. She since went by the name of Mrs. Kandi Richardson.

  Included in the divorce settlement was Rebe’s white CL-Class Benz, which she traded in for a brand-new one, sunset red; and she was awarded the home they’d shared, which he quitclaimed to her.

  In spite of Randall’s unwillingness to fight for Rebe, he did care for her twenty-one-year-old daughter Trinity. He was the only father Trinity had ever known, and she loved him something deep.

  To Trinity, the breakup of Randall and her mom was all her mother’s doing, even though Randall was the one who cheated. To her, it was her mother’s own fault that she was, as Trinity put it, a lonely and bitter divorcée.

  Speaking of Trinity, she had just walked downstairs from her room.

  Rebe quickly shook herself from her recollection of her marriage breakup drama.

  “Where’re you going?” Rebe asked her daughter, holding one particular letter in hand.

  “Out.” Trinity placed the keys to her new silver Mustang on the island right where her mother sat. It was the Mustang that Randall bought her, which matched his new wife’s car. Trinity, very thin, very tall, very light, with very long hair and very big eyes, was very pretty. She opened the door that led from the kitchen to the backyard, leaning down in her tight jeans to pet their chocolate Labrador named Randi. She was given to Trinity by Randall as a birthday gift. And she named it after him.

  Rebe often joked she felt it appropriate that a K-9 was named after a dog like Randall. She couldn’t even stand the sound of Randi’s name, let alone the sight of her.

  “And who are you going out with?” Rebe asked with an impatient glare.

  Trinity’s tone shifted to a high pitch, definitely not intended for her mother. “Hi, baby, that’s my baby. Such a pretty girl. That’s my Randi. Yep. That’s her.”

  Randi ran circles around Trinity’s feet and tried hard to sneak past her into the house toward Rebe, but Trinity blocked her way. “Come back, now. Stop.” Trinity pointed and Randi ran back outside into the grand backyard. Trinity closed the door and locked it. She stepped to the island and picked up her keys, giving a quick look to her mom, who only stared at her. Tapping her foot. Hand now on her hip. Waiting.