Man Swappers (48 page)

She smiles. “Same here. Garrett tells me how close the four of you were growing up.”

“Oh, please,” Persia says teasingly. “We couldn’t stand his big head. Hi, I’m Persia.” She shakes her hand. Porsha introduces herself next.

Garrett pulls Persia into a big hug. “Yeah, right, Apple Head. Tell the truth. You couldn’t stand not having me around.” We share a laugh until this cocoa brown woman walks by, distracting all of us. She’s wrapped in a form-fitting, white silk gown with thigh-high slits that leaves very little to the imagination. Her designer clutch is tucked under her arm. I glance down at her shoes as she sashays by. They’re a gorgeous pair of high-heel, platform ankle-straps in white satin. But it’s not her expensive wears or the blinding diamonds wrapped around her wrist or in her lobes that has us glued to her. It’s her sculpted body, and her humongous ass that has us all mesmerized.

“My God, she’s wearing that dress,” Porsha says, eyeing her.

“Mmmmph, that chile has a whole lot of ass,” Mother says, cutting her eyes over at Daddy who keeps them locked on her backside until she’s out of view. Garrett shifts his eyes when Bianca catches him staring too long.

“Oh, she stops traffic wherever she goes,” Bianca states, stealing a sideways glance at her.

“You know her?” Garrett asks curiously.

“Not personally. I’ve seen her down at Pasha’s salon a few times. Her name is Cassandra. But in the streets they call her Big Booty.”

“And I see why,” Persia says, shaking her head. “If I had her body, I’d be dangerous.”

Mother grunts but is cut off by Daddy. “Oh, look,” he says, pointing toward the back of the tent. “They’re about to start the receiving line.”

We spot Aunt Harriett dressed in a white, ankle-length dress-suit with a portrait collar bolero jacket. She’s first in the receiving line, followed by another woman who I assume to be the groom’s mother. She’s smartly dressed in a bone-colored gown standing next to a man who looks like a taller version of the groom. Standing next to him is Pasha.

“Ohmygod, she looks beautiful,” I whisper to Porsha and Persia. Mother and Father are in back of us, followed by Garrett and Bianca. Pasha looks gorgeous in a white silk, backless, beaded gown with a deep-pleated train. “Her gown looks absolutely stunning from here.”

“I’m so glad she didn’t wear a veil,” Mother says to no one in particular.

Numerous waiters donned in crisp white tuxedo shirts, white slacks and white tuxedo vests walk by offering flutes of Krug, Clos Du Mesnil and Dom Rose—two of the most expensive champagnes—to guests as we wait to move through the line.

Standing next to Pasha is the handsome groom, Jasper, decked out in a black tux with white vest and tie. “I hate to say this, but her man is fine,” Persia whispers in my ear. Porsha and I agree. “I wonder if he has any single brothers.”

“I’m sure he has some in the wedding party,” I say, craning my neck to look past him. Standing next to him is Felecia, who is Pasha’s maid of honor. Next to her are three bridesmaids.

“I don’t see any of the groomsmen,” Porsha says, eyeing the line as she sips her champagne. I tell her it’s optional to have all of the wedding party members in the line, or not.

“With all these guests,” Persia adds, looking around at the line. “We’d be standing in this line for hours if they did.” She grabs another flute of champagne, sitting her empty glass up on the tray when a waiter comes by. I take another glass as well.

As the guests move through the receiving line, they’re then led through an archway that leads into another tent where dinner will be served. I watch as everyone in the bridal party stays focused, smiles painted on their faces, as each guest is greeted. Thirty people ahead of us, the woman with the big ass who Garrett’s fiancée called
Big Booty,
shakes Aunt Harriett’s hand, moving down the line. I watch as she hugs Pasha, then Jasper, kissing him on the cheek.

Porsha and I eye each other with a raised brow. “I bet you these eight-hundred-dollar heels they’ve fucked,” she whispers.

“I hope not,” I say.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he has, though, since he used to cheat on her before he went off to prison,” Persia notes. I watch as she gives Felecia a hug, then says a few words to the three bridesmaids before walking off. “Speaking of groomsmen,” she says in a hushed tone, “there’s two of them right there. And they both look like they might be fine.”

Two men, one tall and dark-skinned and the other the color of caramel, in white tuxedos, walk up to Jasper. The dark-skinned man leans in and whispers something into Jasper’s ear. The three of them share a laugh. I can’t make out who he is since my view
is now being blocked by the other groomsmen and a thin woman and her extremely large date who are shaking hands with Pasha, then saying something to Jasper and the two groomsmen.

As we move closer to the line, the dark-skinned groomsman standing in front of Jasper turns slightly to the side, letting the couple go by. I catch a glimpse of his side profile. Persia abruptly gets out of line, almost knocking over one of the waiters and his tray. I turn in her direction, ask where she’s going. “I gotta use the bathroom.”

“Well, hurry up,” I state, turning back toward the receiving line. I drop my drink, gasping. “Oh my God,” I say in a whisper.

“What is it?” Porsha asks.

“It’s
him
.”

“Who?” Her eyes follow the direction of my stare.

“Desmond,” I whisper as he turns his head in our direction and locks his eyes on mine.

Persia
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

“
C
hampagne?” the waiter asks as I rush by, almost bumping into him. I nod, taking my third flute as I grip my white satin Judith Leiber clutch and race out of the tent. I toss back my drink as I walk-run, gulping down my nervousness. I find refuge in the bathroom, a luxury air-conditioned mobile trailer unit, shutting myself in one of the private stalls.
Ohmyfuckinggod, I don’t believe this shit! My worst nightmare is about to unfold!

“How the fuck am I going to get myself out of this mess?” I ask myself, stepping out of the stall and walking over to the sink. I freshen my lipstick, then smack my lips together. Right now I wish I could click my heels three times and disappear.

Felecia and the girl with the big ass come into the bathroom. “Oh hey, cuz,” Felecia says, walking over and giving me a hug. “I was wondering where you were. Paris and Porsha have been looking for you.”

“Girl, I had to use the bathroom. I’ll catch up to them in a minute.”

“I don’t know if the two of you have met, but this is Cassandra, one of the salon’s most faithful clients. Cassandra, this here is my cousin, Persia.” We exchange customary hellos.

“I spotted you earlier in the cocktail tent,” I say, forcing a smile. “And girl, you’re wearing the hell out of that dress.”

“Oooh, thank you, boo,” she says, smoothing out the front of her dress. “I had to get hit off with a few stacks from one of my young boy toys to…” she stops herself, giving me a confused look. “Wait a minute. I know Mother done tossed back a few rounds, but a bitch ain’t sauced. Now, out there I met twins, right?”

“No, girl,” Felecia says, laughing. “There are three of them.”

I force a smile. “Yes, we’re triplets.”

“Oooh, girl, thank Gawd y’all cleared that up. For a minute I thought I was—”

“You sneaky, lying bitch!” Paris yells, swinging open the bathroom door. “You had to fuck him, didn’t you?”

Felecia blinks.

Cassandra purses her cherry wine painted lips.

“Paris…I didn’t,” I stammer, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

“You didn’t what, Persia? Didn’t mean to suck his dick? Didn’t mean to fuck him? Didn’t mean to trick him into thinking you were
me?
Or you didn’t mean to get caught? Which one is it?”

“I’m—”

“What,
sorry?
Bitch, please. Not this time.”

I cut my eyes over at Felecia and Cassandra, who opens her clutch and turns toward the sink, pulling out her lipstick while watching this whole mess unfold in the mirror. “Paris, let’s not do this here,” I plead. “We can talk about this somewhere more private.”

“Oh, no,
bitch
. We’re gonna talk about this right here, and right now. I don’t give a damn who hears the shit.”

Paris shoots a look over at Felecia whose mouth is wide open. “C’mon, Cassandra,” she says, “Let’s give them some privacy.”

“Oh, no, Miss Fe-Fe, I was here first. You can run along, but I’m stayin’ right here. This is ’bout to be some real juicy shit. And I ain’t missin’ one bit of it.”

Felecia opens her mouth to say something to Paris, but she shuts her down, putting a hand up. “Don’t; not a word. This is between me and my whorin’-ass sister.” She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. One hand is up on her hip and the other pointing a finger at me.

Porsha pushes open the door, racing in. “Paris, no, girl. Not here. This isn’t the place to get into it.”

Paris has a crazed look in her eyes. And if looks could kill, I’d already be dead. She ignores Porsha. “How many times did you fuck him? And where?”

“Paris, please. Let’s not do this here. I promise you. I’ll tell you everything. Let’s go somewhere and talk in private.”

“No, bitch, we’re going to either talk here or fight here. You choose.” I sigh, giving in. The last thing I want to do is get into a fist-fight with my pregnant sister. I tell her nine or ten times. She holds her stomach like she’s going to be sick. “Oh, God. Where?”

I’m so embarrassed that she wants to air this out in front of Felecia and this nosey ass woman with the big ass. “Paris, I realize you’re upset; you have every right to be. But I’m not going to do this with you here. What happened was a mistake.”

“A fucking
mistake
?” she repeats incredulously. “Bitch, are you serious?! You purposefully slept with him. You pretended to be me, fucked him, then gave him
your
phone number and deliberately erased the numbers from my caller ID so I wouldn’t be able to have contact with him. Yeah, bitch, that was Desmond—you know, the man you fucked—standing up there at the receiving line. And when I asked him why he’d stop calling me he told me that
I
broke it off with him. When the fuck did
I
break it off with him, Persia?” I am at a loss for words. “I’m waiting, bitch! I asked you if anyone had called for me and you told me
no
. Then after I told you I was pregnant by him, you still acted like you didn’t know who or what the fuck I was talking about. You’re a fucking lying-ass
bitch! You looked me in my face, knowing you had fucked him behind my back.”

“Paris, I swear to you, I stopped sleeping with him right after you told me and Porsha you were pregnant.”

“And then you still didn’t open your mouth and say shit. So tell me. Was sucking his dick and fucking him worth it to you?”

I steal a glance at Porsha. She glares back at me, eyes smoldering. I can tell she’s pissed, too. Felecia decides she’s heard enough and finally decides to leave. I’m sure so she can run off and start blabbing to everyone. Nosey-ass Cassandra leans back on the sink with her arms folded, determined not to miss a drop of dirt.

I’ve never seen Paris like this. I’m truly hurt, that I’ve hurt her. “Paris, you have to believe me when I say I’m so sorry. I know what I did was—”

“Fuck you, and fuck your goddamn apology, you selfish-ass bitch! I don’t have to believe shit. All I wanna know is how many times you sucked his dick, or let him fuck you in that nasty, whore ass of yours?”

Three other women walk into the bathroom. “Paris, please,” Porsha says, pulling her by the arm. “This is Pasha’s wedding. Let’s deal with this at home. We don’t need anyone else hearing all this.”

She stares at me long and hard. “You know what, you’re right. Let me get the fuck away from this bitch. I don’t know how the fuck she’s getting home, but her ass is
not
riding in the same car with us. The bitch can walk or
suck
her way home as far as I’m concerned.”

She swings open the bathroom door, storming out with Porsha hot on her heels. I turn to look at myself in the mirror, turning on the water. I’m wrecked.

Miss Nosey with the Big Ass toots her lips up. “Oooooh, Miss
Girl, you a real messy one, I see. And I looooove it!” She snaps her clutch shut and heads for the door. She glances over her sholder. “Good luck, boo-boo, ’cause girlfriend looks like she’s gonna whoop that ass.”

Bitch!

Porsha
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

“
F
or the love of God, what in the hell is going on?” Mother asks as soon as we approach the table. “Felecia came over here saying you were yelling and screaming at Persia.”

“Mother, not now,” Paris says, kissing her on the cheek. Then walks over and kisses our father. “We’re leaving. If you want to know what’s going on, ask your messy-ass daughter.”

“Paris,” Mother huffs.

Daddy gives Mother a stern look. “Let her be.”

“I most certainly will not. I want to know what in the hell is this mess about you being pregnant and you fighting with your sister, airing your filth here.”

Paris snatches her clutch from off the table. “Yes, Mother. I am
pregnant.
And I’m keeping it, okay?”

Everyone at the table gasps. Aunt Fanny and Aunt Lucky shoot each other the eye. Mother falls back in her seat, her jaw slack. Daddy lowers his head. This night has gone from bad to worse.

I open my mouth to say something when I spot Desmond walking over toward our table. But he’s already in earshot of everything Paris is saying.

“And that fucking bitch pretended to be me so she could fuck the father of my baby behind my back. Let’s go, Porsha. I’m through.” She spins on her heels, stopping dead in her tracks.
Desmond’s standing in back of her, frozen with shock, hearing that she’s pregnant.