Not who my daddy raised me to be.
Not who the world said I should be after everything I'd lost.
Me.
After some ass shaking and a flash of pussy—because I was human, not a saint, and because watching them squirm never got old—I didn't rush to collect the spoils.
I let the money lie where it fell.
A carpet of dead presidents for me to walk over. Somebody would collect it for me. It would hit my account as an ACH by the next morning. That was the privilege of being the crown jewel. You didn't pick up your own scraps. You had people for that.
I began my exit.
I didn't do private dances. I damn sure didn't do "extras."
I was a spectator sport.
"Midnight!"
The name echoed through the dark, a low-frequency chant that started in the VIP booths and bled out to the bar, jumping from mouth to mouth like a virus I was proud to carry. I stepped off the stage, my heels clicking like a warning against the sticky floor. Each step was a declaration. Each click was a promise.
I walked straight through the crowd.
They parted like a sea of desperate men.
Most of them were regulars. They knew the rules. They didn't touch me—because that was how you lost a hand. Dutch didn't have to enforce it. The other men did it for him. Nobody wanted to be the reason Midnight stopped coming.
A hand extended toward me, clutching a stack of bills thick enough to choke a horse. I didn't even glance at it. I kept walking, my gaze fixed on the heavy velvet curtains of the dressing room—my sanctuary, my escape, my five minutes of quiet before I had to be her again.
"Midnight, one more! Just one more song!"
I ignored it.
"Yo, Midnight! Name the price for a private session! I got ten racks right here!"
I didn't even turn my head.
I didn't make it to the dressing room before I heard my name.
"Midnight. My office. Now."
Dutch's voice. Barked like a command. Like I was one of his other girls, the ones who jumped when he snapped his fingers.
I sucked my teeth and made a U-turn.
His office smelled like knock-off Cool Water and stale pussy.
I lingered in the doorway. Leaned against the frame. Crossed my arms and checked my nails like I had somewhere better to be—because I did. Anywhere was better than his grimy little kingdom of desperation and debt.
He was sweating. Gold chains clicked against his chest as he paced, catching the shitty fluorescent light. His brown skin looked dull—waxy, almost—like he hadn't slept in days. His belly poked out more than usual, straining against his too-tight button-up.
"The answer is the same as it was yesterday, Dutch," I said before he could open his mouth.
He opened it anyway. "I need you to do a favor, Red—"
"No."
"—A heavy hitter in VIP 4—"
