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Authors: Méta Smith

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Sex, Secrets and South Beach

BOOK: Sex, Secrets and South Beach
6.82Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Méta Smith

Sex, Secrets


South Beach

Books by Méta

Sex, Secrets & South

Queen of Miami

These Are My

Heaven's Fury

Whip Appeal

Sex Appeal

The events and characters in this novel
are fictitious. Some real locations and people are mentioned, but
all other characters and all events described in the book are
totally imaginary.

Sex, Secrets & South

©2006 by Méta Smith

All rights reserved. Except as
permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this
book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photo-copying, recording, or otherwise without prior written

SmithBerryJames Publishing

Chicago, IL USA

Visit our website

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A letter from the Author

Dear Reader,

Thank you so much for
purchasing this copy of
Sex, Secrets and
South Beach,
formerly published as
The Rolexxx Club
. It’s
my first novel ever published and it really is my favorite of all
the books I’ve written. I’m especially excited to be embarking on a
career as not just an author but a publisher and releasing this
book not just in America but in the UK, Australia, the Caribbean
and Africa.

I hope you enjoy reading this book as
much as I enjoyed writing it, and I hope that you will give some of
my other books a try. Please feel free to drop me a line or network
with me via social media. I hope to meet some of you readers

Peace & Positive Vibes,
Méta Smith
Twitter: @metasmith
Instagram: @metasmith

For my parents, Jesse and
Sylvia Smith,

for all the sacrifices they
have made for me.

For my son, Jordan, for
changing my life.

For my best friend, Angela
Allen, for encouraging me,

and constantly begging me
for more chapters.

And for the readers. You're
the absolute best.


June 2002-Los

ez smiled for the cameras as she walked
down the red carpet of the Kodak Theatre for the awards
ceremony. It had been a long journey, but now she'd finally
arrived. Her career was on the fast track, and she had the most
wanted man in hip-hop by her side. She was young, beautiful, and
successful, rap's newest and brightest star. Her first single,
featuring a cameo by her labelmate and boyfriend, Bentley, had gone
platinum within the initial week of the video airing on BET and
MTV. Her debut album, slated to drop the following Tuesday, was
being shipped platinum and featured tracks produced by Sparks, the
business and creative wunderkind of her label, Titanium Records.
There were also tracks by Mannie Fresh of Cash Money, the Neptunes,
DJ Quick, Dr. Dre, Kanye West, and, of course, her favorite female,
Missy Elliott. The remaining tracks were produced by Dez

Her story had amazed the industry and
the media: a model-turned-rapper blessed with not only stunning
looks but the creative genius it took to go into a studio with no
formal training and produce some of the hottest lyrics and
innovative beats the rap world had ever heard. Her style had been
described by critics as "Missy meets Tupac." Her single with
Bentley appealed to hard-core hip-hop fans as well as the pop

She stopped and pivoted, giving the
photographers great face, and they were eating it up. Their lenses
devoured her with an insatiable appetite, and she tingled inside as
they called out to her, "Dez, over here!" and "This way, Dez!" They
were begging just to snap her photo; it was a far cry from the days
of cattle calls and auditions, and the long hours of being
relegated to the background of a music video. Even when she was the
lead girl in a video, walking a runway, or shooting a commercial
print gig, the feeling had never compared to this. Yes, she'd
arrived, and there could be no denying it.

Bentley was off to the side doing his
own thing, talking to Ananda Lewis, the entertainment reporter for
Black Entertainment Television. Dez flashed a smile at him,
mesmerizing him with her exotic eyes. He responded by stepping away
from Ananda, grabbing Dez, and pulling her close to him.

"Whoa!" Ananda gesticulated at the
spontaneous move and then shook her signature lustrous locks.
"We're now being joined by the lovely and talented Dez, the newest
artist on Titanium Records. Dez, you look great."

"Thanks, Ananda. You look absolutely
fabulous yourself. Is that Cavalli?" Dez inquired about Ananda's

"It is indeed." Ananda did a little
twirl, and Dez grinned.

She knew that the art of winning over
journalists was to tell them how great they were, treat them like
they were a star; make them feel good, and they'll always make you
look good. Ananda laughed and then cut right to the

"Now, there's been a lot of
controversy swirling around you in the short time you've been on
the scene. Would you like to comment on this?" Ananda asked her
this in a very caring manner, but Dez figured it was partially
because of the stroke and partially because she was just a cool-ass

I’d love to, Ananda. But as a term of the settlement, I can't
comment on this case with the media. I
like to say that above all of
that, I do what I do to touch people, to add to people's lives. If
you listen to my music, you'll see that I reveal the most intimate
parts of me. So if you want to know about me, listen to what
can and do say
not what you hear on the streets. And if and when I can go into
more details, you'll be the first one I talk to, Ananda," Desiree
answered, fully poised. She was a natural, born to do

Ananda moved on to speak to Will and
Jada, who, as always had their children in tow. Dez squeezed
Bentley's hand and nodded toward Will and Jada. He winked at her
and gave her a quick kiss that made her heart flutter. She had
often talked to Bentley about how she loved Jada Pinkett-Smith and
how lucky she was to have such a beautiful family.

"Bentley, Dez, this way!"
a photographer yelled through the throng of people vying for the
perfect shot. They paused and posed. There was a flash so blinding
they both responded by rubbing their eyes. Then out of the crowd of
paparazzi there were more blinding flashes, accompanied by loud
pops and followed by screams. Desiree stood momentarily stunned. A
crowd of people stampeded the red carpet, a melee ensuing
Where's Bentley?
was her immediate thought. She attempted to turn
and search for him, but her legs wouldn't move. Then her whole body
went weak, and she dropped to the ground. Dez put a hand to her
abdomen and inspected it through bleary eyes. Her hand was bloody.
She'd been shot!

RT 1



ienvenidos a Miami! Welcome to Miami!
the Miami that Will Smith rapped
about, or the Miami you see in glossy tourist brochures, but the
real deal: the Bottom. Don't be fooled by the palm trees and ocean
breeze. Miami is no vacation. In order to survive, your game must
be tight, and your mind must be right, because if you can't swim
with the sharks, you're bound to drown.

Miami is famous for a lot of things,
from hurricanes to Cubans. But it is infamous for being crooked.
The mere mention of the city brings to mind visions of a
white-suited Scarface and detectives wearing pastel T-shirts with
loafers, busting grimy drug dealers and gun smugglers. Every city
has an underworld, but none as glamorous as Miami's. Only in Miami
can a senator sit next to a drug dealer and a movie star in a club,
kick it like they've been buddies for years, and no one bats an
eye. Only in Miami do drug lords live in huge mansions and serve on
boards of nonprofits, while their wives drop their children off at
school in Lamborghinis and Ferraris, and everyone acts as if it is
all so ordinary. But for all of the shine, there is a shady side.
For every high-powered drug lord living in the lap of luxury, there
is a dread in the projects, slanging dime bags of weed and pooches
of white, waiting for the time and opportunity to make his mark, to
start his own empire or take over someone else's. For every
pampered wife and girlfriend, there's one hustling with her man,
one working for her man, and two trying to hold it down and send
money to be put on his commissary while their man is doing a bid.
For every celebrity there is someone hungrier, grimier, prepared to
go just a little bit further than the last to get ahead.

There are three simple
rules for living
la vida loca
in Dade County. Rule number one: trust no one.
You will have many friends if you're a part of "the scene," but be
forewarned – they aren't real friends. These are the people the
O'Jays sang about in "Back Stabbers": "They smile in your face, all
the while they tryin' to take your place." Those you trust the most
will hurt you the most. Those you keep close want to rob you of
your post. If you've got anything worth losing, anything worth
fighting for, you will put your faith in no one but the Lord
Almighty and yourself.

Rule number two: go for self. Miami
ain't the land of philanthropy; that would be Palm Beach. (And
those shady motherfuckers are another story altogether.) If you're
waiting for your lucky break, your big chance, forget about it.
You'll just end up sitting on the dock of Biscayne Bay, wasting
time. No one is going to do anything for you unless they are
getting something in return, and probably not even then. No one has
your back, so if you don't do you, no one else will. It's fucked
up, but that's just the way that it is. People will offer you the
sun, moon, and stars, but it all has a price. You're better off
doing what you gotta do for yourself, because you will never get
something for nothing, no matter how much it seems that

Rule number three: the golden rule.
This is simple, and it isn't some "do unto others" crap. It's this:
he who has the gold, rules. In Miami, the land of the beautiful
people, it's not about looks, it's all about checkbooks. Put
bluntly, if you have no cash, you will get no ass. No romance
without finance and all that jazz. You've got to pay to play in the
M-I-A. Forget English, forget Spanish. The official language of
Miami is money. If you don't have any, you'd better find a way to
get some, because you have to pay the cost to be the boss. It costs
money to floss.

Miami is the most picturesque field of
dreams for a player to play on. The weak get caught up in the
sideline action or strike out because they aren't focused. They
swing too soon or too late and are thrown off by the roar of the
crowds. But the true players wait for the perfect pitch and then
hit that shit out of the park.

Now, that's what's up. All is fair in
South Florida; sportsmanship counts for nada in this town, so play
to win. And if you can't stand the heat, then stay the fuck outta
Miami, because the mercury is rising, and there's not a drop of
rain in sight.


January 1999

he Rolexxx is probably one of the most
famous black strip clubs in America. Or infamous, take your
pick. It has a vibe unlike any other club, that's for sure. Other
black strip clubs such as Atlanta's Magic City and Gentleman's Club
are known for having the finest women the city has to offer.
They're the kind of girls you see in the grocery store, sit next to
in class, live next door to, work in an office with, or teach your
kids in a classroom; the beautiful sisters you've always wanted to
see naked but couldn't.

On the contrary, the
Rolexxx is famous for being off the chain. There is no telling what
is gonna go down at "the Lex." It's the place that the rapper Luke
from the 2 Live Crew goes to handpick his dancers for his raunchy
stage shows. It's a club where the dancers can wear sneakers after
a certain time because they're working so hard and making so much
dough that they need to rock Air Force Ones and Jordans to stay in
the game. The Lex is like a regular strip club on crack.
Way the fuck out there

The clientele ranges from your hardest
of hard-core gangsters complete with gold teeth and gats to elderly
white men who look like they should be playing with their grandkids
somewhere instead of blowing their retirement check at a strip
joint. The girls run the gamut from your purest-looking,
fresh-faced schoolgirls and businesswomen out to score some easy
cash to the shot-out, bullet-wounded, tatted and inked-up,
gold-teeth, burgundy hair-weave, house-arrest, anklet-wearing
boogers that Chris Rock clowns on in his stand-up comedy

Dewante Reid, star center for the
Miami Suns basketball team, was a regular at the Lex. He was also a
regular at the club's main competitor, Coco's. Dewante was a
regular at all the strip clubs. And when Dewante fell into the
spot, he got it crunk. There was nothing in life that Dewante liked
more than tits and ass.

For Dewante, whenever the season
allowed, it was Monday's at the Rolexxx for "Ho Boxing," the club's
female boxing night, and/or Tuesday's at Coco's, where the ghetto
fabulous to the fabulously average brother went after the comedy
show at the Improv Theater in Coconut Grove. It was doubtful that
his wife knew about his habits, and even if she did, there really
wasn't anything she could or would do about it. She had anything
and everything a woman could want: a phat mansion, a fat bank
account, jewels, gear, and a famous husband. A million women would
give their left tit to walk a mile in her shoes. What more could
she want?

Dewante didn't care about
the tabloids or anything either, because he knew that the only
people in the city that would raise an eyebrow would be the women,
and probably not even them. As a star, he had carte blanche to do
whatever he wanted, just one of the many perks of celebrity. His
team was winning, and that's all that people
cared about. His endorsements
were never in jeopardy because like his childhood idol, Dennis
Rodman, he was already known as a bad boy both on and off the
court. Any sponsor knew precisely what they were getting before any
ink hit a contract. Besides, what red-blooded man didn't like some
good old tits and ass, shaking and grinding on your lap for the
bargain price of ten bucks a pop?

A new stripper walked around the club
asking men if they wanted table dances. At practically every table
she approached, the men said yes. She possessed a pair of firm,
perky breasts, a tiny waist, and a nice butt. Her large, shapely
legs were golden, like she'd been in the sun, as was the rest of
her nubile body. But what set this young lady apart from the rest
were her eyes. There were plenty of chicks in the Rolexxx with
colored contacts in every hue. But this girl's eyes were natural,
and seemed to change color from a clear, hazy gray to topaz to deep
cognac brown, depending on the angle she stood at or the light she
stood under.

As she absentmindedly danced for a
short, balding, ordinary-looking man, her chameleon-like eyes were
fixated on the VIP section in the back of the club, behind two pool
tables, on Dewante Reid. She recognized him the moment he walked
in. But as soon as he sat down, some dancer sank her hooks in, and
she'd been hemmed up in the corner with him ever since.

The object of Dewante's
very special attention was Ginger, a major player in the game. Fuck
what you heard, stripping is a game, and Ginger was a
championship-ring-wearing MVP. Ginger bounced between Coco's and
the Lex when she was in Miami, even though the managers had been
tripping on other girls who'd done it lately. And despite the fact
that nude table dances were five dollars and topless lap dances
were ten, she still managed to clear at least a thousand bucks a
left the club.

For the right price, and depending on
who you were, you could get to know Ginger a little better. Up
close and personal. Most men wouldn't make her cut, as she kept her
tricking exclusive. After all, she reasoned that there were only
five dudes on the court during a basketball game, so she preferred
to limit her roster like the NBA. Seven-figure niggas only. She
didn't just deal with athletes and entertainers and hustlers she
met in the strip clubs either. She was "friends" with businessmen
and even a politician. She preferred to deal with men who had a
great deal to lose. Their discretion was almost always guaranteed,
and they were less likely to nut up and go psycho on her. Those who
balked at her price couldn't afford her, and smart ones knew that a
night with Ginger was an investment in sensual pleasure; she was
worth every penny.

When the mood hit her, she could be
found working New York, Vegas, and even Hawaii. There was plenty of
money in Miami, but she preferred to explore the world and make
money while she did it. Wherever the Super Bowl, NBA Finals, NBA
All-Star Game, or Masters Tournament was, so was she. She was a
free spirit who followed the gravy train. Have thong, will travel
was her motto.

Ginger was elegant. Too upscale for
the clubs she worked at when she was in Miami. Sure, she could go
work at one of those fancy white clubs like Solid Gold or Pure
Platinum. She'd started out at spots like that. But they'd have her
on a schedule. At the black clubs Ginger could do as she pleased;
she didn't need anyone slowing her flow.

"You fine as hell!" Dewante slurred
while running his hand down Ginger's thigh. Ginger stopped him dead
in his tracks.

She couldn't stand Dewante. Every time
she saw him, he was the same: conceited, arrogant, cocksure. Money
and fame had definitely gone to his head, and why wouldn't they? He
could have any woman he wanted.

"Why you so stuck-up?" he snapped.
"You always actin' like you so high-class."

"I am high-class. Recognize!" Ginger
stared directly into his bloodshot eyes. "Do you want another dance
or not?"

"What we at now?" Dewante pulled out
his bankroll ostentatiously and peeled a series of bills

"I ain't one of these green hos in
here. You paid me up front, remember? It was the first time you
pulled out your little bankroll and tried to impress me. So you can
put it away, because I wasn't trippin then and I ain't now. Now, if
you want me to dance another half hour, it'll be another two
fifty." Ginger put her hands on her hips. She was only gonna give
this clown thirty seconds more to break bread or she was gonna move
on with the five hundred dollars of his money she had already

"How you gonna charge that much for a
half hour of your time? Other girls charge by the dance! Your ass
ain't do shit but look at yourself in the mirror," he

"Then why was your dick so hard? Why
were you moaning and groaning like that? Why were you about to
come?" Ginger asked him, suggestively grazing his crotch with her
talonlike fingernails.

"These bitches will dance for me for
free! You know who I am!" he replied cockily to mask his

Who the fuck he think he
is, getting loud on me?
Let me check this motherfucker
right now!

"Yeah, and what, I'm
supposed to get all geeked up or something? Look, I don't care if
you get paid to play a fucking game for a living unless you putting
some bread in my motherfuckin' pockets. This nickel-and-dime-dance
bullshit ain't no money.
know who
am, and you know how I roll. See me when you're
ready to play. Until then, sit your ass on the bench." Ginger spun
on her stilettos. Dewante grabbed her wrist and held it

"You a feisty one, ain't you?" Dewante
loosened his grip a little, "You got attitude, heart." He grinned
at her. He loved women who had a little fire. His wife was mousy as
hell. She thought she checked him on occasion, but all she was
doing in his eyes was nagging.

"Game recognizes game," Ginger
replied. She had this nigga right where she wanted him. The
tough-girl routine always worked.

"How much, Ginger? What's it gonna

"That depends on what you want."
Ginger stepped to him and looked him dead in the eyes. At naturally
five feet ten inches, her platform shoes added another seven inches
of height, making her an Amazon.

"I want you and another girl to come
and party with me," he told her.

"Hmmm. Sounds like my type of party.
Let me tell my friend– "

"No!" Dewante cut her off. "I'm gonna
pick the girl," he told her.

"Fair enough," she said,
not meaning it. She wasn't trying to lick just

." Dewante pointed to the new
girl with the café au lait complexion. Her extremely curly, dark
hair was held back by a thick headband and hung to the middle of
her back.

"Nice eyes. But I don't know her,"
Ginger told him, folding her arms. She wished he would have picked
one of her friends, someone who knew how to juice a trick like
Dewante for all he was worth. For all she knew, this girl didn't
even "date."

"Get to know her," Dewante

"Okay. I'll see what she says. But if
she doesn't want to, who do you want?"

It’s both of you or none
of you," he replied.

What’s so special about
her? Her body? I don't think so. Her eyes? I got contacts, nigga!"
Ginger frowned.
Who the fuck is this

Are you blind? Y'all look
like you could be sisters. It's a fantasy, the two of you together.
She looks like an angel, and I know you're a demon. It'll be

Ginger looked over at the girl. She
did look an awful lot like her, except younger, and definitely
rougher around the edges. Ginger smiled, then opened her mouth as
if to speak. She paused for dramatic effect, then

"I want two g's for the night. I'm up
and out at 10 a.m. and anything over that is another two g's. Got
that? Pay her whatever you want to, but my price is my price. Take
it or leave it."

"Handle it." Dewante sat down and
rubbed the bulge in his crotch, licking his lips lasciviously.
"Five g's for the both of you all night." Dewante knew he was
making Ginger an offer she couldn't refuse.

"Purse first, ass last. Let's get all
the formalities out of the way. Can I get paid?" Ginger wanted to
get her cheddar before he had the opportunity to change his mind.
Dewante gave her a thick stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills.
Ginger thought how stupid Dewante was, rolling with so much cash on
hand. It was a surefire way to get jumped. It was also tacky.
Carrying so much cash screamed nouveau riche. He obviously wasn't
used to having the finer things in life.

But Ginger wasn't stupid.
She hauled ass to confront this girl. There was no way she was
going to let her say no. Not with all that money on the line. She'd
start out low and work the numbers up to $2,500,
if necessary
. This girl
would have no choice but to go along by the time Ginger finished
spitting her game. Everyone had a price. And from the looks of the
girl Dewante had his eye on, hers couldn't be that high. She looked
green as hell. The girl disappeared into the dressing

Perfect! I'll catch her
off guard in the dressing room
, Ginger
thought, following suit. The girl was buying a snack from the
housemother. She quietly sat on a bench, sipping on a ginger ale
and fanning herself.

Ginger pretended to be
refreshing her makeup in
the mirror, but
was checking out the fresh meat's every move.

" Ginger called out to her,
still preening in the mirror. "

"You talking to me?" The girl looked
up hesitantly. She'd heard that aggressive lesbians took advantage
of new girls in the dressing room. She'd avoided making eye contact
or conversation with anyone, choosing instead to focus on the quest
for the almighty dollar.

Sí. Hablas español?
" Ginger asked
her if she spoke Spanish.

BOOK: Sex, Secrets and South Beach
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