Sweeter Than Honey. Mary B. Morrison

man—”

      Lifting my eyebrows, I cut B off. “Not now, B. I don’t want to hear another one of your soliloquies about the black man’s plight, fight, or flight, okay? So, now you’re starting a clothing line? Whatever, man.”

      B walked toward me. “Lace, don’t. I don’t downplay your ideas. Don’t insult my manhood. I’m proud to have a woman like you by my side who’s got her shit together.” B crisscrossed his hands and said, “But after we get married, no more working at that whorehouse for Valentino. I don’t give a damn how much he pays you, I refuse to have my son grow up around prostitutes.”

      Benito knew that bullshit only mattered because he was no longer in the spotlight. Newcomers had taken over the media and B was no longer an Immaculate Perception client.

      I rebutted, “Married? Who said anything about getting married? We’re engaged.”

      I know my thought process was unrealistic but I liked the idea of being engaged but dreaded the thought of a permanent commitment. What if B changed on me? I’d fucked many unhappily married men in my days, and if their wives knew the things they told me—“I hate that bitch! She can’t fuck worth a shit! Fat slob done let herself go! I never loved her and wished I hadn’t married her lazy trifling ass! I should kill her for the insurance money and buy me a sexy woman like you.”—they would’ve packed up and moved out while their husbands’ dicks were deep inside my pussy.

      Frowning, I glimpsed at the digital clock on my nightstand, stared at my watch as I fastened it around my wrist, then looked at B. “Did you change the clock? My watch has ten thirty and that clock,” I said, pointing, “has eight thirty.”

      “Baby, I had to make a little extra time for us somehow. A few minutes won’t hurt.”

      “A few what? You dumb fuck. I knew something didn’t feel right. I really can’t trust you.”

      Benito lay across my bed. His lips tightened, then curled upward. “I need you, Lace. More than Valentino. Can’t you be okay with putting me first just once?”

      “How many football games did you miss ’cause some groupie wanted to suck your dick? Huh?”

      “You’re not missing work, Lace. You’re just a little late.”

      “Fuck you, B!” The home phone rang, interrupting my thoughts of slapping the shit out of this ignorant just-don’t-get-it motherfucka. “If that’s Valentino, tell him I’m on my way. I swear, B, you’re a good-for-nothing sorry-ass bastard for that one,” I yelled before slamming the bedroom door. “If I get fired, your fuckin’ ass had best not be here when I get back!”

      B yelled, “I love you, baby!”