Dangerously In Love (11 page)

“And how much was in each roll?”

“I don’t know. I was just a kid, but I don’t remember any small bills—just fifties and twenties, maybe even hundred-dollar bills. Her stash filled up two coffee cans. She told me she was going to pay my college tuition with that money.”

Reed let out a loud guffaw. “College tuition! Okay, well you blew that dream, so I guess the money’s all spent by now.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought until one day she was feenin’ for some snuff—”

“What the hell is snuff?” he asked with a grimace.

“Chewing tobacco. It comes in a pouch. Anyway, like I said, she was feenin’ and I ain’t have no money to get that shit for her. She went upstairs and the next thing I know, she done came back down with this old-ass fifty-dollar bill, talking about I better bring her back all her change ’cause snuff don’t cost nothin’ but fifteen cents.”

The potential for a sudden windfall of badly needed cash gave Reed a sudden adrenaline rush, but he kept a stoic expression. “And you think the money came from her stash?”

“It had to. Even the man at the corner store acted like I had gave him a bar of gold. He was talkin’ some shit about old bills being worth something and he was gonna check to see how much he could get for it.”

Reed could no longer contain his excitement. “And you just gave that muthafucker a piece of currency that may be worth thousands?”

“What else could I do? My grandmother wanted her shit and I ain’t have no money. I don’t know if that fifty was really worth something or not. I’m just trying to point out that she still got that stash and I plan on finding it.”

Reed regained his composure, but his mind was working overtime on how to benefit from the windfall, if such a thing truly existed. “Well, look here, Butter. I don’t care about that money and I really don’t even think it exists. Dream on if you want to. In the meantime, if you’re gonna be my girl, you’re going to have to stop tricking. You hear me?”

Buttercup blushed with pride. “Whatchu sayin’? You don’t want me dancing no more, either?”

“You can dance, but no more selling pussy. That pussy belongs to me.”

“All right, Joe.” She giggled. “So…we’re like…goin’ together now? I can consider you as my man?”

He nodded. “And I’m gonna be checking on you at the strip joints to make sure you’re not cheating on me. I want you to go to work, dance, get your money, and be out. Look, it’s gonna be hard enough watching you let dudes push up on you, so don’t allow them to get all up in your face, talking shit and wasting your time. You hear me? And another thing,” Reed said sternly. “I don’t want you out all hours of the night. You should start dancing at the Honey Club; that joint opens early. You can start dancing there at two in the afternoon.”

“I know, but it don’t be no money up in there that early,” Buttercup whined. “I hate sittin’ around waitin’ for money to come through the door. I get frustrated quick and that’s when I start tricking.”

Reed shot her an evil look.

“I’m just saying…I mean, it’s not like I’m gonna still turn tricks. I’m just explaining why I think two o’ clock is too early to try to make some dough.”

“Okay,” Reed conceded. “How about if you start around four or five and then finish up by about ten. When I swing by the club to pick you up; I don’t want to hear any excuses. When I say it’s time to go; you better be ready to roll.”

Buttercup nodded. Judging by the look of sheer pleasure that lit up her face, the mack daddy routine Reed was putting down was going over quite well.

Crack-head hoes need love, too, Reed supposed, laughing to himself.

“That’s weird, though,” Buttercup said with a nervous little titter.

“What’s weird, baby?” he said with tenderness.

Buttercup blushed. “It’s weird that I don’t even know your full name and you don’t know mine.”

“Joseph. My name’s Joseph Moss,” Reed Reynolds said without hesitation, borrowing the name of a childhood friend. “And your name is Darlene…uh…what’s your last name, baby?”

“Hayward,” she replied happily and then leaned over and pressed her lips against his. His impulse was to pull away, but he gave in and kissed her hard. He even opened his mouth and offered his tongue.

He wanted his kiss to feel sincere, as if he were offering her his heart. When enough time had elapsed, he broke the kiss without alerting her of his revulsion. He slowly pulled his lips away, and then allowed her to nestle her head against his chest. He murmured in her ear, mumbling meaningless sounds, imitating raspy murmurs of endearment. Amidst the mumbling, ever so often he’d speak the word
love
—making sure it came out crystal clear.

Women were such suckers for love.

He laid her down on her back and pulled off her thong. Next, he propped her legs up. He bent and parted her thighs as if he were a gynecologist trained to explore this sensitive region. Buttercup trembled and closed her eyes as Reed carefully spread her vulva.

He inhaled and exhaled in rapid bursts of excitement. Her inner lips were pink and plump, but small. Too small, and without any elasticity. Nothing like Aziza’s. Deeply disappointed, Reed let out a low groan. With the tips of both thumbs and index fingers, Reed gently pulled her inner lips, trying to stretch them, enlarge them.

Buttercup moaned and became moist. Reed tugged harder and twisted each vaginal lip between his fingers. She arched her back, her juices oozing, thick and slippery.

“You like that, baby?” There was a guttural sound to his voice.

“I love…Oh God,” she moaned. Desire caused her words to catch in her throat. “I love it.”

Then, stretching the glistening lips as far apart as possible, Reed could no longer fight the primal desire. His organ felt like it was on fire as he slowly began to penetrate. Excited, he forced himself deep within, then increased his speed, proclaiming with each thrust that he owned Buttercup’s pussy. And Buttercup passionately agreed.

Unsatisfied, Reed asked mid-thrust, “How come your pussy doesn’t look like it belongs to me?”

Buttercup wrinkled her face in a combination of passion and confusion.

“If that pussy was really mine, it wouldn’t be this tight. Would it?” he asked with a hard thrust.

“No,” she whimpered.

“Are you gonna let me open that shit up?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Are you gonna let me wear your pussy out?”

“Yes!” she screamed louder.

Finally aroused to the point of delirium, Reed gave a raspy cry of release. On the edges of his mind was the knowledge that it was going to take a tremendous amount of effort to get Buttercup’s pussy up to par. He was going to have to fuck her pussy nonstop to make it look beat-up and raggedy like Aziza’s.

F
or three days Chanelle had combed the city, going from one supposedly upscale strip club to the next, filling out applications and leaving her telephone number with the club managers, yet no one had called with an offer of employment. It was as if she’d been black-balled.

Sulking in the backseat of a cab headed for Thirteenth and Arch, Philadelphia’s red-light district, she realized there was nothing left to do except swallow her pride and psych herself up to go shake her tail at one of the low-class titty bars that had a clientele consisting mostly of grubby blue-collar workers. This was not a good career move and she was braced for an evening of degradation. The scruffy patrons, she’d heard, were permitted to touch the girls everywhere. Ugh. They were allowed to pat their asses, squeeze their tits, touch them just about everywhere except beneath the wisp of fabric that concealed the vulva.

Until she could figure out another strategy, she’d have to suffer through the humiliation. One thing was certain…she wasn’t going to meet her future husband in a hole-in-the-wall bar on Thirteenth Street.

Chanelle paid the cab driver and hopped out on the corner. Here it was the end of May and the sun was blazing, hot as a bitch. She checked her watch: three o’clock. Her appointment wasn’t until three-thirty. Damn. She hoped there was somebody inside the club because she would surely perish if she had to stand around outside in the scorching heat.

She looked around for a cool place to take shelter and saw nothing except office buildings and an adult entertainment establishment with a neon-lit arrow pointing to the rear and advertising that a live-girl peep show was taking place inside.

Chanelle shook her head and sucked her teeth. If money ever got so tight she had to put herself on display behind a cum-stained glass mirror, she hoped somebody would put her out of her misery and put a bullet through her head.

She started walking. A few doors down, she reached her destination: Phat Philly Girlz. With a sense of martyrdom, she reminded herself to be nice to the cheap-ass, blue-collar men she would now have to rely on to pay her rent. Resignedly, she pulled the handle of the door.

Harsh sunlight streamed into the darkened club as Chanelle entered. The big bald dude who stood guard at the door blocked his face with an arm, grimaced, and slammed the door as if he was a vampire and the rays of the sun might set him aflame. “Can I help you?” he asked in an unfriendly tone that suggested he did not intend to be helpful.

“Yeah. Um, how ya doing?” Chanelle asked.

The big guy grunted a response.

Chanelle blinked rapidly as she tried to adjust her vision inside the dark room. “My name’s Sensation. I spoke to Reggie earlier. He said if I came in, I could start working today.” Her eyes wandered around her new place of employment, hoping to find some redeeming quality. Except for the bartender, the place was empty. No girls. No customers. “What time do you open?”

“We open at six, but um…who did you say told you to come in?” the bald guy inquired. His lips looked like they were curving into the beginning of a smile. An unkind, taunting smile.

“Some dude named Reggie. He said he was the manager.”

Unable to contain himself any longer, the big guy started laughing and then bellowed to the bartender, “Yo, Black…Reggie told this jawn he was the manager.”

Amused, the bartender added a deep baritone chuckle to the unnaturally high-pitched squawks coming from the big bald guy.

Chanelle was steaming mad; she didn’t appreciate being referred to as a “jawn” and she didn’t find one thing funny about being duped into believing she had a job. Damn, her shit had gone from bad to worse.

“Yo, dig. Reggie ain’t no manager. He don’t do nothin’ but clean up around here.”

Chanelle drew in a deep breath to keep herself from throwing a fit. She actually wanted to fall out and start kicking and screaming while pounding the floor with balled fists. But she restrained herself.

“So, who should I speak to?” she asked coolly, hoisting her heavy work bag onto her other shoulder.

“You gotta talk to Mike, but he ain’t here.”

She sucked her teeth and shifted her feet. “So, why do y’all allow the cleaning man to pick up the phone and pretend like he’s the manager? Dude told me I could start work tonight. That’s messed up.”

The bald guy screwed up his lips, threw up his palms, and lifted his shoulders in a dramatic shrug that indicated that he didn’t have an answer and he truly didn’t give a damn.

Determined to have not wasted her time, Chanelle pressed on. “So, where can I find Mike?”

“Mike’s at the other club on Twelfth Street.”

“Where on Twelfth Street?”

“Right across from the Reading Terminal. It’s called Silky & Sweet.”

“Thanks.” She whirled around and exited Phat Philly Girlz.

Standing outside the club in the suffocating heat, she tried to get her bearings. The concrete burned the bottom of her thin-soled, delicately jeweled sandals making it feel as if she were standing in bare feet on flaming hot coals. This was bullshit. She couldn’t ever recall spring weather feeling like this. She felt like she had stepped inside an incinerator.

It was probably ridiculous to try to catch a cab for the short ride around the corner, but that was exactly what Chanelle intended to do as she looked up and down Thirteenth Street. But there wasn’t a cab in sight and it was too hot to just stand around hoping a taxi would come cruising by, so she turned and reluctantly started moving toward Juniper Street.

After taking a few torturous steps, a metallic gray BMW honked the horn and pulled up beside her. Behind tinted windows, she made out the form of a woman. Chanelle’s first thought was that the woman was the jealous wife of one of her customers. She felt no fear; in fact, she felt invigorated as she stopped, dropped her bag, and assumed a combative stance.
Bring it, bitch, because I’m mad as hell and ain’t got shit to lose
.

The woman lowered the window. Chanelle reflexively balled her fists and approached the car.

“Is that where you work?” asked a slender, dark-brown-skinned woman who looked to be in her early twenties, maybe a little older because she appeared extremely self-assured and sophisticated. And the whip she was driving was the truth.

Chanelle had to force herself not say, “What’s it to you?” It was her nature to be defensive, but there was something about this chick that made her hold her tongue. For starters, she was pushing a phat ride, her hair and French-manicured nails were hooked up, and a pair of fly-ass shades were pushed up on top of her hair gleaming like they cost a stack. Although the chick was young, she was very much on point, which impressed Chanelle into curious silence—at least long enough to find out what the woman wanted.

“No, I don’t work there, I thought I was going to start dancing there tonight, but um…somebody gave me some wrong information. I’m on my way to see the manager over on Twelfth Street.” Now why the hell was she spillin’ like this to a total stranger?
Must be the heat
, she thought.

“Girl, you’re too cute to work in that hell hole,” the woman said, including her head toward Phat Philly Girlz.

Chanelle absolutely agreed, but given her options and dwindling savings, she didn’t have much choice. She needed to go see this Mike guy so she could start making some money. Shit, her rent was due. “I used to work at Lizzard’s, but I got fired. I can’t seem to get my foot in the door at any of the other top spots. Anyway, why’d you roll up on me? What’s up?” Chanelle asked impatiently.

“Get in; I’ll explain while I drive you to the club on Twelfth Street.”

The humidity alone was causing beads of perspiration to trickle down the sides of Chanelle’s face, threatening to ruin her makeup and hair. She wiped the sweat away and then without giving it another thought, she yanked the door open and slid into the cool sanctuary of the air-conditioned car. “It’s right across the street from the Reading Terminal,” she offered, hoping the red lights and slow-walking pedestrians prolonged her stay in this heaven-sent, air-conditioned chariot. “It’s called Silky & Sweet.”

The woman gave her a sidelong glance. “Silky & Sweet? Okay, so you’re walking around in this hellish weather, dragging that heavy bag to go beg for a job at another dive? Do you really think that’s a step in the right direction? I mean, after working at Lizzard’s I’m sure you got used to decent working conditions and leaving with a thick knot in your purse every night.”

“Yeah, working at Lizzard’s was sweet but right now I need a job.” Chanelle looked out the window to see how close they were to the other strip club. This know-it-all hoochie was starting to get on her nerves.

Undeterred by Chanelle’s annoyance, the woman continued. “I know the club owner at Lizzard’s didn’t let the customers grope all over y’all. Am I right or wrong?” The woman asked with a knowing smile.

Chanelle ignored the pesky woman, though she was enjoying being inside the cool BMW.

“Did you know that if you get the job at Phat Philly Girlz, you’re gonna have to change in a funky bathroom with about twelve other women? That’s twelve women with twelve big-ass bags, costumes, wigs and hairspray, makeup, and all the rest of their shit spread everywhere in one tight-ass room with one tiny mirror over the sink and no fuckin’ air. That’s right. They don’t have air conditioning in the bathroom. I bet y’all had a nice dressing room at Lizzard’s—plenty of room and big bright-ass, full-length mirrors.”

Since Chanelle didn’t know where the conversation was leading, she simply nodded and decided to sit back, relax, and wait for Miss Thang to start giving up some tapes. There had to be a reason why she’d rescued Chanelle from the unforgiving heat. Chanelle appraised her from the corner of her eye.

The woman wasn’t as cute as Chanelle, but she was iced out—earrings, necklace, bracelet—and her gear looked straight up out of
Vogue
magazine. She definitely wasn’t rocking anything from City Blue or Sneaker Villa—two of Chanelle’s favorite shopping haunts.

The young woman cruised to a stop in front of Silky & Sweet. She flipped open a pink leather clutch bag, rooted around, and pulled out a card, which she handed to Chanelle with a smug expression.

In the center of the high-quality beige card was the embossed logo of a set of chocolate lips. Dark brown script stated: Hershey’s Smooches: a delectable array of delicious milk-chocolate beauties. On call for your private pleasure twenty-four/ seven. There was a phone number at the bottom of the card. The message was short and sweet and straight to the point.

“You work for an outcall service?” Chanelle inquired.

“No, baby. I own it. I’m Hershey,” she said proudly, extending her hand.

“Well, if you’re offering me a job, let me set the record straight. I’m a dancer, not a ho.”

“Look,” Hershey said, swiveling in Chanelle’s direction. “I own a full-service agency. We do it all: Escorts, Bachelor Parties, Super Bowl parties, one-on-
one, whatever the guy holding the credit card is in the mood for…and he’s usually in the mood for sex. Sex is what it’s all about. The kind of money you make climbing up and down a sweaty pole for tips ain’t shit. Why would you want to limit your cash flow like that?”

“I do all right,” Chanelle said defensively and then wrapped her arms around herself and ran her hands up and down her upper arms.

“You cold?” Hershey reached to turn down the air conditioning.

Chanelle shook her head and dropped her arms. “That’s just a habit—something I do when I’m trying to get my thoughts together.” She looked directly at Hershey. Chanelle’s eyes were filled with such sorrow, Hershey dropped her gaze. “I don’t trick because of a promise I made to my mother.” Chanelle began softly. “She got sick while I was in high school. She had cancer.” Chanelle’s eyes became misty. “I was only sixteen and in my junior year at high school. I dropped out so I could try to take care of her because we didn’t have any other family. Her job stopped paying her and we didn’t have any money and I had to do something to help out.”

Hershey patted Chanelle’s shoulder.

“My mom knew what I was out there doing and she knew why. But she made me promise never to sell my body and to quit as soon as I found a decent man to take care of me. She knew she was gonna pass soon and she said she wouldn’t rest in peace if I didn’t have somebody looking out for me.” Chanelle’s voice cracked. Sitting in a car with a total stranger, she gave in to the tears that had not fallen since the day she’d put her mother into the ground. She’d been too busy trying to survive to afford the luxury of tears.

Chanelle wiped her eyes and cast a clouded glance at Silky & Sweet. She was so tired of the sex industry; she just wanted to be able to quit. Game over. Surrender. Lead a normal life. But she didn’t even know where to begin.

Hershey opened her glove compartment and handed Chanelle a tissue. “I’ve been in your position,” Hershey said softly. “I know what it’s like to work for other people and have them controlling how much money you make. First of all, let me school you about the strip clubs. The Italians got all those jawns on lock. They even got a grip on the so-called black clubs. Believe me, they may put a brotha up front, but there’s a dago somewhere behind the scenes collecting that dough. So what I’m trying to say is, if somebody has a beef with you, you’re not gonna dance nowhere in Philly, or any of the nicer spots in Jersey either. By the way, who do you think owns Phat Philly Girlz
and
Silky & Sweet?”