Chapter 1: Mood 1 MOOD Tonight, I need something stronger than weed. It hit me all at once. After being the coolest, nah, the coldest bitch on the planet, it was like, I was getting hit, by an intense heat wave. Then anger overtook me. Fifteen fucking years on lock and finally free. But right now in this moment, I''m more hateful than grateful. Fuck the bullshit. Hate has its place.

Suddenly famous, I''m out of my element. I''ve been all Brooklyn, da peeps and da streets or the cells. Upon my prison release in January this year, I caught a reality show starring me. The bag was big. Course I was amped about it. But somehow today. Fame gotta bitch feeling like comfortable is the most uncomfortable feeling. Blank mind.

Blank soul. It''s false, empty, and vacant. I realize I''m addicted to struggle and hustle, moving and maneuvering, fight and fury, action and reaction, pressure and tension. That''s how I got here in this dark club they calling a lounge. See, even the scene and the lingo switched up on me. No matter what they call it though, it''s where I need to be right now. It''s hot. The walls are sweating.

Every body is body to body. No air, the scent of perfumes and colognes and funk and strong liquor and scented smoke intermingling. Inhale weed, exhale frustration. Music, louder than thunder. This is how I need to party, with hood bitches who can''t pay their rent, but got $150 mani-pedis, $500 weaves, and $700 shoes. Fuck cameras and papparazzi and the rich crowd of fame, and children of fame. Whether they young or grown, they all be insecure, suicidal, fake, and psychotic. They perform and talk too much about nothing.

Think they know everything but never did nothing real. Don''t know the real deal about shit and whine like newborns bout this and that. My party needs to be packed with niggas and bitches who ain''t got a damn thing to actually celebrate, but who keep on pushing, rock the spot, make it pulsate, rhyme, sing, scream, or just mouth the lyrics, eat the beats, and make moves that look like seizures, or others who just lean back or glide and ride the rhythm real smooth. I party with the ones who got no real reason to be confident, but still be the boldest, baddest, and the coldest. I love that. I crave that. But, in the twenty-first century I find myself chasing a feeling I used to feel. So much so, I am wondering if the feeling I felt before is no more in existence.

Somehow, wafted away in the wind. But I''m still here . Ain''t found one man who can make my pussy pump, soul jump, or hips hump. I want to feel something. Make my eyes widen. Make me cry. Make me laugh so hard my stomach aches. Make my nipples plump, my thighs shake, my toes curl.

Bite me. Fight me. I''ll bite you back. Excite me. Make me cum six or seven times in one night. That''s the only way for me to feel right and alive. Cause I am alive and love that fact. But neer nigga got that look, style, clout, or that energy.

I know what it looks like. When I see it, I''ll snatch it, trap it, and make it mine. But I ain''t seen it day or night, night or day in the short amount of weeks that I have been free, awake, and active. My bodyguard is with me. My investors insisted. They guard me like gold. My new accountant told me to look at each of my body parts as units of wealth. My time and each and every second as representing a certain dollar amount that I choose as my price quote.

Make all pay to play. That''s the only way to prevent people, agents, businesses, and companies from wasting or interrupting my time, which equals my potential earnings. When I think of my name, Winter Santiaga, as a brand, and my body parts each separately as a unit of wealth, that gives me the power to sift out the diamonds and throw away the ordinary rocks, he says. I''m on my private time now, although I''m mixed in with the public at this club. I mean lounge . Dancing and drenched. My mood and my mind are swirling inside of the music. Don''t even see what nigga pushed up on me.

I make my bodyguard stand at least six feet or six bodies away from wherever I am. I tell him, "play dead." I don''t want him to be a cooler to my hot or my heat or my hunt. He''s in my employ. He has to do what I say. I''m his boss. That kills my desire to mix it up with him, even though he''s all muscle. I don''t want my new love or my husband to be under my command.

Then when he''s coming for me, I won''t be able to tell if it''s because of money, lust, admiration, or love. I need it to at least be for lust for sure. A man''s lust makes my lust multiply. It''s okay if he admires me, long as he ain''t acting like a fucking freaky fan groupie or stalker. I mean I love my fans, but I need the man I choose , to not be a fan or a stalker. I need my man to have his own mind, schedule, and schemes, his own money and things, his own style and swag, Word up! I need my man to have 21st-century legit business, sprinkled with a half kilo of 20th-century murder energy. I laugh to myself. But, I''m serious.

Just then, in a flash, or should I say a glance, I spotted an unusually pretty bitch seated at the bar. I''m not about that girl-on-girl action, but I''m definitely about that beauty. I''m it. But I see myself every day. So, therefore, I''m drawn to other unique, beautiful people and things. So I walked over. "What you drinking?" I asked. She cut her eyes at me.

So I said, "Bitch you by yourself! I''m by myself. So what if we the baddest bitches in da club." She broke out in laughter. I could only tell because of the way the red club light lit up her smile. The music devoured the sound of her laughter. The rough, raspy voice of Jada Kiss rhyming and the Brooklyn flawless flow of fashionable Fabolus sent bitches into a frenzy. The beats through the mega speakers caused the floor beneath my feet to feel unsteady. With one pretty finger, she tapped the bottle seated on the bar top next to her glass.

The angle of her hand positioned for me to see her I''m better than the best bitch Rainbow Sapphire bezeled, factory set diamond flooded, yellow gold, beautiful black-faced Daytona Rolex Chronograph Automatic, woah. Costs almost a mil. A piece that only a chick associated with top hustler or the president or the king or queen of some country or a nigga that rules the military would wear. "D''Ussé," I saw her lips mouth. Then her eyes searched me like she was asking if I know the liquor. I''m thinking yeah bitch . It just debuted, a big money collaboration between Jigga and Bacardi. Then she used her pointing finger to call me in closer and yelled in my ear, "I can buy my drinks.

Just pay for yours." I gave her a look like of course bitch . Then I flicked my fingers at the bartender. I pointed to her bottle. Then I pointed to myself to let him know, I''ll have what she''s having. I pulled out two racks, from my thousand-dollar stacks, and placed them on the bar top. Had my drink in my hand in a jiffy. With her booty on the bar seat and back to the party crowd, she was tapping her foot on the lower level of her bar stool and gulping her Cognac.

I was sipping mine but then I figured, take it to the head so I could hurry up and fill it up again. After my second drink, I was feeling more than nice. I know when I''m nice. When I''m thinking less and feeling more. She shifted sideways on her bar seat and was facing me now. Her green eyes lit up like lightning bugs from back in my childhood days on the Brooklyn block when we tried to catchem and sneak peaks at them lighting up in the palm of our hands. The slant and shape of her eyes, plus the green, gave her an advantage. If I spot the man I been hunting for and I''m side by side with her, he would still choose me , I told myself.

My beautiful brown doe eyes and naturally long black lashes should never be taken for granted. And even though females with green, gray, hazel, or blue eyes get a headstart, the sum total of each of my body parts, including even the dimple in my chin, knocks every next bitch out the box and I know it. She pointed her finger at me then at herself. "Let''s go!" I saw her lips say. I didn''t say nothing back. Just widened my pretty, big eyes like, Where? "I got a next spot," she said. "I''ve gone as high as I''mma go here." She spoke into my ear.

When she pulled her face back she had a nice smile and pretty white even teeth. I stood up instead of answering her back. So she got up also. I like a bitch who could drop 2 g''s on a bottle, and leave it behind for the vultures to devour. Now that we are both facing the crowd, we can both see that the niggas in the club could now see us beneath the red light where we are standing. We can feel the niggas bout to move forward towards us. I already know I am not drawn to any one man in here. However, my eyes landed on my bodyguard, who had me square in his iris.

Meanwhile she must of saw my eyes lingering on him. She grabbed my hand and pulled me in to her. "Bitches over niggas," she said. I pulled out of her palm and hand signaled my bodyguard. Of course he caught my meaning. We had practiced and used it enough for the past couple of weeks. He turned and pushed his way through the crowd, moving in the opposite direction of where me and her were standing, and headed to the back door. She turned and gave me an are you coming or not? look.

I gave her a look back. We both stepped at the same time in our stilettoes towards the front exit, our hips swinging and pretty legs and thighs moving, our hair swaying and our titties bouncing. A blast of summer wind rushed our faces once outside. Compared to the lounge atmosphere, hot summer wind is like air-conditioning. Feels good. She reached into her Chanel clutch and pulled out her iPhone. "Beejoo pull up," she said, to who.