“Nigga, please. You see these marble floors and Versace frames? You ain’t openingthatmany checking and savings accounts,” Creed joked.
We all fell out laughing.
“I know you’ll get me anything I ask for, King,” I smiled, leaning over to kiss my fiancé.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah—tell me about the proposal, nigga, so I know what I’m competing against,” Creed teased.
“See, that’s the thing, little nigga,” Hunter bragged. “You can’t compete where your money doesn’t compare.”
“And I—oop,” Amber and I said in unison.
“Aight, you got that one, my guy.” Creed dapped him up.
Hunter leaned back, grinning. “So here I am, tearing that pussy up on the patio—”
“Hunter Knox!” I hollered. “You havegotto be fucking kidding me.”
“What? Baby,” he shrugged.
I covered my face with both hands, laughing but embarrassed as hell. Hewastearing this pussy up on the patio, though.
“Oh, Mahasin, please. We know he's beating that shit like a drum. Continue, Hunter,” Amber said through laughter.
“So, look—I’m in that good shit, right? My baby orgasms so hard, she starts drooling, eyes rolling in the back of her head. I’m talking about she’s on another planet. I managed to conjure up enough strength to slip the ring on her finger. And here we are today.”
Of course, he left out the love we confessed and the tears we shed. Just like a damn man. My book bae would’ve never watered down such a perfect proposal story. But then again, them niggas are written by women—and if it’s one thing a woman is going to do, it’s remind you niggas ain’t shit by creating these phenomenal beings with perfect bodies, big dicks, and a shitload of money.
“That’s so fucking romantic,” Amber gasped, her elbows on the table as both sides of her face rested in her palms.
Giggling at my crazy friend, I excused myself to use the restroom. Tribal was a firmament of luxury and wonder—every corner turned revealed another pocket of love, lust, and money well spent. The way this place blended the aroma of good food with the richness of expensive perfume was almost supernatural.
After my third failed attempt at finding the ladies’ room, I politely stopped a beautiful, olive-skinned Black woman. Her uniform matched the other hostesses, so I didn’t feel like one of those ignorant people who assumed a guest was staff. Her name tag read:Nova.
“Excuse me, can you please direct me to the ladies’ room?” I asked.
Nova was knee-deep in her phone, sucking her teeth before finally looking up. I braced for a rude interaction, but insteadshe froze—like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. It was the kind of expression you’d have if you were reading on your Kindle, looked up, and—boom—Beyoncé.
Her lips pulled into a thin smile, and I could still see remnants of whatever she had eaten on break caught in her teeth.
“Umm, yeah. Walk straight down this pathway and take the first left,” she instructed.
“Thank you,” I replied, moving past her, though every step felt heavier under her lingering stare.
That bitch was still smiling. At first, it was confusing, but now it just felt creepy. A tattoo on her hand caught my eye—a symbol from theBad Girlslogo. Maybe she was a reality-TV junkie and recognized me fromSexy in Scrubs.Naw, that wasn’t it. If she knew me, why not ask for a picture? Maybe the restaurant had a policy about not bothering high-profile guests.
But still. I wouldn’t call myself a celebrity. I mean, I spend most of my days with my hands inside vaginas. Normally, odd interactions rolled right off me. But Nova’s energy? It clung to me. It didn’t sit right in my spirit.
Passing several floor-to-ceiling mirrors, my reflection stole my own breath. Happiness and love poured out of me, leaving behind a glow only those who’ve truly found their person could understand—the kind of love that gives you an out-of-body experience just from a whistle.
I swayed, watching how the deep burgundy skirt clung to me like it had been sewn onto my skin, rising slowly to reveal a dangerous stretch of thigh. The feathered shawl slipped from my shoulders, framing me in a halo of feminine magic against all my fire. My sheer top, once only hinting at my breasts, now betrayed me—exposing the hard peaks of my nipples, stiff from arousal.
Fuck, I should have worn pasties.
For a moment, I didn’t see a doctor, a best friend, or even a fiancée. I saw a survivor of love lost—a woman who carried graceeven when love seemed to hate her. A woman who knew the room would stop breathing every time she walked in.
I was feeling the fuck out of myself.
“She is absolutely beautiful, isn’t she?” Hunter whispered in my ear as he embraced me from behind. “She’s the most beautiful woman in the world,” he continued, swaying with me, mocking my rhythm.
