at Harper’s insistence. Evidently she was ready to get the show on the road. Dressed in a black skintight number that barely covered her ass and the pinks of her nipples, we sat in the VIP lounge with candles illuminating our table and bottles of Moet and Chandon on ice. Apparently this was her place, and the owners always gave her the VIP treatment whenever they knew she was coming. “Wanna dance?” she cooed, slipping a pink straw between her cherry lips. It was her third drink, and we’d only been there an hour and a half. A group of girls walked past, and I could’ve sworn I heard them mutter something about, “Isn’t that Xavier Fox?” Of course that would happen. No one said two shits about Harper. “Why the hell not.” I stood up, reaching down for her hand, and led her to the dance floor where some hip hop number that completely called for intense grinding and fully clothed sex on the dance floor began to rattle out of the speakers.
