Married on Mondays (6 page)

Foxy sat the platter on the nightstand, crawled in bed, then lay next to Dallas.

He caressed her left breast. Kissed her hand. “Tell me how much you love me.”

“I love you so much that my husband has found a way to have my so-called cousin’s DUI charges dropped.”

Dallas rolled on top of her. Smothered her with kisses. In a hearty voice he said, “Ha, ha! That’s my girl. And that’s why
you should be my wife. There’s nothing you haven’t done for me when I’ve asked. Nothing.”

That was true and the same was true for her. Dallas and her dad were the two men that would do anything for her, no questions
asked. She wasn’t sure about Winton. Although she still wanted it, she realized she no longer needed her husband’s support.
With the stroke of a pen, she could take half of Winton’s possessions. If her husband continued ignoring her, she might have
to file for divorce to get his attention. She could spend his money to get his money.

Her husband, like many men, defined himself by his net worth, capital gains, material possessions, and trophy wife. Not by
the love of his mother or his wife.

Foxy shimmied out of her thong, spread her thighs to let Dallas’s dick fall against her shaft and clit, then closed her legs.
Soft or hard his dick made her pussy wet. “I love you so much it hurts.” She squeezed her thighs, tilted her pussy toward
his nuts.

Dallas shoved his tongue into her mouth. His hands roamed over her shoulders, biceps, then down to her waist. “If I ever find
that genie in a bottle, my only wish would be to make you my wife. One day you’ll be all mine.” He sat up, unbuttoned her
blouse. With a snap of his thumb and middle finger, he unfastened, then removed her bra while kicking off her shoes with his
toes.

Foxy removed the clip from her ponytail, fluffed her hair wild the way he liked her to, lay her head against the mattress.
Looking in his eyes, she demanded, “Stick your dick inside me right now.” She didn’t have to ask twice.

Dallas held his dick, slid the head down her shaft, over her clit, and into her wet pussy. Bracing himself on his knees, he
sat on top of her and began thrusting his dick in and out her pussy, each time stroking deeper, repeatedly hitting the bottom.

Foxy pressed her thighs together and moaned, “Dallas, why do you fuck me so good, baby?”

“Because I always want you to cum, but I never want you to leave. Guess I have to work harder,” he said, pulling out.

Her eyes rolled upward. Her body trembled. “Shit!” she screamed, releasing her marital frustrations. “This feels too good.
Put him back in.”

He slid his dick all the way back in. Dallas paused with his dick deep inside her until her pussy stopped quivering. He pulled
out, stroked his dick. His cum shot in spurts, clung to her breasts, neck, and lips. He massaged his sperm into her mouth,
then kissed her.

Quietly, Foxy made her way to the shower. DéJà would be upset with her again today for being late for work.

He followed her to the bathroom. Stepped in the shower with her.

“This makes no sense. We’re perfect for one another. Why won’t you divorce him?” Dallas asked. “I’ve got money too.”

“Not again today,” she replied. “It’s not about the money. Maybe we’re perfect because we’re not married. Marriage is temporary.
Infidelity lasts forever.”

Foxy couldn’t tell Dallas the truth. The only attorney more prestigious than Winton was the attorney general. Dallas was stable,
successful, and handsome. If he didn’t have those two oops kids, maybe she would’ve married him; who knew. If she had married
Dallas, she may have cheated on Dallas with Winton. Dallas was well-known in his field as one of the top head-hunters for
CEOs. But his profession was subpar in comparison to her husband’s.

She told him, “What we have is better than being married. We’re inseparable. You love me. I love you. But you drive me bananas.”

“Don’t say that word. You know what happens to me when you say bananas.”

His dick stood at attention. Maybe it was the way Dallas loved and made love to her that was causing her outburst and not
Winton’s rejection. She wanted her husband to be like Dallas but she didn’t want Dallas to be her husband.

“You make it seem as though I’m the only one that has your heart, then a baby pops out of some woman’s pussy and it has your
DNA. Let’s just keep things the way they are. It works, you know.”

How many other kids did he have that neither one of them knew about?

“Works for whom? Not me. I want to wake up with you. Not have you stop by in the morning on your way to work and drop in to
cook us dinner, then leave before midnight.”

Foxy countered, “I do more for you than I do for my own husband,” then stepped out of the shower.

“If you love him so much, then why fuck me every day? Do you fuck him every day too?”

“Told you. That’s not your business,” she said, making her way into the bedroom. She put on her clothes, kissed him. “Beyoncé.
I’ll be here when you get home. Bye.”

No man was going to have her answer questions he wasn’t willing to answer, then use her confessions against her. Dallas never
told her whom or how many women he’d fucked, but the babies made it obvious he was fucking other women without protection
even when he was engaged to her. That meant he’d cheat on her just like her husband was cheating on her.

Now that she was married, Dallas had a right to be nonexclusive. Foxy didn’t ask probing questions nor was she going to answer
any. Some things were better left untold.

Foxy drove ten miles along South Shoreline Drive to the most prominent side, the west side, where the sunset was breathtaking
every day. Shoreline Drive was one huge horseshoe—west, south, and east—that stretched forty miles along Crème City’s waterfront.
The north side was the only side with a three-hundred-foot pier that stretched out over Lovers’ Lake. At night, Winton’s office
building was lit like a Christmas tree. Wherever she was with Dallas, she could look toward the sky and see the tip of her
husband’s pyramid.

Seventy-five percent of the residents lived in the overpopulated metropolitan heart of the city. Blocks of luxury high-rise
condominiums had views of the adjacent condos. The scenic view, serene water and beautiful landscaped front lawns on one side
of the street, tall trees and mansions on the other, gave her time to rethink her life as she drove by both of her sisters’
homes.

Foxy parked her car at 6969 West Shoreline Drive. As she prepared for another day of work at Crème, Foxy accepted her reality…
men and women were created equal, but women were responsible for balancing their end of the seesaw.

T
he day went by fast. Servicing customers helped Foxy
escape the woes of her bittersweet love triangle. While some women were trying to find a husband, if the law allowed, she
could have two.

This Tuesday was busier than normal. The day after Memorial Day, kids should’ve been back to school and working folks back
to their jobs. From opening until closing it seemed like the entire 6.9 million residents of Crème City had patronized their
shop. Bustling for cinnamon buns, cream puffs, and chocolate-dipped macaroons, Foxy had to hand out numbers to establish order.
Customers and kids socialized in the parking lot like they were at a tailgate party, waiting to hear their number. The daily
three fantasies had become more popular than the state lottery, and DéJà had sold all three before Foxy had made it to work
by eight.

“Foxy, come here,” DéJà said, ushering the last group of patrons out the door.

“I already know what you’re going to say. I’ve got to get in earlier.”

Operating a family-owned business meant Foxy was her own boss, but not according to her tyrant sister DéJà, who had deemed
herself in charge of Foxy, Victoria, and the day-to-day operations of Crème.

Locking the door, DéJà said, “That too, but that’s not what I have to say. I heard Winton got Dallas’s DUI charges dropped
today. You’d better be glad Winton doesn’t know you were in the car on a date with Dallas when he got the citation.”

That night the cops ruined what could’ve been a perfect evening. They were headed to Lovers’ Lake for a stroll along the pier
when Dallas’s cell phone rang. He reached for his phone, swerved into the adjacent lane. Before he answered the call, a siren
blared, lights swirled, and the high beams from the patrol car blinded them. Fortunately she hadn’t consumed any alcohol at
the jazz club. On the way to his house, Dallas had asked, “Can you ask Winton to take care of this for me, cuz?”

The downside to DéJà and Victoria’s spouses being partners in the Brown, Cooper, and Dawson law firm with Winton was that
sometimes her sisters knew about her situations before she did. Foxy presumed her husband was too busy with Nova to call and
let her or Dallas know the good news, but she had no doubt Winton would prevail. Winton’s getting a DUI dismissed was a matter
of having his legal assistant complete the paperwork for his review, having lunch with a judge friend, then filing the necessary
documents. Her husband had never lost a case and a DUI surely wouldn’t be his first.

“You’ve been hanging on to that all day?” Foxy asked. “Why didn’t you mention it to me when I got in this morning?”

“Your idea of morning is our afternoon. Victoria and I get here at five a.m. The morning pastries are done by the time you
arrive.” DéJà stumped by Foxy, removed the cash drawer from the register. “I assumed you knew but y’all were probably too
busy fucking to hear your phones. Acer texted me this afternoon, and you know I don’t talk business in front of our customers.”
DéJà stared in her face, then said, “But it’s time, sis. You know what I mean.” Then changed the conversation, “Girl, it was
a madhouse up in here. We must’ve sold over a thousand pastries to customers. Plus the three fantasy specials to our clients.”

Customers were those who bought pastries. And for tax and legal purposes, clients were those who paid for catering services.
Every day after closing Foxy and her sisters each serviced one client from four o’clock to five, occasionally until six.

Comparing the six thousand dollars they earned on the client-based side of the business with the five dollars per pastry they
earned on the customer-based side, servicing clients always yielded more revenue for Crème in a shorter period of time. But
the pastries made all of their revenue appear legit.

Not responding to DéJà’s comment, Foxy answered, “Of course, my husband got Dallas’s charges dropped, Winton is the best,”
then walked behind the counter, around DéJà, through the kitchen, into their office, and sat at her desk.

Their business wasn’t a brothel or whorehouse. They didn’t have esteem issues from fucking numerous clients. Their fulfillment
of adult fantasies ranged from talking dirty, to spanking, to flogging, to teaching clients how to reach higher orgasmic states
or how to prolong their ejaculations. If more people had healthy sex more often, the world would be a better place. There
were a few occasions where they had intercourse or oral copulation with their clients. As with any business, they reserved
the right to refuse service, and the use of dental dams and condoms was mandatory.

DéJà and her sister Victoria entered the office, sat at their desks.

DéJà hissed, “Acer and I, we are the best. You know this.”

“What?” Foxy shook her head. “Don’t get me started.”

DéJà hated when anyone perceived they were better than she or her husband. There was no need to challenge her. DéJà definitely
had the final word of every conversation.

The ivory circular revolving desk was sectioned into three triangles that merged into one large circle, allowing them to face
one another while conducting business or trade stations without changing seats. In this case, the seating arrangement forced
Foxy to face her accusers.

Victoria chimed in, “What you do with Dallas and your husband is up to you—”

Foxy interrupted her “I’m so neutral and the voice of reason about everything” sister and said, “But.”

“No buts. Not this time,” Victoria retorted. “Let’s just pray Winton never finds out the truth about his pro bono services
for
cousin
Dallas, who, remind you, is in some of your wedding photos. You’re playing with fire. Don’t be surprised if your husband
beats you when he finds out you’ve made a fool of him.”

That was the shit Foxy hated. What gave Victoria the right to predict Winton would lay hands on her? Foxy’s husband had never
hit her. Winton wasn’t the type of man that would resort to barbarically resolving problems. He was a lawyer because he was
smart, and intelligent men didn’t beat women.

Victoria said, “I vote we tell Dad about your affair before it’s too late.”

Foxy’s mouth gaped open. “The hell you will! If you tell Dad, I’m telling your wife.”

“See,” Victoria said. “You are miserable, and I will not be your company. If you don’t want our help, fine. Go get counseling.”

Psychiatrists were for crazy people; she wasn’t crazy.