“I knew it! I just knew it. Izzy, you have been hiding this banging body for way too long. No more. Maybe we should keep shopping.” She looks down at her watch. “There’s still time. I could have you outfitted in a few hours. The works—dresses, skirts, slacks, blouses . . .” She trails off; I don’t even think she is speaking to me anymore. I am almost a hundred percent sure her eyes have just glossed over.
“Denise Anne Roberts, you calm yourself down right the hell now. I told you one outfit. ONE! I did not say we would spend the rest of eternity buying the whole damn mall. One, Dee. One dress. I already caved on the lingerie.” I whisper sharply at her.
She gives me a hurt look before that creepy little grin comes back.
“Okay, okay . . . Damn, Iz. No more clothes for now. But one day you will let me do a complete makeover. We still need shoes, so let’s go, birthday girl. Get naked and let me have that awesome dress while you put those ratty-ass jeans and ugly ass man shirt back on.”
She’s bouncing again, and damn it, even though I smile, I’m slightly worried about what I just got myself into.
Two hours later, we finally reach the salon and our favorite stylist in the world, Sway. Sway is a short, fat African-American man with long platinum-blond hair. When he isn’t rocking his trademark heels, I can almost look him in the eye. Sway, whose real name is Dilbert Harrison III, is the funniest man I have ever met. How often in small-town Georgia does a small black man come up to you with four-inch heels, skinny jeans, and a tight-fitting shirt on, kiss both cheeks, and pronounce you looking “marvelous, darling”? Not very often, I promise you that.
Sway has been itching to get his hands on my thick, long mahogany hair. He was shocked the first time he styled it and I told him I didn’t touch color products. I have always been blessed with perfect hair. It’s dark brown with so many different shades of auburn that when the sun hits it you can almost see it set fire.
Exhausted from my shopping mission with Dee, I sit down and tell him to go for it, whatever he wants.
“Sweet baby Jesus in a manger . . . Sweet child, oh Lord have mercy, please tell Sway that I am not hearing things?” He turns his excited eyes on me with a look of elation, pure elation.
“Go for it, Sway. Just please don’t make me regret this.” Smiling at him through the mirror, I let myself drift off.
The first time I met Sway was when Dee and I arrived in town two years before. He was our second stop after unloading all of her stuff and my few boxes at our new house. Dee had explained to me on the drive that this was our new CHAPTER in life. A chance to start from scratch and become new people. I knew what she was giving up to run with me. She had a very successful insurance company in Bakersville, North Carolina. Luckily, she was your typical trust fund baby, so it wasn’t hard for her to up and leave. She’d left her second-in-command in charge with plans on expanding wherever we landed. We’d taken everything we owned and drove south. The one and only saving grace I’d had was an account Dee had helped me set up with the money my grandfather had left me when he passed away five years ago.
Her money had bought us the house, but mine insured I had time to heal before I needed to make any plans.
The one plan I did make immediately was to get rid of the Stepford wife look Brandon had pressed upon me. Sway tried but it took time, and finally my hair was long and lush again, falling almost to my ass in thick waves. I don’t look a lot like that scared housewife anymore, thank Christ for that.
Sway is muttering off and on about the newest purses he just picked up at the Coach store, the earrings he planned on matching with each new purse, and which heels he would wear with what. I swear that this man was done a great injustice when he came out with a dick.
“Oh, honey, did I tell you about the new man who just bought up the space next door? Oh sweet love of all the gods above, he is huge, darling. Just huge. I bet he is huge everywhere, if you know what I mean?” He looks down at me with such seriousness that it takes me a minute to follow the flow from purses to man candy.
“What? Oh, right . . . Good-looking, huh?” I respond, hoping that I am following.
“Girl, you have no idea. What Sway wouldn’t do to catch the eye of that walking wet dream. He was at least seven feet tall—at least! Huge—I am talking muscles on his muscles. I do not know how his shirt stayed together. It was stretched so tight against that sexy chest and those fine arms. Makes me want to just fall at his feet and pray he swings my way. But I tell you this, there is no way a man as man as him swings for the rainbow. No way. Shame for Sway, but girlfriend, as beautiful as you are, this is good news. Best news. We should set something up. You would love him. Thick black hair. Now, I would love to get my hands on that thick mop of lusciousness . . . yes I would.” Did I mention that Sway could exaggerate slightly when he got excited?
I’m starting to get a little concerned about the orgasm Sway seems to be having about this man while he is holding scissors to my head. This could be bad.