I smiled. Obviously, the nigga didn’t know just how deep my throat was. I ordered me two double-shots of Ròemy, peeped my girls gettin’ their drop ’n pop on out on the dance floor, then followed dude to a corner table. As soon as we sat down, he got right to the point.

“Dig, how you feel ’bout makin’ some real cheddar?”

I tossed my drink back. Although I was already sittin’ on cake thanks to a sudden windfall, a bitch was still boostin’. It was cute and it kept me laced, but that shit wasn’t pullin’ in no real paper. I wanted more. A chick like me, bein’ an opportunist, needed to step her game up and stack some real cheese, but pushin’ or holdin’ or transportin’ somebody’s weight wasn’t ever gonna be it.

“What ya talkin’?” I had asked, raisin’ my naturally arched eyebrow.

He leaned in real close, wrapped his thick arm around the back of my seat, then spoke into my ear. He said again he was diggin’ my style, then told me ’bout a “work-for-hire” operation he ran, and how he was lookin’ for a thorough chick to be on his team.

“Hmmm,” I said, takin’ my second drink to the head. I studied dude’s swagger. He was ugly as fuck, but was dipped and paid. The nigga smelled like real money. And I wanted in. I peeped his Rolex, smilin’. “Order me another round, then let me sleep on it. A bitch don’t like to make any decisions when I’m gettin’ my drink and smoke on.”

He grinned. “Yeah, you definitely the real deal. Here’s my card. Hit me when you ready.” He slid me his business card, then turned to step. He turned back around. “Yo, ma, you gotta name?”

“Katrina,” I said. “Kat for short. And you?”

“Kashmir. But the streets know me as Cash.”

When the bartender returned with my drink, I smiled, liftin’ my glass. “I’ll get at ya.”