The Cheating Curve Read Online Free PDF Page A

ebony skin with long eyelashes that’d give M.A.C falsies a run for their money, and unruly naturally curly hair, were the equivalent of kryptonite.
    Shit, Lang thought.
    “Look, ma, I was wrong for what I said back there,” he said, still holding on to her arm. “But I saw a spark in your eyes, and for real, I still see it. I’m not gonna front. I even feel it right now.”
    “I—I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lang stuttered.
    He smiled. He knew he had her. Mrs. Composed-in-Designer-Clothes-from-her-Head-to her-Toes was indeed feeling him back. “Look, it’s not really my style to approach women in coffee shops,” he said, finally releasing her arm. “I don’t usually approach women, period. I’ve never had to. And if I had seen that ring before I’d looked into your eyes and seen what I saw—no offense, ma, but I never woulda stepped to you either. But it’s too late for all that now.”
    “Too late? What is it you think you saw?” Lang asked curiously.
    “Oh, I know what I saw,” Dante responded firmly.
    Just then Lang’s cell phone had rung. It was her assistant, Merrick. It was production week at Urban Celebrity, and they needed her to sign off on some layouts so the files could be sent to the printer that evening.
    “I’m right downstairs. I’ll be right up,” she’d said and hung up her phone.
    “Lemme see that,” Dante said, taking her Motorola right out of her hands. Dante punched in his number and dialed himself from her phone. When he saw her number show up on his caller ID, he asked for her name and then stored it in his phone.
    “Lang,” he repeated. “I like that. Well, Lang, I know you gotta get back to work. So I’ll give you a call later this evening.” He’d turned to walk back in the direction of Starbucks.
    “Wait, I don’t even know your name.”
    “Yeah, but you have my number, and I got yours.”

Chapter 4
    “I can separate sex from love. Though we as women are not socialized to do so, I can and that doesn’t make me a bad woman or a bad wife.”
    L angston and Aminah leisurely nursed steamy cups of mediocre coffee not too long after finishing off their second helpings from the brunch bar. The striking duo looked like an Essence summer fashion spread shot on a sidewalk café. Aminah’s fuchsia jersey knit halter top and matching skirt couldn’t compete with her curves. She had the kind of measurements that commanded a bodacious “Daaamn!” from men and women alike. Though her weight fluctuated with the seasons and the state of her marriage, she was genetically blessed; her waist was usually proportioned twelve inches smaller than her ample D-cup bust and shapely hips, allowing her to maintain an hourglass figure whether she wore a size six or a size ten. This summer she was a healthy 38-26-38. While Fame modestly took credit for making her ass a “hi-C,” it was her hundred-squats-per-day regimen that deserved the props for her lifted C-shape booty.
    Aminah routinely wore her shiny black hair, slicked back with Aveda’s sweet-smelling hair gloss, in a long, sleek ponytail, à la Sade. She missed wearing her thick, long hair natural, but Fame insisted she keep it bone straight. “It’s a good look,” he’d say. “It complements my image. I don’t want anyone mistaking you for some chew-stick, incense-burning bag lady. You’re the wife of a successful, self-made millionaire, not the wife of some wannabe poet in the struggle. Look like it.”
    Langston stood modelesque at five-ten with perky 36Cs, a small waist, nice ass, and long legs that rivaled Naomi Campbell’s. Combine all those assets with high cheekbones, pouty lips, and a copper reddish brown complexion, and it was no wonder that most people assumed she actually was some kind of a model. Lang would have considered the modeling profession, but she had absolutely no desire to deal with all the potential rejection and negative energy. She preferred to be complimented, not