Chapter 25
The phone felt like a hot stone in Juelz’s hand.
He stared at the blank screen, the sound of Tasha's rejection, a burning echo in his ears.
He was so pissed off that he threw his cell phone into the dashboard.
The impact was so hard that the glove box popped open, the latch clicking as it gave way.
A small, clear ziplock baggie tumbled out and landed on the floor.
He snatched the baggie up, his fingers fumbling with the seal.
He hated what he was doing to himself. But more than anything, he just wanted to numb the pain of not having his girl beside him. The love of his life. He was losing himself. Fast.
He dug his pinky finger into the baggie and took a sharp, desperate inhale.
The burn ripped through his sinuses instantly, making his eyes snap shut.
He gasped, leaning his head back against the leather headrest while grabbing his manhood, his jaw clenching so tight it ached.
His heartbeat kicked up, mind buzzing, body humming from the rush.
The guilt didn’t go away; it just got quieter. Duller.
He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, pulling the sun visor down to check for leftover residue on his nose. He needed out. Out of his head. Out of his feelings.
He didn’t want to go back to the penthouse.
It was too much like a monument to his failures.
Couldn’t hit the trap either, niggas would read his face and start asking too many damn questions.
He needed a distraction. Some noise, mixed with a little chaos.
Somewhere he could lose himself in smoke and skin.
He grabbed the Henny bottle he had tucked under the seat and took a raw, scorching pull, then hit Mar’s line.
“Aye, Mar, nigga. Get Kane and Sintonio. Meet me at The Royal in thirty. I need my niggas.”
Thirty minutes later, The Royal was already a haze of red lights, bodies moving like smoke, ass and titties bouncing on every stage. The smell of cheap perfume and hookahs kissed every wall.
Juelz and the crew commandeered a VIP section in the back, hidden behind a velvet rope and in the shadows. Different kinds of liquors and expensive champagne were crowding the table before Juelz even sat down.
“Damn, Jue, what we celebrating, nigga?” Kane asked, lifting a blunt from behind his ear.
“Nothing,” Juelz slurred, already feeling tipsy. “We mournin’.”
“Mournin’ what, your damn sobriety?” Mar laughed, trying to keep the mood light, but his eyes were on Juelz, heavy, sensing that something was off with him the moment they stepped through the door.
Juelz was on his second cup of straight liquor and eyes locked on the dancer in front of their section.
Cali’ Rack. They didn’t give her that name for nothing.
She was thick in all the right places, with braids down to her ass, a waist that was almost nonexistent, and a chest so heavy it looked as if gravity gave up trying.
Her titties were sitting high like they were being served on a platter.
Niggas didn’t come to The Royal for the vibes; they came to see her.
She clocked Juelz eyeing her and slid into their section along with two other girls, Caramel Drizzle and Shugaa Cane. All three of them started dancing, slow and seductive, like they could feel the pain in Juelz’s spirit and were trying to dance it out of him.
Cali climbed on him smoothly, straddling his lap, ass rolling with expert rhythm. She planted her hands on his chest, her body moving like water as the DJ blasted “Pop Dat Thang” by DaBaby.
“Pop that thing, let it clap, let it clap
Ride this D while you sit on my lap
Spread them cheeks, let me see that hole
Shake that ass like you out of control
Suck that thing ‘til your throat get sore.”
Juelz leaned back, eyes low, letting the bass swallow him whole as the dancers bounced and clapped ass all over him.
Mar was leaning on the railing in front of him, cheering him on, as he threw singles at the ladies.
“Get that shit, Jue! Slap that phat ass, nigga.” Mar was like a kid in a candy store.
He knew Meeka didn’t want him in the strip club, so he was enjoying the moment.
Juelz started throwing money, slow at first, letting it rain all over the dancers' asses. But then something switched. He felt that hurt. That anger. An ache that liquor and powder couldn’t fix.
He thought about how long he had been separated from Tasha, and he snapped.
He started thumbing through the stacks of cash in his pockets, separating the bands.
He was separating the one-dollar bills from the larger bills.
He leaned forward, eyeing Cali’ Rack as Kane and Mar tossed money at her as she stood clapping her cheeks to the music, while cupping her breasts.
“Bend it on down, put your face on the floor
Fuck that shit ‘til your legs can’t stand
Hot freak bitch with the world in her hand.”
But Juelz? He didn’t toss his money. Nah!
This crazy ass nigga didn’t make it rain the regular way like normal people.
He balled up a thick wad of singles, a crumpled, hard fist of paper, and with the wild, unfocused energy of his rage, he threw it as if he were a pitcher throwing the first pitch of the game.
Not a gentle throw either, but a sharp ass, humiliating strike.
The wad of cash hit Cali’ Rack right in the center of her forehead as she turned around.
“Nigga, are you outta yo muthafuckin’ mind? The fuck wrong witchu,” she shouted with rage.
Caramel Drizzle popped her gum, then side-eyed Juelz. “Uhn-uh. Don’t get snatched up outta this bitch actin’ stupid. You know you can’t throw that shit like that.”
Juelz shot her a look, unfazed. “You shut the fuck up, Starbucks. With that fake-ass made from Fix-A-Flat.” He dug in his pocket for more cash, balling it up, throwing it her way. “Here! Go fix those big ass bullet holes in ya ass.”
He tried to throw another wad of ones toward her, but this time Sintonio blocked it.
“Nigga. C’mon, let’s go outside. You need some air.”
Cali was still in shock, rubbing her temple, her smile completely gone. The beat cut out slightly, and a few onlookers turned to see what all the commotion was about.
“Pick up the money, bitch,” Juelz shouted, his voice hoarse but audible even with the loud music playing.
Kane and Sintonio were quick to haul him out of the section, but he was still going in on the dancer.
“You earned it.” He started singing, as they pulled him roughly, “Shake that ass. Bitch, and lemme see what you got! Shake… shake that ass—”
Cali froze for a second, lips tight, but then she bent down and started scooping the bills. She’d been in the game too long to let one drunk idiot ruin her night.
Kane apologized to Cali’ Rack and gave her a stack of cash, and one to the other two ladies as he passed by. He couldn’t believe Juelz showed his ass like that. “My bad, ladies. We got him. He just needs some air.”
That was a lie. Juelz was still thrashing, veins popping in his neck as Sintonio kept an arm locked across his chest, dragging him like dead weight. “Nigga! Calm down—”
“She ain’t speshul,” Juelz slurred, trying to break loose. “All this ass in here and she think I can’t replace one bitch—”
“Aye! AYE!” Mar snapped, getting in his face. “Chill out, nigga. What the fuck wrong witchu?”
Juelz laughed, loud and hollow. “Fuck you mean? I’m good.”
Shugaa Cane leaned toward Cali, whispering, “Girl, it’s always the broke ones.”
Juelz heard her. “The fuck you say?” He began trying to charge at her. “You better watch that shit.”
Cali didn’t respond. She just climbed back on stage, hips moving again, but her eyes stayed cold. Checked out. She was ready to throw the towel in and say fuck being a stripper.
Security finally stepped in, two big niggas in black tees, arms crossed, faces wearing a scowl that said they were over Juelz's shit.
“Time to go, boss,” one of them said, firm but respectful.
Juelz tried to pull away again. “Whoa… whoa… whoa! Look at these big black jellybean ass niggahs. Y’all touch me, and I’ll own this whole fuckin’ club.”
Security didn’t blink.
“Let’s go.”
They guided him out the side door. The cold night air slapped Juelz in the face as soon as they stepped outside. The bass thudded faint behind the walls now, muted like it didn’t belong to him anymore.
Juelz bent over, hands on his knees, gagging but not throwing up. Just breathing hard. Sweat was soaking the collar of his shirt.
Mar stood a few feet away, arms folded. Kane leaned against the wall, shaking his head.
“Bruh,” Kane said finally. “You wilding. Straight up.”
Juelz wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and laughed again. A broken sound. “Man, fuck this shit.”
Sintonio looked at him, expression unreadable. “Nah. Fuck whatever that got you actin’ like this. You been spazzing out lately, Jue. Whaddup?”
That hit harder than any slap.
Juelz straightened up slowly, eyes glassy. “Y’all done?”
Nobody said a word.
The silence answered for them.
Juelz shoved past, digging in his pocket for his keys.
“Nah, gimme them,” Mar said, snatching them away from him. “You not drivin’ like this, nigga.”
“I said,” Juelz growled, stumbling forward, “Gimme. My. Muthafuckin’ keys. Bitch tass nigga.”
Kane held his hand out, separating the two. “Nigga! You drunk as hell. You can barely stand. Slurring your words and shit. We’ll take you home. You been off yo shit since Tasha left, nigga. You need to chill. Getcha some new pussy or somethin’.”
“I am chill, muthapuckaaa,” Juelz slurred again, as he stumbled forward. He tried to take a swing at Kane, but the punch didn’t land. He spun himself off balance and hit the pavement hard, groaning, one arm still stretched like he was reaching for pride.
“Dumbass nigga,” Kane uttered, crouching down. “C’mon, man.”
They picked Juelz up off the ground, dragging his heavy, half-conscious body like dead weight.
“Ain’t nobody got time for this shit,” Sintonio said, shaking his head. “I can be at home with my wife and fuckin’ kids, nigga.”
Juelz mumbled something that sounded like pussies and fuck y’all before passing out cold in the backseat of Sintonio’s car.
“Where we taking him?” Sintonio asked before he climbed into the driver's seat.
Mar rubbed his head for a beat. “Home. I’ll follow you in Jue’s car. Guess I’ll have to babysit his drunk ass.”
“Better you than me, nigga,” Kane added. “Cause next time he try to swing on me? His drunk ass gon’ stay laid out on the damn pavement. I started to yolk his li’l ass up, too.”