“Script Money” The Novel

Chapter Six

Throwing Rosebuds at the Throne’s feet

You never miss what isn't earned or bought off the lot for you. So, when I rolled into my oblong entryway, I knew I was filling the driveway with (my cars). Ms. Money was in for the flush of her life. My family wouldn't believe all this balling was cleared or taxable, but Throned's famous posse realized this was the home of addictive stunting. And still, the grilling was coming. I did shit for them out of love; I just liked the hustle this came with whatever the T.V. viewers tuned in to; they loved looking at like deleted scenes of a twisted joyride. Mainly because "Throned" was successful and uncouth, like diving into the fabulous life of a black Duke of Ellington.

The Cashmere's were royalty.

I punched the steering wheel like C.P.R. Honking, over and over, until my front door illuminated and eventually opened; my housekeeper, Fonda, poured out into the foyer, then Imani, Parker Jay, and Tiny, my lovely old girl, egressed onto the steps in awe as I pulled in my loop counterclockwise and parked.

Kareem's home.

I slipped out of a midnight sapphire Bentley Mulsanne which I'd bought to feel unreachable for a change. At this level, arrogance wanted you chauffeured on time. But I had chauffeurs in all five cars behind me, so I had to drive one myself. I strolled toward the house, away from a fleet filled with matching Lamborghini Huracans with reflective color patterns and a tandem of Cadillac Escalades that ensured the family never missed a ride. "Babe, who the hell have you invited over here out of nowhere?" Imani grips me as I draw near and kiss her.

"Nobody. They're ours." I avoided her awry look, moving into the house and plucking Parker Jay from the floor. "Hey, minion! Oh, you look so beautiful; ready to go out tonight?"

"Yeah--" she giggles. "but who buys six cars?"

"I guess me. The cars were BOGO, so I was like, wah."

Her grin broadens. "Six?"

I peck Parker Jay again, then set her down to scurry outside. "Hey, we're supposed to have reservations at La Cent. Let me get fresh, and we'll leave." I said to Tiny when I saw my mother. She bred me to carry the spine of a family; I often blamed her for reporting to Cardona (which I guess extended itself into a good blurb). Still, Tiny had raised every T.V. favorite in this house; she accented my rebirth like an alcoholic driven to be a pop star again by his therapist. She was everyone's caretaker.

"Okay, sweetie. After you wash up, I hope you can convince that woman your dealer was some giddy showroom girl." She whispers, then squeezes me.

Samirah.

Spooked, I pad down a corridor leading upstairs to the master wing of my mansion, taking off my top and sniffing the fabric. Samirah's scent was filmy, like smoking a cigar inside a car. When you got out, it came with. "Kareem, what's up, man? We need to talk for real." The girls had questions---but my brother Lotto wanted in on the business whenever I was home; he needed to say, "he'd gotten his M's under my brand too."---He was a schemer, but in this case, he needed to prove he lived above bottle service, a weed budget, and hosting parties filled with champagne sparklers, strippers, and some wildly fucked up nights showing up on "Throned" wasted. He needed to be on the go toward some goal for me. He flanked me as I walked down the hallway where Money and I slept.

"C'mon."

"I want a piece of the action, man. You got baby Parker flexing on me like I'm a broke ass nigga and shit."

"It's easy for kids to get in the game, their goofy and adorable right now; your only market is doing fades backstage."

"Let me come on, Sak Life, and be like some bachelor or something y'all can make up a fly title for me like 'Brazilian bush trimmer' or a 'cougar slasher.'" Lotto boasts his monikers.

"Alright, but first, I need you to get rid of these clothes."

I threw him a Moschino top. "What?"

"Throw 'em away before Money sees them; hurry up."

"Ohh, You've been pushing that little pee of yours," He snorts the shirt." Damn, she smells good."

"Yeah, but later for all that shit. I'm cleaning up for good. From now on, I'm on a hundred 'til she invites Chanel Iman over for dinner. Look at this," I ferret the box from my pocket and alley-hoop it to him. Lotto juggled it like a grenade as I strode to my room. I give him the rest of my clothes as if I'd whacked a guy in them. "How many homies from the Northside can say their ride or die rocks their birthstone?"

"Oh, That's deep."

"Mine's down there, and that's four carats of the finest ruby on this side of the Atlantic," I say.

"Whoa! Bro, are you fucking for real right now?" Palming his trimmed forehead, he tucks his armpits with garb to view the cliff I was jumping from. "Ah shit, you are real...damn," Lotto goes "uh-uh" to the ring twinkling at him.

"You know what this tells me? You are still a ratcheted motherfucker, just like me. You ain't ready for this."

"How?"

"You need to have a title on your damn show; how about 'fuckable executive,'" He marquees in bold letters. "Kareem, you just got done smashing some freak before coming here. Now you think you're about to mortgage the same dick to Money for umpteen years. Two in showbiz years!" Lotto was riling in awe, his voice paranoid.

"Shut the hell up! I'm trying to surprise her, not let everybody downstairs hear you. Yeah, I fucked off. I fuck off a lot, okay. But I'm done, for real."

"Samirah be throwing it back?" says Lotto with a meek look.

I froze. "How'd you know I smashed Sam."

"Cause you smell like 'summer rhapsody' and fucking comic books, dumbass. Who else would you be cutting with besides a damn Supergirl fanatic?"

Her storyboards and body spray.

I pore over the engagement ring cause Lotto has me ripped.

"Uh-uh, you know what they say (every married mogul has a Becky)," He returns the box and grips me oddly. "All bullshit aside, I'm happy for you, man. Straight up. Maybe that'll make you consider giving me a senior vice president position at Sak Life, just in case you know." He nods, encouraging some persuasion with his brow.

"Just in case what? What the fuck are you saying, Lotto?" I frown as he hugs me. He realizes we're gushing too much together, and let's go. I set the tiny box on my counter so that I could jump in my walk-in shower. I am drowning Samirah's scent in body wash and scrubbing up as I listen to Lotto.

"You know, what if Money finds out where your freaky indie shoot is and pulls up at that bitch? "My brother perches against the glass door, rambling on, as he takes out a blunt. "I'm serious, Kareem, you gotta put some respect on her name. Money ain't no little bitch, listen to me, if she ever pops up and you fucking off again, it'll be like Cheaters hitting your ass with all the cameras 'round this bitch we'd have to choke her out on T.V. or something."

"Think that's worse than dropping an album on me?" I had my doubts.

We both agree with, "Hmm...yeah."

I smell the weed as he lights up. "I can't let America see her fuck up the only rich sibling who buys me everything in Atlantic Station. That's real shit."

I look at the box

I reach out of the shower, grabbing the blunt. "I told you, I'm ready," I inhale a deep gag. "Look, I know my baby trill, but Money's attitude keeps me focused on the real shit, like being Hollywood's next family empire. We keep each other in the game like Chrissy and John."

"Y'all do be looking dope on T.V. It's like watching my big brother do pregame at Philips Arena."

"Damn right! So what? Samirah and I made the recipe for Script Money. I smashed, fine, where was Script Money when Ms. Money took me to some bullshit fast food interview or put start-up into this company?"

"I get it, dude; c'mon, pass my shit back."

I puff as if I'd miss this strand for eternity. Then go on. "Now, every person with bootleg streaming knows I got the sexiest woman on T.V., so why not lock in you feel me? I got to."

Lotto hits the blunt and shakes his head up and down. "I care about her too, but since I know Money manages our whole family business, ain't no Hollywood split up going on we not busting down no estates and running back to America after this." I spot my brother glaring at me; he reminds me of marriages ending in smoke without code. He stubs the blunt out and sets the small nub on the counter. Crumpling clothes as he exits the bathroom. I glared at the nub smoking like a twig.

The ring propped on the tiny velvet box.

* * * * *

Eight months ago.

Imani drifted off to the night she began her managerial career when Kareem Cashmere became her first client. She walked right into Cromartie Studios by his side, landing her man a five-million-dollar deal, accomplishing a dream for Kareem, and securing a fixed relationship with Samirah and her risqué team of super producers.

Eight months ago, Samirah wasn't the mistress in question.

Samirah was Kareem's plug. He became a power player in two hours, extended his success to her, and asked that she quit her job; he had a propulsive air that grew with money, power, and the prowess to run a company with her. So Imani took his hand, not for money or power, but for Kareem being so believable.

This night, Samirah had yet to pore over Kareem's ratcheted lust.

The manager remembers the first affair happening with, Breezy. Stemming from Kareem's insatiable post-institutional libido and loose ends with a "fleeting girlfriend," she was introduced to Breezy's lust for what notorious story they'd left unturned. Of which Imani never expected she could fly from Seattle to fuck him. Her pride walked away from Kareem the night it came out, fleeing home to her apartment, curling up on her small sofa, and crying over Minka's voice, "Why'd I think he'd be ready for this?" She resented her emotions. For thinking the bad boy wasn't a bastard. He'd fucked her, sold Imani his story, and kept her fucked up until there was yet some other beauty in town.

Her first client was Cataclysmic.

During a terms meeting, Kareem came to his manager and admitted he was a selfish fuck. But she had him slain. He told her about the cheating; what scared her was he never flinched when he told her the truth. "I don't need to lie to get around you." He'd said.

Nonetheless, Kareem adored Imani and wanted to spend his freedom nurturing a label. With her, like two lovers and their first pet. So, Imani chose to live with her; with rampant jealousy and aggressive clinging, she knew Kareem's freedom had to outgrow casual sex like a hipster who hung up pieces of denim. Imani chose the life that came with her lover's throne.

Samirah's scent weltered Imani from her reverie. She couldn't avoid scolding the convoy her man came home with, taking in the same body spray she smelled during a meeting at the studio. Two weeks ago. Smugly she folded her arms, stalking around one of the two Lamborghinis, which was dark indigo with white hide upholstery inside like a lawn mower parked in a Home Depot aisle. "How the hell you sell one car and get six more." The door glowed with her fingerprint as Imani skidded her hands along the vertical door handle, gazing down the driveway at the other rides. Then she turns and dashes inside the mansion.

Kareem was courting a secret.

"Hey, Kareem asked you to do something for him, didn't he?"

Lotto replies, strolling by. "Hell no, but I am about to drive one of these Lamborghinis."

Liar.

"Tiny, can you get everyone in the car, please." Imani padded around the live-in entourage, sashaying upstairs in her Emilio Pucci sandals, a nude belted dress, and some thick gold accessories looking for Kareem as she got to their corridor. "I know that ain't what I think it is." sniffed Imani as she strode into their massive bedroom. Snuffing out the smell of weed with a spray can, Imani realized he was evading her. Quickly, Imani began snooping like a burglar prowling around her bedroom. She opened one of four bureaus, checking their picturesque walk-in closet, looking for a specific outfit. "I don't play sniff out the lies, Kareem." She knew this was wrong; to feel like an investigator needed to scale her man's stuff. But Imani felt something outré about tonight.

Then she spotted something near a jewelry cabinet.

A passport.

"We ain't gone need that tonight." Imani cuts her eyes as she halts Kareem's voice tickling like a dragonfly whisping by her nape. Turning to see him behind her in tall mundane jeans, a black suede fleece, unzipped and revealing his tight chest covered in icy strands of bling. "I still ain't figured out where I'd run off to." He said, drawing closer.

"How unusual of someone like you to have a passport," Imani demands, clamping it between two of her fingers holding her stance. "You a felon remember?"

"You mean that nympho detective I got for a P.O. I spent three days recording that woman orgy hopping just to get that thing."

"I'm supposed to thank Ms. Fines for this."

"In three days, Ms. Fines raised our distribution twelve percent, making our company the highest-grossing entertainment company under Cromartie." Kareem boasts, caressing her bodice with his thumb. "So, you can be mad at whoever you want, babe; just tell me on the way out. Come on."

"Mmhmm," Imani flicks the passport elsewhere, moving by him. "Might be a fake like this stupid ass game you are playing. I smelled a violation the minute you walked in here." She sashays out of the bedroom in front of him.

"Might be the weed I smoked a minute ago, so I'm tripping and shit," He squeezes her booty, groaning. "Babe, I gotta tell you, you look thicker than the second girl from the left in Fifth Harmony."

"Ain't nothing thicker on the other side either."

"I love yours; where it's at?"

He slips his arm across her shoulders; he clings to her as they follow the "Throned" family outside to their rides. Tiny rode with her youngest son, Lotto, and her sister Rainey in one of the black S.U.V.s. Of the three Escalades, Parker Jay, Byrd, and Lucky were tucked in a separate one; the tinted trucks idled as their red taillights blinked. Below a dark sky of furrows like a seal's tough skin, their convoy seemed like a luminous parade headed through a nation's capital.

A tall, clean-cut man nods to Imani, opening the rear door to the Bentley as Kareem guides her inside. "Oh, we got our own drivers now."

He told her their names were Rome, Ronnie, and simply "driver" for everyone else down the chain of his security. When they got in, Imani felt her chest burrowing as her skin grazed the supple interior, hugging her. Kareem tells the driver where to go before she says, "Okay, what are you doing, Kareem? All I see is some huge cover-up."

"If you call nine percent of a shoot starring Jade Sugiyami huge, then hell yeah, you see a wave coming." He steals a glance, grinning.

"How'd you get them to be so flexible!" She slaps him.

"I told them a story that needed a few countries to breathe."

Imani scoots in his lap. "Oh, baby, I'm so proud of you. Oh, my god," hugging him as she grasps his chin and kisses him. "Which one...did they underwrite?"

"ADVANCE. Nick's really into that rogue operative shit."

"I like that one. I told you critics don't know anything about your projects' quality." She dips her mouth into his lips again.

"Damn right, babe, can't nobody stiff me anymore. Your man's one of the biggest producers in the game."

"I know," Imani wages his stoic look. "Kareem?"

"What up?"

"Were you with Samirah when you traded your car for this Bentley?"

He stiffens up. "That car went to Melissa. As a bonus for the passports. Samirah's contacts didn't send their discounts when I bought these."

Imani shakes her head. "So, just passports? I hear a pornstar can make any man's loyalty down there a fleeting one."

"C'mon, Money," She spots how quickly Kareem takes out his iPhone. He finds a website and shows her. "Look, I'd like you to meet Officer Cardona."

The volume on the video makes her wet her legs, sheering the gap between her thighs as she pores over Kareem's probation officer. "Ohh, I have to be for real; this is turning me on knowing you produced these...wow, okay, "Imani giggles, furrowing her nose. "Did she back door all of that? Ugh."

He puts the phone away. "See, I took care of everything, and I like hearing we can travel worldwide now. You and me, let's challenge the flights and forget about sitting in Atlanta."

"Well, with this new project, ain't you gone be busy."

"We run a business, and I'm always busy even if I have to work on a tarmac in fucking Germany or fly you out to L.A. after Script Money goes global; I can't think of any other woman I need popping up on my set but you. I wanna be with your ass 'til they throw roses in the street for my vigil in the city." He said.

Imani chuckles because maybe Kareem was high just catching feelings while they cuddled in a new car. "Uh-uh, you know what they say, 'We should cherish the people we love while they're here.'" Her mouth begins parting around his lower lip.

All at once, Kareem halts when his phone beep.

"Randy says we need to check out the Insider page." He says as he scans his text message. Imani hears the buzzing going off inside her Chanel purse. Instead, she snatches his phone, scolding as she streams the headliner out loud of shots capturing Kareem Cashmere peeking out the passenger door of Samirah Cromartie's Rolls Royce. In a vacant boutique plaza.

Only hours ago.

"Was Samirah's fiancé dethroned for some showmance script written by Kareem Cashmere? We've got snaps and details on who really got sacked." They listened to the news feed anchored by the reporter. Rigidly, Imani glared meekly at her boyfriend's expression as if it were a theatrical gag reel of what he could've been before the fame when rumors weren't what summed him up.

* * * * *

As a power couple, when paparazzi see you two segregated during an evening walk thru, they either think the man's trifling ass is getting dropped next week, or maybe your girlfriend was low-key threatened to stay against her will. They always catch some dumb shot of your mug, as if she smacked you behind the tints a minute ago. Then, of her, getting out of your hostile $300,000 Mulsanne and slaying the entrance. If a rumor was floating, your girlfriend did so furiously.

Instead, we were both toxic idiots at drawing up Hollywood cover-ups. Imani was hiding in the backseat while I stood outside the car like a butler trying to teach the Highness how to walk. We were parked right on the street in front of La Cent's before a mob of people draining their batteries for a snap of our dysfunctional date night; this was a situation like no other. "Money, what's up with you? Get out!"

"No!" Her arms froze around her body.

Every camera outside the restaurant flashed near us. Elsewhere the curb rang out. "How's Samirah doing? Were you two making out in that car?" someone yelled in the distance, along with a dozen more shots that came. Moments like this, I could've said, "No, we were fucking up her seats" Instead, I looked over and told them. "Back the fuck up. Nothing happened, alright," I peered into the car again. "Imani, get out of the car, please."

"Screw you! You are not about to embarrass me in front of every gotdamn person on Peachtree."

"This is embarrassing, Money! You really gone do this, right here, right now in the middle of the streets."

"That's where you like your fun at. I didn't choose to go out with you to look like a damn fool Kareem."

"Babe, I promise you it wasn't what you thought it was...Sam and I were working on something big, baby. Stop tripping; that could've been a damn retail shopper who took that to start some media drama." We argued while America stood curbside, thanks to every social media tag getting this: of me being the asshole.

"I don't wanna be here." She looks ahead. "Hey, take me home!"

"Home! You ain't going home! Hey, you pull this car off; I'm a drop your ass!" I point to our new driver. Imani had my curbside enthusiasm, emotional as shit, and downright fucked up tonight. "Why would you get so fine for me tonight to do all of this?"

"Imani, come inside, okay, don't be messy so all these people can see y'all go to war out here, honey," Tiny says, standing by with the family.

"Ain't gone be no war, mama," I sigh and suddenly kneel to one knee in this battle with Imani feeling no way about rumors as I took out the box in the doorway. Imani's body sags over the console as she gasps in the distance; the crowd binged in awe. Here I go. "They gone talk about how we run our shit daily, maybe even for the rest of our lives. But they'll never know what's up with us for real or how I feel about you, baby."

"Kareem, oh my god!" Seeing me go down, Imani shutters as she spins her legs out the doorframe, nervously easing closer to me.

Eager, I get a hold of her manicured fingers. "Money, Hollywood ain't gone get another you and me, and a woman who ride or die for our family and the game, I ain't gone find again either. Someone who holds me together with her sexy attitude, a woman I need to hear before I go up there and write a story, all the focus I've needed before all of this. You're my day one baby," I open the box and pour into Imani's gaze, much like I did when I longed for praise after she read my scripts. "I don't care about nobody's rumors Imani; I want you to marry me."

Imani has me on ten with her frantic nods. "Oh baby, this is yours." Teary-eyed and gleaming at the fulgent crimson stone, she cups her mouth and stares at the 18-karat white gold ring slipping onto her soft skin. The sidewalk claps now, eventually taking more first glances at a much bigger headline.

Then a bigger one. After Imani slaps me.

"Don't keep me feeling like I'm crazy again, Kareem." She warns icily as she scowls.

"Crazy is why I fell in love with you, baby." Then I finally get to stand and wrap my hands around my fiancé's thick hips, kissing her in front of sparkling camera flashes in the distance and covering any loose ends to my affairs with Samirah or any other woman.

Imani had the rosebud a queen deserved.

* * * * *

Minutes later, our dinner was an engagement party filled with a reserved section at a posh white table; in a dimly lit nook where Aunt Lucky felt sure reporters didn't capture Parker Jay, two of my drivers were flanking our restricted area with their hampered shoulders. We even had Cohen Minyard, the owner, bless our table with a bottle of red and assured us of complete privacy. "Hey Cohen, is this a 'no phones allowed' spot?" I press.

"No sir, guests are permitted to bring their devices inside."

"Well, you can't bring me a bottle of wine and promise me we can chill in peace." I pick up my phone and then add. "Ain't nothing privy if we all got iPhones."

"I-I understand, sir; my guests expect the same privacy as you do."

"You do. Tonight's a big night in my life right now, that's my beautiful fiancé right there, and we're straight on the paparazzi for the night, you feel me?" He shakes his head as I go on. "Matter fact, tell your waiters I want a bottle of Ace of Spades for telling me that shit...mama y'all good? Y'all want a bottle?"

"Get whatever, baby; I want to enjoy my daughter-in-law, okay."

"Make that two bottles of Ace and keep bringing one more every time I see one of your guests take pictures of us, alright." We're alone at our V.I.P. table filled with flutes and elegant plates as people nearby take in the Cashmere family's cinema variety gathered around the piquant candles. The snaps were impossible to devoid from this family's success, so my paranoia waned with ordering $200 full courses. "I think this was a bigger prank than Money and I getting Mama," said Lotto with a mischievous look at me. I was filling up with champagne while everyone laughed at the idea of spoofing Imani; instead of brooding some scandal next to me, Imani sat here slouched under my armpit, cracking up like we were at a roast party, cinching her fingers into mine. At the same time, she kept glancing at me and gushing.

"Kareem's a lucky man; I'm telling you every thought in mind said come home and kick his ass," she riles cluelessly.

"I like how he did it so everybody could see. Just cause Samirah paying your man, them millions ain't gone buy your way into this Kareem about to make you family girl," exclaims Byrd. "Whoo!" Imani slaps my cousin's hand and billows Byrd was famous on "Throned" for taking up for the family's social media logistics, and Imani's hip stylist who perfected my fiancé's pixies. "Imani's been family since Kareem had her putting payments in the mail for that office she rented for him," Tiny says, raising a glass to toast. "This is to you being the perfect woman my son needed to accomplish all this and to family." We all cheered together. Aunt Rainey smiles and bumps Imani cheerily.

"We love you, baby," says Rainey. "And I hope I'll be delivering a handsome nephew soon." Palming her stomach, which scares me.

Imani gasps. "Oh, don't put 'em on the spot." She tilts her head and adds. "He's getting comfortable working from home, so I'm waiting."

Babies.

"I'm catering the reception; I operate on seven percent of the bride's wedding budget. So, y'all need to let auntie know where y'all jumping the broom at, okay?" laughs Lucky, eager to discuss eating arrangements. And me swiping my credit card south.

Suddenly, some Ace of Spades appears.

More drinking. After downing a flute, I say, "I like the idea of Tiny's little boyfriend having a contracting company in North Africa, Mama, you have been out there; what do you think about having your man build a cathedral for us in Morocco?"

"I'm happy wherever you two get married, but Imani, where'd you like to go?"

"Since Kareem has a shoot in Colombia soon, I'm pretty much cool with whatever place he wants to host this thing." That moment I realized how submissive a woman became when she was confident she could kiss you and then see a rock on the hand she wipes your bottom lip with. I loved this chick.

As we kiss, more Ace of Spades arrive.

"That's right, you about to be my wife," I say, feeling the drink in me. "we got everything, babe. I don't care how inconceivable you wanna make this thing; you can shoot a movie of it, you feel me?---Text me the bill and make sure you have somebody find me some Moroccan coffee beans."

I rip off chicken skin on a crystal plate nearby. "You want a bite."

"Might as well, honey." Greedily, Imani eats the chicken, giggling.

Somehow we had a rich sex moment where Aunt Lucky spots my thumb going down Imani's throat and my mouth parting. "Ugh, you two better be glad Parker's knocked out," says Lucky with her daughter in her lap.

Chewing, Imani cradles my head and licks the bump of meat protruding from my cheek. Ahh, shit, we're each other's favorite spoonful of ice cream. "Oh babe, there goes another Ace bottle." She coos and sips a glass.

"Hey!" We get rowdy lamely. "How many bottles is that, like seven?"

"Eight." nods Imani.

"Money, Kareem, give you a heads up on how I think about being on the show." Lotto is still plugging his way onto "Sak Life."

"Did he? Nope. I'm drunk, but hey, that'll be great seeing you on T.V. ...in the shower with four girls. Wow!" Imani shrugs, giggles, then doesn't know which method disposes of that visual quicker.

So, she bursts, laughing.

"I told you I'd put you on when you figured out what you wanted to do. Those girls are the same ones I found before the show aired, and what'd Lotto do? Soon as I invited them out, he fucked three of them."

"C'mon man, two of them I had smash before you got 'em to believe you were an up-and-coming producer," replies Lotto, whose broad nose expands when he gets in his feelings. Of the eight, wait nine bottles, Lotto, and I rimmed with drink and on the bullshit.

"Sak Life isn't designed for babysitting little ideas that fizzle out when your head draws blanks you can't fill in. You have to work. I can't be your immunity either."

"Well, what you wanna do, baby? I heard you say one time, you were cutting hair backstage, then you had to be Kareem's road manager, and now you're telling us you want to do reality T.V. What do you want to do, other than being your brother's keeper, baby?" Tiny asks; she takes his right seat, snatching a glass from him mid-sip.

"I don't know; I guess I need to beef up my terms since my brother says I need more of his ass to kiss," He barks at me mostly. "I'm bout to dip." Lotto grabs a gold bottle from an ice bucket and gets up swiftly from our table. "Lotto." Lucky scoffs as he sidles the chairs behind us and adds. "Congratulations. Good to see she said yes in time." Leaving our section as he turned up the champagne.

I felt as if I was too drunk to describe anything other than the fact being viewed as the boss, having the power to turn a person's bank account into a metaphor, was making me arrogant as fuck. And it offended my little brother.

I tilt my head toward the bill.

Imani pecks my temple. "Let me handle him. We'll find something," she says, tugging my forearms like a rope as she stands. "Come, wifey has some episodes at home I want you to produce," adds Imani.

My dick raises his boom as I get up. "Alright, but I only do movies with money shots." My voice swoons my fiancé.

Imani does a little catty tongue-flicking. "For the money...on top of money... I'll see how you handle blowing this money first." she boasts.