Darius was stuck again between the old and the new pussies.
Ashlee cried in his ear, “I’m sorry.” No, she wasn’t. “I never wanted to hurt you.” Yes, she did. Otherwise she wouldn’t have phoned. “And no matter what, I love you.” That was probably the one truth.
No woman could resist Darius’s six-foot-eleven, 240-pound muscular caramel frame with six percent body fat, his lustrous shoulder-length locks, chiseled chin, hazel eyes, perfect white teeth, his millions of dollars, or his big eight-inch dick and the fact that he knew how to sling Slugger and eat pussy oh so sweet that the strongest women submitted to him.
Ashlee continued, “But you need to know.”
Exhaling, Darius conceded, “Then tell me.”
Crying, like most women did when they wanted sympathy for something that was their fault, Ashlee said, “Our son, Darius Junior, died from HIV complications.”
Whoa, that was some cold-blooded shit to drop on a brotha on his wedding day. Hell, any day. “And you?” Darius whispered.
Sniffling, Ashlee said, “Positive.”
The numbness in Darius’s body caused the phone to slip from between his fingers.
Picking up the phone, Fancy questioned Ashlee. “What did you tell him?” Fancy looked at the phone, then said, “Hello? Hello?” Staring at Darius, Fancy began crying along with him. She muttered, “She hung up. Please tell me. What did she say?”
If Fancy had kept her damn mouth shut, he wouldn’t be trippin’ over Ashlee’s bullshit. Why in the fuck did he have to answer his phone?
“Move! From now on, don’t tell me what to do.”
“Don’t you dare turn this on me! Fine, forget I asked. You think you can handle everything by yourself. In here,” Fancy scolded, pressing her finger into Darius’s temple. “Well, you can’t. And I’m not marrying a man who doesn’t need, trust, or value my opinions.”
Softly, Darius said, “It’s not like that. I do respect you.” Her opinion was what he didn’t care for. Darius pressed a button, lowering the divider window, then instructed the driver, “Man, take me straight home.”
“Oakland or Los Angeles?”
That’s how Darius wanted his life, clear cut. Black or white. A or B. Gray areas were like women, ambiguous and complicated. Darius answered, “Los Angeles.”
Banging his face against the limo window, Darius worried, was his HIV test, taken years ago, a false negative? How many women had he possibly infected? Darius could start with the one sitting next to him.
CHAPTER 1
Candice
Alone, Candice sat in Jada’s guest bedroom by the large bay window, enjoying the second-floor view. Inside the cozy space, a plush queen-size bed with a red satin buttonhole headboard rested catty-corner facing the door. The sparkling fuchsia duvet adorned a dozen tasseled pillows. A pink leather bench perched adjacent to the footboard.
The glass-top computer desk faced outside, snug beneath the redwood window frame. Candice’s fingers skated along the keyboard, sixty, seventy words a minute:
I had a dilemma many married women shared: Should I divorce my impotent husband or not? I’d instantly trade in a broken car I couldn’t fix or sell a run-down house that cost more to maintain than its value. My husband wasn’t a thing; he was a human being. A cheating man, who’d fucked around for over twenty years, with the same woman.
Candice paused, gazing at the rolling green hillside resembling the peaks and valleys of their friendship. Jada was Candice’s girl, her best friend, her right hand. They’d partied together, laughed, cried, double-dated. Met their husbands the same night at Cityscape in San Francisco at a Will Downing, Rachelle Farrell concert.
That was BM, before marriage, those were the good old days. Jada met Wellington. Candice met Terrell. Wellington fucked up, Jada married Lawrence. Terrell fucked up, Candice married Terrell. They both relocated from Oakland to L.A but not together. Jada moved to get away from Wellington. Candice would’ve moved anywhere in the world to be with Terrell, who lived in Los Angeles.
Terrell was five years younger, an international model, and, so she’d thought, wealthy until she married him, realizing Terrell lived well above his means. He owned a huge house with a waterfall, bought her an expensive wedding ring. The first sign of financial trouble was when Terrell purchased matching his-and-hers Mercedes Benzes, with her money.
Accepting Terrell’s ring, Candice felt obligated to get married. What if she didn’t get another chance to meet a man like him? If Candice had remained single, and Jada had gotten married, they wouldn’t have stayed friends. Not close friends.
Assuming their wives weren’t intelligent enough to think, insecure married men objected to their spouses kickin’ it with single girlfriends. A selfish man could ruin a good friendship. Hoping she and her girl would stay close, Candice said, “I do,” shortly after Jada called off her engagement to Wellington.
The main thing Candice tried to avoid happened. Thanks to Terrell’s controlling ways, Candice lost touch with her best friend. For years. Without a friend and time on her hands, Candice wrote and sold a screenplay about Jada’s life. Putting Jada’s business on the big screen got Candice a not so warming house visit. After Jada got over being pissed, they were friends again. How long would their friendship last this time, considering Candice was temporarily living in Jada’s house, secretly writing part two of Jada’s life? Tapping the keys, Candice continued:
The empty twenty-count blue Viagra tablets he’d hid in his office drawer weren’t used for my womanly pleasure. He’d found the sexual stamina to stick his dick in another woman, but he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, make love to me. He was eager to sign the divorce papers until the doctor told him his prostate cancer had spread and they had to operate immediately. What’s my obligation to stay with a two-timer? I’m clear. I have none. But I do have a conscience. I won’t leave him while he’s down, but after the surgery, she can have him.
Candice sighed. “This is too boring. I’ma have to throw in some cussing to sell this one. Let’s see,” she said, backspacing, then revising:
That muthafucka emptied a twenty—you hear me?—a twenty-count of Viagra on that stank-ass bitch. If his sorry ass wasn’t dying I swear I’d kill that dead-dick bastard! Twice!
Anger was better, Candice thought, mesmerized by the fading sunrays.
Jada always had one man on her arm and another on her charm bracelet dangling from her wrist. The ten years she was married to Lawrence, Wellington was in the background. Once Jada married Wellington, Lawrence disappeared and Darryl bopped side to side, doo-wopping as backup, waiting to sing lead in her chorus.
One man at a time was Candice’s style. Terrell wasn’t that bad in the beginning. They’d still be married if she’d been woman enough not to let him change her. Candice never found peace with wanting but not having a child. Terrell didn’t want kids. Too late now, premenopause and a baby who’d stare at her for crying, yelling, snapping, swearing, and forgetting things would drive Candice crazy.
Not so long ago, Candice remembered her husband was her life. In many ways, having Terrell was like having a child and an overprotective father. At first marriage was kinda cute, him telling her what to do. That chauvinistic shit got real old, really quick, but she hung in there till they damn near hanged one another with misery. Candice thought when, he left her, she’d fall apart. Wrong. She didn’t lift him up to put herself down. Surprisingly the second his shadow walked out the door, the sun seemed brighter. So was her spirit. Like before she’d gotten married, Candice felt stress-free. The days of him telling her how to dress, “Cover your breasts. Take off that skirt. You’re not leaving this house looking like that,” were gone.