Coldhearted & Crazy (6 page)

Exhausted and worn out, both London and Fatima had made their way through a long list of longwinded distinguished speakers, knowledgeable alumni and upperclassmen, teachers, and various presentations. Staying up the night before talking and unpacking was starting to take its toll on the weary freshmen.

“Girl, I can't wait to get back to that bed. I'm so tired I think I'm going to pass out right here on this ground!” London stretched as she yawned, fighting back the urge to go to sleep on one of the benches that lined the way back toward their dorm.

“I know how you feel.” No sooner had Fatima barely gotten the last word out of her mouth than she was unexpectedly interrupted by a tall, handsome man with light brown eyes. He extended his arm, reaching out to shake each of the girls' hands as he confidently introduced himself.

“Well hello, ladies, how are you both doing?” He was so smooth with his tone and overall demeanor both girls could hardly move, let alone speak to respond to his question.

London was the first to regain her composure. “Oh fine, we were, uh, uh, uh . . .” She was stumbling with her words, struggling to get a clear thought, something that she almost never did.

By that time, Fatima, also dumbfounded, snapped out of her trance, coming to her girl's rescue. “Hell, we're both doing well. We just came from the freshmen orientation in the plaza.”

“Yes, I know. I was just at the orientation myself. I saw both you ladies over there. I'm Sanford Kincade.” His smile was ultra bright and his winter white teeth were perfectly lined. “Matter of fact, if I'm not mistaken, I think one of you young ladies and I will get to know each other very well over the coming semester.” Neither girl had a clue as to what their handsome, unannounced stranger was talking about. Each one looked both puzzled and confused. Seeing them speechless, he could easily tell by their expressions they were feeling lost and out of sorts. “Oh, I'm sorry, ladies, let me start over again. I'm Professor Sanford Kincade. I'm on staff and teach Intro to Political Science here at the university.”

Giggling like middle school girls on the playground instead of grown, mature women in college, London and Fatima recklessly fumbled retrieving their class schedules out of their folders, praying that they were the one blessed to have this God of a man for an instructor. As each visibly anxious student searched for that small piece of paper, Sanford Kincade, conniving in mindset, already knew the outcome. With ulterior motives in store, he'd checked it out prior to introducing himself, as he watched the two of them earlier.

London was the first to find her schedule. “Oh wow, I guess it's me.” She almost felt ashamed for being the lucky one. Fatima, sad faced, was a little disappointed, but happy for her newfound friend nevertheless.

“Well then, Miss Roberts, I guess I will see you in class and, Miss James, see you around campus.” As soon as he was out of ear range, both girls started screaming.

“Girl, he was so fine I could barely move.” Fatima held her hand close to her chest.

“Yes, he was handsome,” London agreed. “But, Fatima, that man is almost old enough to be our daddy.”

“Yeah, girl, you right, I would call him daddy!” Both girls, behaving silly without a care in the world, giggled all the way back to the dorm.

London, after settling down, decided to try to call her sister again that night but still didn't get an answer. She also tried calling Kenya's cell phone, but her twin changed numbers like she changed her panties. The concerned twin was starting to worry and wanted nothing more than to call her uncle. She wanted to ask him to go by the house and at least check on Kenya, but she knew that wasn't gonna happen, especially considering what had jumped off the afternoon she'd left. Her uncle was still probably and rightfully pissed about that fool Ty keeping Kenya out all night and Kenya's nasty attitude and disposition to being chastised.

London then called Carmen, her sister's best friend, on her cell phone. Thankfully, she had Kenya's latest number and gave it to her. After the first ring the voicemail picked up. A long song filled with all types of curse words filled London's ears before she heard Kenya's voice. When the beep finally came, London spoke.

“Hey, Kenya, it's me. I tried calling you last night. I'm okay, I just wanted to know if all is well. I know it's been only two days, but you understand. Call me, all right? Don't forget.
Say U Promise
!” She hung up the phone and fell fast asleep. London had no idea that back at home in Detroit, her sister's long night was just beginning.

Ty watched Kenya's full, plump breasts bounce up and down as she ran down the stairs. The way that her low-riding track suit fit her ass alone was enough to get him paid. Anticipating a quick come up, he started to daydream about all the money he could get from working Kenya. Greeting each other with a smile and a small kiss on the lips, both of them were anxious about the night and what it would hold. They both had a different agenda for what they felt was going to happen when they got to the club.

“Girl, you look hot! Good enough for a brotha to eat.” Ty's dick started to get rock hard. He grabbed Kenya's hand and placed it on his manhood. “Feel what I got waiting for that ass when we get back from making that bread!”

Kenya gave him a fake smirk and told him, “Maybe later,” keeping game on pause. She was trying to keep her mind clear, and his “always wanting to fuck and suck for free” butt wasn't helping her pay any bills around her way. Kenya was really straight starting not to feel ol' boy and his nickel-and-dime hustle ways, but she was smart enough to wait until she got her foot in the door of the Heads Up and when she did, he was so over.

Ty, feeling like he was a big shot, pulled up at the club. Trying hard to appear to be a boss, he got valet, trying keep the big fella image up. As they made their way up to the front door entrance there was a gang of trick-ass niggas waiting to give up their paychecks, bill money, or even the loot owed to the next man on a sack.

Hell, fuck going inside the club!
Kenya saw how they were eyeballing her; and she could get most of their dough out their pockets by just looking at their grimy-asses. Nevertheless, Kenya was on a mission that was bigger than dudes standing on line waiting to be hand searched by security. Johnnie Roberts's daughter was about that life and getting that serious longevity loot. Winning the amateur contest was her only objective so she could secure herself a permanent position and start making revenue on a regular basis. Moving her curvaceous body through the crowd, she saw a pool of strange, desperate faces watching her like she was a precious shipment of gold. There were just as many hands brushing across her ass on the sly like they were getting away with something.

“Okay, how about this! The next nigga who puts his hands on me without paying is getting his shit split to the white meat!” Kenya made it clear for all possible offenders to hear. She wasn't bullshitting one bit and it showed all over her face. “I ain't into fucking charity and ain't shit for free this way! You touch you fucking pay, flat out, straight like that!”

“Hey, Zack.” Ty proudly beamed, showing that stupid-ass gap in his dental. “This is my main girl, Kenya.” He smiled, sticking his chest out with pride like he was her pimp or some shit like that.

In between the guys in the crowd having to be told what was really good and now Ty acting like he owned her and her hustle, she went ham. “Main girl?” Kenya finally had enough of his ass. “Nigga, what? Please don't coach mines. You got me all fucked up in the game. Fall back and don't play yourself!”

Zack couldn't help smiling as he watched her put Ty's perpetrating-ass in his place. Easing back, letting her do what she did, he thought,
She is much prettier than any of the girls working here and, damn, that ass is banging. Plus, with that spunk, she could double as security.
Zack had to laugh out loud about that shit. He hated to halt the debate, but Kenya had to be informed about the rules for the contest if she planned on participating. Plus Zack knew Ty needed to go in a corner somewhere, get several drinks, and try to recover and lick all of the open wounds that she'd left to his weak mack game.

“Hello, Kenya, I'm Zack. You can follow me up to the office so that I can explain a few things and check your ID out if that's okay with you.”

Kenya smiled and turned around to follow, making sure to give Ty's wounded ego the sho'nuff side eye. As she observantly scanned around the club and checked out the atmosphere, she noticed even the ugliest girls on the guys' laps, grinding like there was no tomorrow. She thought,
Shit, I guess pussy don't have a face around this here motherfucker.

When they got up the stairs and to the office Zack shut the steel door. Amazingly it was quiet as the library that London often would drag her to if she let her. “Okay, Miss Kenya, first things first, let me check out your ID.” As Zack looked it over, he started questioning her on other club-related issues. He asked her just what made her want to dance and did she think she could do it. Kenya thought for a second and was going to try to say something sassy, but quickly changed her mind when she saw that he was trying to be sincere.

“Bills, just a lot of bills that I anticipate accumulating real soon. I don't want to fall behind or be late on any payments. That would mess with my credit rating and I ain't trying to do that.” Kenya had learned all about finances from Gran and the importance of a high score.

Not expecting that answer in a million years from a female only seconds away from swinging naked on a pole, Zack was truly impressed with her response.
Finally a girl with a little bit of common sense; well, not that much. She should be in somebody's schoolhouse,
he thought, but who was he to judge? He was here to make money and capitalize off of her beauty, not be a life-changing coach. Zack took his time before spoke. “You right, Kenya, good credit is a must in the white man's world.” Even though he ran a strip joint, he still hated to see young girls go down the wrong path and get turned out or, worse than that, strung the fuck out on drugs. But, hey, the ID said eighteen and that made her grown, so she was just that—grown. She was fair game. If he could profit off of her beautiful ass, why not, he thought. “Well, it's like this. You dance two songs when you go on stage, one fast and one slow. On the second song drop your top.” Zack watched for any signs of weakness or apprehension, but none showed. “The guys will try to cop a free feel when they slip the money in your G-string. So as long as they don't get to outrageous with the shit, just try to be polite, make your money and move on. The fellas in the house know it's amateur night, so we always got one fool who gets extra and tries to push his hand. Don't worry about him; we got his ass covered. Be nice, but don't give the whole deal away for free. Remember, what one won't or can't do the next will. So don't listen to all that idle chitchat niggas wanna kick. Everything costs in this motherfucker, even conversation, so keep it moving!”

“Okay. Do I get to keep all of my tips?” Kenya eagerly awaited his answer, hoping it was yes.

“Yeah, tonight you do, but if you do good and you like it, you can get on the schedule. Then it's a house fee of fifty dollars a night, a fee for the DJ, and you should always tip Brother Rasul. He's the head of security. My man doesn't drink, curse, or mess around with any of the girls, which keeps him on top of thangs. He's one hard-ass Muslim brother. I think that's what makes him have such a low tolerance for men disrespecting our black queens, even if they choose to disrespect themselves up in here. That's why most niggas don't even try him. Shit, they'd be better off smacking Jesus off the cross than fucking with that guy. So, take care of him. Shiiit, even I tip Brother Ra! That being said you should be good to go.”

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. “Enter!” Zack yelled out, looking over at the security camera while buzzing the door.

Walking through the door as if she owned the place was a woman with a long blond and red streaked weave. It was untamed, reaching down to her ass, which was wide as hell, but she carried it well. She was at least forty or so in age, or so the wrinkles around her eyes revealed.

“Hey, baby. We got like eight girls in the dressing room for amateur night and the crowd is growing restless. So are you about ready to start the contest or what?” The older, fashionably dressed woman grinned while rubbing on Zack's balding head with her long multicolored painted fingernails.

“Yeah, in about ten minutes. This is the last girl for tonight. So if anyone else shows, tell them to come back next week. Besides, I think we have the winner right here.” Zack winked his eye at the young future contestant.

“I see, I see. Hey, sweetheart, my name is Angela, but everyone around here calls me Old Skool. I'm sort of the house mother I guess.”

“Hello, I'm Kenya Roberts, but you can call me . . .” She paused to think all of two seconds before she blurted out the name Tastey, since Ty had said she looked good enough to eat. “Yeah, call me Tastey.”

“Okay, Miss Tastey, follow me.”

When they reached the dressing room you could automatically tell the veterans from the rookies. While the vets were fixing their hair and stashing their loot, they still found time to mean mug all the fresh-faced, wide-eyed girls who were entering the contest hoping to win the prize money. After all, some of these green hoes had the potential to be their new competition, so there positively was no love lost. Of course, Kenya's thick model-type ass, when dressed and ready to compete, was getting a gang of major hate from both sides of the fence, new and old. Some of the girls couldn't even walk in heels let alone dance, while some of them needed to hit the gym at least five days a week. But even the ugliest females made a little bit of lunch money for the week in a dark, dimly lit strip club.

“Hey, girl, you ready? You about next.” Old Skool was hyping Kenya up, whispering in her ear. “Girl, you got this shit. The prize money got your name on it. These other females are terrible!”

“Prize money?” Kenya was shocked hearing about that part of the contest for the first time.
Ty slick-ass ain't shit!
“How much is first place?”

“Two hundred bucks!”

“Oh yeah, you right, that two hundred dollars is mine. I'm about to wild the fuck out when it's my time to shine!” Kenya needed that cash like a baby needed his bottle.

A girl who the DJ said went by the name Raven was just making her way down off the stage. From where Kenya stood, she was her only real competition. The other girls in the contest were throwing shade on her also, so the two of them kinda stuck close by the other in case they might have to scrap. “Girl, them fools out there are on the nut. Watch yourself,” a breathless Raven advised Kenya before she headed up.

“Okay, good lookin'.” Kenya exchanged smiles with her, glancing over her shoulder, heading toward the small set of stairs.

“All right now, fellas, ballas, and any of y'all wannabe playas! This next girl has enough boom boom on deck to snap them zippers on sight!” The DJ was out his shit in the zone as he did his thang on the mic, making the energy level in the already-hot, humid club rise. “Take your hands out your pants and put them together for the one we affectionately call Tastey! Make her feel at home and make that shit rain Heads Up style!”

As Kenya entered the stage, you would have thought that she hit the winning homerun in game seven of the World Series. “Damn, girl, shake that shit,” was all she kept hearing from the intoxicated patrons who were throwing currency her way. Kenya only saw dollar signs and didn't give a fuck what them fools was saying as long as that bread kept raining on the stage. Kenya, off deep into the loud sound of the speakers and the song she'd requested to be played, made eye contact with Ty just in time to see him abruptly rushed out the door by security.
Damn, I guess his “wannabe slick”and “work a bitch” knew it was over.
She giggled to herself as she moved like a seductive snake across the cash-covered stage.

The contest was soon over and, without a doubt, Kenya had won first place. With $200 plus another $150 in tips it was the best five minutes of her young life. She now had her foot in the door of Heads Up; hell, both feet, for that matter. And it was time for her to grind!