Real Wifeys: Get Money Read Free

water it and cut the stem to give it as much life as I could. And even when it died, I would press the rose in my memory book and keep it for the rest of my life.
    Like I said, I loved that ninja.
    Bzzz . . . Bzzz . . . Bzzz . . .
    I looked down at my vibrating BlackBerry. I couldn’t lie. I felt mad disappointed that it wasn’t my man, my heart, my love, Make$, calling.
    Not really in the mood to yap it up with my cousin Eve, I let the phone go to voice mail. That chick was all about her three G’s: gambling, gossiping, and going shopping. I was enjoying my wine-and-dine with Goldie, and even if I wasn’t, sitting on the phone talking about how much she won at bingo, cute clothes, or rumors about this one and that one was irrelevant to me.
    Not like my heart.
    That was mad important.
    “So there’s no one you would risk it all for?” I asked.
    Goldie pushed back her chair and crossed her legs in the distressed denims she wore with a pair of navy suede heels that perfectly matched the color of the jean. I didn’t need to see the bottoms to know they were red-lacquered. “Honestly, I was really feelin’ this dude I was in business with, a dude named Has. Fine motherfucka. Dreads. Tall. Dark. Swagger. Nigga was on ten for real. But . . . I’m glad I followed my head and not my clit, because a few months later that nigga got caught up in a Fed raid and I’m not the prison-wifey type, you know? Writing letters, putting pussy on lock, sending care packages, and putting my hard-earned money on his books and shit? Nah, I’ll pass.”
    She picked up her cell phone and scrolled through it with her thumb before she pushed the BlackBerry across the table at me. I turned it around and looked down at the photo of a dude with long, neat and slender dreads. The picture wasn’t that clear, but there was no denying that this tall man posted up outside a corner store was hella fine. I pushed the BlackBerry back at her.
    “It’s blurry ’cause I snuck and took a picture of him when he wasn’t looking and he moved,” she said, looking down at the picture. The look she made, twisting up her mouth and waving her hand to fan herself, made me laugh.
    “But . . . I still think about what if,” she admitted, picking up the billfold our waitress sat on the table. “I just know that nigga can do a serious fuckdown. He walk like he gotta keep his thighs open ’cause his dick swinging. You know? One of them dangerous dicks.”
    Their waitress smiled as she began to clear our plates.
    Goldie winked up at her as she slid a folded fifty-dollar bill into the woman’s lean hand. “That’s your tip. I don’t care what they say—you don’t split your shit,” she said with a “so there” look.
    I gathered up my bag, keys, and BlackBerry as the waitress thanked Goldie. She always tipped heavy—probably remembering her days on her feet at Dino’s.
    “Did Make$ talk to you about Goldie’s Girls dancing for him?” Goldie asked, sliding on a pair of oversize shades as we left the restaurant.
    My steps faltered and I flashed back to my birthday party last month. I’d walked outside to find Goldie and Make$ talking alone. That shit had fucked with my head and had me feeling some kind of way for a sec, like “What’s up with this shit?” I couldn’t help it: Goldie was the type of chick you imagined every man wanted.
    I questioned Make$ later that night but he got me straight that a redbone, half-breed chick like Goldie wasn’t his type. He liked that deep chocolate he found all over me. And that night I fucked and sucked him extra hard just in case he forgot the quality of pussy he had at home.
    “When did that go down?” I asked as we strutted in our stilettos to our cars. A spring breeze pressed our clothes against our bodies and these two white guys—probably Portuguese—took in the free show.
    We both deactivated our alarms. Boo-doop. Hers a convertible cherry-red Lexus, and I was whipping Make$’s shiny black Jaguar XF