“Oh, they’ll enjoy that,” Aminah said, admiring the color on both her feet and hands. “You know they love the beach, and Sean’s so good at making sand castles, swimming, and barbecuing. Plus he’s great with kids, too. I mean, really, Lang, that husband of yours is great at everything.”
Not everything, Lang thought as they carefully moved to the drying stations, which were set up with two chairs, two sets of nail dryers on each side—one on the table, the other on the floor—and a flat-screen monitor mounted on the wall between them.
“You’re so lucky to have him,” Aminah continued. “He not only adores you but respects you.”
All true, Lang thought. Sean was beautiful inside and out. He was Hershey-dark-chocolate brown with skin that reminded her of freshly whipped devil’s-food cake batter as it was being slowly poured out of a mixing bowl. And he had the softest pair of full lips surrounded by an incredibly sexy, neatly trimmed goatee, with a set of the brightest naturally white teeth on this-here planet Earth. And he smiled so easily with that gorgeous mouth of his—so generously, so effortlessly.
Not to mention, Sean was physically fit. Lean. Ripped in all the right places—chest, back, arms, and abs—but not at all brolic, like he’d done seven to ten years upstate. While Sean was good in bed, he wasn’t great. He liked it a notch above basic. They did it missionary, doggy, and froggy style. Sure he worked his hips and always put his back into it. He knew when to pull her hair, slap her ass, and ask whose pussy it was. He was especially gifted at the art of making sweet love and had successfully mastered the science of spooning and using his tongue. Sean was incredibly generous between the legs and the sheets. He loved to please more than he liked being pleased. “Your pleasure is my pleasure,” he loved to say. But he wasn’t imaginative or quite freaky enough for Lang.
“And most importantly, he’s faithful,” Aminah added, wishing she could say the same about her own man.
Was that the most important thing? Lang wondered.
When they were both seated comfortably, Erika asked which season of Sex and the City they’d like to watch while their nails dried.
“Oooo, season six,” Aminah responded immediately. “Let’s watch the episode where Miranda first meets Blair Underwood. Mmmm, that brother is fine.”
Erika laughed as she adjusted the headphones on their ears. “Now, can I get you ladies another lemonade or perhaps some water or ginger tea?”
They both opted for a cool glass of water.
Chapter 2
“I just need to smell you, baby. You can’t be mad at me for that.”
“So, where to for brunch today?” Aminah asked as she handed Richard her platinum American Express card to pay for both of their Sessions. Lang and Aminah alternated treating each other to their biweekly outings.
“Ladies, the Er’go candles are ten percent off,” Richard announced before swiping Aminah’s charge card.
“I’m feeling like some fish and grits today,” Lang said, turning her cell phone back on and then sniffing a guava-scented candle. “You up to driving to that soul food spot in Chelsea?”
“Not really,” Aminah responded. “Nothing for me today, Richard, thanks. I’m not in a Manhattan mood today. Let’s stay local. Night of the Cookers’s fried catfish is really good, too.”
“Damn, Minah, why’d you ask then?” Lang questioned, placing four candles by the register. “Sean and I just ate at NOC last night. Plus, that Chelsea restaurant has the creamiest grits, and I really have a taste for them with whitings, not catfish. What if I drove?”
“How are you going to drive?” Aminah asked, opening the front door of the salon. “I don’t see your car out here.”
Richard complimented Lang’s nails as he handed her shopping bag to her. She thanked him and carefully reached for one of her candles.
“Sean needed the car,” Lang said, walking toward Aminah. “So I grabbed a cab over here. What? You don’t trust me with the Range?”
Aminah didn’t even hear Lang’s last question. The six-five, curly-haired cutie leaning against the diamond white Escalade across the street had captured her attention.
“Lang, come check out this fine brother in front of this Caddy.”
“Don’t try to change the topic, Minah,” Lang said, sniffing one of her candles as she walked toward the door. “You know, for a married woman, you sure have an eye for fine men.”
“There’s nothing wrong—”
Lang spotted Dante across the street and dropped her candle before Aminah could finish her sentence. The glass surrounding the candle shattered on the sidewalk.
Aminah spun around and looked at Lang with a raised eyebrow. “Sweetie, what’s wrong with you today?” she asked, bending down to pick up the glass. Lang just stood there in place, stunned.
“Um, Lang, baby boy across the street looks good. I know. I spotted him. But no one looks good enough for you to be breaking these expensive candles. You better be glad these weren’t one of my overpriced Jo Malone votives. You wanna get down here and help me pick up this glass before someone cuts themself?”
Lang squatted down to help Aminah. “I’m sorry, Minah, I—” Before Lang could finish her sentence, she was startled by her vibrating cell phone and cut her finger on a piece of glass. “Shit!”
“Okay, sweetie, calm down. It’s not that serious. I was just teasing you anyway. Go back inside, wash your hands, and ask Richard for a Band-Aid. I’ll take care of this.”
Dante watched Lang rush back inside the nail salon. He dialed her again. This time she picked up.
“Dante, what in the hell are you doing here?”
“I came by to pick up those panties from you, “Dante said very calmly into the phone, watching Aminah go back inside, too.
“You should not have come here.”
“You shouldn’t have hung up on me.”
“I didn’t. I told you I had to go.”
“I called you back. You didn’t pick up.”
“I couldn’t. I was getting my nails done.”
“Listen, Lang, I’m not here to argue with you.”
“Then why are you here, Dante?” Lang demanded.
Just then Aminah knocked on the bathroom door and asked her if everything was all right.
“Everything’s fine, Minah. Be out there in a second. Um, start up the car and turn up the AC. I’m feeling kinda hot.”
“You feelin’ sticky, too, baby?” Dante asked, chuckling into the phone.
“Dante, I don’t have time for this right now. I will call you later. I hafta go.”
“Not before I get those panties.”
“Dante, please,” Lang pleaded.
“Please what, baby? You in the bathroom now, right?”
“I am, but…”
“Good. I just saw Aminah get in her car. I know she’s out here waitin’ for you and shit, so I won’t even bother to ask you to touch yourself again. You can make that up to me later. Just slide on out of those sexy panties you got on, fix your skirt, walk out here, and hand them over to me. It’s simple. I just need to smell you, baby. You can’t be mad at me for that.”
Lang stood in the bathroom, slightly dumbfounded yet completely turned on. She had to be honest with herself—if she had the time, she would’ve touched herself, cut finger and all. She shook her head.
This is crazy, she thought. There was no way she could just walk outside and hand her panties over to Dante. How in the hell would she explain that to Aminah?
“Dante, I can’t,” she said. “Aminah doesn’t even know about you, about us.”
“You’re a smart woman. You’ll figure something out. Or would you rather I come in there and get them myself? You know what? I think that’s what I’m gonna do.”
“No, please don’t,” Lang protested. Dante sounded dead serious, and she knew it would be nothing for him to walk straight into the bathroom, tear her panties right off her cute ass, and not care less about any kind of scene he might create.
�
�Gimme a second to take care of my cut. I’ll be right out there.”
Dante hung up the phone and waited inside his truck with all the windows down. Aminah stared at him behind her tinted Stella McCartney sunglasses from across the street. Dante grinned smugly and rested his head on the back of the seat.
Lang tended to her cut, slid out of her panties, and placed them in her shopping bag. She straightened out her mini skirt, took a deep breath, and held it as she walked right past Richard without saying a word, out the door, and across the street. She reached into her bag and handed Dante a pair of black lace La Perla underwear.
Dante held the crotch of her panties right up to his nose and inhaled deeply. Lang finally exhaled. This time it was the cool, puckered-lip kind. He slid the panties onto his rearview mirror as if they were one of those pine-tree air fresheners, winked at Lang, and drove off.
Chapter 3
“I don’t usually approach women, period.
I’ve never had to.”
“Okay, what the fuck was that, Lang?” Aminah asked as soon as Lang got inside the SUV. She rarely ever used profane language.
Lang, though a bit startled, said nothing.
“We’re not going anywhere, Mrs. Rogers, until you tell me why you’re sitting here on my pink custom leather seats with no panties on.”
Lang pulled down the front of her skirt. She was embarrassed and didn’t know where to begin. She had planned on telling Aminah about her affair with Dante eventually, just not today. She cleared her throat.
“Minah, can we drive and talk?” Lang asked as calmly as possible. “I’ll try to explain. I promise. I just can’t sit here in front of this salon any longer.”
Aminah thought about making Lang explain everything to her right then and there. Hell, she questioned whether she’d even be able to drive safely while listening to her best friend offer a valid reason for giving some gorgeous young guy her panties to sniff.
“Only if you promise to tell me the truth this time, Lang.”
Lang gazed at Aminah sideways.
“Don’t even try it, sweetie,” Aminah said, holding up her hand. “You know I know when you’re lying, and something tells me that semifainting spell earlier and baby boy displaying your drawers as some kind of interior ornament for his Escalade are somehow connected. You couldn’t come up with a better lie than Sean not playing Merry Maid for the day? Girl, please.”
Langston was caught. There was no sense even trying to concoct a story at this point. “You’re right,” Lang admitted. “I promise to come clean. As long as I don’t hafta do it here. Please, Minah, can we leave?”
Aminah did a U-turn and headed toward Flatbush Avenue. She asked Lang to choose between Chez Oskar and The Brownstone Lounge for brunch. Lang chose The Brownstone Lounge, hoping there’d be tables available outside.
The two of them listened to India. Arie’s first album on their way to the restaurant. Aminah kept her “Sisters of Strength” CDs in heavy rotation inside her SUV—Faith Evans’s self-titled debut, The Essential Nina Simone, Mary’s My Life, The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill (sometimes alternated with Norah Jones’s first CD), and Lil’ Kim’s Hard Core—which usually threw her passengers for a loop, but the pre-op Kim had always empowered Aminah. She found her unapologetic, in-your-face sexuality inspiring, energizing, and thought provoking. Most of Lil’ Kim’s lyrics exuded power and control to Aminah. It didn’t sound the least bit submissive or degrading. In fact, it sounded like she was grabbing life by the balls, so to speak, living on her own terms, and Aminah couldn’t help but respect and admire that. Post-op Kim probably refuted all that, but still.
Now was not the time for Kim though. India. Arie’s “Video,” “Promises,” and “Brown Skin” played in their entirety before either woman uttered a word. Lang was admiring the handsome brownstones in the neighborhood when Aminah finally asked her if the guy in the Escalade was the same person she’d been speaking to on the phone when she’d pulled up earlier. Lang admitted he was.
“Well, who exactly is he, Lang?” Aminah demanded while desperately searching for a place to park. She’d circled around the block three times already. It was a nice, warm, sunny Sunday afternoon in the borough of Brooklyn, and parking was horrendous. Aminah double-parked and waited for someone, anyone, to pull out.
“I don’t know where to begin, Aminah,” Lang said, twisting her platinum wedding band. She wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted to share, nor how much she wanted to reveal. While she had no intention of lying to her best friend again, she wanted to feed Aminah in small doses. Too much information, and her girl was liable to regurgitate right there in the car or, worse, in the restaurant.
“The beginning is always a good place to start, Lang.”
Lang nodded in agreement. “Well—”
“Hold that thought,” Aminah interrupted. There was a family loading into a Denali up ahead, and she wanted to grab the highly coveted spot before anyone else could. Aminah parallel parked her Range Rover effortlessly, and the two of them walked back toward the restaurant.
They were seated outdoors almost immediately. Live jazz music and an excellent menu kept the popular neighborhood eatery peppered with a mixed blend of ethnicities, though mostly African Americans in their late twenties to early thirties.
The chipper, petite blond waitress happily took their drink orders. Lang, torn between a mimosa and a Ghetto Heaven—aka a watermelon martini—decided on a mimosa. She preferred Veuve Clicquot, but during brunch hours she had to settle for the house sparkling wine, probably Korbel. Lang shuddered at the thought and asked the waitress to go heavy on the orange juice.
Aminah always preceded every meal with a full glass of water. However, The Brownstone Lounge didn’t carry any of her preferred brands, so she ordered a pink mimosa and discreetly took sips from the small bottle of Fiji water she always carried with her. Then they served themselves from the all-you-can-eat buffet indoors.
A blessed communion of heavenly breakfast aromas and divine soul-food scents wafted inside the sanctified brownstone-housed restaurant. Cinnamon raisin French toast, old-fashioned pancakes, blueberry waffles, turkey sausage, bacon, home fries, scrambled eggs, fried chicken, barbecue chicken, fried whitings, mixed green salad, collard greens, macaroni and cheese, oven-baked breads, succulent meats, rich sauces and syrups, creamy butters, and heavy creams made every morsel praiseworthy.
Langston and Aminah generously loaded up their plates and walked back toward their table.
“Are you cheating on Sean?” Aminah asked Langston flat out as they took their seats.
Lang took a sip of her mimosa and squinched up her face before answering. “I thought you wanted me to begin at the beginning. That’s not the beginning.”
“No, it’s not,” Aminah said curtly, pointing her fork at Langston. “It’s the finale. It’s the end of your marriage if Sean ever found out. How could you, Lang?” Aminah’s voice cracked. She found herself as disappointed in her best friend as she’d been in her husband. She loved them both unconditionally, to a fault even, but hated their abilities to be so self-absorbed, so self-involved that they refused to see or even consider how their egotistical actions affected other people. It went against the very essence of who Aminah was. As far as Aminah was concerned, cheating wasn’t some uncontrollable urge like peeing after chugging down a bottle of water. It was a choice, a very conscious and deliberate decision. “You can’t do this to him, Lang. Of all men, of all people, Sean doesn’t deserve this.”
Lang thought that maybe Aminah was more loyal to Sean than she was herself. She wasn’t surprised though. Aminah had been more excited than Lang the night Sean had proposed. It was Aminah who had taken complete control over planning Lang and Sean’s wedding four years ago. She’d been the proudest, most dutiful, beaming matron of honor in the western hemisphere. Aminah personally oversaw the entire event, from the smallest detail, like whether or not the bridesmaids should wear panty hose (no), to securing either Reverend Al Sha
rpton or Reverend Run to officiate—the latter was available, the former wasn’t. Langston would have been more than happy with city hall, but Sean insisted on having the ultimate Brooklyn wedding, and it was Aminah who made sure he got it.
They’d married on the first Saturday of June 2000 right in the middle of Grand Army Plaza under the Soldiers and Sailors Memorial Arch. Cars zoomed around the busy, traffic-filled circle, honking their horns, congratulating them. The newlyweds took pictures in Prospect Park, at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, and under the Brooklyn Bridge.
The reception immediately followed at their newly purchased, sparsely furnished brownstone in Stuyvesant Heights. Aminah had hired the renowned floral designer Saundra Parks, the sister who owned Daily Blossom, to adorn each floor of the four-story brownstone with lush floral arrangements.
In the parlor on the first floor, intricately sculpted ceramic pots of plump, majestic purple and soft blue hydrangeas filled every corner. Grammy Award–winning trumpeter Roy Hargrove and his band played familiar jazz standards as well as his own original compositions as guests enjoyed nibbling on appetizers and sipping on cocktails.
Garlands of deep red velvet roses were strewn along the banisters of the glazed mahogany staircases. ‘American Beauties’ in small, antique, white terra-cotta pots with glints of gold were placed on every other step.
An elegant four-course dinner was served on the second floor where tall vases of white casablancas in delicate glass vases posed as centerpieces.
The hardwood floors on the barren, spacious third level made for the ideal dance space. Aminah’s husband mixed current and classic R&B and rap hits with popular and obscure soul records thrown in for good measure and an even better time.
The Cheating Curve Page 2
