AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Okay, your point?”
“The point is exactly what I said. You need to stop being so damn extra with it. And exercise a bit more discretion. Geesh.”
“Paris, puhleeze. Don’t sit here and try to get all prudish on me,” Persia responds incredulously. “We need to keep our options open. A freak has always got to be ready for new opportunities that may arise. And this freak stays prepared, okay? Thought you knew.”
“Well, maybe a freak needs to learn when to open and shut her damn mouth sometimes, instead of inviting every damn Charles, Dick and Nut in.”
Persia frowns. “Bitch, what the fuck’s wrong with you this morning? I’m not bleeding and neither is Porsha, so I know your ass is not on the rag, either. So what the fuck is it with all this bitchiness?”
Paris sighs. “Nothing; let’s drop it.”
“No, let’s not drop shit. If there’s something you need to say, then say it. So we can address it and—”
I look around the room and notice a few people trying to get their ear-hustle on. I cut in. “And how about we not get into this right now.” I blink, looking over toward the door. Two chicks walk through the door, and I roll my eyes. “Roach alert,” I say, jerking my head over in their direction. Persia and Paris follow my eyes.
“Damn, this bitch,” Persia says. “And her Road Kill.”
I laugh. “That bitch looks like a damn possum.” It’s our cousin, Zena, and her friend, Ameeka, one of the sideshow rodeo hoes she hangs with.
Persia laughs. “Let’s hope she doesn’t see us.”
“Nope, not so lucky,” Paris says, throwing her hand up in a Miss America hand wave. Zena waves back, then says something out of the side of her mouth to Ameeka as they make their way over to us. Aside from the fact that she’s still holding on to shit that happened in 2000—when we were seniors in high school, Zena has a love-hate relationship with us, particularly Persia. She’s never gotten over the fact that the guy she had a high school crush on asked Persia to go to the senior prom with him. And Persia not only went, she fucked him, knowing Zena had a thing for him.
“Bitch, please. He ain’t your man,” Persia had told her when Zena had confronted her about it at our family’s annual picnic.
“Yeah, but you know how I feel about him.”
Persia bucked her eyes. “Well, does he know how you feel?”
“No.”
“Exactly. So until he does, it’s open season. So get on up outta my face ’cause I’m going. And if he acts right, I might let him hit it.” The next thing I know, Zena slaps her and they start going at it. Paris and I stood and watched the two of them slap, kick, punch, and bite each other until two of our uncles ran over and broke it up. Then all four of us got whipped by our mothers for fighting. Well, they got their asses beat for fighting. Paris and I got ours tore up for watching. Now, here we are eleven years later, and this bitch is still holding on to the shit. And she ended up getting him, and eventually marrying his ass any-damn-way.
“Bitch, you fucking my leftovers,” Paris reminded her the day Zena announced she was engaged, and demanded that Paris respect her relationship. “So, whooptie-doo! Big dick for sure, but the nigga can’t fuck but for a hot second. So, enjoy!”
Needless to say, we didn’t get an invite to her wedding.
“And the drama begins,” I say, shaking my head as she approaches the table.
“Well, isn’t this cute,” Zena says, giving Persia and Paris phony-air kisses and waving at me, “the three of you over on this side of town. What brings you High-end Divas over on this end; recruitment? Y’all still doin’ each other’s men?” She says this as a dig, of course. Her friend snickers. We can’t stand this bitch with her Cookie Monster face, either.
Persia eyes Ameeka. “Sweetie, I don’t know what you over there snickering about when I saw your man two weeks ago all hugged up. And it wasn’t with you. So looks like we aren’t the only ones sharing a man”—she snaps her fingers—“okay?” Ameeka gives her a look of disbelief, opening her mouth to say something. Persia puts her hand up to stop her. “Save it. You can play stupid if you want. But what you need to do is handle your own situation before you try and snicker at us.”
I can tell she’s pissed. But the truth is the truth. “Zena, I’ll be over at our table,” she huffs, storming off.
Persia, Paris and I laugh. “Trick,” all three of us say at the same time.
“I see why he cheats on her with that big-ass, oversized face of hers,” Persia continues. She acts like she doesn’t hear us. But the place is only but so big, so of course everyone up in the restaurant has gotten an earful. Most of the patrons look on with amusement; others with disgust and annoyance that we are disrupting their meal.
“Now, girls,” Zena says, tossing her micro-braids over her shoulder. She has a forehead and hairline like that Essence chick, Susan Taylor. “That wasn’t nice.”
I eye Zena. “Girlfriend, you started it.”
Persia rests her forearms up on the table, looking Zena up and down. She scrunches her nose up like Zena’s a pile of hot horse shit. “And, since you came over here trying to be messy, tell me. Does your hubby know that that last baby of yours isn’t even his?”
Zena’s eyes pop open in shock. “W-w-whaat? Who told you that shit? I-I-I don’t know where y’all got your information from, but you need to go back and check your facts.”
“No, sweetie,” Persia says. “You need to request a blood test so you can have your facts ’cause we already know what it is. How long was hubby over in Iraq? And how long was he home before you announced you were pregnant again? And how many months later did you drop that baby?”
