Chapter 4
Perhaps the stupidest thing a child could do is stomp their feet, throw a tantrum, fume at their parents, and wish to be grown up.
Because to answer Paramore’s proposed question, no, it ain’t fun.
There’s an endless stream of bills you’re accounted for, heartache from lovers and the world itself, obligation, and unless you become a brain surgeon or rocket scientist, the ever-present feeling of being a complete disappointment in your parents’ eyes.
Those were my grievances, and this was my life story.
When I first went to college, I wanted to be a psychiatrist, and then I discovered it wasn’t for me.
So I decided I wanted to be a journalist instead, only to learn that that wasn’t for me either.
So next I was curious about creative writing, and yup, you guessed it, that didn’t feel like me whatsoever.
Finally, after my sophomore year, I realized maybe school wasn’t for me.
So, like Kanye, I became the College Dropout. And much like Kanye’s late-mother, my parents were greatly—and still—displeased with this decision. Words were said and we fell out. I was just now getting back cool with them, a tough feat seeing how the house I lived in I rented from them.
My parents had two houses at one point, one they owned completely, and another they were still paying on. When I’d gone to school, they let me stay in the second house while they footed all the bills so that I could focus on school. Of course, that was when things were fine between us.
They told me if I left school they would charge me rent and I’d have to pay my own utilities.
There was never a pause for me. I landed on my ass out of school and had to get up and figure my shit out.
At one point, I worked at a supermarket and I waitressed.
I did these things with my head held high.
I made sure I was never late or short on rent, and I didn’t accept any invitation over to their house for dinner.
I understood, and respected, their need to show me I had to work if I wasn’t in school, but I couldn’t respect their choice of words when I’d dropped out.
I tried to be the antithesis to all that I’d known. We had a dog growing up, so I kept Scor. I watched bad movies, I listened to dirty rap, and I ate whatever I felt like whenever I felt like. And, stupidly, I dated the guy my parents wouldn’t have approved of.
Nobody said all things done in rebellion were smart.
In the aftermath of it all, I didn’t regret too much. Even in my loneliest moments I held on to my pride.
Scorsese jumped on to my bed and came and snuggled into the crook of my arm as I lay back Monday evening.
My parents and I were just becoming cordial again, but still, deep down, each time I got around them I felt the stab of failure.
In their eyes, Shéc had been handed to me à la Paisley’s parents, but in reality, while the Parkers bought the storefront for us, we had to get it up and running, something not entirely easy.
As I lay back in bed Monday night after closing up shop, I felt spent.
Even in all my fatigue, I felt complete. Despite their doubt, Shéc was becoming a success. Outside of being able to keep the lights on, I was mainly happy with our growing loyal customer base. I loved helping women pick out the perfect ’fit. I loved clothes.
I ran a business, yes, but I didn’t care about money, or, I wasn’t money motivated.
I wanted to be comfortable while doing what I loved, not massively rich for the sake of wealth.
I never got into songs where rappers—male or female—talked about money over everything, because money wasn’t everything—at least to me.
There were times when Corey would cheat and whenever I got upset he would go out and buy me something.
As if my feelings and forgiveness could be bought.
The happiness I got out of helping customers make themselves over, or simply find a flawless look for the day or evening, was enough for me. Running the boutique alongside my best friend was enough for me. This life I lived made me feel content.
Mostly.
I was watching The Golden Girls. From my youth, I’d always admired and wanted to be Blanche, but in reality, I was a total Rose. A little ditsy, but with a heart of gold. God bless Betty White.
It wasn’t too late in the evening, leaving me to question if I started a movie, would I fall asleep during it or see it through.
In my spare time I ran a movie blog. Nasty Noir.
It wasn’t anything fancy or highbrow, just my take on movies I watched.
I had a small following, some who would fill my inbox with suggestions.
I tried to stay away from romance, but you couldn’t avoid it.
The thing about romance when you’re single?
It was torture. Unrealistic torture. So, I put off my monthly lovey-dovey movie for another day.
Instead, I gathered my remote and queued up The Devil Wears Prada, interested in the plot of a young woman trying to make her way into journalism by taking a shortcut through the fashion industry and working at a fashion magazine.
I always kept my phone close to me while I watched movies to take notes. Right away as the movie began I was typing up a frenzy and we weren’t even ten minutes into the film.
Why did the women in these types of movies have to start out so homely before they inevitably got their bad bitch makeover?
Why couldn’t they start off a baddie? Let’s be honest, the only thing stylish about Anne Hathaway’s character after her makeover was her hair.
The entire fashion style of the movie was so 2006, back when trucker hats were cool.
Bland sense of style or not, I stuck it through and finished the movie with Scorsese by my side.
Its overall take on my Nasty scale? Two and a half stars—or tongues, since I used a cheeky rating system.
I never felt connected to Anne’s character enough to care.
And then there was Meryl Streep’s character.
I didn’t understand the need for CEOs or bosses to be these tyrannical assholes.
The world moved better when everyone was kind, nice—human.
A childish thought, I knew, but come on.
I typed up some quick thoughts and planned to fully write more in the morning during my shift.
Soon, I fell back as my mind drifted to him. The stranger I’d met earlier during my trip to the gym.
He was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. The living embodiment of a Black Ken doll with his structured face, smoldering dark eyes, nice teeth, low cut with deep waves, and well maintained low-beard.
Ezekiel.
He had a biblical name, but I doubted there was anything else holy about him. Something about his demeanor and his smile said his dick was big, and he knew it too. I bet it was beautiful, the holy grail of pleasure. Looks alone, he was definitely giving what needed to be received.
His voice was deep and smooth, like chocolate. He spoke my name with such richness I felt a sugar high all the way to my car.
Everything about him was tempting. If there was one thing about me, I loved them tall, and I loooved arms. After I’d rejected Ezekiel, I’d snuck and watched him for a moment as he went on to work out.
There was something sexy as hell about a man who could do pull-ups.
And he did them with grace, too. He had a tattoo, a sleeve on one arm with an intricate pattern that snaked underneath his navy muscle shirt.
He was gorgeous. He was tall. He had nice arms. And why was I letting it all pass me by?
Leaning over the side of my bed, I dug in my purse for—there it was.
I lay back and examined the golden VIP pass Ezekiel had given me that granted all access into the club and into the Diamond Suite.
That was the thing about the BLVCKJVCK nightclub, apparently it was designed and distinguished by playing card suits.
Each section of the club was a different house.
I was curious about that. It was honestly unique and creative.
I wasn’t the clubbing type. That was more Paisley’s realm than mine. Still, a free night out wouldn’t hurt.
But did I want to see Ezekiel again? I’d been in a mood earlier, and he’d handled it well, not snapping at me or becoming rude.
As good-looking as he was, I hadn’t been with a man since Corey and I split last August. I wasn’t sure if I could ever trust again.
I was particularly over men—boys who referred to women as “females” or worse, “joints.” The kind that were quick to call their friends “king,” but their conquests “bitches,” “hos,” and the like.
Corey was like that, except when it came to me, I was his “girl.” And I thought that made me special, until eventually I was his “joint.”
As I stared at the golden pass, my mind split in two. I could go and just enjoy myself with Paisley and if I bumped into Ezekiel, it was whatever, or, I could throw the pass away and wash my hands of it.
I grabbed my phone and clicked on Paisley’s number in my recent call log and stared up at the ceiling as the phone rang out.
“What’s up?” She picked up quickly.
“What are you doing this weekend?” I asked her.
“I have no idea, why?”
I fiddled with the laminated card in my hand. “I got invited to BLVCKJVCK. The owner’s son gave me a free pass that gets us into VIP even.”
“Looks like I’m busy Friday night kickin’ it with you.”
I chuckled. “I don’t know, I could just give it to you and you go and have fun.”
On her end, Paisley heaved a sigh, and I knew I was done for. “Was he cute?”
Beyond words. “Very.”
“And now you’re overthinking when we could be out drinking and having fun,” she chastised me. “I knew those flowers were going to set you back.”
The flowers, that lovely arrangement of roses, had mysteriously disappeared by the time I’d gotten back from the gym. It wasn’t until I was taking out trash after closing that I found them in the dumpster.
Paisley was a savage.