I, on the other hand, looked African American. Brown skin and a huge kinky afro that I barely brought out. Tonight, I kept it braided and hidden under my favorite wig.
I loved my hair but had a special addiction to wigs. They let me hide and pretend. Back in my brownstone, I had tons of wigs. Wigs for partying. Wigs for fucking. Wigs for adventure. All brushed and pampered, used and then placed back in my closet like museum pieces.
I’d given each wig a name.
Tonight, I wore Cynthia. She was long silky strands of ebony that passed my shoulders.
Kennedy walked in and towered over me. I was short next to her.
She could’ve been a model. We’d both dreamed of it, when we were kids playing with our dolls. She ended up growing tall and slim—perfect for a runway. I resulted in short and super curvy due to my mom’s voluptuous DNA. One look at my hips and breasts and a fashion agency would suggest I do porn instead of glamour magazines.
Kennedy pointed at my wig. “I see you’re wearing Cynthia today.”
Smiling, I shook my hair. “This is my art debut. Cynthia had to come out.”
There was one thing that I learned in life: I needed different identities to survive. Compartments. Alter egos. My Cynthia look came out to play when I was super nervous. She was all sleek and sexy business attire. Fitted, designer clothes. Heels that cost more than most people’s rent.
“Why have you been sitting in here the whole time?” Kennedy stepped inside and closed the office door. “We’ve started. The gallery is filling up. What are you doing?”
I blinked. “Everyone’s already here?”
“Uh, yeah.” She flashed her watch at me. “It’s been an hour.”
Damn it. I thought it was morning. What’s going on?
“Nothing.” I rose. “I just partied too much last night.”
“I’m glad you ended up having fun. You were pissed when you left, cursing and looking through your Tinder.”
I scanned my brain trying to remember yesterday. “I was mad last night?”
“Yeah. Something about someone trying to cock block your evening. Anyway, I’m glad you ended up enjoying yourself.” She grinned. “What hot Tinder guy did you hook up with? Let me guess, he had some stupid name like Baby2U or BrickCity69?”
I frowned. “I can’t remember.”
“Again?” She widened her eyes in shock. “Girl, you need to chill on the drinking. You know there’s a serial killer out there.”
“Yeah. The Tinder Killer, but he’s killing guys.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I know. I know.” An ache beat at my head. I grabbed my water bottle, finished it, and headed out of the office. “I’m done with alcohol.”
“You said that shit two days ago.”
“I just turned twenty-one. Give me a break. It’s like a rite of passage to be drunk the whole year.”
“Yeah, but you’ve been drinking since we were kids.”
I had no response.
“At least work on getting the sex thing fixed.” She followed me down the hall. “I worry about you.”
The sex thing fixed?
I didn’t comment again. I loved her, but she was the type of friend to act like a judgmental mother, always nagging and questioning. Granted, she cared for me with every inch of her heart. Due to that, she could say what she wanted.
She probably has a point anyway. I just don’t want to deal with my mess.
“You know what?” Kennedy shook her head. “Who am I to judge?”
“No.” I let out a long breath. “You’re right. I do need to work on it.”
Chatter and soft giggling sounded ahead of us.
We entered the main gallery.
People crowded the place. Jazz music filled the space and rose against the chatter. Glasses clinked. Kennedy had dimmed the lights to keep the focus on the art.
All my paintings had a cordless picture light mounted at the top of their frames, casting a warm white glow over the works. Twelve large beasts covered the wall. All of them were lions, clawing and roaring, hunting and attacking. There were a few paintings that showed the lions’ calmer life—a lioness licking her cubs, a lion lounging on the top of a cliff as wind blew through his mane. They were all mixed media images—paint and tiny crystals that took me forever to put in the right places.
My stomach calmed.
This event could lead to more opportunities, and they would be legal ones. I wouldn’t have to hide what I did, and things wouldn’t be so dangerous.
This is going to help us.
I drank in the area.
Beautifully dressed couples browsed the paintings. Many of them held hands. Groups of women strolled around along with a good bit of men. They all nibbled on the hors d’oeuvres.
Kennedy stood at my side and softly tapped my arm. “I’m just saying. Maybe you should get a long-term guy instead of doing one-night stands when you’re horny.”
Girl, are we still on that?
I nodded and walked away, needing to get lost in the buzzing energy of those around me.
Kennedy might’ve had a point, but we were different when it came to men. She needed their love and attention, damn near survived on it more than food and water. I just wanted their dicks, every now and then. They could keep the rest of their bullshit to themselves.
I was introduced to sex too young. Too wrong.
By the time I was old enough to love, my heart was a little bag of poisonous fear. Paralyzing fear. Fear of love. Fear of men. Fear of them getting too close. Fear of them seeing invisible bruises.
“Girl, I told you I could introduce you to some nice guys in my classes.”
“I’m good.”
Kennedy gazed around. “Do you think Darryl arrived yet?”
“Nope.” I rolled my eyes at the mention of my brother. “I doubt he’s here. I don’t hear the cops or any other signs of trouble.”
“You’re so hard on him.”
That’s one way to look at it.
Darryl kept me in trouble. It was normal for me, my cross to bear. But I wasn’t a fan of how he treated my best friend. He should’ve never started dating Kennedy when we were teens. Since then, they’d been off and on forever. They were a never-ending cycle of dysfunction—he fucked around, and she waited until he got bored and returned to her. In these recent years, she’d taken on a maternal role, closing her eyes to all his sexual adventures, yet always being his ride or die chick—as if that even meant anything to him.
It didn’t matter if there was video footage of Darryl sleeping with another woman broadcasting in Times Square. He would dance his way out of it. And he was a ballerina when it came to escaping breakups. He could plié and relevé with the best of them, but the true skill was in his leaps over reality and the ways he was able to balance himself on the tightrope of delusion.
Basically, if he hadn’t been my brother, I would’ve cut off his penis for what he’d done to her.
“I’m going to call Darryl and see if he’s on his way.” Kennedy rushed off without my response.
It might be better if Darryl stays over whatever chick he’s found this evening. Then he could keep his butt out of trouble.
I passed by a couple talking about my art.