Page 36 of Addicted

The night she cooked dinner came back to me. She threw down in that kitchen. Made a meal that tasted like home. And that cornbread…

Shit had me thinking about Sundays at my grandmama’s house. Ain’t nobodyevermade me feel some shit like that. That’s what made her dangerous.

I blew out a breath and turned up the music, some Mozzy shit that usually helped me clear my head. But tonight it wasn’t doing a damn thing.

All I could think about was her.

The way she looked at me with those big brown eyes, equal parts defiant and vulnerable. The way her body responded to mine like we were made to fit together. The way she talked shit even when she knew I could kill her without blinking.

The way her pussy felt wrapped around my dick.

Fuck.

I adjusted myself in my seat, my dick already getting hard just thinking about her.

This was a problem. A big fuckin’ problem.

I pulled into the parking lot of Chrome and killed the engine, sitting there for a moment in the silence.

Maybe tonight would help. Maybe being around other women, other pussy, would remind me that Indiewasn’t special. That she was just another bitch and I could replace her whenever I wanted.

Yeah.

That’s what I needed.

I grabbed my phone, checked my messages, then stepped out of the Bentley.

I was dressed in all-black tonight: Amiri denim, a Saint Laurent hoodie, and custom Alexander McQueens. The weight of my chains settled against my chest. I wore two Cuban links, one with a diamond cross and the other simple platinum. My AP watch adorned my wrist, diamonds set into the bezel giving just enough shine without doing too much.

I walked toward the entrance of Chrome, the bass from inside already thumping through the walls. The bouncer at the door was a big nigga named Lawrence who’d been working for me for years. He nodded and stepped aside.

“Boss,” he said.

I gave him a nod and walked in.

Chrome was packed tonight. The main floor was filled with niggas throwing money, strippers working the poles, bottles popping at every table. The lighting was dim and purple, giving the whole spot a high-end, exclusive vibe.

This was my shit.

I owned Velvet too, but Chrome was where I actually came to kick it when I wanted to be seen. Velvet was lower-key, more hood. Chrome was where the real money niggas came.

I made my way through the crowd toward the VIP section in the back. Niggas dapped me up as I passed, showing respect. A few strippers tried to get my attention,but I ignored them.

When I got to the VIP section, Kenzo, Antoine, Deacon, and Wes were already there, posted up on the leather couches with bottles of 1942 and Ace of Spades on the table. Strippers were dancing for them, asses clapping, titties bouncing. They all stood when they saw me, dapping me up one by one.

“Yo, boss,” Antoine said, grinning. He was a stocky nigga with a bald head and a gold grill. “We was wondering when you was gon’ show up.”

“Traffic,” I said, even though that was a lie.

Kenzo gave me a look like he knew I was bullshitting, but he didn’t say nothing.

I sat down on the couch and immediately two strippers came over. One was light-skinned with long weave and a fat ass. The other was brown-skinned, slim thick, with a pretty face.

“You want a drink, daddy?” the light-skinned one asked, leaning over so her titties were damn near in my face.

“Pour me some 1942,” I said.

She smiled and grabbed the bottle, pouring me a glass while the other one started dancing in front of me, making her ass clap to the beat. I watched her, sipping my drink. She was fine, no question, but I felt nothing. No stirring in my dick, no interest, no desire.