Author: Creole

“She smoked crack… I guess you could say that…she was there but not really there. I was a burden, and she’d sometimes take it out on me. She didn’t hit me or anything like that, but she was verbally abusive. I guess she didn’t ask to have to raise me.”

It racks your nerves when you’re hot. You begin to imagine scenarios where, if being pulled over, how you’d run at least far enough to toss the shit out. Knowing you would probably be arrested anyway for evading the police or whatever list of charges they have on the books, it would still be better than being caught dirty.

“Yeah. I won awards. I would have had to have gone to college, but I’d made up my mind that I was never going to put myself in that kind of debt. That’s a ripoff. All that for a job starting at fourteen or fifteen dollars an hour. It would take me nearly seven years to pay that shit off, all while living in poverty. Fuck that…

“Yeah… They were all pretty good and professional, too. He said that we needed to keep working until we came up with a hit, something he could bring to Yeezy or Pharrell. So we were recording all day, every day; even into the night.”

“If you ever want to, come work with us at Big John’s. I’ll teach you everything. I’m old and retired now, I’m just a waitress, but I still know the game.” Demi smiled. “Easiest money in the world for a pretty girl like you. I can set you up with my best clients. No dick sucking or fucking. I only work with gentlemen.”

The door opened. We walked to my room. We entered. “Andre… You have a fridge, a stove…” She stepped to the middle of the suite. “And you have a king-size bed.” She parted the curtains halfway. “You have a nice view… There are some buildings… They’re kinda pretty.”

About an hour later, we were standing in the check-out line. Along with the basics, toothpaste, a toothbrush, and mouthwash, she had a few hair pieces, shaving razors, and some feminine supplies. For clothing, she’d picked out several pairs of panties, some bras, and a couple of pairs of jeans with matching tops.

She was absolutely beautiful. Thin with light brown shoulder-length hair. Her silver eyes sat under natural, model-like eyebrows. Below her pointed, turned-up nose were a pair of red, pouty lips. “You’re so pretty.”

Several times, I’ve seen him walk into a convenience store, hit the ATM, and return to his running Ferrari that he’d left with his house keys and wallet resting in plain view on the passenger seat.

I’d walked in, and after my eyes adjusted, I could see her and Sarah, a frail, late forties drug-addled blonde, sitting with and talking to a customer at a table on the main floor. Natalia noticed me. She smiled. I walked over and stood, searching my phone messages.