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easy-going girl and he definitely didn’t want to lose her. She’d been a beacon of light for his carnal yearnings on many a dark night. He held his head in his hands, trying to figure out what the hell had made him go ballistic on Buttercup.
    Trying to get his bearings, Reed stood up, tucked in his shirt. He gazed at the leather belt uncomprehendingly, as if it had come to life and acted in such a vicious manner on its on accord. Confused, he quickly threaded the belt through the loops on his pants.
    “How much do I owe you, Butter?” He felt completely disgusted with himself, but he spoke in a casual tone. He sounded cheerful, actually, as if he were inquiring about her fee for giving him something as normal as a haircut.
    “Yo, nigga, I don’t want shit from you!” she shouted. “You better save your money ’cause after I let the police take pictures of the bruises on my ass, I’m gonna sue you for every cent you got!”
    Reed sighed, more in response to his own insane behavior than to Buttercup’s empty threats. He pulled out all the cash in his pockets. “Here you go, Butter. I have eighty-nine dollars, but I’ll give you some more the next time I see you. All right?” He put the money on top of the junky dresser.
    “Next time?” Buttercup blurted, still sequestered under the bed. “Ain’t gon’ be no next time, you sick muthafucker!”
    “Take it easy, Butter. I’ll see you later,” he said, as he playfully kicked the bed. Then with a lame smile plastered on his face, he put his hand on the doorknob and slowly pulled it open, but before he closed the door behind him, he gave the bed that sheltered Buttercup one last regretful look.

Chapter 6
    C hanelle Lawson was not a prostitute. Using the name Sensation, she danced exotically, gave halfhearted couch dances, but was steadfast in her refusal to engage in sex with any of her customers. Her benefactors paid for her company at dinner, the movies, or whatever, but she always let them know in advance that she was not a prostitute.
    The club owners and girls she worked with were aware of her moral standards, and thus only invited her to gigs outside of Lizzard’s that were of the highest caliber—events where she’d never be expected to perform sexual favors for pay.
    So when Lexi, a willowy blonde co-worker with big fake breasts invited her to dance at a bachelor party that paid two hundred and fifty dollars an hour plus tips, Chanelle didn’t hesitate. Well, she did hesitate for a few seconds because she had a date with her so-called boyfriend, Malik.
    But Malik wasn’t really her boyfriend; she just allowed him to think he was. He was Stone Allen’s cousin. However, they looked so much alike people thought they were brothers. Malik was in the Allen inner circle, which included perks such as access to Stone’s cars, great seats at Sixers games, and VIP passes to just about everything that was anything in the city as long as Stone didn’t want to go. And the fact that Malik never knew if he could get tickets to high-profile events until the last minute was the exact reason why she didn’t consider him her real boyfriend. He was just fill-in; someone to fool around with until the real thing came along.
    The man she would eventually marry wasn’t going to be pushing someone else’s whip; he’d have his own Bentley, Porsche, Hummer, or whatever.
    Chanelle rode to the bachelor party with Mandy, another bosomy blonde. Mandy pulled onto a tree-lined street somewhere on the Main Line—Narberth or Bryn Mawr, she wasn’t sure. Chanelle had only recently become acquainted with the ritzy Main Line through Malik, who often took her to his cousin’s sprawling estate.
    Sadly, her visits to the celebrated NBA player’s lair were not formal invitations. In fact, she’d never even met Stone Allen. When the Allen family went on trips or vacations, Malik was delegated the task of housesitting the mansion. Chanelle didn’t mind helping Malik look after