Page 2 of Hired By My Rich Baby Daddy

The nigga looked like a fucking stick figure compared to my six-foot-four brother, who was built like a damn NFL defensive end. So, I knew that tackle hurt.

“You fucked my wife!” he shouted, crying like a bitch. “I love her, and…and you slept with her!”

I snatched free and walked right back up the stage steps.

Blood ran down my chin and dripped onto my chest as I walked over to the DJ booth and grabbed another microphone.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, looked down at the blood smeared across my knuckles, and laughed.

“Aye,” I said, my voice booming through the arena. “You said I fucked yo’ wife?” I shrugged. “You should’ve been fucking her better, nigga.”

The whole place exploded. People were screaming, laughing, recording…the whole damn arena lost it.

I couldn’t help but grin. Even after all that, wasn’t nobody knocking me off my high horse.

I was a bachelor in my prime. No other R&B nigga was seeing me when it came to vocals or dancing. I was really him! Brown skin, six foot three, short hair, and light eyes that the ladies loved to stare into while I was deep in their guts, fucking them until they came back-to-back. I had a beard they loved grabbing, and I worked out a lot, so naturally, I had abs women loved to rub while squatting down, looking up at me, and sucking this dick. This clean dick, by the way. No bitch could get my shit raw, and that was a fact.

“I thank y’all for coming out and rocking with me tonight! Y’all drive safe, and y’all already know…new music on the way!”

I handed the mic back to DJ Benova and dapped him up.

Benova was the hottest DJ in the game and had been rocking with me for five years. I ain’t trust nobody else to keep the crowd entertained while me and my dancers changed clothes backstage.

“Bruh…you good?” he asked, looking me over.

Benova was about seven years older than me. He’d been in the game long enough to know damn near everything. Anytime I needed advice, he was there.

Hell…even when I didn’t ask for it.

Back before the awards, the sold-out tours, the movies, and all the recognition, he was one of the main ones telling me, “Nah, lil’ bruh. You the chosen one. You up next. Don’t quit.”

I smirked. “I’m peachy, nigga.”

I looked out into the crowd. They’d already dragged ol’ boy out of the arena, and honestly, I didn’t know who the hell his wife was. But nine times outta ten, I fucked his bitch.

“I’m glad this shit over. My back gon’ thank me for all the rest I’m finna get.”

Benova laughed. “You getting kinda old. I wasn’t gone say nothing, but them dance moves got a little shaky toward the end.”

We both busted out laughing.

“Nigga, fuck you.” I pointed at him. “Bet my vocals was on point, though.”

My assistant, Ky, walked over wearing a solemn expression.

“Mr. Love, management would like to see you backstage.”

I sighed.

“Course they do.”

I headed toward the back, this time with security following me like white on fucking rice.

By the time I made it backstage, my phone was already blowing up.

I hadn’t even sat down good before my manager, Derez, came storming through the door, looking like the damn Pillsbury Doughboy with his cheeks puffed full of air.

“Are you out your fucking mind?” he yelled before the door even shut behind him.