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Val giggled to herself at how silly all of these men could be. She wondered how long it would take for each one to turn from this helpless thing with his whole manhood under the control of her mouth, to something more like Jamison, so distant and unwilling to see her for anything else.
Jamison’s cold eyes on her in the hospital room after the doctors had removed the last remaining pieces of their child from her uterus flashed in Val’s eyes and erased the effects of any liquor in her bloodstream. But Val told herself to keep going. It would feel better soon.
Monty’s pants began to slip down lower and then the top fell over, making the contents of his pockets fall out in familiar sounds. The wallet. The keys. The ChapStick. The ring.
The last sound was a ding, like something golden or platinum hitting concrete.
Even over the soft ricochets of music seeping into the bathroom from the club world outside, Val knew what that sound was.
She looked down and between the ChapStick and wallet was a little silver band.
“You’re married?” Val was still on her knees, but she looked up at Monty like he was so far beneath her.
All he could say was, “So?”
“Nigga, you’re married?” Val stood up for the question this time and poked out her hip, like a black woman who was about to curse a man out for some major transgression.
“What?” There were those annoying dimples again. “Come on, boss lady, don’t act like you care about that shit.” He held up his hands and smiled to bring Val back to him.
“Fuck that boss-lady bullshit. I don’t fuck married men,” Val shouted so loud the attendant and all the women arguing with her about opening the bathroom door could hear.
“Oh, suddenly, you have standards?” Monty’s smile turned to an ironic chuckle. He tried to grab Val, but she slapped his hands away.
“Don’t fucking touch me. You should’ve said something, motherfucker. Who you think you are?”
“Said something to whom? You wouldn’t even tell me your fucking name. Fuck this!” Monty pulled up his pants clumsily and gathered his things from the floor before opening the stall. “Shit ain’t worth it anyway,” he said as he and Val walked out into the main area of the emptied bathroom.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Val asked angrily.
Monty went to the sink to freshen up like it was his bathroom vanity at home.
“You saw how many bitches were out there?” Monty quizzed with heat in his voice that didn’t sound natural but still stung. “I don’t have to do this shit.”
“How many bitches? Fuck all those bitches. I’m the bitch in the bathroom and last I checked, I was the baddest bitch on the floor.” Val’s hand was back on her hip and all of her old attitude was in her voice.
“Yeah right, sweetie. Maybe it’s time for a reality check,” Monty said nonchalantly as he groomed his goatee with the bathroom attendant’s dirty hairbrush. “You’re . . . what . . . about fifteen years older than the youngest chick in there? And those is young titties. Young pussies. You fine as shit, but your shit ain’t their shit. And you better know it. Any nigga fucking with you is being nice. Fucking charity case.” He threw the brush down and proceeded to the door, where the attendant had started knocking. “I don’t have time for this shit.”
He threw a piece of paper towel into the trash and left Val standing at the vanity, where a gang of chicks with frowns on their faces stared at her when they entered the restroom in a line.
“You okay?” the attendant asked Val when she got into the restroom and found Val standing in front of the mirror, looking blankly at herself. “You need me to get security? I knew something wasn’t right with that nigga. But you was with him, so—”
“I’m fine,” Val said sharply before turning her back and walking out like nothing had happened.
Outside the club, the line was thick and still growing, though it was far past midnight. Fancy cars with shiny rims and rappers and athletes in the front seat inched past slowly, so whoever was inside the car could be seen by some desperate girl in line. It was an old trick that still worked.
The valet pulled Jamison’s sparkling Jaguar around with the top down as Val had instructed.
She tipped him with a hundred-dollar bill and walked to the car, knowing everyone in line wondered who she was. Some did know, though. And she could hear them chatting, “Isn’t that the dead mayor’s window?”
Just when Val was about to get into the car, another valet pulled up behind her in a Porsche.
Monty came straggling out of the club with no one on his arm and headed toward the driver’s-side door of the Porsche.
Val stopped and watched him with a frown that he happily returned. She reminded herself that back in the day, when she was one of those girls in the line with her feet hurting and nipples shivering in the cold, she would’ve cursed him out royally for saying just half of the things
he’d said to her.
She was about to get into her car, but then something in Val made her turn and charge over to Monty. Maybe she was about to curse his name or slap his cheek or knee his crotch. Maybe all three.
