“Script Money” The Novel

Chapter Ten

Bringing a Charity basket to the Opps

Nick Cromartie sat three chairs down from his New Line distributor Ziggy Williams, Moesha Seal, and PEN's Will Childs. As executive producer, he was here to bring other producers and their money to this same table. They didn't care about the studio's continuity unless it affected their put-down money.

Studio situations got handled at home. Not here. And at Cromartie Productions, cases were taken up by the line producers who answered Nick. Because it was all Nick's money. Line producers hustled for whoever Nick wanted producing: from the grunt companies who needed big dollars to entertain their indie dreams, whether it meant spending millions of dollars on an interstate mayhem scene, chucking up the dough for particular poster boys who could sell a movie by just taking off his shirt when it came to his "golden writers," line producers did whatever the fuck Nick said. Which pissed him off when it was apparent Glendall Turner had been remixing his business somewhere.

His meeting today wasn't supposed to be about shit happening in the studio, especially not some cheap fuck lawsuit that was annoying to these people, like website clicks that led to stupid viruses.

Oh god, please take Raleigh. Could a man ever hate his only son? How could he say, "Look, my boy wants to sue us for Script Money...because I gave it legs by selling the brand to you guys...can we discuss a name change?"

Bullshit.

And Raleigh knew his father loved everything he put into his company. The networks weren't supposed to hear about a lawsuit from a fucking sound mixer.

Those problems stayed at home, never to leave Cromartie territory, where directors like his Samirah ran the studio to ensure her projects piqued at box offices. She assured her production assistants ran the units inside the operation like a car factory. Because when Cromartie Studios dropped a new release, the people at Nick's table weren't here for the director's cut.

The prominent executives wanted to see the profits from their gamble.

"So they asked me, 'Why don't I let them run a marathon of all six seasons?', free up half a day's worth for all the shows," Childs says, telling some parable about his roster of showrunners. "And I'm like, 'am I fucking crazy. You want me to be tied up looping some reruns while you write more shit.' No! I don't want marathons! I got new shows every season. I don't have room for binges until the off-season."

"If they're good at what they produce, by the time a series end, they should have a new season ready to go," says Seal, who was also frugal with her launches.

"Primetime is making networks think what blocks they can't take risks around ours?"

"Sure as hell ain't Tuesday. Script Money is getting good at finding producers who talk big shows, have you in love for months, then give you another character carrying one helluva show through the year," replies Ziggy Williams.

Nick sighed and hunched over onto his elbows.

He begins. "We need to be honest about our future with Script Money. I'm sure you've seen the allegations in the papers about possible action taken against Cromartie for rights to the brand."

"Yeah, but your P.R. assured us it was just a bluff move by your boy."

"No, it was. It was a stupid idea to think Raleigh would take it there."

"And even worse for his daddy to think he isn't a bastard worth standing up to in court."

"But hypothetically, I want to be clear that if this thing continued, and there is a coup headed toward Cromartie, would the networks have my sympathies?"

"You can, but PEN will continue running the exact hours. And that goes without me saying we don't vouch for producers who broadcast their second-hand brands."

Nick shakes his head dismissively. "No, I fully understand, and I can promise you we're." All of a sudden, his phone makes the glass table stir. "Excuse me," Nick says, "I have to answer this. It's my daughter." The network executive gages him condescendingly as he gets to his feet and begins talking to Samirah. "Sam, what's going on down there? I'm getting nothing up here; networks won't buy another logo for our team."

"Daddy listens to me, don't say a word about losing this brand, okay? We're working some things out. I need you to buy us a few more hours." says Samirah.

"I'll see what I can do. Are you sure Script Money makes a clean break after this?"

"I think Imani has a few moves to tighten us together."

Nick sighs as he wonders, Kareem's fiancé? Then he replies. "Alright, it's your call. I'll get with you later, sweetheart." He ended the call, hoping his daughter could rely on her interim line producer. And if Samirah was putting Imani Thicke to the test, could Cromartie Studios believe her go-between had what it took to deliver?

* * * * *

"What's your name?" I ask Charity, eying her as I hold my goatee.

"I got this shit. I swear, boss. It's Melanie Terry. I'm an entertainment lawyer from Broward and work for your company." Her face was stiff as she spoke tautly during a facial inside the mobile salon of my Cadillac.

"What company?"

"I work for Sak Life Entertainment." she corrects herself, jerking her wrist.

"And you're appointed to do what?"

"I'm here to sever your company's legal stake between Cromartie Productions and the 'Script Money' brand and recommend a collection treaty which gives Mr..." her grey eyes flutter at me as she winces.

"Raleigh Cromartie. Mr. Raleigh Cromartie. You must sound authorized to null and void contracts, alright." I reiterate to a pornstar.

"Yes. Mr. Raleigh Cromartie and I'm here to offer a collection treaty with him, giving him exclusive rights on any music produced for your T.V. shows," repeats Charity as she memorizes her script for me.

Along the way, I had her bikini covered in a pencil skirt and a white blouse, and she stood in front of me while Kelby took ten minutes to give her the faux natural makeover as we drove to Raleigh's place.

"Okay, Kareem, she's ready to disavow docket number: fuck Glendall!" embellishes Kelby, the make-up guy.

"Wait, that top is too bright," I note, drawing close and slipping my fingers inside her blouse, untying the green bikini top and slipping it from her nape. "Your breasts are sexy. Let him see these instead of this thing," I say, tussling her shirt around her nipples. "How are you feeling?"

Charity parts her lips, waging me as I groom her to fit her role. "I'm good."

Suddenly, my driver wants us out of the car. He parked inside Raleigh's gates. When we left, Charity was carrying the leather bag and pattering next to me: all business and sophisticated, much like a Broward graduate. Behind us, my driver pads in unison. Elsewhere the Mercedes Sprinter is parked.

"He's a prick, so he will show you things you'll have to overlook and ask you things you won't like," I tell her, strolling up to the door.

Charity exhales in stride. "How do you know I'm the girl for this script?"

I squeeze her shoulders with a comforting look. "Cause I need you to be, and that's all that matters. Me and you okay?"

"Okay." Charity smiles as we both turn to the door.

I ring the doorbell until Raleigh opens the teak double doors for us. "Whoo, what a beautiful morning you picked to talk business Kareem," He says, in his doorway wearing silk slacks, black suede loafers, and a tank top he drinks in Charity's body down to her stilettos. "Come in." He bites his knuckle.

We step in together as he shuts the door. "And who is this?"

"Right, this my lawyer. I brought her over just in case we work something out." I oblige, hoping this goes accordingly.

"Melanie Terry," she extends her hand. "Mr. Cashmere invited me to oversee making a deal with you and discuss any terms you'd be interested in."

Raleigh glances at the lapels on the bag gripped in Charity's hand. "Looks more like a payoff, but hey, I love deals. Follow me," says Raleigh. He pads through his main floor topless, heading into his kitchen overlooking a vast picturesque room where I spot two topless women dancing on a glass table and holding flutes as they caress each other.

"Kareem, you two want something to drink? I got champ', beer, and a couple of cups of Wock. What?" He offers.

"I'm good. I ain't come here to drink, but thanks anyway."

"Ms. Terry," He looks over. "You want a little (drank) before we start."

Charity breaks her gaze away from the nude girls and replies, "No, thank you. Do you mind if we moved this meeting somewhere more professional?" she inquires in an anal tone.

Raleigh's face tightens at us. "Like where?"

"Like somewhere with a little more dignity for my client's interests."

"To hell with dignifying; they're my guests. And unlike you two, Sasha and Tandra like my hospitality. Hey, girls, bring that over here with me." He says. When they come into the kitchen, they automatically flank Raleigh. "Hook up some powder at the counter. As for you, Kareem, tell your little Marcia Clark she better sit down, join the party, or get the fuck out. Acting like my house infested and shit 'cause she sees few titties in the living room."

"It's fine. Have a seat." I murmur to Charity and pull out a high-backed chair for her. I sit next to her while a coke party begins on the opposite end of the counter. "What the hell happened to you, man? I remember you smoked a little weed in the studio while we were working. Now you done broke the knob with this shit. What's up?"

He began taking out beers, grinding along the granite counter towards me. "Take one. I'm not asking, man." Raleigh obliges. I yank the beer and turn up the green bottle, knowing at least it came capped. Then he smiles as if he'd been a bartender serving the perfect cocktail. "It's Nick, man. He pisses me off every day. I ain't sucking the joy out of being rich. With stressing over not producing films or acting around these fake ass networks, he wants another Sam, and I can't take how he runs this family."

"Your pops think your artist selection was a fucked up idea. Which is real; you know I ain't gone flex. I know for a fact your beats are one thousand, but you are giving that up for all of this."

Raleigh picks up a rolled dollar bill and snorts. "Aah, Kareem coming from an ex-shot caller like you, I don't need a speech about using recreational blow."

"Facts. But you gotta get off that shit when I give you platinum-worthy credits in all my shows, starting with ADVANCE."

"That's the show you pitched to Nick, yo I want in on that one. What you talking about?" asks Raleigh.

"I want you to listen to something," I say, taking out my phone and playing the song I recorded this morning. As Raleigh listened, his hookers danced on in the distance. I told him it was titled "Advances," produced on one of his archived instrumentals. "I made this thing so you'd get off your junkie ass and start cutting dope shit for me again," I say. "I know your family got some issues, but you don't turn your back on family. You know, I kick this new slave shit a million times 'til a bitch finally gets smacked with the truth that sits buried in my palm. But you must see yourself trapped in some block, on straight lockdown, and the only people who run through your mind all fucking day ain't them bitches over there. It's your family, my nigga. When you fucked up like that is when you realize they are holding us down out of love. And that truth ain't worth suing for all the paper in the world."

He sighs and presses his back against his fridge. "So you want me to freeze the lawsuit, like Glendall did a week ago in South Beach," Raleigh telling me this shed light on our enemy's setup.

"He already gamed your ass, then promised you a few records on some fabricated-for-suckers drama. What kind of numbers he gave you?"

"I ain't get shit. Glendall told me to stop the suit and give him time to bring Nick and his investors together to allocate my percentages in Script Money."

Dumbass. "Glendall did a good job of making you cease the lawsuit on air, but he lied to you on the love. Look, you can forget getting Script Money back or getting any money out of suing them. Your old boy with investors is probably changing the brand to 'Money Show' or some shit. I'm not about to have my M's caught in this crossfire. So, if you want in on ADVANCE or any of Sak Life's shows, you have to agree to a collection treaty." I propose, hoping my game had a little more luster in it than Glendall's.

"What the hell is a collection treaty?" Raleigh asks.

Charity sets the bag on the counter. Then lays her elbows down as she chops up the skit. "A collection treaty implying that my client grants you exclusive rights on all songs like this, any feature film soundtracks he may do, vocals you might need for T.V. programs only if you're willing to settle any entities you have with his network affiliations."

"You want in on the same shows that (run) Script Money. Your pops will give me whatever grip he thinks will design the stories up here. He had already cleared $100,000,000, barely scratching dandruff under my afro. Do you feel me? All you gotta do is turn that lawsuit over to us, and I'll not only give you rights Nick can't even overlook, but I'll also throw in a little advance for you signing as my new producer. Ms. Terry shows the man what a time to be in the game with the Kareem of the ink pen."

Charity opens the bag and stacks cash like granola bars on the counter. "You sign on with Mr. Cashmere today and get $45,000 in cash."

"You still do business like a gangsta." Raleigh has an eye for cash. He picks up a wad and ruffles the bills under his thumbnail.

"Old habits build character." I salute with a swig of beer.

"And a meeting with Cromartie Productions will follow where you disavow all suits and move forward with a negotiated percentage of the Script Money brand since it was your division," adds Charity, who tucks her plump lips as she glances at me sidelong.

We stare in awe as Raleigh signs the contract giving him rights to Sak Life Entertainment music properties. I just recovered a plaque someone stole from Samirah's company.

Raleigh's coke head guests note his lump sum, then stretch their arms like snakes winding along the counter. "Ratchet bitches ready to trick off with a check." He grimaces and bags the money back up. Then slings the bag over his shoulder and adds, "Keep them company for a second."

I sip my beer as Raleigh takes off into another part of his place.

"What's so funny to you right now? You just gave away a ton of money," Charity whispers, perplexed after saying goodbye to the bag.

"I believed in you, and it helped me save a lot more than that," I say, letting that thought go up in smoke as I wait for Raleigh.

Charity snatches my beer. "The way you get shit done makes me feel a way."

Raleigh patters into the kitchen again with a file he hands me. I can feel my heart slap high fives inside as I scan the documents. "These are it," I say, giving them to my lawyer.

I spot Raleigh staring at Charity's thin blouse as she reads the affidavit. "So, Ms. Terry, you think it's appropriate for us to take this meeting somewhere you can be less professional now," he says.

"Um, should we contact his lawyer?" She wings it, so I catch on to her.

I intervene, sliding my iPhone across the countertop. "She straight, you can get your lawyer on the phone. We need to hear him drop this right now." I stab the granite finish with a finger.

"Call my lawyer."

"Right now."

"Now?" He asks again, which pisses me off.

"I'm with the shit nigga. What? You want me to hit that plate, fire up a cigarette, and let her watch me three-way your people at $600 an hour while we wait." I stab my finger again. "Pick up the phone." I ignite the pressure.

Reluctantly Raleigh dialed a number on my iPhone and set the phone on the table. "Hello"

"Green, this is Raleigh Cromartie. I don't have my phone, but please disavow case 38465B for me."

"You want to delete the lawsuit against Cromartie Productions."

"Yes, remove it."

"Sir, the holding was good--"

He cut him off. "Just remove it, alright. I'm not suing my family."

"Understood, Mr. Cromartie. I'll get right on it and--" Suddenly, Raleigh presses a button and ends his lawyer's voice.

"I like that," I grin and pick up my phone, gazing at Charity. "I knew I could get him, and since you fucking with The King, now---I want to show you some of our Colombian flavors we got waiting just for you when you ready to do our cameo in Bogota." I press a button and wait for an answer. "Ah, Chill; bring them foreign things in here so we show our new client what's popping."

Quickly, Charity files the documents. Bringtands. While I hang up and pad out the kitchen to the front door because it's time to announce our exit. I had my Sak Chasers waiting outside for this moment, and when it dawned on me that Raleigh was a gullible fuck, I knew a gang of caramel-colored day players would deliver the gratitude of having this mark be a part of my company.

My driver opened the door, and a half dozen Spanish-speaking beauties accompanied my crew. They were in heels, in tight dresses, and drinking in the mansion, they'd just walked into. "Whoa, whoa, Kareem, who the fuck are all these people?" trips Raleigh, who follows me to the door.

"We're the Sak Chasers, bro." Kelby scoffs, moving on.

"I'm Trung Tran. I do casts for Mr. Cashmere here. You want to meet the girls. Come on." says Trung gripping a pair of women by their waists.

"Hola, papi Kareem!" a woman hugs and kisses me.

"What up, mami," I hit her with lingo as I grin. "Y'all set up wherever. As a matter of fact, yo, Ara, run the cameras for me. I want to shoot something real quick."

"Kareem, what is this?" Raleigh laughs. He's getting swarmed by Brazilian pornstars. Ara brings his Red dragon H.D. camcorder to his shoulder, burrowing his socket into his lens and spinning the cue with his finger.

"I know you wanted to see Script Money bring the family apart," I begin bragging as I cradle Raleigh under my arm. "--but the success can't be broken with the King in the middle. I got the homie Raleigh Cee with me Raleigh show them, haters, how the money coming," Raleigh fists his bag and pulls out handfuls of cash and sprinkles it in front of the cameras like seasoning, "It's coming like this...it doesn't stop...every time it falls, they strip...I throw so much 'cause all we know is Script Money, Cromartie Family forever!" Raleigh says. I believe it's the coke that has Raleigh plugging so heavily, or maybe the thousands of dollars falling onto his marble foyer somehow, he's turning up, and I'm taking over. "Sak Life is rocking with the movie gang on lock; Tuesday nights, you can go up with us too. Script Money, don't miss it, only on the PEN channel!" After blurting out the rumors looming like a virus over my producers, I signal my camera guy to end the feed.

Ara runs through his playback and grins. "Got it, that'll end Glendall for good." He says.

Good. I head to the door with Charity, who patiently waits for me as if we have files to dispose of at her office later.

"So you just invite a bunch of fine bitches to my house and leave. Do you want something to eat or smoke a joint to celebrate this shit? I'm lost." Raleigh says, noting me opening his door.

"I think you'll figure out how the rest of your night goes," I say slyly. "Think of this like a pre-show festival where you get a taste of my first episode. Welcome back home." I let him follow my peace sign out of the mansion.

Charity tugs a scrunchie with me and tussles her thin hair, lapping it over her shoulder. Her slanted chin spreads when she smirks. "I am petrified of the player you used to be." I offer my script-appointed superstar a ride home instead of deserting her with the other stars. I note how stunning the girl is when dressed as if her first words started with "client confidentiality." She's prancing like a model in a hurry to jump back in my motorcar. I get in and flop, as always, in the back row. Charity's scent breezes like lanolin and vanilla sweets mixed with the evening wind. Her chic glow could've been the commercial girl for the Kia company instead of making porn for me. But when the door closes, Charity pads to my seat, ferreting her thumb beneath her tight skirt and shimmying down her green panties before clambering into my lap.

* * * * *

There were fifty barrels of gasoline stocked in a phalanx. Near a steel grid that rose thirty feet, cables connected to a dispensary tarp that masked the grid. Below the grid were five beams, hollowed out to fill the miles of wiring that trickled through the skyscraper structure. It was one of those windows where the building slanted sixty degrees, and people tumbled down the side as if falling off an eight-story building—a grid filled with tall mirrored windows.

Where Samirah Cromartie sat on a black glass window as if it were a ramp, she had a bottle of vodka and a single shot glass—pouring a shot and throwing it back religiously. She winced as the liquor spiraled down her chest. She flexed her toes as she stared at her heels and the drywall beneath them.

She wished she could use the barrels to blow up this studio: with herself outside of it, of course, a volatile explosion burning away resentment, the blackmail, betrayal, and self-recrimination that came with working at Cromartie Studios. The only skeleton left on her list was killing someone.

As a director, she aimed to be respectful, have the sense of humor of a chic girl next door, and be a well-read perfectionist willing to take chances. And those chances came at risking her heart as well.

She took chances after falling in love with her manager. That failed.

Risks she accepted in her career as she segued from an actress to a director. She did not know that every player in this business followed the money. Each position had their jobs, and they trusted wherever it led them: because it came down to a dollar. Samirah knew her job came with risks from making sure she doubled down on her budgets and trusting her writers.

Trusting Kareem Cashmere and her eye for his singular ability to write remarkable stories came with much more stress. She trusted him to be sensitive to her baggage. Everything that came with her being a Cromartie, being his director, and her longing to take on the lead as his spouse. The absolute industry royalty like Mila and Adam? Will and Jada? She wanted the ladies' man in her writing. She remembered how deep he dug far into her lost paradise.

All of a sudden, her phone vibrated near her thigh.

Wow, his air was so divine.

She answered with a dreary stiffness. "Kareem, you must've heard."

"Raleigh's home. Tell your pops to keep the name. Script Money is yours again." He starts.

"Wow, okay, uh...I will." Samirah feels a barrel roll from her chest. Immediately she turned the bottle up without hesitation. "Kareem...I want you to know I never meant to remove you from the current landscape of this show. I'm impressed by your fearless mind. I'm excited about the personality you got me fitting into, but even a teacup yorkie has to be a bitch to run a studio." she says, lying down on the window and twiddling her necklace.

Suddenly Samirah feels the cuts on her neck from Imani, then freezes.

She listens to him breathing, then scratching his beard. "I dig it. It's just business. Just put my show back on schedule where it's supposed to be. I want it cleared, maybe before Thursday, and I need to see you before your company meets with Raleigh tomorrow."

Slyly, Samirah grins when he bosses her. "Wait, that violation right there, Kareem, us seeing each other than having your pit bull fiancée find out about us can't become a cycle. Did she tell you how she attacked me today?"

"Let me take care of whatever the fuck she did to you. Money's my problem, alright, but I need to see you briefly. Can I come through?"

She tilts her head, gazing at the stories from which she seems she's plummeting. "Fine, Kareem. Well, imagine this shit. Why I'm still at the studio? Where are you? I can have my driver pick you up, and we can meet at my place."

"It's straight. I got whips, too, Sam. I'll be over by the time you get settled in for me."

"Bye." Samirah hangs up and studies his call and the distress in his voice. Wondering what Kareem had gone through to get her brother back? And what did Imani tell Kareem for him to handle Cromartie's problem so effortlessly? She knew he was on his way and had been vexed on catering to the black knight of her fucked up studio set.

* * * * *

The townhouse was an obscure two-story place on the north side suburbs of Atlanta. In the flat Lilburn area. Where they'd barely notice a second-string quarterback, let alone a celebrity writer pulling up to Charity's doorstep. I came here because she lived alone and she was single.

It was dark and filling in the oak trees which loomed over her apartment with black shadows when my driver parked in her driveway. Ronnie got out and scanned the place for two minutes for my protection. Then he stood on the porch while I took the girl up.

Minutes later, I was in Charity's place and paying out my retainer for her playing such a phenomenal legal counsel. "I want you to make me your permanent sidekick." She lets me wrestle her upstairs, gripping her arms as we move through the meekly lit spot.

On the fuck shit.

"You liked that kind of shit, don't you?" I ask, knowing she did in the way she turned and purred.

"Mm, yeah. I should represent you getting off."

The role-playing turned into any pornstar I knew, but it was the power in how I moved money and made people so gullible because they believed I conducted everything I did like the boss. The charity was a hustler, and she was a tigress bent on having me boss her too.

"When can I do it again?" She coos as I find her room and shove her inside. She's a ruffian when it comes to her submissive peak. Her body topples limply onto her queen-size bed as I remove my sweater and unbuckle my jeans. "How many video girls you got keeping your millions off the rocks?" Her grey eyes mist with dazzling fire, panting as she sprawls on her comforter, bringing her knees up as I engage her.

"Being that kind of girl is done," I say, taking off my pants and boxers. Then I rip at the lapels on her blouse. Buttons plunk to her side like beads. Charity slips off her skirt and whips her hair as she moans, "But not with this." Beaming at my dick as she hurries forward to grip the sack. Her mouth parts as I shove it inside. She sucks with a thirst for my taste, making her pant as I release a dark sigh. She was cutting my eyes heavily, taking in the traffic outside.

I listen to her slurping back and forth as I caress her breasts, making her libido hike as her nipples swell. "Turn over," I command, grabbing her and rolling her onto her stomach. Charity arches her back into a crevice as she waits for me to put on a condom, teething on her fingertip as she gazes at my pipe. Then I slam inside her hard from the back. "Oh, fuck." she screams as I pin one of her elbows to her spine and fuck her deep, pumping her wet lips with jagged strokes that trigger a nerve inside my groin.

"Ah, you must fuck with me hard if I work for you, Kareem." What ignites me is how Charity tosses her long hair like some irate beauty. I fist a handful of curls flowing down her back and rake it to the side as I pin her neck into the bed. Pressing her breasts beneath her as I yanked her hips into me, the smacks of me penetrating hard against her cheeks. "Yes!" pants Charity, over and over, with her cheekbone matted to her bed.

My skin stings her milky flesh, and I spot her ruby complexion, gasping as I break down her sexual bravado like a teenager who thought they liked violence until the pressure became too painful. "What do you think I want you to do for me next? Hmm?" I say, bent on her taut face that occurs when she's filled with the shaft.

On her side, she's clawing at her thigh to help me go deeper.

"I don't know." she whimpers as her body jerks aggressively.

"You know what I want from you; say it." I spank her cheek hard.

Charity yelps, biting her fingers. "Oh, I don'-I don't. I don't know."

I spank her again. "Yes, you do. Say it."

"I don't know...oh my god...I don't know, Daddy." she pleads in a wavering tone. Suddenly I sprawled Charity's reddish cheeks onto her back, slid back in on top now, and grasped her throat gently as I swerved in and out in painfully course strides. "Listen to me. I want you to come hard like you said you would. Remember you said how hard you'd come with a dick like this inside this pussy. I want you to wet these fucking sheets for me, okay?" I groan.

"Yes, I can do that." she nods, and I begin sucking her nipples and fucking until I feel her quivering and raking back her hair with her fingernails as she glares at me driving into her apex. "Kareem. I-I," she leaves words behind as Charity mouths her fingers, then massages herself all at once. She felt like a wicker basket knotting tighter around me as she began spilling into gusts and yelling at me. "Give me that load, baby."

I follow her voice to its end as I pull out and remove the condom. Charity does that whip thing with her hair again, palming her breasts together like landing strips as I erupt all over her tanned nipples and chest. My veins ripped in my forearm as I jerked undone. I was feeling way over such a goddess.

She stands and knots her hair in a bun and tugs my hand as she strolls me into her bathroom. She was running her shower hot and stepping in. I follow behind her and caress her nape as the water makes her brown hair fall in spools between her shoulder blades.

After I shower with Charity, she trips over, being in her bedroom and watching me get dressed. She's in a towel, sitting on her bed, lighting a joint, and basking in me. "So you wear new shit for one day, then throw them away." she puffs, spotting the clothes crumpled on her carpeted floor.

"It's what I gotta do when I gotta get home. No glitter, clingy side pieces, or vanilla perfume all over my shit." Slyly, I grin as I put on sweats, a T-shirt, and a knit Sak Life hoodie.

"Will you tell your girlfriend how you got that sucker today? You know, with me?"

"Um..she trusts that I had to play dirty for it. What we did today was easier than some of my other choices."

"I have to convince myself you were once something dangerous, boss," Charity says. She hums lightly, then goes on. "She knows you hit marks for your business with friends who tan their pussy before they fuck for the cameras?" I note how she brings her foot onto the bed, parting her towel like a pantry.

"What's your name?" I wonder because I knew it wasn't: Charity.

"Cherish Figueroa, but everyone calls me Charity even when I'm chill," she replies. "I don't let people call me 'Cherish.' A lot of times, that boring shit goes in vain. Charity is so on the generous end of putting down."

"Well, Cherish, if you are the hustler I think you are, I might invite you over for coaching to see how much she trusts me yourself."

"Oh, you're letting me meet your boss. Is that why you told me making porn is finished?"

I reach into my pocket and check the time on my phone—8:52 pm.

Then I hand her a business card. "She's an acting coach. I like how you followed your script today, even freestyling when we ran out of bullshit to trap that fool. You got the juice to be bigger than some cute facial, and if you want to work for me, the front door right there." I say.

"Hold up, wait...wait, you're asking me to be an actress?"

"Or you can keep taking pipe dreams as they...come. It's your call. I salute what you did today. Look, I gotta get out of here before your driveway turns into a block party. You can hold onto some paper in those jeans before you throw the clothes away." I swagger to the door as I make to leave discreetly, burrowing my head in my hoodie. Charity picks up my jeans and ferrets inside each pocket until she removes a bulge of bills: all blue hundreds at best.

"Kareem." Charity murmurs, standing and taking off her towel.

Damn, man, not on the way out.

She sticks her arms into my Sak Life sweater and adds, "Can I hang on to this?" As ever, I'm tripping over her hair, flopping over her shoulder as she snuggles into my garb, a content smirk spreading in her slanted chin as I scale her black toes tipping toward me. I wave off the attire and the pressure to slash "Charity" again as I sneak out of her neck of the woods. And back to my Throne.