Hired By My Rich Baby Daddy

1. Ozyris “Ozy Love” Brentley

Twenty-One Months Earlier…

Ozy Love! Ozy Love! Ozy Love!

Twenty thousand people were screaming my name, and I never got tired of that sound. Not once in ten years of doing this shit.

The pyro hit the second I belted that last note. Flames shot up on both sides of the stage while thick smoke rolled over the front row, looking like clouds.

Phones were up everywhere I looked, thousands of screens glowing back at me like stars. Women were straight-up crying, screaming my name at the top of their lungs.

I ate that shit up.

Every last bit of it.

“Atlanta, I love y’all for real,” I said into the mic, my chest still heaving.

The crowd roared back even louder, and I let my head fall back, soaking every bit of that energy in.

Ten years in this industry, and they still screamed for me like it was the first time. Three platinum albums, two Grammys, sold-out arenas on three different continents, and this crowd right here still made me feel like all the bullshit going on in my life meant absolutely nothing.

I walked toward the edge of the stage, reaching down to slap a few hands stretched over the barricade, but it still didn’t feel close enough.

So, I jumped down, knowing damn well I wasn’t as young as I used to be and my doctor would probably cuss my ass out later.

Still, I wanted to make sure my fans, especially the ones who paid all that money for front-row seats, got their money’s worth.

According to all the fucking Ozy Love haters, I was losing my touch. They swore I was the biggest asshole in the industry because of how I carried myself.

Yeah, I had a temper. My mouth could get reckless as a muthafucka too, but that came with being a perfectionist. I liked shit done my way, on my time.

Had I gotten into a few fights? Absolutely.

A few disagreements? Hell yeah. Broken a couple of paparazzi cameras?

Yeah, but the nigga got too close to me, talking shit about me losing my brand deal with one of the biggest headphone companies in the world.

So, fuck him. Yeah, I broke his fucking camera.

But none of that mattered. Not right now.

Right now, people were still screaming my name, and after everything, they still showed up for me.

Security jumped down behind me, but I’d moved just a second too fast for them to catch up.

I grabbed a few shirts, signed a couple of titties, dapped up a few fans, took a few pictures, and then stopped right in front of a woman who looked at me like she was tryna fuck me right here. She licked her lips at me, then held up a sign that read:

I WANNA HAVE OZY LOVE’S BABY.

I ain’t even see him coming since my mind instantly went left. I couldn’t help it. One quick thought about bending her fine ass over the balcony in my penthouse…

Then…

Boom.

Somebody jumped the barricade and hauled off, punching me dead in my shit and causing me to drop the mic.

I spotted my head of security and little brother, Princeton, better known as PB. The look on his face told me he was finna body this nigga right here in front of twenty thousand people.

Pain exploded across my face. I stumbled backward, tasting blood instantly while my ears rang louder than the music.

The crowd’s screaming changed in an instant. Excitement turned into complete chaos.

I swung back without even thinking. Singer or not, I never backed down from another nigga, and I damn sure wasn’t about to start tonight.

“Muthafucka, is you stupid?”

Baow! Baow!

I caught his ass once in the nose and again in the eye before security pulled me away, trying to rush me backstage.

PB tackled ol’ boy like a straight-up linebacker.

The nigga looked like a fucking stick figure compared to my six-foot-four brother, who was built like a damn NFL defensive end. So, I knew that tackle hurt.

“You fucked my wife!” he shouted, crying like a bitch. “I love her, and…and you slept with her!”

I snatched free and walked right back up the stage steps.

Blood ran down my chin and dripped onto my chest as I walked over to the DJ booth and grabbed another microphone.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, looked down at the blood smeared across my knuckles, and laughed.

“Aye,” I said, my voice booming through the arena. “You said I fucked yo’ wife?” I shrugged. “You should’ve been fucking her better, nigga.”

The whole place exploded. People were screaming, laughing, recording…the whole damn arena lost it.

I couldn’t help but grin. Even after all that, wasn’t nobody knocking me off my high horse.

I was a bachelor in my prime. No other R&B nigga was seeing me when it came to vocals or dancing.

I was really him! Brown skin, six foot three, short hair, and light eyes that the ladies loved to stare into while I was deep in their guts, fucking them until they came back-to-back.

I had a beard they loved grabbing, and I worked out a lot, so naturally, I had abs women loved to rub while squatting down, looking up at me, and sucking this dick.

This clean dick, by the way. No bitch could get my shit raw, and that was a fact.

“I thank y’all for coming out and rocking with me tonight! Y’all drive safe, and y’all already know…new music on the way!”

I handed the mic back to DJ Benova and dapped him up.

Benova was the hottest DJ in the game and had been rocking with me for five years. I ain’t trust nobody else to keep the crowd entertained while me and my dancers changed clothes backstage.

“Bruh…you good?” he asked, looking me over.

Benova was about seven years older than me. He’d been in the game long enough to know damn near everything. Anytime I needed advice, he was there.

Hell…even when I didn’t ask for it.

Back before the awards, the sold-out tours, the movies, and all the recognition, he was one of the main ones telling me, “Nah, lil’ bruh. You the chosen one. You up next. Don’t quit.”

I smirked. “I’m peachy, nigga.”

I looked out into the crowd. They’d already dragged ol’ boy out of the arena, and honestly, I didn’t know who the hell his wife was. But nine times outta ten, I fucked his bitch.

“I’m glad this shit over. My back gon’ thank me for all the rest I’m finna get.”

Benova laughed. “You getting kinda old. I wasn’t gone say nothing, but them dance moves got a little shaky toward the end.”

We both busted out laughing.

“Nigga, fuck you.” I pointed at him. “Bet my vocals was on point, though.”

My assistant, Ky, walked over wearing a solemn expression.

“Mr. Love, management would like to see you backstage.”

I sighed.

“Course they do.”

I headed toward the back, this time with security following me like white on fucking rice.

By the time I made it backstage, my phone was already blowing up.

I hadn’t even sat down good before my manager, Derez, came storming through the door, looking like the damn Pillsbury Doughboy with his cheeks puffed full of air.

“Are you out your fucking mind?” he yelled before the door even shut behind him.

“Do you understand what just happened out there? You basically confirmed, on camera, in front of twenty thousand people—and God knows how many millions watching online—that you slept with a married woman.”

I chuckled as a woman with a fat ass and a miniskirt that might as well have been a pair of damn panties walked over and handed me a towel. I licked my lips at her, and she blushed.

“Thank you, baby,” I said, wiping the sweat from my face and neck.

She handed me an ice pack before walking off just as quickly as she’d come.

“Damn,” I muttered under my breath as Derez continued going off.

“Hello! Am I talking to myself, Ozy?”

I sighed, leaned back in my chair, got comfortable, and finally looked over at him.

“Chill the fuck out, bruh. I ain’t confirm shit. I made a joke.”

“That isn’t how the internet is going to see it, and you know that,” he snapped, dragging a hand down his face. “This is exactly the kind of shit the label’s been trying to steer clear of. You’ll be a damn trending topic by the time tonight’s over. This is exactly what we’ve been trying to fix.”

The door opened, and Ginger Marée walked in.

She was the woman the label paired me with to help get her name out there while cleaning up my image on some one-band, one-sound type bullshit.

She was a talented pop singer on the rise.

Young, fine as hell, pretty teeth that I was a sucka for, an ass fat enough to grab, light skin, and a mole over her lip.

She barely ever wore makeup, and honestly, that no-makeup look was a turn-on.

Then, she could dance her ass off. Hell, she’d put Ciara to shame.

But I wasn’t a one-woman man, and I damn sure didn’t enjoy pretending to be one. That shit was corny as fuck. Especially since I didn’t have any kids. I really just wanted to do me, but my reputation wasn’t exactly squeaky-clean right now, so I played my part…on my own fucking terms.

Ginger stood in the doorway for a second with her arms crossed, looking at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. She had on a designer fit from head to toe, her signature ginger hair pressed bone-straight, red lips, and a designer bag hanging from her shoulder.

She looked annoyed, and I couldn’t have cared less.

I ain’t wanna be around her stuck-up ass either. The only perk to this little arrangement was that she’d let me hit whenever, but romantically?

We ain’t have shit in common.

“Can we get this over with?” she asked.

Derez looked over at her, then back at me.

“Y’all need to go live in thirty minutes, and that’s not up for debate.

I need the two of you smiling and laughing.

Show the world this is a nonissue, that you’re fine, and that you two are solid.

I don’t care what just happened out there.

Right now, damage control is priority number one.

I mean it, Ozy. Tomorrow, we announce the winners of the Weekend with Ozy contest. I need that rollout to be flawless, so—”

I threw my hands up in mock surrender and laughed.

“I’m chillin’ bruh, for real. Why you always acting so fucking uptight and shit?”

I snapped my fingers at the girl who’d brought me the towel and ice pack.

“Aye. Show Derez a good time. Make that nigga mellow the fuck out.”

She smiled wide.

“Of course.”

Derez shot me a look as she grabbed his hand and led him toward one of the rooms in the back.

I looked away and over at Ginger, who’d made herself comfortable on the couch and was busy pecking away at her phone.

“Damn. You could’ve at least spoken with yo’ rude ass.”

She kissed her teeth before finally looking up at me.

“Hi, Ozyris…” She paused. “Happy now?”

I set the ice pack on the table in front of me, confused by her attitude.

We weren’t the best of friends, but she was acting like I’d fucked her best friend.

“Man, Gin…the fuck wrong with you? I just finished a bomb-ass tour. Thirty states. Packed-out arenas every night. Instead of telling me how much you enjoyed my final show, you on some bullshit?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Enjoyed your show? Why would I? It’s not like you remembered it was my birthday.”

“Aww, shit. Gin, my bad. Cut a nigga some slack. You keep forgetting we ain’t in a real relationship. Why would I remember some shit like that?”

She stood up abruptly.

“Whatever. I’ll be back when you’re ready to go live.”

As she headed for the door, my assistant, Ky, rushed in carrying my business phone. It was strictly for social media, fan pages, my artist account, and anything work-related.

I yelled toward the door, “Happy birthday, Gin Gin!”

Without turning around, she threw her middle finger in the air.

“Fuck you, Ozy.”

Ky set up the tripod, clipped the phone into place, and adjusted the ring light.

I chuckled, leaned my head back, and closed my eyes for a second.

“Okay, Mr. Love, I’ll give you a few moments to gather yourself, but you’re all set up and—”

“Yeah! You’s a jive turkey!” Derez hollered from one of the back rooms.

Ol’ girl must’ve been doing her job right.

I cracked one eye open.

Ky looked absolutely disgusted. “If you need anything else, just call me.”

She hurried out, and I let out another sigh, ready to get this shit over with.