teasing, although part of me was ashamed of it all. At Cristal’s I was able to change into the tight jeans, stilettos, makeup, and fly gear that I loved.
A double life.
Latoya the Christian at home; Moët everywhere else.
“Girl, I got to go—”
“Latoya?”
I jumped at my father’s stern voice so suddenly behind me. “No, we’re not interested in vinyl siding at this time, but thank you,” I improvised quickly.
“And they say people in the projects is crazy.” Dom laughed before hanging up.
I replaced the receiver on the base and turned to face my father. His small, thin face was frowning, and I wondered if I’d ever seen him smile. Shit, I can’t remember the last time he hugged me or said he loved me. But that’s the hypocrisy of church folks preaching love and can’t even show love in their own home. “Telemarketer,” I said weakly with a nervous giggle, before walking past him quickly to reclaim my seat.
He followed me back into the dining room, and dinner resumed.
My mind was steady on getting up to my room, or rather my haven, when I felt a warm, masculine hand squeeze the top of my thigh. Heat infused my body, and my cheeks warmed as I looked over at the good and honorable reverend.
No one else at the table was aware of him inching my skirt up around my thighs under the table with his right hand. Nor were they aware when one of his long fingers slid under the band of my prim white cotton briefs.
Wanting him to get just what he was seeking, I opened my legs, letting his probing hand play in the warm hairs and moist flesh. I had to bite down on my fork to keep from moaning in sweet pleasure.
No one knew that the good and honorable Reverend Luke DeMark and I had been lovers since I was seventeen.
That was why I was not as devout a Christian as my parents thought. My beliefs definitely were not as strong as theirs. It was hard to believe in God when one of His own disciples was sexing the hell out of you in between sermons.
4
“I’m Dom. What?”
“Players…ballers…shot callers. Welcome…to Club XXXcite!”
I squinted my eyes against the silver haze of smoke I exhaled and looked through the stank-ass curtain at Vic, the club owner, out on the stage.
Damn, Mookie got the best weed ever. Three tokes and I was already feelin’ it. I was gettin’ seriously f’ed up.
Ain’t no shame in my game. Besides, I wasn’t the only one gettin’ blunted. Streams of thick smoke drifted up from different corners of the crowded club. There was no mistakin’ the scent in the air.
I checked out the crowd. The spot was live tonight. Good. The ching-ching of money was ringin’ all up in my ears. I was gonna drain these m’fers for all I could. I was here to get paid. Straight up.
Maybe even enough to buy those bad-ass Cole Haan boots I saw in Nordstroms last week.
“Give it up for a club favorite. Her name says it all. Here’s…Juicy!!”
I took one last drag from the blunt, lettin’ it fill my lungs as Vic finished my introductions. “Here, Candy,” I called over to another dancer waitin’ backstage. I handed her the blunt. “Go ’head and kill that.”
She took it with the tips of her four-inch acrylic nails. How she washed her ass, I don’t know.
“Is it laced?” Candy asked, her eyes already glassy.
“Hell, no,” I snapped.
Candy stepped back from the pissed-off look on my face. “Chill out, Dom.”
“What a blunt and some damn Henny don’t do for me, I don’t need,” I spat, angry as hell that she thought I’d lace my weed with cocaine or pedope.
“Whatever,” she sighed, before she walked away on five-inch heels in her pink sheer baby doll.
“Dumb ass,” I muttered, forgettin’ about her as I stepped through the break in the curtain to take my spot on the T-shaped stage.
The lights lowered, and the spotlight fell on me. I felt like Mary J., Alicia Keys, Beyonce, or some shit. A star. All eyes on me. Wantin’ me.
But I can’t sing.
I don’t act.
I ain’t rich.
I’m a stripper. So?
“I’m N Luv (Wit a Stripper)” by T-Pain started playin’ loud as hell, drainin’ out that ying-yang them fellas was hollerin’ at me from the floor. I’m glad ’cause I just wanna shake a little ass, flash a little titty, get my loot, and head to the crib.
A bunch of regulars from Hawthorne Avenue started singin’ along with the song, their champagne bottles and Heinekens swayin’ in the air as I gave them m’fers a reason to fall in love.
Dressed in nothing but my red plastic thong and thigh-high boots, I danced to the music, slow and sexy, just the way these hardheads wanted. I could dance my ass off, and when it came to performin’, I could work my body like a snake and make my ass tremble more than a saltshaker.
Being a stripper you can’t have hang-ups and shit. When I was on stage I was willing to do whatever to make my money. It was my job to turn these cats on. That’s why I was the best at Club XXXcite.
Squattin’, I knew they didn’t have to imagine a damn thang as all my business pushed forward like a fist. Bam!
Them fellas went wild, and the paper money fell down around me like rain.
That’s what the hell I’m talkin’ about. Makin’ that loot. Dollar dollar bills, y’all.
I finished my set, grabbed my cash, and hauled ass off stage.
Sweat was pourin’ off me as I walked that walk in my stilettos and counted my cash. One hundred and ten, thirty, fifty, seventy-five, two hundred dollars. That was cool. We made the real money durin’ the club’s showdown. That was when all of the dancers either mingled with the crowd givin’ lap dances or took customers into one of the special rooms for some freak-a-deak private dances and who knows what the hell else.
I danced. I gave hellified lap dances. I might even let a dude suck a tittie or two, but no fuckin’, no suckin’, and no dykin’. Period.
I went downstairs to the dressing room. Man, it smelt like old fish and feet up in this piece. Damn.
I grabbed my Coach leather sac from my locker just as my cell phone rang. Flippin’ it open, I answered it. “What?”
“Kimani wants to talk to you, if you ain’t too busy shakin’ that little ass of yours.”
Oh, Lord, here we go. I hated to hear the sound of Diane’s—she’s my mother—voice
