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Another dancer was sitting on some nigga’s lap in VIP whispering in his ear while his hand disappeared between her thighs. Security stood close enough to see everything but far enough away not to fuck up anybody’s fun.

Bartenders were pouring.

Money was everywhere.

Perfume, weed, liquor and pussy had the whole building smelling like bad decisions.

This was Freckles.

My shit.

Mine and Tyler’s.

And after seven years of hearing about it through phone calls and visits, I still had moments where walking through this motherfucker hit different.

Security nodded when they saw me.

“Lev.”

I nodded back.

The elevator required a key card after ten, but I swiped mine anyway and hit B.

The doors closed.

And for some fucking reason, the second shit got quiet, Samantha popped into my head.

I leaned against the elevator wall and sucked my teeth.

I could still see her standing against that wall in her house.

Flushed.

Breathing hard.

Looking at me like she knew she was supposed to tell me to get the fuck away from her and couldn’t quite make herself do it.

Then that downstairs door closed.

If that nigga would’ve been five minutes later, I would’ve fucked his wife.

Simple.

Would’ve bent Sam thick ass over right there and had her trying to keep quiet with them kids upstairs.

That was where the shit was headed.

And the wild part was, Sam knew it too.

There wasn’t no liquor to blame that time.

No Playroom.

No naked motherfuckers walking around putting ideas in her head.

She was sober.

I was sober.