The Side Chick

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

Charles and Mary Bivens have been married for more than twenty years, but after one miscarriage and two children, they are starting to question their union. Their eldest child is out of the house, their youngest is entering his senior year in high school, and the onset of the empty nest is starting to sink in for the both of them.  

Mary, feeling the tension, has decided to start getting massages to find release. Recognizing that her husband may have a need for the same, she suggests that he try it too. Charles, also feeling stressed from work and home life, has been getting his relief in a very different place. He has been utilizing strip clubs and hoes, but he knows that it won’t help his marriage at all, so now he takes his wife’s advice and goes to get a massage instead. 

Enter Mahogany, a curvaceous, ebony brown-skinned, thick-in-the-right places masseuse. She has such strong sex appeal that men and women find themselves attracted to her. Ebony has history with both Charles and Mary. It was a fleeting and fast relationship with each of them individually, but they had put that behind them. Now that she has reentered their lives, she wants to become the side chick to both of them. Will Mahogany’s presence enhance or destroy this union?

Release date: April 25, 2017

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

“Hey, Ma.” Melissa came down the aisle, greeting me. She was her usual sarcastic self. She then bent down to give me a hug. “Where’s Dad? Back there helping Clifton straighten his tie or something like that?” She left a seat between us as she sat down giving me the side-eye.

“Nope, he’s not back there helping your brother. I’m not sure if he’s coming, actually. That would be too much like right if you ask me. So you can just slide over and leave that seat for a parent who really cares.”

“Aw, Ma, come on now. Don’t be like that. Dad cares real deep down inside. He’s just going through a midlife crisis or whatever it is you old people call it once you go over the hill in age.” Melissa tried taking up for her father who had dropped the ball on his fatherly duties more than once lately.

Even with her physically looking just like me and having attributes of my attitude added to her personality, Melissa could sometimes be just as nonchalant and coldhearted as Charles if not worse than him. Money is not the root of all evil; genes are, in this case. And my daughter was definitely starting to morph into my once better half.

“Melissa, please busy yourself with the applications and silly little games on your cell phone as you usually do and stay out of grown folks’ business. Thanks,” I snapped, not in the mood for her “I’m grown, now I can talk how I want to” ass running off at the mouth. She, as always, was trying my patience. I was deep off into my own world. I was too occupied cursing out her insensitive father via text message, which was the only way we could communicate as of late without calling each other damn near everything except for the child of God.

“Okay, dang, Ma, just take a chill pill. I’m falling back like you asked. Ain’t no need to get all crazy with it. But just let me know if you need me to come up out of a child’s place to pin my little brother alongside you.” She continued being a smart ass, then shifted in her seat so her back would be to me.

How rude and ballsy of her. Had we not been in a roomful of judgmental people, I would have collared her ass up like I had so many times before in the past. I didn’t know how many times I’d warned her about that flip mouth, but whatever. I hated having to remind her that attending a four-year university didn’t make her grown; well, not when it came to speaking to your elders.

“Your place is going to be six feet deep down in a grave if you speak slick one more time, Melissa,” I warned. I leaned over and delivered my threat coldly, then sat straight up in my seat. Between Melissa and her father, I was gonna end up dry popping an anxiety pill. She was tap dancing on nerves he’d already burnt out.

While all the other senior parents were socializing with one another, my fingers were floating across the touch screen keypad of my phone, texting my husband a gang of messages. I hoped when he read each one his eyes would burn and fear the hot, fiery rage I felt.

Our life and what I always dreamed it would be was in a complete shambles. I was angry, hurt, and fed up with him ignoring not only me but our family as well. He had become beyond distant and an asshole. I was used to him not showing up at home for dinner; that had become almost second nature to him. And I was immune to Charles even emotionally checking out on our marriage when he did come home. I would just read a book or do what I did, no biggie. However, no matter how much I tried, I hadn’t gotten used to the sting of being out in public alone. That part was still killing me as all of our mutual friends would be arm in arm at various events asking me the million dollar question: “Where’s Charles?” Most times I’d make up some sort of mild conceivable answer. Yet, the last few times I was finding myself having cotton mouth and running out of lies to tell. Some of my close friends could tell something was wrong, but I played it off the best I could.

I had a reputation to uphold, and it was more important for me to stand beside my husband in front of the crowded room than it was to flash my flossy wedding ring in place of him. We were a team. Well, we were supposed to be a team. That’s how things always were from Jump Street and should be now. Truth be told, I’d trade each one of these perfectly cut flawless karats on my finger for a cereal box plastic gem in a heartbeat if Charles’s love for me would come with it. The selfish human who now wasn’t here for his family was not the man I met, fell in love with, or married. I’d been driving myself crazy with the puzzling question of “Why is this happening?” In my eyes I did everything I could to make a great household for him and our kids; but I guessed I dropped the ball somehow, let him tell it.

We lived in a very exclusive, upper-class area of town my husband worked hard to make happen. Any person from any ethnicity was welcome on our block. As long as their pay grade or social status could fit the bill they were good. I was sure the color of a person’s skin was discussed and ridiculed behind closed doors, but within our community the only color that mattered was money, that almighty dollar. Class could be purchased, friends could be bribed, and reputations meant everything. I lived here solely because of Charles. Matter of fact, as sad and pathetic as it may sound, I’d spent half of my entire life being everything I was for Charles. He was, simply put, my ultimate everything. In our world, the sun rose and set because of him. Now that he had chosen to “do him,” as the young people say, I was sitting here alone in this auditorium looking like an angry, lost puppy dog.

“Parents, please stand and applaud the next graduating class of the Prestigious Collegiate Preparatory Academy. I present to you our seniors.” The principal proudly started the pinning ceremony, introducing and bringing out my son and his peers.

I couldn’t believe my baby boy was about to be a graduate and a grown man within a few months. I didn’t know where time had gone. Nevertheless, I was proud of him and all of his friends, being that I had chaperoned the majority of them at sleepovers, parties, and afterschool play dates since their kindergarten ages. Part of the PCPA promise was familiarity and consistency among its population. They prided themselves on keeping a close-knit and exclusive environment. And for the elitism, their tuition was a hefty price.

The Prestigious Collegiate Preparatory Academy had gotten deep into Charles’s checking account for educating both of our children. Melissa joined the PCPA family in the fourth grade, after being on the waitlist for three years. They didn’t have a flexible admission process, but the wait was more than worth it. My daughter’s diploma opened up several doors for her that would have otherwise been slammed in her face. Plainly put, her diploma was an expensive piece of paper that said she came from somewhere. God willing, Clifton’s would be the same to him; at least, that’s what we were banking on.

Tucking my phone away, it wasn’t a hard stretch to stop wanting to reach through my cell’s screen and spit in his absent father’s face and redirect my attentions on my son. I stood and clapped for Clifton as one of the loudest parents in the room. My hands started to slightly sting as I slammed them together twice as hard since Charles was not there to hold us down.

My baby boy had worked hard. He was expected to graduate with honors and deserved respect for that. The bullshit drama going on between his dad and me wasn’t going to make me rain on his parade; not now, not ever. I hated when bickering mothers and fathers couldn’t grow up enough to coparent. For all of Clifton’s hard work, accomplishments, and constant dedication to staying on track while facing and beating temptation, he deserved a proud and present parent to be in the audience. It was only right for me to shake his hand, hug him, and congratulate him on a job well done thus far. I was going to be that parent and do just that. Support and encouragement can push kids far, and I wanted mine, or should I say ours, to be the best.

While the principal was delivering his positive, uplifting message, I dug my phone back out. Overjoyed in the moment, I started snapping pictures. But that warm, fuzzy emotion was soon short-lived. Before I knew it, my vindictive side had once again reared its ugly head. With malice boiling in my heart, I started sending them to Charles with petty, snide captions typed underneath each.

Our son Clifton was handsome, debonair, and looked like fresh, crispy money at all times. We kept him on point. He was the spitting image of his dad who, by the way, still looked great for his age. Charles, the main provider, made it possible for him to have a Rolex on his wrist, Ray-Bans on his face, a Hermès belt on his waist, and Prada shoes on his feet. If nothing else, I could never take away the fact that Charles has done financially right by his children. Never ever has either of them eaten from a struggle spoon or missed a hearty meal because of money being short. Charles actually has a bad habit of throwing money at the kids to make things right when he messes up. Although I despised the way my husband had been treating me, the kids seemed to be ignoring his obvious transgressions against the family unit as long as the money and gifts kept flowing. Those two, unlike me, had not made their father their entire world.

As Clifton looked around the room and caught eye contact with me, he smiled and winked, making me smile and wink back. He was not a momma’s boy by far, but he knew how to charm the ladies. I could tell from how much he kept his iPhone up to his ear; he could run game. That was something he picked up from his now-sneaky dad, running game. But that was all right. It was all good. God don’t like ugly from me or anyone else. Karma was one bad, mean, evil bitch when she needed to be. In my feelings, I wanted Charles to feel some type of way as well. If I was hurting, he needed to hurt and feel the burn as well.

Back in the day, I had my own way of always getting what I wanted. I didn’t want to be judged and hoped I wouldn’t be. I used to play mind games with Charles, using the kids as pawns. Whereas some women won’t let the dads see their kids, I overwhelmed Charles with pictures of our two. If Melissa cried scraping her knee, I sent a picture of her tears because I knew he’d die to protect his precious baby girl. If Clifton picked up a toy basketball, I sent the picture along with a message saying, This boy needs his dad. And at least once a day, I made them call their dad and leave him voice-mails so he could hear their baby babbles and tiny voices. There was no shame in my game about playing mind manipulation games with Charles to bring and keep him home. I took a vow to God to fight for my family. And that was exactly what I was going to keep doing even after all of these years. If he thinks it’s going to be over that easy just because the kids we made together are of age and doing their own thing, he’s sadly mistaken.

The audience clapping once more was what brought me out of my deep-seated thoughts. They were announcing who the newly elected senior class officers were, which didn’t matter to me since Clifton hadn’t run. Yet, I knew the actual pinning ceremony was next. They had not changed the flow of the ceremony during the three years since I’d been in this same auditorium for Melissa, so I was more than familiar with what came next. By homeroom, each student was announced and then pinned by the parents while a photographer captured the moment. As a lumped formed in my throat, knowing all the “Where is Charles?” questions were forthcoming, I polished my five-karat wedding ring with hot breath, drying it with my eyeglass cloth so at least I portrayed a happily married wife for the camera. If I was going to be on display for all of our friends to see, no doubt about it, I was going to shine bright. I would keep my fronts up. To hell with all of that pitiful “lamb going to the slaughter” garbage mentality most bitter and broken women displayed.

The room was dark. Except for the flickers coming from the stream of candles that where strategically lined up it was hard for me to focus. Truth be told now was not the time or place I wanted to concentrate on anything other than relaxing. There was a soft R&B song playing. It was one of my favorites I always asked for, but I could barely hear the melody because of how hard the bass was beating into the small room. And within the room, there was me, a female, and a muscular male security guard who was standing by the door with his back turned but his ears open. Of course, he was there to make sure I didn’t take the girl’s cookie without paying for it. I knew he was getting paid, and this was his job to do, but if I were him, I’d be feeling like no more than a creep or sexual predator. But hey, I guess like they say, to each his own. Sometimes the end justifies the means.

The main attraction, or the reason I was there, had just whispered in my ear causing my manhood to jump as she went to work. Her stage name was China White. “Why?” some may ask. Because her mere touch made you feel like you were on drugs. It may have seemed like it was just a rumor or a myth, but to me it was reality. I could bear witness to her power. I’d been addicted to her back room loving for the last few months. Ever since this gritty, infamous strip spot opened back up, I’d been damn near a regular.

The Gentleman’s Spot had been operating for years off and on whenever they could avoid the cops raiding the place. The women here were built like brick houses. Beautiful and willing to get bodied in the beds they had in the back rooms. This place was a horny man’s American dream. Everyone who is anyone came here for a retreat from the real world: politicians, engineers, teachers, doctors, successful entrepreneurs, and even lawyers.

Today I brought one of my associates I dealt with from time to time. Although Jake and I came from much different backgrounds we shared the common bond most men—well, the straight ones—share: the love of pussy. After a long meeting and a few shots from the expensive bottle of bourbon I kept in my locked desk drawer, he revealed he was having problems with his wife. Easily feeling his pain of being linked up with a woman for years who was more into being a soccer mom than being a freak in the bed, I knew what he needed to take the edge off.

When we first pulled up he was more than hesitant to get out the car, but with the promise of sheer satisfaction on the other side of the wall, Jake caved in to the notion of cheating on his wife. I promised him that although the club was located in what some would say was a seedy part of town, he was good; we were good.

The club’s well-to-do clientele were what kept them afloat. Whenever the city raided clubs that were operating without permits and such, the owners were tipped off early, and the doors were shut until the cases were closed. This spot had been closed down for months at a time behind the city trying to crack down. Today, luckily for all of us sexual savages, the spot was open for business and I was enjoying the perks.

“Charlie, baby. I think your phone is ringing.” China White lifted her head from my lap, telling me something I already knew. “You want me to stop so you can answer it or what? I mean, I’m in the zone, but—”

“Yeah, I know it’s ringing, but hell naw, don’t worry about that. Just concern yourself with keeping that dick wet with your spit. That’s all daddy care about right now is your neck game.” Tapping the top of her head for her to drop it back do. . .