“Script Money” The Novel

Chapter One

Cromartie Productions and the Writer's Gala Event

The Writer's Gala.

Fayetteville, Georgia.

They attended the event on July 25th, yet another significant event. It toppled on top of my birthday and a big week for my company, Sak Life Entertainment. An event that was, at length, life or death that I appeared in my Friday's best and expected to show two of the following: excitement. Happy. Accomplished. And blessed because "my positive path to rehabilitation has empowered troubled Black youth and led me to a lot of success." I didn't have a problem dialoguing since I was now a B-list super writer, all the songs I wrote (went at least platinum), and I was so rich I could take exotic trips to unwind from the bullshit I was going through.

Overall, I was the truth in Hollywood when it came to writing. It's just Hollywood demands a lot of your attention. The Writer's Gala was one of those events that made you feel accepted ever so often.

At this moment, I had a reality TV show, "Throned,"---which meant there were producers dogs with cameras all over my house shooting every second of my celebrity lifestyle with my fam-bam. I got hot with rap music for a moment, then decided screenwriting would be my breadwinner, so I just mogul up and let my young talent pursue the theme.

Somehow this entitles me to have highly anticipated albums every year.

Along with those blocks, I ran a talent scouting show called "Sak Life": 20 men and women came together at my Suwanee mansion and competed for two $1,000,000 contracts with Sak Life Entertainment and a chance to follow their dream. As with any real drama, there were the ratchet bad girls, watered-down tough guys who acted mildly violent, unlike their monikers---you know, the usual shadiness of TV drama uptake---but most of all, it helped young people: aspiring to change their directions and take that jump into becoming successful people.

Because we all want to be a Shawn Parker story, don't we?

Right now, I'm doing it all. Three feature films. Two reality shows. A record label, and now networks are waiting for Samirah Cromartie and me to spin into the primetime TV loop as if I haven't already cooked up a short screen game. I quickly got it and got a quintet of jobs in Hollywood.

Aside from the 4:30 a.m. wake-ups, the meetings at the studio, or insomnia due to the lines rambling in my head in different personalities---which is technically considered multiple personality disorder, I think?---- I'm the Buddy Hield of the Year, and Samirah Cromartie does well with my ideas.

Samirah. She does excellent shit for me, like child's play.

She's the directorial goddess of Script Money and all of her films I'm credited to. Samirah's like my side-bitch, formally titled: my super producer. We come together and make hits much like couples have routine sex rituals. I am making movies. It's our thing, and I'm scared of my reactions if someone ever comes between our thing.

I may not be the only writer at Cromartie Productions---but Samirah created a boss by putting me in the business. And long as we're working together, she'll be my "trap queen" for the Tuesday night quick fixes and the mother of our entertainment womb: Script Money.

Tonight, I was attending the Writer's Gala with my date.

Imani was sitting next to me in an off-the-runway eye-popping dress. A blush Chanel Haute Couture gown, a Levian diamond purse, and gold Jimmy Choo heels. "Is this one of those numbers you wear without the panties?" I said, taking in her scent and how badly I wanted to fuck her in my Ferrari 488GT. "Oh, lucky me."

"Being lucky got you famous. I stop wearing underwear under dresses like this 'cause you care for me like a man."

I laugh, scanning the exits passing as I drive. "Which explains why you jacked the fashion show for that dress, you shooting for "who wore it best," which tells me you are ready to get reckless around my peer group for your man."

"Don't flatter yourself. I just had to slay 'cause I'm with my man, and he's nominated, okay?" Imani says with a grin.

"Or, it could be a nice birthday gift for me." I shrug.

"Well, aren't we mannish after some moneymaker tonight?" Imani scoffs as she stares me down. "Whatever. If you must know, I did buy this dress as a fly treat for you, Kareem. I made sure couldn't nobody like Miss Samirah get it either."

"What's up with you and Samirah?" I ask, thinking back on how long Imani's been holding that grudge lately.

"She tried to stick her hand in my 'no-no' places once."

"Imani."

"What? She touched me, and you don't believe me!" She shrieked like I was supposed to care another chick fondled her. Psst, please.

She was acting childish, avoiding the obvious. "What's up with you two?"

Imani scoffs and says. "I don't know. Since you cut back from doing shows, I've been getting attached to our vibe all over again." She dismissively jerks her na-na attitude toward me, then adds. "But I ain't the only redbone you attached to."

"Attached?" I reply.

"Yes, Kareem! When you keep the dick in more than three times daily, it becomes attached dick, alright." Imani snaps back.

"That's why we look damn near like Kim and Kanye at fashion week."

"You're home away from these groupies, and it's comforting to see my man's stuff instead of inspecting it for STDs eight months out of the year. We're supposed to do events and dinners like this. But lately, when you're around, all you think about is Mrs. Script Money." she murmurs.

"She's my boss, Money."

"I'm cool on her."

"I work with her, so you know, I gotta talk about her sometimes."

"That tramp is more than your boss Kareem---Samirah is your little daytime-slut, and you know it, okay? Don't act like you ain't seen all the signs, fool." Imani Billows; I can tell she's mad as hell about this.

I felt myself growing louder too. "What the hell kind of signs you talking about, shawty?"

Imani picks up her phone and says. "Hello!" then looks at me. "I guess I'm the only one hearing the booty calls. Let's start with the seven film contracts I helped secure."

"And that's my fault?" I snap. Imani mugs are ugly. "Okay, what else?"

"She invites you to her private yacht in Miami. She gave you this Ferrari when your biopic dropped, a fucking showroom Ferrari! And you've been cooped up in your damn office since she bought that virtual shit up in our house. I believe Sam-I-am got you skating, Kareem." Imani huffs afterward.

I went through her list of excuses, her pallet for being insecure right now. I had to grin over a reference or two. Samirah had craned and demolished institutions for my career. She made me a multi-millionaire. Hell yeah, she had me fucked up professionally. "Look, Samirah would've done it to anyone good as me. I'm just a hitmaker, baby. I can't blame her for showing some love by getting into Hollywood. And through all this, who's still my girl?"

Imani smirks, rolling her eyes around the autumn interior. "Mmhmm. All I know is I'm the main one."

"Even if I can do anything I want, I get it to take care of our family," I said. For a time, Imani realizes she needs to climb down from a burning tree---break away from acting ugly about how I'm building this clubhouse. And appreciate the home I've created for us. I wanted her to respect me. I am trying my best not to change up on her.

Quietly, she scans the passing skyline of downtown Atlanta. During a wakeful summer night, the dark sky flecked with tiny sparkles reflecting off the James red coupe. That she now despised. The supercharged engine revved and shifted loudly.

"Imani, I'm sorry okay?" I said, glancing at her.

"How many awards are you nominated for tonight?" She sighs at herself, playing with my tux.

I told her the best biopic for The Penprint—the best new writer of the year. "Remember when we used to sit at the crib, me on house arrest, boring the shit out of you with these sexy ass scenes. And you were beefing with old girl Breezy 'cause all of my scenes are about her." I said

Smiling, Imani tells me. "Yeah, and I wanted to whoop Breezy's ass." She picks up my wrist, giggling. "I think you're gonna win both of them awards tonight."

See. That's what a woman could do for you; she drives your vibe into the floorboard. Inspires you to feel confident. "I hope so, and they need to let a brother take home some gold. If I don't, I ain't tripping." I shrug, kissing her knuckles.

"If they don't, mama's always gotta pot of gold for you to find."

Laughing, I tug on her thin gown's train with my pinched fingers. "You trying to smash in this car Sam gave me too. I can pull over." I glance over as I'm driving, getting turned on.

Imani picks up my hand and strokes it between her plunging neckline, her chest rising as one of her nipples unravels in my palm. "Do it 'cause this is what you have, Kareem," She said. "As long as we keep our thing...I don't care what Samirah gives you."

"Yeah, sounds good until she buys me a boat. Then what?" I said. Imani scowls at me and the thought of having a boat.

* * * * *

I pulled into the super mansion at the Writer's Gala. Down a straight shot driveway, broad lamps lit the course, leading to an oval entrance. Already parked were more luxury toys, parked in reverse and manned by security guards who inspected the guests who arrived at the event. They wore low-key suits and earbuds and ran the courtyard like a naval strip.

When I parked, a valet came to take the car off my personal. He gave me a ticket, then I strolled around to link arms with my date. "Don't bring it back in one piece." Imani chimes to the young man.

The valet stared weirdly, and I shook my head at him. "I swear."

"How many times have you been invited up in here?" Imani whispers as she holds me.

"This is my first time, so behave, Money." We stroll casually toward what Robb Report scaled as a 19.5-million-dollar pad together. It's complete, if only on this occasion, with the red-carpet trail leading into the mansion, the paparazzi standing near backdrops with sponsors such as Cadillac, Hennessey, Zaxby's, Table Knot Films, Onyx Tape Awards. Of course, Cromartie Productions' cameras were streaking as I let my beautiful manager into the crowd of flashing lights.

Imani smiles like a debutant; mine is more of a dope boy's scowl. Then Ms. Money gave the flashes her "intriguing girl-rock" appeal holding me as she did the arched-back-duck-face. We stalled in front of the backdrops, and as we posed together, I realized Imani, alongside me, wanted to exemplify one log-line: First Lady to the King of Hollywood.

A red carpet correspondent ambushed us as we began ascending behind couples ahead. Asking quick red-carpet questions, we couldn't deflect quickly enough. "Kareem, are you excited about your upcoming nominations? You pulled off the best new screenwriter and best screenplay for your biopic. Tell us about it."

"Whoa!" I exhale; Imani, standing close by like a matriarch. "Um..yeah, it has been an amazing first year in the game. I've had the great opportunity to work with many great people like Samirah, Moesha Seal, and my team at Thicke Management. They all helped get a unique story off the bench, and I'm glad to be here." I replied.

"Are you having any first-time jitters?" The respondent asked.

"Right now, I do, but I plan on getting a drink or two to chill out." I laugh at my mellow remedy.

"You limit yourself to only two and won't win anything."

"Well, I guess I need to call Uber and tell them to pick up my Ferrari." Another punchline comes with short laughter, although the riff is pleasant: I am having fun.

The correspondent guy is wearing one of a hundred black suits and ties. The polished traditional look, which they always tagged with the question, "So you two look great, what're you rocking tonight?" and then the once over with the cameras streaming live around the world.

I check my fresh and tell him. "Oh, you know this is my first award show, so I had to go with a Versace. Keeping it cool like David O. tonight, you feel me."

"Looking good, my brother and I see your date here can go for Selma's Coretta King. Who's this Imani?" He uttered.

"Well, I'm honored to be anything like Mrs. King, but I'm wearing Chanel tonight for this event and Kareem's birthday. So, I'm hoping it'll bring him some good luck." Imani clutches her purse, nuzzling closer to me as she finishes posing in her curvy pink gown.

The correspondent guy engages. "Ah, that explains why she's looking so lovely. How old are ya?"

"Right, but don't ask me how old I am, okay?" I stopped him there.

"Okay, how about you tell us what you did to celebrate this big year?"

"We barbecued and had a balloon fight in my backyard." End of the interview, signing off with a grin and moved on into the mansion. My manager shook her head as we entered the main foyer and checked in with a young hostess.

Attending this gala had a buy-in of $30,000, and aside from the two tickets I purchased for Imani and me, the room was packed with dozens of celebrities, couples, and stand-alone entertainment faces. From conservative screenwriters, producers whom the average person only notices in the credits of a movie, and the actors and stars that grace events like this: because it's writers like us who lend them their celebrity on a pashmina pillow.

Samirah's main section resembled the main floor of a 5-star restaurant. That you, in person, only saw on the lobby floor of an exquisite hotel. It was spacious and lavishly catered, and I noticed a theme to this event: The Prince and his Pastel Dame. The women wore soft summer hues like mint, lavender, puce, and Imani's blush ensemble. They carried the extended trains or went risqué, slaying long gowns with the open-thigh slit hanging out ever so seductively like painted models that made you wish for a lazy eye.

"I should've known you were aiming for sharing threads when you ordered this thing," I said, obliging to the white dinner jacket and pink accents in my Versace suit.

"You look handsome, baby. Where are we sitting?"

As our hostess leads us through a crowd of white dinner tables, I'm also glancing at the seating arrangements. "At the Governor's table near the stage," I say, searching for the table myself.

Suddenly Imani scoffs and grips me. "What a surprise! Samirah paid even the caterer to keep you close." When I look up, I can see ahead of us: Samirah Cromartie.

"I'm one of her best, remember, so chill," I say, clenching my jaws tightly.

"The best at what is all I'm concerned about."

I sidestep behind Imani's dress, so close my slacks feel like a steel Parker scraping against her bumper. I tell her I'm godly with a pen, but she knows I bottom her out with the dick.

"Go to hell, Kareem!" Imani fumes. "I don't want to sit with her."

"Shut up and let's be peaceful for one night. Alright?"

"No." Imani freezes.

"I'll dedicate my award to you if I win." We look at the stage, propped for the presenters, hearing sound scratches from a DJ elsewhere. She knew we were already exclusive without this, but our cuddling like teenagers at a VIP table and her mention on the podium was like petals at her feet.

Imani grunts. "Fine." Then it squeezes me more deliberately, and I begin harboring how possessive women become when considered excellent.

Stiffly, we strolled to our table like prom dates, and I admit my gaze was affected by the mere company of my director. Samirah Cromartie was all diamonds and hand-sewn 3D flowers---her dress resembled some springtime Persian piece that called out for extravagance and beauty, and it made her ass look like it grew in a pear orchard by Yorubians. It made me determine how difficult the night would be from a distance. Coupled with Imani already acting up, there was too much hype in my nominations tonight.

"I'm glad the seats are amazing. I had to pawn the title on my Ferrari to get in." I say, interrupting Samirah as she hosts her crowd of guests as they chat.

"Well, I'm glad you knew how bad I wanted you here tonight," Samirah replies, giving me a severe hug and allowing me to kiss her cheek.

"Of course." Then I glanced at Samirah's fiancé. "What up, Glendall?" I didn't like him, so a nod was enough for us both. I didn't shake up with snakes, and I'd had a fucked up feeling about the guy since he shunned Samirah for signing me. "Y'all remember my lady and manager of operations, Imani."

"Girl...I see Kareem is lucky to have you handling him so properly," says Samirah, hugging Imani.

"I do...but managing him isn't what stresses me out."

Samirah squints at me with a grin. "The stubborn ones are a mess, girl. I love that dress."

"Thank you. It's a.."

"Chanel Haute Couture. Vanessa hit the runway in it a couple of nights ago."

"Um..yeah. You're right." Imani clings to me, stunned as she clears her throat.

Samirah embellishes the way my date showcases her dress and adds. "It's a beautiful dress. They sent me a loose-fitting one last night, but Christian Siriano came through and fixed something up to cup my curves a little better." Samirah tortures me with a pose, which bothers a few. "What do you think?"

Glendall saw me staring at his chick and implied. "Honey, we have investors waiting at our table."

"I know that Glendall. And most of them in the green room getting drunk, okay?" She snaps, bringing her gaze back to me.

"Does anybody know who'll win?" I breathe deeply and tell her how excited I am to be nominated.

"Samirah." Her fiancé calls out again.

"The ballots are booked already. Nobody knows until we present. Just relax, okay?" Samirah smiles and rubs my back. "This was our year. Don't get all nervous on me, Kareem."

Imani winces; I notice, but Samirah gets my nod. "I'm good."

"Critics think that Matthews or Tate will take home best screenwriter this year," Glendall says as we began sitting down at our reserved seats. "Hopefully, Kareem, you'll do our team some good and bring home at least the first-timer's chunk. We put a lot of credit behind you out the gate."

Again I notice Imani staring at me. To measure how hot my blood had flowed when Glendall threw that tidbit of gravy at me.

"Now, was that your Money or Samirah's Money? Because if I recall, it was Sam who saw potential in the new kid."

"As far as you're concerned, we bought cheap, hoping to make our production deadlines. Luckily, you weren't a total skat job."

Samirah seems all too embarrassed, clearing her throat. "Kareem will win. My father knew the correct approach when Kareem brought his stories to our attention." She spoke to her guests at the table with us in a tone of honey and chocolate delight as Imani sat by me. Imani fears she must bond me out of jail tonight for splitting Glendall's brow in public. "That's right." Imani hoots for me.

Along with us for dinner was Nick Cromartie, Samirah's legendary father, whom I've learned to respect as a veteran in this entertainment yard. He was a boss hog studio executive; he wore tailored suits no less, like the brass of Cromartie, and order tumbled down from Nick and exacted in seconds. I knew a gangster when I saw one.

Also, there was Will Childs, who was a producer from the PEN ----Primetime Entertainment Network---the only company that called and offered a block on his station. His viewers wanted guts for primetime; Childs saw Nick only bred risqué, so PEN captured Script Money for evening screenings.

Ziggy Williams flew in from New Line Cinema and currently holds the rights to our international distribution, but he was iffy about the mini-series. Distributors depended on movies, like your cars toppling out of skyscrapers and gory gunplay that could perhaps translate into German or Swedish and still trump tickets.

And Moesha Seal, who came to the event on behalf of Table Knot Films, was the proverbial sister company to Samirah's empire. She was opportunistic and reaching. Seal liked writers under Cromartie's home of fixating dramas. They all held onto some percentage of production, so the team was invited to these galas and expected to announce once the award winners had their awe moments—the end of the gala.

Our table drew a lot of intimate service throughout the night. The servers brought celebrities everything, and champagne came to our sides. The producers and Samirah mingled as if they were used to never needing to touch anything themselves--- more servers poured our drinks. They picked up our plates on cue---while Imani and I seemed to have shakily gotten into the rhythm of living with power players.

"Aw, babe, look. They've got baby squid." Imani giggles at her menu.

"You better not order that bullshit." My laughter erupts in my shoulders.

"Why not? Maybe they cook it better in here."

"Not even some hot sauce and a $10,000 bet will get me to eat that again," I reply.

"Really?" She coos nervily. "I think I can do it with that. Mm, you know I can hold my breath."

"Yeah, you can do it 'cause you ain't the one tonguing your hot ass dragon first thing in the morning. I am, and that's exactly what that tastes like. Your breath, a $10,000 bet, with some damn hot sauce." I joke.

She giggles louder. "Okay, motherfucker!" Imani bumps me, then murmurs. "Remember that when you want inverted sixty-nine in your study chair when you get writer's block." Imani points to her pouted lips. "This..hot..ass dragon breath."

"Babe!" I shush her as I scan the table.

Samirah wonders what's so funny. "You two must treat calamari as a sex dish."

"Hell no. Kareem took me to some hibachi joint, and we ordered a whole bunch of stuff we thought would be sexy feeding each other."

"That's when I found out Uncle Chung was selling stingray shit cakes. It was crazy." I said, Imani and Samirah both laughing at me. Then Imani nuzzles her nose near my cheek, "I promise you, don't order no squid, girl." I kiss her, letting her revel in our heart-shaped bubble together.

"I won't...I won't! How about hamburgers? These look good to me."

I nodded and looked over my menu while the girls chatted.

Imani adds. "It was exciting to see Kareem take me out for the first time. He is trying to live out all the teary moments in his book, and I think it's cute."

"Woman, did you call me "teary" in front of these people?" I declared. "I'm nominated for being a gangsta, a violent ex-criminal with a fucked up rap sheet. Who started from the bottom, like in the old days? I'm a thug, baby! Winning this ain't just no story, baby!"

"Kareem," Imani palms up, pushing me over. "--shut the hell up. You almost proposed that night."

I frown. "For real, that's what we do. Sell our secrets to movie producers."

"Yes, 'cause you acted like that night wasn't special."

"That'd be a great idea, shooting you guy's wedding in some doc-interview style," Will Childs offered.

"How about Morocco? Maybe make it a wild adventure." Ziggy Williams added, gazing at my manager.

Samirah and Imani shook their heads.

"Kareem can't do Morocco yet." Samirah infers.

Suddenly, I seemed calm, less thuggish. "I was practicing. When I bought Imani a ring, I wanted to be ready for the real thing." I admitted.

"Maybe you could sell your Ferrari and get me a nice one," Imani says, instantly causing Samirah and Glendall to stare at me blankly. My subconscious Leo had turned and gnashed his teeth into Imani's flesh, following her loose remarks. Samirah seemed distressed. Perhaps her gift had been an intrusion into our relationship. When she glanced at Glendall, I noted that maybe her fiancé didn't know where the wedge in our date had come from.

My shiny red Ferrari 488GT, your chick bought me.

"Mr. Cashmere, you went and bought a Ferrari with your advance. Man, that's irresponsible." Glendall chastises me. The executives liked Glendall Turner only for his insight; he negotiated comprehensively with networks. He was propulsive and boisterous, be it Cromartie's brand, but I sided with canning the sucker. I felt his sarcasm pushing dangerous breaks in my success.

Against wanting to snap, I say. "I damn sure did. Why'd I go and buy a $320,000 car? Because it makes me feel like a boss. You know what else makes me feel like a boss when I pull my dick out and see a little shit hanging on my balls screaming, 'Ah, ah, don't swing it too fast.' Yeah, for real." The whole table hiccups, chuckling from the roasting. "You know what makes me feel even more like a boss? Every time I see all this ass doing yoga in my living room. Ass so big maybe Ferrari can customize some seats for it." I boast. Imani analyzes the situation between her man and Glendall, clearing the chuckle in her throat.

Inside, I feel he isn't worthy of being Samirah's fiancé, he's a buster, but my boss and I went over that when we first met.

Glendall grins and shoots back. "Pretty steep, Kareem, is all I'm saying." Anger rose inside me like a furnace when he beamed at my lover. "If I had a mill to give away, I'd buy this yoga guru a beautiful engagement ring. Isn't that right, Ms. Thicke?"

I fake a grin carved with a blade. "This woman ain't worth it, man."

Imani scrunches her upper lip. "Boy, bye. Playing with your life is not cute."

Nick Cromartie drew the line with that comment and came in, causing me to gnaw on the folds of my cheeks as he spoke. "So, 'Script Money,' where did this network nickname come from? Sounds like the strip club instead of the viewer's happy hour." He says.

"It was the title of Raleigh,' music label venture daddy," Samirah explained, bringing up her brother, who was the head sound mixer for their company. "Raleigh tried, but his artists all flopped. Even over some great trap beats. He cleaned his roster and wanted to add Kareem Cashmere as an exclusive artist to Script Money."

"But I had my label to handle. Sak Life will always be an independently owned record company run by Imani and myself. Leaving all TV productions to Cromartie and your other investors, of course." I said, watching the board as well.

"We appreciate that, son. You've shown me you're driving to succeed quickly, and I'm glad you're turning this company's flop into a nighttime sensation." Nick picked up his shimmering glass flute, asking to make a toast. Suddenly I felt as if this was my engagement reception to Imani. I was voting on how it took some overcoming before we raised our glasses too. "To Kareem Cashmere, Samirah, and their entertainment brand, Script Money. I wish you both years of successful seasons. Cheers."

* * * * *

The presentation ceremony of the Writer's Gala is half an hour after the dinner party. I knew I had gone through half a bottle of champagne and a pair of cocktails for the vodka kick. Imani had to slow her pace---I was buzzing so good. Either she was driving us home, or we were calling Uber.

I was drunk and giddy for my first gala trip. As we sat for the ceremony, I steeled myself and peered at the mansion's scenery. And the cameras. They seem to be directly in your face when you're drunk. I wondered if homies were on lock in the Macon State Prison watching this show tonight. There were some very sexy bodies prancing around this event---women in tight anything reflexively trumped the TV behind the wall. Maybe if they were watching, would they recognize Kareem Cashmere himself? One of their estranged brothers, who'd they be able to point at and be like, "Ain't that the same nigga who used to be in here?"

My date sat next to me, feeling like a curvy and sable Becky-killer. Imani had been intrigued by our close seats. Our names emboldened on posters on the chairs, the respect I've gained and her dominance alongside me, and how gentle and playful I become with her while I'm buzzing.

She leans over as production crews scramble on stage elsewhere.

"You need to win and show Glendall's stupid ass he'll never be a headliner like your babe."

"Can I beat his ass? Have that little bitch running to Governor McAdams."

"No, Kareem, we aren't gonna think like that, okay?" Imani grabs my chin and robs me of some smooch. "Look at us. He hates us, babe."

I feel my eyelids sagging, gazing. "You think I should take that car back, right?"

Imani stares at me with a smirk. "Wow. I appreciate that it bothers you enough to put me first, babe."

"Do you?" I ask again. "Because you are acting like it's bugging you."

Imani shrugs, wondering. "Mm..three-hundred grand. Could you get me a ring for twenty? Honeymoon in Anguilla." She said.

"Babe, you know I can't go to no damn Anguilla." I snap. "Come on, Money, stop tripping."

"I know, Kareem," she spews. "So stop worrying about me thinking I need you to marry me right now...Anguilla does sound popping right about now."

However, calm as Imani tried to seem---I told her she did. I told her she wanted white shoe polish on the windshield, saying "just married," the little cans on the back of the foreign, and a getaway to the British West Indies. Imani wanted happiness and flustering romance, topped with one Kareem Cashmere, to create her dream wedding. I had a typical American girl next door with big fairytales.

"Yeah, but you don't have to sell your car," She sighs. "I know Samirah obviously would rather you have it than her punk ass fiancé. As long as I control Kareem Cashmere, I'm good. Keep your little toy."

I kiss her drunkenly. "You damn right you run Cash. You keep rubbing this pastel shit on me, and they gone find us both in one of Samirah's rooms butt-ass naked. Keep playing." Imani shields her face as she giggles on, purring.

"Whatever..you wanna slap Money's booty tonight? You better get on that stage and say my name."

"Girl, my dick is so hard I might trip and make you a crybaby like Meg The Stallion," I said as we watched the hosts speaking before us.