Free Coldhearted & Crazy by Michel Moore Page A

minutes. This is the last girl for tonight. So if anyone else shows, tell them to come back next week. Besides, I think we have the winner right here.” Zack winked his eye at the young future contestant.
    â€œI see, I see. Hey, sweetheart, my name is Angela, but everyone around here calls me Old Skool. I’m sort of the house mother I guess.”
    â€œHello, I’m Kenya Roberts, but you can call me . . .” She paused to think all of two seconds before she blurted out the name Tastey, since Ty had said she looked good enough to eat. “Yeah, call me Tastey.”
    â€œOkay, Miss Tastey, follow me.”
    When they reached the dressing room you could automatically tell the veterans from the rookies. While the vets were fixing their hair and stashing their loot, they still found time to mean mug all the fresh-faced, wide-eyed girls who were entering the contest hoping to win the prize money. After all, some of these green hoes had the potential to be their new competition, so there positively was no love lost. Of course, Kenya’s thick model-type ass, when dressed and ready to compete, was getting a gang of major hate from both sides of the fence, new and old. Some of the girls couldn’t even walk in heels let alone dance, while some of them needed to hit the gym at least five days a week. But even the ugliest females made a little bit of lunch money for the week in a dark, dimly lit strip club.
    â€œHey, girl, you ready? You about next.” Old Skool was hyping Kenya up, whispering in her ear. “Girl, you got this shit. The prize money got your name on it. These other females are terrible!”
    â€œPrize money?” Kenya was shocked hearing about that part of the contest for the first time. Ty slick-ass ain’t shit! “How much is first place?”
    â€œTwo hundred bucks!”
    â€œOh yeah, you right, that two hundred dollars is mine. I’m about to wild the fuck out when it’s my time to shine!” Kenya needed that cash like a baby needed his bottle.
    A girl who the DJ said went by the name Raven was just making her way down off the stage. From where Kenya stood, she was her only real competition. The other girls in the contest were throwing shade on her also, so the two of them kinda stuck close by the other in case they might have to scrap. “Girl, them fools out there are on the nut. Watch yourself,” a breathless Raven advised Kenya before she headed up.
    â€œOkay, good lookin’.” Kenya exchanged smiles with her, glancing over her shoulder, heading toward the small set of stairs.
    â€œAll right now, fellas, ballas, and any of y’all wannabe playas! This next girl has enough boom boom on deck to snap them zippers on sight!” The DJ was out his shit in the zone as he did his thang on the mic, making the energy level in the already-hot, humid club rise. “Take your hands out your pants and put them together for the one we affectionately call Tastey! Make her feel at home and make that shit rain Heads Up style!”
    As Kenya entered the stage, you would have thought that she hit the winning homerun in game seven of the World Series. “Damn, girl, shake that shit,” was all she kept hearing from the intoxicated patrons who were throwing currency her way. Kenya only saw dollar signs and didn’t give a fuck what them fools was saying as long as that bread kept raining on the stage. Kenya, off deep into the loud sound of the speakers and the song she’d requested to be played, made eye contact with Ty just in time to see him abruptly rushed out the door by security. Damn, I guess his “wannabe slick”and “work a bitch” knew it was over. She giggled to herself as she moved like a seductive snake across the cash-covered stage.
    The contest was soon over and, without a doubt, Kenya had won first place. With $200 plus another $150 in tips it was the best five minutes of her young life. She now had