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McCaskill. I broke up with him in my junior year, because he was a cheater, and not that great of a lover, anyway.
    Byron kept giving his package away to other girls with a big-assed bow on it, like a damned “dick in a box.” I told Byron he wasn’t Justin Timberlake or that Andy Samberg from Saturday Night live, and he needed to keep his junk in his pants if he wanted us to stay together. He didn’t honor my request.
    The kicker was, I caught him, and some skank passed out at his place one Saturday morning. So what’d I do? I took a tube of super glue and attached his hand to her boob. If I could’ve done it without them waking up, I would’ve superglued her hand to his morning wood, too.
    When I saw him before at Wicked, I spent a couple of hours moving around in the club trying not to run into him, because I think he was still raw about what I’d done to him and that heifer. After Jada, myself and our friends counted down to the New Year, we bounced, and I never went back.
    As I walk into Wicked tonight, I almost shit a brick. Who’s the first person I see on the dance floor rubbing his junk up against the backside of a different skank? Blake—I mean Byron. Just as I’m about to turn to avoid him, he sees me, and actually smiles. I’m like the proverbial deer in headlights, frozen in place. He whispers something to the skank and makes a beeline for me.
    I slip out of my shoes and get into my ass-kicking stance. I recoil when he leans in, and whispers into my ear. “Keisha, you look damn good in that dress.”
    Shocker! That was so not what I was expecting. He picks me up and swings me around, and I have no choice but to throw my arms around him and hang on, the silver shoes dangling in my hands behind him.
    “Where you been?” He asks.
    “Um, I been chillin’, jus’ working with my girl Jada tryin’ to get our recording studio up and runnin’.” I speak ebonically to put him at ease, and flash him a nervous grin.
    “Hey, no hard feelings about that shit that went down before, a’ight, Boo?”
    I’m dumfounded, but I play it cool and say, “A’ight.”
    “Hey, I’mma bout to kick it on stage and open up for Princess Danai, but I wanna buy you a drink later, okay?” The way he pronounces Princess Danai’s name sounds like Princess Danny.
    “You know her name is pronounced Duh-Neye, right?”
    “Danai, Danny, same difference,” he says.
    I give up. “Where’s Princess Danai right now?”
    “She up in VIP with the owner of da club.”
    I hold up my lanyard. “You think this’ll get me in?”
    #
    Wicked is packed. Princess Danai is red hot in the industry and has been for a decade. I find my way to the VIP lounge upstairs which is guarded by two gigantic bouncers. I flash my pass, but they don’t budge.
    “Don’t let me have to tell Princess Danai you didn’t let her girl in.” They look at each other, and then step aside and allow me to enter.
    The VIP lounge is like a whole ‘nother club in the club. I wend my way through the somebodies, and the nobodies pretending to be somebodies until I see Princess Danai in a roped off private lounge area with her entourage in the back. She’s personally flanked by none other than Tristan White, and another white guy I don’t recognize. Tristan looks bored, and I shiver thinking he’s recognized me, but his eyes shift to the door, as if he’s looking for someone else. Then I remember, I’m wearing my natural hair down with a fuck-ton of makeup, and he might not recognize me from that distance.
    I go to the bar and order a drink. Hopefully, I’ll be able to lure Princess Danai away somehow, so I can get a chance to talk to her alone. The sooner the better, too, because I want to get out of Wicked before Blake, I mean Byron, finishes his set.
    I’m slurping down my drink too damn fast, and I realize too late I haven’t had anything to eat or drink since lunch. The alcohol goes straight to my fucking head, and I’m reeling on the bar stool