Page 10 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

Fuck them kids.

It’s 7:05 when I walk into La Belle Vie. I arrived on time, but Ace’s Mercedes was in the parking lot when I pulled up, so I waited a few minutes on purpose.

It’s an upscale place, but a quick scan of the restaurant reminds me I’m still in Atlanta. The faint scent of cedarwood and expensive cologne mingles with the sound of French music, the kind of vibe that screams sophistication—if you can ignore this city’s version of it. Everywhere I look, my eyes are assaulted by cheap bodycon dresses, stripper heels, Snuffleupagus lashes, lace front wigs sitting three inches off the head, and contouring so harsh, even RuPaul would scoff at it.

It wasn’t always like this. We like to blame transplants, but sometimes, the call is coming from inside the house. We’re all out here looking a mess.

And the men aren’t much better.

If this wasn’t Atlanta, we wouldn’t see the ratchets in a place like this. The class system in this city is more like a Venn diagram than a hierarchy.

I bet I’d fit in well in New York.

My eyes skim, rolling involuntarily at a group of women posing for selfies by the bar. The black mecca is a circus, and tonight, the clowns are out.

Whatever. I’m not here to judge. I’m here to seduce.

I spot my man at a table near the window, backlit by the fiery glow of the city lights. He looks disturbingly good. A crisp white shirt hugs his shoulders. His Rolex glints under the light. The way he leans back in his chair exudes confidence, and I’m momentarily taken aback. I almost forget to be mad at him for not calling.

Almost.

He stands as I approach the table, flashing me a big grin. I keep my face neutral, watching as his eyes drop to my body-hugging yellow dress. His gaze sweeps over me, lingering long enough to make my skin prickle.

“Damn,” he says as he pulls out my chair. “You look amazing.”

“Thanks.” I slide into my seat, crossing my legs slowly. I feel his eyes on me, studying my every movement.

He takes his seat. “You know you didn’t have to show out like this.”

“Show out?” I smile at the compliment. “This is just who I am, Ace.”

He chuckles, his shoulders relaxing. “Fair enough.”

I hang my purse on the back of my chair as he looks around for the waiter.

“Need a drink that bad, huh?”

He laughs. “You make me nervous . I can’t say that happens to me a lot.”

“Why is that, Ace?” I put an elbow on the table and rest my face in my hand, staring at him with all the interest I can muster, but not so much that it looks creepy.

“I can’t call it,” he says. “It’s a new feeling. You seem different.”

Men always say that about me. Men say a lot of things to get what they want. They’re the ones who taught me the game.

I’ve been hurt plenty of times, but every heartbreak is a lesson. I have journals full of the lessons I’ve learned.

No man will ever hurt me again.

“I hope you’re different, too,” I tell him. “I’m a once-in-a-lifetime kind of woman. The man next to me needs to match.”

His eyebrows raise slowly. “Is that right?”

“You’ll see.”

The waiter finally finds our table. I order a club soda with bitters and lime. Ace shoots me a look, then orders Hennessey, the official drink of basic niggas everywhere. It’s okay, though. I still love him.

“You don’t strike me as a club soda kinda girl,” he says, watching me as the waiter leaves to fill our orders.

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