If I Was Your Girlfriend

by Marlon McCaulsky

Genres: Urban Fantasy

Synopsis

Four lifelong friends find their bonds tested when personality differences and relationship issues threaten to pull them apart.

What happens when you fall in love with the right man at the wrong time? Rashida Haughton finds out firsthand when she meets Alonzo Hall. But the problem is, a relationship with Alonzo could destroy a lifelong friendship with Joyce Roland, her best friend.
 
Denise Varner considers herself a plain-Jane type of girl who often goes unnoticed around her friends, especially the wild-and-free Taylor Fenty. They get along like oil and water—they just don't mix.
 
Will these four friends learn to put aside their differences and save a lifelong bond before things go too far?

 

Release date: March 28, 2023

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

“I tell all my hoes, ‘Rake it up, break it down, bag it up.’ Fuck it up, fuck it up. Back it up, back it up,” Taylor rapped at the top of her lungs while two-stepping to the beat.

I once heard someone say that you were defined by who your friends were; and if that was true, I was in good company. Most of the time. Taylor Fenty, Joyce Roland, and Denise Varner were my closest friends. We’d been close since our teen days at Decatur High School, and now as grown twentysomething women, we had the type of bond that made us more like sisters than anything else.

Taylor had decided to go all out for her twenty-sixth birthday, so of course, we had to be there, and by there, I meant at the sexiest strip club in Atlanta. As soon as we stepped through the doors, the aroma of buffalo wings filled our nostrils. Going farther inside, past security, we were greeted by a voluptuous hostess who had more curves than Jessica Rabbit on steroids. She gave us a wide smile, and I gave her the name of the birthday girl.

She escorted us to our reserved section near the stage. As we weaved through the crowded club, the dimly lit pink and blue fluorescent lights illuminated the way. The demographics of folks in here ranged from couples on dates to men who looked like they worked at JPMorgan Chase and everything in between. An assortment of liquors was being served, and half-naked women were onstage, bouncing to a ratchet beat. Hell, I was bopping to the music too. I had heard that a former stripper named Jasmine now ran the club, and she had transformed it from a hole-in-the-wall to an upscale establishment. Looked like the rumors were true.

“What the hell is this?” Joyce groused.

I didn’t think Joyce was too happy after we got there. She was more bougie than hood. Not a snob in a bad way, but she carried herself in a way that some might find stuck up. If we got a few drinks in her, however, she would turn up. She was, in my opinion, an around-the-way beauty. She had the kind of body the brothers loved to watch—slim but thick in all the right places. The mustard-colored dress she wore had open shoulders and highlighted her round backside. Before we’d left my place, I’d done her hair in a sexy crinkle style, but the most alluring thing about Joyce was her pretty brown eyes.

“It’s the Pink Palace. Don’t act like you never been in a strip club before,” Taylor replied. She was a natural-born party girl and was determined to have fun tonight. It was in her nature. She was of mixed heritage, half-Trinidadian, thanks to her father, and Irish on her mother’s side, which gave her a caramel complexion. She was the shortest of us, at five feet two. Her bubbly personality and the way she seemed to be the center of attention always made people think she was famous. Tonight she was dressed in a tight gold spaghetti-strap dress that showed off her sexy curves. Her ample cleavage made it hard for men to keep their eyes on her beautiful face. Earlier in the week, she had decided to dye her long naturally black hair an auburn shade. We called her the turnup queen, so naturally she had wanted to go to a strip club for her birthday.

Joyce frowned as she stared at the topless women dancing on the main stage. “Yes, I’ve been to a strip club before,” she said sarcastically, “but I thought it was, like, a male revue going on tonight.”

“Ah . . . no.” Taylor smirked. “What fun would that be?”

Joyce glared at her, then looked at me. “’Shida, you knew too?”

“Yeah. It’s not a big deal. Come on, Joyce, lighten up.”

“I don’t wanna sit here with some ho shaking her stank ass in my face.”

Taylor stared at Joyce and shook her head. “Joyce, just relax. I just wanna see how it is in here. We don’t have to stay long.”

Joyce looked at me again, and I smiled. I looked at Denise, who looked like she was in a state of shock. This wasn’t her thing at all. I knew for sure she was uncomfortable. She considered herself a plain-Jane type of girl, even though she could be as sexy as any woman dancing in this club. Denise was slim and beautiful, at an even five feet four, with a body that would make men drool. She had a figure that was built for high fashion and runways, but she was way too modest to show it off in public. Tonight she wore a silver dress, with a black shawl draped over her shoulders. Her long black hair framed her beautiful face.

I stared at her. “Are you okay, Denise?”

“Ah . . . yeah. I’m fine.”

I could tell by the look on her face she was anything but.

Joyce was just complaining for the sake of it, but Denise wasn’t the party type at all. If it weren’t for us, Denise would have spent her whole college experience in her dorm, with a book in her face.

“If you’re not feeling it, we can go,” I told her.

Denise looked over my shoulder, and I knew Taylor was behind me, mean muggin’ her. Denise forced a smile onto her face. “I’m okay. It’s Taylor’s b-day. Let’s just do what she wants tonight.”

Taylor smirked. “Well, if Wallflower can stay, so can you, Joyce.”

Joyce exhaled. “All right, but I don’t want them hoes touching me.”

Denise rolled her eyes. I hated when Taylor threw shade at Denise. I would normally pull Taylor to the side and tell her to chill, but I decided not to scold her, since it was her birthday. That was the role I, an Afrocentric Jamaican girl, usually played in the group—the unofficial surrogate mother of us all.

My mother was from St. Catherine, Jamaica, and my father was born and raised in Birmingham, England. They met while my mother was attending university in England. A few years later they married and moved to Atlanta, Georgia, because my father had taken an executive position at PricewaterhouseCoopers. A few years after that, they had me and my little brother, Raheem. I inherited my mother’s sense of style and my father’s business sense, two things I cherished about them after their untimely death.

Tonight it was my mother’s style I was channeling. I had recently unbraided my coiled locks, and they hung loose past my shoulders. I loved my natural hair. It made me feel free and sexy. It wasn’t always easy to maintain, but it was all me, all natural. I wore tan thigh-high boots with a black and orange tribal-print dress. Joyce had said I looked like an African samurai goddess.

As the night progressed and we drank more and more liquor, things got better. We were all having fun, but not as much as Taylor. She got tore up drinking moscato, Bacardi, and Grey Goose. The waitress had arranged a little surprise for her. She came out of the kitchen with a little birthday cake, and instead of everybody singing “Happy Birthday,” they gave her a free lap dance as 50 Cent’s “In Da Club” played and we all sang the lyrics.

“Go, go, go, go, go, go. Go, shawty. It’s your birthday. We gon’ party like it yo’ birthday!”

All of us were shocked to see how much Taylor was getting into it while she recorded it all on her phone. The alcohol had her open all night. Just like I had thought, Joyce had lightened up and was now enjoying herself, but I could tell Denise was counting the seconds until we left. Me, I was good. I had always loved a good party, and it wasn’t my first time in a strip club. But as usual, the turnup queen was doing the most. Taylor was slapping asses and pushing singles between G-strings. Pretty soon she was onstage dancing too.

We ended up staying until the club closed.

Somehow I dragged myself out of bed and went to class the next morning. I was taking a business management course at Clark Atlanta University. I had missed class last week, and no matter how hung over I was, I couldn’t afford to miss another day. My economics instructor, Mr. Robert Baker, was putting me to sleep with his lecture. The struggle was definitely real as I tried to keep my eyes open, but I wasn’t going to be disrespectful and put my head down on my desk.

Mr. Baker stood up behind his desk. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, I want you to read chapters four and five this weekend, and we’ll review them next Tuesday. Class is dismissed.”

Everyone gathered their things and began to leave.

“Miss Haughton, may I speak to you for a moment?” Mr. Baker called as I gathered my things.

I stopped what I was doing and looked at him. “Sure.”

He waited for the other students to leave before he spoke. He wore brown khakis with a brown blazer and a burgundy tie. His hair and mustache were neatly trimmed. He was a man who knew how to put himself together.

“I was wondering if you were going to make up the quiz you missed last week?” he said as I got to my feet.

“Oh, I’ll be able to do that whenever you want me to.”

He walked around his desk and over to where I was standing, As he stood in front of me, he said, “Well, normally, I don’t let students make up quizzes, but you’re one of my best. Lately, you seem a bit preoccupied, so I’m a little concerned.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Baker. It’s been hard balancing all my classes. I think I may have taken on a little more than I can handle this semester.”

He gave me a friendly smile. “It’s okay. I understand. How about you come an hour before class on Tuesday and you can take the quiz then?”

I smiled. “That would be great. Thank you.”

“No problem.” He grinned. “You have a good night.”

That was the first time we had really spoken to each other one-on-one, and that was the first time I had really paid attention to how attractive he was. He had pretty eyes, a gorgeous smile and, from what I could tell, a well-toned body. Until now, I hadn’t even thought about him in a romantic way. I had just gotten out of a long-term relationship a few months ago and was enjoying my freedom. Mr. Baker was an attractive older man, but I was there to get my degree.

After class, I went over to Taylor’s apartment to see how she was doing. I must have rung her doorbell twenty times before she answered. When the door finally swung open, she glared at me.

“Stop ringing the damn bell.”

She looked like death warmed over. She was wearing a pair of boy shorts and a gray hoodie, and her red hair was a mess.

“I guess you’re still fucked up?” I said as I stepped inside.

“My head is killing me. I’m never drinking like that again.” Taylor shut the door, then stumbled back to her room and crawled back in bed. I followed behind her.

“It looks like you’ve been in here all day.” A faint funk lingered in the air. “Smells like it too.”

“Girl, the only place I’ve been is to the toilet to throw up.”

I sat on her bed. “Oh, poor baby. You see why I didn’t mix my drinks?”

“It’s not fair. I was supposed to get laid last night,” she groaned.

“Well, you almost did. The way you were bumping and grinding on them strippers, I’m pretty sure you would have got turned out.”

Her eyebrows rose. “I was what?”

I smirked. “You don’t remember what happened?”

“Really? I was dancing with strippers?”

“You really don’t remember? You were swinging around the pole and everything!”

She smiled. “I was? Was I good?”

I couldn’t help but laugh at her. “You were recording the whole night. You better not let that footage get out.”

The doorbell rang repeatedly.

Taylor snapped, “Argh! Will you please tell them to stop ringing the doorbell? It’s killing me!”

I got up and answered the door. It was Joyce and Denise. I had told them I was going to check on Taylor, and like clockwork, I knew they would be here to see the aftermath of last night’s events. They came inside and followed me back to Taylor’s room.

“Hey, guess what? Taylor doesn’t remember what she did last night,” I announced as I walked down the hallway.

Denise shook her head. “Figures.”

“Hey, Taylor!” Joyce bellowed once we were inside her room.

“Stop yelling!” Taylor retorted angrily and pulled the covers up over her head.

Joyce flopped down next to her. “You don’t remember what you did?” Then she burst into laughter.

Taylor rolled over and partially uncovered her face. “No, I don’t.”

Joyce continued to laugh. “Oh my God! Girl, you were shaking your ass like a hoefessional!”

Taylor uncovered the rest of her face, sat up, and smiled. “So that’s why I woke up with all those dollar bills in my pants!”

We laughed.

“But you all had a good time, right? How ’bout you, Wallflower?” Taylor quizzed.

Denise glared at her. You could almost read the FUCK YOU sign flashing on her forehead. To be honest, Denise and Taylor were “friends” only because of me and Joyce. I didn’t think they would ever be friends if it were not for us. I had hoped this would’ve changed by now, but I guessed that was only wishful thinking.

I picked up a pillow and threw it at Taylor. “Cut it out.”

She shrugged. “I was just asking her a question.”

“Yeah, it was great. Whoop-whoop,” Denise said dryly.

“See, I told you.” Taylor belched.

Joyce pushed her. “Ugh! My mouth was open, bitch!”

We spent the rest of the night laughing at Taylor’s hung-over ass.

I spent the weekend at home, studying for the test I had on Tuesday. I was really not as focused as I should have been, so I had to cocoon myself from the outside world and social media.

Three days of studying paid off. I got to class early on Tuesday, and Mr. Baker was there waiting for me. He looked handsome in his brown blazer.

“I’m glad you made it,” he said.

“I told you I would be here,” I replied as I sat down at my desk.

He handed me a piece of paper, and I started to take the quiz. I could feel Robert staring at me as I worked. I had on a little black dress and had just shaved my legs that morning, so they looked extra smooth. For some reason, I felt turned on from having my teacher stare at me the way he was. He was becoming sexier to me by the second. Twenty-five minutes later I was done with the quiz. I got up, walked over to his desk, and handed him my paper.

“Here you go, Mr. Baker.”

“Thank you.” He looked it over before laying it on his desk.

“I think I’m the one who should be thanking you for letting me make this up.”

“It was no problem,” he replied. Mr. Baker stared into my eyes, and for a second, there was some real sexual chemistry between us.

Then people started to file into the classroom. Once everyone was seated and class began, I just sat there, fantasizing about Mr. Baker like a little schoolgirl, and I couldn’t believe some of the thoughts that ran through my mind. My fantasies really started to turn me on. I felt myself becoming wet as I thought about how he would look naked. It was not like I hadn’t had sex in a while. Maybe it was the fact that he was my instructor that turned me on. It was sorta taboo to be with him. I pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the class material. When the class was over, I gathered my books and rushed out of the room, intent on keeping Mr. Baker out of my mind.

But when I was walking to my car, I saw him again.

“Hello, Mr. Baker,” I called out.

He turned and looked at me. “Hi. You can call me Robert,” he said as he approached me.

“Oh, okay, Robert.”

“Here you go, Miss. Haughton.” He gave me back my quiz.

I saw an A in red at the top of the page. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me. You made the grade.”

I smiled. “I guess I did . . . and, um, you can call me Rashida.”

“Okay.”

We stared at each for a moment and smiled.

“So where are you heading to, Miss Rashida?”

“Well, Robert”—I played with my hair—“I was heading home. And you?”

“I was going to go get a mocha latte. Would you mind joining me?”

“Sure. That sounds good.”

There was a Starbucks on Spelman Lane, near Clark Atlanta. We walked inside, ordered our drinks, collected them, and found a seat in the back. The hum of cappuccino machines and light chatter filled the coffee shop as other customers sat around us, enjoying their drinks.

Robert stared at me and said, “You’re very different from a lot of young women here in Atlanta.”

“Really?” I smiled. “In what way?”

“Well, the way you carry yourself. You’re very poised. Confident. Alluring, without being too overt.”

I sipped my coffee. “Why, thank you, Robert. I’ve never heard a man describe me in such a dignified way.”

“Even the way you speak, it’s almost regal. Your speech pattern is distinctive and clear. A very rare thing here.”

“Well, I think I owe that to my parents. My British father and Jamaican mother made sure my brother and I spoke proper English at all times.” I smiled, reminiscing about them. “I can get ratchet when I want to, though.”

He held up his hand. “Please don’t.”

I laughed. “I’ll spare you.”

“Thank you.”

“Enough about me. Where are you from originally?”

“I was born and raised in Raleigh, North Carolina. Graduated summa cum laude from North Carolina State University, home of Wolfpack football. I taught at a high school before I eventually got a position teaching at my old university.”

“Wow. Seems like you were doing good. What made you move to Atlanta?”

He exhaled and stared into his latte. “Well, after my divorce . . .” He glanced up at me. “I was ready for a complete change, and putting a state between me and my ex felt right. So two years later I’m a single bachelor living in a condo in the city.”

I nodded. “How long were you married?”

“Thirteen years.”

“Oh.”

There was a moment of silence between us; then he continued. “Sometimes I feel the only good that came from it is our son, Quincy.”

In that moment it became clear that I was dealing with a man with much more life experience than I had. Normally, finding all this out about a man I was into would be grounds for me to move on, but these experiences were normal for a man his age.

“I hope that doesn’t make you wary of spending time with me,” Robert confessed.

I shook my head. “No, not at all. Your past is your past. Everybody has one. I’m more interested in the future.”

He smiled. “I concur.”

For the next couple of weeks that became our routine after class. We would go to Starbucks, drink mocha lattes, and talk about life, music, or anything else that came to mind. Although it was nobody’s business what we did outside of class, we were careful never to let anybody from the school see us together. We never did or said anything that wasn’t platonic or professional, but there was always this underlying sexual attraction we had for one another. It wasn’t until I had passed his class that things changed. We were in Starbucks one evening when it happened.

“This is to you, Rash. . .