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“I didn’t call you that, boo. Emerson did. And, technically, it wasn’t you who was the whore. It was his boy’s mother. The role you played.”
“You know what the hell I mean,” Paris snorts.
Persia smirks. “Oh lighten up. No need in getting your panties all twisted around your clit. It’s only a name. Don’t let it have so much power over you.”
Paris sucks her teeth. “Whatever. Next time, use another word.”
“Okay, then. How about slut? Would that work for you?”
I shake my head, knowing that this little situation is about to turn nasty if I don’t intervene. For us to be so identical in our looks, mannerisms, and body-types, yet have three such distinctly different personalities is mind-boggling—and, at times, messy. Oh, wait...you don’t know. We’re identical triplets. Yes, who share each other’s men, something we’ve been doing since freshman year in college. And as long as we don’t open our mouths, we can fuck a man into oblivion and he’d never know which one of us he was fucking, first.
Anyway, Persia is clearly the most antagonistic and mean-spirited of the three of us. And she’s a lot more aggressive with men than Paris and me. Whereas, Paris—who is so much more like our mother—is the calmer, more laid-back of us all. She’s also the sneaky type who’d rather sit by the fire and sip chardonnay with a chenille throw draped over her shoulder while curled up reading a good novel. Then—in the still of the night, shimmy her fast-ass down the balcony when she thinks everyone is fast asleep to guzzle down a dick. And I’m the mixture of the two. Cool, calm, collected and...oh so refined, one minute. Then ready to swing a bitch into a wall the next. And, when it comes to men, shoot, ain’t no shame in my game. I’ll fuck ’em every which way the sun shines.
“Okay, ladies,” I say, waving the white table napkin in the air. “Kiss and make up. This is not the place, nor the time, for getting catty.”
“Oh shut up,” they say in unison. “You’re the one who started this mess.”
“Well, excuuuuuuse, me,” I say, looking at Paris. “I’m not the one who called you a whore and said your pussy was a big-ass mess.”
Persia snickers, “Girl, you are such an instigator. You know damn well I didn’t say no shit like that. Well, not about her pussy being a mess.”
Paris grunts, glancing over at Persia. “Mmmph, well, shit. You might as well have. You told him to look at my big, wet pussy; same difference.”
“Oh, right. I sure did, didn’t I?”
“I’ll have you bitches know I have a nice tight pussy. I do kegel exercises twice a day.”
I look at her, amused. “Oh, that’s what you were doing when I walked in on you spitting out that big-ass tennis ball the other day?”
Persia and I laugh.
“Both of you hookers can kiss my sweet ass,” Paris says, leaning up on her forearms. She whispers through clenched teeth the way our mother used to when we were getting on her nerves.
“’Cause I’ll whip both of y’all’s asses. Now try it.”
We bust out laughing, knowing damn well fist-fighting each other isn’t what we do. We tease, we talk shit to each other, but that’s where we draw the line. And it’s always done with a whole lot of love.
“Anyway, speaking of Emerson,” Persia says, placing her elbows up on the table. “Have either of you noticed how funny style he’s been acting lately?”
I shake my head. “Not really, why?”
Paris purses her lips. “Well, I didn’t sense him acting funny, but I did notice he seemed a little preoccupied the last few times he was with us, but I didn’t really pay too much attention to it.”
“Well, I have,” Persia says. “And you do know what that smells to me, right?”
“Another woman,” I say.
Persia smirks, raising a brow. “Exaaactly.”
“Neither one of you know that for sure,” Paris says, glancing at the both of us. “So let’s not go there, yet. At least not until we have something more specific to go on.”
Persia rolls her eyes. “I’ll tell you this. We may not know for sure what or who he’s doing, but he’s doing something with someone, trust me. And he has one time to not return a call, or deliver the dick, and his ass is chopped. You know...”
She stops talking when our waiter finally comes over to our table. He stares at us, blinking his eyes. He’s a tall, lean, mocha-colored cutie with deep, spinning waves and almond-shaped eyes. He’s shocked at how identical the three of us are, and how similar our voice patterns are. The way he looks at us, tells us what we already know—he’s mesmerized by our beauty, like so many others. We smile at him, slyly nodding at each other. We are all thinking the same thing: he’s fuckable.
“Good morning, ladies. My name is Royce and I’ll be your server today. Can I get you something to drink?”
Damn, I’ve never seen his fine-ass here, I think, eyeing him. I am pleasantly surprised at the sight of our waiter. And I can tell Persia is also. Paris tries to act disinterested. We’re usually greeted and waited on by one of the females who either come off a little rough around the edges or look like they’ve been around the block a few times and back. Shit, a few of them look as if they’ve just been released from a jail cell. But, the food is good as hell. And judging by what’s standing before us, today is definitely our lucky day. There’s a hint of a Caribbean accent that makes my clitoris jump. I tightly press my thighs together to pinch off the flow of excitement swelling between my legs. There’s something about hearing a Caribbean man talk low and dirty in his dialect that makes my pussy overheat. We exchange pleasantries, give him our drink orders, then watch as he walks off.
