Secret Indiscretions

by Trice Hickman

  Donetta Pierce, whose birth name was Donald Eric Pierce, looked, walked, talked, and acted like a woman. But when it came to knowing men and their ways, she was one hundred percent male, and one hundred and ten percent right, ninety-nine percent of the time.

  Donetta was a transgender diva who spoke her mind and didn’t give a damn about what people said or thought about her or her choices. At six-foot-two and 190 pounds of lean muscle, toned arms, and long legs that seemed to extend a mile, Donetta was a well built, striking man who was blessed with smooth, cinnamon colored skin and natural good looks. But with fashionable blond highlights that complemented the chestnut brown weave that hung down her back, neatly arched brows that accentuated her feline-shaped eyes, and perfectly manicured French-tip nails that showcased her slender fingers, she was an equally attractive woman. Today she was wearing a stylish navy and white boatneck shirt and slim-fitting navy capris that made her look as if she’d just stepped out of a Banana Republic ad.

  “Thanks for trying to cheer me up,” Geneva said with a smile.

  “Honey, I’m just speaking the truth. Forget Johnny and his tired, played-out ass.”

  “You’re right, and I shouldn’t even be thinking about him. But he’s my husband.”

  “He’s a fucking mistake.”

  “I just can’t believe he’d do this to me. I could almost understand him treating me this way if I wasn’t good to him, or if I was a horrible wife. But I’ve done nothing but love him and try to please him. This hurts so much.”

  Donetta softened her eyes. “What happened that made you finally open your eyes? . . . Did you catch him with someone?”

  “Not exactly.” Geneva recounted last night’s event, giving a blowby-blow of what had happened. “He didn’t even bother to come back home last night.”

  Donetta shook her head. “That sorry bastard had the nerve to stay out all night?”

  “Yes, all night. He finally came home this morning as I was filling my coffee mug. I was so angry and hurt that I didn’t say a word to him, and he didn’t speak to me, either.”

  “Y’all just avoided each other?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what we did. I looked him straight in the eye but he wouldn’t even glimpse in my direction.” Geneva shook her head. “Honestly, I wanted to kill him, and if I’d had a gun . . .”

  Donetta sucked her teeth. “I wish I’d known; you could’ve borrowed mine.”

  Geneva knew her friend was completely serious because Donetta didn’t play when it came to exacting revenge. She’d sent more than one lover to the hospital for doing her wrong.

  “What hurt so bad,” Geneva continued, “was the way he ignored me, like I wasn’t even there. He walked straight back to the bedroom, and when I heard the water from the shower, I couldn’t get out the door fast enough.” Geneva wiped away a small tear that had run down her cheek. “He was probably washing off the scent of the woman he was with last night.”

  Donetta sat down in her chair, crossed her long legs, and perched her elbows atop her right knee. “Get it out, honey.”

  “I just feel so empty. So confused.”

  “It’s a damn shame that he did this to you. His sorry ass reminds me of Eric,” Donetta said, referring to her ex, who’d ended up in the hospital at her hands after a lover’s quarrel that had turned deadly. The only reason the man hadn’t pressed charges was because he didn’t want his wife to find out that he’d been creeping.

  Geneva sniffled and pulled a bottle of Visine from her station drawer. She put two drops in each eye and blinked rapidly. “I’ve got to pull myself together before those doors open.”

  “When are you moving out? You know you have to divorce his ass, don’t you?”

  “It’s not that easy, Donetta. We’ve built a life together.”

  “No you haven’t. You’ve been a footstool that he constantly steps on. That’s not building a life with someone, that’s tearing down someone’s spirit. You shouldn’t be walking around here feeling defeated or shedding a single tear over his sorry ass, ’cause I guarantee you that bastard isn’t losing a minute of sleep over what he’s done to you.”

  Geneva knew that her friend was right, and it made her feel even worse. She wanted Johnny to suffer and feel the same kind of hurt she was going through. She wanted him to feel remorse and agonize over what he’d done. She wanted him to regret his actions and come running through the door to beg her forgiveness. She wanted him to do anything that showed he cared. But she knew the reality was that none of those things would happen. The love they’d once had for each other had faded.

  Geneva reached back into the top drawer of her workstation and pulled out a mini box of Godiva Gold Ballotins. Godiva was her favorite chocolate, and whenever she felt down she knew the delicious confections could lift her spirits.

  “You and your chocolate,” Donetta teased.

  “It’s the one thing I know I can count on.”

  “You better include me in that mix.”

  Geneva nodded. “Yes, Donetta, you’re right up there with my ballotins and truffles.”

  Just then the door opened, and she and Donetta both looked toward the entrance at the same time. Geneva half hoped it was Johnny, but it was only Shartell Brown, the nosiest, most gossiping stylist in the entire salon, and quite possibly the entire town.

  All the other stylists, including Geneva and Donetta, had secretly nicknamed Shartell “Ms. CIA,” because she had intel on everyone in Amber—even folks she didn’t know by name. It was a given that if you wanted to know about the hottest scandals, latest break-ups, most recent makeups, and everyone’s screw-ups, Shartell had it covered. Whenever she said the four words, “Quiet as it’s kept,” everyone knew she was getting ready to lay down some serious gossip.

  Shartell was outrageous in every way. From her long, auburn-colored weave, to her one inch acrylic tips, to the neon-colored, tight-fitting clothes she stuffed her size-twenty figure into, Shartell was loud, daring, and often brash in her behavior. She was definitely an acquired taste, and regardless of whether people liked her or not, the one thing no one could deny was that her information was always accurate. She never told a lie or exaggerated a situation beyond the facts of what actually happened, which served to make her gossip as solid as steel. If she told you something, it could be trusted.

  “Good morning, ladies,” Shartell said, her thick Southern drawl oozing like molasses. She stomped her way toward her workstation, which was right beside Geneva’s. “I wish we had an elevator in this shop,” she panted, out of breath. “The walk up that flight of steps is a workout and a half, and on hot days like this one it can wear you out.” She removed her black, horn-rimmed sunglasses from her round face and squinted her large brown eyes. “Did I interrupt something? Looks like you two were having a pretty serious conversation. Is everything all right?” she asked, looking back and forth between Geneva and Donetta.

  Donetta leaned to the side and placed her hand on her hip. “Heffa, you nosey as hell.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Shartell said with a big smile, not the least bit offended. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”

  “I can’t go there with you right now,” Donetta said with a roll of her eyes. “You need to sit down somewhere and mind your own business.”

  Shartell smirked. “Y’all know I’m gonna eventually find out what’s up, so why don’t you just go ahead and tell me now.”

  “Why don’t you just wipe that cheap-ass lipstick off your two front teeth and concentrate on setting up your station for your clients, instead of worrying about what the hell we’re talking about.”

  Shartell ran her stubby finger across her teeth and smacked her lips. “Kiss my ass, Donetta.”

  Geneva stepped in. “Shartell, please give it a rest today. This isn’t the time.”

  Shartell slowly removed her designer handbag from her shoulder. “Oh, my . . . Geneva, you seem a little testy today.” She scratched her head and looked Geneva up and
down. “Somethin’s going on with you, sugar. You’re the only person in this whole salon who’s always happy, and don’t nothin’ bother you. But right now you look like somebody just stole your last piece of candy out your precious Godiva box. Yes, somethin’s definitely wrong.”

  Geneva took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. She’d started her morning on the wrong foot and now Shartell was making it worse. “I asked you nicely. Now please, Shartell, give it a rest.”

  “Are you having problems at home with Johnny or something?” Shartell persisted. “I know that look, and it’s got man troubles written all over it. And after all, you are married to Johnny Mayfield,” she said, ending her words with a sigh.

  Geneva looked as though someone had just told her they could see through her clothes as she wondered what Ms. CIA knew about her husband and his activities. “Why do you say that?” she asked defensively.

  “Don’t feed into her wicked web,” Donetta chided as she looked from Geneva to Shartell. “It doesn’t make any sense for one person to be so damn messy. Your mouthy ass always gotta be stirring up shit. That’s why people don’t like you.”

  Shartell reached into her station drawer, pulled out an orange smock, and put it on over her hot-pink shirt and bright purple pants. “Donetta, you really need to watch how you talk to me. You’re lucky that I’m not the type who gets easily offended, otherwise there would be some consequences and repercussions goin’ on up in here.”

  Just then Councilwoman Charlene Harris walked into the salon with a bright smile on her face. She’d started coming to Geneva a few months ago after her long-time stylist had moved away, and had quickly become one of Geneva’s favorite clients. She kept a standing biweekly appointment that she never missed. She was never late, she always tipped generously, and she always had encouraging, uplifting words for everyone. She was kind, smart, loyal, and hardworking, which was the reason why she’d won a seat on the city council one year ago.

  Geneva, along with everyone else in the salon, admired Councilwoman Harris. And although Geneva’s style was different from her client’s, Geneva loved the way the woman carried herself. She was the picture of classic sophistication in her St. John business suits and sensible pumps, accompanied by expensive but understated jewelry, usually consisting of genuine pearls. For a woman who was approaching her late fifties, she looked several years younger than she really was. She was old school, in a classic kind of way, and no matter how much Geneva tried to get the councilwoman to change up her hairstyle, she wouldn’t budge. “I know what I like and I’m not interested in changing,” she’d always say with a smile. She only wore one of two styles. If her slightly longer than shoulder-length hair wasn’t hanging down in layers, it was pinned up in a sophisticated chignon, as it was today. Other than those styles, the councilwoman wasn’t having it.

  “Good morning, Geneva,” Councilwoman Harris said. “And good morning to you, too, ladies.” She smiled, offering a polite nod to Donetta and Shartell.

  Geneva nodded. “Good morning.” She formed her lips into a smile that forced her personal problems to the background of her mind, relegating a vacant space for it to be dealt with at another time. She was a professional, and right now she had to conduct business. “You want the usual or are you in the mood for something different?” This was Geneva’s standard question, even though she knew what the answer would be.

  “I’m going to switch it up,” Councilwoman Harris said.

  Geneva, Donetta, and Shartell each took a collective pause as their eyes widened with surprise.

  “I want this cut.” The councilwoman reached into her bone-colored Chanel handbag and pulled out a picture that looked as if it had been cut from a magazine. She handed it to Geneva and smiled. “What do you think about this? I fell in love with this style when I saw it in my Essence magazine last night. Do you think it will look good on me?”

  Geneva examined the picture of a woman sporting an asymmetrical bob that was short at the nape and hung down below the chin on one side. The style screamed funky sophistication and could go from classic to glam depending upon what kind of mood one was in. Geneva instantly knew the style would look perfect on the councilwoman. This time the smile that formed at Geneva’s lips was genuine. “I love it!” she said enthusiastically. “What do you think about trying a little color? I think some light brown highlights will really make this cut stand out and frame your face nicely.”

  The councilwoman smiled. “All right, let’s go for it.”

  “Fantastic! You’re going to love your new look.”

  “I have no doubt that I will.” She took a deep breath. “Change is good.”

  “Yes, it is,” Shartell said, inserting herself into the conversation. “The only thing that’s certain in life is change.”

  As much as Geneva didn’t want to hear Shartell’s mouth, she had to agree that Ms. CIA was right. “Okay, let’s get started on this new do.”

  The councilwoman clasped her handbag shut and placed it back on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I need to run back out because I just realized I left my cell phone in my car. I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay, take your time,” Geneva said as she donned her black smock, kicked off her sexy red heels, and stepped into her comfortable black Crocs.

  Once Councilwoman Harris was out of earshot, the gossip began.

  Donetta sat in her seat and crossed her long legs. “Something’s up with your client, Geneva. There’s only a handful of things that will make a woman chop off all her hair and go rogue, and man trouble is one of them.”

  “She and her husband are getting a divorce,” Shartell said. “She put him out the house yesterday morning and he checked into the Roosevelt Hotel down on Bellview Street last night.”

  “Oh, no,” Geneva said. “That’s awful. She and Mr. Harris have been married forever. I can’t believe it.”

  Shartell pursed her fuchsia-colored lips. “Thirty-one years, to be exact.”

  “Damn!” Donetta said. “Okay, I know you have all the ugly details about what happened, so give it to us.”

  “No, don’t say a word,” Geneva said, shaking her head. “Councilwoman Harris is probably torn up about this. If they’ve been married thirty-one years, that means she’s spent more than half of her life with that man, and it’s got to hurt like hell for this to happen. Plus, because of who she is, the whole town will be gossiping about her soon enough. Lord knows she doesn’t need us doing it. The poor woman.”

  Donetta laughed. “Poor woman? Puh-leeze! Did you see that big Kool-Aid, I-just-won-the-lotto looking smile she had on her face when she walked through the door? I don’t know her circumstances, but I do know body language and human behavior. If you ask me, that woman’s happy as hell.”

  “Donetta’s right,” Shartell said. “Quiet as it’s kept, she and her husband been havin’ problems for quite some time.”

  Despite initially not wanting to hear the rumors, Geneva found herself listening with rapt attention as Shartell quickly told them about the details that had led to the demise of Councilwoman Harris’s marriage.

  Charlene and Reginald Harris appeared to have the picture-perfect marriage, but once the last of their three children went away to college, the trouble began. Reginald, a handsome lawyer with a tongue as slick as his smile, started cheating on Charlene. She forgave him the first time, which provided him cushion for the second, which eventually turned into a third. What Charlene had initially thought was a midlife crisis that her husband was suddenly going through was actually a long-standing situation that she eventually discovered the hard way.

  Shartell shook her head. “That man has taken her through some changes. I guess he thought he could continue to do anything he wanted, but she proved to him that he can’t, at least not with her . . . anymore.”

  “She got tired of his bullshit,” Donetta said. “Good for her. At some point a woman has to face reality and make some hard decisions.”

  Geneva saw the look that her f
riend discreetly threw her way. She knew Donetta was right, but she couldn’t bring herself to offer up much. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said quietly.

  “Oh, but here’s the clincher,” Shartell said, this time with a solemn face. “Their youngest daughter, Lauren, who’s a student at Tuskegee, well, she started dating this guy who’s in one of her premed classes—smart, good looking guy from what I understand. Come to find out, the boy is her half-brother.”

  Donetta’s eyes got big. “Shut the front door!”

  “What?” Geneva said.

  “Yep,” Shartell continued. “The boy is Mr. Harris’s son that he had with another woman. Lauren and that boy are only a month apart in age, too. Turns out he been steppin’ out for years, but Mrs. Harris didn’t know. That’s how quiet he kept his shit.”

  “Leave it to a man who knows the ins and outs of the law to duck and dive,” Donetta said. “That kind of mess really pisses me off.”

  Shartell nodded. “But every dog has his day, and this one is having his. When Lauren told her mama and daddy that she had a new boyfriend, and that she was serious about him, quite naturally they wanted to meet him. That’s when the truth came out.”

  “Lord have mercy,” Geneva said.

  “Uh-huh, and quiet as it’s kept, that’s why Mr. Harris’s arm is in a cast and his eye looks like he stepped into the ring with Mayweather.”

  Donetta craned her neck. “What do you mean?”

  “He didn’t slip and fall off their deck a few days ago. She beat the shit outa him.”

  “Noooooo,” Geneva said, covering her mouth in shock. “Not Councilwoman Harris!”

  “Yes, sugar. Turns out Ms. Thang has a mean right hook. After she clocked him dead in his eye, she took out a baseball bat and broke the man’s arm. He was pretty banged up and bruised, too.”

  “How the hell do you know all this stuff?” Donetta asked in amazement. “Did you have hidden cameras planted at their house or something?”

  Shartell smiled and winked. “I have my sources.”