Addicted

Chapter 1

Indigo Rain Thompson (“Indie”)

Purple and blue lights cut through the haze of smoke and cheap cologne that hung thick in the air at Velvet, the strip club where I’d been bartending, and occasionally dancing, for the past three years. It wasn’t glamorous, but the money was good as hell, and that’s all that mattered to me.

I wiped down the bar top, my eyes scanning the crowd of thirsty-ass niggas who’d been eyeing me all night like I was on the menu. Newsflash: I wasn’t.

“Aye, sweetheart! Let me get another shot of Hennessy!” some dude in a too-tight button-up called out, waving a twenty in the air like it was a stack.

I grabbed the bottle without even looking at him, poured the shot into a glass, and slid it across the bar. “That’ll be fifteen.”

He pushed the twenty toward me with this greasy-ass smile. “Keep the change, baby. What time you get off?”

I snatched the bill, not even bothering to hide my eye roll. “Never, for you.”

His boys started laughing and giving him shit, and I turned away before he could say some other dumb shit.

This was the part of the job that got old real quick.

Niggas thinking ‘cause I was serving them drinks that I was interested in serving them anything else. I wasn’t nobody’s baby, sweetheart, or shorty.

I was Indie, and I didn’t have time for the bullshit.

“Damn, Indie, you ain’t gotta do him like that,” one of the regulars, Eddie, said from his usual spot at the end of the bar. He was one of the few who actually respected boundaries, which is why I didn’t mind when he came through.

“Eddie, you know how it go. These niggas come in here thinking they can buy a conversation with a five-dollar tip.” I shook my head, mixing up a vodka cranberry for one of the dancers who’d just walked up. “I ain’t the one.”

Eddie chuckled, sipping his cognac. “I feel you. That’s why you my favorite. You keep it real.”

“Only way I know how to be,” I said, passing the drink to Candy, one of the newer girls. She blew me a kiss and sashayed back toward the stage where she was up next.

The club was packed tonight. Friday nights always were.

Money was flowing, drinks were pouring, and the dancers were working their asses off, literally.

The stage was the centerpiece of the whole spot, elevated with poles on either side and surrounded by niggas throwing bills like they had it to blow.

Some of them probably did. Some of them probably didn’t and would be crying about overdraft fees come Monday morning. Either way, it wasn’t my business.

My business was keeping this bar running smooth, collecting my tips, and getting home to make sure my little brother wasn’t out doing no stupid shit.

Speaking of stupid shit...

“Indie!” Roman’s voice cut through the music, and I already knew what was coming. I didn’t even turn around.

“No, Roman.”

“You ain’t even hear what I was gonna say!” He appeared at the bar, leaning against it with that pleading look he always got when he wanted something.

“I don’t need to hear it. The answer is still no.” I kept my eyes on the bottles I was restocking, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my full attention.

Roman was the club manager. He was in his mid-thirties with light skin, always dressed in some designer shit that he probably got off one of them sketchy websites.

He wasn’t a bad dude, but he stayed trying to get me to dance instead of just bartending.

I’d done it several times when he was really desperate and the money was too good to pass up, but tonight wasn’t one of those nights.

“Come on, Indie. Diamond called out sick, and we short a girl. You know you can make triple what you make behind that bar if you just—”

“Roman.” I finally looked at him, and my expression must’ve said everything my mouth didn’t need to, because he immediately backed up a step. “I said no. I’m good right here.”

“Aight, aight. Damn.” He threw his hands up in surrender. “Can’t blame a nigga for trying. You know you one of the baddest in here when you do dance. These niggas go crazy.”

“And that’s exactly why I don’t do it unless I feel like it,” I said, turning back to my work. “I ain’t about to have these fools thinking they can see me up there whenever they want. I do this shit on my terms.”

Roman knew better than to push it further.

He’d learned that lesson the hard way about a year ago when he kept pressing me and I threatened to walk out mid-shift.

He couldn’t afford to lose me. I was one of the best bartenders he had, and I kept the customers coming back even if it was just to try their luck at getting my number. Spoiler alert: none of them ever did.

“You need anything, you let me know,” Roman said, already backing away toward his office.

“Mm-hmm.” I waved him off without looking up.

The night continued like it always did. I had a steady stream of orders, niggas flirting that I shut down with expert precision, and dancers rotating on and off stage.

The DJ was playing some Megan Thee Stallion, and the energy in the club was high.

This was the time when the money really started flowing, when niggas got drunk enough to be generous but not so drunk they couldn’t function.

I was in my zone, moving on autopilot. Pouring, mixing, serving, collecting. My hands knew the routine so well I barely had to think about it. That’s when my mind started drifting to the shit I actually cared about.

Ishmael.

My little brother had been getting beside himself lately.

He was talking slick, staying out later than he should, and I’d noticed him hanging around some niggas from the neighborhood that I knew were into some shit they had no business being into.

I’d tried talking to him about it, but he just brushed me off like I was being paranoid.

I wasn’t paranoid. I was paying attention.

I’d been raising that boy since our mama died five years ago.

Hell, I’d been raising him even before that, if I was being honest. Mama had been too busy drowning herself in bottles of whatever liquor was cheapest to be a real parent.

When she finally drank herself to death, it wasn’t even a surprise.

It was almost a relief, as fucked up as that sounds.

But I’d made a promise to myself that Ishmael wouldn’t end up like her.

He wouldn’t end up in the streets either.

I worked my ass off to make sure we had a nice place in a decent neighborhood, that he had clothes on his back and food in his stomach.

I did all this so he wouldn’t have to struggle the way I did.

And lately, it felt like he didn’t even appreciate it.

“Aye, beautiful! What I gotta do to take you home tonight?”

I snapped back to reality, looking at the dude who’d just walked up to the bar. He was tall, brown skin, nice watch, decent cologne. Probably thought he was doing something.

“You gotta leave me the fuck alone, that’s what you gotta do,” I said flatly. “What you drinking?”

He looked taken aback for a second, then laughed like I’d told a joke. “Damn, you feisty. I like that.”

“I don’t care what you like. You ordering or not?”

“Let me get a bottle of Ace of Spades.”

I raised an eyebrow. That was a fifteen-hundred-dollar bottle. Either he was really trying to impress somebody, or he had money to waste. “You want glasses with that?”

“Yeah, bring me four glasses. I’m celebrating with my boys.” He nodded toward a table where three other dudes were sitting, already surrounded by dancers.

I grabbed the bottle from the locked cabinet, set it on a tray with the glasses and an ice bucket, and slid it across the bar. “That’ll be fifteen hundred even.”

He pulled out a credit card without hesitation and handed it to me. While I ran it, he leaned against the bar, still trying his luck. “So what’s your name, beautiful?”

“Indie.”

“Indie. That’s unique. I like it. I’m—”

“I didn’t ask.” I handed him back his card and the receipt to sign.

He signed it and added a two-hundred-dollar tip, sliding it back to me with a smirk. “You sure I can’t get your number? I promise I ain’t like these other niggas in here.”

I pocketed the receipt and looked him dead in the eye. “That’s what they all say. Enjoy your bottle.”

I walked away before he could respond, heading to the other end of the bar where a group of women were waiting to order. They were easier to deal with. They usually just wanted their drinks and to have a good time without all the extra shit.

Truth was, I wasn’t interested in nobody right now.

I had Ryan, and even that was barely a situation.

We fucked around when we both had time, but it wasn’t serious.

He knew it, I knew it, and that’s how I liked it.

Men were a headache I didn’t need. They always wanted more than I was willing to give, and I didn’t have the energy to pretend like I gave a fuck about their feelings.

My focus was on Ishmael and on my dreams. I’d been designing clothes since I was a teenager, teaching myself how to sew, how to alter pieces to make them unique.

I had a whole portfolio of designs sitting in my closet at home, waiting for the day I could actually do something with them.

But that took money, and right now, every dollar I made went toward keeping me and my brother afloat.

One day, though. One day I was gonna make it happen.

“Indie, you good?” Eddie called out, holding up his empty glass.

“Yeah, I got you.” I grabbed the cognac and poured him another, this time a little heavier since he’d been tipping well all night.

The music switched to some old-school Juvenile, and the crowd started getting hype. I could see Roman in the DJ booth, probably requesting specific songs to keep the energy up. He was good at his job, I’d give him that. Even if he did annoy the hell out of me sometimes.

I checked my phone real quick during a lull in orders. No messages from Ishmael. That was either a good thing or a bad thing. I couldn’t tell anymore. I shot him a quick text.

Me: Where you at?