Traveling at a high rate of speed in a thirty-mile-per-hour zone, Misty checked the rear-view mirror. There was no sign of a police car trailing behind her on the desolate, dark road. She switched her gaze to the left and then the right—no cops hiding in the shadows either.
Smiling with pleasure, she accelerated the Lamborghini. With a tingling thrill, she watched the needle of the speedometer jump from eighty to one-hundred-twenty almost instantly.
Adrenaline pumped as she handled the sleek, fast car. Whipping down the asphalt road, Misty owned the night!
But there was no time to bask in her glory. She had a big problem.
That goddamned Troy wasn’t worth shit. She’d given him a simple assignment: take good care of Smash Hitz.
Having celebrity clients of Smash Hitz’ magnitude had contributed in building Misty’s empire. She was known for her professionalism and discretion, and the stars who were listed in her little black book didn’t have to worry about Mediatakeout.com or Bossip.com putting their freaky preferences on blast. What the hell was Troy thinking when he stole that man’s signature bling? Fucking moron!
Smash Hitz had called Misty at two in the morning, waking her from a deep sleep.
“Hey, Smash, what’s good?” she had answered. Though she was half asleep, she managed to speak in the sweet voice that was reserved for VIP clientele.
The call had taken her by surprise; she assumed the rapper had already left town and was on his way to the next city on his tour.
Misty had sent Troy to the mansion Smash was renting, instructing him to relieve the rapper’s depraved urges. According to Troy, he’d left Smash Hitz wearing a satisfied smile.
So why was Smash calling? Did he want some more of Troy? Did he want to take her worker on the road with him? Hmm. She’d have to charge Smash up for that kind of extended service.
Smash must be insatiable, Misty decided. Fuck it though; she wasn’t turning down good money. Smash had bank. As far as she was concerned, he had carte blanche to get his freak on with Troy and any sex slinger on her payroll for as long as he wanted.
Picturing mega bucks and other perks, she injected a smile into her voice as she rephrased her question. “So what’s crackin’, Smash?”
“Bring me my shit, and I ain’t saying what it is,” the rapper demanded in the countrified, gravelly voice that had brought him fortune and fame.
“What shit?” Misty murmured. She cut a suspicious eye at Troy, who was lying in bed next to her. Smash didn’t sound like he was in the mood for more sex service. In fact, he sounded furious. What did Troy do?
“I ain’t got all night, either,” Smash Hitz growled.
Misty kicked Troy, trying to wake him up.
Troy didn’t stir. He’d had a long night. Tending to Smash Hitz had been easy, but satisfying Misty’s demanding coochie had required putting in some work.
After blowing her back out for over two-and-a-half hours, Troy had to finish Misty off with his tongue. Nigga had to go deep diving to make me cum.
She smiled in remembrance, and then scowled, recalling that she had to coddle the incredibly wealthy rap artist who was on the other end of the phone.
“Did you say you want me to bring something to you?” She laughed nervously, like the request had to be a joke. I hope this rappin’ asshole don’t think I’m getting out of my bed at this hour of the night.
“Look, I’ma ’bout to jet outta here, but I want you to come through. So get your pretty lil’ self over here, ASAP.”
“Why? Did something happen with Troy?” She shot a hot glance at Troy’s sprawled-out, lanky ass.
“You and me gotta have a serious talk about your slimy business practices.”
She gasped. “My business is—”
“Save your breath, mamacita. We gon’ have a sit-down. After you hand over my shit, then I’ma give you a chance to lay out all the reasons why I should keep fuckin’ with your thievin’ ass.”
Misty flinched at the insult. “Mr. Hitz, I am not
a thief. I would never steal from my clients and put my reputation at stake. I’m sorry about this confusion.” She could flip the script and get professional whenever the situation demanded it.
“Ain’t no confusion. Bring me my shit back.”
There was no reasoning with this psycho mufucka. Misty took a deep, calming breath. “Okay, I’ll be there shortly.” Though she tried to keep it professional, her words came out sounding like a flunky. She groaned in humiliation.
She glared at Troy. She would kill Troy if he fucked up her relationship with Smash. What kind of hellish trouble has this ashy asshole gotten me into?
Her angry eyes roamed down Troy’s thighs. As expected, his kneecaps were as ashy as ever.
Earlier that night, Misty had insisted that Troy slather himself with gobs of her most expensive lotion, but obviously the effects of the deep-penetrating moisturizer had worn off.
His long, snake-like, good-fucking dick tended to be on the ashy-side, too. But many of Troy’s regular customers liked the crustiness that clung to his skin.
With the phone pressed against her ear, she squinted menacingly at Troy, who was snoring in his sleep while she had to put up with Smash Hitz’ bad attitude. I’ma fuck you up, Troy. Them Z’s you catchin’ are about to come to an end.
Having to listen to Smash’s gruff-sounding voice, making outrageous demands, was really getting on her nerves.
“Matter of fact…” Smash Hitz continued in his slow, Southern drawl, “I ain’t gon’ be satisfied ’til I see your lip prints on both cheeks of my ass.” What the fuck!
All of Misty’s sex slingers were inked with the image of her lips on their forearm. This design informed her clients that she’d sampled the goods and the worker was stamped with her kiss of approval.
Though Misty was extremely flattered that a rap icon like Smash Hitz wanted to wear her tattoo on his butt cheeks, she considered the request peculiar as hell and somewhat disturbing.
Despite the fact that her insignia would be hidden inside the seat of Smash’s pants, Misty didn’t like the idea of him wearing her lip prints on his ass.
Frowning, she wondered if she was being overly sensitive about her trademark, and then shook her head. Nah! Smash Hitz’ request is straight-up disrespectful.
The wealthy rap artist had purchased everything money could buy; now he wanted to get tatted with her personal symbol. That was crazy. Her workers had fucked and sucked with the amazing skill and expertise that was required in order to flaunt her design on their arm. She didn’t take her brand lightly.
Sure, Smash had bought her the Lambo, but she had damn sure earned every dollar he’d spent. He was her most difficult client, making her work extra hard for the money he paid her.
Misty’s mind raced, trying to think of a polite way to tell this egotistical lunatic that she couldn’t have her tattoo disrespected like that. Not even by Smash Hitz.
“So lemme get this right. You wanna wear my tattoo on your ass?” she inquired, trying her best to conceal her repulsion.
“Hell no! I want the real thing,” he said, sounding completely irrational.
“Lemme help you get your mind right.” Smash paused. “Thanks to me, you doin’ big things and you wanna stay in business for awhile…am I right?”
“Of course.” Misty seethed. Smash was holding something over her head and she wished he’d get to the damn point.
“Then you gon’ have to make it your business to get over here and kiss my ass.” Kiss his ass!
Smash Hitz had lost his damn mind. She didn’t appreciate being spoken to like she was some desperate video vixen.
Smash had it twisted. She called her own shots. He had a lot of fuckin’ nerve, talking to her like she was some stank-ass hoe or one of his muthafuckin’ groupies.
She was the head bitch in charge of her organization, and she didn’t lick, suck, or fuck unless she wanted to. She damn sure didn’t kiss anyone’s ass—under any circumstances.
Though she was heated, Misty managed to keep a civil tone. “What’s going on, Smash? I don’t understand.”
“Let’s get it crackin’. Put on some bright red lipstick. When you get to the crib, I want you to bow down and pucker up!” The next sound she heard was the dial tone.
“Troy!” Misty yelled, bringing Troy out of his blissful sleep. “What did you take from Smash Hitz?”
“I aint take nothing from him,” Troy replied, recoiling as he rubbed his eyes.
Infuriated, she could feel her face turning red with rage.
“Stop lying! You stole something from Smash or he wouldn’t be calling me in the middle of the goddamn night.” She was ready to throw a fit and break a lamp over Troy’s head, but she needed to conserve her strength.
Instead of swinging on Troy, Misty screamed in fury, alerting her personal bodyguards. She could hear their pounding footsteps running toward her bedroom door.
“I’m telling the truth, Misty,” Troy said in a choked voice, his eyes flicking to the set of double doors that barged open.
Nitro and Tank, two heavily muscled men, entered the bedroom with their guns drawn.
“You okay, Misty?” Tank asked.
Nitro glared at Troy. “Did that punk put his hands on you?”
“No. This sleazy hoe stole some shit off a VIP client, but he’s denying it.”
“You want us to get the truth out of him?”
“I didn’t take nothing!” Troy shouted as if the volume of his voice would make his words sound sincere.
Tank and Nitro kept their guns aimed at Troy’s head.
Troy raised a shaky right hand. “My hand to God, Misty. I ain’t take nothing from Smash Hitz. I swear on everything I love.”
Surprise registered in Nitro’s and Tank’s eyes. Neither man realized that the famous rap star was one of Misty’s clients.
Misty felt like slapping the shit out of Troy for divulging the confidentiality of such a high-profile patron, but she didn’t want to risk marring her fresh manicure or spraining her wrist in the process.
“Put your weapons away,” Misty instructed.
Reluctantly, the security duo obeyed, tucking their guns inside of their waistbands.
“Beat the truth out of that ass,” she snarled, nodding at Troy.
With the savage demeanor of killer Rottweilers, the two men rushed Troy, growling as they easily took the lightweight down. They delivered brutal kicks and stomps as Troy lay curled on her plush carpet.
“That’s enough!” Misty ordered.
Tank and Nitro froze in action.
Groaning, Troy lifted himself up.
“What did you take from Smash?” Misty yelled, her face twisted in rage.
“His chain,” Troy mumbled, his eyes lowered in shame.
Contrite, Troy stole a glance at Misty, trying to gauge how she was handling his admission.
Breathing hard, she seethed in silence, which didn’t bode well for Troy.
“Did you take anything else?” Tank barked, flexing up and balling his fists like he was ready to break a couple of bones.
“No!” Troy scooted backward. The two muscled men stepped closer, hovering above Troy, poised to resume beating some more truth out of him.
Misty felt sick. She covered her mouth in shock, and then uncovered it. “You took Smash’s chain? The one with his big-ass, diamond logo?” Her voice was high-pitched and raspy with alarm.
“I only borrowed it. I was gon’ show it to some of my homies in my ’hood and then—”
“Where is it?” She spoke through clenched teeth.
Troy swallowed. “I was going to send it back to him—you know, on some anonymous shit.”
“You stole his fuckin’ signature bling!” Misty bent over and covered her face. Recovering quickly, she stood erect. “You’ve always been an idiot, but even a moron like you should know that fucking
with that man’s jewelry is a deadly mistake. Do you think I’ma let some lil’ nothing mufucka like you destroy everything I’ve struggled to put together?”
Not knowing what to say or do, Troy shrugged.
“Young blood needs his head cracked open,” Tank said, frowning and swaying as if he were having a difficult time restraining himself.
“He’s gonna be dealt with, but not right now. I gotta make a run. When I get back, though…” She shook her head. “I’ma miss that ashy dick you been slinging, but I’m gon’ have to flat-line your punk ass.”
“Come on, Misty. Be easy, baby.”
She shook her head. “You need to start saying prayers for your mother.”
“Why?” Troy asked, confused and agitated. “What my mom got to do with this?”
Repeating words that had once been spoken to her, Misty said in an icy tone, “When you come up missing, your mother is gon’ be shedding a river of tears.”
“You ain’t gotta go hard like that. I said I’m sorry.”
“How long have I been feeding and
fucking you? Huh, Troy? How long?” she yelled.
“Round ’bout two years or more.” He looked down at the floor.
“You were wearing a dingy white T-shirt when I met you. Your elbows and arms…your entire body looked like you’d been rolling around in a white powder. You told me to call you Cash Money,” she said sneeringly. “But all I saw was Ashy Cashy.”
“Ashy Cashy?” Nitro and Tank said at the same time and ex-changed disgusted frowns.
“Yeah, that used to be his working name,” Misty enlightened. “He got a real long, ashy dick. And his stupid ass got the nerve to know how to work it.”
The bodyguards screwed up their faces like they’d been given too much information.
Turning her attention back to Troy, Misty said, “Don’t you realize I only send pretty mufuckas to handle business with my VIP clientele? But since you’ve been down with me since day one, I decided to let you in on some celebrity action.” She shook her head grimly. “And look at how you repay me.”
“I’m…so…sorry,” Troy said, putting space between each word, hoping to express the depth of his sincerity.
“You not tryna hear this, but I really love you, Misty.”
“Hell no, she ain’t tryna hear that. Man, shut the fuck up!” Nitro exploded.
“You got two seconds to tell me where you hid Smash’s shit.” Misty hissed.
“In my room.” Troy finally caved. “Under the bed. His chain is inside the box my Polo boots came in.”
With his gun pointed, Nitro kept Troy in his field of vision, while Tank stalked off to search Troy’s bedroom.
Five minutes later, Tank handed Misty the famous, iced-out medallion that was an integral part of the Smash Hitz brand.