The five men made their way through the club, which was damn near crammed. Half-naked women were strutting around, drinking or offering lap dances while the men gladly gave up their singles. All throughout the room cats were saluting Bad Blood. When word got out that they were in the house, the girls turned it up. It was nearly ten minutes before they were able to commandeer a table in the far corner.

“See that there, my nigga?” Lex asked, throwing his arm around Lah. He turned the youngster toward a chocolate thing with an ass that looked like two Halloween pumpkins. “That’s what you call a two-pump chump.”

“A two-pump chump?” Lah asked, not catching on.

“Two pumps in that big ol’ ass and you bust,” Pain explained.

“Like a stone chump!” Lex added.

The men exchanged laughter and filed into the booth. They were barely seated for two minutes when a waitress came over to take their orders. She was scantily dressed in a black skirt that barely covered her ass. She greeted them all with a warm smile, knowing that the young rappers would tip nicely. After taking their orders, and ignoring the fact that Pain kept touching her ass, the waitress went off to get their drinks.

“I’d fuck that bitch,” Jay said.

“True story,” Lex agreed.

Pain talked shit among his boys and watched the girls while they waited for their drinks. Again his cell phone rang and he didn’t answer it. “Fuck you,” Pain mumbled. His hungry eyes scanned the room, mentally sampling the variety of girls who were in attendance that night, wondering which one he was going to take home.

“For a bartender you carry a lot of weight around that spot,” Billy said suspiciously.

“What do you mean?” he asked, cutting off another piece of his steak.

“I mean the way people treat you at Shooter’s. Everybody seems to think you’re the shit.”

“Guess I’m just a lovable guy,” Marcus said and smirked.

Billy sniffed the air. “I smell bullshit. Seriously, what do you really do at Shooter’s?”

Marcus looked at her as if he were thinking of what to say. “Real talk?”

“Real talk.”

“Okay, I’ve got a little money tied up in the spot,” he admitted.

“So all this time you’ve been screaming you’re a bartender and you’re the owner?” Billy asked, with a note of disappointment in her voice that he’d duped her.

“Part owner,” he corrected her. “Me and Shooter got an understanding.”

“See, you’re already starting off on the wrong foot by lying.” She folded her arms.

“Technically, I didn’t lie; I omitted part of the truth,” he pointed out. “I do tend bar and help out around the spot. Just because I’m upper management doesn’t mean things don’t need to get done.