How to Lose a Husband

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or person, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Toya Wright Publishing

  ISBN: 978-0-9972178-0-3

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting Rick George using rick@sperrypark.com. Thank you for supporting the author’s rights.

  Credits

  Editorial: Dr. Erica Mills

  Cover Shot: DeWayne Rogers

  Cover Design: Howard Ross

  DEDICATION

  First and foremost, I would like to thank God for the many blessings. I would like to thank my husband, Mickey Wright; my parents Anita Johnson and Walter Andrews; my beautiful daughter Reginae Carter; my lifelong friend Dwayne Carter; my siblings; my best friends Danielle Johnson, Lidia Muse, and Ashley Darby for showing me that real friendships still exist. My mentor/auntie Kristalyn Holden for all of the great advice she's given me over the years. My manager Rick George, my attorney Alcide Honore and last but not least #TeamToya and everyone who has supported me over the years…family, friends and fans. I love y'all. I hope you guys enjoy my new book How to Lose A Husband.

  HOW TO LOSE A HUSBAND

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  BRITISH

  SADE

  MADISON

  KENNEDI

  PARIS

  LOLA

  INTRODUCTION

  Lola, the one giving up the juice. You are about to be entertained by a few stories about me and my girls. These are my divas, my bitches, my ride-or-dies. These girls hold me down, wipe my tears and give me advice. I know you have your own group of divas, too. No matter what, we got each other’s back…always.

  Just like any other clique, we go through some shit. We put our hearts out there, we talk shit to each other, gang up on the world and raise our children. We get money while managing to hold our heads up in the face of adversity. We’re good, as long as we got each other.

  My life is probably the most normal. I have a husband of 15 years and identical twin boys who are 14, yeah, we got pregnant quick! I work as an accountant and my wonderful husband is a doctor. That’s it. My Divas? I live vicariously through them. I see what they see, know what they know and hurt when they hurt.

  They give me all the tea. I hear it from all of them and sometimes from the streets, too. Listening to the latest bit of drama one day, I thought, Damn somebody should make a movie outta this! So here you go, all for your reading pleasure.

  Dididididididi! Dididididididi! British’s head lifted off of her satin pillow case ever so gently. It was purple to compliment the gray, purple and white décor scheme in her room. There were hints of silver, too.

  Dididididididi! Dididididididi! Waking up to her alarm clock every single day was something she was trying to get used to, but she knew exactly where it was located. Her arm flung wildly over to the nightstand. Without even turning her head toward the discounted Rooms To Go furniture next to her bed, British slapped the alarm clock into snooze.

  She knew what time it was, but that didn’t phase her one bit! She nestled back into the dreamy pillow top mattress, pulling the fluffy duvet back to envelope her. Between the eye mask she wore and the sanctuary of a bed she slept in, it often took an act of God to move her out of bed every morning. Eventually, she’d make it to the desk in her home office, then on to the spare bedroom that served as her workroom. She recently started setting her alarm to increase her productivity during the day. The next ten minutes were crucial. And maybe even the next ten after that, if she tapped the snooze button again. She readjusted herself in the bed, attempting to get another few sweet moments of shut eye.

  All of a sudden, her eyes bolted open. Stacks told me he was going to call me back, she thought fumbling for her phone. She located it snuggled amongst the sheets and conjured up enough strength to turnover. Laying on her side, she swiped to the right and entered her four digit passcode. No new calls, no text messages. British was pissed! She rolled her eyes and said, “I know how to find out where this muthafucka went last night,” in a groggy voice.

  British found the Instagram icon on the bottom right of her screen and hit it while she simultaneously repositioned herself on pillows. The little circle at the top of the screen was going around and around, but her screen was blank.

  “Come on, shit!” she croaked, impatiently growing upset anticipating that Stacks had let her down again. She double clicked the bottom of her phone, swiped the Instagram app up to close it, then pressed it on the home screen again.

  “Bingo,” a popular gossip column maintained one of the most widely recognized pages on Instagram. She followed a handful of them, which is how she kept up with celebrities and wannabe celebrities. CelebMail bragged about having close to two million followers. It was a trashy site that posted any and everything. Half of the stories could not even be validated, but they made for juicy gossip.

  Stacks Pays Bills At The G-Spot Strip Club in Atlanta, the caption read. It was a picture of Stacks sitting down holding a brick of money with a stripper standing on stage in a mountain of cash. British grunted, she was hot. “So you spending money on these hoes, but you can’t spend on me? Then you got the nerve not to even call me?”

  Dididididididi! Dididididididi! British’s ten minute snooze time was up. She tossed the phone on the bed pushing the covers back. She drug herself into the bathroom, back tracked a few steps to grab the phone off of the comforter, then scurried into the bathroom to handle her business.

  By lunchtime, British had still not heard anything from Stacks. She already knew it was because he had been drinking. That was his lifestyle, though. He was a prominent rapper on the scene. He had been nominated for Grammys long before she ever met him. As an industry fave, if he graced a track it was guaranteed to be hot. He never missed. Stacks’ first album went triple platinum back when people actually spent money buying albums. Fans couldn’t wait for his sophomore effort, while critics were anticipating a total failure.

  Without apology, his second album crushed the charts. In popular cities with multiple urban radio stations, his songs could be heard on all of them simultaneously. Every hour on the hour, Stacks was getting paid. In his home city of Atlanta, love was never lost. The more his fame grew abroad, the more his city embraced him. Keeping with the gritty nature of his rhymes, he had to maintain appearances in the places and doing the things he talked about. It also kept him close to his people, the fans.

  His stripper anthem, “Private Dance For Me” was the top single on the charts in 2010. He introduced it in the strip club and filmed the video there as well. The Atlanta culture almost deemed it an absolute must to introduce a song in the strip club. If the strippers liked it, you had a hit.

  When British met him, she knew what time it was. There was no doubt that he would be in and out of strip clubs, making club appearances on the regular and hopping on last minute flights at any time of day…or night. She was probably more jealous that she wasn’t with him, raining dollars and smacking butt naked ass, than she was that he hadn’t called her. She felt entitled to be his girl.

  All The Divas knew the truth. Stacks belonged to somebody else. There was no mistaking who he was with. Stacks was a married man with two kids. His wife wore a fat-ass, 10-carat sparkler, according to the blogs. They had bee
n together for years.

  As far as British was concerned, she played her role well. He took her around with him. Her Divas and his boys knew what time it was, but nobody else did. She was aware of her reputation for having her legs open, so when paparazzi came around, she slid out of the frame or turned her back. So she couldn’t understand why Stacks didn’t call her to go to The G-Spot. By the end of the day, she gave in and called him. No answer.

  The Divas found their way to happy hour. As you can imagine, British got there first. I pulled in second, we walked in and told them to give us a table in the back. We had to do that anytime Kennedi or Sade came out with us.

  Once we were seated, I bee-lined to the bathroom to wash my hands. I’m kind of a germophobe. As soon as I got back to the table, British started going in.

  “Man, I am so through with Stacks!”

  “No, you’re not,” I brushed her off laughing.

  “I am…not, through, like all the way…but like, you know?”

  “Mmmm, nope! I sure don’t.”

  “I mean, he tried it.”

  “Why? It’s nothing he ain’t done before.”

  “I know, but like…enough is enough.”

  “Enough is enough of what?” Kennedi jumped right on in, having found her way to the back of the restaurant. She flashed her honest smile and tilted her head. Her hair was still in a ponytail from her workout. She practically lived in workout clothes, so that was nothing new.

  “Stacks! I’m done with him.”

  “Oh girl,” Kennedi reached for the drink menu, knowing good and well she wasn’t going to drink.

  “He went to the G-Spot last night. I was not invited, he didn’t tell me what he was doing and he hasn’t called me all day!”

  “That man doesn’t owe you anything,” Kennedi said. She slid the drink menu back in its place.

  “Did it ever occur to you, Ms. British…that he was with his lady? His wife?” I chimed in. Sometimes it was necessary to remind her that Stacks was not her man. On the other hand, she was his piece. British had pretty much cut all of her dudes off for him back when he told her he wasn’t caking her for the next nigga.

  “He can’t love her,” she defended.

  “It doesn’t matter. They have two kids together. And years between them! He’s not leaving her, British.”

  British just looked down at the table. I guess I took some of the wind out of her sails. It was always messed up that she dealt with a man who was already in a relationship, then for her to actually think she could break up his home was just taking it to a whole ‘nother level.

  British’s M.O. was to mess with guys who were spoken for. It came honest to her. Her mother was the same way. Her mom stayed in some other woman’s bed. That was the environment British grew up in. She heard her mother talking to her friends about her conquests, where being a side chick was glorified.

  Now, British was at a point where she was ready to settle down and be a girlfriend, a real girlfriend. All of her friends were married, had been down the aisle at least once, or were getting there. They were having families and enjoying doing couple shit. Instead, British realized Stacks was the biggest baller she had ever landed and if he left his girl, it needed to be for her. Now, she was stuck trolling Instagram and gossip blogs for the latest on him.

  But when they were together, their pillow talk used to be so sweet. He was going to take care of her, claim her in public; she would never have to worry about being secure again. They would have their own kids and raise them together. His actions though, they were another beast. He was seen taking his wife on shopping sprees and sometimes documenting it himself on his own Instagram and Twitter. His wife was laced with the best! Always fly! They had houses on two coasts and one in between, and are always seen wearing custom designer gear and diamonds. That damn girl was dripping in diamonds! A trip to the top jewelers in New York, L.A. and Atlanta seemed like an everyday affair, they even loaned her jewels to wear. It just left British stewing mad. And hurt.

  “Why do you do that?” British asked me.

  “Because I’m your friend. You’re working yourself up for no reason. What? Am I supposed to just cosign with you because you’re my girl? Hell no! You are wrong, British. You are screwing someone else’s man. You should not want to be a side chick; you should want someone to stand before God and marry you. But, if you must settle for being a side chick, then be a side chick and shut the hell up. The decisions he makes do not really affect you.”

  “Hola chicas!” Madison piped up. She greeted us all with this weird cheek-to-cheek thing she does. She puts her cheek to yours, then closes her lips and blows air to make it bubble out.

  “Looks like I walked up on some tea,” she carefully placed her suit jacket on the back of the chair.

  “Chile, just British and Lola with their usual Stacks banter,” Kennedi volunteered.

  “Kill it! I don’t want to hear about his lame ass. What’s next on the table for discussion?”

  The mood was still a little tense; the waitress came over at the right time. As she took our drink orders, two ladies came up to the table. I already knew what they wanted, we all did. Kennedi smiled and started rubbing her tongue over her teeth to make sure there was no lipstick on them.

  “Kennedi! We don’t want to bother you,” one of the girls started.

  “It’s fine ladies! How are you today?” My girl was happy, basking in the recognition. She made her way into a standing position.

  “Can we please take a picture with you?”

  “This is my fabulous side,” Kennedi teased and flashed her pearly whites. Her soon-to-be-ex-husband spent a grip on that five digit smile. Her teeth were perfect and the brightest white possible. The fans breathed an obvious sigh of relief.

  “I’ll take it,” I volunteered because it was obvious they both wanted to be in it.

  They thanked me profusely and Kennedi told them to @ her in their post on social media and they went back to their table.

  “That shit never gets old!” Kennedi said beaming. Unlike some stars who shy away from attention, she did not mind the picture and autograph circus that came with stardom. At least she knew she was still somewhat relevant.

  “Can we take a picture with you?” British mocked the fans and we all laughed. The drinks came and we enjoyed a little girl time.

  “Madison, how was work, Boo?”

  “Winning cases as u-zhu-while,” Madison smacked her lips.

  “This year started off so fucking crazy! All of us are going through something,” British said.

  “Except Lola’s ass,” Madison joked. “Lola never goes through anything!”

  “That’s why we all call her!” Kennedi squealed giving Madison a high five. They missed British’s side eye.

  “This Paris shit is the icing on the cake! I needs me a getaway,” British said.

  “Let’s do it.”

  “Girls’ trip!”

  “Girls’ trip!”

  “I’m tired of talking about it, y’all.” Kennedi said. “I can have this trip planned for us in a week. Let me know something for real!”

  “Yaaaaaas, Kennedi! Use your name card, hunty!” British clapped. Madison immediately opened the calendar app on her phone.

  “Mmmmm, I can sneak away from the 6th through the 14th. That’s only three weeks away, so y’all better figure something out. After that, I have a huge murder trial to prepare for.”

  “I can slide the 9th through the 14th,” I let them know. “Paris needs to relax, relate and release.”

  “I’m free for life!” British blasted.

  “Divas,” Kennedi held up her glass, “here’s to finding somebody’s beach…”

  “…to fuck up!” British jumped in. “It’s going to be so dope. We can shop and swim and drink and party. And the men, Lord, the men!”

  “British, we know you’ll find a party and a man,” I added. She just lifted up her eyebrows and gave me duck lips. I didn’t care about her little pl
ay-play attitude. This trip was going to be awesome. I was sure we would end up on an island in the Caribbean somewhere. I couldn’t wait to be touring the Caribbean with my BFF’s without a care in the world. I had to make sure to leave all my baggage stateside and encourage them to do the same.

  BRITISH

  arrived on the beautiful, sunny isle of Tortola. Words almost cannot even describe how beautiful this place was. Even from the tarmac, we could see God’s hand in the place. It very possibly could have been the feeling of leaving behind worries, angst and stress back in The States. I know for me, it was such a relief to be getting away. That was the reason for the whole girls’ trip, to kind of help us unwind from the crazy shit going on in our lives. We all had so much going on, we didn’t know which way was up.

  The door to our private jet opened. Instantly, the smell of warm, salty air permeated the cabin. We all inhaled deeply and burst out laughing because the sound was so collective, it was apparent we all did it at the same time.

  “Good afternoon, ladies!” An airport attendant announced once he reached the top of the stairs. His accent was hella exotic. He only stood partially inside, but we could hear him just fine. He was tall, nicely built and not bad on the eyes. Not gorgeous, but not bad.

  “Afternoon,” we replied.

  “Welcome to the British Virgin Islands. The island you are on right now is the island of Tortola. We are working to get you off as soon as we can,” he began looking around the plane at each one of us. “This is one of our busiest seasons and unfortunately, the wait right now is about an hour and…Kennedi?” He paused in mid-sentence. His gaze didn’t even make it around to Sade.

  “Yes,” she said, smile beaming. She seductively batted her eyes.

  “Hol’ on,” he said in that strong accent of his. He ran down the stairs and we couldn’t see where he went.

  “Leave it to this bitch to get us past some shit,” British started up.

  “Yup, you already know they are about to whisk us off this damn plane!” Paris added. We felt the vibrations of someone running up the stairs. Our gent was back.