Zipping himself up, the man decided to go for it and get a good look at girlfriend. Tender then got a good look at him too. His neatly cornrowed hair caught her eye first. She noted that they complemented his manhood rather than making him look feminine like some guys with braids. His blue baggy jeans, oversized white T-shirt and spotless all-white Nike Air Force Ones gave him a thuggish appearance and a handsome one.

This man just happened to be Quinton “Q” Phelps, the CEO of Prestige Records.

Q was so low-key that his artists looked like they had more money than him. That suited him fine. He was too comfortable with his position to feel threatened by anything or anybody. He was also a stone-cold hustler who also happened to hail from North Philly. He had cleverly taken his illegal profits from the streets and founded an upstart record company. If he had one weakness, it was women. The more scandalous the female was, the better. Bad girlz were like forbidden fruit to him—the more he was told he shouldn’t be with them, the more he desired them.

Bad girlz like his baby’s mother. Their sex sessions were some kind of wonderful, but she was a drama queen, constantly creating problems for him. If it wasn’t one thing it was another. And he wasn’t even dealing with her, relationship-wise, like that anymore. One moment of passion was causing him a lifetime of pain.

Tender had bad girl written all over her too—with her fine self, he thought. He felt himself getting aroused. “You ain’t got no shame in ya game, huh?” he said to her.

She was already pulling herself together and heading for the basin to wash her hands. Another man came in and jumped back for a second when he saw her. “Pleeezzzze! You a big boy. I ain’t got nuttin’ you ain’t seen before … Whateva ya name iz? I told you I had ta go bad. What you thought, I wuz playin’ or sumthin’?” The man looked back and forth between Phelps and Tender. She went on. “I ain’t got no problem wit you lookin’, jus don’t touch.” The man almost forgot why he’d come into the rest room. Tender finished drying her hands like it wasn’t nothing.

With a grin plastered across his face, Q followed Tender out of the door, admiring her shapely behind.

“Damn, sis, you caked up back there. Huh?” he said in a laughing manner. “Fa sheezie! …”

Tender was not the least bit amused.

“Yo, sis …”

“My name ain’t sis,” she responded.

“My name is Vanessa …” she joked. “Vanessa Del Rio.”

“Dat’s funny! You got dat one,” he stated. “C’mon now, stop playin’. I’m serious.”