Baddest Apple

by Nisa Santiago

  Corey’s face darkened as he tried to sort through his options. Visions of getting shanked in the shower were all too real.

  “Drac and Bubba, they on your payroll?”

  “And the nearly twenty men you thought held allegiance to you.”

  Corey gave a nervous chuckle. “Money doesn’t buy everything.”

  “But it does, though, and a million dollars and then some bought me your men’s loyalty.”

  A bitch was handling the infamous Corey Davis, the legend who had come up with Nicky Barnes, Frank Lucas, and Bumpy Johnson. “I underestimated you.”

  “They all do.”

  Corey exhaled. Fuck it; he couldn’t live forever. He asked, “How long do I really get?”

  “You can live as long as you allow me in your life.”

  Corey was puzzled. His whole face showed his bewilderment. Apple continued to explain. “Your son wanted us to be close, and with him gone, I would appreciate it if you got to know me. You have no son; I have no parents. Maybe we could have each other?”

  “I hate you! That will never change.”

  “Good, keep that same energy ’cause everyone loves a challenge. I could have never respected you if you had folded. I’ll see you in a few weeks, Pops. I’ve left money on your books.”

  With that, Apple tossed deuces in the air to Drac and Bee and headed out of the visiting room.

  Today, she would show mercy.

  2

  Touch sat at the poker table expressionless and glanced at the hand that he was dealt. He had ninety thousand dollars in chips riding on his latest hand—three of a kind. Seated across from him were three strong opponents who carried the same blank look as his because each man was skilled at high stakes poker. The high-end chips spilled across the poker table were a small fortune to most. It equaled a small hill of glittering gold, and every man at the table was ready to mine it all.

  Touch had a lot of money riding on this hand, and though it was hard to read his adversaries, he felt he had a winning hand, and Touch was ready to call their bluffs and go all in—every poker chip he had on the table was on this one hand. It was now or never—no reward without risk. Touch had lost four hundred thousand dollars throughout the day. If he lost this hand, it would be over for him.

  Touch mainly supported himself by playing in high stakes poker tournaments; it’s what he was known for. It was instinctual for him, gambling—and over the years he had won big and he had lost big. Touch had flown to Las Vegas yesterday with the twenty-five thousand dollars buy-in. Ten hours later he was up nearly three hundred large until he lost most of it. A few hours of sleep and a quick shower, and he was back in the game.

  His palms were itching, sweat beads trickled down his back, and his heart fluttered as he flipped each card. He was so close, and yet his fate could turn on a dime. Poker was a game of skill and luck, and on day two, he didn’t feel lucky. Maybe he should have cashed out, but the million-dollar potential payday was similar to how Greek mythology described the sounds from the sirens luring the sailors to their deaths. He just couldn’t walk away. There was nearly a half-million dollars in front of him that he wanted to leave with. All four men’s cards were revealed. Touch’s three of a kind was impressive, but he lost to a flush.

  Fuck! he cursed to himself.

  His ninety grand disappeared from his sight. Touch pushed back his chair, stood up, and removed himself from the table. He had a good run, but he still lost. What he needed next was a drink. He marched toward the bar with his head up and his ego still intact. You win some, you lose some was his attitude.

  At the bar, he ordered a Whiskey Sour and downed it like it was water. He ordered another one. Losing nearly five hundred thousand dollars in one night, it would make a saint get drunk. But Touch knew that he would recoup what he lost by landing another job—and soon. He lingered by the bar for a moment and scoped out the area. Touch loved Las Vegas and its motto—what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

  The casino was packed like usual, filled with bright colors and loud noises. The slot machines were heavily occupied, with most players doing long stretches dropping their mortgage money and kids’ college funds into those mesmerizing coin guzzlers. There were flashes, glows, beeps, and chirps coming from all directions. It was a Disneyland to many people, but the thrills were riskier.

  Touch downed his third Whiskey Sour, and he spotted her nearby with her eyes on him. He wondered if she was following him. His first glance at the woman was at the poker table, watching him lose a lot of money. She was an R&B singer with a crossover pop following and had a hit song on the radio. Her moniker was Birdie, and she had a voice like Ciara, a body like JLo, and beauty like Beyoncé. She was the perfect package—a beautiful star. Touch knew her career, and he knew that she probably wouldn’t go far because she wasn’t Beyoncé.

  Birdie was needy and insecure, and though she had a hit song on the radio, she was still looking for a come up. She needed a man with some long paper and a powerful presence because she felt she was getting fucked by her manager, her record label, and her producers.

  Birdie had followed Touch around all night, thinking he was cute with an edge. She hoped he would notice her. She eyed him at the poker table and watched him lose tens of thousands like it was counterfeit. Birdie figured there had to be a lot more of it somewhere. He had to be wealthy.

  Touch decided to shoot his shot. He walked toward the sexy songstress and asked, “Why are you following me?”

  “Excuse me?” Birdie feigned shock. “I’m not following anyone.”

  “A nigga got eyes.”

  Birdie seductively bit her bottom lip. Her round, expressive eyes framed with long false lashes could grab any man’s full attention. “Oh, yeah? What do you see now?”

  “I see a lot of fun,” he said thoughtfully.

  “I see.” She smiled.

  Touch had started the spark, now he was ready to set shit on fire. He’d lost at the poker table, but he was winning inside the casino. Birdie was a pretty girl. She was the girl that a nigga would cut off his right arm just to have sex with. And he had her undivided attention.

  “Since you’re stalking me, why don’t you buy me a drink?” he asked.

  She chuckled. “Oh, I’m supposed to buy you a drink?”

  “Why not?” He wasn’t serious. He was just engaging in flirty banter and wondering if she would let him hit it tonight. “I figure all the money I spent on my hair and nails to look this good should get me at least one free drink.”

  Birdie took a couple steps back and looked him up and down skeptically. She cocked her head to one side and finally said, “You look a’ight. You can order one drink—but not top shelf. Those cuticles are looking a little rough.”

  They both laughed.

  Through the excitement and noise, Touch called the bartender over. His deep voice commanded attention.

  “Yo, let me get a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Rosé champagne.”

  The bartender nodded.

  Touch turned to face Birdie, and she had a look of sheer panic on her face. He could see that her mind was churning. All the seductive looks had come to a quick halt, and the diva came out. He was amused. There was no faster way to get a female’s juices to dry up than by asking her to pick up the check.

  “Why you so quiet?”

  Birdie cut her eyes. “I’m not.”

  “I’m Touch by the way. What’s your name?”

  Dryly, she replied, “Birdie.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  “Birdie is all you need to know. I like to keep it casual,” she snapped.

  Her mood had done a one-eighty. Touch watched as she eyed the bartender like a hawk. He could tell she was trying to decide how she would handle the situation when the five-hundred-dollar bar tab came. Touch continued to try and engage her in chitchat, but she was less
responsive. Birdie watched as the cork was popped on the bottle, placed in a chilled bucket of ice, and subsequently began making its way toward them.

  “Birdie, did you hear me?” Touch reiterated.

  “What?” she asked. She hadn’t heard shit. Birdie was feeling played at the moment and hated that she couldn’t ever find her voice to stand up for herself. She had less than sixty dollars in her wallet, and all her credit cards were maxed out. Maybe there was one card that might not get declined, but if it did, she was sure the situation would make it to The Shade Room. Birdie had one hit song and was on an independent record label. She had long ago blown through her advance, perfecting her celebrity image. The clothing, Benz, human hair weaves, lace front wigs, jewelry, thigh-high boots, stilettos, new apartment—a whole gamut of expenses. And then her record label sent her an exorbitant bill for studio time, beats, producers, album release party, vocal and dance lessons, publicity, and marketing. Financially she was worse off than before she became famous.

  Touch thought he could see the color draining from her face. It wasn’t that serious, was it?

  Just as the bartender was placing the bottle in front of them, he felt Birdie about to take flight. Calmly he put his hand over hers while reaching for his wallet. “How much?” He could physically feel her acquiesce.

  Touch pulled out his credit card and paid the tab, and instantly, the energy shifted. He filled both flute glasses and handed the lovely lady one. “So, Birdie, you sing, right?”

  She grinned, showing the pearly whites. “I do. My album dropped last month. You buy it?”

  “I did not.”

  “Well, what you waiting on? Take out your phone and download it from iTunes.”

  “Relax, superstar.”

  “You too cheap to pay ten bucks for a classic album?”

  Touch chuckled. “Cheap?”

  Within seconds, Birdie’s champagne glass was empty. She took the initiative to refill her own drink. After taking another large gulp, she continued. “Yes, cheap. What does a girl have to do to get support in her career? Fuck for it? You should want to support a young, black female artist in a man’s industry. All that money you lost and you make ten dollars an issue?”

  This time Touch refilled her third glass. “Drink up. You seem a little thirsty.”

  Birdie allowed the quip to linger in the air momentarily. She was trying to decide whether this stranger had just insulted her. But the yummy champagne had her feeling less sensitive. By her fourth drink, she was ready to fuck. He was cute, charming, and he smelled nice. Touch was grown-man sexy, and she wanted in. Birdie had gotten lost in his smoldering eyes, thick eyebrows, and his strong jawbone. She did want him—maybe for life.

  “What hotel are you staying in?” she asked. Touch’s response would determine how she wanted her night to end.

  “Bellagio suite comped.”

  “You get comped out here?”

  He nodded.

  “Because you’re a professional poker player.”

  Touch shrugged. He was bored with her and the conversation. Birdie was pretentious and not at all how he thought she would be. Unwisely he believed the image she had created of this fiercely independent woman. Her hit single was all about female empowerment.

  “Do you always play in million-dollar tournaments?”

  “Birdie, I’ve been working for nearly two days straight. When I’m off the clock, I don’t wanna talk about work.”

  Seductively, she asked, “Then what do you wanna do?”

  Birdie was about to pour her fifth drink when Touch stopped her by gently placing his hand on hers. “I think you’ve had enough.”

  She jerked away. “I know my limit.”

  Touch nodded and stood. He hadn’t taken a sip. “Enjoy the rest of the champagne. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  She panicked. “Where are you going?”

  “To my room.”

  “Well, I can go too.”

  “You come wit’ me to my room, you’re getting fucked.”

  Birdie grabbed the almost empty bottle into her small hand and stood up too. “Exactly.”

  Touch didn’t smile or look thrilled when she agreed to go with him to his room. He carried that same straight-faced expression he had at the poker table. He walked, and she followed, like a sheep following the shepherd. Birdie had a hit song on the radio, but tonight, she felt like she was selling herself cheap for a potential shopping spree in the morning to a cute and intriguing man with deep pockets. It was a desperate move.

  Touch wasted no time inside his casino suite, as he thrust himself against Birdie, taking her into his arms and kissing her passionately. She didn’t resist. He was aggressive, but she was too. Birdie was horny and wanted to get fucked. As they kissed, Touch undressed her, removing her clothing piece by piece. Her body was remarkable—perfection from head to toe, and Touch could feel the beast inside his pants coming alive for her. He grabbed the lube.

  “Come on now, don’t insult me,” she whispered. “My pussy stay wet.”

  Birdie stuck her two fingers into her wet cave and began pleasuring herself as Touch looked on. He was shirtless but still had his pants on. Quickly he pulled off his pants, and then his boxers as she masturbated. It looked like he had a tree trunk between his legs. Birdie gasped at the sight of his fourteen-inch erection. She was taken aback by his porno-sized penis.

  “I know,” he sheepishly uttered. “You sure you don’t want the lube? It helps.”

  “I’m not some fragile bitch. I can take some dick.”

  Touch didn’t know if that was true or if it was the alcohol talking. He reached for a Magnum condom and rolled it back until it stretched, looking like a fat bitch in spandex. It was the biggest dick she was about to fuck, and when Touch positioned her on her back against the bed and spread her legs, she took a deep breath and readied herself. And as expected, she had a hard time handling his massive erection. It felt like her vagina walls were stretched to the max, and her pussy was about to pop. She grunted and bit down on her bottom lip intensely as Touch slowly penetrated her.

  “Aaaah . . . oooh . . . oh shit!” she cried out.

  Touch could rarely lose control in the bedroom with many women, so over the years he had worked on this technique; soft and slow if he wanted to have an orgasm. He couldn’t fuck hard and fast or else they’d scream, “Stop!” So he had to basically make love to one-night stands—which confused these women. Soon he had Birdie purring and grinding her hips, yearning for more of him.

  “Fuck me,” she moaned.

  “Like this?” Touch asked as he sank deeper. His strokes were deep and gentle, and he wasn’t even halfway inside of her yet. Already, she could feel his mushroom tip against the back of her wet cave with her legs clamped tightly around his waist. Touch was enjoying it too; the look of ecstasy on her face turned him on. Her soft moans and groans made him want to please her. And he did. Birdie had multiple orgasms and eventually called out his name in pleasure.

  She exhaled, spent. Birdie was physically depleted as she cuddled under Touch’s strong arm and drifted off into a deep, restful sleep. Meanwhile, Touch lay on his back and stared aimlessly at the ceiling, reliving how he’d fucked up each hand at the poker table.

  With Birdie snuggled against him, Touch fell fast asleep.

  Three hours later, his eyes popped open. He wasn’t a man to sleep for long. It was his standard—three to five hours of sleep. Touch woke up refreshed and was ready to start a new day. He let Birdie sleep for a minute while he went to shower, washing away her scent from his skin. After he toweled off, he ordered up room service. Coffee for him and a full farewell breakfast for her. Touch prayed and then got dressed. An hour later, he pulled the cart into the room and tapped Birdie on her shoulder.

  Groggily, she woke up with an instant attitude. She wasn’t a morning person and needed fr
om eight to ten hours of sleep. She was stirred awake, looked at him, and mumbled, “Baby, I’m not ready to fuck again yet. I need some time.”

  She rolled over to go back to sleep. Touch became annoyed. He tapped her again, this time rougher—a sterner poke and maybe she would get the hint. Her eyes popped open, and it was evident to him she was angry.

  “Birdie, I ordered you some breakfast, and I would like you to eat it and then go,” he said frankly.

  “What are you talking about?” Birdie’s scowl was deep as her eyes scanned the room and settled on the breakfast cart.

  “I got a game today, and I need to focus,” he lied. He hoped Birdie wasn’t a drama queen.

  “Are you serious, nigga? You can’t be serious.” She hoped he was joking—bullshitting her. There was no way he was kicking her out of his room—not her. Birdie? She was a pop star, and she had been nominated for a Grammy for Best New Artist, and she was voted New Artist to Watch by Billboard magazine. So, there was no way she was getting fucked, dumped, and kicked out of a hotel room all in one night. Birdie knew she was a wet dream to most men—a fantasy they jerked off to.

  “I don’t want any problems, Birdie. You know, I like to keep it casual,” he said, repeating her remark from the night before.

  “Keep it casual after you fuck me!” Birdie exploded and leaped from the bed with hostility. She was tired of being taken advantage of. “You know what? Fuck you! You should be lucky that you got to fuck a bitch like me, you fuckin’ groupie! This is premium pussy right here.” Birdie tapped her twat. “You trying to handle me like I’m some fuckin’ one-night stand—like I’m some cheap fuckin’ whore!”

  Touch stood there unfazed by her hostile attitude and her angry words. He had heard it all before. Women were very complicated, and he didn’t pretend to understand them. And he didn’t force her to have sex with him; it was her choice. Nor did he make her any promises. Where was it written that sex came with cuddling for the night and future commitments?