Nikki had her own problems with financially providing
for her husband’s illegitimate son. Herschel did not want another child. Her husband wanted her to relinquish her dominant
position. Would her husband be happier if she were confused like he was?
“I’m crazy in love with my job. I’m damn good at it. And I pay the bills in my house. Not Herschel,” Nikki said, driving past
Lexington’s estate.
Shit. She needed a baby like a fish needed a blow job. As she cruised by the guard shack, that thought made her laugh. Nikki
sat at the red light, watching cars speed along US 41. Maybe she should’ve just bought herself some fish instead of getting
married. Driving along Fifth Street, Nikki took a right at Collins, left at Fourth, then another right. She cruised along
Ocean Avenue in her convertible, checking out the sexy-ass PRCLs—Puerto Rican, Cuban, and Latino men—at the sidewalk cafés.
She wondered if marrying one of them would’ve been better than walking down the aisle to let Herschel put an incarceration
ring on her finger. It was a ring she only wore because she was trapped in the eyes of lurking paparazzi waiting to exploit
her and the husband she once loved… She didn’t love her husband anymore.
The attractive men she saw couldn’t be worse than Herschel. At least not the PRCLs she’d fuck—not giving a fuck about more
than coming, so she could go about her day. The one thing each of her PRCL lovers had in common was they were all passionate.
They were crazy about her; they satisfied her sexually; they had a zest for life; they enjoyed what they did. That was more
than she could say about her discontented husband. What would it take to make her husband happy again? Who? What? When had
he changed his outlook on life?
Despite… in spite…
she’d remained his lawfully wedded wife. The question she needed to answer: why?
Herschel wasn’t passionate about his job, he wasn’t happy with Ivory or Anthony, and he hated Nikki. Which was exactly why
Nikki was headed to Nikki Beach for a late lunch, not with the man she should’ve married, but to connect to the universe and
lay with her feet in the sand.
Nikki parked at valet and handed the attendant her keys. She started to bypass the gift shop but decided to step inside. “I’ll
take these,” she said, laying the cutest sheer purple pants on the counter. Dashing into the restroom, Nikki removed her clothes,
covered her body with Hawaiian suntan oil, slipped into her sizzling red bikini, stepped into her pants, then exited the ladies’
room.
“Oh, excuse me,” she said, almost bumping into a kissing couple standing in front of the restroom door.
A kiss was never just a kiss. She wondered if the man who was kissing the woman was equally as passionate about her as she
appeared to be about him. Had they just met? Did they travel to South Beach together on vacation? Or was the guy in town on
business in search of some fun and she just so happened to be the one he chose?
Lying on one of the canopy beds mounted in the sand, the white cotton sheets draping over the top and down the sides of each
post flapping in the wind, comforted her. Removing her pants, Nikki motioned for the waiter. “I’d like your signature mojito,
please, with two sugarcane sticks.”
Sugarcane fields deep in the South. Bogalusa, Louisiana. Nikki closed her eyes, remembering the days her grandfather would
go out into those fields, whack down canes with a sickle knife, then peel away the stems with his pocketknife and hand her
and her two sisters a slice of what Grandpa called “Heaven’s sugar.” No preservatives. No additives. She missed her grandparents,
her parents, and her sisters too. They were all alive, and presumably well, living what they considered Christian lives. They’d
disassociated themselves from her, saying she was destined to go to hell. Well, that was okay with Nikki, because to live
any life other
for her husband’s illegitimate son. Herschel did not want another child. Her husband wanted her to relinquish her dominant
position. Would her husband be happier if she were confused like he was?
“I’m crazy in love with my job. I’m damn good at it. And I pay the bills in my house. Not Herschel,” Nikki said, driving past
Lexington’s estate.
Shit. She needed a baby like a fish needed a blow job. As she cruised by the guard shack, that thought made her laugh. Nikki
sat at the red light, watching cars speed along US 41. Maybe she should’ve just bought herself some fish instead of getting
married. Driving along Fifth Street, Nikki took a right at Collins, left at Fourth, then another right. She cruised along
Ocean Avenue in her convertible, checking out the sexy-ass PRCLs—Puerto Rican, Cuban, and Latino men—at the sidewalk cafés.
She wondered if marrying one of them would’ve been better than walking down the aisle to let Herschel put an incarceration
ring on her finger. It was a ring she only wore because she was trapped in the eyes of lurking paparazzi waiting to exploit
her and the husband she once loved… She didn’t love her husband anymore.
The attractive men she saw couldn’t be worse than Herschel. At least not the PRCLs she’d fuck—not giving a fuck about more
than coming, so she could go about her day. The one thing each of her PRCL lovers had in common was they were all passionate.
They were crazy about her; they satisfied her sexually; they had a zest for life; they enjoyed what they did. That was more
than she could say about her discontented husband. What would it take to make her husband happy again? Who? What? When had
he changed his outlook on life?
Despite… in spite…
she’d remained his lawfully wedded wife. The question she needed to answer: why?
Herschel wasn’t passionate about his job, he wasn’t happy with Ivory or Anthony, and he hated Nikki. Which was exactly why
Nikki was headed to Nikki Beach for a late lunch, not with the man she should’ve married, but to connect to the universe and
lay with her feet in the sand.
Nikki parked at valet and handed the attendant her keys. She started to bypass the gift shop but decided to step inside. “I’ll
take these,” she said, laying the cutest sheer purple pants on the counter. Dashing into the restroom, Nikki removed her clothes,
covered her body with Hawaiian suntan oil, slipped into her sizzling red bikini, stepped into her pants, then exited the ladies’
room.
“Oh, excuse me,” she said, almost bumping into a kissing couple standing in front of the restroom door.
A kiss was never just a kiss. She wondered if the man who was kissing the woman was equally as passionate about her as she
appeared to be about him. Had they just met? Did they travel to South Beach together on vacation? Or was the guy in town on
business in search of some fun and she just so happened to be the one he chose?
Lying on one of the canopy beds mounted in the sand, the white cotton sheets draping over the top and down the sides of each
post flapping in the wind, comforted her. Removing her pants, Nikki motioned for the waiter. “I’d like your signature mojito,
please, with two sugarcane sticks.”
Sugarcane fields deep in the South. Bogalusa, Louisiana. Nikki closed her eyes, remembering the days her grandfather would
go out into those fields, whack down canes with a sickle knife, then peel away the stems with his pocketknife and hand her
and her two sisters a slice of what Grandpa called “Heaven’s sugar.” No preservatives. No additives. She missed her grandparents,
her parents, and her sisters too. They were all alive, and presumably well, living what they considered Christian lives. They’d
disassociated themselves from her, saying she was destined to go to hell. Well, that was okay with Nikki, because to live
any life other
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