Free Politics. Escorts. Blackmail. by Pynk

to the present. “Yes,” she answered, now having moved from her backyard to the exercise room in her home. She was beginning a three-mile walk on her elliptical machine, a towel around her neck.
    “Hi,” her booker said.
    “What’s up?”
    “You just had a call come in on the booking line. Romeo wants you to call him. He said you changed your number. Said it’s very important.”
    Money slowed her pace. “Are you kidding me?”
    “No.”
    “The nerve.”
    “He said he needs to hear from you today.”
    “What’s the number?”
    “212-555-5212.”
    Money filed it away in her head. “Lord. Thanks. Text me the rundown for today.”
    “I just did.”
    “Oh, okay. Thanks.” Money hung up. “Speaking of the devil.” She gave a deep sigh and kept at her workout, focusing on her phone while she dialed the number, making sure to block her number.
    “Talk to me.” He answered fast, halfway through the first ring, sounding like a DJ.
    “What?”
    “What, what?”
    “This is Money. What do you want?” She wiped her sweaty brow with her towel.
    “Oh. There ya go. Okay. Good, girl.”
    “Romeo. Cut it. This is not good and you know it. Phone calls between us are stupid and very unnecessary. Please don’t call my booker again.”
    He got straight to the point. “What’s it gonna take to get Kemba over here?”
    “Kemba?” She downshifted her pace even more.
    “Yeah. Your boy. Oh, excuse me, Harlem.”
    She gave a sigh and a laugh. “Not up for discussion. Besides, why would he wanna go from me to you, with your ghetto-ass dime-store operation when he can live the Bergdorf Goodman lifestyle? That’s just plain crazy.”
    “Call it what you want. I want you to know we’re getting upscale over here. Riding up on your ass.”
    “Well, at least you know you’re behind me.”
    “Ha. I could ride your ass from the front, too.”
    “I doubt that. The answer is no.”
    “How much? Your twenty thousand back. Or maybe thirty. I know he’s pulling it in, making you a very rich bitch.”
    “I’m not your bitch, nigga. And Kemba is not a damn car. No trading, no discussing value, nothing. None of your damn business.”
    “Okay, but, honestly, I gave you one, now it’s time for you to give me one. Or, I can just take him.”
    “If you believe that, then why in the hell are you calling me?” She sped up her pace again.
    “To let you know I’ve got my eyes on him. And honestly, I really haven’t taken my eyes off your little sister either. But, I would if—”
    “Stop. You’re telling me you’ll give up on Midori if you get Kemba. They are people, dumbass, not trading cards. Neither one is up for any negotiating so just fuck off.”
    “You don’t want me to—” The line disconnected after Money slid her finger over the screen.
    “That is one stupid thug if he thinks he can come in on Lip Service and start stealing away my employees. He cannot play that recruiting game on Kemba like this is the NCAA. Kemba has proven himself,” she said aloud.
    She thought back to when Kemba was involved in an altercation with a love-starved woman whose husband was left impotent due to diabetes. The man had noticed a new pep in his wife’s step and read the messages in her BlackBerry. He found out about a hotel location she had scheduled in her calendar for the following night, so he showed up and waited. When his wife pulled up, he checked into the room next door and listened to his woman get run through. After he couldn’t take it any longer, he banged on the adjoining door, shaking the knob and fighting to unlatch it. “Bitch, get your slutty ass up and open this door, now.”
    He damn near knocked down the wall, stormed from his room to their room door, and banged, cursed, kicked, and screamed. “Open this motherfucking door, now. I will kill you and that fool you’re fuckin’. Open this goddamn door. Now!”
    A hotel guest called the police, but hotel security showed up first. The woman never admitted