The Cheating Curve (7 page)

“What? You think you too proud to beg?” he teased.

“Absolutely. I’ve never had to, and I never will. My name is Langston Neale Rogers, not Lisa what-the-fuck-ever, or did you forget?”

He laughed. “Nah, I didn’t forget. How could I? You won’t let me.”

“Fuck you, Dante.”

“You will.”

“No, I won’t,” she said, pouting and walking over to her shoes. “I gotta go anyway. I’m horny, you’re not helping, and I’m late for dinner.”

Dante nodded.

“Hey, can I ask you a question?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

“Go for it.”

“Did you have sex with Lisa?”

“I did,” he admitted, rubbing his chin.

“Damn, Dante. That’s fucked up. How long have you known her?”

“She’s not married.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“She wasn’t playing hard-to-get. As a matter of fact she was throwing her pussy at me. She even paid for lunch. It was the least I could do.”

“What-the-fuck-ever. I’m outta here,” she said, sliding back into her thongs and pressing the elevator button.

Dante turned her toward him and kissed her again. Softly. Gently. He sucked her bottom lip and then kissed her lightly.

“Stop playing with me, Dante. You know what you are? You’re a clit tease,” she said, turning her back to him.

“I like kissing you,” he admitted. “I didn’t even kiss her, you know?”

“Is that supposed to make a difference to me?” she asked, insulted, pushing the elevator button again.

“It should,” he said, blocking the elevator door.

“Oh, really, and why is that?” she asked with her arms folded.

“Because I don’t just kiss anybody. I’ve fucked more females than I’ve kissed.”

“That’s sad,” she said, shaking her head.

“Nah, not really. I think kissing is way more special, more intimate. Fucking, for me anyway, is mostly recreational.”

“Now that’s enlightening. That’s the problem with you young boys. You’re so detached and downright emotionless. I guess I’m supposed to feel special that you kiss me. Well, it still takes one to know one. Remember that.”

“You’re not detached, and neither am I,” Dante said, unfolding her arms.

“I can be,” she said, refolding them.

“You are an exceptional lover, though,” he said with a slight chuckle.

“You wouldn’t know that.”

“Yeah, let you tell it. I picked up on your sexual energy the moment we made eye contact.”

“What-the-fuck-ever,” she said, flicking her hand dismissively.

“You’re not emotionless either. In fact, I think you’re catching feelings.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Lang said, moving Dante out of her way and strutting into the elevator.

“I’m digging you, Lang,” Dante said right before the elevator closed. “I’m really digging you.”

Langston left Dante’s loft fully aroused. Back at home she enjoyed a scrumptious dinner and devoured her husband with a side of strawberries and cream for dessert. They made love in the dining room, had sex in the kitchen, fucked in the bathroom, and collapsed on the bedroom floor. This time she did come, over and over and over again, twice with her husband and just once—the last time, in fact—with her husband inside her but with her lover on her mind.

A
minah ordered a large bottle of Ty Nant mineral water as she waited for Rebekkah Morrison to arrive. Water was Aminah’s beverage of choice. She enjoyed both flat and sparkling water equally. It irked her when people said water had no taste. Good water had no
aftertaste
whatsoever and was never to be served on the rocks unless the ice cubes were made from the exact same brand of water. Water could be smooth or crisp, effervescent or still. Chilled water served in a frosted glass more than sated Aminah—it delighted her.

No two waters tasted the same to her. She loved Pellegrino but detested Perrier. Found Poland Spring and even Dasani tolerable. Evian deplorable. Favored Lurisia, Fiji, and Panna. Appreciated Voss. Enjoyed smartwater. Detested both Deer Park and Great Bear, and Aquafina quite frankly made her puke.

Though Aminah was not a wedding planner by practice or profession, she had received several requests to do them after creating such a spectacular event for Lang and Sean four years ago. She’d turned them all down. The wife of Aaron “Famous” Anderson did not work. Though she was Ivy League–educated, Fame saw that the best use of all that expensive knowledge was in the rearing and the development of their children.

Initially, Fame even protested Aminah doing Rebekkah’s wedding to Imon Alstar, founder and president of All-Stars Records. However, once she reminded him that he’d done a couple lucrative deals with Imon’s label and this could possibly lead to more, he happily surrendered. And while she and Rebekkah hadn’t been quite chummy in college, they were always cool. In fact, when Rebekkah had relocated from Philadelphia to New York a couple years ago, it was Aminah who’d helped her get acclimated and even brought her to a movie premiere where she’d subsequently met Imon.

Rebekkah sauntered into the restaurant minutes later wearing a dainty white eyelet sundress, white braided leather flip-flops, a straw tote bag trimmed in white leather, large silver hoop earrings, several sterling-silver bangles on her right wrist, and a dainty silver toe ring. She was a natural beauty—the type of woman who was more lip balm than lip gloss, more wedges than stilettos, more Coach than Gucci.

Rebekkah spotted Aminah immediately. She was sipping on her second glass of sparkling water still wearing her Oakley sunglasses with the rose-colored lenses inside the dimly lit restaurant located in the rear of the Tribeca Grand Hotel.

The ladies embraced each other lovingly, ordered their dinner, and fell into a natural rhythm of catch-up conversation.

“I’ve always loved your locs,” Aminah complimented, sliding her pink camouflage frames on top of her head. “That color looks incredible with your complexion. Who does your hair?”

She purposefully complimented sisters with natural hair. She loved to see women embracing their own texture and supported them if not physically at least spiritually. She thought they exuded supreme confidence and a regal beauty that deserved more appreciation and validation by the media and society at large.

“Thanks,” Rebekkah said, brushing the back of her intricately twisted updo. “Debra at the Studio in Bed-Stuy. I was literally terrified of cherry plum, but she convinced me to try something new, something different. Before I let her do this, dark brown was more my idea of a risk.”

They laughed.

“I know what you mean,” Aminah said. “My husband would have a fit if I came home with any other color besides jet black, and heaven help me if I stopped relaxing my hair….” Aminah caught herself. She hated the way she’d just sounded.

Rebekkah raised her eyebrow, took a sip of her pinot grigio, and swiftly changed the subject by asking how Lang was doing. “You know we gave her exclusive coverage of our nuptials in
Urban Celebrity
?”

“I guess she’s fine,” Aminah replied flatter than her opened bottle of mineral water.

“You guess? Wait. I thought you two spoke practically every day. When’d that change?”

“Last week. We had a little falling out over brunch. Obviously, in the twentysomething years we’ve been friends we’ve disagreed before, but this time…” Aminah’s voice trailed off. “I dunno.”

As tempting and maybe even as necessary as it was for Aminah to vent, she didn’t quite trust Rebekkah enough to violate Lang’s confidence. She’d never done it before and wasn’t about to start now, though the irony of feeling conflicted over her double-dipping friend wasn’t lost on her.

“Sounds like more than a little fallout? You okay? You wanna talk about it?”

“Well, you know Lang’s always been stomping up the career path while I’ve been gunning down the family lane,” Aminah said, attempting to “skirt the issue” just a bit. “And I’ll be honest, I just find some of her choices lately to be a little on the selfish side. That’s all.”

“What choices? Her career choices?”

“Well, not exac—”

“But isn’t that the beauty of the time we live in as women?” Rebekkah asked, cutting Aminah off. “We have the freedom to choose our lives and not just deal with some unwanted or forced circumstances. We’re our own prime examples. She’s a dynamic career woman, you’re a happy full-time mother, and I’m a successful single working mom. Oops, correction—newly engaged single working mom. Bam!”

Rebekkah promptly fanned her three-carat conflict-free diamond ring in front of Aminah’s salad plate, and they both doubled over with laughter. They quickly regained their composure as the waiter refilled Aminah’s water glass and took Rebekkah’s order for another glass of pinot grigio.

Aminah cleared her throat. “We have choices. That’s great and all. But certain choices come with consequences.”

“Okay. I’ll give you that. So what’s the consequence of Lang’s choices?”

God. I wish I could confide in this woman,
Aminah thought to herself.

“Well?” Rebekkah asked impatiently.

“Oh, just the repercussions of pissing me off and me putting your butt on timeout.”

They both laughed again.

“We’ll be fine,” Aminah said, waving her hand. “Really. Enough about Lang, we came here to talk about your fabulous day. So what kind of wedding did you have in mind? Are you planning on something really grand with lots of family and friends, or would you prefer something a little more intimate?”

“Well, I heard Lang’s wedding was very Brooklyn-centric, so to speak,” Rebekkah said, absentmindedly pushing around the mesclun and arugula leaves on her salad plate. “Imon wants the same sort of thing only with a Harlem flair in this sort of winter-wonderland setting with my son as his best man. Of course, he wants everybody who’s anybody in the industry to be invited.”

Aminah chuckled, taking another sip of her mineral water. “Okay, I think I know what he means, but is that what you’d like as well?”

Rebekkah so desperately wanted to share her insecurities and concerns not only about her wedding day but about her relationship with Imon itself. Their conversation had been so unaffectedly free-flowing that she felt she could fully open up to Aminah.

Rebekkah sighed. “Aminah, I hope I don’t sound too nutty, but I’ve always felt this soothing, really calming energy emanating from you.”

Aminah thanked Rebekkah while laughing silently to herself. She recalled telling Lang that she’d kept Rebekkah at a safe distance because she found her to be precisely just that…
nutty
.

“I mean it. Listen, I hope I’m not being too forward, but I sort of have a dilemma that I’m hoping you can help me with,” Rebekkah confessed.

“Hey, is everything all right?” Aminah asked, placing her hand on top of Rebekkah’s.

“Yes. Well, no, not really. I’m not so sure.” She paused to take a forkful of her salad and to gather her thoughts. “I love Imon. I really do. And, I mean, I love him with everything, girl.” She sighed again. “But the closer it gets to our actual wedding date, the more reservations I have about marrying him.”

“Aw, sweetie, wedding jitters are normal,” Aminah reassured.

“No. It’s not just that,” Rebekkah finally admitted. “I mean, I’m really starting to question if I can marry into this whole thing, this whole lifestyle. Being married to someone in the entertainment industry isn’t like being married to a normal person.”

Aminah nodded as she chewed on her peppery green salad. “Well, you’re right about that, but all marriages have their challenges.”

“Yeah, I guess so. I don’t know.” Rebekkah hesitated. She took a sip of her pinot grigio and held it in her mouth for a few seconds, savoring the light, fruity notes before taking another sip. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, and I truly, truly mean no harm, but explain to me how you deal with it all. I mean, you seem so happy. I’ve seen you and Fame out together. You two look so in love. He clearly adores you. Anybody can see that, but I just don’t get it, Aminah.”

“Deal with what exactly? What is it that you just don’t get?” Aminah asked, puzzled.

“I’m sure you’ve heard all the stories and rumors about Fame. I’m sorry, but I think you have to be either really strong or really weak just to expect and accept that ‘a man’s gonna do what a man’s gonna do.’ I don’t think I can do that.”

Aminah was stunned into silence. She’d expected to talk about tea roses, calla lilies, and color schemes this afternoon, not the pros and cons of being married to an unfaithful spouse in the music business.

“I mean, I think that cheating is the ultimate disrespect,” Rebekkah continued. “I don’t know how I could be expected to forgive that, never mind forget it.”

Aminah stared at Rebekkah in shock and disbelief. It felt as if she were having an allergic reaction to peanuts or shellfish or something, and now her throat was swelling shut rapidly. She subconsciously massaged her throat. She felt in desperate need of a shot of epinephrine to relax her airway—not so much so that she could breath, but just so that she could speak.

“I’m sorry, Aminah. This is so inappropriate,” Rebekkah acknowledged. She hadn’t intended to offend Aminah. She desperately needed to speak with a woman who could offer her some insight from experience, not just empty sound bites and useless theories.

“That came out all wrong,” Rebekkah said apologetically. “I hope I didn’t come off judgmental, because I get accused of that all the time. I didn’t mean to. Look, I’m genuinely confused myself. I just need some advice.”

“Funny, I thought you came here to discuss your wedding,” Aminah said, finally finding her voice. Aminah sat up straighter in her chair, elongating her neck and lengthening her spine. She cocked her head slightly. “First of all, let’s get one thing straight,” she said, punctuating each word with her salad fork pointed directly at Rebekkah. “Fuck what you heard, you don’t
really
know me or my husband. I would never discuss private details of my personal life with you. I came here to meet with you as a favor to you. I don’t
need
to be here. You understand what I’m saying? Now, I don’t know what particular rumors you’re referring to, but suffice it to say you can’t believe everything you hear. And please, Rebekkah, don’t take this the wrong way. I truly, truly mean
you
no harm, but you can take your tacky little wedding plans, your pseudo-
sistah
persona, and kiss my naturally beautiful black ass.”

Aminah slid her pink Oakleys back down, tossed five crisp twenty-dollar bills on the table, and strutted out of the Tribeca Grand, leaving her cobalt bottle of Ty Nant only half full.