CHAPTER ONE
Yasani “Yah-Yah” Fontaine
A Few Years Ago…
"That's it, right there," I whispered, my back arched against the silk sheets of the Palmer House Hilton Hotel's premier suite. My nails dug into Mr. Clyde's shoulders as he worked between my thighs, his black and silver-streaked head moving with practiced rhythm.
I moaned, not too loud or too soft, but just the way I had learned rich men like to hear it. Everything in this game was about balance. I would only give them enough to feel special but never enough to think they owned me.
"Fuck, you taste so goddamn sweet," Mr. Clyde mumbled against my skin, as his hands gripped my thick thighs.
I ran my fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair, guiding him exactly where I wanted, taking control while letting him believe he was running this show.
"Make me cum, baby," I commanded softly, knowing he would do anything I asked when his face was buried between my legs. His tongue moved faster, and he inserted two fingers in my wet pussy, finger fucking me until I felt pressure building.
When I came, I made sure it was a performance worth every dollar he was gon give me. I called his name, trembled against his mouth, and let my thighs clamp around his head just enough to make him feel powerful.
Afterward, he climbed up my body, breathing heavy, he had that smug look of satisfaction on his face that niggas got when they thought they did something.
"My turn now, beautiful," he said, reaching for a condom from the nightstand.
I smiled, flipping us over so I was on top. "Let me take care of you," I purred, rolling the latex down his length with practiced ease.
As I rode him, I kept my eyes half-closed, my body doing what it knew how to do while my mind drifted to all the reasons I was in this hotel on a Friday night instead of anywhere else.
When Mr. Clyde finished, gripping my hips and groaning like he was dying the sweetest death, I leaned down and kissed his forehead.
"That was amazing," I lied easily, sliding off him to head toward the bathroom. Once again, it was a job well done.
* * *
I fastened my shirt slowly, one button at a time, I was calm and relaxed because to me calm mattered.
Rushing made shit look desperate, and desperate was never a good look on me.
I checked my reflection in the mirror, my hair was pulled back tight into a low ponytail, diamonds glistening in my ear, and my gloss shining on my lips, my face was smooth and unreadable.
Mr. Clyde sat on the edge of the bed behind me, his robe loose, legs spread, watching me like I was his most prize possession.
“Don’t rush beautiful,” He said from behind me, “You know I hate when you rush to leave me.”
I glanced at him in the mirror, his silver and black hair was slicked back, his olive skin that still had a youthful glow to it.
I’m not gonna lie, Mr. Clyde was a fine ass older man.
he reminded me of the music mogul Babyface.
One thing I learned about fucking with older men, was that they liked pretending they still had control over something.
and I was the type of bitch to let them believe it.
“I ain’t rushing,” I said softly, tilting my head, giving him a smile, “I just don’t wanna be late meeting with my lil’ sister.” He chuckled as he reached for the nightstand and grabbed the white envelope.
“Four thousand five hundred,” he said, “And you earn every dollar every fucking time.” He slid the envelope into my hand, and I looked down at it, but I knew I didn’t need to count it. I didn’t have to. Mr. Clyde was consistent. That’s why he was my favorite trick.
“Thanks Baby,”
“You know you my favorite girl in the world right?” he said as he winked his eye and I smirked at him.
“You say that shit every time.”
“‘Cause it’s true.”
“Yea, Yea Tell me anything.” I chuckled as I turned around and stuffed the money he had given me into my purse.
“You know I always tell you the truth beautiful.” He laid on the charm.
“Well, you know I appreciate you Mr. Clyde, but I gotta get up outta here. I got somewhere I need to be.”
“You be careful out there, and I’ll see you in two weeks.” He relayed.
“I will and thanks again Baby,” I said. He didn’t respond he only smiled.
I grabbed my bag and walked out, my heels clacking quietly against the plush hotel carpet. The elevator ride down gave me just enough time to turn myself off emotionally. That was the real trick in doing this shit, it wasn’t the men or the money. It was knowing how to detach.
Once I was outside, Chicago greeted me the way only it knew how to do. The air was cold and unapologetic; I glanced around and spotted who I was looking for.
Rylo’s black Benz truck was sitting idling at the curb, music low, windows tinted. He leaned over when I got in, kissed my cheek like this was just another night.
“You straight?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, buckling my seatbelt. “I’m good; Can you drop me off at the nail shop? I'm meeting Mya and Morgan."
"Sayless," he replied.
Rylo put the car in drive, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror out of habit, that caution came from living how we lived. His fingers, adorned with two diamond rings, tapped against the steering wheel to the beat of Lil Durk coming through the speakers.
"How much?" he asked, keeping his voice casual like he was asking about the weather.
"Forty-five hundred." He nodded, a slight smile playing on his lips.
"That's what I'm talking about. My baby worth every dolla and then some." I reached into my bag, peeled off two bands, and handed it to him.
“This for you,” I said. “Handle whatever you gotta handle.” He glanced at it, then nodded.
“Good looking out, baby. I got a play lined up tonight anyway. It’s a couple cards bout to crack.” He said and I didn’t reply, I just watched the streetlights blur past the window. Rylo always had a play. He was always one step away from a big lick that never seem to fucking come.
When I met him two years ago at a party on the Westside, he approached me different than how other niggas did. He didn’t come tryna spit no weak ass lines, nor was he trying to pressure me. He came up to me with a confidence that made bitches do a double take.
I was at the party with Yatta, who was checking up on one of his old friends. Mya had stayed home, buried in her veterinary books like always. The party was at some trap house off Madison, crowded with the usual suspects, drug dealers, hustlers, and bitches who were looking for a come up.
Rylo had been in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, watching the room with observant eyes. When our eyes locked, something just clicked.
Later, he told me he'd noticed that I wasn't drinking, and I wasn't chasing after the flashy niggas flaunting their money. And he wasn't wrong. That shit didn’t excite me at all. I was a getting money ass bitch myself so no I wasn’t impressed.
We'd exchanged numbers, and on our first date, he told me straight up about who he was in the streets, he did a little bit of everything from bank fraud, identity theft, credit card scams, all that white-collar shit that kept him out of the dopeboy life but paid just as well.
All in all, Rylo was a scammer, he lives behind computer screens and burner phones, he liked to say he was smarter than street niggas because he didn't touch product. But in my opinion that was some dumb shit to say, scamming was a different hustle, but it held the same risk.
I respected his hustle because when he found out what I did with men like Mr. Clyde, he didn't judge me. He just asked if I was being safe and getting what I was worth.
The nail shop came into view, and through the window, I spotted Mya laughing loud, while Morgan sat beside her, with her phone in her hand.
Rylo pulled up to the curb. I grabbed my purse, then paused before opening the door.
"I'll be at your crib lata’; so, make sure you answer the phone," I told him.
He leaned over and kissed my cheek again. "Aight. I gotchu’."
I stepped out of the truck and watched him pull off before turning toward the shop.
* * *
Fancy Fingers Nail Bar was poppin' as usual on a Friday night, packed with hood princesses getting fresh for the weekend. The smell of acrylic hit me as soon as I pushed the door open. The chemical smell was sharp mixed with fruity lotion and cheap incense they burned to cover it all up.
"Yah-Yah," Mya's voice cut through the chatter. My baby sister waved her hands in the air, careful not to mess up her wet polish.
"Bitch, you overly late!"
"Watch ya mouth, you know I don’t like that bitch word," I said, but couldn't help smiling as I walked over. Mya was still my baby, even if she thought she was grown. Her box braids were fresh falling past her shoulders, gold hair jewelry catching light at the ends.
Morgan looked up from her phone, her cat-shaped eyes taking me in from head to toe.
"Mmm-hmm, coming in here late as hell, looking like you just left a nigga's bed."
"Mind your business," I said, dropping my Chanel bag on the empty chair next to them. It was a knock-off Chanel bag, but none of these bitches in here could tell the difference.
"And what you mean late? Shid, I'm right on time."
"Girl, please." Morgan rolled her eyes; her lashes were so thick they looked like they might fly off her face. "We've been here for over an hour. Mya already got her fill-in done."
"I had some business to handle." I kept my voice even. What’s understood didn’t need to be explained, they both knew exactly what kind of business I had to handle, but I never discussed the details with them. It simply wasn’t nobody’s business about what I did and who I did it with.
"Business," Morgan repeated, the glossy lips curving into a smirk.
"That business got a name?"
"Morgan, shut up," Mya laughed, swatting at her. "Leave my sister alone. She out here gettin’ to the bag, unlike you, who be letting that bum ass nigga run through your pockets."