CHAPTER TEN
Yah-Yah
I was sliding my nude YSL heels back on when Mr. Clyde cleared his throat from the bed.
I glanced over my shoulder at him, he was sitting up against the headboard now, his hair all disheveled.
The sheets were pulled up to his waist, and he had that satisfied look on his face that told me I'd done my job right.
"Leaving already, beautiful?" he asked, his voice still a little breathless.
"Mhm," I hummed, standing up and smoothing down my dress.
It was a tight little cream-colored knit sweater dress that hugged every curve just right.
I walked over to the full-length mirror by the bathroom, checking my reflection.
My lace front was still laid perfectly, baby hairs swooped, lips still glossy even after everything.
I looked good as fuck, like I always did.
The Waldorf-Astoria suite was nice as hell.
floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Michigan Ave, all that luxury hotel shit that made you feel rich even if you was just visiting.
The city lights twinkled outside, and I could see people walking around down there, probably heading to dinner or some bougie-ass show.
Meanwhile, I was up here getting to the money.
"You know something, you always look stunning," Mr. Clyde said, watching me touch up my lip gloss in the mirror.
"Thank you, baby," I said sweetly, puckering my lips at my reflection. I wasn't really feeling him like that tonight. Honestly I just wasn’t in the mood to entertain, but I knew I needed the money.
I grabbed my little Chanel purse off the dresser and pulled out my phone to check the time. It was almost midnight. I still had to Uber back to the crib, and I couldn’t wait. I wanted to take off all this makeup, and climb in my bed.
"Yah-Yah, wait a moment," Mr. Clyde said, and something in his tone made me pause.
I turned around, one hand on my hip. "What's up?"
"I have a proposition for you," he started, "and before you say anything, just hear me out."
I raised an eyebrow, my interest piqued. Propositions usually meant more money, and I was always here for more money.
"I'm listening."
"There's a charity gala coming up in two weeks. A Police Captain's Ball, very high-profile event. All of Chicago's elite will be there, politicians, business owners, prominent figures in law enforcement, and I need a date."
"You want me to come with you? Like, as your escort?"
"Precisely. You'd be on my arm for the evening. It’s just a few cocktails, dinner, dancing, and socializing. It’s a very elegant event. I would need you to look the part, of course, but I don't think that would be a problem for you."
I tilted my head, thinking. Going to some fancy ball with rich people wasn't exactly my idea of a good time, but then again, neither was half the shit I did for money.
"And you gon’ pay me?"
"Of course." He smiled. "I was thinking... six times your normal rate. For the entire evening."
Six times? I did the math real quick in my head and had to stop myself from grinning.
"Six times," I repeated, just to make sure I heard him right.
"Six times," he confirmed. "I'll also cover the cost of your dress, hair, makeup, nails, whatever you need to prepare. I want you to look absolutely perfect."
"I always look perfect, boo," I said with a little smirk, and he chuckled.
"That you do. So... what do you say?"
I pretended to think about it for a second, even though I already knew my answer. "Aight, bet. I'm down. Just text me the details. The date, time, what kind of dress I should get, all that."
"Wonderful." He looked genuinely happy, which was kind of cute in an old man way. "I'll send everything to you tomorrow. And Yah-Yah, Thank you. I know this is outside of our usual... arrangement. But I promise it'll be worth your while."
"Aight, I gotta go now. Text me when you tryna see me again."
"I will. Get home safe, Beautiful."
I grabbed my purse and headed for the door, my heels clicking against the marble floor. Just as I stepped into the hallway and the door closed behind me, my phone started buzzing in my hand.
I looked at the screen.
Rylo.
My face immediately twisted up, and I felt that familiar irritation rise in my chest. This nigga had some motherfucking nerve calling me. I hit decline so fucking fast.
"Ol' bitch-ass nigga," I muttered under my breath, dropping my phone back in my purse as I walked toward the elevator. "Got me fucked up if he think I'm answering his calls."
I pressed the button for the elevator, tapping my foot impatiently as I waited. My phone buzzed again but I didn't even look. He could call a hundred times for all I cared.
The elevator doors opened and I stepped inside, checking my reflection in the mirrored walls. Even irritated, I looked good. Hair laid, dress hugging me right, skin glowing. I looked like money.
As the elevator descended, I thought about Mr. Clyde's offer. Six times my normal rate. And all I had to do was put on a pretty dress and smile at some rich people for a few hours, that shit was easy money.
My phone buzzed a third time.
I pulled it out, fully ready to curse Rylo's ass out, but this time it wasn't a call, it was a text.
Rylo: Baby please pick up. We need to talk.
I didn't respond. I didn't even open the message fully so he couldn't see the read receipt. Then another text came through.
Rylo: I know you mad about Morgan, but it wasn't like that…just call me back.
Wasn't like that?
The audacity of this man. The fucking audacity. He really thought he could just text me some weak-ass excuse and I'd come running back.
The elevator reached the lobby, and I stepped out. A few people glanced at me as I walked through, but I was used to that, used to being looked at. I knew I stood out, especially in a place like this where most of the women were older white ladies in their sensible outfits.
But I didn't give a fuck. I belonged anywhere I decided to be.
I walked outside where the valet was posted up, and the night air hit me. It was cold as hell, because this was Chicago and it was never not cold. I pulled my jacket tighter around me and opened the Uber app.
My phone buzzed again. Another text from Rylo.
Rylo: I was drunk. I fucked up but it didn't mean shit….
Rylo: I’m sorry for putting my hands on you…
I literally laughed out loud. This nigga really thought that was a good excuse, I typed back quickly.
Me: lose my number bitch
Then I blocked him. I should've done it weeks ago, but I kept the lines of communication open, tryna give him a chance to explain, I kept letting him text me his weak ass apologies. But I knew I was completely fucking done. It was no way we could come back from this.
I requested my Uber, and it was three minutes away. I stood under the fancy awning, watching cars pull up and drive off, rich people coming and going like they owned the world.
That's what people didn't understand about girls like me.
They looked at what I did and wanted to judge, wanted to act like I was supposed to be ashamed or some shit.
But I wasn't. I was strategic. I was smart.
I knew how to use what I had to get what I needed.
And right now, what I needed was money, stability, and a way out.
Mr. Clyde was a means to an end. They all were. And if playing dress-up at a police ball got me six times my normal rate, Shit, I'd play dress-up all day.
This nigga Rylo though, I was cool on him. He just wasn't shit. He was just another nigga who thought he could play me, clown ass thought he could have his cake and eat it too. Fuck him and fuck Morgan. Both of them was dead to me now.
My uber, a grey Toyota pulled up. I checked the license plate to make sure it matched the app, then slid into the backseat.
"Yah-Yah?" the driver asked, looking at me in the rearview mirror.
"That's me."
"Alright, heading to South Side, right?"
"Yep."
He pulled off, and I leaned back against the seat, watching the city pass by outside the window. Downtown was all lit up, pretty, looking like something out of a movie. Chicago was really was a beautiful city, but it housed a lot of dirty mufuckas.
My phone was quiet now that I'd blocked Rylo. No more calls, no more texts, no more bullshit excuses. Just peace.
The Uber driver was playing some old school R&B Mary J. Blige.
I hummed along, feeling myself relax for the first time all night. The sex with Mr. Clyde was work, not pleasure, but the money was good, and at this point that’s all that mattered to me.
Rylo and Morgan could stay in the past where they belonged. I had bigger and better things ahead of me.
* * *
By the time I got home, it was past one in the morning, but the lights were still on. That wasn't surprising, we all kept weird hours in this house.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside, immediately hit with the smell of weed. The living room was a mess, Mya's shoes kicked off by the couch, Yatta's jacket thrown over the chair, empty White Claw cans on the coffee table, and I bet you that was courtesy of Mya.
"Yah finally home!" Mya called from the kitchen. My little sister came walking out with a bowl of cereal, her bonnet slightly crooked on her head, wearing one of my oversized hoodies that she definitely didn't ask to borrow.
"Where you been?"
"Working," I said, dropping my purse on the side table and slipping out of my heels. My feet were killing me.
"Working?" Yatta asked from the couch, not looking up from his phone. My brother had his feet up on the coffee table, a blunt between his fingers, grey sweats and a white tee. He looked relaxed, which was rare for him.
"Yea work, the shit that pays my bills," I shot back, walking over to plop down on the other end of the couch.
Mya sat down between us, tucking her legs under her. "Girl, you always so pressed about bills. Hoe the bills get paid around here,"
"Barely," I teased, reaching over to steal a Froot Loop from her bowl.
"Bitch!" She pulled the bowl away, laughing. "Go get yo’ own cereal!"
"I don't want a whole bowl, just a little taste."