Mind Yo Business Investigations

Chapter 1: Bottom of the Deck

Kansas City summers hit different. The heat stuck to your skin like cheap lip gloss, and the hustle moved through the air like bass from a car stereo. Skylar Nicole knew all about both. At 27, she was a mother of two, with a figure that made necks snap and a face that could stop traffic. But what most folks didn’t see was the weight she carried: the bills, the rent, the daycare, the shifts at that godforsaken casino—all of it riding on her back like it had paid rent to be there.

Skylar had always been beautiful, but beauty didn't pay the light bill unless you learned how to flip it into currency. She worked nights as a cocktail server at Royal Crown Casino, slinging watered-down gin and tonics to toothless regulars and wannabe high rollers. Her uniform was tight, her tips were looser, and she smiled through every tired joke and greasy stare.

On a humid Thursday night, Skylar met her change.

She was on break outside the casino, puffing on a Black & Mild and scrolling her cracked iPhone when she saw her. The woman stepped out of a sleek black Charger, all curves and confidence, with heels that clicked like a warning shot. She had waist-length hair, lashes like butterfly wings, and skin like caramel dipped in sunlight. Skylar clocked her immediately—she wasn't one of the girls, she was in a whole other league.

"You work here?" the woman asked, sizing Skylar up and smirking like she already knew the answer.

"Yeah. You?"

"Nah, baby. I work where the real money is. SatIn Dolls."

Skylar raised an eyebrow. She'd heard about SatIn Dolls—a high-end strip club off I-70 in Kansas City, Missouri, known for champagne rooms, celebrity clients, and girls who walked out with Louboutin bags and deposits on condos.

The woman’s name was Ramona, and she was everything Skylar wanted to be: unbothered, unbossed, and unapologetically paid.

"You ever danced?" Ramona asked, eyes twinkling.

Skylar hesitated. "I mean, I dance at the crib to Megan Thee Stallion while I clean. That count?"

Ramona laughed. "You got the body. You got the face. All you need is the hustle."

That was it. That one conversation changed the course of Skylar’s life.

Within a week, Skylar was auditioning at SatIn Dolls. She wore a borrowed thong, dollar-store lashes, and borrowed confidence. But the moment she stepped on that stage and the beat dropped, something in her unlocked. She wasn't Skylar the struggling mother anymore. She was Scarlett, stage name dripping in allure. She twisted, flipped her hair, and moved like money was waiting on the floor.

The manager, a bald man named Lalo with a voice like gravel, hired her on the spot.

Her first few nights were rough. Pole burns, sore feet, creepy dudes. But Skylar—Scarlett—was a quick study. She watched the veterans, listened to Ramona, and studied the game like her rent depended on it.

Because it did.

Tips turned into stacks. Stacks turned into savings. She upgraded her apartment, got her babies into a better daycare, and started moving like a woman who knew she had options. But Skylar wasn’t just about shaking ass for dollars. She was watching. Listening. Learning.

At the club, the real game wasn’t just on the floor. It was in the VIP rooms, in whispered conversations and slipped phone numbers. Skylar had NBA players sliding her ten grand just to talk. Married politicians flew her to private islands for companionship with no strings attached. She learned how to finesse, how to stay ten steps ahead, and how to make a man feel seen without giving away a piece of her soul.

She became untouchable. Other dancers respected her. Clients adored her. Management feared her.

Then came the moment that shifted it all. A woman walked into the club one night, hair done, face beat, nerves all over the place. She was in her early 30s, clearly out of her comfort zone.

She pulled Skylar to the side and whispered, "I think my husband's been coming here. Can you help me? See if he'd cheat?"

Skylar blinked. "You want me to seduce your husband?"

"I want to know the truth. And I don't trust anyone else to get it."

That night, Skylar went home with more than just tips. She went home with an idea.

An idea that would change her life.

She didn’t just want to survive anymore.

She wanted to build something.

And just like that, Mind Yo' Business Investigations was born.

**Chapter 2: Mind Yo' Business**

Skylar Nicole never expected to be waking up early to Google how to open a private investigation business. But after that first woman came into the club, shaking in her heels and whispering about her cheating husband, Skylar couldn't let the idea go. There were women out here who needed to know the truth—and they were willing to pay good money for it. So why not her?

She wasn’t a licensed PI. Hell, she hadn’t even finished community college. But she had something most investigators didn’t: access, charm, and experience. She knew what men wanted. She knew how to spot a lie. And most of all, she knew how to stay ten steps ahead.

She started small. One client. Then two. Then five. Word spread fast, especially when Skylar delivered receipts—screenshots, photos, recorded conversations, all done with the finesse of someone who had watched a few too many crime docs on Netflix and put that knowledge to good use.

She officially named the business *Mind Yo' Business Investigations*. It was cheeky, but real. The kind of name that made you laugh, then call her in a panic because you just saw your husband heart-reacting some random girl’s Instagram story.

Skylar didn’t work alone for long. She started recruiting.

She went back to the strip club, this time with a different eye. She wasn’t scouting for dancers—she was looking for chameleons. Women who could play innocent, seductive, business-minded, or broken-hearted depending on the mission.

Ramona was her first recruit. Then came Lexx, a redhead with freckles and a poker face that never cracked. Then two more. Skylar trained them herself. What to say, what not to say. How to fish for a confession without ever asking a question.

They weren’t just finding cheaters. They were flipping rocks and uncovering full-ass soap operas.

There was the client whose husband had a whole second family three exits away. The woman who thought her fiancé was gay (he was). And the girlfriend whose man turned out to be sleeping with her sister.

Skylar documented everything, recorded everything, and stayed within the lines. No sex. No touching. Just talking, observing, and pulling back the veil.

Business was booming.

But that wasn't all.

Some of her past strip club clients started calling again. Only this time, they weren't asking for lap dances. They wanted dinner. Companionship. An hour of real talk. Skylar turned those calls into income.

And just like that, the PI business evolved.

Skylar didn’t call it escorting. Not really. These men weren’t paying for sex. They were paying for escape. For beauty. For the fantasy of being listened to and admired. And Skylar was damn good at delivering that—without crossing her own boundaries.

**Chapter 3: The Roster**

By year two, Skylar Nicole had what she called "The Roster."

A carefully vetted team of Kansas City’s finest. And she wasn’t just talking about looks. These women and men were sharp, observant, and discreet. They came in all flavors—Black, white, Latina, Asian, gay, straight, nonbinary. Because Skylar understood early on: infidelity wasn’t limited to one demographic.

If you had a partner, you had a risk.

The Roster handled everything from flirt-and-report missions to overnight escort gigs that didn’t involve sex unless the Roster member chose to. Everything was above board. Every contract signed. Every interaction monitored.

Skylar moved like a CEO. Meetings every Sunday at her loft. Updates tracked on a secure app. Everyone paid on time. Everyone protected. Everyone clean.

She didn’t tolerate sloppiness. She didn’t tolerate clients violating boundaries. And she damn sure didn’t tolerate anyone trying to step out of line.

Her client list was legendary.

She had:

* An NFL quarterback who booked her once a month just to vent.
* A high-profile defense attorney who paid for "debate dinners."
* A Grammy-winning rapper who never touched her but wired her 10K a week just for loyalty.

She even had a retired congressman flying her girls out to D.C. for companionship during campaign season.

Nobody knew how she did it. But everyone knew Skylar Nicole ran shit.

And the truth was? She loved it. She loved the control. The power. The respect. For once in her life, she wasn’t chasing crumbs.

She owned the damn bakery.

**Chapter 4: Warning Signs**

The first red flag came wrapped in a tight dress and fake gratitude.

Her name was Khloe. She was new to town, said she had danced in Vegas, and came with references Skylar didn’t fully verify. But Khloe was bad. Built like a cartoon. Skylar thought she could be the next star.

For the first two months, Khloe was perfect. Clients loved her. She followed rules. Reported in. Took photos when required.

Then the complaints started.

A client said she was making promises that weren’t part of the package.

Another said she tried to upsell him on "extras."

Skylar pulled Khloe in for a meeting.

"You know the rules. No sex. Not unless it's your choice and off the record. We don’t sell it, and we sure as hell don’t promote it."

Khloe nodded. Apologized. Acted innocent.

Skylar let it go.

Then came the call.

A detective.

Said one of Skylar’s girls had been picked up in a prostitution sting. Claimed her agency was a front. Said they had evidence.

Skylar’s heart sank.

Khloe.

She had been caught with a wealthy client in a hotel room. He flipped. Said he paid for more than company. Said he was referred directly by Skylar.

A lie. A goddamn setup.

Skylar was arrested at home. Her babies watched her get cuffed. Her face hit the evening news like wildfire: "Alleged Escort Ring Leader Busted in Kansas City."

The club girls stopped texting.

Her phone stopped ringing.

Except for her real ones.

Ramona. Lexx. And the men who had ridden with her from day one.

Skylar sat in that holding cell with her head high.

Because if they wanted a war, she was about to give them one.

And the first battle?

Clearing her damn name.

To be continued....