by Mink, Meesha
Whatever was on their mind was their business to tell or keep. Not my problem.
I logged onto the Internet and went straight to Goldie’s website . . . just like I did damn near every day. Besides my insider—who didn’t give a shit about the bitch anymore than I did—I stayed on top of this bitch’s movements like I was the Feds trying to bring down a cartel. Google alerts. A fake user account on her Goldie’s Girls website. A full report from one of those online search sites for background checks. I just was waiting for that bitch to slip.
Over the year, I had won little victories against her, but she always bounced back.
I turned her in for stripping in her King’s Court projects apartment and got the bitch heave-hoed out onto the street. She just gathered up her loot and whatever shit she wanted from the curb and moved to a New York luxury high-rise apartment. Ugh!
I had shit in place to help Rick, the owner of Club Naughty and Goldie’s ex, to steal most of her dancers and the bitch stopped fucking with strippers and opened a booking firm for video vixens and full-size models. Damn!
I even tried to get the bitch robbed and she ended up tasing the hell out of my boy and had him pissed at me. That bitch!
I knew where she lived.
I knew her phone numbers.
I knew where she banked.
I knew her routine for her new life in New York.
I knew who she fucked, when, and for how long.
I knew a lot of her clients.
I was all over that bitch, ready to get her once and for all.
I used my fingertip to open the photo file labeled: PAYBACK! In it were clear as hell pictures of Goldie’s upper-Manhattan apartment. I had to admit the bitch had that shit laid the fuck out. It made my apartment in Twelve50 look like Section Eight.
I flipped through each photo, taking in everything and knowing I could walk around that bitch’s house with my eyes closed and not stub a toe. My insider delivered up the goods and I paid her well.
“Luscious . . . Luscious . . . Luscious!”
I tore my eyes away from a picture of Goldie standing in front of an oversize glass desk looking out at the New York landscape. “What?” I asked, turning the iPad over to shield it from Eve’s snooping eyes as she walked over to stand by where I sat.
“We need your help, boo,” Eve said, dressed in a lime-green strapless romper with a colorful silk scarf wrapped around her head.
“Coming,” I said, standing up to lock my iPad and slide it back into its case.
It was time to focus on Yummy Entertainment business, because I was determined to make it just as big as Goldie’s Girls, Inc. The time for Goldie topping me was over.
The comedy show was sold out between the tickets we presold and the money made at the door. Dressed in black sequined leggings, matching red-bottomed shoes, and a satin tank, I worked the entire club, making sure everyone was having a good time, there were no complaints, the catering was hot, and the drinks were cold. Eve stayed on top of the talent, making sure there were no ghetto-ass late performers or big gaps in the show. Michel handled the door.
The cocktail servers—one male and one female—both wore skintight shirts with our Yummy Entertainment logo on it. We had to make sure everybody had some eye candy, and the miniature cocktails we sold for a dollar kept the crowd good and loose for cheap. Double win.
I spotted Killer Cain at a corner table with a Keyshia Cole knock-off. He looked like he had indeed lined up that ass for the night. They were hugged up even as everyone laughed until they cried at the female comedian on stage.
My mind was already on our next event. I hadn’t talked to Michel and Eve about it yet, but I already had a big-name talent in mind. Someone from my past. Would he do it, though? I wanted to run it by him before I got them all excited and shit.
Another quick walk around the room and I made my way to the front of the club. Michel was counting the money in the till, looking Gaga in a blonde and green wig with colorful and glittery eye makeup.
“I’ll be outside. I have to make a call,” I told him.
Michel nodded, causing one end of his asymmetrical bob to float back and forth as he stayed focused on counting.
As soon as I stepped out the building, the summer heat surrounded me like a blanket. Even though the sun was long gone from the sky, the heat remained. It took about five seconds for me to feel like I was ready for a shower.
I rushed over to my car and unlocked it to grab my old BlackBerry from the glove compartment. After our big argument on the phone and me throwing his shit in Hefty bags onto his mama’s porch, Make$ had cut off any and everything in his name, including my cell phone.
The days after our breakup had been hard for me, but I made it through to the other side. My desire was to not fall once Make$ left, because I knew that’s what his mama and everyone else expected. I had to watch every fucking cent and even thought about giving up that apartment . . . or selling the Jag . . . or going back to stripping . . . crawling back to my parents . . . or some shit. But I didn’t.
“Humph . . . look at me now. I’m getting paper.” I sang the Chris Brown hook.
I powered on the BlackBerry and scrolled through my contacts to find the number for Tek-9. I knew I was taking a chance calling someone who was cool with Make$, but he had always given me that vibe that he was feeling me. I just never took him up on it. Well, Make$’s ass was busy in jail writing letters and sending pictures of himself in his cell, and in the last year Tek-9 had blew up, got the deal with Platinum, and took on star status. He stepped right in to fill the gap Make$ left.
The phone rang twice. “Yo, who this?” he asked.
There was loud background noise. Music playing. People talking. I knew his ass was in the studio or some club.
I smiled. “This Luscious. What’s up, Tek?” I asked, sitting down in the passenger seat.
“Luscious? Sexy black Luscious?” Tek-9 asked.
“There’s only one,” I teased, my eyes widening as I watched Michel step outside the club talking to a tall and skinny dude.
“You still had my number, huh?” he asked, sounding like he was showing every tooth in his head.
“Yup,” I said, watching Michel and the dude share a cigarette.
“So whassup?”
“Well, my friends and I have this party-promoting little hustle going on, and we’ve been doing good but I’m ready to kick things up and do bigger events with bigger venues and talent . . . like you,” I said, swallowing down any nerves I felt.
“I charge a minimum of twenty grand per show, Luscious.”
Damn.
“And that’s not including travel and hotel and a driver.”
“What’s your walk-through fee?” I asked, looking on as Michel and the dude started kissing like crazy up against the wall.
“Ten grand and unlimited bar.”
“And what’s the ‘Remember when you slept on my couch before you blew up’ discount?” I asked, as I looked down at the diamond tennis bracelet on my wrist. A gift from Make$ back when he gave a fuck.
“Not as high as the ‘you shoulda fucked me on that couch’ discount,” Tek-9 shot back at me, the background noise suddenly gone.
I laughed and shook my head. “You know I don’t get down like that. It was all about Make$ back then. And y’all friends so I’m not fucking with that.”
“And now? That nigga just copped to two years.”
“What?” I rose to my feet, my eyebrows dipping together in surprise.
“Make$ copped a plea deal and took two years for the shit went down after that rape last year,” Tek-9 said. “You didn’t know?”
My heart pounded like crazy. “No,” I admitted.
Make$ had another two years behind bars? He had to be regretting bringing Goldie’s ass on the road. He was behind bars and she was living it up in New York. Missy told me she heard Goldie stole a lot of his jewelry and money after the rape that went down in Make$’s suite. He never got the shit back
.
“Well, I got it straight from the horse’s mouth, you heard me.”
“You saw him in jail?” I asked, trying to pace off the nervous energy I felt all up and through my body.
“Nah, that nigga finished the year he got for fucking up his probation this morning and then had to turn right around and go to court today for the rape shit. He out. He don’t go back for official sentencing until next week.”
Make$ was out.
I strode around my car on my heels and grabbed my iPad from the trunk. With my neon green fingernails I found an article on Make$:
Today, in entertainment news, platinum recording artist Terrence Gardner, better known as Make$, was spotted leaving a Philadelphia County courthouse in the case against him for aiding and abetting and also trying to bribe the unidentified victim of a sexual assault by two members of his entourage, who have already been found guilty of the assault and are awaiting sentencing. It is rumored that Terrence Gardner will accept a plea deal from the district attorney’s office—
“Stop playin’!”
My head whipped around just as Michel tried to push the dude’s hands from under his skirt. Oh, shit! Michel was laughing it off and steady slapping at the dude’s hands, but I knew that shit could get mad serious quick if his snake dropped from wherever Michel tucked it. “Listen I’ll call you back, a’ight,” I said, my eyes locked on Michel across the parking lot.
“Yo, straight up. Let me get some of that I been sniffing up on for years and I’ll do the fucking show for free, you feel me?”
“I’ll call you back,” I said again before I ended the call.
I dropped my iPad in the trunk.
“What the fuck?” the dude yelled.
“Don’t hit me!” Michel begged just before he hollered out in pain.
I just closed my eyes because I knew Michel’s “secret” was out. I grabbed my gun from the case and loaded the clip as I raced across the parking lot. My knees got weak to see the dude’s hands around Michel’s throat as he held his slender body up against the brick side of the building.
Michel’s eyes were bulging out of his head as he looked at me and barely got out the words, “Help me.”
The man used his hand around Michel’s throat to slam his head against the wall. Hard.
I raised my gun and worked hard to fight my nerves. Shooting at a firing range and actually putting some heat into a motherfucker was two different things. “Let her down,” I said, swallowing over a lump in my throat.
The dude looked at me over his shoulder and I could tell from the crazy look in his eyes that the fact that he was just kissing up on a dude was enough to make him kill. “Her?” he asked, like he didn’t even see the gun in my hand or had no respect for it or me. “This look like motherfuckin’ pussy to you?”
The dude released one hand from around Michel’s throat to jack the hem of his skirt up. Michel’s lace bikini was torn and his dick was free and hanging.
I stepped up closer to him and made sure I kept my eyes locked on him. I had to let him know to stop this before I shot him. And I would. I would hurt him before I let him hurt Michel. “Put. Her. Down,” I said again, my voice so hard. As hard as I hoped he’d realize I could be.
It was him or Michel. Point-blank.
I took another step and pressed the gun to the back of his head. I didn’t want to draw any more attention to this bullshit and that’s the only reason I didn’t bust one off in the air. “Trust me. I got one with your name on it, motherfucker. Put her down,” I told him, my voice cold. My hand was steady. My gun was ready to shoot. My target practice was coming in handy.
Finally, he removed his hand and Michel slumped to the glass-covered blacktop. He coughed and gasped for air as he put one slender hand to his neck and used his other hand to pull his dress down to cover his dick. Even as he struggled to breathe life into his body he wanted to hide from who he really was.
I felt sorry for my friend.
The dude started hawking up spit like he wanted to get rid of any of Michel’s DNA he took in when they kissed.
“If I was you, I wouldn’t tell anybody. The hood’s not going to understand that you didn’t know you was fucking with a dude,” I told him, my gun at my side but my finger still on the trigger.
He looked up at me and I could see in his eyes that he knew what I said was true. That shit would follow him. I knew he wasn’t going to say shit, just like I knew Michel didn’t want his secret told. I was glad when he shot Michel one last evil, hate-filled stare before he stalked over to his motorcycle and tore out the parking lot.
I released a heavy-ass breath as I stooped down to help Michel to his feet. He flinched and waved his hand at my gun. “You know I’m scared of those things,” he said, his usually soft voice hoarse from being choked out.
He stumbled on his heels and I tried my best to hold the gun from my body and help keep him on his feet. “From what I saw, you’re used to packing heat,” I said dryly.
Michel just sucked air between his teeth. “Not the time, Luscious.”
“Now I really want to know where you tuck all of that.”
“What part of ‘not the time’ do you not comprehend?” Michel snapped.
I just laughed until I remembered that Make$ was free.
Suddenly, wasn’t shit funny.
8
Fear is an amazing thing.
That shit will have you on your toes, looking around corners before you turn them, and double-checking everything to make sure you’re safe. To make sure you’re not the latest victim. To make sure you’re alive to see another day. In life, especially in the hood, you either get or you get got. Period.
Fear will get you through.
And sometimes it will make a straight ass of you.
Knock-knock.
I screamed out loud as hell, like I was in a horror flick, and rammed my hand in my bag for my gun at the sudden knock on my car window. I relaxed as my mother’s face filled with alarm. I released my death grip on my .357. I’d gone from keeping my gun in its case in my trunk to keeping it in my purse—something against my gun permit. “Hey Mama,” I said, motioning for her to back up so that I could open the door.
“Did I scare you?” she asked, her eyes shifting all over my face.
Shit, scared been my middle name for two days.
“No, you just surprised me,” I said, sliding my bag onto my shoulder and finally climbing out the car. I arranged the peach silk halter jumpsuit I wore.
“You’ve been sitting out here so long,” she said, looking not much different from the woman she was when I was growing up. Average height, pear shape, short natural hair, skin as smooth and dark and flawless as a midnight sky, and eyes and teeth as white and clear as milk.
Naomi Jordan was a beautiful woman.
I got my deep chocolate complexion and sexy pear shape from my moms but my looks? My looks were all Kendrick Jordan.
“You’re afraid to come in?” she asked, the bright red wrap dress she wore looking brilliant as hell against her skin.
I hugged her close, hoping to stop all the dang questions. “I was on my phone,” I lied, allowing myself to inhale the familiar scent of her Trésor perfume.
Truth? I was sitting in my car trying to prepare myself for the all-out bougie bullshit that was my father’s side of the family. I didn’t fit . . . and they made sure I knew that shit. Everybody was a teacher, politician, attorney, or doctor. Professional shit. Me dropping out of college . . . to strip . . . and then to stop stripping to be the wifey of a rap star?
Pure shame for the Jordans.
They didn’t even like me hanging out with Eve—my mother’s own niece. Eve always worked as a cashier, a hotel maid, or some other job they looked down their nose at like she was selling drugs or stealing. My mama forgot that she was born and raised in the projects. I loved her to death, but her bougie ways wasn’t even authentic. That shit was as fake as counterfeit bags.
It was all those hi
gh expectations and bars that were set for me that made me want to be free, and that easy money on the pole was the key to the freedom to rebel against all their plans for me. . . .
2007
Nineteen. One year out of my parents’ house. Living on campus with nothing but a phone for them to really see what I was up to. Lying became my best friend. This was the fucking life. And my life was not wrapped up in my prelaw classes.
The shit that is so crazy is my parents keeping me sheltered for eighteen years and then just sending me off to college, where I learned shit neither my parents nor my professors wanted me to fuck with. Partying. Fake IDs. Clubs. Drinking. Popping Ecstasy. Boys. Lots of boys.
And my dorm mate, this cool-ass white girl named Erin, was my tour guide to the world of campus life. The more she showed me, the more I wanted to know. To learn. To do.
And when she said she knew how we could make money and threw a gold bikini in my lap as I sat on my Hello Kitty–covered twin bed, I was down . . . until I got on that stage.
J. Holiday’s “Bed” played around me and I stood there looking out at the owner, this sexy ex-stripper named Slick Rick, like a deer caught in headlights. Just standing there in my bikini, looking stuck on stupid.
“Yo, you gone dance or what?” Slick Rick asked, leaning his fine ass back in his chair with his muscled arms crossed over his chest like he was bored as fuck. Not a good sign for a stripper whose job it is to keep a man entertained.
I nodded, causing my synthetic wig to shift a little on my head. I fought the urge to scratch my itching scalp.
Pssst.
I turned and Erin was motioning her hips for me to dance. Copying her, I started to sway my hips and my ankle turned in, causing me to stumble across the stage in the heels Erin had loaned me. “Shit,” I swore, holding my hands out until I steadied myself.
Meanwhile, Slick Rick was laughing his ass off. I’m talking slapping the table, tears in his eyes, laughing his ass off.
I was too shamed.
Erin rushed out onstage and stood before me closely, placing her hands on my hips. “Just relax,” she mouthed to me.