Tappin' On Thirty by Candice Dow Read Free Book Online Page A

“Where do you think I’ve been?”
    â€œIf the hell I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you. Would I?”
    The nicotine had totally taken over as I attempted to reverse the blame on her. “Man, I paged you before I went out last night. Where were you?”
    She huffed. “You know I was on call last night.”
    â€œAll right then, I didn’t expect to hear from you until this morning.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you answer your phone?”
    â€œAkua. I’m off work. Why would I be up at seven in the morning?” I huffed.
    â€œWhatever. You’re always up.”
    â€œI went out with the fellas last night. I was asleep.”
    â€œWhatever.”
    â€œYou miss me?”
    â€œWhat do you think?”
    She never responded positively to mushy questions, but I needed it at the moment. I needed her to reaffirm why I’m planning a future with her.
    â€œI don’t know. Tell me.”
    â€œDo you miss me?”
    I chuckled and tried to give her what I wanted. “Yes, baby, I miss you. I miss you and I love you.”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œAre you ready for me to come home?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œWhat time are you going to sleep?”
    â€œI was about to go to sleep. I’ll call you when I wake up.”
    â€œA’ight. Call me when you wake up.”
    â€œMake sure you answer.”
    She hung up and I shook my head. That’s my girl. She’s a little abrasive, but that’s her style. I played with the phone. Then, I began to feel bad for just thinking about leaving her. I can’t leave her. Despite her flaws, she’s committed. That’s more than all the superficial things that constitute what I declare as my ideal mate.

6
    DEVIN
    L ife couldn’t get any better than this. Clark and I danced in an empty room. All the money in the world couldn’t replace what we shared. Our relationship was like a melody that didn’t need lyrics, like exercise that didn’t require movement. Side to side, back and forth, we swayed. The disco ball served as a compass as we spun on our own axis.
    When my alarm clock buzzed in my ear at 8:00 A.M. , my real life was spinning out of control. Here I was, dreaming about a long-gone relationship that ended more than six years ago. I’d been married to someone else and divorced. The third beautiful woman in one week lay beside me in my bed, and still I yearned for something more, something real.
    She wrapped her arm around me. I slid it to the side. She moved it back. I took a deep breath. Staring at my high ceilings, I wonder why I even subject myself to this. It would make more sense to just take women out, go to their house, get my rocks off and leave before the sun comes up.
    She moaned, “You okay?”
    I cleared my throat. “Are you okay?”
    When I slid out of bed, she stretched out, like she’d been asked to stay longer. If not for dignity or my political aspirations, I’d pay for sex. I stood at the foot of my bed and watched her lie there peacefully. I grabbed the remote from my armoire and turned on my stereo. The bass blasted through the speakers.
    Her head popped up and she whined, “Devin.”
    As I lowered the volume, I apologized. That strategy works with most women. Instead, she lay back down. I decided to jump in the shower and hoped she’d get up and begin gathering her things. Wishful thinking. Even after I’d gotten dressed, she slept.
    I shook her arm. “Hey, sleepyhead.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œI’m about to get out of here. So . . .”
    She plopped her head back down. “I’ll lock the door. I’m exhausted.”
    Isn’t this just great? Why do I feel the need to play nice guy? Women take that nice stuff to the extreme. This chick has spent two or three nights and each time, we go through this. I sat on the side of the bed. “Look, baby. I’d rather you leave now.”
    â€œDevin,