LITMIR.BIZ

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blouses and tight jeans and strappy sandals all the time.” Samera’s eyes slowly roam over me. “Let’s face it—oversized T-shirts and baggy jeans don’t exactly get most guys in the mood. Is this how you always dress?”

      “No.” Yes. “Well, some of the time.” At Samera’s doubtful scowl, I admit, “Okay, most of the time. But I want to be comfortable. When I’m at the studio, I get on the floor, on the grass, or climb a tree—whatever’s necessary for the best shot. I need to be able to move.”

      “Do you want to get laid or don’t you?”

      “I want to get laid,” I reply without hesitation.

      “Then trust me. Make a change. A big one. Get some kick-ass skintight black leather pants. And a lot of tight, short skirts. Guys love that. It’s easy access, and pretty much wherever you are, all you need to do is bend over for a quickie.”

      “Sammie!” I exclaim, mortified that she’d do such things in public. But then I think about my dismal situation, and I can’t deny that if I were out with Charles and he wanted me badly enough to sneak off into a bathroom and give it to me in a dingy stall, I would feel so loved.

      Molly appears, breasts bouncing. She places my drink on the table. Then she heads off to deal with some guys at a nearby table who are calling out to her. Thankfully.

      “You ought to try sex in public before you knock it,” Samera comments.

      “I’d have sex on national TV right now if it meant Charles could get it up.”

      “That’d send Mama right to her grave!” A sharp burst of laughter escapes Samera, but as her laughter dies, I see something in her eyes—something that says she misses our mother. “You talk to her lately?”

      “Mama?”

      She nods.

      “About a week ago. She was heading off to some bible something or other in California.”

      “You mean they let her out of the compound in Alabama?”

      “Sounded like it was a group trip.”

      “When is she gonna realize that those fucking assholes are cult leaders?” Samera shakes her head. “Religious freaks. I can’t stand them.”

      “She seems happy.” And that’s the best I can hope for, really. I know she’s had a hard life. Personally, I think she suffered some childhood trauma that’s had her searching for peace ever since. I only talk to my mother once in a while, mostly when she has a moment to call me. She’s thrown herself one hundred percent into this new church family of hers, and she doesn’t have much time for me anymore. It’s just as well. I can only take so much of her fire-and-brimstone talk.

      Samera scowls. “Forget Mama. You came to talk about Charles.”

      Oh, Samera talks a good game, as if she doesn’t care one bit about our mother, but I know she’s does. And I know she was hurt when my mother cut her out of her life. Yet another person who rejected her the way our father rejected both of us when we were little kids.

      But it’s not a subject I want to discuss now, even if I think it’d do Samera good. Instead, I say, “Sexy clothes, huh? You think that will do the trick?”

      “Not just sexy. Trampy. And don’t just wear them around the house. Wear them when you leave to hang with your girlfriends. That’ll make Charles wonder who you’re going to meet. Seriously, give guys a little competition and you’ll see how fast they try and get you in bed.”

      “You might just be right.” When we were dating, if Charles noticed another guy looking at me, he always held me a little tighter.

      “I am right. And you know it, or you wouldn’t be here.”

      “I won’t argue with that.”

      “Look, sweetie. Lana’s just finished her routine, which means I have to go back and get ready. But you stay and finish your drink. It’s on me.”

      We both stand and hug. “I love you, Sammie.” And I do. With all my heart. Regardless of how little we see each other, she’s always in my heart. As her older sister by four years, there’s a part of me that’s very protective of her, even though she’s the one who could probably kick butt to save my ass.

      “I love you, too. And one more piece of advice?”

      We pull apart. “Sure.”

      “Start checking Charles’s clothes. Check his wallet, his car. Everything.”

      “Sam—”

      “I’m serious. See if that motherfucker’s got phone numbers hidden and a secret stash of condoms. Because a guy’s a guy. If he’s not fucking his wife, then he’s fucking someone else.”

      Chapter Six

       Lishelle

      When Rhonda peeks her head into the hair and makeup room, I immediately cut my eyes at her. I’ve been avoiding her all week. She, too, has been avoiding me, I’m sure. As well she should be.

      But obviously she’s decided that she’ll make the first move and speak to me today. Her timing is perfect—Joanie, the hairstylist, stepped out to get coffee.

      Coincidence?

      Rhonda’s eyes are downcast as she steps into the room and closes the door behind her. “Hey,” she says softly.

      “Hey, yourself.”

      “I just want to say—”

      “Did you know?” I ask. “Did you know that your cousin is gay, or bisexual or whatever the hell he is?”

      She doesn’t meet my eyes.

      “You knew?” I stare at Rhonda in horror. “Rhonda, why?”

      She finally looks directly at me. “Trevor said he feels bad about what happened. That he was having a great time with you before—”

      “Before his boyfriend decided that he wanted him back?”

      “Trevor really likes you.”

      My eyes widen as I stare at her. “You’re kidding me, right?”

      “I think you could be the one for him. I really do.”

      “He’s gay, Rhonda. Or at least sexually confused.”

      “Bisexual. Or so he says. But that relationship—it was just a phase.”

      “Ah, now I feel better.”

      “I’m serious. We had a heart-to-heart about it, and he said he’d gone straight, that he was looking to meet a nice woman and settle down.”

      “And you set him up with me?”

      “He’s really a nice guy. He was just confused for a while. You know.”

      Oh my God. I can’t believe Rhonda. I can’t believe she’d set me up with a guy she knew was into men.

      “I’m sorry. I thought it would work out.”

      “Tell him I wish him luck working things out with his ex.”

      “No, that’s over. Honestly. His ex is crazy, like some kind of stalker—”

      I hold up a hand to stop Rhonda. “Rhonda, I don’t care if it’s over or not. I’m not into bisexual men. Your cousin or not.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      “I don’t really get why you wanted to set me up with him.” It’s not like I whine at the station every day about wanting a man in my life. “First of all, a bisexual man is really a gay man and trying to front. Why would you want to subject me to that?”

      “I am sorry.”

      “No,

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