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  All I see is flashes of ass and titties and a dick sliding out of my mama. What the motherfuck? I drop everything in my damn hand and turn before I see anymore than I already seen.

  “Excuse me, Rockman,” I hear my mom say.

  Rockman. What the fuck?

  Seconds later there is a strong hand on my arm leading me somewhere. I am scared to open my damn eyes. Oh, Lord, I saw my mama fucking. I wish I had went to Livingston and spent the night with the girls. Most of the time me and Dom still didn’t talk directly to each other but we were in a better place than this time last month. So even with a little awkwardness between me and Dom, anything is better than walking in on an amateur scene from a flick.

  “Please stay in here while I escort my company upstairs.”

  “Maybe if you and your company were upstairs in the first place I wouldn’t feel like tearing my eyes out with spoons!”

  “This is my house.”

  Okay that makes me open my eyes and get this. She has on a damn oversized Roc-a-Fella T-shirt. I give her a long disgusted look and step right out the kitchen into the living room to really get a good look at this Negro. I gasp in horror. This young buck with the braids, faded jeans, and Timbs is my damn age. Humph, well he might be in his early twenties but he real late on getting fucked up.

  “Aw hell no. Get the fuck out,” I tell him, walking over to start pushing that fool towards the front door.

  He frowns looking more and more like Nelly to me. “What? Hold on. What the hell . . .”

  “Monica!”

  I feel my mama’s hands on my arm but I shake her off and keep shoving this nigga.

  “Monica!”

  I turn and look at her, my mama, like I don’t even know her.

  Okay, this is why I’m so mad. This . . . shit is just another damn example of her still loving and wanting to be with my father. Deep down she is so upset that her hopes and dreams of a reconciliation are being squashed that she has done a total 180 degrees. This same stupid shit of hers had me scared to fall in love. Scared to admit to Cameron that I loved him.

  In the past, before Rah broke my leg, I would find a dance studio and make myself forget everything but getting lost in the music. I don’t even have the time or the passion to dance no more. But right now I would bust open my scar to just get in the zone and forget this shit. I need my stress reliever more than ever.

  “I’m going to Daddy’s,” I tell her before I storm out of the living room. I pause for a hot second at the bottom of the stairs before I climb them. When I finally reach my room I don’t hesitate to start packing some of my clothes.

  I’m pissed at my mama for this shit. Right, wrong, or indifferent, it’s just how I feel and right now I just want to get the fuck away. My mama is a fuckin’ cougar on the prowl for younger men. I am so sick of her shit.

  “Why did you need an emergency appointment this morning, Monica?”

  I shift my eyes from the view of the spring leaves on the trees to look at Dr. Locke. Of course, I know the answer to his questions but I don’t feel like talking. Just being in this office, in this chair, across from him gave me comfort.

  In this moment, none of the bullshit bothers me.

  Not my mama drama.

  Not the hell of sleeping on the couch in my dad’s living room.

  Not how stupid I feel sometimes for being Dom’s friend again.

  Not even how it really fucks with me that I laid my pussy out for Cameron and he rejected me.

  Emotions made my chest tight and I took a deep breath hoping to get myself straight. Yes, this forty-five minute session where I ain’t had shit to say was worth a hundred and fifty dollars to me.

  I shift my eyes back to the window.

  Something on his desk buzzes.

  “Excuse me, I have to take that.”

  I look over at him as he sits his notepad on the small table by his chair and unfolds his tall frame to walk over to his desk and pick up the phone. Unlike his normal attire of a suit, Dr. Locke wore a fitted polo and slacks in all black. The color looks good on him with his bronzed complexion and silver goatee. His shoulders look broad and his arms are still a little toned beneath his short sleeves.

  I bring my hand up to lightly bite the tip of my thumb as I watch him closely. He speaks quietly on the phone and my eyes drop to his mouth. Straight even teeth. Nice lips. Groomed beard. I squirm in my seat as I feel my nature slowly rising.

  Again that question pops into my head.

  How wrong would I be to fuck my therapist?

  How wrong indeed?

  He turns his back to me and I reach up to shake my hair free.

  By the time he ends his call and turns to me I am sitting in that chair naked as the day I was born with each of my legs draped over the arms of the chair. His eyes drop down to take in my pussy and I see that hot look come over his face. Got him. I have nothing to say . . . but there is no need to let my good money go to waste. I might as well get something out of this last thirty minutes.

  Part Two

  “Keep on Movin’”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dom

  One Month Later

  I’m tryin’ to avoid Corey’s ass flirtin’ with me from across the room as I finish readin’ to the circle of children at my feet. The shit might sound crazy but I’m enjoyin’ the story about Rumpelstiltskin my damn self. That’s the thing. Workin’ here made me realize that I like to read. I get lost in the stories and shit. It makes me forget my own drama with bills, my mama, and anythin’ fuckin’ else.

  After puttin’ Kimani to bed at night, books about the hood been keepin’ me occupied. (I’m still a late owl. Shit I don’t get sleepy ’til ’bout one in the mornin’.) Right now I’m blazin’ through this book one of the girls at work let me borrow called Desperate Hoodwives. That shit about these four crazy bitches got me carryin’ that motherfucker with me everywhere so I can read some whenever I get a chance. And the more my ass be readin’ books and writin’ in my journal, the more I feel like I can write a book too. Shit, growin’ up in the projects, my ass plenty of stories to tell.

  “Miss Lands? What happens next?”

  I look down at one of my students and then all the rest of them. Each one is lookin’ up from their spots on the floor, waitin’ on me to stop daydreamin’ and finish the story. That makes my ass smile. “I’m sorry,” I tell them playfully.

  Some of them giggle. It’s funny as hell that I didn’t use to like to spend time with my own child and now I love being around her and the rest of the carpet crawlers.

  I search the page to find the spot where the hell I left off. I look up and catch sight of Kimani’s class walkin’ like little soldiers in one single line behind their teacher. Mrs. Harris don’t play and she keeps her class in check all day everyday. Kimani waves at me with her curly Afro puff on top of her head and I give her a wink. When she leans forward to talk to a child in front of her, my eyes shift. Her friend Hiasha got the same damn black girl puff on the top of her head.

  They look like twins.

  I frown with my eyes goin’ from one to the damn other.

  Now this the shit. As much as I see Kimani and Hiasha together, this the first time it hit me that them two heifers look a lot alike. Like sisters.

  Even after Kimani and the rest of the pre-schoolers go down the stairs to their area, I think about Hiasha. While I’m readin’ this story to the kids. While I’m serving them a snack of pineapple juice and oatmeal cookies. Even when me and Corey sneak off for one of our lunch hour fuck fests, I think about Hiasha. When the bank calls my job talkin’ ’bout repo’ing my Lexus ’cause I’m two payments behind I got right off the phone with they ass and thought about Hiasha.

  Did my babydaddy, Deon, have another bitch pregnant the same time that I was? How sorry would it be that if that motherfucker know he got two daughters the same age and ain’t said shit about it?

  Is Hiasha my daughter’s sister? Her last name is . . . Kingsley. It ain’t t
he same as my babydaddy but that don’t mean shit ’cause Kimani ain’t got that nigga’s name either.

  At the end of the day, I make my way downstairs to the colorful play area of the pre-kindergartners. Kimani’s class is in the back rear corner. I am lookin’ at they asses sittin’ side by side on the carpeted bench lookin’ in a book together. Them two been thick as damn thieves since Kimani’s first day here.

  I’m schemin’ on gettin’ into the daycare’s record and gettin’ some info but Yoba, the clerk—with her lazy fat ass—don’t leave her desk for shit. If I ask, will she tell me the name of Hiasha’s daddy? Probably the fuck not. She ’bout a stupid big headed bitch.

  My daughter looks up and she smiles at me with all this love and trust and shit. She relies on me. Depends on me. Needs me. Loves me.

  If Hiasha is her sister a bitch like me need to get on the grind and find out for sure. I ain’t tryin’ to be one of those fuck the next bitch type of chicks no more.

  Might be time for me to look up my babydaddy. Plus, if his ass working he gone give me some child support. Hiasha sure don’t look like she lackin’ for a motherfuckin’ thing. Yup, my ass gone kill two birds with one damn stone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cristal

  Now this is the life.

  A Central Park West penthouse. A guest roster filled with an eclectic mix of New York’s A-list celebrities and socialites. Veuve Clicquot champagne flowing like water. Appetizers by Wolfgang Puck. Wynton Marsalis and his band playing the best of the best from the stage in the corner of the ballroom. The Ingrams’ dinner party is the crème de la crème.

  And I am right in the midst of the world of being rich, beautiful, and philanthropic. The socializing is great but a sister like me is also networking. Carolyn says the best way to become rich and famous is to hang around the rich and famous.

  In fact these past couple of months I have been to more soirees than the entire year I was with Sahad. Benefits, charity events, and store openings. It was the perfect start to a summer in New York. Some of New York’s high profile celebrities and socialites knew me by name because of my association with Carolyn and because of my prior relationship with Mr. New York himself Sahad Linx. I have even received a few mentions in the gossip rags, who knew being Sahad’s ex had benefits.

  I take a sip of my champagne as I stand in a circle made up of Carolyn, the Reynolds (Star and Al), and Kimora Lee Simmons, looking just as fine as I want to be in a strapless gray sequin dress by Diane Von Furstenburg with Giuseppe on the heels (like Ms. Mary of course). I am so loving my life right now.

  My cell phone rings inside my clutch. The sounds of Kanye West’s newest song drifts up. Carolyn raises a disapproving eye and I make a mental note not to forget to put it on vibrate again. At the sight of Mohammed’s number my stomach nearly drops to the floor.

  “Excuse me ladies, I will be right back,” I whisper to them before drifting off to the guest bathroom in the gold trimmed hall.

  As soon as I close and lock the door behind me, I pull out my BlackBerry. I have five voice mail messages. I sit my purse on the marble counter and take a deep sip of my champagne before I check them.

  “This is Cristal the fabulous one enjoying an uberfabulous life. If you’re calling you’re not with me living it up too. Aw. Too bad. Too sad.”

  Beep.

  “Danielle, you forgot we supposed to go to the reggae concert? Why you not answering your phone?”

  Beep.

  “Danielle, what going on with you girl?” Mohammed asks with his accent even heavier in anger. “You no wanna be with me no more? ’Cause that’s what gone happen.” Click.

  Beep.

  “Cristal, girl you are missing it. Dom just pimp slapped some damn girl for spilling liquor on her dress. Möet is in the middle of them trying to break it up. Girl, call me. Call me!”

  Beep.

  “Cristal. Bitch, how ’bout Ze’s mama here with Rockman trickin’ ass. Humph. Ze ’bout to flip in this bitch. Oooh, Ze, your mama know how to supersoak that ho better than your fuckin’ ass.”

  Beep.

  The line just hangs up during the last message. I know it was Mohammed and even as I stand in the midst of the world I longed to be a part of, I miss him. I wish that he could stand beside me and enjoy this world just like I do. But I know he wants no part of it. He is a simple man who just wants to work hard and be a good man. He could care less about wealth and fame.

  Lose Mohammed? I cannot do that.

  Lose the new spot I am claiming in a world I felt I belonged in? I did not want to do that.

  For the last two months I have used every lie imaginable to get away. The girls and Mohammed would not understand. They would think I am back on the prowl for a wealthy husband and I am not. Several men—several wealthy men—-several wealthy celebrity men mind you—have stepped to me and I have nothing but Mohammed on mind. Me, the ultimate gold-digger, is quite happy with my handyman with the little house in Newark. I am not here on the prowl. There is no other man for me but Mohammed—this I know for sure.

  I look down at my silver BlackBerry and my thumb is right over the speed dial button. I cannot call him. Not right now. I have to make my apologies in person. As much as I would love to hear his sexy Jamaican tongue wrap around my name, I push my BlackBerry back into my purse.

  I turn to check my flawless makeup in the mirror. Everything about me being here seems right. A piece of me is still that little orphan girl nobody wants with the high water jeans and dirty no-name sneakers wishing her wealthy parents would swoop in and rescue her from a life of poverty and no heritage. A piece of me wants to make everything right. Restore order. Set it all straight.

  With one last check of my appearance, I swallow down the last of my champagne and leave the bathroom to get back to the party.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Moët

  Tonight I am on a mission.

  Cristal has hooked me up with an attorney, a Helen Jacobsen, from the firm where she works. I have an appointment with her tomorrow. She’s supposed to be one of the best attorneys in the tristate area . . . so at least for tonight Tiffany is safely asleep in her crib in my bedroom. For the first time since I got those papers, I feel like I have the will to fight for—and win—custody of my daughter.

  I had to testify for the first time in family court about the background and emotional stability of a child ordered to testify against her mother in a neglect case. My supervisor praised me for my performance and we believe the judge’s decision not to let the child testify was mainly due to that. So work—for now—is a non-issue.

  My sister, Latrece, called complaining about my parents’ not letting her join the debate team because it would mean her having to travel out of town sometimes. I called them and gently suggested loosening the strings a bit or they would lose her. They compromised and said she could join and attend all local events but anything out of town would have to be supervised by my mom. It’s not much but it’s something. Family drama handled? Check.

  My friends are getting along. In fact, Alizé, Moët, and Dom are out enjoying a movie, dinner, and of course . . . drinks. Another check on my “things to worry about” list.

  Tonight? Tonight is all about handling my personal life. Taking it to the next level.

  Ding-dong.

  I check my appearance in the mirror and for one second I doubt myself. Am I wrong?

  I leave my bedroom and walk across the plush carpeting in the rhinestone stilettos I borrowed from Dom. They were from her “Juicy” days and just what I needed for tonight. With one last lick to my lips, I open the door and try to look my sexiest.

  Taquan’s eyes travel from my soft curled hair to my elaborately made up face. I bite my bottom lip a little bit before his eyes drop down to take in the sheer pink teddy I’m wearing.

  He swallows over a lump in his throat and suddenly shoves his hands into the pockets of his vintage jeans. “Jesus,” he says huskily before he averts his eye
s.

  I reach out and take his hand to pull him in. He resists. “Taquan, come here,” I order him softly. He relents.

  His mouth is moving and his eyes are focused on the ceiling as I pull him behind me to push down onto the couch. It’s not until I try to straddle his hips that I realize he is praying. Good grief.

  I lean forward to wrap my arms around his neck and he brings his hands up to block me. His hands accidentally touch my breasts and I feel his dick jump inside his pants. “Taquan, please,” I beg shamelessly. I haven’t had sex since the night I told Bones I was pregnant. That was over a year ago. Oh, choir boy gone give me some. Shoot.

  I reach for his dick and he grabs my wrist. I try to wrestle free but of course, he is stronger than me. Shoot, I’m sitting here in a crotchless teddy begging for sex and he isn’t giving in. Look like his will is stronger than mine too.

  “Jesus, we pray for the strength to resist temptation and rebuke sin,” he prays.

  “I know that the flesh is weak, Moët. Trust me I am human and I have . . . needs too but this isn’t right,” he implores me as he looks into my eyes with the utmost seriousness.

  I try to press my breasts closer to his face. His eyes drop down to take in my hard nipples through the sheer material and I don’t miss the little lick of his lips. “Taquan, I want to be with you in every way.”

  He gave himself one last long look at my body before he shifts his eyes to mine again. “And we will . . . one day—”

  “Today,” I stress.

  “One day,” he stresses.

  “Today,” I stress again.

  “The Bible says ‘For this is the will of God, even your sanctification, that ye should abstain from fornication.’ ”

  The man I want to make love with is throwing Bible verses at me while I am straddling him in a crotchless see-through teddy. Talk about a mood killer.

  “I’m sorry, Latoya, but if you can’t understand—and respect—how serious I am about this then I don’t think we can be in a relationship.”