Page 56 of Own It
“I got you. What’s ya name?” I helped her up into my area.
“I go by Classy—”
“Nah, what’s ya government?”
“Why do you need to know that? What’s yours?”
“Zaire.” I sipped my drink. “Now yours.” I turned a bit to get a better look at her fine ass. She was doing an amazing fucking job of keeping my attention from the craving I had for drugs.
“Téa.” She simpered when I smiled widely.
“I fuck with that.”
“You came here a week ago but just sat and ate. You didn’t even get a dance. What’s that about?”
“Damn, you be watching a nigga?” I laughed, biting into the wing that was salty as fuck but edible still.
“I mean, this is a strip club, and most niggas act like . . .” She gestured to the niggas seated at the main floor tables. “Like that.”
“I be coming here as a distraction, and sometimes the shit don’t work,” I admitted, not even knowing why.
“Distraction from what? You look like you don’t have any problems.”
“How so?” I frowned, offering her a wing to which she declined.
“Handsome, clearly paid.” She tapped the face of my AP. “Your only issue is probably which bitch in your phone you plan to fuck even though you have a girlfriend.”
“You way off.” I thought for a moment, chewing on the high sodium ass meat. “I like to get high, off pills, and if I’m idle for too long, I will indulge in the shit.”
I wasn’t gon’ delve into what got me to the point I was at, which was the trauma I developed as a fucking kid. Having an abusive ass father fucked a nigga up in ways people never thought about. Shit fucked us all up, but I was having a harder time swallowing the shit.
Growing up, I used to have panic attacks at the sound of my father’s voice or the mere thought of him physically disciplining a nigga. Even watching him, how he would beat Rakim and lock him in the small closet beneath the stairs for days at a time, telling us to ignore my brother’s screams, apologies, and his banging on the door to be let out.
The way he would treat my mama like a real-life punching bag or how I couldn’t stop pissing in the bed until I was thirteen years old because I would have nightmares about my father, making a nigga urinate on myself.
Life was a real-life horror movie coming up, changing me and my brothers for the worst but we tried to push through. I seemed to be the only one failing at the shit, and the only time I could escape the shit I lived through was when I was high.
“What’s wrong with that? I like it too.”
Her words were like venom but music to my ears at the same time.
“Word?”
“Yep. I have some with me. I can share once I’m off if you want to, but if not, I understand.”
I looked around, for what, I wasn’t sure, but I was trying to buy time and think for a moment. My brother had warned me, but maybe doing this shit cold turkey was why a nigga was struggling so. It may have been best for me to slowly stop getting high. I could start with twice a week and then consistently drop the amount until I was completely drug free.
“Uh, yeah.” I ran my finger across my bottom lip. “That’ll work. What time you off?”
“I got an hour left, thankfully.” She beamed.
Téa stayed with me for the remainder of her shift, and I paid her ass handsomely for it. I texted the nigga Mylo and told him he could fuck off for the night and that I’d found a ride. When the nigga tried calling, I sent his ass straight to voicemail, because if I answered, I was gon’ hurt his fucking feelings. I only had one father, and though he was a trash one, he was the only nigga who would get respect as my dad. Mylo was far from that shit.
“Ready?” I asked Téa happily once she emerged from the back locker room with her backpack and fully clothed.
She was still so fucking pretty even covered up.
“I am.” She patted her bag to let me know she had the main event for the night. “You drive.” She handed me her keys as we approached her old ass Honda Civic. “You got a license, right?”
