How to Lose a Husband Page 2

  “Right this way ladies, don’t worry about ‘cha bags. Just grab your purses, jackets and anything in the cabin you want to keep your hands on. Follow me.” He stood at the foot of the stairs helping us down one by one. Sade was the last one off of the plane. He stopped breathing when he saw her.

  They must have announced that Kennedi was on the plane inside of the tiny airport. I mean, it couldn’t have had more than two or three gates, half of the building seemed to be glass and we could see people clamoring to catch a glimpse of who was coming in. There was a window wall separating the public side from the private side. People were shouting, clapping and snapping pics. Our star, Kennedi led the pack walking next to our gent.

  “We love you here,” he had to raise his voice to speak over the cheering. “Your songs were very popular, the radio still plays your hits,” he told her. She liked to hear that all the years of hard work she put in was not lost and it still offered her perks of notoriety. She was not one of those stars who swept their past accolades under the rug. She appreciated each and every fan, every pic and every gesture.

  “Thank you, sir. That really means a lot to me.”

  “This room is where we will process you through customs. We cannot have you in the general area for obvious reasons. Plus, we like to take care of our upper echelon guests. Sit back and relax for a moment. I will have someone come process you quickly. While you wait, let me offer you beverages. What will you have?”

  “Do you have some of that Henny White?” I asked. He looked and gave me the ‘I’m walking through church during service’ finger telling me to hold on. He brought back an unopened bottle and poured us all shots and passed them out.

  “This is to us ladies,” I spoke. “We are here to enjoy ourselves, let loose and have some fun. No worries about what we left behind. Cheers to the islands!” It was going to be a good trip.

  “Cheers!” We all downed our shots, except Kennedi.

  “Why are you baby-sitting that shot, Kennedi?”

  “C’mon Kennedi!” Sade urged halfheartedly. “We ain’t gon’ let you babysit drinks all week. You can forget that, chile.”

  “Kennedi, everybody else took their shot. Why are you just sitting there hanging on?” I continued.

  “Y’all know I don’t drink like that,” Kennedi tried to get out of it.

  “Take the damn shot,” I said.

  “But…”

  “Take the damn shot!” We all yelled. She took it…finally.

  “Damn! You are worse than my baby taking medicine!” Paris jumped in. We giggled, and sat down. By that point, another airport attendant came in to check us through customs. The process was quick, and then our gent appeared again.

  “Ladies, I will walk ya to the curb. Sade Dorsett,” he reached down and kissed her hand, “I love you.” He wrapped her arm around his and walked us out. The taxis jetted us to the dock. We found our private yacht, boarded and began the trip out to the island where we were staying.

  The captain had hip-hop music playing, which we could all vibe to. There was juice, alcohol, finger foods like crackers, fruit and cheese on the boat. It was so refreshing to be catered to. We paid to get that kind of service. We didn't want to worry about anything while we were there.

  The view was absolutely breathtaking. The balmy wind coursed through my cornrows sitting on the back of the yacht. Some of the islands were inhabited and I could easily see the businesses and homes dotting the side, others were just gorgeous floating masses of green trees and rock. Oh, and the water! Lord Jesus, the water was so blue, it looked like you could see straight down to the bottom. The only times I have ever seen anything that remarkable was on advertisements to seduce you into visiting.

  Everybody was talking about how striking the scenery was, what they wanted to eat and things they wanted to see. The Divas were taking pictures of each other and the view. Except British and Paris. Paris was at least half-ass trying to loosen up. British was in her own world. She was usually one of the more rowdy chicks in the bunch, it was odd to see her sitting there so quiet. I knew what was on her mind. That damn Stacks! Let me dive on into how that whole catastrophe came to be.

  British was introduced to Stacks through a mutual friend, King. Well, friend is a bit of a strong word. He was another fellow rapper who British used to fuck. Stacks and King were really cool, they had worked on a few projects together and partied together through the years. King used to date one of British’s home girls, Zyla.

  Now, Zyla was a cool chick. She wasn’t messy, didn’t keep up a lot of drama. If she fucked with you, she fucked with you. It was that simple. She fucked with British. The two of them were known to frequent clubs and parties together. They were too fine to pay for their own drinks and they knew it. They dressed the part to snag the ballers.

  Neither of them was a stranger to dudes with boat-loads of money and tons of influence. Even back in high school, British was pulling the popular guys. I remember seeing her walking through the halls like you couldn’t tell her nothing. The other girls hated on her more than they hated on me because she was so on point and she had a stank attitude about it. She was about 5’6”, a little taller than average, with a beautiful face and a banging body. From head to toe, she was the quintessential dime. She never had a hair out of place, was on point with her make-up according to the latest trends and let’s not even get to her threads.

  Not a single girl had a thing on British! Fly was not the word. She made her own stuff, like literally, sewed her own pieces. In high school, being with the popular guys, she really wanted to set herself apart. She knew there were girls digging her boyfriends and she did not want to dress like them, shop where they shopped or have the same hairstyles. Coming up with unique hairstyles was a little harder to maneuver, but she knew her originality could easily be shown through what she wore.

  Her mother taught her: to get the man, she had to look the part. That’s what she did. She started dabbling in design, buying fabrics and using patterns. As she mastered it, she wore her pieces to school and gave me some to wear as well. That was the real test. Once she got approval from picky peers, British never looked back. She began designing and sewing pieces for other “it” girls at school, and around town word quickly spread that her clothes were the shit.

  She used the money she made to buy the flyest fabrics, take sewing classes and get access to cool add-ons like buttons, feathers and sequins. British took her design craft seriously. When most of her peers were heading off to college or making babies, she was creating a name for herself. Whether it was a dope boy, a stripper or a school teacher, British didn’t care who wanted what, as long as their money was green.

  This was back in the late 90’s, before the internet was a mainstay for social popularity or exposure for businesses. British had to be smart in how she went about drumming up business for herself. She went to salons, barber shops, clubs, strip clubs and skating rinks. You name it, if there was a crowd of people there, so was she.

  “Ooh girl! I like your top. Where did you get that?” The girls would ask.

  “Oh, this? Chile please, I made it.” She would answer nonchalantly, because truthfully, she already knew what their reaction was going to be.

  “You made it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you make me something?”

  “Here is my card. Page me, I can hook you and your friends up!” Adding that bit about the friends was a sales tactic to get their friends calling too, bringing her more business. It worked. She got an apartment by 19. Atlanta royalty started reaching out to her. She made clothes for basketball players’ girlfriends and wives, football players’ ladies and people on the music scene. She bought a beater car and upgraded it three times before buying her first brand new Mercedes by 23.

  It was easy to see that design was her passion. It was the only thing she cared about. Her career was so busy she didn’t even bother trying to have a relationship. She had friends or buddies, a cutesy code name for the n
iggas who took priority in fucking time. Literally. Her buddies were the ones who got to see her before anybody else. They may have been in town for a few hours or a few days; some of them lived there…but they were all spoken for. Either way, she made these dudes priority.

  Then there were the guys who were just around, who she thought were fine or looked like they had a nice, strong back to lay pipe. For British, it was a power thing. She loved seeing how her body could bring them such pleasure. The harder they came, the more she got off. If they passed out asleep, sucked their thumb or shed a tear, British’s ego was totally gassed.

  Having sex filled a void in her life. There was little emotional attachment. The sex was a genuine need to feel loved. It was also what she grew up seeing. Her mom kept a steady rotation of men running through the house. British’s father had a wife, which her mother knew when they started dating, before she wound up getting pregnant. Not wanting to have an abortion, British was born, but it was just her and her mother. The father never bothered showing up, even to the hospital.

  With no man in her life to show her how a woman should be treated, she looked to her mother to teach her what to expect. What she learned was: no love, no trust, no commitment and no expectations. She was just out for what she could get.

  It was no military secret that British was DTF, down to fuck…anywhere, anytime, just about any baller. Her name was mud, well, maybe not that bad, but the guys knew she would make herself available to them. Call British at midnight, she’s on the way. See British in the club? She would leave with ya. Text British at 5 a.m., she would rush over to get your rocks off and make it home to catch the sunrise. And what did she have for it? Nothing. Absolutely, nothing.

  In the beginning, they would take her on trips, buy her bags and shoes, but the more she hoed around, the fewer benefits she got. She had been passed around so much, everybody knew that she was community property. A beautiful, thick piece of community ass.

  British convinced one of her ballers to invest in her clothing line. She had money saved for that purpose, but why use her hard earned money when niggas in her bed were making hundreds of thousands and millions of dollars? It made much more sense to use their money, especially with them just pissing it away in strip clubs and bars. So she did. By her mid-20’s, British had Atlanta on lock! Going around to find business for herself was how she met Zyla.

  Zyla was a beautiful girl with a sordid past, like British had and they bonded well. They both were out for what they could get from guys and joked about it. The hot nightlife scene is where British was introduced to Ecstasy, or X for short. She saw people sitting in corners, on the floor or just standing there twirling lights around and was freaked out. She was thinking that they were too old to be fascinated by a damn light. Zyla told her, they were ‘tripping on X’, which basically meant high on pills.

  She decided, what the hell and popped some too. I personally have never popped X, nor would I want to, but to hear her describe it sounds like a cool experience. British said all of her senses were heightened, especially touch, she was super horny and her body yearned to feel sensation. Popping pills became a normal thing for her. It made the sex better. Whether she had a booty call lined up or not, you can bet by the end of the night, she was going home with somebody.

  When Zyla popped X, she had her men lined up, too. Put liquor on top of the pills and she wasn’t good for shit. There were times when British had to cancel her plans or take Zyla home because she was too far gone.

  King, one of Zyla’s dudes, had a VIP booth in the club one night and they were getting lit! Zyla had already told him she wanted to give him some, so he didn’t mind getting her liquored up. Once she popped the pill, though, it was over. By the end of the night, King decided to take them both home with him. British was not as far gone as Zyla, but King could not have it on his conscience if something were to have happened to her. When they got to his crib, he carried Zyla in first and put her in his bed, then helped British out of the car that was parked in the garage.

  “Wassup, King?” She stammered, not even able to stand up all the way. He put his arm around her and she squinted her eyes trying to focus.

  “C’mon gul, get yo’ ass out dis car.” He pulled her to a standing position.

  “Why don’t you get in…and get this ass,” she laughed.

  “C’mon…you’re fucked up.”

  “I know and I want some dick.” She looked around, “I don’t see any other men around here, do you?”

  “You don’t want it,” he said. He stopped trying to pull her out of the car.

  “Mmmmk! But what if I do?” she asked no longer squinting.

  “British.”

  “King. I see how you look at me. You wanna know what this snatch feel like.” She grabbed his crotch. He grunted and licked his lips. He had enough liquor in his system not to need much affection to get the party started. “Look at that, I didn’t even have to do anything.” She pushed him back from the car door and slid to the edge of the back seat.

  As King stood there, she unbuttoned his pants, then pulled his penis out and massaged it with her hands. He was hard and ready to go. Neither one of them stopped for two seconds to think about Zyla in the house upstairs. She was knocked the fuck out as far as they were concerned.

  British stood up out of the car, pulled her skirt up and bent over using the handle of the door on one side and the frame of the car on the other for a little support. Then she took his tool and rubbed it up and down along the crack of her ass. He couldn’t take it! He bent her over more and slid it in. They had sex right there in the garage.

  The next morning, Zyla woke up to King in the bed next to her. She was surprised to see British on the couch. Then again, she realized she did not have much of a recollection of the night before.

  A few days later, British was shocked to see King calling her phone. He told her he needed to talk to her, she gave him the address and told him to swing by. She was nervous, thinking he had some kind of come to Jesus moment where he felt bad about what they had done and was going to tell Zyla. British opened the door, he stepped in and cupped her ass with both hands, then smiled as wide as the Nile is long.

  “Boy, get off of me!” she pushed him back a step. He put his hands back on her ass and started kissing her neck. That was all she needed. This time, neither of them could blame any substance. There was no X, no liquor, no weed, just air between them. They messed around for a few months until Zyla popped up at British’s apartment and saw King’s car there.

  Zyla dismissed both of them. She wanted nothing to do with either of them. British and King didn’t really call it quits, they just fizzled out. By then, the damage was done. She had lost a friend. But when Stacks made his way to Atlanta and was looking for a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, King recommended British. She had her own money, her own place, she was not attached, the sex was good and she didn’t walk around spreading her business. It was a good situation for Stacks. Besides, it was King’s way to set her up with a nigga who was gonna break her off every now and then the way King knew he wouldn’t.

  Stacks was no unknown underground rapper. He was hot shit and everybody knew it. He was lacing British with all kinds of shit. Of course she preferred to wear her own designs because she could make herself one-of-a-kind pieces that no one else would have. That did not mean she turned her nose up to the usual suspects…Prada, Gucci, Chanel. He would have her meet him places, hook her up, then leave. It was no biggie to either one of them.

  The first time she saw his wife in real life was on a shopping trip. He told her to meet him at Tiffany, he was taking his wife to pick up a few things. He made it very clear to her that she was his side chick and she needed to play her role. He had no intention of leaving his wife.

  “Act like you don’t even know me. If you start popping off at the mouth, you’ll never hear from me again. It’s not like she’s gonna believe you anyway, it’s your word against mine. And bitches come up all the time talking ab
out they fucked me and I ain’t never seen them before. Just be there like seven, I’ll make sure we are there around the same time. Start picking some shit out and let me come to you. Capeesh?”

  “Alright,” she smiled. It wasn’t anything new, British messing with a guy who was already attached, that’s how she preferred them. Now, Stacks expecting her to go to the same store where he was shopping with his lady was definitely something different. She was used to shopping for the main chick, being with a dude helping him pick a gift for his wife or girlfriend, then grabbing something for herself, but never a situation like this.

  Stacks was going to be hard to miss, wearing the cliché ‘I’m a rapper’ dark shades inside a building, with humongous diamond studs and a big chain of some sort that was just too ridiculous to be around a normal person’s neck. She arrived just shy of seven and when approached, told them she was just looking around. He walked in about ten minutes later with his wife in tow. They were immediately greeted by a visibly anxious manager at the door and whisked away to a private room. About five minutes later, Stacks came out alone.

  “British,” he said pointedly.

  “Stacks,” she responded in kind.

  “What did you find?”

  “You didn’t give me a budget.” A salesperson walked over to them. She appeared to be familiar with Stacks, they shook hands and she smiled.

  “Tell me what you want,” he said.

  “That depends…five stacks, ten stacks…twenty,” her voice trailed off. He took a sip of the champagne the manager had given him in the back room. Stacks looked at the salesperson.

  “Ten, put it on my card, but give her the receipt,” Stacks pointed to British. He turned to walk away, smacked her hard on the ass, then made his way back to the private room. Ten stacks is easy to blow in Tiffany, British was gone by the time Stacks and his wife left.