Every girl has that one thing she will not do. No matter how hard times get. No matter how little money she has. No matter what…there is that one thing she will refuse to do.
Ian Ferguson was that for me.
Working for one of the world’s most eligible billionaires taught me many things: I can tell the difference between BCBG and Balenciaga. I know how much mileage I can put into my Jimmy Choos before I have to get another pair. I know when Ian was in a good mood and when I should get the hell out of dodge.
Working for Ian also taught me…I can’t separate my personal feelings from our professional relationship.
Lady luck and a killer bod was on my side, though. Amateur night at the local strip club taught Ian I was no longer the desperate college student he met a few years ago, but a grown-ass woman with grown-ass needs. And honestly, I think he already knew that but never acted on it.
I just hope this experiment is worth the effort from both of us. He’s got me feeling some type of way…
Two Years Ago…
It was that moment, being shoulder-to-shoulder in an over packed dance floor with a bunch of sweaty and moaning people dry-humping each other to a thick hip-hop bass line that made me realize what so many people had warned me about:
Turning 21 was completely overrated as all shit.
Sure, there was a benefit of not being relegated to just the 18 and over nightclubs. Sure, I could go to the bar and order any overpriced and watered down drink of my heart’s desire. I can order a drink whenever I went out to dinner.
There were a lot of things I was sure about but I hadn’t been more sure of anything that being in that nightclub at that particular moment was a complete waste of my fucking time.
I had to grin and bear it just a tad longer.
My girlfriends were having fun and dancing with whatever poor schmuck who had loaded pockets and an increasing boner in his pants. I was stuck with the poor schmucks’ Ugly Friend. He was the guy that wasn’t quite tall enough, not quite skinny enough, not much of anything to look at, but he had enough charm that a girl would overlook it as long as he was nice to her and occasionally spent some money to impress her.
He was the type of guy that supermodels or famous actresses marry. We all know this because we’ve seen that type of guy and wondered, ‘What in the hell…?’ He may be nothing to look at, but he was great at the things that mattered: listening, cooking, and fucking.
Now I needed to figure out if Ugly had any of those qualities within the next few seconds.
“So baby,” Ugly Friend ground against me to another song, “what’s your name?”
I thought of many names that weren’t mine. One nightclub I went to, I gave the name Leia to a muscle-bound freak of nature because he was serving me Chewbacca realness. My next favorite was Muva for the simple fact I didn’t look like a girl who would be named that. With Ugly Friend, however, I felt compelled to give him my real name. “Sister.”
“Sister?” Ugly replied and I nodded. “Sounds kinky!”
So, obviously listening isn’t his strong suit, and I don’t have to guess if he’s a good cook given his hefty paunch and his libido would mean I would be doing all of the work in bed. It’s been three minutes too long and I already smell the potted meat and broken dreams seeping through his pores.
Personally, I don’t think there’s anything kinky about the nickname Sister and his response already tells me how many twisted incest fantasies he has in his head.
Whatever hopes Ugly Friend had of trying to get into the gates of heaven that was in between my legs, he officially took an elevator straight to blue balls hell with that remark. I bit back a sigh and smiled. “Uh-huh.”
My true name is Genesis Dominique, but I go by Sister with my friends and family. Yeah, not a typical nickname for me or anyone of that matter, unless they’re a fan of Sparkle but it works. My family always called by my middle name, which makes me wonder why didn’t they just name me that.
Anyway, I went by Genny in public because no one in my kindergarten class could pronounce Genesis without butchering it. Then first grade came and another Jenny didn’t like the fact she had to share her name (whatever, bitch) so I went by Sissy, which is so not cool.
Somehow, in middle school, Sissy shortened to Sis, which I was oh-so grateful for. By the time I reached high school, Sis extended to Sister and it stuck. Even the teachers called me Sister and that was fine by me. Sister makes me sound more badass than I really am and in turn, people either don’t mess with me nor do they confide in me. I’m like Sweden. Maybe that should be my next nickname.
“Say,” Ugly led me to the side once the music changed, “let’s get out of here and go somewhere.”
“I came with friends and I’m leaving with them.” It was a rule amongst us girls. One didn’t go to the bathroom by herself. One didn’t sip any drinks she didn’t buy. One definitely didn’t go home with some dude from the club.
“Nah, you don’t have to leave with me. Let’s just go upstairs.” Ugly motioned upstairs to the VIP section.
“If I’m going, I need to let my girls know,” I started to look for them, but Ugly increased his grip on me. I looked down at his hand on my wrist and back up at him. I wondered if he had a short time to live because he was acting crazy. “Let me go.”
“I know the owner,” he mentioned, “it’ll be fine.”
It was a fact Ugly had never mentioned in the four songs we’d danced to. Not that he spent a lot of time talking and chit-chatting, but I got the feeling if Ugly did know the owner, it would’ve been a fact mentioned a long time ago and definitely not after we sweated through Kendrick Lamar. “I still need to talk to my girls,” I started for the dance floor again. This time, Ugly increased his grip on me. I know this can of busted biscuits fool is not trying me… “Asshole, if you don’t let go of my arm…”
“You need to be taught respect and appreciate when a guy does something nice for you,” Ugly warned. It wasn’t just his looks that made the name true but now his personality showed it. “I’m trying to be nice here.”
There was a brief flash of fear in my eyes before the anger took over. With a sweet smile on my face, I replied. “For the last time, please let go of my arm or I swear to God, Baby Jesus, and the Church of the Fonz, I will fuck you up.”
Ugly quickly let go and muttered something along the lines of ‘bitches ain’t shit’ and ‘worthless’ before he went back on the dance floor to find another victim to claim for the night. I sighed and counted to ten.
It was my first 21 and over nightclub experience, and it just might be my last.
“We totally failed you, Sister.” my roommate, Michelle, plopped on the sofa across from me.
I was enjoying a quiet and what I thought, privately, reading of one of my favorite trashy novels on my e-reader when I had to put it away. Michelle taught me the hard way that I can’t ignore her when I’m reading. I’m on my second e-reader because as tiny as she is, she has the arm of a professional baseball player. “Yes?”
Michelle is my 21-year-old longhaired brunette roommate from Riverside. A white girl who has a penchant for hip-hop and could easily name every member of Wu-Tang Clan, with a soft spot for Method Man.
Coming from a privileged but tormented background where money is loud and children are silent, she’s rebelling here at USC. She’s currently on boyfriend number three, a Navy guy named Chris. “We took you out so you can finally get out! You had one dance with a guy and that’s it!”
“That guy was wacksauce,” I rolled my eyes and wish I could go back to reading my book. I was at the part where the hero was about to blow the heroine’s back out and had to put my fantasies on pause. What is the equivalent for blue balls for girls?
“You turned down every guy who approached you!” My other roommate, Rachael, chimed in. Long, ebony hair, a killer bod, and a doppelganger for Kimora Lee Simmons, she’s an aspiring physical therapist. She also knows just about every weed dealer within a five-mile radius. Surprisingly, she doesn’t smoke.
She’s in a long-term and tumultuous relationship with her boyfriend, Danny, though I’m not sure where that’s going. They’re at the part where they’ll either break up or get married and neither option seems like it’s going to happen. “You need something more than reading, Caf, and studying!”
Caf is short for Caffeinated and is where I do a lot of grunt work so I can afford to go out and get groped up by men who don’t know what no means despite it’s said the same way in nearly every language. “I was there to have fun, not to be felt up like a tomato at the produce section.”
“You need something other this,” Michelle pointed to me. It was clear my book reading didn’t amuse her. It was also clear I didn’t give two shits.
“And fuck you very much,” I replied.
“What we mean is you’re a good girl. You need to go out and have fun and live life!” Rachael added. “Don’t be stuck here doing nothing.”
“I’m enjoying my little dirty novels. I have no qualms fantasizing about a ridiculously fit mean who’s not obeast like the guy I danced with.”
“Okay, you keep putting a T at the end of obese,” Michelle was a stickler for proper spelling and grammar.
“There’s a difference!” I put my e-reader down. “Listen, that guy that danced with me was obeast, okay? Not obese, but obeast. Obeast is an animal-like fatness that makes no sense. It’s when someone has the resources and time to manage their weight and diet but chooses not to. They resemble something of a boar or a mythical creature one can only find in fantasy books; that’s beastly.” I shook my head. “Ashy Larry I danced with tonight was obeast!”
“This bitch here!” Rachael screamed with laughter as we joined in. “Seriously, Sister, you do need to get out more. Live a little! You’re too young to stay inside all of the time.”
I sighed. They were right. I’m in my senior year and all I’ve done was study and work, with maybe a little downtime on the weekends to enjoy myself. Maybe it was time to live just a little. “We’ll see,” I made no promises and hopefully this would curtail their nosiness for a while. “We’ll see.”
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