“Will we see you later, Mistress?” Glaze asked.
I had named her that because she came like a geyser and her pussy was always glimmering with remnants. I had met her on a trip to Oahu. She was a stunning, petite Samoan in her early thirties and a stone-cold, submissive freak.
“No, you won’t see me . . .” I glared at her. “And don’t get too fucking comfortable and start acting like we’re homegirls or some shit like that, either.” She lowered her eyes before I opened up a can of kick-ass on her. “You and Piece of Shit go back to the hotel and lay low, order room service—but only one meal for the two of you—and take your asses to sleep.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Consider yourself lucky that I’m going to allow you to eat at all. Both of you let me down.”
“We’re sorry, Mistress,” they said in unison, although Piece of Shit’s came out as a whisper.
I met Billy when I was in Alabama doing a show. He was working backstage at the concert and our eyes met. The poor bastard actually believed that I would let him fuck me. Stupid ass! He learned fast, quick, and in a hurry when I took him back to my hotel suite that night. At first, he seemed scared to oblige my demands, but we worked the shit out. He was allowed to eat, fuck, and suck pussy—but not mine. Never that!
Billy was average height, average build, and there was nothing special about him. He looked like the average black male that you would find in Anywhere, USA, but he was obedient. I rarely had to actually wear his ass out with a whip, but I would if the occasion called for it.
Diederik opened the door and saw Glaze sitting there in a cute dress and heels, much like myself. He grinned at her as Piece of Shit cowered in the corner in his pink panties. He would look normal again when they returned to the hotel. They would look like a happy couple strolling into the Ritz-Carlton, about to have a romantic evening in their room. They knew better than to fuck each other, or even touch each other, outside of my presence. One of them would be a tattletale and I would fuck both of them up and they recognized that.
I climbed out the back of the limo and looked at Diederik, wondering if he smelled the odor of sex emitting from the back. My other two guards were poised and ready to escort me into the artist entrance.
“You ready?” he asked.
“You ask me that every time and what do I always say?” I snickered. “The answer won’t ever change.”
He grinned. “You were born ready.”
I strolled toward the door. “Damn sure was.”
Chapter Three
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution article was a lengthy one about how I had decided to relocate to Atlanta as my new home, purchasing a $19 million mansion on Paces Ferry Road. It had nine bedrooms, fifteen bathrooms, was built in 2008, and was a little shy of twenty-five thousand square feet. It was an easy selection for me. I simply told my executive assistant to go out and purchase the most expensive house on the entire market in the area. It was all for show. I could afford it and I would still be traveling a lot . . . after I finished what I had come to the city to do. I wanted the publicity to reflect that I had outdone everyone else so that the people I was there to retaliate against would see it and start circling like a kettle of vultures to obtain a meeting or some type of connection to me.
People in Atlanta really put that entire “six degrees of separation” theory to the ultimate test. They always wanted to mix and mingle with those they felt could contribute to their “brands.” Atlanta had become known as “the Black Hollywood,” with at least seventeen network shows filming there on the regular. More than half were those ratchet reality shows that showed sisters being willingly exploited as they bullied, badgered, and belittled each other . . . and themselves. They even had to agree in their contracts that they would not sue a fellow cast member for some ridiculous behavior, or they would be fired themselves. Most were portrayed as thirsty, desperate whores fighting over the same pieces of dick, on national TV. But I was not one to knock the hustle. If millions of people wanted to watch human train wrecks on television weekly, and the networks had willing participants, an even swap ain’t no swindle. Many had tried to connect with me off the bat, but I was not having it. I planned to entertain attention from only a few people, and none of them were on reality shows, but I was about to give them all serious reality checks. I had been invited to several events and parties those broads were hosting. As if? I was not stepping up their game by allowing them to ride the coattails of my legitimate brand based purely on bona fide talent instead of spreading my legs and bragging about it.