Authors: Keisha Ervin
Material Girl (11 page)
“He/she? Who the hell this country muthafucka think he talkin’ to? Baby, this right here is all woman.” Tee-Tee slid his hand down his body to emphasize his words.
“You ain’t got to get all nasty,” Uncle Clyde shot back. “I’m just callin’ you what ya is, boy!”
“Oh, let me get the hell away from this coon before I have to cut his ass.” Tee-Tee marched off, having had enough.
Unsure of what to do, Dylan reluctantly spoke. “How you doing, Clyde?”
“Better now that yo’ fine-ass mama here. Shit, she make me wanna spend all my bill money.” He roughly grabbed Candy by the waist, pulling her close.
“On that note, it was nice meeting you. I’ma let you and Candy have some alone time.”
“Uh-uh, Dylan. Stay.” Candy quickly took a hold of Dylan’s hand.
“Uh-uh. That would be rude.” Dylan sneered, snatching her hand back. “See you two lovebirds later.”
“Now that broke-ass is gone, why don’t me and you creep off in the back and do what big boys and girls do?” Clyde kissed Candy’s cheek. “Girl, you look better than a bacon and egg sandwich.”
“Um, let me go get a drink first.” She swiftly got away before he could object.
An hour later, the magician had arrived and performed. The kids had danced, got fake tattoos, and custom-designed their own dolls. Candy had given Clyde her ass to kiss and moved on to a new target, and Billie had put off singing “Happy Birthday” as long as she could. Cain still hadn’t showed up, and after lying and telling the girls he was coming for two hours, Billie decided that she was done with protecting her kids from their father’s negligence and inconsiderate behavior. They’d have to learn the truth about him sooner or later.
With everyone gathered around, she lit the candles on their cakes, which were designed in the shape of a purse and a high heel shoe, and started singing. Halfway through the song, Billie got the second biggest shock of her life. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Cain creeping in, hand in hand with his reality-show-reject girlfriend.
“Oh, no he didn’t,” Dylan whispered, spotting him too.
“Oh, yes he did,” Tee-Tee said.
“You gon’ be okay, friend?” Dylan asked.
“Mm-hmm.”
Billie couldn’t wait for the song to be over so she could chin-check his ass. Homeboy had a lot of nerve bringing his skank whore to her kids’ birthday party. It was cool if he didn’t want her anymore. Billie would have to learn to deal with that, but to subject Kyrese, Kenzie, and Kaylee to his immature, idiotic actions was a whole ’nother story.
“Happy birthday dear Kenzie and Kaylee . . . Happy birthday to you! Yay!” Everyone clapped and cheered.
“Handle this for me.” Billie handed Dylan the knife to cut the cake. “I’ll be right back.”
Chunks of vomit rose in her throat with each step she took. What Cain saw in that woman she’d never understand. The chick looked like her ass was on steroids. Everything from her stringy pony hair to her surgically enhanced face was fake, and she dressed like an overgrown, confused Barbie. Billie could not believe that she had the audacity to even come, let alone wear a pink cowboy hat, rhinestone choker, pink-and-black leopard print bra, black tutu, and patent leather thigh-high boots.
“Have you lost your fuckin’ mind bringing this trick here?” she hissed.
“Yo’, don’t come to me with that mess,” Cain barked. “Me and you ain’t together no more.”
“You’ve made that abundantly clear.”
“Billie, I know that this is hard for you,” the confused Barbie chimed in. “But today is about your kids—”
“Hold up.” Billie placed the palm of her hand in the woman’s face. “Who the hell told you to speak, trashbox?”
“See, I’m not puttin’ up with this,” she said to Cain. “You better check her.”
“Who gon’ check me, boo?” Billie rolled her neck and looked her up and down. “Nobody told you to come, trashy.”
“I told her to come, and whether you like it or not, you gon’ have to deal wit’ it,” Cain shot.
“Over my dead body.” Billie rolled her neck and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Well, you better call the coroner, ’cause she ain’t leaving,” he challenged.
“Daddy!” The twins ran over, interrupting their showdown.
“Wassup, bubble butts?” He scooped them up into his arms.
“What took you so long?” Kaylee questioned. “We’ve been waiting on you.”
“I had to pick up my friend Becky. Say hi.”
“Uh-uh. We don’t know her.” Kenzie screwed up her face.
“And why she so orange?” Kaylee added.
“Okay, let’s go get some cake and open presents.” Cain ignored their comments. “Daddy got something special for you. C’mon, Becky.” He signaled with his head.
“You better hurry up. Your owner’s callin’ you,” Billie spat.
“Ugh. Whateva.” Becky rolled her eyes.
“Whateva to you too!” Billie shot back.
“You okay, girl?” Dylan rushed over.
“I can’t stand his stupid ass.”
“Just remember that today is about the girls. You’ve planned an amazing party. Don’t let him ruin that.”
“You’re right.” Billie placed her hands down to her side and exhaled.
There was no way she would allow Cain to continue to bring her down. No person would have that much control over her life. Fuck him. Unfortunately for Billie, even after she pulled herself together, things continued to spiral out of control. She’d just finished watching the girls do their annual father and daughter dance with Cain to the song “Pretty Wings” when she was graced with even more bad news.
“I cannot believe this,” she scowled, snapping her cell phone shut.
“What now?” Dylan asked.
“Miley Cyrus’s publicist just called and said she can’t make it.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Huhhhhh, this is some bullshit. The girls are going to be so disappointed when they find out.” Billie paced back and forth, trying to figure out what to do.
Unbeknownst to her, Uncle Clyde had overheard her entire conversation and decided to take it upon himself to fix the problem. Before she knew what had hit her, he had stepped onto the stage and moved toward the mic.
“’Cuse me! ’Cuse me!” He tapped the microphone with his index finger.
“What the hell?” Billie looked around frantically.
“Oh my God.” Gray placed down her plate.
“Gather ’round, children. Gather ’round,” Uncle Clyde instructed.
All of the kids rushed the stage, excited. Once everyone was settled, Uncle Clyde decided to speak.
“Mic check. One, two, one, two.” He placed his mouth directly on the microphone, causing a loud, screeching nose to echo through the room. “My bad. Check it. My name Uncle Clyde. Now, I got some bad news. Riley Cyrus will not be performing this evening.”
“Awwwwww.” The children groaned.
“But don’t fret. Uncle Clyde is here to save the day. See . . . love is a many splendid thing.” He walked from one end of the stage to the other. “But when the person you done used all yo’ daytime minutes on ’cause she wanna have phone sex play you out like chump”—he locked eyes with Candy—“for a Richard Gere–lookin’ muthafucka, you tend to look at things a li’l differently. So, listen closely, kiddies. You might learn something. DJ Blue, hit it!”
“No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no!” Billie said in horror as the music cued.
Suddenly, the sound of a piano and a beat machine filled the air. Uncle Clyde, with his head down, dramatically stepped up to the mic and took it off the stand. Everyone was silent as he began to the sing the eighties classic, “The Beautiful Ones” by Prince.
“
You make me so confused.
” He pointed angrily toward Candy then fell down to the floor. “
Do you love me, baby? I gotta to know . . . I gotta know.
” He ripped his shirt open and exposed his chest hair. Licking his index finger, he toyed with his right nipple. “Yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Uncle Clyde screamed while lying on his stomach, humping the ground.
You make me so confused.
” He pointed angrily toward Candy then fell down to the floor. “
Do you love me, baby? I gotta to know . . . I gotta know.
” He ripped his shirt open and exposed his chest hair. Licking his index finger, he toyed with his right nipple. “Yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Uncle Clyde screamed while lying on his stomach, humping the ground.
“Mommy, he’s scaring me,” Mina’s daughter Lelah whined, hugging her tight.
“Am I dead?” Billie asked helplessly.
“I don’t know, but this has to be the funniest shit I have ever seen in my life.” Dylan laughed hysterically as Uncle Clyde did a pelvic thrust.
“Billie, I am so sorry.” Gray took her by the hand and apologized. “I told Gunz I didn’t want to bring him. He’s always embarrassing us.”
“At this point, I don’t even care anymore.” Billie shrugged her arms, giving up.
“Let me go get his crazy ass off this stage,” Gray said.
“Can somebody just grab my purse for me?” Billie tried her best not to cry. “I got a bottle of Jack in there.”
“Oh no, Billie, not you too,” Dylan pleaded.
“This is what my life has become. My husband has left me for a—” Billie pointed in Becky’s direction. “Hell, I don’t even know what that is.” She started to cry.
“Don’t cry, friend.” Dylan took her into her arms and held her close. “That fake-ass Ken and wannabe Barbie ain’t even worth it. And neither is State punk-pussy ass,” she said as tears filled her eyes. “Fuck all of them.”
“Okay, this is just too much.” Tee-Tee jumped in, stopping their pity party. “Y’all two are the loneliest, saddest hoes I have ever seen in my life, and frankly, I’m sick of it. Suck it up, bitches, and I know just the way you can do it. We’re going to L.A.!”
“I’ve lost the use of my heart, but I’m still alive.”
—Sade, “Soldier of Love”
Chapter 11
Los Angeles was the home of the young and the reckless, the rich and the famous, Hollywood hot spots, media moguls, and paparazzi run-ins. Some called it Silicone Valley, while most referred to it as the land of broken dreams. The drug of choice was fame. Hollywood starlets frequented The Ivy, but only ate salads and drank Chardonnay. If you didn’t drive a BMW, Benz, Ferrari, or Porsche, you were nobody. Texting on your BlackBerry was considered the normal form of conversation.
At the age of fourteen, Dylan, her mother, and husband number four lived there for two years in the ever famous 90210 zip code. Dylan loved the city of bottle-blondes and Mystic tans. She made it her business to visit at least twice a year.
That Thursday afternoon, Dylan, Billie, and Tee-Tee sat lounging by the pool at The Beverly Hills Wilshire Hotel. Dressed in their flyest swimwear and floppy hats, they sipped on margaritas and did what they know best: talk shit and gossip. But neither Dylan nor Billie could pretend that good conversation, dope outfits, and potent drinks could replace the never-ending ache in their hearts.
Although with her closest friends, Billie felt more alone than ever. Her entire life was changing before her eyes, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. It was a harder pill than she thought she could swallow, to come to the conclusion that Cain just didn’t love her anymore.
Like, damn, is this really the end?
she pondered, taking a sip from her glass.
Like, damn, is this really the end?
she pondered, taking a sip from her glass.
Dylan sat beside her, rubbing sunscreen lotion into her skin, gazing absently at the pool, wondering what State was doing at that exact moment. The last time they spoke, two days after the party, she asked how things were in New York. He said rainy and humid. The next thing she knew, he placed her on hold, and after waiting longer than normal, she finally said fuck it and hung up. Like Billie, she too wondered,
Is this really the end?
Is this really the end?
“Um, don’t y’all be sittin’ over there gettin’ quiet on me,” Tee-Tee warned, wagging his finger.
“Will you shut up? Ain’t nobody doing nothing,” Dylan shot back as her cell phone started to ring. After checking the ID and seeing that it was Morty, she decided not to answer.
“Right?” Billie co-signed.
“So, you gon’ sit up there and look at me wit’ me a straight face and say that y’all ain’t over there cryin’ on the inside thinkin’ about those two low-lives in yo’ life,” Tee-Tee debated.
“No!” they both said at the same time.
“Yeah, right.” He sucked his teeth. “And next you’ll be tellin’ me the sky is green. And where in the hell is yo’ brother?”
“Here he come now.” Billie pointed to the left of her.
Dylan and Tee-Tee looked in that direction and spotted Angel. It was as if he were walking in slow motion. The sun seemed to be making love to his smooth skin. Everything from his hair follicles down to his toenails was on point. Sex instantly came to mind when looking at him. He looked like the type of niggah that would fuck the living daylights out of you and afterward, never even call again. Angel was the type of man every woman dreamed about.
Everything about him screamed heartbreaker and to keep it moving, but Dylan couldn’t take her eyes off of him. He was six feet two, 220 pounds, with skin the color of golden wheat grass. A blue Yankees cap cocked to the left covered his bald head, but enhanced his eyes, which were like pear-shaped diamonds. His full and luscious lips were surrounded by a perfectly lined and trimmed goatee. But the best part of him was his rippled physique. His body was perfectly crafted, like the African warrior he was, and the tribal tattoo that began at his right wrist, traveled up to his shoulder, down his muscular chest, past his pelvis, and ended at his foot, enhanced it even more. Dylan would never admit it, but there were times when she fantasized about him while playing with herself at night.
“Good God almighty.” Tee-Tee clutched his chest. “Boxing does a body good.”
Angel was dressed in nothing but a pair of white-and-blue striped swim trunks and flip flops. A cotton towel was draped leisurely over his shoulder.
Thoughts of how his tongue would feel on hers entered Dylan’s mind. Her cheeks burned bright red, but then a twinge of jealousy hit her when she saw a makeup-less, long-legged Selita Ebanks look–alike reach out and take his hand. The chick was disturbingly good-looking to the point that Dylan felt intimated.
“What’s good?” Angel greeted them.
“I didn’t know you were bringing someone.” Billie cocked her neck back, standing up for a hug.
“Hi to you too, Billie.” He gave her a warm hug. “Billie, this is Miliania. Miliania, this is my sister, Billie, better known as the ignorant one.”
“Also known as the ass-kickin’ one.” Billie stuck out her hand for a shake. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Miliania giggled, unsure if she was playing. “How are you?”
“Fine, and you?” Billie responded skeptically. She was very overprotective of her brother. Gold diggers, skanks, and skeezers seemed to come out of the woodwork once they heard the words heavyweight champion.
“What up, Tee?” Angel shortened his name. He refused to call a grown-ass man Tee-Tee.
“Hey, baby doll.” Tee-Tee pursed his lips and winked.
“Buckshot.” Angel finally looked Dylan’s way. He’d tried to avoid eye contact for as long as possible because he knew once he laid eyes upon her, the feelings he’d tried to bury for years would arise. Dylan was nothing like the women he was usually attracted to. She was self-centered, materialistic, and superficial, yet behind all of that was an innocence that not even designer duds could hide.
“That joke is as old as . . .” She pointed, trying to come up with something quick.
Fuck,
she thought.
she thought.
Pissed that she couldn’t come up with anything to say back, Dylan said, “Aw, go kill ya’self, why don’t you.”
“Dylan!” Billie gasped.
“What?” She rolled her neck. “He started it.”
“So what? That was mean. You need to apologize.”
“I’ll apologize all right . . . when hell freezes over. You know I’m sensitive about the back of my damn head.”
“Calm down. I was just fuckin’ wit’ you and you know it.” Angel laughed. “Whoever fixed your hair did a good job, Halle Scary.”
“See!” Dylan threw her hands up, frustrated.
Angel enjoyed every second of it. He loved getting Dylan riled up. He couldn’t stand that she always tried to play it so cool, like nothing affected her, when really she was as sensitive as a toothache.
“Well, look, it ain’t no more lounge chairs over here, so we gon’ head over to the other side of the pool,” Angel said. “I’ma get at y’all in a minute, though.”
“You make sure you do,” Billie replied as he walked away. She wanted to find out as much info as she could on Miss Miliania.
“It’s good to see you, though, Dylan.” He ran his eyes over her toned legs.
“Mm-hmm,” she replied, transfixed on his washboard abs. Thankfully, her shades covered her eyes.
“Angel new boo hot.” Tee-Tee popped his lips.
“She look a’ight,” Dylan scoffed.
“Quit hatin’. You know shorty is a ten.”
“More like a six-point-five.”
“No you ain’t hatin’,” Tee-Tee said, surprised.
“Chile, please. I’m far from a hater,” Dylan adjusted her hat. “I just call ’em like I see ’em. Plus, I don’t trust women who don’t wear makeup. I always feel like they’re hiding something.”
“Mm-hmm. Sounds to me like somebody just took a sip from the jealous cup.” He looked over at Billie and winked.
“Tee-Tee, get over yourself. Why would I be jealous of a chick I don’t even know?”
“’Cause she got yo’ man.”
“Yeah, okay.” She twisted up her lip. “Homegirl look like a goddamn BMW.”
“BMW?” Billie scrunched up her forehead.
“Yeah . . . body made wrong.”
“You wrong for that.” Tee-Tee laughed hysterically.
“And anyway, to imply that I’m jealous means that I would have to care about who Angel dates, which I clearly don’t, so
Boop
!” Dylan pointed her index finger in his face.
Boop
!” Dylan pointed her index finger in his face.
“Whateva. Tell it to the mirror later on tonight,” he countered.
“Okay, I’ll give it to you. Homegirl is cute, but trust me, and we all know this for a fact: Where there is a beautiful woman, there is a man who is bored as fuck.”
Nearly two thousand people, including news reporters, television crews, journalist, and fans filled the Staples Center for the official announcement of the Carter vs. Sanchez fight. The historic fight would go down November 14 at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. Up on the stage, each fighter, along with their camps, sat on opposite sides of the podium with fierce expressions on their faces. The game of intimidation was in full effect, and Angel was the king at it. He was the type where you could never really tell what he was thinking or feeling.
He always played his cards close to the vest. Maybe that was what Dylan found so intriguing about him. She’d never tell him that, though. Angel was the one man who, in her eyes, was off limits. He was her best friend’s brother, and if things didn’t work out, she’d still have to be around him. On top of that, she’d have to deal with Hurricane Billie if she was the one to break his heart. Besides that, Angel wasn’t the faithful type. He’d had more women in and out of his bed than Hugh Hefner. Hell, State was enough to deal with, and she couldn’t even keep him under control.
After the promoter announced the upcoming bout, questions were asked and photos were taken, everyone in favor of Angel headed that night to L.A.’s premiere hotspot, Katsuya, to celebrate. The place was packed and jumpin’. DJ Samantha Ronson got the crowd hyped. Numerous celebrities from Tobey McGuire to J–Lo and Marc Anthony were there.
While Billie and Tee-Tee mingled, Dylan stayed behind and posted up by the bar, not amused by any of it. Sure, she was excited for Angel, but not even her Brian Atwoods suede Lola pumps could get her into a festive mood. She missed State terribly. Any and everything around her reminded her of him.
Across the room, Angel eyed her while finishing up an interview. Normally he wouldn’t gave a damn about Dylan pouting in the corner, but that night he felt the strong urge to comfort her. He understood that she had a man, but by the somber expression on her face, it was obvious he wasn’t making her happy.
“Excuse me,” he said to the ESPN sports reporter.
Dylan was so lost in memories that she didn’t even notice him coming her way.
“Why you over here lookin’ sad?” Angel spoke in a deep tone.
“Huh?” She looked up from the ground.
“You heard me. You act like somebody stole yo’ bike or something.”
Dylan smiled and released a slight chuckle. “You know damn well I’m not a bicycle kinda girl. And anyway, why do you care? Shouldn’t you be somewhere hemmed up with what’s her name?” Dylan patted her thigh, trying to conjure up the memory.
Angel turned his head and laughed.
“What?” She eyed him.
“You know damn well you know her name,” he challenged.
“Yeah . . . okay,” Dylan sneered, nervous.
Angel was dangerous. He possessed the kind of beauty chicks stupidly threw away their pride for, and Dylan would gladly be one of them. The custom-made grey Hermes crocodile skin hooded jacket, white tee, distressed jeans, Air Yeezy sneakers, and Vestal Plexi watch screamed big bucks, but it was the man inside the clothes that made Dylan so wet.
“But nah, for real, I know when something up wit’ you. Dylan Monroe never plays the bar. What City do to you now?” He gave her a broad grin.
“First of all, his name is State, and how you figure I’m trippin’ off of him?”
“’Cause every time I see you, you always got a fucked-upass look on your face. I mean, ain’t you tired of lookin’ sad? You too pretty for all that. Don’t let a muthafucka take yo’ smile away, especially not a lame-ass niggah like him. And I know we ain’t never been that close, but I figured you were smarter than that to let a muthafucka keep on hittin’ you with the same tired bullshit time and again, but I guess not.” He shrugged.
Infatuated by the fact he thought she was pretty, but pissed that he’d tried to play her on the sly and call her stupid, Dylan stood up straight and said, “Like always, you have no idea what you’re talkin’ about. Me and State are better than ever. As a matter of fact, once he gets back from New York, we’re thinkin’ about moving in together,” she lied. “So why don’t you mind your fuckin’ business. Go listen to ‘Eye of the Tiger, ’ drink some egg yolks, or whateva weird-ass shit you steroid-using muthafuckas do.”
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