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I give her a surprised look, and ask her how she found out before I did.
“Where else? Social media. It’s all over Facebook and Twitter. And I just got the heads-up from one of my assistants who is also a borderline stalker of his.”
I sigh, shaking my head. “Figures. Yeah, I’m thinkin’ I’ma have’ta snatch that muhfucka’s contract. I’ma have legal take a look at it when we get back to see if there’s a morality clause or some shit we can execute to cut him the fuck off. This shit with him is getting fuckin’ ridiculous. He’s starting to feel like dead weight right about now. This dumb niggah rather turn up in the clubs ‘n’ knock women upside the fuckin’ head than make good albums ‘n’ get this paper.”
“He’s too much of a risk,” she says casually, gliding a coat of lip-gloss over her cherry-red-painted lips. “Unless he can get his act together, it’ll be for the best in the long run.” She walks over and leans in, kissing me on the lips. “Besides, you don’t need the headache.”
My gaze flickers up and down the back of her smooth, shiny legs as her ass bounces away from me. “Yo, Hold up. Where you going showin’ off them pretty-ass legs ‘n’ with all that ass bouncin’?”
“To get my hair and nails done for tonight,” she says matter-of-factly over her shoulder. “There’s a posh new salon over in Beverly Hills that everyone here and back home is raving about. The owner has a salon here and in Jersey. But the one here is supposed to be real upscale.”
“Yeah, aiight. How much is this upscale outing gonna cost me?”
She laughs. “You’re off the hook this time. It’s my own treat.”
“Oh, aiight, then. Go do you, sexy.”
“I plan to.”
“Yeah, aiight. And you better have on drawz, yo.”
She laughs, giving me a dismissive wave as she heads out the door.
NINE
Marika
Hair done. Nails done. Feet done. Facial done. My experience at the exclusive salon, Nappy No More II, was more than an experience. It was a pleasurable adventure. Now I’m in my fourth boutique on Rodeo Drive trying on dresses for tonight’s fucktivities.
The problem is, Marcel is here with me.
And as much as I love spending time with my husband, this man is impossible to shop with. Time is ticking. And I still haven’t found the perfect dress. Yet, here I am—seven dresses hanging on hooks, three others tossed over on the bench—braless, inside a dressing room with Marcel standing in back of me, his tongue trailing down my spine. His strong hands cup my breasts, his fingers tweaking my nipples. He stares at me through the mirror. “Damn, you so fuckin’ sexy, baby. Je une chatte.” I want some pussy.
I gasp and writhe and whimper. I know enough by looking in his eyes that he wants to fuck me. That he wants me right here, right now.
“MarSell, you’re gonna get us…caught…in here.”
“So. What they gonna do? Arrest me for fuckin’ my wife?”
I shake my head. Try to wriggle out of his embrace. “Not here, baby. We have—”
He presses in close. Licks the back of my neck. Nips it. Causing me to forget my train of thought, to lose my senses.
“Uhh, ooh…you have to stop…mmm…”
I hear voices on the other side of the door, coming closer. I blink. Find my voice of reason. “Baby, someone’s coming.”
“Yeah, you’ll be coming in a minute.”
“No, I’m serious.”
He grins. “So am I.”
“But—”
“Shhhh.” He turns me to face him and quiets me with his mouth. His warm lips parting my own as his tongue slowly melts away my hesitation. He breaks our kiss, only to step back.
A warm rush of wet passion pulses between my legs as he unbuttons the top button of his jeans, unzips his fly, revealing a vee of smooth, taut skin covered in wisps of dark hair. He doesn’t have on any underwear. I swallow, drinking in the sight of him as he pushes his jeans down, over his hips.
