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Authors: Dakota Knight

Biker Chick (19 page)

BOOK: Biker Chick
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“That's too bad,” Tristan said with a smile that didn't exactly express disappointment. “I thought maybe I'd get to show you some of my property.”
“Nope. I've got a whole palace all my own.” “Do you still have my card?” he asked. That card had brought me unnecessary trouble. The night Ray had found that card in my back pocket flashed in my mind. “Sure,” I lied. “Well, if you ever need . . .” I cut him off. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Give you a call.”
“Definitely.”
“You better get back in there with your friends.”
“You're right.”
“Take care.”
“Nice seeing you again.” I kept myself together as I straddled my bike and left the club. I was glad I wasn't working that night. The tears started flowing as I straddled my ride. I felt defeated. First, B.L. basically dismissed me, and then the disturbing conversation with Tristan. Before going back to Dymond's apartment, I took to the streets, riding like the wind. I had finally got my own place, a small one bedroom on Allegheny across from the Meadows, but I'd only had the key for two days. I hadn't even had a chance to pick up any furniture. But as I traveled the streets of Columbus's east side, I decided to go to my place.
My apartment was in a four-family brick building in a complex named Macon Grove. It wasn't my first choice, of course, but it was what I could afford working at the Doll House while I tried to save up to take it to the next level. Even though it was fairly late, there were still people outside, and a couple of barbecues were smoking. I parked my ride, ignoring my fellow residents as I headed into my apartment. I hadn't been in there long enough to know much about my neighbors. I lived on the top floor, so at least I wouldn't have to hear anyone moving around when I was at home.
I flicked on the light to the living room. Light bathed the room, revealing almond-colored carpet and white walls. I closed the door and locked the deadbolt. I walked through the apartment, sizing everything up for the second time. It was a far cry from my former digs, but much better than living with Dymond. I sunk down to the living room floor, staring at the large living room window.
After twenty minutes, I finally left my place and headed across the street to Dymond's. For once, I was glad Dymond and the kids were asleep when I came home. I didn't feel like talking. I undressed and headed for the couch, thinking I would go straight to sleep and have nightmares about my failures with B.L. My mind had other plans. It raced and I tossed and turned. Finally, I got up, turned on the light and grabbed my journal.
I thought it would go down differently. I guess trying to do business with a man when he's got tits and ass in his face isn't the best way to get things done. Damn, I should have asked to make an appointment or at least asked him to call me or something. I wonder if I should try again. Well, there's no question of that. I have to try again. No way I'm going to fail!
After working out my frustrations in my journal, I finally got some rest.
The next morning, I woke up to the sound of my cell phone ringing. I rubbed my eyes and grabbed my phone to look at the display. It was 7:30 on Saturday morning. The caller was
PRIVATE.
Igroaned and opened my flip phone to take the call.
“Hello.” My voice was still heavy from sleep.
“Silver Fox, right?” I recognized the voice. It was B.L. At that moment, I realized when I had first heard his voice. On the day my life changed, he had been the voice on the other end telling me to leave my house and my life behind.
“Is this B.L.?” I asked anyway, my mind clear and alert.
B.L. didn't reply. Instead I heard some shuffling in the background and then another voice began emanating from the phone.
“You have to forgive my friend, Miss Sells. I have known him since we were very young and he's always been an ass.” The man on the other end of the line hadn't introduced himself, but I knew who it was. My heartbeat quickened and my grip tightened on the phone.
“As I'm sure you know, I'm Dennis Monchats.”
“Yes,” I said nervously.
“Good. Miss Sells. I'm a busy person and I don't have a lot of time, but when I saw your plan, I was impressed.”
“Yes,” I said again. I couldn't think of any other words to say.
“I like young people with drive. I'll accept your terms. You report to B.L. Take care.”
With that, the phone call ended. I screamed so loud, I woke up Dymond and the kids. When Dymond heard the news, she was as happy as I was. I thanked her by taking her out to Polaris Mall for a new outfit and to Rollo's Bar and Grill for some food. On the same day, I packed up my gear and decided to actually stay at my own place. I was almost late to work because I had to go order some furniture, but I made it just in time. When the ladies of the Doll House heard the news, they were so excited, they worked extra hard to make that cash. They knew, as well as I did, that we were on to a new beginning. With one phone call, from the man himself, a new chapter of my life began.
Part Five
Freedom
Friends. Power. Property.
Respect. These things are just
a taste of what money can bring.
Enemies. Envy. Resentment.
Hate. A true hustler takes
the bitter with the sweet.
—Highlights from The Hustler's Handbook
 
 
 
You have to decide if all you
can gain with green Is worth it.
And remember—there's only one
correct answer—Yours . . .
—Highlights from The Hustler's Handbook
Chapter Twenty-six
Show me the way and I will flourish . . .
What's the best way to tell if your business of selling pictures of half-naked ladies will be successful? Prison. And a review from someone on the inside. Needless to say, Ray liked the pictures I sent him of me on my Ninja. In fact, we had talked about five times after the trial and I had even visited him. I wanted to cry like a baby the first time I saw him in his prison threads, but I got used to it. The last time we talked, I cried as I told him how much I loved him and missed him, how I wanted him inside of me, and how couldn't wait for him to be free. He expressed his love, too, and told me about the success of the Biker Chicks in the female-starved prison population.
“Yo, Cristal, those pictures are hot. You gonna get a nigga shanked up in here with those shots.”
“They're that hot?” I asked, excited.
“Smoking.”
When I sent Ray his pictures, I also sent him a couple of samples of my Chicks for him to pass around. I told him that he better not keep any for himself—except for mine, of course.
Needless to say, the pictures were a success. Ray was happy to report that his fellow inmates were happily jacking off while fantasizing about the girls of the Doll House Gentleman's Club.
“You know I hate leaving you on your own,” Ray told me, “The fact that you're out there hustlin' on your own, getting it done . . . you don't know what that means to me.”
“I hustled before I met you.”
“I know that.”
“And you can't keep a good hustlette down.”
That was definitely the truth. Word traveled fast through the prison system. Soon, I started receiving orders from inmates all over Ohio. Many of them could only pay in postal stamps, but that was fine with me. I just wanted to get the exposure for my Chicks.
But success wasn't limited to men living behind bars. Men who frequented the club snatched up the prints like wild cakes. With the success of the prints, I decided to go forward with a calendar featuring the dancers. When I announced the launch of the calendar, pre-orders went through the roof.
Finally, it seemed like my life was returning to some sense of normalcy. My plan was working and the money was coming in big time. I stayed at the club, but Dennis Monchats made sure I got a managerial position. I wasn't serving drinks anymore. I didn't have to dress up in that tight-ass Doll outfit. Plus, I didn't have to work nighttime hours anymore because most of my duties (phone calls, mailings, handling accounts) took place during the day. During one of our few meetings, Monchats told me that I could move into the Parker Building, his office complex near downtown, but I told him being near the Dolls and the dancers was the perfect situation.
“I like to stay near the action,” I told him. “It helps keep my perspective fresh.”
“Impressive,” was his reply. He was definitely a man of few words.
Of course, I was extremely proud of the career I carved for Lala. I was right about her. First, I put together a press package for Lala and started contacting clubs around the city. She was a sure-fire hit, drawing in guys from everywhere. It wasn't long before I started booking her in clubs around the state, and she became more popular than ever. I even had to get a web designer to create a Web site for La Hypnotic. It became extremely popular from the day it was launched. Lala was weaving her magic wherever we went.
 
 
“So, do you like it or not?” I asked Dymond one day as we stood outside her apartment. Nine months had passed from the time Monchats gave me the okay.
Dymond frowned. “Didn't you like the last one?” she asked.
“I know. I only had for a couple months, but this one spoke to me,” I smiled as I felt the body underneath me. “Plus, you always get deals in the winter.”
Dymond raised her eyebrows. It wasn't exactly winter anymore. In fact, the winter had been mild, not much snow to speak of, and now the blooming tulips signified the upcoming spring.
“What if I told you I liked the last one better?” Dymond asked seriously.
I sighed with disappointment. Then Dymond's expression quickly changed. “Girl, I'm just playing, this is the
bomb
!!!” she yelled, and we jumped up and down, screaming with excitement.
We were standing in front of a black Mercedes CLK350 Convertible. It had been a gift from Monchats for the profits I had been bringing in. It had been my first year without Ray, and I didn't have a car for the winter, a time when I couldn't ride Foxy Baby. At first, I had purchased my own ride for the winter, a Honda Accord, but
Monchats
told me, through his assistant, B.L., that a Honda wouldn't do. The Mercedes had been an unexpected and much appreciated gift.
“Damn, Crystal, wait until it gets warm! We gonna to be ridin' with the top down and going places!”
I backed away from Dymond and said, “No, we're not.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I don't know.”
Dymond smacked her lips and said, “Oh, you think you too good to ride with me now?”
“No, that's not it at all.”
“So.”
“So what?”
“Why you trippin'?”
I couldn't contain myself any longer. “See that black Cadillac Escalade over there?” I pointed in the SUV's direction.
Dymond looked and asked, “What about it?”
I reached inside my pocket to the keys for Dymond's new ride. “Catch,” I said.
“What are these for?” Dymond asked curiously. She still didn't understand.
“Monchats told me to tell you congrats on the move to the 'burbs. He's heard good things about Canal Winchester, but you're still going to need to get to work.”
Dymond's eyes started to water when she realized what I was telling her. She looked back at me, back to the Cady, and back at me again. “You're not . . . you don't mean . . . that's not mine, is it?”
“Hell yeah!” I said excitedly before we started jumping and screaming again.
As my assistant, Dymond had been instrumental in my success. Monchats had recognized that and rewarded us accordingly.
“Oh my God!” Dymond's legs shifted from left to right. She didn't know which direction to go. “I've got to get the kids. I've got to let them know.” She seemed to forget all about me, rushing toward the Escalade and looking inside of it. I smiled with satisfaction. The Trio, ghetto girls from the Meadows, now living large in Columbus and beyond.
I had moved from my one bedroom apartment at the Grove to a two-bedroom condo in Reyn-oldsburg, a suburb east of Columbus. My condo was less than ten minutes away from where me and Ray lived. His house and our scattered belongings still sat there. At first, I thought the police would seize Ray's house, but they never did. And when Ray told me that he would be moving back there when he got out, I didn't believe him—at the time. But as the months passed, I believed him. Some of the Cruz were taking care of it for him while he was locked up. They had contacted me, asked me if I needed help. I told them I was making it on my own, even though I appreciated the gesture. They told me that they had cleaned up the house and that it was as good as new. It didn't matter. I still had no intentions of going back there.
Instead, I put all my energy into my new place. I made sure I had nice furniture, even though I was rarely home. It was a new-build condo, and the best feature was the bathroom. It featured a large tub, glass encased separate shower, and it was as large as a bedroom. I spent a lot of time there unwinding and writing in my journal.
The money flowed so well, I was able to save too. I opened up a bank account and paid myself first by depositing fifteen percent of my earnings into the bank before I did anything else. I would never allow myself to get caught out there with nothing but the clothes on my back again.
Dymond was living well too. Like I said, she had moved to Canal Winchester, another Columbus suburb, and she had a nice new three-bedroom half a double in one of the nicest apartment complexes I had ever seen. She had even started dating again. A legit guy too. His name was Shawn, and he worked as a teller in a local bank. He was even getting his Master's degree.
“It feels really good to be with someone and not have to worry about them getting shot,” she told me over dinner one evening after work. We were eating at the Brownstone, a soul food restaurant located in downtown Columbus.
“But what if someone comes in and robs the bank?” I asked playfully.
“That's not funny,” Dymond said, twisting her lips.
I savored some of my Jambalaya as Dymond glared at me, making exaggerated “mmmm, mmmm” sounds as I chewed. “This is so delicious,” I told her after I swallowed.
“Crystal!”
“Okay. You know I'm playing with you. Do you know how happy I am for you, Dymond? I mean, we always said we wanted to live legit, and we are.”
Dymond seemed to tense up. I assumed she was still mad at me. “Really, Dymond, I didn't mean it . . . the robbing the bank thing. I'm sorry.”
Dymond took a sip of her wine before saying, “It's not that.”
“What is it?”
“Does it ever, like, bother you? What we're doing?”
I had been just about to take another bite before she asked me that. I held my fork mid-air and said, “Why should it bother me?” I plopped the food in my mouth.
Dymond leaned over and said in a low tone, “I mean, we're selling women's bodies. That doesn't bother you?”
I nearly choked. I quickly grabbed the glass of water next to my dinner dish and took a few gulps to wash down my food.
Was Dymond trying to get all high and mighty on me
?
I patted my chest a couple of times and inhaled deeply before responding to Dymond's question. “First of all, Dymond, what we're doing is one hundred percent legit. None of the ladies are showing any body parts. It's not like we're pimps hustling hoes on the streets, or like we making them do Playboy shots. Yes, it's a form of adult entertainment, but there's nothing, I mean absolutely nothing, wrong with that.”
Dymond looked worried. Maybe she expected a different answer. “But you know what goes on at the Doll House.”
I shrugged my shoulders. Yeah, some of the Dolls didn't just serve, and some of the dancers didn't just work those poles, but it didn't have anything to do with me or my sales. “You know I'm not one to knock another woman's hustle. We of all people should know that people do what they have to do sometimes.”
We continued eating, but I could tell Dymond still wasn't satisfied. I remember how I had to convince her to take the job in the first place, and how relieved she was when I hustled us out of Doll status. Maybe it wasn't her cup of tea.
“What's really going on, Dymond? Talk to me.
Just as she opened her mouth to speak, our waiter Ramone, stopped by the table. “Are you enjoying your meals, ladies? Can I get anything else for you?”
“We're fine, Ramone, thanks,” I said, waving him off.
“Just let me know if you need anything,” he said.
“I will.” When Ramone was out of earshot, I said, “Okay.”
“Well, it's just that Shawn isn't really comfortable with the whole deal. I've been totally honest with him about everything.”
“Are you going to let some man come between you and your hustle?” I asked her.
Her eyes narrowed. “How can you ask me that type of question? Girl, don't forget that you did, in fact, let some man come between you and your hustle. Remember Ray?”
“You're aiming below the belt, aren't you?”
Unsettled air settled over our table. The light emanated from the glass-encased candle in the middle of our table flickered. Our remaining food was forgotten.
“I'm not trying to aim anywhere, Crys, I'm just stating the facts. I mean, how many years did he say he was going legit? And where is he now?”
I didn't know where Dymond was coming from, but she needed to go back there and pick up a better attitude. “Don't go there with me, Dymond,” I said, coldly. “You were in the same boat as me. Remember Shadow?”
Dymond sat back, looking at me as if I had pimp-slapped her.
“You crossed the line, Crys.”
“Oh, did I? I thought I was just stating the facts, like you?”
As Dymond's eyes began to well with tears, I did feel bad. At least Ray was still alive. There was even a small part of me that understood her concerns, even though I didn't share them. I began to wonder how such a lighthearted conversation got so heavy.
“Girl, that's fine. Be that way. I try to come to you as a friend and you diss me? After I let you stay in my apartment when your damn chips were down.” Dymond was seething now, and her voice was growing louder.
BOOK: Biker Chick
3.84Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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