Put Your Diamonds Up! Read Online Free PDF

my shoulders, and the ends that travel to the small of my back are a five-thousand-dollar infusion weave of Brazilian virgin hair; no matter how many times I explain this to you, you don’t get it. And when we’re doing the naked twerk—you keep. Yanking. My hair. Back!
    Why are you doing that?
    You cannot be all up in my hair like that! That is sooooo whack. And I suggest you don’t do that with the next chick you get with, ’cause she may not be as kind as me and the next thing you know you’ll wake up with your face bashed in!
    Black women don’t play that!
    Anyway, boo, be easy. I’ve left five hundred dollars on the nightstand, just in case you spent all your money on me tonight.
    Sweet kisses,
    Rich
    I placed the letter in the fresh indent I’d left on the mattress, carried my heels in my hand, eased out of the door, and prayed that the sound from the automatic locks clicking in place didn’t wake Justice.
    I had exactly twenty-seven-and-a-half minutes to make it home, be seen by my mother when she made her morning visit to my room, shower, change, and be dressed for school. And I needed to get to school early. Especially since the new red carpet was being laid today and I was head of the Red Carpet Committee. Hollywood High was red-carpet fabulous. And as I was chairwoman of the RCC, I liked to keep things fresh and new; hence the new carpets. Last time, the headmistress . . . well, the headmaster . . . well, same thing, tried to get away with keeping the same red carpet past its expiration date. Umm, how about no. Did he think I wouldn’t notice?
    Well, I did. The moment I stepped onto the carpet, my six-inch heels sank straight to the bottom and I could smell the filth. And I would not have it. After I threatened to call the alumni association, the board of directors, and the health department, he got his mind together. And promised me and my Richoids—a select few from my stable of fans—that the new carpet would be laid today and I could do the honors at the ribbon-cutting ceremony.
    I couldn’t wait! I had my publicist arrange the press coverage.
    I had my Parisian stylist fly me in the flyest and the sleekest maple-brown Louis Vuitton stretch leather leggings and sleeveless A-line eggshell-colored blouse—that flowed with the L.A. breeze. The collar was a large, flimsy, chic bow that tied to the side and the loose hem stopped at my hip. My earrings were five-karat pink diamond studs, my stack of beaded bracelets were all pink and brown sapphires, and of course my handbag was an exclusive Louis Vuitton clutch. From the private collection. Don’t hate. That’s just how the gawds have blessed me to do it.
    Fabulously.
    I raced to my custom-made, crisp white Hennessey Venom Spyder, tossed my heels onto the passenger seat, floored the accelerator, and took off for the highway, never looking back. The Justice part of my life was behind me. Literally. Besides, I met this Latino cutie the other day at the Pink Lounge, and have mercy—sweet angel over sex appeal—this sugar pop was right and ripe. Ready for the plucking. We kicked it a little. He twirled a few curls in my hair. We tossed back a few shots of tequila. And with tequila being my weakness, I gave in to one of my damsel-in-distress fantasies and allowed this sweet butter-pecan Puerto Rican to melt all over me.
    I placed the air conditioner on full blast as I felt a heated rush take over my body.
    Mary, Joseph, and Raheem! After that night I had to say at least twenty Rosaries and go to three separate confessions—and I’m not even Catholic.
    If only I remembered his name and had gotten his number, I could call him again. But I didn’t. I told him my name was Sasha Fierce and that I was passing through on my way to Africa.
    Needless to say, after that I was bored with Justice and realized that I needed to be a faithful virgin again. Which meant I needed to only be with my