Chapter 8
Stone
I gripped the steering wheel of my Bentley, the engine purring as I cruised through the streets toward Chrome. The city lights blurred past, neon signs reflecting off the black paint of my whip.
Three days.
I’d been gone from the crash pad for three fucking days now, holed up in some bougie hotel suite trying to get my head right. I was trying to create distance between me and Indie, but that shit wasn’t working.
I’d heard from the niggas I had stationed at the crash pad that she’d tried to escape twice. Both times they had to physically restrain her ass and drag her back inside. She was livid, cussing them out, throwing shit, acting like a caged animal.
And I ain’t been back to see her. Not once.
I told myself it was the smart move. That I needed space to think. To figure out what the fuck I was doing keeping her locked up like that. I should just let her go. I should just send her ass back home to her brother and forget about her. Move on with my life like she never existed.
But every time I thought about doing that, about releasing her, something in my chest tightened up. It was like my body was rejecting the idea before my mind could even process it.
I couldn’t let her go.
That shit was fucking with me in ways I ain’t never experienced before.
I’d been in the game since I was twelve years old.
Built my empire from the ground up with Kenzo by my side.
I’d killed niggas, moved weight, made millions, and never once let a woman get under my skin.
Women were temporary. Pussy was pussy. But Indie?
Indie was different. It wasn’t just the sex. This was something else.
My grip tightened on the wheel.
The night she cooked dinner came back to me. She threw down in that kitchen. Made a meal that tasted like home. And that cornbread…
Shit had me thinking about Sundays at my grandmama’s house. Ain’t nobody ever made me feel some shit like that. That’s what made her dangerous.
I blew out a breath and turned up the music, some Mozzy shit that usually helped me clear my head. But tonight it wasn’t doing a damn thing.
All I could think about was her.
The way she looked at me with those big brown eyes, equal parts defiant and vulnerable. The way her body responded to mine like we were made to fit together. The way she talked shit even when she knew I could kill her without blinking.
The way her pussy felt wrapped around my dick.
Fuck.
I adjusted myself in my seat, my dick already getting hard just thinking about her.
This was a problem. A big fuckin’ problem.
I pulled into the parking lot of Chrome and killed the engine, sitting there for a moment in the silence.
Maybe tonight would help. Maybe being around other women, other pussy, would remind me that Indie wasn’t special. That she was just another bitch and I could replace her whenever I wanted.
Yeah.
That’s what I needed.
I grabbed my phone, checked my messages, then stepped out of the Bentley.
I was dressed in all-black tonight: Amiri denim, a Saint Laurent hoodie, and custom Alexander McQueens.
The weight of my chains settled against my chest. I wore two Cuban links, one with a diamond cross and the other simple platinum.
My AP watch adorned my wrist, diamonds set into the bezel giving just enough shine without doing too much.
I walked toward the entrance of Chrome, the bass from inside already thumping through the walls. The bouncer at the door was a big nigga named Lawrence who’d been working for me for years. He nodded and stepped aside.
“Boss,” he said.
I gave him a nod and walked in.
Chrome was packed tonight. The main floor was filled with niggas throwing money, strippers working the poles, bottles popping at every table. The lighting was dim and purple, giving the whole spot a high-end, exclusive vibe.
This was my shit.
I owned Velvet too, but Chrome was where I actually came to kick it when I wanted to be seen. Velvet was lower-key, more hood. Chrome was where the real money niggas came.
I made my way through the crowd toward the VIP section in the back. Niggas dapped me up as I passed, showing respect. A few strippers tried to get my attention, but I ignored them.
When I got to the VIP section, Kenzo, Antoine, Deacon, and Wes were already there, posted up on the leather couches with bottles of 1942 and Ace of Spades on the table. Strippers were dancing for them, asses clapping, titties bouncing. They all stood when they saw me, dapping me up one by one.
“Yo, boss,” Antoine said, grinning. He was a stocky nigga with a bald head and a gold grill. “We was wondering when you was gon’ show up.”
“Traffic,” I said, even though that was a lie.
Kenzo gave me a look like he knew I was bullshitting, but he didn’t say nothing.
I sat down on the couch and immediately two strippers came over. One was light-skinned with long weave and a fat ass. The other was brown-skinned, slim thick, with a pretty face.
“You want a drink, daddy?” the light-skinned one asked, leaning over so her titties were damn near in my face.
“Pour me some 1942,” I said.
She smiled and grabbed the bottle, pouring me a glass while the other one started dancing in front of me, making her ass clap to the beat. I watched her, sipping my drink. She was fine, no question, but I felt nothing. No stirring in my dick, no interest, no desire.
All I could think about was Indie.
The way her ass looked when I had her bent over. The way her pussy gripped my dick. The way she moaned my name when I made her come.
Fuck.
I downed the rest of my drink and set the glass down on the table harder than I meant to. Kenzo glanced at me but didn’t say shit.
The stripper in front of me kept dancing, bending over and touching her toes, looking back at me with a seductive smile.
“You like what you see?” she asked.
I stared at her, my face blank.
“Yeah,” I lied.
She smiled wider and moved closer, straddling my lap and grinding on me. I should’ve been hard by now. Should’ve been ready to take her ass to a private room and fuck the shit out of her. But I wasn’t, because she wasn’t Indie, and that shit was pissing me off.
After about thirty minutes of sitting there, drinking and half-watching the strippers, the one who’d been dancing for me leaned in close.
“You wanna go somewhere more private?” she whispered in my ear.
I hesitated.
Maybe this was what I needed. Maybe if I fucked her, I’d realize Indie’s pussy wasn’t even all that. That I’d been building it up in my head.
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go.”
She smiled and stood, taking my hand and leading me through the club toward the private rooms in the back.
The private rooms at Chrome were clean and luxury as fuck. There was nothing dingy or cheap about them. Leather couches, dim lighting, mirrors on the walls. The kind of spot where you could get comfortable.
She closed the door behind us and locked it, then turned to me with a sultry smile.
“Sit down, daddy,” she said, nodding toward the couch.
I sat, spreading my legs and leaning back.
She walked over slowly, swaying her hips, then dropped to her knees in front of me. She unbuckled my belt and unzipped my jeans, pulling my dick out. It was semi-hard, but not fully. She wrapped her lips around it and started sucking, her head bobbing up and down.
I stared at the ceiling, trying to focus. Trying to get into it. But all I could think about was Indie.
The way she looked at me when I was inside her. The way she bit her lip when she was about to come. The way she cussed me out and then kissed me like she couldn’t get enough.
The stripper was doing her thing, going dumb on my dick, but it wasn’t doing shit for me.
After a few minutes, I was hard enough to fuck, so I reached into my pocket and pulled out a condom, rolling it on.
“Get on top,” I said.
She stood and stripped off her G-string, then climbed onto my lap, positioning herself over my dick. She sank down slowly, moaning as she took me in. I gripped her hips and let her ride, watching her titties bounce as she moved. But I just wasn’t feeling it. My mind was somewhere else.
On Indie.
On the way she felt. The way she tasted. The way she looked at me like I was the only nigga in the world who could make her feel that way.
The stripper was riding me faster now, moaning louder, putting on a show. But I couldn’t come. Couldn’t even get close. Because she wasn’t Indie.
That realization hit me like a punch to the gut.
Indie had ruined me. Ruined me for other women. And I didn’t know what the fuck to do about it.
“Get off,” I said, my voice flat.
The stripper stopped and looked at me, confused.
“What?”
“Get off me,” I repeated.
She climbed off, looking hurt and confused, and I stood, pulling the condom off and tossing it in the trash.
“Did I do something wrong?” she asked.
I didn’t answer. Just fixed my pants and walked toward the door.
“Wait—”
I walked out, ignoring her calling after me.
When I got back to the VIP section, Kenzo was looking at me with a knowing smirk on his face. I glared at him. He raised his hands innocently, chuckling.
“I ain’t say shit,” he said.
But the message was clear.
He knew. He knew I couldn’t perform. Knew I was caught up over Indie. And he thought that shit was funny.
I sat back down and poured myself another drink, downing it in one gulp.
Antoine and Deacon were too busy with their own strippers to notice, but Wes was watching me with a curious expression. I ignored him.
My burner buzzed in my pocket and I pulled it out. It was one of my lieutenants calling. I answered and he told me that the stash house on Crenshaw just got hit, and them niggas took everything.
My jaw tightened. “Yo,” I said, standing abruptly.
Everyone looked at me.
“We gotta go,” I said. “Stash house just got robbed.”
Kenzo’s expression went serious immediately. Antoine and Deacon stood, pushing the strippers off them.
“Let’s move,” I said.
We all headed out, leaving the bottles and the strippers behind.
Kenzo, Antoine, Deacon, and Wes got into their own whips while I climbed into my Bentley.