The Bottom Line

The Bottom Line

Kenisha Myree

Copyright © 2022 Kenisha Myree

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 979-8-88654-621-7 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88654-622-4 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Thank You

Trinity

Karma

Exotica

Armani

Candy

Carrie

Kaylin

Emerald

Miranda

Dynasty

Tip Drill

About the Author

Thank You

First and foremost, I'd like to thank the Man above (God) for giving me this opportunity and for every experience in my life that gave me the reason to share these stories. This book gives me the chance to shed light on my life from my perspective and through my eyes. This is only the beginning!

To my mom, Maria; my son, Sincere; and my brother, Patrick, thank you for having patience with me as I pursue my dreams. I'd really like to give thanks to everyone that has been in or out of my life; everyone played a role in these stories. Whether you impacted my life positively or negatively, you definitely helped it all make sense—or shall I say cents ($)!

Last but not the least, I'd like to thank Ebonee Monique for helping this dream come to a reality.

Thank you and enjoy!

—Kenisha Miami Tip Myree

Trinity

The first sound I heard was the beeping from the monitor. That's when I realized I was in the hospital. My head felt like a million elephants had trampled all over it while my body simply felt like a wet noodle. I didn't have to look in a mirror to know that I had been badly bruised and beaten. This was a far cry from the girl I was months—even years—ago. Now as I struggled to open my swollen eye, I wondered if I would ever be able to go back to the old me.

*****

My name is Trinity Johnson, and nothing about my life has ever been normal. I didn't have a mother and father to love on me and show me the ropes of life. At the age of four, my father walked out the door. A year later, my mother dropped me off on the doorsteps of the local police station in New York, and in the blink of an eye, I was an orphan. My earliest memory was moving from family to family as a foster child. It wasn't until I was thirteen that I ran away for the first time. Within a week, I was found and sent back to my foster family. A month later, I ran away again; this time, it would be the last time. By this time, I knew how to survive on the streets and how to go unnoticed if I wanted to. I would find other runaways like me and crash on floors or couches until I decided that I had to make money if I was ever going to get off the streets. The streets of New York could break down the hardest of adults, and I was a pretty thirteen-year-old girl; I had to decide fast how I was going to survive. I knew being homeless wasn't an option. I was too young for a regular job and too scared to try and sell drugs, so I turned to the only thing I had: my natural sexiness. I was a pretty girl with a tiny waist, ample thighs, big brown eyes, and natural hair that flowed to my shoulders. Even when I wasn't trying, I'd always had people—especially men—in the palm of my hands. I didn't like the idea of prostituting at first, but the more I thought about it, the more I focused on what I would be getting out of it.

Working as a prostitute, I got to live a fantasy life equipped with slutty clothes and pretty makeup and hairdos. To me, it seemed like a win-win situation. The first time I headed out to work, I threw on a pair of tight shorts, which left a bit of my cheeks out; a halter top; and a pair of too-tall heels. I had never had a problem passing for eighteen, thankfully, since my body looked like it was a grown woman's. I headed to a popular nightclub called the Conga and prepared myself. I knew I would be attracting men—I always did. On my first night, I stood by the bar for five minutes before my first client headed over to offer to buy me a drink. I could tell by the look in his eye that he wanted more than to buy me a drink; he wanted whatever I was selling. We chatted for a little bit, and I found out that he was a successful accountant who lived in Long Island with his wife and twin sons. He tried his best to talk longingly about his normal life, but to me, it sounded like he was trying to convince us both that he was happy. Nevertheless, I leaned forward a few times to let him get a glimpse of what I had to offer. After the third time, I asked him if he wanted to go somewhere, and he bit and said yes. We jumped in his Acura Legend and headed to a nearby hotel that I'd staked out. When we got into the hotel room, he was trying to make small talk, and all I wanted to do was get it over with and get paid. It was the New Yorker in me; we never beat around the bush. Because it was my first time, I didn't have set prices, so I did what I do best. I used my judgment to negotiate a price. This particular client had told me enough that I knew he could afford a lot, so I went for the gold, and he bit. It would probably be typical for me to say that I was nervous and I didn't know what to expect, but I was more ready to have the cash in my hand than his penis in my vagina. I was that focused on money.

When we finished, he cleaned himself up and told me I could stay in the room for the night if I wanted to. I played it cool and said I'd think about it. There was nothing to think about, really; I didn't have anywhere else to crash that night, and the room was paid for. After I took a bath and put on an oversized shirt that I kept in my purse, I lay on the bed and counted out my money.

Five hundred dollars, I said with a grin as I thumbed through the crisp bills.

I'd lost my virginity for five hundred dollars.

*****

Hey, Trinity, Tristen, the bartender at the Conga, said as he passed me a glass of seltzer water and winked at me.

I'd been coming to Conga for two years running my same routine; I'd done really well for myself. Sure, I was only fifteen years old, but I had mastered the art of my sexuality and getting men to do whatever it was that I wanted them to do. The streets were all I knew; I had no one except myself and the mean streets of New York.

Looks kinda dead in here tonight, I said to Tristen as I sipped on my drink slowly. That's when my eyes scanned across the room and landed directly on this beautiful specimen of a man. As time would have it, my body had blossomed even more, and I looked like something out of a music video. I had a perfect ass, small waist, perky breasts, caramel-colored skin, and intriguing eyes. I knew what I had in my looks, and I knew how to use it. Still, when I saw that man standing there coolly across the room, I took a deep breath. I was nervous.

This man was fine. Of all the clients I had been with (some of them were really nice), the stranger across the room was causing me to get wet just from the sight of him. I wasn't sure what he was mixed with, but I was guessing, based on his features and his hair texture, that he was Black and Mexican. He had his hair braided into fresh, neat braids, which hung to the top of his shoulder, and had a cool look about him. He had sleepy-looking eyes and was dressed fresher than anyone in the club. I was usually cool about handsome men, but this one had my attention.

I suppose he saw me staring because as I stared at him up and down once more, he looked right in my eyes and motioned for me to come toward him.

I did exactly what I was told. It was almost as if he controlled me, even in not knowing me.

As I strutted toward him, I tried my best to remain cool. I twisted my hips to the beat of whatever was playing and licked my lips seductively as I approached him. Before I got to him, I smelled him. Damn, he smelled good, and his aroma felt like it was already embedded in me. While I thought he was fine from afar, standing in front of him made me want to kiss his mama and daddy for making him. He looked like a mix between Boris Kodjoe and Idris Elba. He oozed sexiness, and I could tell that he knew it.

What you drinking on? he asked me slyly as he raised an eyebrow.

Whatever you're drinking on, I replied with a smirk.

He turned around, ordered me a drink while I leaned against the bar, and bobbed my head to the music.

The name's Omar, he said as he passed me a dark-colored drink.

I'm Trinity.

I wasn't much of a dark liquor kind of drinker—I preferred vodka or gin—but I wasn't about to punk out and tell Omar I couldn't hang.

So, Trinity, he said with a thick New York accent, where do you live?

I was good at lying; I did it for a living, so I thought quickly on my feet.

In Brooklyn, I said. I'd known a client of mine who had taken me to his home a few times in Brooklyn, and it seemed like a nice-enough area to call home.

What do you do for a living? he asked.

I couldn't tell if I was being interviewed or if he was interested. Still, I thought quickly on my feet.

I do hair.

Omar's eyes went to my semi-neat hairdo, and he nodded. Whew, he believed me, I thought to myself as I took another swig from the cool drink.

How old are you?

I'd answered this so many times that I could lie about it in my sleep.

Eighteen.

Omar chuckled and stood up straight as he examined me up and down.

Yeah, right. You're lying.

My hands began to shake, and immediately, I felt like I was exposed. How had Omar known I was lying? I held it together like I was eighteen, and no one else had ever questioned me about my age. Omar had. I wondered what I had displayed that made him think I wasn't the age I said I was.

Before I could ask, he leaned back on the bar and started speaking.

I've seen you hanging around the club a few times before, and you may be sexy as hell, but you're not eighteen.

He stopped what he was doing and looked over at me. He wasn't blinking or stuttering when he spoke.

I also have seen you going in and out of that hotel down the street.

I felt like someone had kicked me right in my throat. My first reaction was to walk away from Omar. It wasn't that I was ashamed of what I did for money; it was just that I didn't want it thrown in my face.

I stuttered and stammered, trying to search for an answer that made sense. I had nothing.

Omar must've felt my uneasiness, so he held up his hand and cleared his throat.

I ain't judging you, sweetheart. You got the right plan, just the wrong blueprint. Let me help you step your game up, Omar said smoothly as he flashed his million-dollar smile.

I was putty in his hands, and I knew he knew it.

The way he stared at me, he could've told me to do anything, and I would have done it. Omar held himself like he knew it all, and being that I was someone who knew little but street life, I was intrigued. I didn't have a father or mother around, and as crazy as it sounded, Omar made me feel like he actually gave a damn about what I was saying. He listened.

Let's sit at a booth, Omar said as he grabbed my hand in his, and we headed to a VIP area of the club I had never been in before. Most of my clients were found hanging around the bar or on the dance floor; Omar was the first one who had taken an interest in showing me more.

When the waitress came around, Omar ordered more drinks and started talking more.

You're a pretty girl, Trinity, he said as he bit his bottom lip. I was already dripping wet from him holding my hand, and now he went and said that? I was ready to jump on him right then and there.

Thanks, I said as I drank the last of my drink and began feeling the effects of it.

I don't care that you're out here hooking for money, he said as he looked me dead in my eyes.

I don't know why, but I believed him. I had known him for less than thirty minutes, but something told me this man had no reason to lie to me.

I stayed silent though. I wasn't admitting or denying anything. Instead, I let Omar continue talking.

You're pretty, and you're young, which means people out here are going to try and take advantage of you. You're out here trying to make money, but if you're not smarter than the next bitch or nigga, you're going to get eaten alive.

My eyes widened. I had never thought about it like that. I stared at the floor and then back at Omar. I wanted to know more.

What are your goals with all of this? What do you want out of life?

For the first time, I had no answer. It wasn't that I was trying to be sneaky or keep anything from Omar; I just honestly had never thought that far. To me, my goal each night was to have a warm bed and food in my stomach, and anything beyond that was a pipe dream.

I… I don't… I don't know, I stammered, ashamed that I didn't have a better answer for Omar.

I knew I must've looked foolish to him—a far cry from the confident girl who had strutted across the room toward him.

I dropped my chin and felt Omar's strong hand lift it back up quickly.

Let's finish these drinks, and I want to show you something.

I had no business going anywhere with Omar, and I knew it. I came to Conga that night to make money, not small-talk. Somewhere along the way, though, I downed one more drink and headed behind Omar to see what he had to show me.

Get in, Omar said as the valet opened the passenger side of a white Mercedes Benz. I was trying to act like I wasn't impressed, but I was. My ass slid into the plush leather seats, and I strapped myself in.

When Omar got in the driver's side, I looked over at him and sighed.

How old are you?

Omar grinned and turned the music in the car up.

That's when I realized I'd gotten into the car without knowing anything about Omar. Then it hit me, even if I did know his name, age, and where he was from, it wouldn't have mattered. I had no one but the streets to worry about me.

We pulled up to a building I'd seen before called the Biltmore. Some days when I would roam the streets, I would see the building and wonder what it was. It looked too fancy for an office building but much too laid-back to be a hotel.

The car slowed down, and Omar jumped out, and I followed suit. The valet grabbed the keys from Omar, and before I knew it, we were headed up the elevator to an unknown place. I couldn't stop admiring all of the nice furniture and décor in the building. Not many things interested me like money and nice décor.

We rode up to the fortieth floor and stepped off. The hallway looked similar to a hotel hallway but had a homey feel.

Where are we?

Again, Omar ignored me and headed toward a door a few feet from the elevator.

Once we got inside the room, I was in awe. Everything that I had dreamed about in a home was right in front of me. There was contemporary furniture and cool art. It took everything in me to not stop smiling.

Is this—is this where you live? I heard myself ask as I dropped my purse and ran to the huge window that overlooked Manhattan. I had seen Manhattan from some of the lowest, grittiest spots in the city, and the lights have never shined the way they were that night. I placed both of my hands on the window and stared down in disbelief.

Yeah, this is my crib, Omar said coolly as he sat on the couch and patted for me to join him.

Like a trained puppy, I followed his command. I needed to.

I want you to stay here with me, Omar started as I opened my mouth to object.

I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. See, I can give you everything you need, you just have to trust me.

I hadn't told him, but I already trusted Omar more than anyone I had ever met in my life.

Omar slid closer to me and wrapped his arms around me. I felt secure. I felt loved. In a strange sense, I felt at home.

The years I had spent on the street had seemingly hardened me, but the truth was I was still just a little girl who was dying to be loved.

Omar placed his lips on mine and gently sucked my bottom lip with such urgency; all I wanted to do was taste him in return. When he stood up and motioned for me to follow him into the bedroom, I didn't object.

I lay on the all-white cushioned comforter and took a deep breath as Omar slowly undressed me. As he stood back and examined my body, I felt proud at the way his eyes smiled in appreciation. When he climbed on top of me and began kissing me all over, I closed my eyes and imagined that this was what losing your virginity to someone you loved felt like.

Although I had been a woman for a few years, Omar turned me into a real woman that night.

*****

The next morning when I woke up, Omar was gone. I found a note scribbled by the refrigerator telling me that he'd run out but would be back soon. I searched in the kitchen and found that there wasn't much, if anything, to eat. Still, I had done with less, so I found some eggs and cheese and cooked myself a quick breakfast. When Omar returned, I was sitting on the living room floor watching cartoons in one of his oversized shirts.

Hey, he said with a big grin.

Hey. I giggled and stood up to hug him.

You hungry?

I made some eggs and cheese. I left some for you.

Omar looked over his shoulder at the small amount of eggs and cheese and shrugged it off.

Glad you made yourself at home, he joked as he walked into the bedroom.

Sorry, I got hungry.

Get undressed, Omar demanded just as I sat on the bed.

Huh? I asked curiously to make sure I'd heard him correctly.

Get undressed, Trinity. I want to show you something.

I shrugged my shoulders and did as I was told.

Lay back on the bed, he said as he dug in a pink bag.

He went into the bathroom, started the water, and came back out a few minutes later with a damp washcloth.

Omar, what are you— I started when the look on his face told me to hush.

I felt the warm washcloth hit my bare vagina and jumped a bit. I didn't know what he was doing or why he was cleaning me, but I eventually calmed myself down.

You need to learn how to clean your pussy properly. Men aren't going to pay top dollar for you if this isn't top-notch.

A part of me felt offended. Was he saying my pussy was stinky? I always thought I'd done a really good job with washing myself, but I could admit I had never been as thorough as Omar was.

Make sure you wipe from front to back when you're cleaning yourself and be sure you use unscented soap when you're bathing. Last thing we need is you out of commission for using something that makes you break out down there.

I listened to everything Omar said, and when he was done, he leaned down and kissed me on my lips so passionately that I forgot about the awkwardness of the moment.

Put these on, Trinity, Omar said as he handed me a beautiful black-and-white panty and bra set.

I didn't even know how he figured out my bra size, but I didn't care. It fit like a glove, and when I was finished putting it on, I admired myself in the bathroom mirror.

Thank you! I squealed as I wrapped my hands around his neck.

Everything was feeling more and more like a dream.

I got one more surprise for you, sweetheart, Omar said as he reached in a black bag and pulled out a pair of expensive heels.

I had never owned a pair of