The Disgruntled Wives Club by Portia A. Cosby

Author:Portia A. Cosby [Cosby, Portia A.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Contemporary Fiction, Contemporary Women, United States, African American, Literature & Fiction, Women's Fiction
ISBN: 9780982301326
Publisher: Distinct Publishing
Published: 2010-11-01T19:39:47+00:00

The next morning, Dante entered our room carrying a tray with French toast, eggs, bacon, and orange juice. “Wake up, baby,” he said sweetly as I sat up and rested my back against the headboard. I didn’t even know he’d left.

“Whoa!” I said, as the headboard gave out and I fell back onto the wall. “What the hell?”

Dante laughed while I examined the damage. “Oops. Maybe we shouldn’t have tried that last trick.”

“You think, you damn animal?! I thought I heard it cracking last night. They’re gonna charge us an arm and a leg!”

“You didn’t hear nothin’. We were making too much noise.”

“Whatever,” I replied, accepting my breakfast with a smile. “Thank you, boo.”

He leaned in for a kiss, but I stopped him with a stiff arm to his forehead. “What the hell is that on your lip?”

“Ha ha. Whatever, man. Give me a kiss. I brushed my teeth already.”

“This ain’t about your breath. You have a bump or something on the side of your mouth. You don’t feel it?”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, looking at the mirror above my head for answers.

“It looks like a cold sore. Since when do you get those? Ugh.”

“Huh?” Panicked, he rushed into the bathroom to get a closer look. “Shit! How did that happen?”

“I told you about sharing drinks and shit with people. That stuff catches up. Y’all steady poppin’ bottles in the club, drinking from ‘em, passing ‘em around. I was trippin’ when I told you that mess was nasty, though. Remember?”

Dante looked to be on the verge of tears as he carefully touched around the blister, making sure not to get too close. “Can you get ‘em by drinking after people for real?”

“Yeah, if they have one, too, or are about to get one.”

“Fuckin’ Rocco. I think I saw something in the corner of his mouth, and I handed him my Henny.”

“Or you can get it from kissing groupies,” I said before stuffing my mouth with a forkful of French toast.

“Don’t even go there with me, baby. You already know what it is. I know the rules, and we cleared all that up last night.”

“Un huh,” I said, recalling the tabloid pic that seemed to capture the prelude to a kiss with Naptown New Booty. “Well, you better call Dr. Reed and get that handled as soon as we get back. You may have to leave for your in-store early if it’s still there by Saturday, because you’ll have to run by Stacia’s and spend some time in the makeup chair.”

“Grooming chair.”

“The cold sore chair,” I said, unable to withhold my laughter.

“You got jokes?” he asked, running out of the bathroom toward me. He moved my tray to the floor and jumped on top of me. “What if you have to sit in the cold sore chair beside me?” he asked, while placing his lips less than an inch away from mine.

I laughed uncontrollably through my drawn-in lips, careful not to release them and make contact with his. He laughed, too, as he released my pinned down arms and got up.

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