Page 89 of All Twerk, No Play

“Perfect, you made my point,” he said, holding out a headphone. I wished he’d tuck my loose hair behind my ear and slide it in himself. “Before she went solo, Tina and Ike Turner were huge celebrities. Grammy award winners. She was the first woman and the first Black artist on the cover ofRolling Stone. So everybody was shocked when she left him with only 36 cents to her name and divorced him for assault.” My jaw dropped in surprise as I reached for my sweaty gloves. “But all those songs you just named? Those are from after she left Ike. She didn’t need him—she was strong enough on her own.”

He slid on the contact pads. “We’re gonna listen to an early Ike and Tina song, but even before she left him, Tina stole the show.”

I lifted my hands into fighting stance as the guitar strummed slowly. My hips shifted with the bluesy rhythm, circling Eric as he adjusted, striking then pulling back, letting Tina guide me.

Then I lost myself in the music. I didn't think about my breathing or punching, just felt the lyrics about leaving a good job in the city working for the Man … and never looking back. Realizing that I didn't regret leaving San Francisco, because I was forging my own path.

Tina’s story resonated deep in my soul. Starting as half of a power couple … then leaving her ex-husband in the dust, claiming the spotlight with a solo career that overshadowed her early success.

As Eric absorbed my punches, I channeled Tina’s strength. When I told him today about leaving Spencer, I’d been back in Richard’s office as those four powerful men towered over me.

I hadn’t known then how to fight back.

I was learning.

As the horns kicked in and the tempo accelerated, I felt my own liberation: escaping my controlling family, leaving the toxic law firm, embracing my autonomy by starting my own business instead of waiting for someone powerful to recognize and reward me.

Tina's wild power, drowning out that asshole’s backup vocals, gave me permission to hammer out my frustration. My fists pounded the pads, visualizing Spencer’s green eyes and his smug smile, and aiming for that elegant nose.

“Fuck yes, baby!” Eric hollered, breaking through my haze. I’d backed him out of our private nook into the main gym area, letting my fists fly. Voices joined, adding fuel to the fire burning in my gut.

“Rotate your core,” he cried, and I struck hard enough that he stepped back to absorb the force. The song crescendoed, horns blaring. I swiped sweat off my brow with my forearm before smacking again.

The song stopped, so I did too. Adrenaline surged through my blood, chest panting and muscles vibrating.

Panting and horny, I wanted to dig my hands into his hair, slide my tongue into his mouth, and feel his groan at my complete lack of control.

But his eyes shone with pride, not desire. Curious eyes watched from around the gym. His workplace. Because I was just his client.

Resisting the urge to kiss him, I flipped my ponytail. “Is that all you got?”

His eyes lit up. “Water break, Blackstone. I’m not done with you yet.”

"Rich Girl," Hall & Oates

Cruz

I’dneverfeltmoreworking class than when Victoria’s Audi glided through stone-pillared gates, revealing a tree-lined drive so long it could’ve crossed state lines.

For the first hour of the trip, I’d lightened the mood with playlists and car games, but the closer we got to Sagaponak, the tighter she gripped the steering wheel, her eyes staring ahead in the darkness. I turned on a soft acoustic playlist of Brandi Carlile, Mazzy Star, and Tracy Chapman, and her fingers relaxed.

The house loomed in the darkness like the architect had been dared to design Bridgerton, blindfolded, while hopped up on speed. I grabbed our bags from the trunk despite her insisting staff would handle it. What kind of fake boyfriend doesn’t carry his girl’s suitcase?

She stepped up to the carved mahogany door and smoothed her blazer before ringing the bell. Earlier, I’d asked why she wore her lawyer suit, and she snarked, ‘To remind Beverly that some of us work instead of mooching off their husbands’ money.’

A frosty white woman opened the door, so slim her bones might break from a firm hug. Her mouth puckered so tight I wondered if she survived on lemon juice, cayenne pepper and Botox.

"Good, you’re finally here," she said, her faux-refined voice betraying a Jersey ‘he-yuh.’ The two-story foyer was larger than my mom’s whole house, marble floors gleaming under a giant chandelier, flanked by two spiraling staircases.

“I told you we were coming after work,” Victoria said crisply, her voice echoing off the cold surfaces. “Eric, this is Beverly Larsson-Sinclair, Richard’s wife.”

Beverly extended limp fingertips, as if full contact might transmit my poverty.

“Has my father arrived yet?” Victoria asked.

“Arthur’s coming tomorrow morning,” Beverly’s swollen lips pursed.

“But the party starts at 9.”

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