Counterfeit Wives

by Phillip Thomas Duck

  He said, “I know,” and reached forward to take my hand. I pulled back.

  I looked at his four Yes men. Not one of them held my gaze. So I turned my attention back on him. I had a running-for-president smile on my face. “Slow your roll, partner. No touching.”

  No touching the merchandise. That’s what the other bitches in the Kitty would have said. But fuck that, I wasn’t no gott-damn refrigerator or no shit. I was the former Nikki Gerald. Currently Nikki Darling. Shit had a nice ring to it.

  He asked, “Really? No touching?” in that bitch voice of his.

  I didn’t even answer.

  We were in the VIP lounge area. He sat on a plush burgundy chair that wasn’t able to swallow his large frame. We’d had NFL ballers up in the Kitty, NBA hoopers, too, and he was the first man who’d sat in that chair without drowning in it. I was impressed by his size. Intimidated by it, too. That nigga was big as fuck, even larger than James. And my baby had some size on him, as well.

  There was a separate room behind us, curtained off, with mirrored walls and several long pewter couches. I’d peeked inside the room but never moved past those curtains. You passed those curtains and you were in the VIP room. Place where anything goes.

  Homeboy nodded his head at the room. I shook mine.

  He studied me for a moment, then reached over to the table next to his chair and took up a dark brown bottle of some shit. He took a hard pull on the bottle. I could tell it was some strong shit. He swallowed it without a change in his expression.

  I felt the need to explain, “I barely do lap dances, only on occasion. Not into the private room scene. For anyone. Don’t take it personal.”

  He nodded. “I understand.”

  “Good.”

  He reached for my hand again. I went ahead and let him take it. His hand felt like a bag of ice, rough and cold as hell. He said, “Eva?”

  “Yes?” I left out my usual baby. Toned down sexuality.

  “Want you to understand something, too.”

  “Okay.”

  “I ain’t just anyone.”

  “What?”

  He fixed those hard and dark eyes on me and I felt my insides shift. “We’re going back in that room,” he said. “My boys is gonna make it rain twenties on your fine ass. And you’re gonna give me a fucking lap dance. Maybe even suck me off. I ain’t decide yet.”

  The pre-James Nikki would’ve told Make It Rain to go fuck himself.

  I said simply, “No. I’m not. And those two gentlemen over there,” I nodded in the direction of our security, “will see to it you leave this establishment if I give them the sign that you’re causing me distress.”

  James had softly been nudging me to speak better. It was working.

  The Liquid Kitty bullshit could be replaced by some legitimate shit if need be. For the first time ever, I could see myself working in somebody’s office. Helping folks with insurance claims at Allstate or some bullshit like that. Thanks to James, my horizons had broadened.

  Make It Rain snarled at me. “You talkin’ ’bout Russ and Monk? Shit, bitch. Them niggas know not to come over my way with no shit.”

  Russ and Monk were our security. They didn’t have name tags and they weren’t friendly enough to tell our patrons their names. And yet Make It Rain knew them. Shit!

  I asked Make It Rain, “Who are you? I’ve never seen you here before?”

  “Who am I?” He surveyed his boys and laughed. They laughed, too.

  “Who am I?” he repeated. He turned his leer back on me. That’s what it was. A leer. He looked at me like I wasn’t nothing but a fresh piece of pussy.

  I said, “Matter of fact, don’t answer. It doesn’t matter. You gentlemen enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  I tried to ease away but he still had my hand and he wasn’t letting go.

  “Can I have my hand please?”

  “No, bitch.”

  I said, “Call me out of my name one more time. I really want you to.”

  At that moment I was Nikki Gerald again, Nikki Darling had to chill.

  He said, “Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. That’s three for your stuck-up ass.”

  I blacked out. I had that bottle of whatever he was drinking in my free hand before I realized it. It made a sick sound when I broke it over his head. It popped on contact. Shards of glass and amber-colored liquor. I made that shit rain on his ass. He slumped over the side of his chair. His four Yes men were on me quick, grabbing me aggressively by the arms. Russ and Monk rushed over. To my surprise, they went straight to Make It Rain. He was holding his head, shaking away the cobwebs. Russ and Monk concerned themselves with his care. They didn’t as much as look in my direction.

  I said, “Get the fuck off me, bitch niggas.”

  Make it Rain’s Yes men didn’t let me go.

  Russ and Monk didn’t make them, either. Shit was fucked up.

  I repeated, “Get the fuck off me, bitch niggas.”

  “I need you.”

  “Nikki?”

  “Sorry to wake you, boo.”

  “You’re crying. What’s happened?”

  I guess James could hear the tears in my voice.

  It was two in the morning. I’d rousted him from a good sleep, I bet, and yet he was perceptive as ever when it came to me, as loving as ever. I loved him so much at that moment. I was almost ready to tell him I’d missed a period and was starting to worry. I was almost ready to tell him that I felt so nauseous in the mornings. When we got married I insisted on having sex without protection. I had a husband, and I wanted to feel him, every last inch of that big black dick of his. James made it clear he wasn’t ready for children. I calmed him by getting a prescription for birth control. Tetro-something or other, some bullshit pills. My life could be hectic, though, and so more times than I care to admit Nikki forgot to take them. James would kill me. Or maybe not, I hoped.

  James asked, “Somebody bothering you at the club?”

  I said, “Make It Rain.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t know his name, boo. That’s what I call him. Some flashy dude thinks he can come in here with his boys and show off. He insisted on me going in the private room with him. I wouldn’t go.”

  “Good for you, baby.”

  “I hit him over the head with a bottle, though.”

  James groaned.

  “He had it coming, boo.”

  James asked, “Security back you up?”

  “That’s the thing…”

  “He’s a big baller,” James said. “And you hitting him put them and the club in an uncomfortable position.”

  I admitted, “Yes.”

  “Where’s he at now?”

  I said, “He left. Mad as hell, but he jetted. He’ll be back to cause me trouble. I know it. I know his type.”

  James said, “It might be time to give it up anyhow. Stop dancing.”

  “Can you come get me, boo? I’m not up to doing the bus.”

  Most days I left my Audi with James so he could run any errands he needed to. I had no real use for the car anyway. When I got done at the Kitty I usually hit up the gym, which was right up the street, then I walked the two blocks from there to Shawshank Park to write in my notebook. I’d grab a bite to eat at this little café and then take the bus back to my ’hood.

  James’s voice took on such a soft and loving quality when he said, “I’ll be there, Nikki. Just hold tight.”

  I hung up my cell phone, feeling so much better.

  I ended up taking the bus, though.

  James called to say the Audi had a flat. It was going to take him a minute to repair it. I didn’t feel like waiting. He suggested I take the bus and apologized a million different ways for the flat. I assured him it was okay, he shouldn’t take the blame for a flat. He still apologized, a million more different ways.

  I loved that nigga like cooked food, I swear.

  There wasn’t anyone on the bus besides me and this mixed couple, black dude with an Asian chick. She wa
s chunky, with big huge breasts and a round smiling face. She had on one of those checkered Catholic school skirts and was sitting in the black dude’s lap. He was the brown of a Hershey’s candy wrapper, with a pleasant smile, hair hid under a do-rag. He had on basketball shorts.

  I sat a few rows behind them. The black dude shifted, the Asian chick giggled. Her giggles turned to a low moan as she bucked on his lap. He moaned, too. I couldn’t believe that shit. They were straight fucking in public, on a bus at that. I admired their passion. I was going to put it on James when I got home.

  I tried to focus my thoughts on my husband, but I couldn’t. My ears perked up and I took in the sounds coming from the couple rows in front of me. Dude was grunting like he was chopping logs, the Asian chick was wheezing like she had asthma. That shit was erotic as fuck. I could have written a poem about the shit. My nipples hardened. I slid my hand through the waistband of my sweats, slid my fingers across my belly. It was just a playful little tease, as I was already wet, ready. I went ahead and slid one finger inside my pussy, then a second, and damned if not a third. I never went beyond three. I massaged my clit at the same time with my thumb. Within minutes, I was cumming in waves.

  The Asian chick came with me.

  Dude kept up his grunt for a bit, then a low roar escaped from his throat.

  All three of us finished the ride in silence.

  I couldn’t wait to get home and share myself with James.

  First clue should have been my missing Audi.

  My whip wasn’t in its usual spot. James must’ve fixed the flat and went somewhere, maybe even tried to catch up with me, I figured.

  The apartment was dark. James knew I wasn’t a fan of the dark. I was mad as hell when I walked up in that bitch. It was blacker than Wesley Snipes in there. James was in for it when he returned.

  I moved around turning on lights.

  Then I found our cordless phone tucked in the couch cushions and dialed my husband’s cell phone. I love me some Tupac. James knew that. So he’d programmed several Pac songs to play when I dialed his cell. Ringback tones, they called ’em. Them shits cost a couple dollars, and made me happy. James said it was a small investment with great gains. Whatever. I just knew I liked the shit.

  James’s phone rang.

  Tupac was MIA, to my surprise. Boyz II Men, instead.

  Now that we’ve come to the end of the road.

  I said aloud, “What the fuck is this shit?”

  I was seriously gonna cuss James out when he picked up. Unfortunately, he didn’t. It went straight to voice mail.

  James’s voice said, “Nikki,” long pause, then, “I’m Audi 5,000, baby. You can leave a pointless message if you like. Peace. Out.”

  I said, “James, baby, boo…what the fuck is going on? Hit me back.” I was a mix of anger and nerves. I added, “Right away, nigga. I ain’t fucking playing.”

  Audi 5,000. Was that some kind of joke? That shit had me scurred.

  James had let me listen to some old hip-hop from when he was coming up. Rakim. EPMD. Rappers like that. James wasn’t really into hip-hop like me, but he’d appreciated some of the older rappers. And back in the day, they said they were “Audi 5,000” when a song was about to end. Had our song ended?

  How could that shit happen? Had I missed something? Nah.

  I decided James was probably upset about my little situation at the Kitty. James was extremely understanding, but it had to be fucking with him, his wife dancing naked for other niggas. I made up my mind right there to make it up to him, to rock my man’s world when he came home. I was going to fuck him like I had a patent on fucking. Fuck him like I held the copyright for fucking.

  I showered and put on some ol’ trashy shit. Some lingerie James had ordered, with my credit card, out of the Playboy catalogue. A baby doll get up, black with little pink rose petals on it. Panties were crotchless. I’d only worn it once, and James’s stroke went deeper than ever that night. I can’t remember him more excited, more inspired. Nigga was poking me in the spleen with that big black dick of his. My plan: have that nigga come in the house, see me and straight throw him the pussy.

  I never got the chance. His ass ain’t come in that night at all.

  In the morning I broke down and called the po-po. I didn’t have any love for the police, but fuck it. I needed help.

  Two officers showed up for my one little problem.

  One was more interested in trying to holla at me—I’d forgotten to take off the Playboy shit—than in finding my husband. The other officer went to my bathroom soon after they’d arrived and came out with James’s terry cloth robe. He draped it over me and tied it closed with the belt. He was nice. He was the one I did most of my talking to. He was also the one who hit me with the realness.

  “You have bank accounts, investments, anything like that, Ms. Darling?”

  “Mrs. Darling,” I corrected, “and yes, we have a savings account.”

  We, I said, but it was mostly mine. I stacked most of the paper I got from the Liquid Kitty. I wasn’t any Aristotle, but I wasn’t a fool, either. Saving was important. I knew that before James and he’d drilled it into me, as well.

  “I’d check your accounts,” the officer said.

  “Oh, hell to the naw.”

  I found my bank card and dialed the 800 number.

  The nice officer grabbed me under the arms to keep me from falling. The other officer gently took the phone from my hands.

  Audi 5,000. James and all of my money.

  I had a zero balance.

  CHAPTER 9

  JACQUELINE

  When I think of rain, I think of pain. The two go hand in hand. Pain. Rain. I’m six years old, riding shotgun in my father’s Buick. It was a gray Century, smelled like mold and cheap liquor inside, had a loud muffler for as long as I remember. Rain sloshed down on the windshield that day. It’d be cliché to say the rain was like tears. Cliché, and not nearly accurate enough. It was more like angry ocean waves battering the windshield. My father was drowning. I was too young to know it at the time, but I was drowning, too. Drowning.

  It was night so the sky was dark, but the weather was so bad that even if it had been day, the sky would’ve been dark.

  Papa, that’s what I called him, drove like there wasn’t an inch of water settled on the road, as if hydroplaning and the both of us meeting our death wasn’t a strong possibility.

  It was, of course. The weather was terrible. The sky was dark. Visibility was a major problem. But my father was on a collision course with his destiny.

  “Papa?”

  He didn’t answer me. He heard something, some voice, you could tell by the look in his eyes, but the voice wasn’t mine.

  I reached across my seat belt, tapped his leg.

  His eyes came to me eventually. There were lines at the corners of his eyes that lengthened when he smiled; they didn’t lengthen then.

  Papa said, “Jacqueline?” in a question, as if he was surprised to see me next to him, didn’t know how I’d gotten there.

  He might not have known. He was drowning.

  I said, “Papa, where we going?”

  He made some kind of sound. No one had hit him, but he sounded like someone had punched him in the gut.

  I said, “Papa?”

  He barked, “Looking for your mama’s car.”

  Papa never yelled at me. It was all smiles and head rubs. Usually.

  I said, “We looking for Mama, too?”

  He looked at me. I’ll never forget that look in his eyes.

  I’d own it myself, years later, as I stared at an empty closet and realized I had no money in the bank.

  Eventually, we came to a place and stopped. Papa put the car in Park, but kept the engine running. It was a little clapboard house, with cornstalks standing in the side yard like people. The house was down a rough, unpaved street that didn’t have a sidewalk. The house had a nice porch, but it was overtaken by junk. Tires, busted furniture, rusted kitchen applian
ces. A refrigerator without a door and a television with a cracked screen—those two things drew my attention. They were broken, but the owner hadn’t tossed them away.

  I remember all of that. It might not have even been there, but I remember it. Junk. A lot of junk.

  Papa muttered, “Damn filthy trash man.”

  I said, “We found Mama’s car. Can we go home now?”

  Papa reached for the console, took a sip from a bottle wrapped tight in a brown paper bag. Papa’s breath smelled like the inside of his Buick.

  I said, “I’m thirsty, Papa.”

  “So is your mama.”

  The way he said that, the look on his face, I knew to push aside my thirst.

  Waves crashed against our windshield.

  Papa took care of his thirst and ignored mine.

  Mama’s car was found. But we weren’t moving.

  I said, “What are we doin’, Papa?”

  “Waiting.”

  “For what, Papa?”

  He said, “Virginia Slims.”

  “What?”

  “Menthol. Long skinny ones.”

  “What?”

  “Like she’s some movie star. Surprised she don’t wear long white gloves when she smokes ’em.”

  I said, “Who?”

  Papa didn’t answer.

  We sat like that, not even talking, for what felt like a million zillion years to my six-year-old self.

  “Papa, I need to go potty.”

  “Good thing you didn’t drink nothin’.”

  “Gotta potty, Papa.”

  He said, “You’re gonna have to hold it, Jacqueline.”

  “I can’t, Papa.”

  “Gonna hafta.”

  He was a different father that night.

  I went ahead and did my best to hold my water.

  Something shifted on the porch of that junky house.

  Papa shifted next to me. He leaned forward, squinted his eyes. I did, too.

  I noticed a glow on the porch, a pinpoint of light that danced around.

  I said, “Lightning bug.”

  Papa said, “Virginia Slims.”

  After a while, the lightning bug disappeared.

  A shadow moved from the porch toward us.