Sweeter Than Honey by Mary B. Morrison Read Free Book Online Page A

she couldn’t be trusted. No one in this type of business can be trusted.
    I whispered, “I hate myself.” Refusing to do another inspection, I said to the group, “Y’all get dressed.”
    Why did I think I knew it all? Right now, I could’ve been at home in my room watching my favorite TV show, Project Runway , fixing my favorite cereal, Cocoa Puffs, waiting for the milk to turn chocolatey while chatting on the phone with Sapphire, or relaxing rereading my favorite book, So You Call Yourself a Man , by Carl Weber.
    Why didn’t I listen to my mother and stay home like my twin sister until I graduated from college? No, I had to open my big mouth. “Mom, you’re too old to understand my generation. Things are different for us. We don’t go to church three times a week. I got this. I can make it on my own…besides, I’m grown. Mom, please stop telling me what to do.”
    Dangling my red leather strapless diamond-heel stiletto on my French-pedicured toe, I laughed inside to keep from crying. Nodding, I thought, You had to be a smart ass, didn’t cha? I’m entitled to make mistakes, aren’t I? Right now all I want is to call my mommy and say, “I’m sorry.” Oh my God, what if my dad answers the phone instead?
    Retrieving my hot-pink cell phone from underneath the gold thong I was wearing, I watched them get ready, including my best friends, Onyx and Starlet. Everyone was oblivious of my “I can’t do this anymore” attitude. Eleven drop-dead-gorgeous females scurried around the dressing room fussing over which high-priced outfits to wear.
    I don’t wanna be wifee anymore. Where’s Lace? Where’s my madam?
    Discreetly, using my camera phone, I snapped a few pictures of the girls getting dressed. I sent Sapphire a quick text: My place at 6 a.m. Then I took pictures of the room and a few of myself sitting in front the bright mirror. This was my finale.
    “I got myself into this mess. Surely I’m slick enough to get out.” Quietly I reprimanded myself. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid .
    Not so long ago someone cared about more than my wicked tongue, my beautiful spirit, and my exotic looks. I’d heard them say, “Is she black? Is she white? Man, with an ass like that she’s gotta be Brazilian.” Who honestly cared? My high school sweetheart, that’s who. But his menial busboy income, ordinary looks, down-to-earth western drawl, and laid-back personality weren’t enough for a girl like me who was told every single day, “Wow! You’re gorgeous.”
    I wanted more out of life than a thirty-dollar date—more money, more clothes, more fun, and more drugs. Actually, I needed more and more XTC to get me through the night, nights of not so pleasant pleasantry. Tossing my head back, I swallowed two small pills.
    Lost and confused, I hopelessly stood on an invisible auction block. No one made me stay, yet I couldn’t take the necessary two steps down to walk away and leave this lifestyle forever.
    What was I afraid of? Better question, who?
    Hiding the metallic phone between my palms, I felt the mental shackles weighing heavily on my spirit. Incarcerated, held prisoner in my mind, all because Lace introduced me via a conference call to a man who’d told me he could show me how to make a quick dollar, quote unquote, some real money, utilizing the best asset God gave me: pussy, one of the few commodities I could simultaneously sell and maintain possession of my entire life.
    Objectively I agreed but subjectively Sapphire was right. Why was I selling my pussy to make money for a man? A man I didn’t know, hadn’t seen, didn’t love, and recently hated with such passion that vomit percolated in my throat like hot lava. During my initial telephone interview, that man, Valentino James, and that woman, Lace, whom I’d grown to like, failed to highlight my intellect, my loving spirit, or my independence. From my first day of work, they did all the thinking for me, including Lace telling me last night that I had to get out