Page 79 of Body Language
See, they expected twerk anthems. Fast money, fast ass, same shit every other club in Antionette fed them. But Niv flipped the script. She set a vibe. The kind that made men think about touching, not just fucking. The kind that had women straightening their spines, wondering if their men would pay attention to them like that after they left.
I looked around the room, smirk tugging at my mouth. Niggas gripping glasses like lifelines. Women biting lips. Couples leaning close, whispering in each other’s ears while their hands slid under tables.
I caught one dude in the corner whisper, “Goddamn,” and his girl elbowed him without ever looking away from the stage.
That’s when I knew, Niv didn’t just put on a show. She built a damn spell.
And I’ll admit, sitting there, watching her vision come alive, I felt something I don’t let myself feel too often: pride. Not the kind you get from money or power. I have that already. It wasdifferent. I was watching somebody create an entire world out of their mind and body and making everybody else beg for access.
By the time Chris Brown’s verse hit, the whole room was leaning forward like they’d been hypnotized. Applause shook the walls when the lights cut.
And all I could think was…
Damn. My Pretty just turned GivGold into the most dangerous spot in Antionette.
Niv walked out on the stage and the crowd went stupid. Phones up, hands clapping, voices shouting her name like they’d been waiting all night just to see her. She didn’t even flinch. Just raised the mic slow, lips curling into that smile that said she was about to own every soul in the room.
“First off,” she started, voice smooth, “thank y’all for coming out tonight. GivGold isn’t just a club—it’s a true experience.”
Cheers exploded. I puffed on my cigar, eyes locked on her.
“But let me make one thing clear,” she went on, slicing through the noise like a blade. “Pole dancing, ballet, hip hop, whatever the style .. isn’t just ass and glitter. It’s art. It’s storytelling. It’s a body speaking without words.”
The crowd screamed. She smirked, looking dead in the camera some girl had pointed at her like she was daring the whole world to say different.
“This stage isn’t about shame. It’s about power. About body positivity. About women deciding when, where, and how we get seen. So if you came looking for just a show, you’re gonna leave knowing you’ve been touched by art.”
My chest tightened, watching her own the hell out of every syllable. Niggas in the front row looked like they wanted to propose. Women were nodding hard enough to break their necks.
She lowered the mic, leaned on one hip, and dropped her last line with a smirk that nearly had me ready to climb up there and snatch her off the stage.
“And don’t get too comfortable. I’ll be back.”
The whole room went wild because everybody knew exactly what that meant. She wasn’t just the face of GivGold. She was the soul. And she was about to remind every single one of them why they called her MissCommunication.
I leaned back in the VIP watching chaos unfold around me. My brothers and their women were always like watching reality tv.
Kross is so in damn love with Rivah, and I swear she been running her mouth since she sat down. Funny as hell, though. Every two minutes, she was saying some off-the-wall shit that had the whole table crying laughing. My moms always said a woman with a quick tongue was dangerous. Rivah was living proof.
Across from me, was Kairo and his wife Khloe. She had that “fuck it” glow, throwing back drinks like water, finally letting loose like stress was all her life consisted of. The DJ dropped a track she liked and she damn near broke her neck bopping to it. Meanwhile, her loud-ass husband, Kairo, was damn near breaking the sound system yelling over the music.
“Aye, Kordai,” Kairo hollered, pointing across the floor at a group of women, “that one right there thick as hell. Go pull her.”
Kordai side-eyed him so hard, I almost choked on my drink. “Nigga, I might be fresh out. Not desperate.”
We all cracked up, and Kairo sat back upset that he couldn’t play matchmaker.
Pretty slid past the section wearing an all black, long-sleeve leotard, pink tutu sitting high enough for a front-row view of chocolate perfection. Black heels clicking like music all on their own.
My dick twitched. My cigar damn near went out.
And, of course, Rivah noticed. Loud as hell.
“Lawd have mercy,” she drawled, leaning forward for a better view. “That ass need its own zip code.”
Khloe wasn’t no better, fanning herself with her hand like she was in church. “Mm-mm. She too damn sexy. Kendrix, that ass sit up better than two bunk beds.”
Kairo choked on his drink, shaking his head. “See, y’all doing too much.”
