Naughty or Nice Read Online Free PDF

“I didn’t know there was another room.”
    André said, “That bar is hopping.”
    â€œOh, damn,” I said. “There’s another bar?”
    André pointed toward a narrow opening that I assumed was for employees only.
    I should’ve rushed away and looked for my Denzel, but I couldn’t leave. Something was anchoring me here with Nick. A strong current with an unbreakable undertow.
    â€œMan, you missed it. This fat, gap-toothed motherfucker . . . looked like Yoko Ono with a jacked-up Afro . . .” André was on a roll, cracking up, “. . . like Professor Klump in a tight red suit . . . and a green polka-dot bow tie . . . motherfucker dressed like a Christmas present to a Muslim. I’m putting that shit in my script.”
    André couldn’t stop laughing. He fanned himself and told Nick he’d be right back, headed toward the bathroom, left me and my old potential A-list lover by ourselves.
    Nick said, “We need to keep in touch.”
    There was a moment between us, or maybe it was just me. Things we did together, the old pictures and birthday cards I still have in a shoebox, all those thoughts gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling.
    My mouth opened to say we should keep in contact, that I missed him, stuff like that.
    But I don’t know what the hell happened; something went wrong . . . went south inside of me.
    I said, “Well, I don’t think I’d want my husband keeping in touch with women he used to sleep with. And, I’m here with somebody. So that would be disrespectful, don’t you think?”
    â€œAs friends, that’s all I was saying.”
    There was another moment of silence. Something about the way he said that made me feel so small. Like what had happened between us . . . like it didn’t happen.
    â€œWe fucked, Nick.” Those words came out of me so fast that I thought somebody was snapping out my thoughts. It jarred me as much as it did him. “Nick, keep it real, and we can walk away with a little respect. We were never friends. At least you were never mine.”
    â€œWhat? We ran together, we read each other’s work—”
    â€œI would’ve had the decency to tell you I was getting married, or invited you to the wedding. You know how I found out? Was flipping through Ebony, and bam, an article about you—and your wife. Kinda whacked. Even if I didn’t invite you, I would’ve told you.”
    There it was. What was behind my smile. The resentment. I put it out there, very abrupt, very hard. There was bitterness, some I didn’t really know about until now.
    That hit him hard. But my own words had left me rattled.
    The worst kind of ex was an ex who didn’t know he was an ex.
    He said, “So, if you saw the article in Ebony  . . . then you knew I didn’t marry Nicole.”
    Ooops. And just like that, my little faux pas had risen, and here I was—straight busted. Yeah, I knew about him and the African wife. And yeah, I reminded him about the woman who rejected his ass. Maybe the part of me that was hurting wanted to open up the part of him that used to hurt. Damn. There I was, being a petty bitch in high heels. An abrupt numbness made me feel two inches tall. For the first time in a long time, I was speechless.
    â€œIt’s cool.” He nodded. “Take care, Frankie.”
    â€œWait. Nick.” I opened my purse. “Here’s my card. Keep in touch, if you like.”
    Nick raised his palms; his smile wounded, his eyes vexed, told me that it was nice seeing me again, wished me much success and moonwalked away, left me standing like a statue of rejection and holding my damn card in my hand.
    Damned penetration always changed everything.
    Nobody wanted to be on someone’s B- or C-list, especially if they were on your A-list.
    Â 
    The secondary bar was hidden like Bruce Wayne’s