Something on the Side

Book 1: Big Girls Book Club Series

by Carl Weber

Genres: Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Exploration

Synopsis

Carl Weber is the New York Times best-selling author of Baby Momma Drama and Player Haters. To be a member of the Big Girls Book Club, there’s just one requirement: be a size 14—at least. Tammy, Egypt, Isis, Nikki, Coco, and Tiny are six voluptuous, feisty girlfriends who love a good book almost as much as they enjoy a good man. But these sistahs are bound to discover that keeping it real ain’t so easy when you’ve got something on the side.

Release date: January 28, 2011

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

I love my life.

I love my life. I love my marriage. I love my husband. I love my kids. I love my BMW, and I love my house. Oh, did I say I love my life? Well, if I didn’t, I love my life. I really love my life.

I stepped out of my BMW X3, then opened the back driverside door and picked up four trays of food lying on a towel on the backseat. I had only about twenty minutes before the girls would be over for our book club meeting, but I’d already dropped off my two kids, Michael and Lisa, at the sitter, so they weren’t going to be a problem. Now all I had to do was to arrange the food and get my husband out of the house. The food was easy, thanks to Poor Freddy’s Rib Shack over on Linden Boulevard in South Jamaica. I merely had to remove the tops of the trays from the ribs, collard greens, candied yams, and macaroni and cheese, pull out a couple bottles of wine from the fridge, and voilà, dinner is served. My husband was another thing entirely. He was going to need my personal attention before he left the house.

I entered my house and placed the food on the island in the kitchen, then looked around the room with admiration. We’d been living in our Jamaica Estates home for more than a year now, and I still couldn’t believe how beautiful it was. My kitchen had black granite countertops, stainless-steel appliances, and handcrafted cherrywood cabinets. It looked like something out of a home-remodeling magazine, and so did the rest of our house. By the way, did I say I love my life? God, do I love my life and the man who provides it for me.

Speaking of the man who provides for me, I headed down the hall to the room we called our den. This room was my husband’s sanctuary—mainly because of the fifty-two-inch plasma television hanging on the wall and the nine hundred and some odd channels DIRECTV provided. I walked into the den, and there he was, the love of my life, my husband, Tim. By most women’s standards, Tim wasn’t all that on the outside. He was short and skinny, only five-eight, one hundred and forty pounds, with a dark brown complexion. Don’t get me wrong—my husband wasn’t a badlooking man at all. He just wasn’t the type of man who would stop a sister dead in her tracks when he walked by. To truly see Tim’s beauty, you have to look within him, because his beauty was his intellect, his courteousness, and his uncanny ability to make people feel good about themselves. Tim was just a very special man, with a magnetic personality, and it only took a few minutes in his presence for everyone who’d ever met him to see it.

Tim smiled as he stood up to greet me. “Hey, sexy,” he whispered, staring at me as if I were a celebrity and he were a starstruck fan. “Damn, baby, your hair looks great.”

I blushed, swaying my head from side to side to show off my new three-hundred-fifty-dollar weave. I walked farther into the room. When I was close enough, Tim wrapped his thin arms around my full-figured waist. Our lips met, and he squeezed me tightly. A warm feeling flooded my body as his tongue entered my mouth. Just like the first time we’d ever kissed, my body felt like it was melting in his arms. I loved the way Tim kissed me. His kisses always made me feel wanted. When Tim kissed me, I felt like I was the sexiest woman on the planet.

When we broke our kiss, Tim glanced at his watch. “Baby, I could kiss you all night, but if I’m not mistaken, your book club meeting is getting ready to start, isn’t it?”

I sighed to show my annoyance, then nodded my head. “Yeah, they’ll be here in about ten, fifteen minutes.”

“Well, I better get outta here, then. You girls don’t need me around here getting in your hair. My virgin ears might overhear something they’re not supposed to, and the next thing you know, I’ll be traumatized for the rest of my life. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you?” He chuckled.

“Hell no, not if you put it that way. ’Cause, honey, I am not going to raise two kids by myself, so you need to make yourself a plate and get the heck outta here.” He laughed at me, then kissed me gently on the lips.

“Aw-ight, you don’t have to get indignant. I’m going,” he teased.

“Where’re you headed anyway?” I asked. A smart wife always knew where her man was.

“Well, I was thinking about going down to Benny’s Bar to watch the game, but my boy Willie Martin called and said they were looking for a fourth person to play spades over at his house, so I decided to head over there. You know how I love playing Spades,” Tim said with a big grin. “Besides, like I said before, I know you girls need your privacy.”

Tim was considerate like that. Whenever we’d have our girls’ night, he’d always go bowling or go to a bar with his friends until I’d call him to let him know that our little gathering was over. He always took my feelings into account and gave me space. I loved him for that, especially after hearing so many horror stories from my friends about the jealous way other men acted.

Tim was a good man, probably a better man than I deserved, which is why I loved him more than I loved myself. And believe it or not, that was a tall order for a smart and sexy egomaniac like myself. But at the same time, my momma didn’t raise no fool. Although I loved and even trusted Tim, I didn’t love or trust his whorish friends or those hoochies who hung around the bars and bowling alleys he frequented. So, before I let him leave the house, I always made sure I took care of my business in one way or another. And that was just what I was about to do when I reached for his fly—take care of my business.

“What’re you doing?” He glanced at my hand but showed no sign of protest. “Your friends are gonna be here any minute, you know.”

“Well, my friends are gonna have to wait. I got something to do,” I said matter-of-factly. “Besides, this ain’t gonna take but a minute. Momma got skills . . . or have you forgotten since last night?”

He shrugged his shoulders and said with a smirk, “Hey, I’m from Missouri, the Show Me State, so I don’t remember shit. You got to show me, baby.”

I cocked my head to the right, looking up at him. “Is that right? You don’t remember shit, huh? Well, don’t worry, ’cause I’m about to show you, and trust me, this time you’re not going to forget a damn thing.” I pulled down his pants and then his boxers. Out sprang Momma’s love handle. Mmm, mmm, mmm, I’ve got to say, for a short, skinny man, my husband sure was packing. I looked down at it, then smiled. “Mmm, chocolate. I love chocolate.” And on that note, I fell to my knees, let my bag slide off my shoulder, and got to work trying to find out how many licks it took to get to the center of my husband’s Tootsie Pop.

About five minutes later, my mission was accomplished. I’d revived my husband’s memory of exactly who I was and what I could do. Tim was grinning from ear to ear as he pulled up his pants—and not a minute too soon, because just as I reached for my bag to reapply my lipstick, the doorbell rang. The first thought that came to my mind was that it was probably my mother. She was always on time, while the other members of my book club were usually fashionably late. I don’t know who came up with the phrase “CP time,” but whoever it was sure knew what the hell they were talking about. You couldn’t get six black people to all show up on time if you were handing out hundred-dollar bills.

Tim finished buckling his pants, then went up front to answer the door. I finished reapplying my makeup, then followed him. Just as I suspected, it was my mother ringing the bell. My mother wasn’t an official member of our book club, but she never missed a meeting or a chance to take home a week’s worth of leftovers for my brother and stepdad after the meeting was over. Truth is, the only reason she wasn’t an official member of our book club was because she was too cheap to pay the twenty-dollar-a-month dues for the food and wine we served at each meeting. I loved my mom, but she was one cheap-ass woman.

My mother hadn’t even gotten comfortable on the sofa when, surprisingly, the doorbell rang again. Once again, Tim answered the door while I fixed four plates of food for him and his cardplaying friends. Walking through the door were the Conner sisters—my best friend Egypt and her older sister Isis. Egypt and I had been best friends since the third grade. She was probably the only woman I trusted in the world. That’s why sometime before she left, I needed to ask her a very personal favor, probably the biggest favor I’d ever asked anyone.

Egypt and Isis were followed five minutes later by the two ladies I considered to be the life of any book club meeting, my very spirited and passionate Delta Sigma Theta line sister Nikki and her crazy-ass roommate, Tiny. My husband let them in on his way out to his spades game. As soon as the door was closed and Tim was out of sight, Tiny started yelling, “BGBC in the house,” then cupped her ear, waiting for our reply.

We didn’t disappoint her, as a chorus of “BGBC in the house!” was shouted back at her. BGBC were the initials of our book club and stood for Big Girls Book Club. We had one rule and one rule only: If you’re not at least a size 14, you can’t be a member. You could be an honorary member, but not a member. It wasn’t personal; it was just something we big girls needed to do for us. Anyway, we’d never really had to exclude anyone from our club. I didn’t know too many sisters over thirty-five who were under a size 14. And the ones who I did know were usually so stuck-up I wouldn’t have wanted them in my house anyway.

About fifteen minutes later, my cousin and our final member, hot-to-trot Coco Brown, showed up wearing an all-white, formfitting outfit I wouldn’t have been caught dead in. I know I sound like I’m hatin’, but that’s only because I am. I couldn’t stand the tight shit Coco wore. And the thing I hated the most about her outfits was that she actually looked cute in them. Coco was a big girl just like the rest of us, but her overly attractive face and curvy figure made her look like Toccara, the plus-size model from that show America’s Next Top Model. Not that I looked bad. Hell, you couldn’t tell me I wasn’t cute. And I could dress my ass off too. It’s just that the way I carried my weight made me look more like my girl MóNique from The Parkers. I was a more sophisticated big girl.

Taking all that into account, some of my dislike for Coco had nothing to do with her clothes or her looks. It had to do with the fact that she was a whore. That’s right, I said it. She was a whore—an admitted ho, at that. Coco had been screwing brothers for money and gifts since we were teenagers. And to make matters worse, she especially liked to mess around with married men. Oh, and trust me, she didn’t really care whose husband she messed with as long as she got what she wanted. Now, if it was up to me, she wouldn’t even be in the book club, but the girls all seemed to like her phony behind, and she met our size requirement, so I was SOL on that. I will say this, though: If I ever catch that woman trying to put the moves on my husband, cousin or not, she is gonna have some problems. And the first problem she was gonna have was getting my size 14 shoe out of the crack of her fat ass.

As soon as Coco entered the room, she seemed to be trying to take over the meeting before it even got started. She was stirring everybody up, talking about the book and asking a whole bunch of questions before I could even start the meeting. And when she and Isis started talking about the sex scenes in the book, I put an abrupt end to their conversation.

“Hold up. Y’all know we don’t start no meeting this way.” I wasn’t yelling, but I had definitely raised my voice. “Coco, you need to sit your tail down so we can start this meeting properly.”

Coco rolled her eyes at me and frowned, waving her hand at Nikki, who had already made herself a plate, asking her to slide over. Once Nikki moved, Coco sat down. Now all eyes were on me like they should be. I was the book club president, and this was my show, not Coco’s—or anybody else’s, for that matter. But she still had something to say.

“Please, Tammy, you should’ve got this meeting started the minute I walked in the door, because this book was off the damn chain.” Coco high-fived Nikki.

“I know the book was good, Coco. I chose it, didn’t I?” I know I probably sounded a little arrogant, but I couldn’t help it. Ever since we were kids, Coco was always trying to take over shit and get all the attention. “Well, once again, here we are. Before I ask my momma to open the meeting with a prayer, I just hope everyone enjoyed this month’s selection as much as my husband and I did.”

Egypt raised her eyebrows, then said, “Wait a minute. Tim read this book?”

“No, but he got a lot of pleasure out of the fact that I did. Can you say chapter twenty-three?” I had to turn away from them I was blushing so bad.

“You go, girl,” Isis said with a laugh. “I ain’t mad at you.”

“Let me find out you an undercover freak,” Coco added.

“What can I tell you? The story did things to me. It was an extremely erotic read.” Everybody was smiling and nodding their heads.

“It’s about to be a helluva lot more erotic in here if you get to the point and start the meeting,” Coco interjected, then turned to my mom. “I don’t mean no disrespect, Mrs. Turner, but we’re about to get our sex talk on.”

“Well, then let’s bow our heads, ’cause this prayer is about the only Christian thing we’re going to talk about tonight. Forget chapter twenty-three. Can you say chapters four and seven?” my mother said devilishly, right before she bowed her head to begin our prayer. From that point on, I knew it was gonna be one hell of a meeting, and Tim would appreciate it later when he came home and found me more than ready for round number two.

The alarm on my cell phone rang, and I reached down as fast as I could, trying to silence it. By the time I stopped Chamillionaire’s “Ridin’ Dirty” ring tone from waking him up, I realized I had to pee. I tried to lie still and hold it, hoping I could get five more minutes of sleep, but the pressure on my bladder wouldn’t let me. Besides, I knew I had to get up and outta there before he woke up. The last thing I wanted to do was talk to him now that the fun part of the night was over. Talking led to lies, and lies only led to me getting pissed off. Nobody wants to get pissed off after getting laid. So, the pressure from my bladder just made getting out of bed a little more urgent. I sat up and yawned, then stumbled through the dark hotel room to the bathroom—a reminder of the six apple martinis I drank the night before. Also reminding me of the martinis was the blaring hangover that was starting to take over my head.

Making my way into the bathroom, I sat down on the toilet without closing the door and quickly relieved myself. It felt like I peed forever. I sighed in relief. It’s unbelievable how a simple bodily function like urinating can feel so good. When I finally finished, I looked in the mirror, but I couldn’t see a thing, so I closed the bathroom door and flipped on the light switch. The light was like a thousand needles in my eyes, and I quickly covered my face with my arms. When my eyes adjusted to the light, I had to admit, I was embarrassed at what was staring back at me in the mirror. My weave was matted and looked like something the cat dragged home. My makeup and lipstick were completely gone. Good thing I was blessed with a pretty face, or I’d probably be looking like something out of that movie Night of the Living Dead.

I stared at my DDD-cup breasts, cupping them with both hands as I questioned myself, Have they sagged? I took a deep breath, making them appear even larger, and shook my head, dismissing the idea as fast as it had come. No, they weren’t sagging; they were perfect. No saline, no silicone, no implants of any kind whatsoever—just me, one hundred percent me. I released my breasts, turning to the side as I placed one hand on my stomach so I could get a glimpse of my other great asset—my perfectly round booty. Whenever I walked down the street, all eyes were on me. I have what most guys would call a ba-dunk-a-dunk, and I used it and my titties to my advantage every chance I got. Every shirt, sweater, dress, skirt, and pair of pants I wore had been purchased just to show off my breasts and booty. There are women out there who would pay good money to have a figure like mine. Yes, there was no denying I was a thick sister with some weight on my bones, but ask any man with a pair of eyes and a dick swinging between his legs if my weight was a problem, and I could guarantee you he’d say, “Hell no!”

Shutting off the light, I opened the bathroom door and headed back into the room. I walked over to my side of the bed, searching for my personal belongings. When I had everything I came with, I started to get dressed. John was now spread out, snoring lightly and taking up most of the bed. It didn’t matter, though. He’d done what I’d needed him to do, and it was time for me to go home.

I’d met John last night in the bar at the Brooklyn Marriott. I’d gone there after my book club meeting, looking for exactly what I found—free drinks and some good out-of-town dick. The only reason I’d chosen John was because he was the only man in the bar who wasn’t old enough to be my father. He turned out to be a good choice. From the pounding hangover I had and the sense of fulfillment I felt between my legs, I can assure you he’d taken care of his business. The funny thing was that I might as well have called him John Doe, because I didn’t even know his last name. Shoot, I couldn’t be sure if his first name was really even John, for that matter. He’d probably be pretty surprised to find out my name wasn’t really Lola.

I picked up my bag and headed for the door.

“Hey, where you going?” John’s voice seemed to come out of nowhere.

I clutched my chest as I turned toward the bed because it was so unexpected. “Oh my God! You scared the shit outta me. You know that, don’t you?”

“Sorry about that.” He shifted in the bed. “You going somewhere?”

I nodded. “Home. It was nice meeting you.”

I could see his white teeth shining in the dark shadows of the room. “Nice meeting you too.”

I stepped closer to the bed. I wasn’t sure if he could see me in the dim light. “Hey, do you think I could have a little help with cab fare?”

“Sure.” He reached over for his wallet and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.

Before he could hand it to me, I said, “I live in Long Island. It’s gonna cost me at least sixty to get home.”

He glanced at me skeptically, then reached in his wallet and pulled out two more twenties.

“I’m gonna look pretty cheap if I let someone drive me all the way out there and don’t give him a tip.” He frowned, then pulled out a ten. I quickly took the money out of his hand and shoved it into my bra. If he only knew I had driven my car and lived only fifteen minutes away. Hot-damn, looked like Momma was buying a new pair of shoes tonight.

“Look, can I get your number or something? Maybe we can do this again next time I’m in town. I had a great time.” He rubbed his hand along my thigh.

I sat down on the bed, sliding my hand over the top sheet that covered his leg. My fingers caressed the imprint of his dick. It was warm and started to grow from my touch. I was tempted to pull the covers back and get one for the road. I could probably even get another fifty bucks out of him, but I knew if I got back in that bed, I wouldn’t get out until sometime after the sun came up. I let go of that idea, along with his dick, with a quickness. I was like a vampire—I never let the sun catch me in a man’s house or hotel room.

“Why don’t you give me your number? The last thing I need is for your wife to find my number and start harassing me. No offense, but you married brothers be getting careless, and I don’t need the drama. Been there, done that.”

His smile disappeared. “Who said anything about me being married?”

I let out a long, aggravated sigh. You see, this is the shit I be talking about. This is the reason I take everything I can get from a brother and keep it moving. ’Cause these niggas can’t stop lying.

“Look, let’s get something straight. I had a good time with you last night. You’re funny, and you actually made me come a few times, but, honey, don’t think I don’t know you’re married. And don’t even try to deny it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. What would make you think I’m married?”

I swear to God that man gave me the most sincere look I’d ever seen—which pissed me off even more, so I got up and walked toward the door. “You know what, John? There’s nothing I hate worse than a liar.”

He sat up in the bed, trying to look insulted, even though he knew damn well he was busted. I’d seen it too many times before: It’s always the biggest liars who will protest their innocence the loudest. “Who you calling a liar?”

“You, motherfucker! Ain’t nobody else in the room.” I took hold of the doorknob, opening the door slightly. “Oh, and marinate on this for a second. When I sat down next to you in the bar, you had a wedding ring on. Halfway through our conversation, it disappeared, so you might wanna tighten up your game next time you decide to lie to a sister.”

He glanced down at his ring finger, then looked up at me silently. I could practically see the wheels turning in his pea brain, trying to come up with another lie. I just shook my head, and he finally buried his face in the pillow, his way of admitting he’d been busted.

I pulled the door open and walked out. Men were all the same. All they cared about was getting some. It didn’t matter what game they had to run. Only difference now was that it was all I cared about, too, and I was much better at it than they were.

I could feel the temperature of my body rise and the space between my legs becoming moist when my sister Egypt turned her Honda Accord down my block. I’d spotted a light on in my apartment from the corner, which meant my boyfriend, Tony, was there. With any luck, he’d be lying naked in my bed, waiting for me. Trust me, I needed him to be there after discussing Mary B. Morrison’s latest novel with my book club for the past two hours. Talk about turning up the heat! That woman knows she can write about some sex. I don’t think any of us walked out of that book club meeting without the need for a panty liner and some companionship, if you know what I mean. Even Mrs. Turner, the sixty-some-odd-year-old mother of our book club president, Tammy, was talking about how she was going home to wake up her husband so she could get some tonight. She had us all cracking up when she picked up Tammy’s phone and called ahead to make sure he took his little blue pill.

“Well, at least one of us is going to get some tonight,” Egypt mumbled jealously as she pulled up behind Tony’s truck to let me out. I felt sorry for my sister, but it wasn’t my fault she didn’t have a man. She’d had plenty of suitors over the years; it’s just her standards were too damn high. She wanted someone with Russell Simmons’s money and Terrence Howard’s looks. The fact that she couldn’t find him made her a very jealous and bitter woman.

I think she was under the illusion that she was still twenty-one and a size 10, when in reality she was thirty-four and a size 20. Now, there is nothing wrong with being a size 20—hell, I’m a size 22, pushing a 26, depending on what store I’m shopping in, so you know I can’t talk—but my sister, although cute, still felt the need to try to compete for men with those skinny bitches. She wasn’t interested in anyone but the unattainable brothers who were way too shallow to understand what a great catch she was.

Tony tried once to introduce her to his friend Greg, who ended up really liking Egypt, but Tony swore that after the way she treated his friend, he’d never do it again. My sister can be so stank sometimes. Do you know that she invited him out to dinner at some fancy restaurant one time, then had the nerve to order a two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine, a thirty-dollar appetizer, and the most expensive meal on the menu, then stuck him with the bill? The whole meal cost almost as much as he was making in a week, and let me emphasize again that she was the one who invited him to dinner.

“Why don’t you call Greg?” I suggested. “I’m sure he’d be willing to stop by for a booty call.”

Egypt raised her finger as if to chastise me, then hesitated for a second to give my suggestion some thought. The fact that she was even thinking about it was a definite giveaway. She wanted to get some tonight just as much, if not more, than I did. Eventually, though, she shook her head. “Nah. If I give Greg some, I’ll never be able to get rid of him. The boy’s cute and he’s got some good dick, but he can’t keep a good job.”

I shrugged my shoulders and leaned over, hugging her tightly. “You mean he can’t keep a six-figure job, ’cause Greg’s got a good job; he works for the state.”

“Whatever. You say tomato, I say tomahto. In the end, it all means the same thing, Isis.”

“Which is?”

“That I can’t mess with the brother if he can’t keep me in the lifestyle I’m accustomed to.”

“Accustomed to? Egypt, you live in Momma and Daddy’s basement apartment.”

“Yeah, but I don’t pay no bills there. Girl, I need a man who can take care of me. Like Tim takes care of Tammy. She only works because she wants to, not because she has to.”

Egypt was always comparing herself to Tammy and the life she led. It’s actually pretty ironic if you ask me, because Tim was interested in Egypt when they first met, and she pawned him off on Tammy for his pretty-boy fraternity brother. Funny how things work out. Tammy and Tim have been together for more than ten years, and Egypt and the pretty boy ended up having only a one-night stand. Although Egypt and Tammy remained best friends, I knew for a fact that Egypt was more than a little jealous.

“See, that’s your problem. You’re not Tammy. Tammy and Tim have been together since y’all were in college, and way before his business took off. If you had stuck with your ex, Raymond, you’d probably be married to a CPA right now, living in that big house he got in Long Island, instead of that Spanish girl. You’ve got to work with a man, Egypt, not wait ’til he’s made his money, then jump on the bandwagon like you was there all along.”

She waved her hand at me and changed the subject. The fact that her college boyfriend was a successful partner in a CPA firm always annoyed her. “Hey, Isis, speaking of Tammy, you’ll never guess what she asked me to do tonight.”

“Girl, I ain’t got no time to be playing no guessing games with you about Tammy. My man is upstairs, and I need to get to him before he falls asleep.”

She reached out her hand and gently took hold of my wrist, stopping me from getting out of the car. “My God, will you calm down a second? You act like that man’s dick is made of gold. Damn, this is only gonna take a second.”

“Whatever.” I pulled my arm free and stepped out of the car. Once outside, I leaned my head into the window. “Hurry up.”

“Well, you know Tammy always gives Tim a birthday party every year, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, she’s not having a party this year. Guess what she wants to give him this year?”

“C’mon, Egypt, get to the point. I told you I ain’t got a whole bunch of time. Tony is waiting.” I glanced up at my apartment window, happy to see the lights were still on.

“Okay . . . okay . . . She decided to give him something a little more special. She’s taking him to Hedonism in Jamaica.”

I shifted my eyes. “Hedonism? Isn’t that the place where everyone walks around nude?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

An image of Tammy walking around a nudist colony came to my mind. It wasn’t a pretty image, so I quickly got rid of it. As a big girl myself, I’m here to tell you there are some things us full-figured sisters just shouldn’t do, and strutting your stuff in a nudist colony is one of them.

“Oh my God, Tammy has lost her mind,” I murmured.

“Tell me about it. And if you think that’s something, girl, check this out,” Egypt added. “She wants me to go with them.”

“What?” I raised an eyebrow. I knew Tammy and Tim had money, but this didn’t even sound right. And why the hell would they want to take my sister with them? “Go with them for what? What you gonna do, watch the kids while Tammy struts her fat ass around on the beach naked?”

Egypt tried to keep herself from laughing, but she couldn’t. All of a sudden, she busted out laughing. I’m sure now she was the one with an image of her best friend walking around two or three hundred white people on the beach, naked in Jamaica. I know it sounds cruel, but I started laughing with her. If Egypt was telling the truth, Tammy had lost her mind.

When she finally stopped laughing, Egypt said, “Girl, you ain’t right.”

“Maybe, but what the hell she taking her big ass to Hedonism for, and why she want you to go?”

“She wants to give Tim a surprise for his birthday.” She hesitated as if she wasn’t sure