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while he was out of town.
    Goldie tossed her oversize clutch onto the passenger seat before looking at me over her shoulder, her shades still in place and shielding her eyes. “His management heard about the shows and didn’t even realize that me and Make$ met through you,” she said with ease. “He made an offer and the money was too good to turn down. Fuck that.”
    I nodded like I understood even though my mind was racing as I opened the door to the Jag. “Good thing I quit working for you, huh?” I said. “I don’t think Make$ want his girl up onstage like that.”
    Goldie shrugged. “You good?” she asked, still looking at me.
    I knew damn well she wasn’t checking if I was full from my meal of garlic shrimp and yellow rice. Before I could answer her truthfully I had to do a little gut check for myself. Did I want my friends to dance for my man? Dancing onstage wasn’t stripping but I knew damn well Make$’s manager, Chill Will, wasn’t hiring Goldie and the crew because they could dougie they ass off.
    I had to remember that Goldie didn’t want Make$. I couldn’t even see them together, plus she could be my eyes and have my back to make sure my man wasn’t on a straight pussy mission when he was away. “I’m real good,” I assured her, feeling my worries drift away.
    Goldie nodded before she slid into her Lexus and drove away with a brief toot of her horn.
    It wasn’t until I was behind the wheel of the Jag sitting at one of the million lights along the stretch of the Ironbound section that it hit me. Make$ didn’t even bother to ask me if I wanted my friends dancing for him or to answer my text. . . .
    A horn blared behind me and I cut my eyes to the rearview mirror to see some big dude in an SUV behind me. I shifted my eyes back ahead to the green traffic light before I pulled off, deciding he wasn’t worth me even flipping his swollen-neck ass the bird.
    Besides, wasn’t no need taking my mess and stress out on some nondescript Negro. Wasn’t his fault that there was anything I’d rather do than drive to our two-bedroom apartment in the Twelve50 luxury apartments. Wasn’t his fault that there wasn’t shit waiting for me but another lonely-ass night.
    The towering streetlights lining the downtown Newark street flickered on as the sun faded. The sidewalks were filled with people finishing up their shopping and rushing to their cars or waiting at corner bus stops for whatever bus got them closer to home. Newark was a smaller version of New York with just as big a heart.
    As I drove the Jag into the parking garage next door to the regal-looking high-rise we called home, I picked up my BlackBerry and called Make$’s phone again, knowing even as I dialed his number that I was wasting my time.
    “I’m somewhere making money. No time to talk. Get at me.”
    “Terrence, this Luscious,” I began, meaning to use his given name to make sure he knew I was testy as hell as I climbed out of the car with my bag in my hand and popped the trunk. I grabbed the glossy shopping bags from my mini shopping spree at my favorite boutique in Montclair. Soon the five-inch heels of my sandals clicked against the hard concrete as I left the parking structure.
    I made my way into the lofty apartment building with the phone pressed to my face with the same urgency I felt to hear from him. “Yo, I haven’t talked to you all day. This shit is damn bananas. You know? I can see not answering when you practicing or performing, but that shit is not all day, Terrence, so why you playing? Why you keep acting fucked up and shady when you touring—”
    As I noticed the concierge stare openly in my face from his spot behind a large wooden station in the middle of the grand lobby, I bit back the rest of my words and gave him a polite smile. The Twelve50 was a long way from the apartments in the other wards across the city—in more than just distance. It was a stylish building for young up-and-coming professionals in