Page 15 of Cannon
I liked that she was confident and sassy. She wasn’t no fuckin’ pushover. She was the type of challenge I’d love. I’d love to have her powerful ass submitting to me. But I needed to stay focused.
“What strip club is on this block?” I asked.
“Sylk Road. It’s the premier gentlemen’s club in this city. But judging by the dirt under your nails, it might not be your style,” she said full of judgment, a smirk on her lips. That dirt was from digging up my cash.
“It’s def not my style. Paying for naked bitches to dance and then having to share them with other men in the club is for simps. When a bitch dances for me, it’s only for me. And it don’t take her dollars to do it,” I said while leaning her way.
I watched her face freeze with an acknowledgement that I wasn’t her typical clientele. I hated strip clubs and always thought they were a waste of money and time. What the fuck I look like sitting in the room with a bunch of horny niggas looking at bitches dance?
“You look nice and strong. What do you do?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Whatever is necessary.”
“I’m looking for security for my club. Someone to manage all the other guards. Are you looking for a new gig?” she asked.
“I might be interested.”
“Come see me tomorrow at 2 PM.”
“I’ll see you then, Queen?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m Queen and you are?”
“Cannon.”
“Goodnight, Cannon,” she said as she sashayed out of the club.
And honestly her presence made it a good night.
Chapter 6
Queen
After I left the bar, I made my way back to my apartment uptown. It was a warm, Afro-bohemian sanctuary tucked above the noise. My chocolate leather sofa was draped in a handwoven mud-cloth throw, accompanied by bright yellow pillows. Sculptures from the motherland stood guard in the corners, while bold African artwork commanded the walls like ancestral spirits watching over me. And plants were everywhere. Hanging, climbing, thriving. The air smelled like soil and sage. This was my oasis. My peace. A world away from the champagne-fueled chaos and cold ambition of Sylk Road.
Once the door closed behind me, you would’ve thought that I’d crash. But I couldn’t sleep. Not even a power nap. Just laid there in bed with my eyes wide open and my thoughts clawing at the inside of my skull. My boho sun clock kept ticking like it was mocking me. Four-o-two. Four-twenty-seven. Five-o-one.
By six, I stopped pretending. I peeled myself out of the sheets and moved through the apartment like a ghost. I showered and moisturized before moving on.
At the vanity, I sat with the lights low and started on my makeup. Primer. Concealer. Foundation. The usual armor. Butas I swiped the brush across my cheek, I caught my reflection and stopped.
I looked… old.
Not old in years. Old in spirit. Like the years had dragged me behind them and I’d just now gotten the chance to look back at the damage.
My eyes were puffy, and my skin looked dull. My lips were dry. I looked like a woman trying too hard to stay pretty when everything inside her was falling the fuck apart.
I hated her.
I wiped it all off and started again.
Not because I wanted to look good. Because I refused to go anywhere looking like I’d been crying. That kind of weakness cost too much.
By the time I finished lining my lips, I couldn’t stop thinking about ZaZa.
When I got married and had her, I was running away from my past. I named her Esperanza because it meant hope. And she was my hope for a brighter future.
And for a while she was, until signs of her illness began to show. ZaZa is beautiful, talented and smart. But her moods were hard to manage. The mania was enough to drive the entire house crazy. And the depression broke my heart. At some point in high school she started doing drugs, but I spent every dime I could to get her the best help possible.
