by Meta Smith
The Rolexxx Club - Anniversary Edition
Title Page
PROLOGUE
PART 1
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
PART 2
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
EPILOGUE
The Rolexxx Club
Books by Méta Smith
The Rolexxx Club Queen of Miami
These are My Confessions Heaven’s Fury Whip Appeal
Sex Appeal
The
Rolexxx Club
A NOVEL
MÉTA SMITH
ROGUES AND REBELS CHICAGO
The events and characters in this novel are fictitious. Some real locations and people are mentioned, but all other characters and all events described in the book are totally imaginary.
©2006 by Méta Smith
All rights reserved.
Rogues and Rebels Publishing, LLC. SBJ Book Group
PO Box 4437
Chicago, IL 60699-4437
Visit our website at www.RoguesandRebelsBooks.com
Printed in the United States of America First Edition: July 2006
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Cover Design: Méta Smith Interior Design: Méta Smith
Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photo-copying, recording, or otherwise without prior written permission.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9962586-2-3
This book is dedicated to the memory of my dear friend,
the visionary filmmaker,
Prashant Bhargava. I miss you every day.
Thank you for showing me that dreams come true.
Thank you for believing in this book.
Thank you for believing in me.
PROLOGUE
June 2002-Los Angeles
D
EZ SMILED FOR THE CAMERAS AS SHE WALKED DOWN the red carpet of the Kodak Theatre for the awards ceremony. It had
been a long journey, but now she’d finally arrived. Her career was on the fast track, and she had the most wanted man in hip-hop by her side. She was young, beautiful, and successful, rap’s newest and brightest star. Her first single, featuring a cameo by her labelmate and boyfriend, Bentley, had gone platinum within the initial week of the video airing on BET and MTV. Her debut album, slated to drop the following Tuesday, was being shipped platinum and featured tracks produced by Sparks, the business and creative wunderkind of her label, Titanium Records. There were also tracks by Mannie Fresh of Cash Money, the Neptunes, DJ Quick, Dr. Dre, Kanye West, and, of course, her favorite female, Missy Elliott. The remaining tracks were produced by Dez herself.
Her story had amazed the industry and the media: a model-turned-
rapper blessed with not only stunning looks but the creative genius it took to go into a studio with no formal training and produce some of the hottest lyrics and innovative beats the rap world had ever heard. Her style had been described by critics as “Missy meets Tupac.” Her single with Bentley appealed to hard-core hip-hop fans as well as the pop audience.
She stopped and pivoted, giving the photographers great face, and they ate it up. Their lenses devoured her with an insatiable appetite, and she tingled inside as they called out to her, “Dez, over here!” and “This
way, Dez!” They were begging just to snap her photo; it was a far cry from the days of cattle calls and auditions, and the long hours of being relegated to the background of a music video. Even when she was the lead girl in a video, walking a runway, or shooting a commercial print gig, the feeling had never compared to this. Yes, she’d arrived, and there could be no denying it.
Bentley was off to the side doing his own thing, talking to Ananda Lewis, the entertainment reporter for Black Entertainment Television. Dez flashed a smile at him, mesmerizing him with her exotic eyes. He responded by stepping away from Ananda, grabbing Dez, and pulling her close to him.
“Whoa!” Ananda gesticulated at the spontaneous move and then shook her signature lustrous locks. “We’re now being joined by the lovely and talented Dez, the newest artist on Titanium Records. Dez, you look great.”
“Thanks, Ananda. You look absolutely fabulous yourself. Is that Cavalli?” Dez inquired about Ananda’s outfit.
“It is indeed.” Ananda did a little twirl, and Dez grinned.
She knew that the art of winning over journalists was to tell them how great they were, treat them like they were a star; make them feel good, and they’ll always make you look good. Ananda laughed and then cut right to the chase.
“Now, there’s been a lot of controversy swirling around you in the short time you’ve been on the scene. Would you like to comment on this?” Ananda asked her this in a very caring manner, but Dez figured it was partially because of the stroke and partially because she was just a cool- ass person.
“I’d love to, Ananda. But as a term of the settlement, I can’t comment on this case with the media. I would like to say that above all of that, I do what I do to touch people, to add to people’s lives. If you listen to my music, you’ll see that I reveal the most intimate parts of me. So if you want to know about me, listen to what I can and do say, not what you hear on the streets. And if and when I can go into more details, you’ll be the first one I talk to, Ananda,” Desiree answered, fully poised. She was a natural, born to do it.
Ananda moved on to speak to Will and Jada, who, as always had their children in tow. Dez squeezed Bentley’s hand and nodded toward Will and Jada. He winked at her and gave her a quick kiss that made her heart flutter. She had often talked to Bentley about how she loved Jada Pinkett- Smith and how lucky she was to have such a beautiful family.
“Bentley, Dez, this way!” a photographer yelled through the throng of people vying for the perfect shot. They paused and posed. There was a flash so blinding they both responded by rubbing their eyes. Then out of
the crowd of paparazzi there were more blinding flashes, accompanied by loud pops and followed by screams. Desiree stood momentarily stunned. A crowd of people stampeded the red carpet, a melee ensuing instantaneously. Where’s Bentley? was her immediate thought. She attempted to turn and search for him, but her legs wouldn’t move. Then her whole body went weak, and she dropped to the ground. Dez put a hand to her abdomen and inspected it through bleary eyes. Her hand was bloody. She’d been shot!
PART 1
MONEY
CHAPTER 1
B
IENVENIDOS A MIAMI! WELCOME TO MIAMI! NOT THE Miami that Will Smith rapped about, or the Miami you see in glossy
tourist brochures, but the real deal: the Bottom. Don’t be fooled by the palm trees and ocean breeze. Miami is no vacation. In order to survive, your game must be tight, and your mind must be right, because if you can’t swim with the sharks, you’re bound to drown.
Miami is famous for a lot of things, from hurricanes to Cubans. But it is infamous for being crooked. The mere mention of the city brings to mind visions of a white-suited Scarface and detectives wearing pastel T-shirts with loafers, b
usting grimy drug dealers and gun smugglers. Every city has an underworld, but none as glamorous as Miami’s. Only in Miami can a senator sit next to a drug dealer and a movie star in a club, kick it like they’ve been buddies for years, and no one bats an eye. Only in Miami do drug lords live in huge mansions and serve on boards of nonprofits, while their wives drop their children off at school in Lamborghinis and Ferraris, and everyone acts as if it is all so ordinary. But for all of the shine, there is a shady side. For every high-powered drug lord living in the lap of luxury, there is a dread in the projects, slanging dime bags of weed and pooches of white, waiting for the time and opportunity to make his mark, to start his own empire or take over someone else’s. For every pampered wife and girlfriend, there’s one hustling with her man, one working for
her man, and two trying to hold it down and send money to be put on his commissary while their man is doing a bid. For every celebrity there is someone hungrier, grimier, prepared to go just a little bit further than the last to get ahead.
There are three simple rules for living la vida loca in Dade County. Rule
number one: trust no one. You will have many friends if you’re a part of “the scene,” but be forewarned – they aren’t real friends. These are the people the O’Jays sang about in “Back Stabbers”: “They smile in your face, all the while they tryin’ to take your place.” Those you trust the most will hurt you the most. Those you keep close want to rob you of your post. If you’ve got anything worth losing, anything worth fighting for, you will put your faith in no one but the Lord Almighty and yourself.
Rule number two: go for self. Miami ain’t the land of philanthropy; that would be Palm Beach. (And those shady motherfuckers are another story altogether.) If you’re waiting for your lucky break, your big chance, forget about it. You’ll just end up sitting on the dock of Biscayne Bay, wasting time. No one is going to do anything for you unless they are getting something in return, and probably not even then. No one has your back, so if you don’t do you, no one else will. It’s fucked up, but that’s just the way that it is. People will offer you the sun, moon, and stars, but it all has a price. You’re better off doing what you gotta do for yourself, because you will never get something for nothing, no matter how much it seems that way.
Rule number three: the golden rule. This is simple, and it isn’t some “do unto others” crap. It’s this: he who has the gold, rules. In Miami, the land of the beautiful people, it’s not about looks, it’s all about checkbooks. Put bluntly, if you have no cash, you will get no ass. No romance without finance and all that jazz. You’ve got to pay to play in the M-I-A. Forget English, forget Spanish. The official language of Miami is money. If you don’t have any, you’d better find a way to get some, because you have to pay the cost to be the boss. It costs money to floss.
Miami is the most picturesque field of dreams for a player to play on. The weak get caught up in the sideline action or strike out because they aren’t focused. They swing too soon or too late and are thrown off by the roar of the crowds. But the true players wait for the perfect pitch and then hit that shit out of the park.
Now, that’s what’s up.
All is fair in South Florida; sportsmanship counts for nada in this town, so play to win. And if you can’t stand the heat, then stay the fuck outta Miami, because the mercury is rising, and there’s not a drop of rain in sight.
CHAPTER 2
January 1999
T
HE ROLEXXX IS PROBABLY ONE OF THE MOST FAMOUS black strip clubs in America. Or infamous, take your pick. It has a
vibe unlike any other club, that’s for sure. Other black strip clubs such as Atlanta’s Magic City and Gentleman’s Club are known for having the finest women the city has to offer. They’re the kind of girls you see in the grocery store, sit next to in class, live next door to, work in an office with, or teach your kids in a classroom; the beautiful sisters you’ve always wanted to see naked but couldn’t.
On the contrary, the Rolexxx is famous for being off the chain. There is no telling what is gonna go down at “the Lex.” It’s the place that the rapper Luke from the 2 Live Crew goes to handpick his dancers for his raunchy stage shows. It’s a club where the dancers can wear sneakers after a certain time because they’re working so hard and making so much dough that they need to rock Air Force Ones and Jordans to stay in the game. The Lex is like a regular strip club on crack. Way the fuck out there.
The clientele ranges from your hardest of hard-core gangsters complete with gold teeth and gats to elderly white men who look like they should be playing with their grandkids somewhere instead of blowing their retirement check at a strip joint. The girls run the gamut from your purest-looking, fresh-faced schoolgirls and businesswomen out to score some easy cash to the shot-out, bullet-wounded, tatted and inked-up,
gold-teeth, burgundy hair-weave, house-arrest, anklet-wearing boogers that Chris Rock clowns on in his stand-up comedy routine.
Dewante Reid, star center for the Miami Suns basketball team, was a regular at the Lex. He was also a regular at the club’s main competitor, Coco’s. Dewante was a regular at all the strip clubs. And when Dewante fell into the spot, he got it crunk. There was nothing in life that Dewante liked more than tits and ass.
For Dewante, whenever the season allowed, it was Monday’s at the Rolexxx for “Ho Boxing,” the club’s female boxing night, and/or Tuesday’s at Coco’s, where the ghetto fabulous to the fabulously average brother went after the comedy show at the Improv Theater in Coconut Grove. It was doubtful that his wife knew about his habits, and even if she did, there really wasn’t anything she could or would do about it. She had anything and everything a woman could want: a phat mansion, a fat bank account, jewels, gear, and a famous husband. A million women would give their left tit to walk a mile in her shoes. What more could she want?
Dewante didn’t care about the tabloids or anything either, because he knew that the only people in the city that would raise an eyebrow would be the women, and probably not even them. As a star, he had carte blanche to do whatever he wanted, just one of the many perks of celebrity. His team was winning, and that’s all that people really cared about. His endorsements were never in jeopardy because like his childhood idol, Dennis Rodman, he was already known as a bad boy both on and off the court. Any sponsor knew precisely what they were getting before any ink hit a contract. Besides, what red-blooded man didn’t like some good old tits and ass, shaking and grinding on your lap for the bargain price of ten bucks a pop?
A new stripper walked around the club asking men if they wanted table dances. At practically every table she approached, the men said yes. She possessed a pair of firm, perky breasts, a tiny waist, and a nice butt. Her large, shapely legs were golden, like she’d been in the sun, as was the rest of her nubile body. But what set this young lady apart from the rest were her eyes. There were plenty of chicks in the Rolexxx with colored contacts in every hue. But this girl’s eyes were natural, and seemed to change color from a clear, hazy gray to topaz to deep cognac brown, depending on the angle she stood at or the light she stood under.
As she absentmindedly danced for a short, balding, ordinary-looking man, her chameleon-like eyes were fixated on the VIP section in the back of the club, behind two pool tables, on Dewante Reid. She recognized him the moment he walked in. But as soon as he sat down, some dancer sank
her hooks in, and she’d been hemmed up in the corner with him ever since. The object of Dewante’s very special attention was Ginger, a major player in the game. Fuck what you heard, stripping is a game, and Ginger was a championship-ring-wearing MVP. Ginger bounced between Coco’s and the Lex when she was in Miami, even though the managers had been tripping on other girls who’d done it lately. And despite the fact that nude table dances were five dollars and topless lap dances were ten, she still managed to clear at least a thousand bucks a night before she left the club. For the right price, and depending on who you were, you could get to know Ginger a little bette
r. Up close and personal. Most men wouldn’t make her cut, as she kept her tricking exclusive. After all, she reasoned that there were only five dudes on the court during a basketball game, so she preferred to limit her roster like the NBA. Seven-figure niggas only. She didn’t just deal with athletes and entertainers and hustlers she met in the strip clubs either. She was “friends” with businessmen and even a politician. She preferred to deal with men who had a great deal to lose. Their discretion was almost always guaranteed, and they were less likely to nut up and go psycho on her. Those who balked at her price couldn’t afford her, and smart ones knew that a night with Ginger was an
investment in sensual pleasure; she was worth every penny.