I'd Rather Be Single Read online

  I’d Rather Be Single

  LaShonda DeVaughn

  Mimi Renee

  Tysha

  Kaie Golson

  Copyright © 2011 StreetDreamz Publications

  All rights reserved

  Printed in the United States of America

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  PUBLISHER'S NOTE:

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places,

  events and incidents are the product of the author's

  imagination or are used fictionally.

  Any resemblance of actual persons, living or dead, events

  or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be

  reproduced in any form without

  written permission from the publisher, except by a

  reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be

  printed in a newspaper or magazine.

  Editor: [email protected]

  Acknowledgements

  First I would like to thank GOD for blessing me with a

  talent that I absolutely love. A special thanks to Mimi

  Renee, Tysha and Kaie for collaborating with me on

  this project. When I came up with the title I knew

  that I wanted a team of hot writers to flush out

  different visions of what the title meant to them.

  These ladies did just that. I hope everyone enjoys all

  four stories, you’ll find a piece of yourself in each

  one…..Your Girl, LaShonda DeVaughn

  I’d like to thank my heavenly father for blessing me

  with the gift of writing and LaShonda DeVaughn for

  recognizing and considering me for the project. I

  enjoyed working on the project and it was a pleasure

  working with you. THANKS! To the readers, thanks

  for your continued love and support…It means

  everything to me. I hope you all enjoy…GOD

  BLESS….Mimi Renee, The Writer Chick

  I have to acknowledge the man who inspired

  the title of story. It’s Something In Your Backstroke

  that keeps you in my system. You’ll always be my Big

  Papa! To all the women who’ve followed a man to

  the ends of the earth only to wind up hurt and alone:

  It’s okay to love a man as long as you remember to

  love yourself first. The main character Jai in my story

  represents us all…Tysha

  I would like to thank my family and friends;

  my mother especially who has been my number one

  supporter. I truly love you. I would also like to thank

  LaShonda DeVaughn and StreetDreamz Publications

  for giving me the opportunity to be apart of this

  wonderful project! I’m really excited to embark on

  this new journey….Kaie Golson

  The Skeletons In My Closet

  By: LaShonda DeVaughn

  What the fuck does this nigga want!

  I snatched the phone off my marble bureau again. I had sent my ex, Rodney to voicemail at least seven times but he still felt the need to keep calling back.

  “What do you want?” I finally said rolling my eyes to the ceiling.

  “Who you talking to like that?” he barked.

  I plopped on my bed and let out an annoyed sigh. “Rodney, I don’t have no money for you to borrow.”

  He sucked his teeth, “What? No one is calling you for no money; I was just calling to let you know that I’ve moved on.”

  I was really agitated at this point; I shifted on my bed looking at myself in my double closet doors that were made out of mirrors. My pretty face was wrinkled with annoyance; I didn’t give a fuck if this nigga moved on or not. He was a fuckin’ deadbeat! He promised me every day for the two years that we were together that he would get a job but he never did. I had to feed him, clothe him, and give him money for them nasty ass cigarettes that made the white walls in my old apartment yellow.

  “Good for you, why the fuck are you calling to tell me that?” I asked while playing with the tail of my long, jet black ponytail and I rolled my eyes again. “It’s been over six months since we’ve been broken up Rodney, why do I care if you moved on or not?”

  “Yeah, whatever, Tyra,” he said.

  He took a short breath hinting that he was nervous to tell me his next revelation.

  “She’s pregnant too, just wanted to let you know that we are starting a family and that from here on out I will leave you alone.”

  Staring at the look on my face in my closet mirror doors, I could see my facial expression changing. I went from looking annoyed to the appearance of a sad child. I untwirled my finger from my ponytail and sat shocked and partially heartbroken.

  The first year that we were together, Rodney and I tried desperately for a baby but it never happened. I came to the conclusion that I probably couldn’t have children and tried to keep myself from going crazy over being infertile by thinking that maybe it wasn’t in God’s plan for me to have a baby with Rodney. After all, it would have been like I was taking care of two kids because he was like a needy child himself. But not being able to have kids was something that always bothered me and hearing Rodney’s news kind of touched a soft spot inside me.

  “Congratulations, Rodney good luck with everything.” I pressed the end button and tossed my red Blackberry behind me on the bed. I really didn’t care that Rodney moved on, I was already over him. I had cut him off for good reason. I couldn’t be with a deadbeat and survive this game called life with only one income coming in. Paying the bills alone was a hard task. And no matter how good Rodney put it down in the bedroom, because truth be told his pipe game was sick, and no matter how good he was to me because he was one of the most understanding men in the world, being broke just wasn’t in my plans.

  I moseyed off my bed walking closer to my closet mirrors examining myself. I put both hands on my mocha, slim oval face and tears snuck into my slanted eyes as I realized that Rodney was finally going to be history. Since we’d been broken up, he would call to check up on me but mostly to borrow money which is why I would sometimes ignore his calls. But after that last phone call, I felt like it was finally the end and that I would probably never hear from him again.

  I can’t totally shit on Rodney’s name. He was the one dude from the hood who didn’t judge me off my past and I would always love him for that. I was the girl from the projects who developed a little too fast. At age eleven I was already in a C cup bra and in size 9/10 jeans. And it wasn’t because I was fat. My waist was only 24 inches and my ass; well you do the math. My foster parents weren’t shit; they only raised me for the check. I never got the guidance that a mom was supposed to give a daughter, I practically raised myself; so I sought acceptance from the streets.

  The attention that the guys in the neighborhood showed me had me selling my soul at an early age. I didn’t know what sex was or oral was but I quickly learned. I was with at least five dudes from each crew in my projects not knowing that I was making a name for myself. I thought that I was making friends but I was only disrespecting myself unknowingly. Everyone I slept with would act like they really cared about me and I was oblivious to the fact that I was just being used because I was content with the attention they showed me since my foster parents disregarded me. As soon as the boys had enough of me, I was passed on to the next and the old ones wouldn’t even acknowledge me in public. It became extremely difficult as I got older.

  When I was about sixteen,
everyone labeled me as the hood’s jumpoff. So after school, I would go straight home and never socialized with any of the girls in the neighborhood because they all judged me. The dudes were even worse. When I would walk by the crowd of boys who often idled by the wooden project benches, they would snicker little comments out loud like “smut” or “hoe” not knowing how much their words were hurting me. I literally cried every day in my small bedroom after school.

  I never really hung with any girls because I was afraid of what they thought of me. I would hear them whispering to each other about how I was such a slut and make fun of the fact that I didn’t have any friends. I had countless fights with chicks because I slept with a lot of their boyfriends, so my tears eventually dissolved and I developed thick skin and was okay with not hanging with a bunch of bitches.

  When I met Rodney, my life changed. He didn’t look at me as Tyra the jumpoff; he saw me for the person I was; a young girl searching and yearning for love. He showed me what love was and I fell for him hard. He would listen to my repetitive stories about how my foster parents never showed me love and he promised that he would always love me and take care of me the way that I deserved.

  I literally felt genuine love from him immediately and I thought that if I had his baby, it would bond us closer together and that we would all be a family; the family that I always desired as a child. But when he failed at every attempt to impregnate me, I gave up on that dream. And when all that he was giving me was love and no financial help, Rodney had to go.

  That brings me to where I am today, in a new apartment, living a new life and a brand new Tyra…..

  The new Tyra was born when I met my friend, Rosslyn. She was from Brooklyn and had moved into the apartment next door to Rodney and I. She lived in the newly renovated unit that my landlord rented out for an arm and a leg. I had told the landlord to hold off on renovating my unit because I couldn’t afford the rent increase.

  It was somewhat obvious that Rosslyn could afford it. At first glance; you could tell she was sitting on money just by the way she dressed. I would leave to go to work in the morning and she would just be coming home, leaving out of some dude’s luxury vehicle. She stayed draped in Gucci, Prada, and Chanel. She was a fly ass bitch! I never really asked her what she did, we would always just greet each other with a “hi” and nothing more, but one day, that all changed.

  Our apartments were side by side so we shared porches. I was out on the front stoop leaning on the concrete ledge getting some fresh air after yet another argument with Rodney about his employment situation. Suddenly a platinum Mercedes Benz pulled up and Rossyln stepped out with lemon lime Gucci stilettos, black leggings and a fitted lemon lime sheer Prada blouse like she was about to hit the red carpet.

  “Damn, that’s a nice car,” I said as it pulled off.

  Rosslyn took off her brown Fendi glasses, her long jet black lashes were revealed; they looked freshly done and she spoke through her mac lip glass. “Girl that’s nothing.”

  “Huh?” I asked confused. Was she serious? She had just stepped out of a S-Class Benz, what did she mean that was nothing?

  “Girl, he pays the bills, but he’s just aiight. His Mercedes is a 2008, he can step up his game to at least a 2010 to impress me.”

  I was still looking at her like she was crazy. She paused, looking me up and down. My forever 21 skinny leg jeans and plaid pink and black shirt from a local boutique on Dudley Street probably made her want to laugh out loud.

  “What kind of car does your man drive?” she asked.

  I looked back in the direction of my apartment door, “Who Rodney? Ha! What car?” I asked.

  “What! Your man don’t have a car?” she asked. She shook her head with a bewildered look on her face.

  “Uh uh girl, you are too pretty to be with a nigga with no car. What does he do?” she asked.

  I gave her a look and a half. She quickly concluded that the look I gave her meant that he had no job.

  She put her fresh French tip nail on the tip of her forehead and said, “Wait, no car and no job? That means he isn’t bringing any money in.”

  I nodded my head to concur because she was dead on.

  She threw up her hands as if she was about to have a heart attack. She had a disgusted look painted in the pit of her flawless make up. “Girl we gotta talk.”

  She pulled her keys out of her 2010 black patent Louis Vuitton bag and led me inside of her apartment.

  “How old are you?” she asked as she tossed her bag onto her black leather sectional.

  “Twenty three,” I said taking a seat melting into the expensive butter soft leather. I began scoping out her apartment and as I assumed; her renovated unit was the shit! Not to mention the way she decorated it made it look like a condominium. She had a large circular black mink rug in the center of the living room and black and white pictures of old movie stars like Marilyn Monroe and Dorothy Dandridge hanging from the walls. Her shit was straight Hollywood! It was clear that she was living the life of a celebrity. Her 62 inch plasma TV hung from the off white living room wall near the kitchen entry, the chrome trim on the TV matched the chrome end tables in the living room which held extra tall chrome lamps with black ruffle shades. Rosslyn was indeed living large.

  “Any kids?” she asked opening up a bottle of Kendall Jackson Chardonnay and handing me a flute. She was now changed into her fluffy black Chanel house slippers and sat beside me on the couch.

  “Nope,” I said as she filled my glass to the middle.

  “That’s cool. I’m 24; I started doing what I do when I was 17,” she said.

  “What do you do?” I asked.

  “I’m in the business of using men,” she said confidently.

  I didn’t know how to respond; I sat puzzled and then sipped my wine out of pure awkwardness.

  “Girl don’t give me that look. Men been using women for years so I just do the same thing in a different way.” She took a sip of her wine and then placed it on the crème Berber carpet. “See, I see it like this, why stay with one man when you can have multiple friends with benefits? And I’m not talking about friends with benefits sexually; I’m talking about real benefits: gwap, cake, stacks, money!” she said in her nasally Brooklyn accent.

  Suddenly Rossyln’s phone began ringing, her ring tone was Rick Ross’s Everyday I’m Hustling and it was fitting for her because she obviously hustled men out of their wallets like no other. She reached behind me for her Louis V bag and pulled out her iPhone. She peeked at the name on the screen and rolled her eyes.

  “Ugh, this is Terry Lamont, hold on one second,” she said putting up one finger.

  “Hello?”

  As she was talking on the phone, the name Terry Lamont kept replaying in my head, the name was all too familiar. I knew she couldn’t be talking about Terry Lamont from the Boston Celtics basketball team so I waited until her call ended to ask.

  “Sorry about that girl, this nigga act like he can’t breathe without hearing from me.”

  “Was that your boyfriend?” I asked.

  “Boyfriend?” she repeated as if I had just used blasphemy.

  “Girl, I don’t have those problems. He may think he’s my man but I’m only dating his wallet.” She reached for her glass of wine and took another sip.

  “That wasn’t ‘the’ Terry Lamont was it?” I asked curiously while forming my fingers in quotations.

  Rosslyn smirked; her deep dimples were indented in her smooth yellow skin as she bat her long lashes confirming that it was indeed him.

  My eyes widened, “That was really Terry Lamont? Girl, you talk to a Celtics player?” I sounded like a major groupie. I was no sports buff or anything but everyone knew who Terry Lamont was.

  “Calm down, girl, dating these kinds of men is nothing to me. How you think I moved here from Brooklyn? He funded the entire move, this apartment, my wardrobe, my rental cars, everything. I been kicking it with him for a year. And the nigga that just dropped me off in the 08 Benz,
he owns five jewelry stores downtown Boston, his paper isn’t as long as Terry’s but you always gotta keep at least two rich men on deck,” she boasted.

  “How do you be meeting these athletes?” I asked giving Rosslyn my full attention. My eyes and ears were wide open; I was hanging on to her every word. Judging from all the name brand appliances in her apartment, all the designer shoe boxes stacked in the living room by the front door that were unopened and probably just purchased, I knew that this was someone I could learn from.

  “Girl, men act like bitches are the groupies; but it’s them that are the groupies. It’s the power of the pussy,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  She put down her glass as if she was about to lecture me. “Okay, men want to be arm and arm with a fly bitch. Now I know you heard of the term, use what you got to get what you want right?”

  “Yes?”

  “Okay, well you don’t necessarily have to sleep with every man that you meet but when you date millionaires, you have to give them what they want but add a little mystery to yourself to keep them intrigued, that’ll keep them coming back for more. If you give them too much too soon, you’ll just be another chick on their list of fucks.”

  “See, I started out in Brooklyn; I dated a Yankees player and three niggas from the New York Kicks and then moved to Atlanta and dated a few industry cats. The rappers are the cheapest; but the athletes, them niggas like to splurge.”

  I was utterly amazed, I never knew anyone who knew so many celebrities let alone dated any. Here I was, a girl from Boston looking for love from a man who had any kind of job, as long as I wasn’t the only one in the relationship working. But Rosslyn was dating millionaires; I must’ve been looking for the wrong type of man.