CHAPTER ONE
'Hustle Game'
On the fringe of a boisterous crowd, engrossed with a televised basketball game, I was sitting alone at a table for two in a secluded corner of the bar, knocking back a shot of Crown Royal, straight, no coke or ice to water it down.
No big surprise.
Alone.
A glass of Crown Royal in my hand.
At this point, the two were practically a way of life for me.
The attitude inside was friendly and warm. It was one of those high-class bars located on the first level of a five-star hotel, in Chicago. A place where people and money gathered and played. Where the money was old but the people were not.
There was a tone here: folks who want to be left alone are left alone. Those who want to chat get chatted with.
I sat there sipping on my Crown. Watching. Observing. I'd been here at least a dozen times. I was almost a fixture here. I knew the crowd. Almost like family. And knew from my previous visits, something involving either women, sports, or money was constantly being discussed.
Especially when it came to the men.
You could tell each by their body language. When it came to a discussion about women, their bodies leaned against the bar, sort of relaxed, or they sat at tables with their elbows perched, heads bent, as they whispered all kinds of vile shit, wearing devious smiles.
When it came to sports the voices were loud and challenging. When it came to money, they melted in their seats with their chests swelled, fingers interlaced, appearing knowledgeable.
The women on their arms were usually dime-pieces, trophy-women, more like hand puppets-smiling, laughing, giggling-at shit they had no clue about. All the while hoping for a decent payday at the end of the night. Or at the end of the date. Or session.
Or whatever.
Makes me no-never-mind.
I didn't start this game nor would I be the one that ended it.
My glass was near empty and just like clockwork, the waitress came over to me, a pretty little blonde thing with a great smile and an even greater ass. I told her to hit me with another shot of Crown Royal. An old school drink. I got it from my dad who had gotten himself killed nearly ten years ago doing something he shouldn't been doing. He was a seasoned drinker and now so was I, with a stiff wrist and an easy swallow to prove it.
Wetting my lips with another sip of Crown, I scanned the crowd around me. Taking in my obscured family. There was no need to put on airs. So I was dressed in a pair of black fitted jeans, a black molded pullover sweater, with black gators on my feet, appearing to be a man just leisurely killing time. But my agenda was different; I was hoping to come across that perfect woman.
A dumb one.
Desperate, eager, lonely, brimming with low self-esteem, one I could easily win over with a warm smile, an understanding nod, some intriguing conversation, a few soft lies, a little hand-holding or that occasional rub on the back. And, if need be, I could even supply a shoulder to cry on, tissue and all.
Whatever the moment called for.
But it came with a price: money.
Aside from selling residential and commercial real estate, this was my second job. My side hustle. I guess you could call it a hobby. I was a habitual womanizer. And I was pretty good at it.
At thirty-two, I still had a few good years remaining to exploit my craft. I was told I was a good-looking guy: tall, trim and solid, a bit on the buffed side. Brown skin, brown eyes. I kept my face clean-shaven, and my hair, black and neatly-styled, was cut short. In addition, I had a smile that women couldn't resist-couldn't seem to look away from, and one of those voices you could hear coming, which made women shake, quiver, and melt.
I considered myself the ultimate package. Full and complete in every way. The walking billboard for male sexuality, in and out of a suit: masculine, confident, dominate-I oozed that shit through my pores like a lemon being squeezed.
It was the sole reason why I got into this game. This semi-lucrative side hustle. I could use women easily. I had what it takes; I could see it in their eyes. They all looked at me hungrily, circling, like a starving jackal-at times trying to appear unfazed but damn near drooling.
No matter where I was or went-whether it was subtle or blatantly obvious-I saw want, desire, and lust in their expressions, in their gazes and gestures.
But like all good things, Father Time had a clock ticking on me; loudly, and lately all my luck has been bad. A culmination of real lousy months. I didn't have time to bullshit-nor did I have time to be wasting on women with attitudes, or women who just wanted me to blow their backs out, especially the young women who may or may not be just out of their teens.
I needed that certain woman.
One who has some serious pocket change stashed away-maybe a decent 401k that she could tap into. A mortgage she could borrow from. Or better yet, one who was married, with a generous husband pulling down a nice income, who was off doing his own 'thang', who had no qualms on who or how his wife spent his money, or her free time.
I'd had a few women like that. Unfortunately, the set up always ended up taking a nosedive: the husband found out, couldn't deal with it and threatened to cut the wife off dry-the financial fallout would be devastating. Or worse still, when things became too personal with the women I was seeing; when the lines of the relationship became blurred, the angles of the agreement less defined, the rules indistinct, causing the women to try to own me-trying to tell me how to come and go, when and where we should hook up-on their schedule, and that wasn't happening.
Not in my lifetime.
Finally, it was the women who became sexually obsessed with me. Hooked! for a better choice of words. I understood why but this was way too much wasted responsibility for me to handle.
They had sex toys for that shit.
But I always kept my head in the game for new prospects. For the life of me I had no idea why I was like this. I guess it was just something I like to do.
Had to do...
And I was committed to doing it-there was no way I was going to miss out. Which at times, caused me a few sleepless nights.
That was my sacrifice.
My compromise.
For now.
But not forever.
Without warning, a thunderous rise coming from the basketball patrons glued to the television screens, lit up the entire bar. It stayed that way for a while, making it impossible for me to think.
Making me feel all that much more.alone.
Once again, I cast a glance around me, taking inventory. Nothing. Not a damn thing. I knew it was time to leave. There wasn't a single woman in sight. The only prospects were a cluster of college girls giggling and falling all over each other while taking selfies.
Nothing useful here.
But as I was in the midst of settling my bar tab, I spotted a small, petite, Black woman, appearing to be in her late sixties, maybe early seventies. She was dressed in a powder-blue suit that I wasn't sure, but suspected, was a genuine Chanel. A triple strand of jewels circled her neck. Her hair was bleached white, short and perfectly cut. She looked mixed; her skin was the color of creamed coffee, almost beige.
I could tell she'd had some work done. Her face had that overly pulled look that came with too many plastic surgeries. Almost to the point it had been pulled so tightly that it seemed molded to the bones beneath.
The lie didn't stop there; she had enough makeup on to fuck up a good suit jacket, and wore layers of fake lashes and blush. She also had a bright, scarlet mouth with oversized, plumped lips, like she'd just swallowed a live beetle-obviously accompanied with a pair of enhanced tits-several times over. She reminded me of those Hollywood celebrities way past their prime trying to look young but instead looking like they could be on an episode of Botched.
As dazzling as she thought she was, standing dead in front of the bar for everyone to see-especially the single men, no one seemed even remotely interested in this solitary woman.
But I was!
I saw her as easy prey. A mark. Her vainness was mine to exploit. I waited awhile to make sure she was alone. After fifteen minutes or so I came to the conclusion that she was. I drummed my perfectly manicured nails on the table and decided to make my move. I had a game plan. I would introduce myself to this old bag of dog chow-this pig with lipstick-and run my usual line of beautifully-wrapped, hand-delivered, velvety bullshit.
Hey, what can I say? I was at it again. And? What of it? We've all done shit to get shit.
Killing the last of my Crown and then popping a mint into my mouth, I rose from the table and strolled casually towards her. Right away she saw me...
