Chapter 17 Raya
Raya
Lemme go see what these two bitches are talking about.
I’m only doing this for Ace. For some reason, he wants me to have girlfriends. I think he thinks it’s gonna make me normal, whatever that means, so I’m humoring him. If I can sit through a night with his raggedy ass family, I can meet up with these two random hoes.
They smile when they see me approaching. They look cute, too. Tiffany’s rocking a faux fur stole that I wouldn’t mind wearing myself, and Katrina has on a newsboy cap and a white button down shirt with a tie. She’s pulling it off, too.
“Yes, blazer!” Tiffany says when I sit down. “I love me a good blazer.”
“What you drinkin’?” Katrina asks as she waves a hand at the waitress.
They look surprised when I order a sparkling water, but that’s what I do when I’m around people I don’t know well. I stay in my right mind.
“Okay, so, I wanted to tell you I’ve been practicing being strict,” Tiffany announces.
“Give me an example.”
“The other day, Bron said he wanted to see me. Now, usually, I’ll be like yay! We can go here and do this and that! But this time…” she trails off, pausing for dramatic effect. “This time, I played it cool. I said, 'I wanna see you, too. I’m free this weekend. Let me know what you have in mind.'”
I nod proudly. “Very good. And what did he come up with?”
“We went bowling.”
They wait for me to react, and I wait, too, because I’m tempering my reaction. I know exactly what I wanna say, but if I wanna be friends with these girls, I’m gonna have to be nice. As nice as possible. For me. Within reason.
The waitress brings my water, and after a few sips, I clear my throat and say, “Did you like that?”
“It was cool,” she says. “Why?”
“I mean…if you like it, I love it.”
They exchange glances.
“Come on out with it,” Katrina says, laughing. “We’re not sensitive.”
I chuckle at that. “If you like bowling, cool. Has he taken you to dinner yet?”
“Um…not yet. Our first date was coffee—“
I can’t help the noise that comes out of me.
“What?” Tiffany’s eyebrows raise.
“Coffee? Girl.”
“But I like coffee.”
I shake my head. “Yall gotta stop letting these niggas get over on you. You’re, what, twenty-five years old?”
“Twenty-seven,” she corrects.
“Bron is at least thirty, and he’s gainfully employed. I bet your fucking lip gloss costs more than a raggedy ass cup of coffee, right?”
She nods slowly.
“Look, you might like grabbing a latte on a date, and yay for you and that. But all I’m saying is that I’ve never had coffee on a first date, because every nigga that’s ever suggested that shit has ended up taking me to dinner, because I’m not getting all dressed up and looking all fine to go sit in a fucking Starbucks.
” I pause to calm myself down. “And do you know what they tell me?”
They both lean forward slightly.
“They tell me, ‘Usually I just do coffee for first dates, but I had to come correct with you.’ Which lets us know one thing: These niggas can’t take every woman they wanna fuck to dinner, but they’re willing to take somebody. Is it gonna be you, or the next bitch?”
Tiffany sits back in her chair, her mouth hanging open. “You just fucked my head up a little bit.”
“Good. I wanted to slap you, but we just met.”
They burst out laughing at that, which feels kind of good, to be honest.
When the waitress returns to take our order, I tell her I want the shrimp po’ boy with truffle fries. And a lemon drop, because we’re vibing a little bit.
“Yall be wanting to fall in love,” I say. “That will come, maybe. But dating? Dating is a game. You gotta play to win, and you ain’t winning over coffee. Trust me.”
Tiffany nods, and the topic changes to our outfits.
Apparently these girls are in Shein from head to toe, and I find that very impressive, because I can never manage to find anything on there that doesn't look cheap.
Maybe I should just order some shit and style it high low. I like to think I can rock anything.
The food comes, and I'm drinking, and I don't know…maybe having friends is cool after all.
“So what’s it like being married?” Katrina asks.
“It’s cool. I’m in love. He’s in love.” I smile a little at the thought of it. “It’s pretty simple. I keep him on his toes, he makes mine curl.”
“Period.” Tiffany bites into her catfish sandwich, makes a face, and sets it down. “That’s cold.”
Cuz you’ve been yapping, I think to myself, but I turn to flag down our waitress. My new friend shouldn’t have to eat cold food.
“Yes?” she says as she walks up.
“My friend’s sandwich came out cold. Can you bring her another one?”
“Oh. Um. Well it has cold ingredients on it. See, there’s lettuce, aioli, cheese. That stuff is cold.”
I stare at her, unblinking and unimpressed.
“But yeah, I can bring out a hot piece of catfish to put on it. Would that be fine?”
I look at Tiffany. She nods.
“Great. Be right back!”
I would have made her bring a whole new sandwich, but different strokes.
“So do you guys argue?”
“Of course,” I say. “But it never lasts long. We get over shit pretty fast, actually. Ace is mature like that. He’s the type to sit me down and be like, I don’t wanna walk around not speaking to you. Let’s work this out.”
“See, that’s what I’m talking about," Katrina says. "The niggas I mess with, they can’t communicate for shit.”
“Do better. That’s it and that’s all. You get to decide who has access to you. Why are you giving them access if they aren’t doing what you want?”
They both make surprised Pikachu faces like this is groundbreaking information instead of common fucking sense.
"I'm so glad Bron put us together," Tiff says like he set us up on a date. "We were laughing about you the other night."
"Laughing at what?"
"I was telling him I like how you seem like you don't take no shit. And he agreed and told me what you said on the porch."
I lift a shoulder. "Had to be done."
They both laugh.
"Yeah, Bron said he can't wait to see how you handle that lady at his job.”
"Whose job?"
"Ace!"
I stop mid-chew, my food sitting like rocks in my mouth.
But I recover fast, quickly realizing she doesn’t know any details.
It’s pointless to dig into this with her and risk exposing a weakness in my marriage.
So I just nod and finish chewing this last bite of po’ boy, which is completely tasteless at this point.
After lunch, there’s really nowhere for me to go but straight to the site.
That lady at his job.
That lady? At his fucking job?
This is partly my fault.
I dropped the ball.
Right after we got married, I did my research on every bitch at the site.
There were only three, so it was easy work.
Jennifer, the on-site office manager; Fernanda, the accountant who only visits once or twice a week; and Nia, the payroll administrator.
She also only spends a few days a month at the site.
So this new bitch, this mystery woman, is a fucking problem.
And so is my husband.
Because why the fuck would he hide her from me? Is he fucking her?
I don’t really believe that. I lowkey wanna believe it, because at least that’s an easy omission to understand. Of course you don’t want your wife to know about your side bitch. That puzzle piece fits perfectly.
And I know exactly how I’d punish the both of them for that crime.
But if he’s not fucking her, it’s almost worse, because that means he’s hiding her for reasons I can’t understand, which means whatever it is, he doesn’t trust me with the information.
I can’t be married to a man who doesn’t trust me.
I chuckle at that thought, because I know, and he knows, and even God knows I’m never leaving that man and he ain’t leaving me—unless it’s in a body bag. And even then, I’d probably just go with him so we could be together eternally.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I pull up across the street from the site. I can’t park there like I used to, because everybody knows my car now. I’m the boss’ wife, for fuck’s sake.
I’m on a stealth mission, just like the good old days before I had him. I almost giggle in anticipation when I reach over to unlock the glove box.
There they are.
My trusty binoculars.
Damn, I should have ordered something to go from the restaurant, because I have no idea how long I’ll be out here waiting. Oh, well. If I have to starve, I will.
Turns out, I don’t even have time to pull up a playlist on my phone. The bitch walks right out, and I know it’s her, because neither Jennifer nor Fernanda nor Nia are as fine as this fabulous cunt. The sight of her makes my jaw drop, that’s how good she looks.
Oh, fuck no.
Ain’t no way.
The sew-in is perfection. The monochromatic pine green look—turtleneck, pencil skirt, and coat—is insane. Of course she's wearing red bottoms, and that YSL bag on her arm is the cherry on top.
If he’s fucking that bitch, they’re both dead. Seriously. Dammit, now I believe it’s actually a possibility.
My Fitbit notifies me that my heart rate is high. One-hundred twenty-eight beats per minute.
I wish I could calm down.
She swaggers to her car. Looks like a gleaming red BMW, which makes sense for a flashy bitch. Now, she’s inside. Of course she looks at herself in the mirror first, probably checking to see if my husband’s cum is on her face.
Calm down, Raya.
Relax.
I take a deep breath.
Then I spot him.
What the fuck?
Walking out right behind her? How obvious can he be?
Then something strange happens.
My eyes are wet. There are tears in them.
I don’t understand this feeling. I mean, I still feel rage, but now, on top of it, I feel something more emotional. I feel…it’s pain.
Which only makes the rage worse.
My hands are shaking when I pick up my phone. I take a few more deep breaths, then I navigate to Ace’s number. My thumb hovers over the icon as a tear spills down my cheek. I almost wanna kill myself right here for letting that happen, for letting a man do this to me yet again.
Why do I even bother believing?
I exit out of that. There’s nothing to say.
But there are things to do.
For instance, I could drive over to his parents’ house and finish what I started six months ago.
Actually, I don’t even have to do that. I have something else.
I navigate to Mr. Jackson’s contact and hit the text bubble icon. Then the picture icon. Only it’s not a picture.
It’s a video.
I tap it, smiling at the thumbnail. It’s me, with Ace’s dick in my mouth. In all my eater glory. I remember how I felt when I recorded it. I loved pleasing him. I loved the way it felt in my mouth, filling my jaws with his meat, and, eventually, my throat with his cum.
I bet Mr. Jackson would enjoy watching it, too.
Let’s see.
But once again, my shaking thumb hovers over the send button as my Fitbit sends another alert.
I’m second-guessing myself.
And Ace didn’t get in the car.
I grab my binoculars with my other hand and lock in. He’s rummaging around in his car for something. He comes back out with a file folder. Now he’s walking back to the site.
I shake my head and let my phone drop onto my thigh.
Deep down, I know this isn’t the way. Not now.
Not after I just got done telling my new friends that my husband is mature, and that he communicates with me.
I’m right to be pissed off about this, but do I really wanna do something that will put us right back at square one? I don’t even know what’s going on.
I should give him a chance to communicate with me first, and once I have all the information, then I can decide what to do.
When I get home, I’ll just…ask him. Straight up, point blank. Then I’ll go from there.
That’s mature of me.
I’m growing up.
I pick my phone back up and back out of the disaster I almost just caused.