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to a spot on the map and we would be there just like he said. I knew we would go shopping for the trip and we would spend the entire time together. He would focus on us and make it known that what we had—what we was building—was important.
    It was like there was two of him, Terrence the boyfriend who was so completely on point when we were together and Make$ the public persona on the road. But I was no secret in the industry: I was on his arms at parties, premieres, and red-carpet events. He never denied me in interviews.
    As soon as he went on tour his slick ass started acting shady.
    “Hey, Luscious, I love your chocolate ass, a’ight,” he said, his voice deep and rough. “That’s on some real shit. I know you miss me. I miss you too, but I gotta make this money. You know more than anybody the load I’m carrying on my shoulders. The people relying on me. Yo, the only thing I know for sure is you love me and I know you got my back. Ya heard me?”
    I nodded as I licked my lips. “I love you too, baby,” I reassured him.
    “I’m tired. I’ll call you when I get up, a’ight?”
    I nodded again and then remembered he couldn’t see me. “A’ight.”
    The call disconnected and I was left in the middle of the battle of Terrence vs. Make$.
    That two-sided shit of his was a complete mind-fuck.

3
     
    One Month Later
     
    The sound of loud talking and laughter woke me from my sleep. I popped one eye open with the rest of my face pressed deep into lavender-scented pillows. I felt like shit. Worse than shit. Head was pounding. My body felt like a truck rolled over it ten times. My eyes were too puffy and heavy to open.
    Last night we got fucked up and this morning I felt completely fucked over.
    Make$ and I stayed up all night, drinking, smoking, and talking. The morning after was never as much fun as the night before.
    I stretched my body against the bed before I kicked off the covers and hopped out of bed. Like always when my man was home for more than a day our bedroom was fucked up. Clothes and sneakers were everywhere. Shopping bags still yet to be unpacked were stacked in a corner by the window. A dirty plate with remnants of whatever he ate last night and cigarette ends sat on the floor. The underwear and socks he stepped out of still sat on the floor in front of the bathroom door.
    Shit. This mess had my damn name written all over it. That ninja didn’t even try to clean up behind himself. He made it clear those were part of my duties as his wifey. And from the noises coming from the living room, he had his bullshit as entourage in there making more of a fucking disaster zone for me to fight.
    Fuck this shit.
    Yes, Make$ took damn good care of me, but I wasn’t his maid. When he moved me on up, I thought I’d get treated more like Weezie than fucking Florence. The fuck?
    Clearing my throat, I stretched before I kicked a stack of glossy photos his publicist sent over for him to autograph. I was passing the mirror on the way to the bathroom when I did a double take at my reflection. White crusted spots were on my stomach and breasts.
    Make$’s nut.
    I smiled. It looked like glaze on a chocolate donut, with my smooth, dark-skinned complexion. Last night I sucked that dick so good and then just before he nutted, I jacked him off and let his cum rain down on me. Fuck it. What I won’t do another bitch will. I’m simply not having that.
    I took a quick shower and made a half-ass attempt at cleaning our bedroom. There really was no need until his ass went back on the road because that nigga was comfortable in mess. With a chick like Peaches as his mother, that’s all his ass probably was used to.
    Dressed in a pair of sweats and a baby tee, I padded barefoot out the bedroom and down the hall. The smell of weed knocked me in the face, and the air just below the ceiling was filled with silver haze. The living room was packed like a club. Niggas was everywhere, and Make$ sat on the leather ottoman in the middle