Hustle & Flow.

It was brick in North Carolina. I’m talking thirty-five degrees. The only thing that was keeping niggas hot was Dreamville—the gentlemen’s club. I dropped shorty off there a few hours ago to do her thing, you know, to make her rounds and whatnot. I had a few rounds to make myself. I’d like to say that I’m an organized man. I had every ounce of product pre-cut, zipped, priced and categorized. Whatever the demand was, I had the supply. I always kept it professional. That’s what I was known for. I had no time for mishaps or miscalculations. Time was money and money was time.

The night was still young and I made more in an hour than I usually made in three. I made a stop on sixteenth and third to switch cars, then continued my route. The block wasn’t hot with cops so we all took advantage. We bartered, negotiated, and everybody was left satisfied. I only planned to sell the heavy shit, but a few partners wanted nickel and dime bags too, so I sold it for petty cash to clear up some space. My prospected profit was damn near tripled and I was more than content with that, so I and others gathered everything together to wrap the night up. All clientele was punctual as we met back up at the cabaret once business was handled to keep things smooth and under wraps.

Kassidy was performing center stage when I made my entrance. We made eye contact and her eyes smiled at me, meanwhile the rest of her face was on seduction mode. I knew she was ready for me to come back and swoop her up. One dance was enough to cover her for the week—sometimes even two weeks, yet she went ahead and entertained twice for the latecomers until I doubled back. She didn’t enjoy it, hell, neither did I enjoy her dancing in front of strangers, but I didn’t belong to her and she didn’t belong to me. I met her as a hustler, and didn’t have to turn her into one. We both knew that what we were doing was temporary, and neither one of us were proud of it, but we bit the bullet and kept pushing through.

Security knew my face and who I was there for, so I made it backstage to meet up with her, hassle-free.

“Zay,” said Kassidy. “I’m ready.”

Man, I loved to hear her say that shit. She struggled carrying garbage bags full of money from the back door to the car until I looked at her and told her to stop—as usual. She saw how serious I was, so she did. I took each bag, threw them in the trunk, and opened the door for her. As we headed to the house, she began evolving from who her customers knew her as, which was “Ginger”, back into Kassidy. She pulled her false eyelashes off and took a makeup wipe out of the glove compartment to wipe her face clean.

 We made it back to the spot. Moving like clockwork, I managed to make one trip bringing the bags inside. Kassidy rushed to the shower and must’ve scrubbed her body with an African sponge and Dr. Bronner’s soap over three times, seeing how long she took. And yes, I know the products she uses. So what? She always told me how disgusting she felt afterwards and how she couldn’t wait to bathe, so I understood.

While she was in the bathroom doing her thing, I began emptying my own weight and counting loot. I calculated our monthly bills and expenses as well as our estimated earnings. Shit was looking up. The money came fast, and so did the bills, which is why we hustled and agreed to be roommates. We started making more than ends meet. We just weren’t about that paycheck-to-paycheck life and had no problem being misunderstood. That’s where the love came in; in the friendship that we both found in each other.

She finally came out into the living room with me after her “me time”, I guess. The clean aroma of her almond soap she had used filled the entire apartment. I watched her walk to the kitchen and eyeballed her the entire time. I know she could feel it. Chick didn’t even know the half about my true feelings for her, so I had to follow suit and keep it “G” like she did, although we both knew what it was. We couldn’t let shit slip between us. We’d both get killed. I mean, she’s my homeboy’s woman and I was told to keep shit steady while he was locked up, which is how she got into this stripping gig in the first place—to help support herself while he was away. I’m supposed to play the “brother” role between the two, but ain’t shit brotherly about me wanting her in the worse way.

“I’m making tea. You want some?” she asked as I snapped out of my daze.

“Nah…I’m aight,” I answered.

Damn, she even looked good in sweats, a long john, and tube socks. Her face was bare and her freckles were prominent. She had a head full of red hair that was her natural hair color—hence her dancing name, “Ginger”. I wondered if it was red down there too. I couldn’t help but think about it. I’m a man with an attractive ass female roommate who I’m secretly in love with, but can’t have. Ain’t that some shit. She placed her mug down on the coffee table and emptied her bags, preparing to compute. The money counter expedited the process as she’d rubber band each hundred. I admired her ambition. She saved and didn’t spend her money on frivolous things so she could make her way out of the environment that she was working in.

“What you looking at?” she asked, flirtatiously. She formed a half-smile with the left side of her mouth curved upward as she finished up her count.  

“You already know,” I replied in shyness, but realness.

Kassidy loved to act oblivious about the tension between us. “Actually, I don’t.”

“Well, I guess we’ll have to keep hustling together and going with the flow until you do.”

I picked my shit up off the floor and headed to my room for the night to avoid my self-inflicted frustration. I knew I left her mind-boggled; staggering between loyalty and love.