2. Nasseem Walker
NASSEEM WALKER
P leasure wasn’t the kind of place you stumbled on by accident. You had to be invited, vetted and cleared. And even then, you didn’t really know what it was until you stepped inside.
The first time I did, it was with an ex—a woman who was into things I wasn’t really built for at the time.
Or so I thought. But the second I crossed through those black velvet curtains, everything shifted.
The club didn’t just cater to desire—it demanded surrender.
It was red lights, heavy air, leather and silk, consent contracts, and raw honesty.
And for someone like me—always in control, always calculating—being in a place where control was optional? It messed with me. In a good way.
I went back. Alone. Then again. And again. Not for the chaos out in the main lounge, but for the quiet kind of power that came from choosing who you wanted, when, and how.
After Creed and Serenity’s wedding, when Egypt and I crossed that line, we both swore we’d never touch each other again, but I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
The way she tasted. The way she talked back even while she was coming apart beneath me.
The way she slipped out of bed before the sun like she regretted every second.
She acted like it was a fluke. A moment of weakness. But I knew better.
So, I sent her an invite. No name. No words. Just the QR code and a time, then left her a key for room 34. I wasn’t sure she’d show. Hell, I expected her to cuss me out for even trying. But she came. And then she kept coming.
We’d been doing this for months now. Sneaking and hiding. Pretending like we hated each other in front of our friends, when behind closed doors we were wrecking each other on a weekly sometimes daily basis. Tonight was no different.
Her skin was still warm against mine, her scent lingering on the sheets as she shifted beside me, careful not to wake me.
She thought I was asleep. She always did.
But I never was. I felt her slide out of bed like a thief, moving quietly through the room, slipping her dress over those hips like it hadn’t just been hiked around her waist thirty minutes earlier.
I clenched my jaw, eyes still shut. Every time we met, she did this shit.
Every time she left like I was some stranger.
Like this was just a favor she regretted.
I was tired of it. I was tired of pretending this was just physical when I knew damn well it wasn’t.
I was tired of Room 34 when I wanted her in my bed, in my space.
And I was tired of her acting like this thing between us didn’t mean something.
But I didn’t stop her. I never did. Because Egypt only let you close when she felt safe.
And she never felt safe for long, not with me at least. That was the part I hated because I felt safe with her and I wasn’t understanding why after all this time, after all these nights spent together, she wasn’t feeling safe with me.
The next morning, I was at the gym before the sun even thought about rising. My match against Sadiq Ansari was a few weeks out. A win meant I was one fight away from the championship belt—facing off against Kahlil Morgan, the current king of the welterweight division.
Sadiq was fast and unorthodox. The kind of fighter who made mistakes work in his favor. I needed to be sharp, focused. But all I could think about was Egypt’s legs wrapped around my waist and the way she whispered my name like she hated herself for needing me.
“Yo!” Reggie’s voice cut through my haze. “What the hell is that Nas? You swingin’ like you half-asleep.”
I blinked, pulling my gloves up, sweat dripping down my temple. “I’m good.”
“Bullshit,” Reg snapped, walking toward the ring. “Yo head’s somewhere else. You think Sadiq’s gonna slow down cause your girl had you up all night?”
I didn’t respond, didn’t want him to know my absent mind was because of a woman, because in boxing, when training, especially before a fight, women should be off limits because they were always a distraction.
He leaned on the ropes. “Get out the ring. Now.”
I exhaled sharply, biting down on my mouthguard before yanking it out. “C’mon, Reg?—”
“Nah. I’m not playin’. Come back when you got your head in the game. Cause right now? You slippin’. And Sadiq will beat yo ass if you walk into that fight like this.”
Frustration bubbled up in my chest as I climbed out of the ring and ripped the gloves from my hands. I knew he was right, but I didn’t need the lecture today. I needed space.
My condo in Beverly Grove sat on the tenth floor of a glass-paneled building with private access and panoramic views of the city.
I loved this condo; it was the first place I purchased after moving to LA years ago and getting my first million dollar check for a fight I had during pay-per-view.
It was a big payout, and I saw more money than I’d ever seen in my life with that one check.
Bachelor pad, sure—but with style. Black leather sectional, charcoal walls, floor-to-ceiling windows that opened up to a wraparound balcony.
My kitchen had matte black finishes, top-tier appliances I barely used, and a wine fridge that stayed stocked with bottles I never opened.
It was masculine, clean, but comfortable.
Dark oak floors. Warm lighting. Records lining the wall. Boxing memorabilia in a glass case beside my trophies. My bedroom? Soft sheets, heavy comforter, blackout curtains, and a bed big enough to get lost in. But even in all that space, Egypt’s absence always echoed.
I had barely been home for an hour when a knock hit the door. I frowned, not expectin’ nobody. I moved through the condo, peeked through the peephole, and immediately tensed. What the fuck? I opened the door slowly.
“Nate?”
My older brother stood there with that same cocky-ass grin, like we were the best of friends, and he wasn’t the same nigga I hadn’t heard from in months.
His hoodie was half-zipped, chain on, grill peeking through when he smirked.
He had been out of jail for a few months and once he got out, I hadn’t heard from him except when he hit me for money to pay his bills.
Hell, I didn’t even know how the fuck he got permission to leave the state of Texas.
I knew his PO wasn’t allowing that shit, which led me to believe he hadn’t asked for permission at all.
“What’s good, lil’ bro?” he said, brushing past me like this was his place.
I shut the door behind him, jaw tight. “The fuck you doin’ here?”
He looked around with a whistle, like he was impressed. “Damn. This you? You really out here livin’, huh?”
“Don’t do that,” I muttered, already over it. “What you want, Nate?”
He turned to face me, arms folded. “Shit. I need a lil’ bread. Nothin’ crazy.”
I pulled out my wallet and peeled off a few bills, holding it out. “Here. That should hold you down.”
He looked at the cash like it was lint. Didn’t even move to grab it. “Nah, I’m talkin’ a real bag, Nasseem.”
I dropped my hand slowly. “Say what you really mean then.”
He leaned on the wall, arms crossed tighter now. “You got that fight comin’ up, right? Sadiq Ansari. You beat him, it’s one more step to the belt.”
I nodded once, cautious. “Yeah. So?”
“So…” He grinned. “Odds say you gon’ beat his ass. But if you lose? Big payout for the underdog. I throw a stack on Sadiq, we flip it. Walk away clean. Nobody loses for real.”
I stared at him like he had lost his damn mind. “You serious right now?”
“Deadass. You still get your check either way, bro. Ain’t like you fightin’ Kahlil yet.”
I stepped forward, voice low and tight. “I ain’t throwin’ no damn fight, Nate.”
“Man, it ain’t that deep,” he said, hands up like I was tripping. “It’s a business move. That’s it.”
“You think I’m finna risk every fuckin’ thing I worked for just so you can hit a lick?” I scoffed. “Nigga, no.”
His face shifted, jaw tight. “Bro, I took care of you when you ain’t have shit. Don’t forget who was bringin’ food home when Mama died. Who kept you out them streets. Who sat down for that charge.”
“And who kept yo’ books full for seven years?” I snapped. “Who made sure you had shoes, soap, Ramen, whatever the fuck you needed while you was locked up? Don’t act like I ain’t been lookin’ out.”
“This the one time I’m askin’ you for somethin’ real,” he growled. “I got a plan, Nas. This shit could change everything.”
“And I said no, nigga!” My voice echoed off the concrete walls. “Don’t ever ask me to fuck up my career like that. You wildin’.”
We stood there, heavy silence stretching between us.
He finally stepped back toward the door, eyes still locked on mine.
“I’ll be in the city for a minute. I know you.
You gon’ think about it. You always think about it.
” He opened the door but turned before stepping out.
“Just remember, these mutha fuckas out here love you now, but they ain’t gon’ do shit for you when you fall.
I’m the only one who ever really had yo’ back. ”
Then he dipped. Just like that. And I stood there wonderin’ if this fight was still about a title…or about proving I wasn’t the lil’ nigga from The Grove no more. He may have been older, but long gone were the days where I feared him. That shit was done.
Creed’s man cave was damn near therapy at this point. Dark walls, dope art, black leather couch you could sink into and forget the world, and four TVs mounted side by side, so he never had to pick between a game and a movie. Low lights. Bar in the corner stocked with everything top shelf.
I sat with a glass of Hennessey in one hand and a storm sitting in my chest. Creed was posted across from me, twist sponge in one hand, his hair half-done, like he was distracted halfway through and said fuck it.
He wore a fitted tee and sweatpants, legs stretched out like a man who knew peace. Me? I was the opposite.