The Ex Factor: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

Michael Jackson's ‘Bad’ on stage, bust a split and coughed his teeth out. Wait a minute, baby, my phone is ringing.” Starr looked at the caller ID. “It's Celeste. Monica, let me hit you back in a second.” And she clicked the walkie off.
    They are crazy as hell
, Monica thought. She grabbed her robe and as Sharief walked out of the bathroom she walked in.
    After a quick shower, Monica slipped on a short black satin spaghetti-strap nightgown. She slowly walked down the stairs, bracing herself for when the midsummer heat attacked her.
    Sharief was lying back on the couch, dressed in army fatigue shorts and a wife beater. He was watching an ESPN Classic boxing match. It was a little after midnight, and the heat was sweltering. The air-conditioning unit on the first floor had conked out last week, forcing Monica to use four fans, one in each corner of the room.
    Monica lived in a small two-story corner row house. Although the place was small, it was laid. The living room had an Afrocentric flare to it. A red suede couch rested against an exposed brick wall; hanging directly above was a South African mud-cloth throw with fringed edges. Cattycorner to the couch was a matching love seat filled with an abundance of mud-cloth pillows. Five-foot-tall candles were at both ends of the couch. An elephant-shaped coffee table with a glass top and a bowl of marbles complemented the hard wooden floors. There were African statues placed sporadically around the room. Directly across from the couch and above the fireplace was a forty-six-inch plasma TV, and on both sides were six-foot-tall glass shelves where Monica kept her collection of elephants and Annie Lee figurines. Down the hall from the living room was an L-shaped kitchen and a small bathroom. Upstairs was Monica's bedroom, her office, and a full master bath.
    Monica went in the kitchen and took out two frosted bottles of Heineken. She handed one to Sharief. “You know I don't drink,ma,” he said, tapping her on the ass. “Just give me some water.” He handed her back the beer.
    “Damn, baby. Loosen up,” she said.
    “I'm good, ma, I just choose not to drink.”
    “All right.” Monica walked into the kitchen and placed the beer back in the refrigerator. She grabbed Sharief a bottle of spring water and came back into the living room.
    “Monica.” Sharief twisted the cap off the water bottle.
    “Yes.” She lay between his legs with her back against his chest.
    “Let me ask you a question.”
    “Shoot.” She took a sip and then ran the cold bottle across her forehead.
    “You still wanna fuck ole boy?”
    “What?” She was caught off guard. “Why?”
    “Because I'm wondering, if the dick was bangin', would it make a difference with us?”
    “Us? Oh, now there's an us? Besides, who said the dick
wasn't
bangin'? Men kill me. Just 'cause your dick game is decent, you swear all others fall behind you.”
    “I ain't saying all that.”
    “Well hell, you damn sure insinuated it. Let me inform you, a niggah with a big dick and a niggah you want for your man are two totally different things.”
    “Really.” Sharief smirked, taking a sip. “I always thought that most women equated a big dick to wedding vows.”
    “Oh my God!” Monica rolled her eyes. “You are such an ass-hole.”
    Sharief laughed. “I'm an asshole? I'm not an asshole. It's not my fault that ole boy nut in under a minute,” he said with confidence.
    “Whatever.”
    “So tell me,” Sharief took another sip, “is ole boy coming to your mother and Red's wedding?”
    “I invited him.” She took a sip of her beer. “Is your wife going to be there?”
    “Don't play.”
    “That's what I thought.”
    “Anyway… why did you invite him?” Sharief asked.
    “Because that's who I wanted to invite as a guest, problem?”
    “Yeah it's a problem.”
    “Well, sweetie.” She tapped the hand that he had placed on her stomach. “You'll live.” Monica stood up and walked over to turn the radio