“You look beautiful,” her mother complimented. “But—”
“It’s only a spa day, Mother.” Monet relocated to the living room’s full-length mirror; “boss lady,” “rich bitch,” and “baller’s wife” best defined Monet’s attire.
A $1,200 designer sleeveless red fitted jumpsuit, $1,800 nude platform six-inch heels, a $20,000 wristwatch, $20,000 diamond hoop earrings, $150,000 wedding set, and a limited-edition designer bag valued at over $14,000 decorated her from head to toe. The nonnegotiable bonus was her tubal ligation after birthing Nairobi.
“You need pampering. It’ll relieve your stress,” Trinity stated, sitting in one of the tall chairs. She crossed her legs, leaned back. “Be sure to text me when you arrive at brunch, at the spa, and when you’re on your way home. And turn on your location for me.”
Trinity hadn’t worked a day after Monet gave birth to Israel. Having her mother help raise the girls was a blessing, but the older Israel and Nairobi became, the less Trinity did with and for them. Trinity claimed she dated, definitely never married, but she’d never brought a man around Monet or the kids. Monet never met anyone on her father’s side of the family, including her dad. All she knew was his name. John Bernard Baptiste.
Israel and Nairobi raced down the stairs and hugged their mother at the same time.
Stepping back, Israel said, “Mommy, let me take a picture for my ’gram,” holding up her phone.
Nairobi’s face drooped. “When is Daddy sending my cell phone? I need it,” she whined. “I’m the only one in my class without social.”
Monet hadn’t verified that, but Nairobi was probably being truthful. Was it better to give in or continue to try to protect her daughter from online predators? Nairobi probably had a page, just not a cell.
Trinity answered, “You can have one in—”
“Three more years!” Nairobi cried. “That’s a lifetime. Why am I the only one at my school without a cell and social media page?”
Monet’s ponytail swayed, side to side. Israel snapped a head-to-toe picture of their mother, then handed Nairobi the cell. “Here, let me teach you how to post it with a caption.”
Nairobi’s frown turned upward. Her eyes beamed bright. “Mommy, I want to look just like you when I grow up. And I want a rich husband like Daddy. And I want you to treat my two daughters just like Grandma takes care of us.”
Monet stroked the top of Nairobi’s head, thinking how innocent her children were. Being the wife of a celebrity athlete was a step away from single parenting. Having an expensive home, multiple cars, designer clothes, and expensive jewelry had been a trade-off for her husband’s time and affection. Especially now when he was investing his energy elsewhere.
“Go get dressed, girls. The driver will be here in a half hour. We’re going to the Smithsonian to meet Ruth Carter,” Trinity said.
Nairobi’s pink painted nails covered her innocent face as she gasped. “She’s my idol. I want to design costumes like her. I’m going to bring my sketchbook. I hope she’ll sign it, Grandma.”
Israel’s smile couldn’t possibly grow wider. “I love her, too! I have lots of questions for her. Thanks, Grandma!”
Racing up the stairs, the girls screeched.
Standing, Trinity reiterated, “You look beautiful, baby. Refrain from calling Kingston. And if he calls you, don’t answer. This is your day. Be in the moment with your girlfriends.” Her mother held her tight. “I love you so much.”
Girlfriend, Monet said in her head. She didn’t know the others. They were Bianca’s friends. Embracing her mother, Monet said, “I love you more.”
Exiting the house, she sat behind the wheel of her Porsche SUV. Monet drove toward B-W Parkway. She commanded Siri, “Call Daddy.”
“Hey, baby, I just unlocked my phone to call you. How’s everybody?” Kingston asked.
“Great. Mama’s at home with the girls. They’re getting ready to meet Ruth Carter and I’m heading to brunch with Bianca and a few of her girlfriends.”
Bianca knew her better than Kingston.
“That’s what’s up. Pick up the tab for everything . . . on me,” he said cheerfully, then hesitated before adding, “Let me call you—”
Monet interrupted, “Wait. The kids want to send you something they made. What hotel are you at?” Monet asked nonchalantly.
“I switched to an Airbnb. Got tired of living in one room. Hold the gift for me. I’ll be home soon,” Kingston insisted.
“How soon?” Monet questioned, then asked, “Are you looking at houses for us today?”
“Of course. I’m meeting Lilly at her office at one o’clock. I’ll FaceTime you from the properties,” Kingston stated. “Oh, that’s right. You’re hanging with your girls. Don’t let me make you late. I’ll keep you posted. Let me call you—”
“I’m sure Lilly Ortiz is doing her job.” His lies weren’t worth acknowledging.
No reservation or hesitation. Kingston answered, “Cool,” as though he was relieved, but his response didn’t apply to her last statement.
“Okay, baby. I love you.” Before Monet could say “Bye,” Kingston ended their conversation.
Monet altered her destination, daily parked at BWI, and texted her travel agent, Book me on the next direct flight to Hartsfield. Her next message went to her personal assistant: Get me ALL contact information for Kingston’s Realtor, Lilly Ortiz, in Atlanta. The last was for Bianca: Change of plan. Will explain later. Don’t contact my mom.
By the time Monet arrived at check-in, her reservation was confirmed. Monet breezed through TSA PreCheck, boarded her first-class nonstop flight to Atlanta. Awaiting takeoff, she logged into their Airbnb account. There was no reservation for Kingston.
Signing into their travel account, he’d checked out of the Waldorf Astoria days ago. No new reservation was listed for the Four Seasons, W, Ritz-Carlton, or Whitley for Kingston Royale.
Monet’s ten o’clock flight was scheduled to land at noon. A message from her assistant with the office address for Lilly Ortiz registered, along with Lilly’s home location and two cell numbers.
Monet’s arrival should put Kingston and her at Lilly’s business suite at the same time.
CHAPTER 9
Kingston
A text registered from Lilly: Monet showed up at my office unannounced. What do you want me to do?
Lying on his back, Kingston stared at his phone. He’d picked it up to check the time, and now his wife had the potential to ruin the moment. Hold tight. That can’t be right, he replied.
An attached photo was returned of Monet in a red jumpsuit wearing diamond hoop earrings he hadn’t seen. If he had to identify his wife or kids by the last thing they were wearing, Kingston didn’t see them often enough to know what was in their wardrobe collection or how they dressed daily.
It wasn’t his fault that his appetite for men had increased. “Hold tight, man. I have to handle something,” he said to his naked lover, who was lying beside him.
If he could erase the day he’d stepped into the janitor’s closet, perhaps he would’ve never been on BottomsUp. Maybe if his parents weren’t devoted Christians, or the hometown pastor hadn’t made him believe gay people were going to hell, then telling his truth would’ve been easier.