Read Sex, Secrets and South Beach Online
Authors: Méta Smith
Tags: #Erotica, #Fiction, #Mystery, #Romance, #Suspense, #Thriller, #Urban
Desiree watched the girls
ahead of her in the line audition. Some of those broads had to be
on crack if they believed they had what it took to be in a video. A
skinny, pale redhead busted out in a full-on cheerleading routine.
She even ended it with a backflip. What the fuck was she thinking?
This was a rap video casting, not the auditions for
Bring It On
.
Another girl ripped her dress off and
began spasming all over the place in her underwear. She obviously
thought she was doing one hell of a sensual striptease, because she
kept on grooving after the casting directors screamed out, "Next!"
three times. Then they had to call security to escort her out of
the hotel. She reeked of liquor as the rent-a-cops dragged her past
Desiree. She demanded to know right away if she had been selected,
then threatened to key everybody's car. Crazy bitch!
The girl directly in front
of Desiree in the line surprised the shit out of everyone by
standing on her head, splacking her legs open, and gyrating her
hips. It was a move straight out of the shake booty club. After her
little freak show she hopped up full of confidence and proudly
strutted out of the room like she just
knew
she had a part on
lock.
Desiree couldn't have paid for a
better time to audition. The clowns before her would only make her
look better, if that was possible. And unexpectedly, Bentley and
his crew came breezing in, causing a commotion. Looking extra crisp
in a Sean John shorts sweat suit, a fresh white T-shirt, and
immaculate Jordans, Bentley drew all eyes to himself. The crazy
cheerleader shrieked and hounded him for an autograph. How
unprofessional! He politely declined, saying he'd have to sign
autographs for everyone if he did one, and he was really only
stopping by. He gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and any
disappointment she may have felt vanished.
Bentley took a seat at the table with
the casting directors. His boys nudged each other, taken aback by
Desiree's beauty. Desiree made eye contact with Bentley and felt a
charge of electricity flow through her veins like a current.
Bentley was fine as hell. He stood at six three, with a flawless
golden brown complexion, a muscular frame, and a hypnotic smile
complete with dimples. And he was tatted up and slightly rugged,
just the way she liked her men. Desiree thought to herself how much
she wanted to grab ahold of his freshly done cornrows and tongue
him down. She felt her nipples harden and licked her lips
sensually. Now was not the time for subtlety.
Bentley grinned at her, his straight
white teeth sparkling as bright as the baguettes in the platinum
cross dangling from his neck. She dug that he was fly without being
overly flashy. Men who were too flossy were usually selfish: they
spent all their dough on themselves. Desiree couldn't do shit with
a man like that. But Bentley was just her speed.
"I'm Desiree," she stated to the
casting directors before handing over a registration sheet and her
comp card.
"Turn around, please," a stoic,
middle-aged white man demanded. Desiree pivoted slowly, making sure
they drank in every inch of her curvaceous body.
A young blond man operated a video
camera and a radio simultaneously. He cued up the music, and
Bentley's latest release boomed from the speakers. Desiree grooved
to the pulsating beat, her body moving fluidly as running water.
Desiree was aware of the impact she was making and took full
advantage. She shook her hips with sensual power, exuding pure sex
appeal.
Judging by the casting
directors' faces and by the way Bentley's crew was talking shit
among themselves, Desiree
knew
the lead part would be going to her. Bentley gave
Desiree a wink, and she thought her heart would explode out of her
chest. Desiree wanted to stay and flirt with him, but she didn't
want to seem too eager. She had to let him know from jump that
simply because he was a star wasn't going to change her game. He'd
have to come correct, just like everyone else. She wasn't some
green girl with the naïveté to think that she could sleep her way
into a video; she was a professional. The casting couch was no
myth, but women sleeping their way to the top happened far less
often than most people thought.
Desiree left the audition confident
and happy. There hadn't been any competition, but she spotted
Ysenia Cruz, her sworn rival, coming in as she was on her way out
the door. Ysenia was a bitch! She'd hated Desiree ever since
Desiree beat her out to win a bikini contest at the All-Star Cafe.
Petty shit. The prize was only five hundred dollars, but Ysenia
acted like it was more like five thousand. Ysenia cut her eyes at
her and made a bunch of slick-ass comments under her breath every
time she saw her. Desiree wanted to beat her ass, but she knew that
Ysenia really wasn't worth it. But if she ever stepped out of line
and jumped bad enough to actually say something to her face,
Desiree was going to stomp her ass.
But not even Ysenia could spoil
Desiree's mood. As far as the video was concerned, it was a wrap.
And as far as Bentley was concerned, Desiree could feel that this
was the start of something big.
D
esiree hit the shower as soon as she got
back to her spacious one-bedroom apartment. She loved living
in Surfside because it was perfectly located. She was a short
fifteen-minute ride to Aventura Mall, a ten-minute ride to South
Beach, and within walking distance of Bal Harbour, the elite
shopping center that housed some of the world's most exclusive and
expensive shops.
Desiree's crib was hooked up lovely
with white custom-made rugs, a plush white leather sectional, and a
pink bedroom fit for a queen. She even collected art and had
several avant-garde pieces on display. It looked just as good as
any apartment in a magazine, and she loved coming home to it. After
shacking up with Ginger and then Dan, it felt good to have a place
to call her very own.
Desiree switched on the CD player and
felt the sounds of Dave Hollister soothe her as they pumped crystal
clear through the Bose surround sound system. Desiree went to her
bedroom and took off her clothes. She sighed as the air from the
cooling vent licked her overheated body. She wanted to roll a
spliff, pour a glass of wine, and relax, but didn't have time. Her
major sponsor, K.G., was in town, and coming to scoop her in about
an hour. She had to be breathtaking when she saw him, because she
planned on hitting him up hard. Her birthday was coming up, and she
planned on being laced lovely.
Desiree met K.G. over Memorial Day
weekend, and he'd been open ever since. He was in his thirties,
from Detroit, and paid out the ass. The old-school hustler type,
real mellow and smooth, he told her he owned a couple of
barbershops, beauty shops, and record stores in Detroit, Lansing,
and Flint, Michigan, but Desiree knew that it was all just a front
for his main enterprise: hustling. Desiree figured that out quickly
because he always claimed to be in town on business. What the hell
kind of business did he have to do for a barbershop or record store
in Miami that he couldn't do up in Michigan?
Desiree didn't care though, because
K.G. kept her pockets fat. He laced her with jewels and cash and
was always a good time. The downside was he was a stone freak, a
little too freaky for Desiree's taste. Still, the payoff was worth
it. Desiree knew that all men were dogs or freaks or perverts, so
she didn't expect much more. She figured if there was such a thing
as a nice guy, he probably wouldn't want her anyway.
A guy like K.G. couldn't talk shit
about her lifestyle, past or present. K.G. respected her hustle. He
was grimy his damned self, so what could he say about her? She
wasn't hurting anybody; she was just doing her thing. Some guys had
a real hang-up about dating a "video girl." They'd get jealous or
accuse them of fucking all the rappers, but K.G. seemed to get off
on it. And he was always generous in showing his appreciation.
Thanks to K.G. and a few other high rollers, all Desiree ever had
to do was dress, rest, and wait for the next modeling job. But
lately, that hadn't been enough. She was yearning for something
more.
Desiree knew that the video thing
wouldn't last forever. Pretty soon the next hotgirl would be on the
scene and someone would put her on. Most girls only worked about
two years if they were lucky before either folks got tired of
looking at them or they got tired of being eye candy and moved on
to something else. Desiree planned on staying in the limelight. All
the rappers–Lil' Kim, Foxy, Eve, Trina, even Missy–would have to
bow down and give her props. She planned on a total takeover of the
industry: music, films, fashion, the whole gamut. She was going to
be a mogul like P Diddy or Russell, paid and powerful.
Within forty-five minutes, she was
dressed in a black Prada sundress with ruffles at the hem and some
matching Prada sandals. For accessories she rocked smoke-colored,
rimless Prada sunglasses and a small black Prada purse. Though
Desiree loved high fashion and haute couture, she hated being a
walking mannequin. She preferred to mix and match quality vintage
pieces with modern designers for her own signature, funky style,
like she saw all the stars do, or have her clothes made. But K.G.
had bought her the outfit from the Prada store in Bal Harbour a
month before and wanted to see her in it. So Desiree did what he
wanted, because as long as he was hooking her up, his wish was her
command.
K.G. arrived shortly thereafter in a
rented Aston Martin Vanquish from Xotic Cars by the airport. They
had all the fly whips, from Lamborghinis and Ferraris to Porsches
and Hummers, and for the right price you could ride right. Desiree
felt a wave of excitement as she got in the car. This was how she
should always roll, she thought. She greeted K.G. with a juicy kiss
and a warm hug. He liked it when she fawned all over
him.
They dined at Smith & Wollensky.
Desiree adored sitting on the restaurant's deck and watching the
speedboats and yachts pass by. The evening air was crisp and cool,
a far cry from the mugginess of the day. She sipped on chardonnay
and engaged in minor chitchat with K.G. Mostly, he commandeered the
conversation, boasting on his mansion in Southfield, his fleet of
tricked-out Caddys, and his collection of rainbow-hued Mauri
gators. Desiree felt herself both disgusted by his cockiness and
arrogance and fascinated with his down-to-earth Midwest style. He
was an asshole and the boy next door all at once. But one thing was
certain: he knew how to treat a woman.
They cruised the strip until around
midnight, riding down Washington and Ocean Avenue Drive, flossing
the Aston Martin. Desiree relished all the attention she was
receiving, posing and preening like there were cameras rolling. It
was obvious that K.G. loved having a trophy like Desiree by his
side by the size of the smile plastered on his face the whole time.
When they rolled up to valet parking at one of her favorite spots,
Club Level, Desiree was in seventh heaven. Monday nights at Level
were always off the chain. The line snaked down Washington, but
Desiree and K.G. bypassed it and went straight to the velvet rope.
The club's doormen were handpicking people to enter, but welcomed
Desiree with open arms and warm smiles. Desiree always brought in
big spenders, so practically every doorman at every club on the
beach was always happy to see her. They knew they were going to get
broken off properly by her escort. Desiree noticed the C-note K.G.
discreetly slipped Fabrice, the host, impressed by his confidence
and attitude. He was a man who knew he deserved the best and made
sure that everyone else knew it too.
Hip-hop pumped through the club,
putting Desiree in a partying mood. She made a beeline for the
ladies' room while the VIP hostess led K.G. to their table in the
VIP section of the main room. K.G. liked to be in the middle of all
the action, so he preferred that location to the several other VIP
sections in the enormous venue.
Desiree hoped that she wouldn't run
into Bentley. It wasn't that she didn't want to see him; she didn't
want him to see her with the next nigga. Hustlers were one way but
celebrities and athletes were much different. They had another set
of rules, and Desiree didn't play that game anymore. She lived and
breathed the streets; she didn't have time to fuck with studio
gangsters and bright suit-wearing ballers always competing with her
for shine. Those cats couldn't handle a bitch like her, though she
was going to make an exception with Bentley. He seemed like the
real deal, not a faker. They could be a power couple, but with a
Bonnie and Clyde twist. Yeah, Bentley was a nigga she could ride
for.
Desiree arrived at her and K.G.'s
table to an ice-cold bottle of Cristal. Desiree calculated how much
money he'd spent on her so far. At least two to three hundred at
dinner, another six hundred on the bottle, and he'd more than
likely buy another one. Desiree wondered how much money he made. He
was definitely a major player in the dope game, and not some street
corner hustler. Ironically, K.G. was low-profile on the Miami
streets. Usually, the serious hustlers all had a name for
themselves, even the ones from out of town. A few of the girls she
knew who were kicking it with heavyweights in the drug game had
never seen him before he started going out with Desiree, and didn't
know shit about him.