The Cocaine Princess Part 5 (Cocaine Princess Series #5)(35)

Tell ‘er give me head till I’m dead, hope I die late

Realest nigga in this bitch, and I’m the richest, too

Franklins in the air, I know you wanna get a few

My bitch bad, lookin’ like a bag o’ billions, true

Three Bugattis in the parkin’ lot, it’s f*ckin’ pitiful…’

Blake was standing between Rick Ross and Birdman, throwing fistfuls of hundred-dollar bills at a bad-ass stripper named Chyna and puffing heavily on the chubby blunt of Kush that was stuck between his lips. He had already thrown $200,000 in ones, and now he was working on emptying the $3 million in hundreds out of his duffle bag.

The 35,000-square-foot club was jam-packed, with everyone bouncing their heads to the beat of Bulletface’s “Money In The Air,” which was currently the number one single on the Billboard Hot 100 chart. Thanks to Rozay’s gratuitous purchase of three hundred bottles of Ciroc, all the real niggas were drinking and having a good time.

And watching Bulletface as he showered Chyna with millions.

Blake paid them little mind, choosing to only converse with the bosses-Birdman, Ross, Meek Mill, Khaled, Busta and Slim. There was no time to speak with anyone else. The real niggas knew why he was in town. Their guys were negotiating drug deals with his guys. Boss shit.

Besides, there was no way Blake could focus on anything other than the professional stripper’s booty-dancing skills. The reddish-brown-skinned paragon was doing moves he’d never before seen, and it was driving him crazy. She made her ass clap, then made it shake like disturbed Jell-O, then slammed down into a split that made the crowd go wild.

An hour later, when Blake and his crew were leaving K.O.D., Chyna was right behind him, carrying the cash he’d thrown at her in a black garbage bag. She had changed into a cherry-red tube dress and a different pair of Louboutin heels. Her hair, long and black, was pulled back in a modest ponytail. Five more bad bitches were trailing Blake and Chyna, chatting among each other as they all headed into the parking lot. Blake’s eyes were on Chyna’s sexy, round face, her Meagan Good shaped lips, her exotic-looking eyes.

“You’d better not get me cussed out by Alexus,” she said, taking a remote key out of her Gucci bag. “I’ll miss out on all types of business opportunities if I fall out with her. She can probably make one phone call and destroy my whole career.”

Blake grinned. They were nearing his drop-top Bugatti.

“I’d never let that happen, li’l momma. She wouldn’t do that anyway,” he said. “Matter of fact, she’ll probably open up a thousand doors for you. I’ll do whatever I can, too. Just let me know what you’re trying to do and I got you.”

She pressed a button on the remote key, and the taillights on a dark-colored Maserati convertible that was parked five spaces to the left of Blake’s car lit up. Blake opened his trunk and dropped in his empty Louis Vuitton duffle bag.

“I want to be an actress one day,” Chyna said. She looked at the garbage bag and added, “Might be able to make my own movie with all this money.” She giggled softly.

“How much of that did you give to the club owner?” Blake asked.

“About half. Terry didn’t ask for that much, but that’s what I gave him. He’s always looked out for me.” Chyna’s cinnamon eyes flitted over the Bugattis and Rolls-Royces lined up to the right of Blake’s Veyron. “Are all these yours?”

“Yup. I got a lot of cars. I’m addicted to cars and jewelry.” He grabbed the garbage bag from her, tossed it in his trunk. “Leave your car here and ride with me. We’ll send somebody to get it later.”

Reluctantly, Chyna thumbed down the button on her remote key, re-engaging her car alarm. Blake opened his passenger door and stared at the meaty ass protruding from the back of Chyna’s tight dress as she got in. He shut the door, and her angelic face turned up to his.

“I hope you know what you’re doing—with your young ass,” she said.

Blake pulled his brows together and took off his shades. Chyna read his expression correctly.

“That dick; I hope you know what you’re doing with it,” she explicated. “I am four years older than you.”

A witty reply was crawling up Blake’s throat when Fly and Kenny Lord appeared at his side. He told Chyna to hold up a minute, then moved to the rear-end of his Veyron. Fly was the first to speak.

“Baby want five hun’ed of ‘em for twelve five apiece. Fat guy want a hun’ed. The Haitians want twenty bricks of boy, fifty bricks of girl, and a hun’ed pounds of Kush.”

“Which Haitians?” Blake asked.

“Top Six and Zoe Pound.”

Kenny-Lord said, “Shit, don’t forget about us. Me and Pat need a hun’ed of ‘em, and two hun’ed pounds of Kush. Rube need ten mo’ bricks of boy. I think Batman need twenty bricks of boy.”

“Then,” Fly said, “We still gotta take care of the Indianapolis, Fort Wayne, and Chicago niggas. We’ll be sold out in a few days.”

“Well”—Blake reached out and shook their hands with one hand, slapped their backs with the other—“everything’s a go. Let’s get this money” Stepping around the driver’s side of his Bugatti, he turned his attention back to Chyna, who was studying her flawless reflection in the visor mirror.