Love Is Life.
Sade & Jamon
Oakland, CA. 2018.

Ryan Destiny + Keith Powers for WE THE URBAN’s July 2019 Digital Cover

Ryan Destiny + Keith Powers for WE THE URBAN’s July 2019 Digital Cover

Explored Washington DC with this very stylish and creative couple.

Check out more on my Instagram: @raat_fashion

Tee and Cassandra
Out of Many, One People
byBrianna Roye

(the shiny patches are gold leaf)

Also, if you see this, share this as much as you can. It’s really nice when I can get my art out there and reach out to people

Chapter Two
❖
Zion

I told Alain not to bother. He annoyed me when he presumed to know my style, my tastes. But he could not help himself, he said. It excited him, this process of buying a condo for me. I waved him off. I did not care about his excitement. I cared about his money. 

When he brought me to the condo, I was surprised. He was nervous. I was never rude, he said, but there was something about the way I spoke, the way I held my body, the way I would almost never make eye contact, and refused to hold his hand in public that shamed and embarrassed him. That aroused him. 

The condo was large but outdated. The carpet was thick and brown. Sandy brown in some places. The color of dirt in others. I did not want to think about what could make a carpet that dark. The kitchen was cramped and there were too many walls. 

But I saw it. I saw it as soon as I walked into the building. Turn of the century and it remained in that era with pride. Marble and gilt. Shine and quiet, good manners. Elegant without gaudiness. 

The condo board  was run by artists,  free-spirited types, the realtor said. They were a little kooky but they meant well and they kept the building up to date. The realtor saw it as a potential negative but I heard her words and smiled. Artists and free-spirited types wouldn’t wonder why a sixty-something  year old white man was buying a condo for a twenty-something West African woman. They would only care that the check cleared. 

Alain, the realtor, and I walked through the apartment. I kept my face passive. Alain asked the realtor to give us a few moments.

“Well?” Alain said as soon as we were alone.

“What would you like me to say?” I turned from the window and its sweeping view of the City.

Alain crossed the floor to me and grasped my hand. “Say anything. Say you like it. It’s in the neighborhood you like and close to your favorite things. Say you’ll take it. The mortgage payments are negligible to me.”

I pulled my hand from his with a sigh. He forgot himself and the rules I set in place so often and I never did have enough patience for him. Then I realized what he said.

“Monthly payments? It is a gift. I thought it was a gift. Why would my gift have monthly payments?” I took a small step closer to him.

“That’s what buying a piece of property entails, gorgeous.” He started to reach for me and stopped. 

Good boy, I thought. 

“Can you not afford it? Is that why you wish to pay over time?” 

Alain’s neck erupted with red splotches that spread to his chin and began to turn purple. “Of course, I can afford it. You spent far less than I thought you would. I could buy the damn place outright at this very moment if I wanted to. And didn’t you hear me when I said I bought a jet?” 

“Then I do not think I want this place or for you to buy me any place for that matter.” I raised my hand in a request for silence. “We have what we have because we are equals facing life together by choice. We each know our worth and value and that we could find much of what we seek in another. We choose each other. These payments would take away my choice. We would no b longer equals. I would be dependent. No, I will preserve what we have. Tell them I do not want the condo.” 

I left the condo and walked past the realtor without a word. She later told me she walked back into the condo to see Alain wipe the last of a trail of tears from his face. 

The deed for the condo, paid in full and in my name, arrived to my cramped apartment two weeks later. I read it with detachment then called Alain and asked him who he hired to do the renovations. I fired the team he hired and instead brought in the architecture and design firm that created three of my favorite boutiques. I brought Alain the invoices. He paid them without complaint.

I worked with the architect and designer to create an airy but modestly sized apartment complete with a bedroom and bathroom in one-third of the space. In the other two-thirds of the space, I let my imagination be free. 

This life presents itself as one of glamour. Private jets and private fittings for clothes worn once in small, dark restaurants where no one can see. Beneath it is the hard work, the silence when you would like to yell and romps through city after city when all you need, all your body desires, is rest. It was good for me to have the pretense: a kitchen I would never use, a living room with a TV I would never watch, that small bedroom. But pretense was not what I needed. I needed a sanctuary.   Heavy double doors to act as barricade and beyond them an oasis. A place to refresh and revive me. A place for me to see what ten years of access to other people’s money bought me. I needed a closet. It was larger than my favorite boutiques and better organized. Pale rose light fell over the space and reminded me that no matter what front I put on for a man I was still soft, feminine, and deserved every luxury I demanded. It was in this place, at a small desk that held my favorite jewels, that I planned my week.  

Alain was assigned Wednesday afternoons and Thursday evenings unless he displeased me. We would be taking a trip to the mountains. A discussion about what I was supposed to wear, how much the clothes would cost to buy, and how soon the money should be in my account was in order. I made a note to discuss that with him on Wednesday at lunch. 

The hedge fund manager could have Tuesday afternoon. I did not date hedge fund managers as a rule. Men in those occupations never felt the need to stop being adolescent boys and Delia taught me that you could not expect a hedge fund manager to have a decent sized cock. But this hedge fund manager was sensitive, a sculptor obsessed with all things exotic, including women. He splurged as much on travel as he did clothing and food. A man like that deserved at least an initial meeting.

Gregory, my architect, could have Monday evening. Gregory did an excellent job with the design of my condo but he was absolutely horrible at remembering to pay my bills on time. A firm reminder of my expectations was in order. 

Friday. Errands or any activities that caught my fancy. Saturday morning with my parents and younger siblings. I would ignore my mother’s pointed hints about grandchildren and my father’s speculations on where my money came from since I disgraced the family by not finishing college. As if I were an American girl. 

Sundays. Brunch. I set my pen down and stared at the rows of clothing racks in front of me. I could not quite believe that there was not just one but two women in my life I could trust. To be a part of their lives and have them be a part of mine was something I craved and resented. 

“I heard something so disturbing I thought about fighting you.” Damon, my roommate, strolled into my closet, hands in his pockets.

I did not need a roommate. But appearances must be kept up. What would a single woman need with a three thousand square foot condo? In a neighborhood as nice as mine, how could I afford it and all of the designer clothes, shoes, and bags I kept bringing into it? I do not like to be asked questions, to be wondered about, so I asked Damon to move in with me. 

With a Korean mother and Nigerian father, Damon was striking and knew it: high cheekbones, slanting eyes, full lips, hair that would curl if it wasn’t cropped so close to his head, skin the color of cream with a splash of coffee. He also expected to be paid for it. He became a model when he was a teenager and after he made his first million, admitted to his parents that he was gay and moved out of his childhood home. Damon and I met at a club a few weeks after he moved to the City. A gentleman insisted, knife in hand, that Damon take off his pants in an alley behind the club. I tased the man until he passed out, kicked him, and invited Damon out for pancakes. 

Damon got me front row tickets to every show he walked in and told his agency to stop asking: I did not want to be a model. I showed him how to invest his money and stay away from drugs. 

“I do not fight fair,” I said. 

“That’s why I only thought about it.” Damon leaned a hip against the desk then sat on it. 

I moved to the settee nearby. “Tell me what you heard.”

“I heard you went to brunch looking like sex.” 

“This is not news,” I said. 

“No,” Damon said. “The real news is after bribing you for years with clothes stolen off the backs of models before they made it off the runway, you have a fourth person eating brunch with you and it isn’t me.”

“Oh, you have heard of Nadia.”

“That’s the interesting thing. I haven’t heard of her. Someone said something about her being a party planner which sounds absolutely awful. But no one could tell me who her sponsor was.”

I tried to keep the smile from spreading across my face. I failed. I smiled then I laughed.

“Zion. Princess, ruler of everything around you, why is a nobody at the war meetings when you could have me?”

“It is easy, always, to assume. I look like sex and so it must be all I have to offer. Designer clothes so men know I must be paid. I am a luxury that most will not be able to afford. To become such a thing, a symbol and a trophy, an orgasm or a tease. It was supposed to teach me who I was. The travel and the experiences were supposed to teach me who I was.”

It should not have been said and it was not an answer to his question. It is best to be seen and not heard. There is power in mystery and a fortune to be made for those comfortable with being unknown. But I had begun and there is nothing I hate so much as a task undone. Damon carried questions in his eyes. I would answer them and curse brunch, O’Shea, and Delia for the changes they made in me. 

“No,” I shook my head. “It has not helped. But this life is mine now and I have gotten so comfortable in it that I have stopped trying to understand myself. I only understand men.”

Damon wrapped his fingers around the edge of the desk and leaned forward. Pretty fingers, I thought. My mother would have taken one look at them and forced him into piano lessons. 

“Do you know anything about yourself?” Damon said.

“Seeing Nadia, a woman that must have had a normal life, has reminded me that I do not. There were no friends, no sororities, no boyfriends, nothing until O’Shea and Delia entered my life.”

“You’re lonely.”

“Yes,” I shrugged. “I think I have been for some time and did not want to admit it.”

“Easy fix. We’ll dress you up and take you speed dating and to this lounge that I heard-”

“And I will still be lonely. How many women in my position, with this life, have a normal boyfriend? How many of them can be seen as people? How many of them can sustain a relationship that is not based on money and sex?”

“If anyone could do it-”

“No, I do not get to be the exception. I am not special. I know that to have that type of relationship I would have to give up my career and I would resent any man that would expect me to do that. Or worse, I would have to give up some part of myself. I would have to be vulnerable, open. I do not know how to do these things and I am not sure I want to learn.”

I stretched on the settee. Damon watched me, his eyes sad. It is best to be seen and not heard. It makes others happy to put us in boxes. It makes them comfortable. It brings order to their lives. Then we reveal our true selves and their routine lives are thrown in disarray. They must re-box us and do not know how, do not know why they should try. So they resent us, leave us, because there are only so many places and areas in one person’s life where they will be willing to work hard, to sacrifice, to learn.  

“Come,” I said. “We will watch one of those action movies you love and eat ice cream.”

Damon walked over to me and took my hand. “I don’t want you to be lonely, Zion. You deserve more-better- than that.”

I waved my free hand towards my closet. “I am surrounded by the things I deserve. And loneliness is an old friend. I do not fear it even if I do not want to admit it is there.”

“Ice cream.”

“And a movie.”

I did not eat ice cream but I did sit beside him and watch the TV in the living room for the first time. I laughed when he needed it, offered support when he needed it. He put me back in the box he made for me. His quiet satisfaction and denial, the dismissal of my earlier words, pleased me. He was not the only one comfortable with the box he put me in. 

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The New Money Girls

Rewritten. Reimagined. 

Chapter Two
❖
Delia

I didn’t become an escort because I was desperate. I didn’t do it because I was broke and all of my bills were due in the next twenty-four hours. I didn’t do it because I had low self esteem and thought that maybe sleeping with men for money would make me feel better about myself. 

I was an escort because I liked to be at home in my pajamas with a book or a fashion magazine. I liked to organize clothes, watch movies with my sister, decide what I would eat for dinner. Escorting was the only job I could find that would let me do all of that and have enough money to pay my bills and my tuition. 

And the hotels. There was anonymity when you walked into a hotel. No one knew who you were or what you were doing. Were you there on business? Negotiating a multi-million dollar deal? Were you an exhausted housewife that just needed a few days away from the kids? Were you a trophy wife in a snit with her husband and wasting his money as punishment? Or were you a hooker? 

I liked to watch the front desk staff try to figure it out. I would dress in different styles to confuse them. I decided to be a business woman that day in a skirt suit and low slung heels. The concierge wished me good luck with my meeting and I laughed like a loon on the elevator ride to my room.

The room was spacious and bright. The carpet was so thick I couldn’t hear myself walk across it. Polished tiger wood and marble and bronze baroque-style wallpaper. I moved to the windows and looked out at the view of the City. 

It was mine. I was born and raised here. I knew where the best Korean food was, the best shopping. I knew when Shakespeare in the park started and when the street fairs popped up, full of sweating people looking for something to make them feel like they were more than just the forty hours they spent every week in their cubicles. 

Because I sucked dick for a living, I also knew things I shouldn’t. I knew which bills were being introduced to the state and city assembly. I knew whose business was about to tank and who was happy about it because they wanted to purchase it for a bargain. I knew whose wife was a bitch on drugs and I knew more about the stock market and where to invest my money than was legal. 

I stripped out of the suit, down to the garters, bra, and crotchless panties I wore beneath it. I kicked off my professional kitten heels and pulled a pair of six inch designer stilettos from my bag and slid them on. I started a playlist Zion designed for me. It was just long enough for a brief meditative period and a one hour appointment. 

My client showed up on time. He was a hedge fund manager that handled  billions of dollars and liked to pretend his dick, the size of my pinky, was larger than it was. A shame. He was an otherwise attractive man. Balding but his body was tight, he was always well dressed, and he showered before I put his balls in my mouth. 

We smiled at each other. He kissed my neck and headed to the bathroom where he stripped out of his clothes and stepped into the shower. I went into the bathroom after him and gathered his custom suit and silk shirt and hung them up in the closet. I was on my knees when he came out of the shower. 

I looked up at him and slid a condom onto his penis, held it in place with my thumb and first finger. 

“I missed you.” I took him into my mouth. 

He looked down at me and moaned before his head tilted back and his eyes drifted shut. 

It was my fault. I could admit that. I just had to open my mouth and complain about micro- penises at brunch. Of course I would be on my knees with one in my mouth less than twenty-four hours later.

At least the carpet was comfortable. Rug burn was a bitch to conceal. 

“This big cock feels good in that pretty little mouth, doesn’t it?” 

His moan, loosed right after he finished speaking, was louder than mine. Thank God. 

The pretending was the hardest part for me. I just didn’t have the skills to pretend that men that chewed on my clit like it was a piece of Juicy Fruit and thought kissing was stabbing their saliva dripping tongues into my mouth as quick as possible pleased me. I would watch them bounce, thrust, grunt, and groan over me and plan how I would spend my fee. 

I knew my attitude and my facial expressions hurt my business and I couldn’t handle the thought the I left money on the table. So I read erotica, watched porn, and masturbated until my imagination was so well developed I could pretend that any man, no matter how bald, poorly endowed, or lacking in skills, was the best lay of my life. 

Business boomed. 

But was there some rule of science that stipulated that even if your head was bald your pubic hair could flourish? Long curling blonde strands grew out of his crotch until there was more hair than penis. 

I caught his hands in mine before he could shove them into my hair. Sew-ins cost too much money for him to act silly. I put his hands by his side and ran my nails up his thighs while moving my tongue in slow then fast circles around what little penis he had. He liked that and even better he kept his goddamn  hands to himself.

Maybe I should refuse to put my mouth down here again unless he trimmed it. What did he need all that hair for anyways? Was he an alpaca? Would his pubic hair be harvested and woven into a winter coat? I ran a hand over his balls and teased his perineum. His knees got weak; I smiled. 

Maybe the hair was to keep him from remembering how little his penis was. That made the most sense. The richer a man was the more fragile his ego. 

A new song started on my playlist. It was time to wrap this up. I slurped all of the saliva I let gather in my mouth down my throat then moaned and put my fingers back on his perineum and applied gentle pressure.

He came with a shout and a thrust and spasmed. Fuck.  His little hip gyrations surprised me. Hair in my mouth was the worst. No matter how much mouthwash and floss I used, I found myself, days later, coughing it up like a cat did hairballs. Fuck. 

I kept my fingers tight on the condom. He oozed and dribbled into it and I was proud that I held my shivers of disgust at bay. He stumbled backwards until he flopped onto the bed. I followed him.

I leaned over him and pulled the condom from his body, careful not to spill. The housekeeping staff didn’t need to be given a reason to suspect there was a hooker loitering on the premises. It would suck to be banned from the hotel before I had a chance to soak in the large tub in the bathroom. 

“Did you miss me?” I said to distract him from my inspection of the sheets. “It seemed like you’d been saving up for me.”

His hands were behind his head and a shit eating grin spread across his face. “God, I love how into me you are. You love having this big cock all the way at the back of your throat, don’t you?”

I pivoted as soon as he started to speak. I was in better control of my faces than ever but there was no need to push it. I just wiggled my ass in assent and walked into the bathroom to flush the condom. 

He watched me walk out of the bathroom and back towards the bed. Maybe, just maybe, the look on a man’s face after I brought him to orgasm was part of the reason I was an escort, too. 

He rolled onto his side. We never discussed it, but we both knew this was the real reason why he came to see me. I curled around his back and draped an arm over his waist and waited. 

It didn’t take him long to start talking. About his progress with his trainer Claude and how proud he was of his body, about all of his business meetings and the raise he was going to ask for next week, how nervous he was about it even though he couldn’t show anyone else that. About the golf course he visited and how much he loved the grass. He loved it so much he was going to grow the exact same grass at both of his homes.

And I was in the perfect position to roll my eyes as much as I wanted. 

The song that signaled the appointment was almost over began to play. I dropped a kiss to the center of his spine and rolled out of the bed. 

“Let me grab your clothes,” I said. “Did you want a hot towel rub today?”

He rolled onto his back and kicked the sheets off his body. “Oh, you know I do. Rub those pretty hands and tits all over me, baby.”

I pulled his clothes from the closet and laid them over an armchair then walked into the bathroom. I stood at the sink, wetting two washcloths, and let my eyes drift towards the tub. Soon, I promised myself. I used one cloth to wipe through pubic hair and what little penis there was and used the other cloth to rub over his body. I kept my body angled to give him a good view and to make it easy to slip away should he try to touch me. 

When I finished rubbing him down, I took the cloths back to the bathroom, then stretched across the bed and watched him dress, accepted the two crisp hundred dollar bills he pressed into my hand as a tip, let him kiss me on the cheek, and watched him walk out of the room. 

The lock clicked on the door and I bounded off the bed and into the closet to pull the money he gave me at the beginning of the appointment out. It was all there. I knew that but I liked to sit on the bed at the end of the appointment and count it again. Feel the crisp bills slide through my fingers. Two thousand seven hundred dollars for a little over an hour of work. I laid the money over my body and breathed in the smell of it.

 That was why I was an escort. 

I sat up and let the money slide down my body onto the bed and floor. Hotel bars, in the middle of the day, were always full of men with more money and time than sense. I put on my prim and proper business suit and went down to the bar to see who else I could lure up to my room. 

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The New Money Girls

Rewritten. Reimagined

99 cents for a limited time.

The New Money Girls.

Rewritten. Reimagined. 

Chapter One
❖
Nadia

The morning of the first brunch I threw on broken-in jeans, so broken-in the denim started to thin and fray across my inner thighs (not that anyone would notice. I had no plans of sitting with my legs open…or doing anything that would require me to open my legs.), a comfortable t-shirt, a cardigan I was almost positive was large enough to cover most of the problems with my body. I smeared chapstick on my lips, whipped my hair into a messy bun, and jammed my feet into comfortable flats. I checked the time and yelped. I grabbed my purse, heavy with papers from work, hoped I didn’t forget anything important like my wallet and  ran out of my apartment to the parking garage. If I didn’t speed, I would be late.

 I sped. 

 The City was dirty, gritty, stank of polluted water and exhaust, garbage left in the sun, and the unwashed homeless that refused to stay in shelters.  It was well known for its food and its crime and the locals told you that the most dangerous places to be after dark were in the upper class sections of the City because people from the hood finally learned it was dumb to steal from each other. Ferraris were as common as Hondas and if you could survive five years in the City, you could survive anywhere. It was, everyone agreed, where you went to make your dreams come true. 

I wove through the City streets, followed my GPS’s instructions to the restaurant where O’Shea asked me to meet her for brunch. I liked to look at pictures and menus of restaurants I was unfamiliar with before I dined there but I didn’t have time and it didn’t matter. O’Shea and I always went to the same kinds of places. Relaxed. Quiet. Good food. Non-pretentious and full of grungy artists and the people that wanted to be like them. O’Shea might have mentioned something about friends when she invited me but I assumed I misheard. O’Shea didn’t have any friends. O’Shea had employees, a boyfriend, colleagues that she’d done so many favors for it made me dizzy whenever I thought about it. But no friends. I joked that O’Shea and I  were our own little girl gang and we weren’t accepting new members.

I pulled up to the restaurant, handed my keys to the smiling valet, and stood in front of the restaurant. Valet? I touched the hole on the inside sleeve of my cardigan.

The restaurant was all glass, steel, soaring windows, and modernity. The outdoor tables were occupied with women whose diamonds threw more rainbows than the heavy crystal glassware and small dogs who peered out of their owners’ purses and over their shoulders and made more noise than they did. 

I felt my shoulders begin to rise and forced myself to push them back down, forced myself not to lower my head. Don’t shrink. No one paid attention to me. They were busy. They pretended to eat and gossiped about who married who, who got work done, who was on the verge of poverty. 

No one looked at me.

“Excuse me, miss,” one of the valet drivers said. 

My face heated. I was still on the sidewalk by the valet stand, gaped as if I’d never been to a restaurant before. 

I walked into the restaurant and wanted to turn around and walk right back out.  

I knew with one glance what type of restaurant it was. This was a restaurant where billion dollar deals were struck, where political careers were launched, where lives were changed. At least a quarter of the people in the room owned their own planes and I  wore jeans that were paper thin because I couldn’t keep my thighs from rubbing together. I hadn’t bothered to turn on my flat iron and fix my edges.  

But I wasn’t a coward, I waved away the hostess, who had the grace not to let whatever thoughts she had about my outfit show on her face, and sat down to wait for O’Shea. O’Shea who always had paint in her hair and on her loose ripped jeans, who didn’t give a shit about other people’s opinions and refused to remove her septum or lip ring when she was at work, who dyed her long locs to match her mood. O’Shea would come in her combat boots and crop top and I would feel much more-

“What are you wearing?” 

I hopped to my feet and slapped a hand over my mouth. I was an adult. I didn’t just blurt out whatever came into my head first. But the woman that walked through the door wasn’t my O’Shea, wasn’t my best friend since middle school. This woman wore make up so flawless it looked airbrushed. Make up that forced you to look at her brown eyes, almost too large for her face, high cheekbones, button nose, and full lips. Make up that made her pecan colored skin look like it was glowing. This woman’s long dreadlocks flowed down to her waist in loose curls and made the off the shoulder bandage dress look inappropriate. It didn’t matter that it was black and knee-length. This woman looked, with a small hoop hanging from her nose and another curling around the corner of her lip,  like she was on her way to seduce someone. 

“I’m wearing clothes, Nadia,” O’Shea said, in her raspy, dry voice, “It’s what people do when they have to go outside,, and while I don’t agree with the custom the law does dictate-”

“Shut up.” I said. I wouldn’t laugh. “You could have warned me.”

“Warn you about what? Is something terrible about to happen?” O’Shea leaned until she could see past me. She scanned the restaurant and smiled, waved, winked. 

I wanted to turn and see which of the diners O’Shea knew but I couldn’t. I was taller than O’Shea even when she wore four inch heels the way she did then. I couldn’t watch people look at the two of us and decide I was the tall, frumpy, fat friend while O’Shea got to be the bombshell. I sat back down on the bench and jerked O’Shea down with me. 

“Look at me!” I said.

“I did,” O’Shea said. “And while I’m the most judgement free person you know, I really wanted to ask you what you were thinking. Nadi, what are you wearing?”

“I thought we were just getting something to eat,” I said.

“Why are you whispering? It’s a restaurant not the library.”

“You’re not going to make me laugh!”

“I’m not going to make you stop whispering either,” O’Shea pulled out her cellphone and tapped on it. “So I’m going to do us all a favor and cancel brunch. Delia would take one look at your little get up and try to crawl across the table and eat you. We’ll try again next week.”

O’Shea stood.

“Where are you going?” I said. “And who the hell is Delia?”

“I’m going to the bar to grab a drink and flirt with whoever has time for my shit,” O’Shea smoothed a hand down the front of her dress.  “You are going to go home and take a good long time to think about why you would ever want to leave the house in something so tragic.”

“You wear paint splattered jeans and crop tops!”

“Oh, now you want to stop whispering?” 

We burst into laughter.

When she caught her breath, O’Shea held up a finger, “For the record, I wear paint splattered designer jeans, Louis Vuitton boots, and $200 crop tops. Don’t try to play me, Nadia. I look artistic and expensive. You look like you’re on your way to some college internship. Do better. You own a business. I’ve been telling my friends-”

“Friends? You have friends? Who are these friends? When did you get them?”

“Be here next Sunday and find out.”

O’Shea walked down the stairs and moved through the restaurant towards the bar. I watched heads turn and follow her progress. I could have gone with her. O’Shea could make me forget how out of place I looked and felt. She could make me laugh until I cried about things I wouldn’t have thought were funny on my own. Instead, I touched the hole in my cardigan, sighed, and walked out of the restaurant. 

I knew before I left the restaurant that I would do what O’Shea said. I would come back the next Sunday. I didn’t know why. Curiosity? A desire to see who these other friends of O’Shea’s were and determine if they were competition? The opportunity to show people that didn’t notice me and didn’t care about me that I was more than thrift store clothes and fly away edges? 

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Chapter One Continued
Nadia

The next Sunday, I poked myself in the eye twice with my mascara wand but that shouldn’t count against me. My hair was smooth and shiny. I wore my favorite dress-a shimmery bronze silk wrap dress that showed off just enough cleavage to make me feel sexy without being slutty. Even my mother liked it. I didn’t put on a pair of heels. O’Shea might want to give the wrong impression but I didn’t. I put on my nicer ballet flats instead. 

My palms sweat when I walked into the restaurant.

“Welcome! Do you have a reservation with us or can I escort you to the bar?” The hostess didn’t look like she was trying to be polite. I sighed in relief.

“No. I’m waiting for friends and I’m not sure whose name the reservation is under. I’ll just wait here.”

“Perfect. Let me know if I can bring you a mineral water.”

I nodded my thanks and sat down. I debated whether I should take out my phone and answer emails or scroll through my Pinterest board, anything to make it look like I wasn’t some sad sack of a woman waiting for a friend to show up when O’Shea walked in. 

“Much better,” She hugged me.

“I can see your nipples.” 

O’Shea wore an asymmetrical silk top that ended just below her belly button in a shade of pale rose that made her look soft and strong all at once. Her pants were wide legged. They hugged her hips then flowed away from her body. Bangles made music every time she moved her wrists and chunky gold hoops hung from her ears. 

I wouldn’t be insecure. I wouldn’t. This dress made me feel sexy. Even my mother liked it.

“So let’s go.” I motioned toward the hostess.

“Nope. We wait for the other two.”

“Two?” I said, “You have two friends coming? You have two friends besides me?”

“It’s so weird. You’re really shocked about that,” O’Shea murmured and looked over the restaurant.

“Whatever,” I brushed my hair back from my face, “We can go to the table and they can meet us there.”

“That’s not how we do things.” 

“Why not?”

“Not enough impact. But don’t get too impatient. They’re here.”

I looked over my shoulders and forgot this was my sexy dress as I watched two women walk through the door. One was- well I knew the polite word was petite but tiny was what came to her mind. She was the same height as O’Shea and managed to make her long dark hair curl around her heart shaped face in ways that I never could no matter what flat iron I bought or how many tutorials I watched. Her skin was the color of amber, her eyes the shape of almonds, her nose narrow and long. The woman looked exotic, contemporary, she wore her sexuality with a graceful nonchalance that made it that much more arousing. To someone else, of course. Not to me. 

The other woman was tall, willowy. Every movement seemed graceful and unhurried.  Her skin reminded me of the Anubis statues I saw in museums, so black it was almost blue, soft, supple. Her cheekbones were slashes across her face, her nose was wide, her hair was cropped close to her head like a man’s, her lips were full. She was a goddess. 

The two women hugged O’Shea then turned to me. Their faces were neutral but I wrapped an arm around my middle and felt my shoulders roll forward. It was like I was back in those jeans and my cardigan. 

“Nadia, this is Delia,” O’Shea gestured to the smaller woman.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hi,” Delia said. Her eyes were on my flats.

“And Zion,” O’Shea said.

“Hello, it is a pleasure to meet you,” the dark goddess said.

“You as well,” I said.

“We’re ready, Natalie,” O’Shea said to the hostess.

“Of course.” The hostess bounced over with her blinding smile on display. “I’m sure this won’t surprise you, O’Shea, but we have the best table in the house waiting for you.”

“Thanks, Nat,” O’Shea said. 

I was closest to the stairs and turned to walk down them.  A small hand grabbed my arm.

“No ma’am.” Delia pulled me back. “I know you’re new but don’t get carried away.”

“What?” I glanced at O’Shea.

“Impact, remember?” O’Shea said. “You’ll walk next to Zion.”

I felt my stomach drop but let O’Shea and Delia step in front of me. I was shoulder to shoulder with Zion and, against my better judgement, looked at her. If Zion weren’t in heels we would be the same height. What did it feel like to be so comfortable with who you were and how you looked that you could stand over six feet tall in heels and not be ashamed? 

“You guys look amazing.” Natalie, with not a single menu in her hand, led us to our table.

I thought the attention that O’Shea garnered on her own the week before was too much but this…A hush fell over the restaurant; I heard music, sounds from the kitchen, the traffic outside. Everywhere I looked there was someone to make eye contact with. I could feel their gazes rake over my body and wanted to touch the waistband of my spanx just to remind myself that they were there. Don’t shrink. 

“It is easier,” Zion said in a low voice, “if you do not turn your head. Face forward and inspect your surroundings using your peripheral vision. If you can, imagine you are in a glass house. These people can see you but they cannot touch you and their words cannot reach you.”

I erected those imaginary glass walls and wanted to hug Zion in gratitude. The walk to the table went from feeling like it would never end to just being the longest two minutes of my life. 

I tried to breathe when I sat down but couldn’t. Everyone still stared. I put my napkin in my lap. Smiled when Natalie said, “the usual?” even though I had no idea what that meant and looked down at my folded hands. 

Drinks came to the table within seconds. My favorite, the French 75, was placed in front of me. I would have asked questions, but O’Shea winked at me. Oh. I clutched the champagne flute in my hand and thought maybe now that we were at the table I might be able to relax but  a man pointed at our table and started to rise. My body was rigid until a server whispered a few words in his ear, and the man sat down again. The man looked at the table again before he gave some type of instructions and a business card to the server. I brought my drink to my lips.

“Death to the micro penis,” Delia said.

I choked and Zion rubbed small circles on my back until I stopped coughing into my napkin. Delia continued to speak. As if I didn’t try to cough up a lung.

“There has to be a virus or bacteria or something that will take them out. They aren’t even evolutionarily viable, are they?” Delia said.

“How many did you have this week?” Zion said.

“Five! How do they find me? Is it my ad?” Delia looked at O’Shea, “O’Shea re-write my ad.”

“I absolutely will not. Suffer and get rich.” O’Shea reached out a hand and grabbed mine. “Nadi, stop rubbing your chest like that. You’ll wrinkle your silk.”

“I’m sorry.” I put the offensive hand back in my lap. “I just don’t understand-”

“Ooo! Presents!” Delia said as the server that stopped the man who wanted to approach us put two plates of food on the table and a business card in front of her. “I love food.”

“Would you like some?” Zion offered a bowl of fruit to me.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“It’s pomegranate, papaya, mango, and kiwi,” Delia said.

“I know what’s in the bowl,” I took a breath; there was no need for me to be snippy. “We didn’t order this food. Why does Delia have a business card and why is she talking about micro penises and ads?”

I  eyed each of the three women. My gaze was on O’Shea when I said, “I just want to understand.”

“She does not know what we do?” Zion said.

O’Shea shook her head. Delia put her drink back on the table.

“You brought a vanilla to the war meetings?” Delia said.

“I am sure O’Shea has her re-”

“Oh, no, Zion. Don’t you defend her.” Delia pointed at Zion. “I brought that nice stripper to brunch and you both-”

O’Shea snorted. “That girl was an idiot. She tried to sit up here and tell us she wasn’t black when she had skin darker than Zion’s.”

“A thicker accent, too.” Zion said.

“So we let her go back to her colonizer friends,” O’Shea waved a hand. “Which was really nice of us.”

“I just want to understand,” I said.

Delia rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to answer your questions if you have any so try to keep up.”

Zion made a small noise. Delia shrugged but her tone was softer when she spoke. 

“We’re sex workers. Do you know what that means?” Delia said to me.

“Sort of, but-”

“I’m an escort but I don’t work with an agency. I find and book all of my own clients. Zion is a sugar baby with-how many men do you have on the roster right now?”

“I currently have four sugar daddies.” Zion said.

“Oh, you got the architect to commit?” O’Shea snagged a piece of papaya from Delia’s plate.

“Don’t eat my fruit,” Delia said, “and don’t interrupt. Okay, where was I?”

“Zion is a sugar baby.” I cleared my throat. “But you said that all of you were sex workers. That’s not true. O’Shea is an artist and she runs a restaurant.”

“I run Domingo’s restaurant,” O’Shea said.

“Yeah, okay,” I said. “You run your boyfriend’s restaurant. Plenty of couples work together that way.”

“My boyfriend is 23 years older than me and pays me more than any other general manager in his company even though I have less experience,” O’Shea stared at me.

I stared back and tried to stop my brain from jumping to conclusions. No. We had been friends since O’Shea was twelve and I was thirteen. We didn’t keep secrets like this from each other. We were open books. 

My best friend was not a sex worker. My best friend was not a slut. My- 

Oh my god. Did other people know? Did they see me with O’Shea and think that I was a…a whore? Was I guilty by association? Did it affect my business? What would my mother say? 

My hands shook. I looked over my shoulder at the door. Forty steps? Fifty? That wasn’t many. I shifted. Slid my napkin off my lap. It would only take the valet a few minutes to bring my car. I had cash. I could pay for my drink. Or not. O’Shea could pay for a French-fucking-75. It was the least she could do after lying to me for-

Oh my god. O’Shea and Domingo had been together for almost two years. For two years, my best friend lied to me. 

I looked at O’Shea and knew what she thought by the way her head tilted. You aren’t a coward, are you Nadi? Will you run away? She straightened her head and smiled. There was a cruel edge to the way her lips curled back to reveal her teeth and I heard her voice in my head again: Your mom would tell you to leave. Go. Be Mommy’s perfect girl.

I turned my body to face the table, raised my chin, folded my hands in my lap. I won’t leave but you owe me some answers, bitch. 

O’Shea laughed and there was only joy in it. “Nadia’s going to stay.”

Delia shrugged. Zion smiled. 

“I know you said you wouldn’t answer my questions,” I said to Delia, “but I do have them.”

Delia smiled and it was so infectious I wanted to smile back. But I didn’t. I understood what this was. 

“I’ll answer your questions,” Delia said, “and they’ll interrupt when they don’t agree.”

Zion and O’Shea nodded. The bowls and plates were cleared from the table, another round of drinks appeared, and a business card was laid in front of O’Shea.

“Why do this type of thing at all?” I said. 

“Why have sex for money, you mean?” O’Shea said.

“Yes.” I said.

“For money,” Delia chuckled at her little joke.

“But don’t you care what people think?” I said.

Delia looked at me like I was stupid. “Why would we care what they think when they don’t give a shit about us and what we think?”

I opened my mouth to answer her question but nothing came. Years of doing things because they were the right things to do, the expected things to do, and I couldn’t provide a reason for living my life that way when asked. Brunch continued. I ate. I think I ate. I was in a haze that stayed with me when we left the restaurant, when I promised to attend the next brunch, when I got into my car and drove home. 

Through the haze came two questions. Why should they care what other people thought of them? Why did I?

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