Page 148 of Rather: The Therapist

The two niggas she’d brought over to assist us gave us a thumbs up and got back to business.

I’d requested the best five in the building or in their bed and that’s exactly what we’d been given. They rotated each time one of them hit the stage. It was crucial we kept our lineup fresh.

“This motherfucker gots to come home with me,” Killian leaned over and said to me.

I sipped from the same cup I’d had for the last thirty minutes. He was on his sixth. I’d counted each one. Kofi had gone from sipping cups to sipping straight from the bottle. I couldn’t keep up.

Though I was on my level, I was far from intoxicated. I had to be everyone’s eyes. Someone had to get us back to Clarke safely and there was no doubt in my mind it would be me.

“You said that about the last three. There won’t be enough room on the plane if you stay another twenty minutes, nigga. Where will we sit?”

“Plane? I’m taking her to the hotel.”

His claim was news to me.

“Hotel?”

“Penthouse suites. Kofi reserved four of them in the event we decided to stay.”

“Kofi has an appointment with the jeweler at noon. Has he forgotten.”

“I don’t think the nigga gives a fuck. He’s having the time of his life.”

With a shake of my head, I scoffed, “He’s going to be on that plane by eleven. I don’t care if I have to drag him to that motherfucker myself.”

“I’ll take his legs. You got his arms?” Killian looked at me.

There was a second of silence before we both sniggered.

“You’re drunk.”

“Then a motherfucker. But, real shit. This one, I’m taking home.”

He smacked the stripper that had been working overtime in front of him on the ass. I couldn’t blame him. She was gorgeous with a body that made you consider taking her fine ass out of the strip club and securing her membership at the country club.

“You wouldn’t be wrong. Not at all.”

Jeezy pounded the speakers around us, forcing everyone to yell at the top of their lungs with their chests penetrating the air. Kofi’s arm went around Killian’s neck as Killian turned toward me and began tapping my chest.

“Still playing with them Ms, thinking like a felon!” Killian recited the words we all knew by heart.

A few lines passed before Kofi joined him. “That work don’t even come like that.”

“Fuck is you selling?” I added.

“Gave you niggas a whole lane, whole lane,” Killian jumped in.

“That’s better than me frontin’ a nigga the whole thang,” I chimed in, using my free hand for emphasis.

The bass rattled every piece of glass in the establishment. The dancer on the stage clapped her ass to the beat, making tidal waves in the process. Everybody was up on their feet, spitting lyrics as if they applied to them.

As for us, they weren’t fiction. Everything we were spitting were facts. Nevertheless, the unison of the entire building had the fine hairs under my Louis Vuitton jacket standing at attention.

“Love this money making like Mitch, can’t leave the gammmmme,” Kofi sang.

“Only thing get us excited is money and caine,” Killian finished his sentence.

The Dj let the record spin, doing everybody a favor. The song could loop three times and we wouldn’t be tired. The track almost felt like a personal anthem.

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