Chapter Thirteen

Roxy

Being broke should’ve never been my reality. With the acting skills of a professional, I had squirmed my way out of having my cover blown up. Sable had fronted me off about sexing Mike Mike, but turning on the waterworks and laying the guilt trip on thickly left her and Jazz apologizing for their fucked-up but very true accusations. Trying to blend back in and not show my true colors, I swallowed my pride and attitude and started to take pictures with my girls, playing it off like everything was peachy cream.

Low-key though, I was burning with anger each time Sable pulled a hundred-dollar bill out, flaunting like she was a real baller. Why had Mike Mike put her on a pedestal she didn’t deserve to be on? This rat was ranked first when she was no better than me—if not worse. I’d never even play around or leave it open for anyone out here breathing to think I was gay. Strictly dickly to the day I die. Mike Mike was going to regret seeing his precious gem had flown down here and forgotten she was in a relationship. Creating a mini-collage on Pic Stitch of our gay pride girls’ vacation, I sent him a text of the picture and posted a few of the ones we’d just taken in the lobby on social media for my fans. I made sure to update my location and tag South Beach to make all my friends green with envy.

* * *

There was barely room for the girls and me to squeeze in on the jam-packed party bus. From outside, you could hear the music blasting and see shadows of people through the windows having a good time. But being in the thick of things was proving to be a totally different experience. Flat-screen televisions were mounted, three stripper poles were lined up in the center aisle, and the small bar was stacked with bottles of Cîroc, Grey Goose, Remy VSOP, and Everfresh cranberry juice. Passing me a red cup filled to the top, I didn’t even question what it was before tipping it back, drinking half down.

“That’s what the fuck I’m talking about. Party over here,” one of the male promoters, I assumed, raised his hands dancing behind me. Not having many men to choose from on this flamboyant weekend, I backed my ass up on him to see what he was working with.

“There’s the Roxy I know,” Sable high-fived me, taking the drink from my hand as ole boy and I started to get down and dirty. Little did she know I was working out some of the aggression I’d built up from her so-called man pissing me off.

From the hard poke in my behind, I could tell ole boy was well-endowed, and a hung nigga was exactly the cure for a broken heart. The thought of a one-night stand never crossed my mind until now. With one hand firmly around my waist, keeping my prize behind close up on the imprint in his pants, he didn’t have to worry about me moving anyway. Each time the driver hit a bump or pothole, his dick bounced up and down on my backside, confirming he was hung like a horse. Fuck Mike Mike and his be-drunk-pilled-out ass. Ole boy was on me like white on rice, so a bitch must still got it. He wasn’t checking nor sweating for a played-out-think-she’s-the-shit Sable.