“Ex Factor”

It was the next day, a Saturday, and Rebe sat down after devouring leftovers of her traditional New Year’s chicken and sausage gumbo. The smell of her spicy stew still lingered in the air.

She had upgraded the oversized chef’s kitchen with all-black cabinets, dark hardwood floors, and the best brand of fitted stainless steel appliances. The empire cherry island was so big it could have served as a queen-sized bed.

Rebe’s custom-built estate home was in an elite section of a city called Coral Gables, compliments of one cheating ex-husband named Randall.

Rebe didn’t come from money, but for the moment, she was swimming in it…eight million dollars’ worth of swimming. Two million for each year they were married.

Wearing a yellow pair of tights, a hoodie, and track shoes, Rebe sat on a leather barstool at the island, thinking about her life as she rummaged through a stack of mail. She looked around at her beautiful home and thought about the small house she and her brother grew up in. Her thoughts were dark. Her mood dipped.

It was a run-down, two-bedroom apartment, in a public housing complex in Ocala, Florida. It was the place where all hell broke loose.

Just like her daughter Trinity did after her birth father died, Rebe had learned to live without her father, who moved back to Hawaii once Rebe got pregnant and moved in with Trent. He’d never even met his own grandchild. Never made an attempt.

But Rebe wanted to be all that Trinity didn’t have as far as extended family. She made sure to be there for her daughter, almost to the point of being overprotective. And Rebe had no choice but to learn to live without her mother, who was locked up. The woman whom Rebe called the she-devil.

Right out of college, Rebe worked as a customer service representative at a bank with Magnolia, but all Rebe ever wanted to do was be a dancer. Though never encouraged at home, she loved dance class in high school, and one thing she made sure to do in college was take modern dance and ballet. Dancing was her passion.

Back in 2001, when Trinity was fourteen, Rebe attended a tryout for the Miami Dolphins cheerleading squad. She didn’t get the spot, but she did catch the eye of one of the guys on the practice field, Randall Richardson, who back then was a star tight end for the Dolphins. Within one month, she quit her job and she and Trinity moved in with Randall, though some warned Rebe it was way too soon. But the whirlwind romance led to them getting married six months after that. Five years later, she was awarded alimony after filing for divorce. It was not nasty. He gave her what she wanted in the divorce, but not his fidelity in the marriage.

According to Rebe, their marriage fell apart because Randall arrived back in town after an away game and called to say he’d be home in a few hours after he made a stop by the coach’s house. Well, he did go by his coach’s house, but when he left, he didn’t head straight home, and Rebe was hot on his trail, following right behind him in her Benz, straight to the W South Beach.

Rebe watched him pull up to the front of the hotel and hand the keys to his silver Porsche to the black-vest-wearing valet. He went inside as Rebe and her nervous heart waited. And waited. Adrenaline was in overdrive.

Halfway into the second hour, Randall came out hand-in-hand with a woman, a woman with platinum hair, whom Rebe recognized as one of the team’s cheerleaders. The valet pulled around the woman’s brand-new black Mustang and then stood with the door ajar, and by the time the woman finished hugging Randall, ready to scoot her narrow hips into the driver’s seat, Rebe came booting it along the circular driveway in her Adidas, like she was Flo Jo, and she commenced to swinging. Swinging at Randall, at the woman, and toward the valet who stepped forward to try to block the door so the woman could get in her car. He shut the door, and she drove away. Randall restrained Rebe, grabbing her arms while she shook and kicked and squirmed to release herself from his grip.

“You bastard ass muthafucka. I’m so sick of you telling all these damn lies. You’re never where you say you are. You flew into town and lied as soon as you landed, knowing I’m waiting for your sorry ass to come home. And I recognize that scrawny bitch anyway. Isn’t her name Kandi? What the hell?”

Another valet pulled up who was driving Randall’s Porsche and Randall shoved Rebe away, hopped in, and sped off, all without saying a word, pedal to the metal. Rebe went sprinting down the street, trying to get to her car fast enough, but by the time she did, he was out of sight.

Rebe breathed hard like it would be her last, and pressed redial on her cell in a repeated panic, but Randall didn’t pick up. She yelled so loud her ears popped. “Pick up the phone, Randall. You fucking dog ass punk, you!”

She hurried home and waited, crying, pacing, imagining, and dialing again for over two hours, all while Trinity slept down the hall.

Then, Randall simply walked in the bedroom with a stroll, calm and casual, like nothing had happened. He never even gave her eye contact. But her angry eyes made precise contact with him.

Rebe was seated on the bed, legs crossed, bouncing her foot, focusing on his every move. Her nose and upper lip were sweating and she was shaking like a crack addict.

He went straight to the closet, packed a small suitcase, and casually walked out of the room.

Rebe begged her bad side to stay right where it was, though she wanted to handle him so bad she could taste it. She counted to three, stood, and screamed toward his exit, “Horny ass bastard. That’ll be the most expensive pussy run of your entire life.” Instead of hurrying down the stairs, chasing behind him, as much as her nerve tried to convince her to, she ran to the bedroom window, parting the ebony pleated curtains and eyeing him again, praying looks could kill.

He approached his Porsche, which was parked in the circular driveway, and tossed the suitcase inside, jumping in, revving his engine, and driving off.

At her side as she watched him leave, Rebe was holding a large red hammer she’d hidden behind her back, and as much as she had it in her to throw it through the window like a heat-seeking cheater missile, something made her drop it onto the hardwood floor. It hit with a thud and chipped a strip of mahogany, and she crumbled to the floor, fighting with all her might to chase away the feeling of wanting to kill him with one blow. It was in her.

That night Rebe realized what it felt like to want to kill someone.

Him.

Or herself.

Also that night, Randall Richardson’s W hotel mistress, who was indeed named Kandi, the woman whom he’d just bought the new Mustang for, got pregnant. She since went by the name of Mrs. Kandi Richardson.

Included in the divorce settlement was Rebe’s white CL-Class Benz, which she traded in for a brand-new one, sunset red; and she was awarded the home they’d shared, which he quitclaimed to her.

In spite of Randall’s unwillingness to fight for Rebe, he did care for her twenty-one-year-old daughter Trinity. He was the only father Trinity had ever known, and she loved him something deep.

To Trinity, the breakup of Randall and her mom was all her mother’s doing, even though Randall was the one who cheated. To her, it was her mother’s own fault that she was, as Trinity put it, a lonely and bitter divorcée.

Speaking of Trinity, she had just walked downstairs from her room.

Rebe quickly shook herself from her recollection of her marriage breakup drama.

“Where’re you going?” Rebe asked her daughter, holding one particular letter in hand.

“Out.” Trinity placed the keys to her new silver Mustang on the island right where her mother sat. It was the Mustang that Randall bought her, which matched his new wife’s car. Trinity, very thin, very tall, very light, with very long hair and very big eyes, was very pretty. She opened the door that led from the kitchen to the backyard, leaning down in her tight jeans to pet their chocolate Labrador named Randi. She was given to Trinity by Randall as a birthday gift. And she named it after him.

Rebe often joked she felt it appropriate that a K-9 was named after a dog like Randall. She couldn’t even stand the sound of Randi’s name, let alone the sight of her.

“And who are you going out with?” Rebe asked with an impatient glare.

Trinity’s tone shifted to a high pitch, definitely not intended for her mother. “Hi, baby, that’s my baby. Such a pretty girl. That’s my Randi. Yep. That’s her.”

Randi ran circles around Trinity’s feet and tried hard to sneak past her into the house toward Rebe, but Trinity blocked her way. “Come back, now. Stop.” Trinity pointed and Randi ran back outside into the grand backyard. Trinity closed the door and locked it. She stepped to the island and picked up her keys, giving a quick look to her mom, who only stared at her. Tapping her foot. Hand now on her hip. Waiting.

Trinity spoke with the tone she saved only for her mother. “Why do you even ask? You sound like I’m still in middle school.”

“I ask because you act like you’re in middle school. Like school is still free. I’m paying for you to go to college and you end up letting your grades slip again like this, after all this time?” Rebe held up the letter.

“Mommy, I’m the only one of my friends whose parents get sent a copy of their grades. Why are you still all up in my business, like that? Dang.” Trinity popped her tongue from the roof of her mouth.

Rebe turned her ear toward her daughter. “Like what? Did I hear you right? Let’s say like because the last time you messed up we decided I’d be copied on your progress reports. The day you pay your own tuition, and move from under my roof, I’ll get out of your ‘business.’ But for now, you’re throwing money in the trash every time you fail one of these classes, Trinity. This is supposed to be your senior year and you’re a junior. Now what is really going on with you?”

Her eyebrows lowered. “Why do you always remind me that you pay for my school? Don’t you think I know that?”

“It seems to me you need to be reminded of it. And I’ll tell you what’s going on. What’s going on is you’re hanging out too much. You and your friends are always on the run. You were out almost every night last week. Now here it is the second day of a new year, and you’re trying to start it just the way you ended 2008, by always going somewhere in that fast car Randall bought you. You’ve gotta do better than this once the spring semester starts.”

Trinity’s arms were folded along her chest. “I’m fine, Mommy. And please don’t remind me that I have the same car Kandi has.” She rolled her eyes and all but rolled her neck. “Anyway, it’s still Christmas break. Everybody’s having fun. You’re making it a much bigger deal. It’s normal.”

“You should be about to graduate. Being on the brink of academic probation is not normal at this point.”

“I’m not going to let it get that far, Mommy.”

“How do I know that?”

“Because I’m telling you it won’t.”

“So I’m supposed to just take your word for it? I don’t think so. We need to make a plan for these next five or six months. I think you need to meet with another counselor.” Rebe looked down at the letter, perusing it for more information.

“I am meeting with one. On my own. That was part of the agreement when this year started. Meeting with a counselor and a tutor. I only failed one class. Lay off, please.”

Rebe looked up, eyes big enough to pop. “Lay off? No, I will not lay off. You need to appreciate the fact that you’ve got a mother who can afford to pay for your college. You don’t work. And you live rent free.”

Trinity let the weight of her head drop, and then she looked back up. “Why do you keep saying a mother who can afford it?”

“And what does that mean?”

“Isn’t Randall paying, really?” She said really like it had sixty letters instead of six.

Rebe pointed her index finger Trinity’s way. “You listen to me. Randall isn’t paying for anything that has to do with you, other than that car, which he seems good at buying for just about anybody. He’s not your father and you’re not a minor, so there’s no child support order. He’s paying alimony because I deserve it. It’s my money. And besides, that’s none of your damn business, Trinity. You need to be grateful that you can live in a home like this. And as far as you talking back to me, I don’t know where the hell that came from. My mother would’ve beat the shit out of me if I talked to her like you talk to me.”

“I’m sure.” Trinity all but mumbled.

Rebe bit her lip, squinted her eyes, and then balled up the letter, lobbing it straight into the trash can near the sink, like a free throw.

Trinity put one hand on the island, and one hand on her hip. “Mommy. Let me get a job and get a place of my own. I can get hired at Starbucks tomorrow.”

“You know the deal. You working a job and going to school will not mix. Your grades are bad enough as it is.”

Trinity crossed her arms again. “Have you ever thought that maybe I just might do better on my own?”

“No.”

Trinity gave her mother a you get on my last nerve look. A look that Rebe was very familiar with. It was the same look she used to give her mother. Rebe heard her inner voice telling her to take a breath and downshift, and so she asked her daughter again, “So, where are you going?”

Trinity tossed her keys back onto the island. “Nowhere now.” She gave a fake smile.

Rebe stood. “Oh, so I ruined your going somewhere mood? That’s funny.” She headed toward the front door.

“Umh.”

Rebe slowed down her step, and wanted to turn back so bad she could taste it.

“Where are you going?” Trinity’s words were marinated with sarcasm.

“To the gym. I’ll be back.” Rebe took her purse from the wooden coat rack near the front door. She waited to hear a response. All she heard were her daughter’s weighted footsteps headed up the stairs. The footsteps of a daughter who had no idea her mother was going to pole dancing class.

Going to a pole dancing class with the dream, and New Year’s resolution, of being a paid exotic dancer.

That same day

It was just after seven that same evening. There were six brown women, three red poles, and one dirty-blonde instructor with what looked like four-inch eyelashes and six-inch platforms. She was mid-thirties and had a nonimpressive body. No chest or backside, average legs and face. But, when she made the pole her friend, she was a sexpot, jackpot, seductress.

As everyone sat on the floor in their platform stilettos, in the large exercise room of the popular, state-of-the-art gym, the instructor anchored the pole and then did an around-the-world spin move, grinding in the air and sliding her body up and down, along her back. She broke out into a full split, and kicked her leg around to come to a stance, standing against the pole with her hand gripping its width. Her voice was feminine and steady. She looked around at her new students and then took a seated yoga position among them. “Now, first thing. Relax. Just sit like this for a minute and breathe, in through your nose, out through your mouth, and get your body to simply go limp. Do that now because once you start working that pole, you’re going to need those joints and muscles to be all loosened up and ready to work. Bottom line is this is exercise. It’s a workout. And judging by the looks of you ladies today, this just might be my best class yet. Now, let’s get started.”

After the ten minute warm-up, three of the ladies stood and leaned their backs against the pole, keeping their hands about waist high, following the instructor’s lead. They bent their knees slightly, pushed their hips out to the right and then forward and in a circle, again and again, in a sexy grind.

Rebe flung her braids forward with her hand and rubbed the middle of her back up and down the pole.

The instructor stopped before her and said, “I see you’re having fun.”

Rebe nodded, staying focused, and smiled, keeping up the movement.

They each slid down a pole and reached upward, using upper body strength to lift their feet and press their legs to the side.

Within another half hour, after more moves were taught, the instructor stood next to Rebe and leaned in toward her as Rebe completed a complicated pole trick. “You’re a natural. I can see it already.”

“Natural what?”

“You’ve danced before. That much I know.”

“Oh, yes. I have. Years ago.”

“It shows.”

One of the other students overheard, a butterican, toasted-pecan-looking young girl who turned up her nose and walked away.

Rebe said softly, “Thanks. Just trying to get in shape. I think a few more times doing that move and it’s gonna hurt right around here.” Rebe rubbed the inside of her right thigh.

“Oh it will. And every other place too. You will have bruises. It’s no joke.”

“I can tell.”

The instructor said in an even more private tone, “Listen, if you ever think about doing this to make some money, let me know. As you can imagine, I get a lot of calls from strip club managers looking for dancers.”

Rebe’s thought was that this was too easy. “I’ll bet you do. I need a whole lot more work, even if I did decide to try it out.”

“What are you, like, thirty-two?” the instructor asked.

“Ahh, close.” Rebe realized that indirect dishonesty was in order.

“Nice,” she said, walking away to speak to the group, grabbing on to the pole again herself. “Okay ladies, next we’ll do what’s called the martini spin. You stand beside the pole, like this, with your inside arm up high and your inside hand at chest level. Bring your outside leg in front of the pole. Now extend your leg straight out while spinning and hook it around while shifting your body weight forward. Make sure to bring your leg up quickly, shoot it straight out, and slide down slowly. Then tuck your leg to bring yourself back up. Now try it.”

The ladies went through about another forty-five minutes of learning that and other moves, and then headed to the locker room to get dressed. As Rebe sat down, her dance instructor approached.

“You’ve got a lot of strength. I have this friend who owns a place in Fort Lauderdale. I’ll tell him about you. If you want to do this on the side of your normal job, he just might be willing to hire you.”

“Oh, I don’t work,” Rebe said, trying not to sound like a millionaire with issues.

“Really? Are you married?”

“No.”

“Single is better if you think you might try this out.”

“I might be interested.”

“I’ll see you in a couple days for the next class. I’ll tell him about you.”

“Okay.”

When the instructor walked away, Rebe glanced up at the ceiling and said in her head, Lord, my mother would beat my ass for even thinking about doing something like this. And dammit, that’s all the more reason to give it a try.