Page 1 of Trick Me, Treat Me
Spirit
T h ec i t yo fGrimwoodstayed loud, even when it was quiet. My loft sat five floors up over a strip of late-night carryouts, bars, and hookah lounges. It was early in the afternoon, twelve-thirty, and the bass from somebody’s car and the hiss of a fryer were in the background. I didn’t mind, though. Noise meant movement. Movement meant money. And there was nothing that I loved more in this life than money.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand as I rolled over and yawned. I stretched across the sheets, the satin cool against my skin, and checked the mirror across from my bed. My bonnet was halfway on, my lashes were flat and basic, and my nails—long, glossy, sharp black coffin tips—needed a refill ASAP.
“Another one,” I muttered, smirking at the notification on my phone.
Men talked slick, swore they didn’t pay for women, but they stayed cashing me out just to breathe the same air as me. I didn’t judge them and Ineverfucked them. I just charged them and added tax. A muthafucka couldn’t even get close to me for less than five bands.
I’d taken all of my clients for the week, but with tomorrow being my favorite “holiday”, Halloween, I was sure my booking manager, Sidra, sent me that deposit after securing a last-minute trick.
I slid out of bed, designer anklet jingling, and walked across my loft. The space looked like money—white leather couch,black marble counters, fur rugs, and racks of designer heels lined against the wall like art. I built this. Every inch of it.
The fridge was stocked with champagne bottles, strawberries, and Fiji water. I poured myself a glass of water in a crystal wine glass, because regular cups weren’t my vibe. As soon as I took a sip, my phone lit up again.
“Morning, bitch,” I answered, putting Sidra on speaker while I leaned on the counter.
“Don’t morning me like you didn’t just wake up at noon,” she laughed. I could hear her gum popping through the line.
“Don’t hate, just congratulate. What’s up?”
“I know you got that deposit. So, look, I got something for you. Halloween night. Private. Big spender.”
I rolled my eyes, even though I was already interested. “Clearly. Ten bands up front after your twenty percent cut is good money, my girl.”
“Exactly, but this one is different. He didn’t ask for pictures or haggle. Hell, he didn’t even care about your rate. Plus, he said your name. Spirit. Not your alias.”
That made me pause mid-sip. “My name?”
“Yourname. Like he already knew you. Don’t trip, I vetted him. His money’s clean. Some real estate mogul. He wired the full amount with no hesitation."
“So what’s the catch?”
“No catch. Just show up and look bad as fuck as usual. Give him your time, get paid, and go home, boo.”
I thought about it, tapping my nails against the glass. Something about a man knowing my name without being told made me raise an eyebrow at the situation, but the deposit was real, and my luxury lifestyle didn’t pay for itself.
“Fine,” I said. “But if he’s weird, I’m out. No refund.”
“You always say that.”
“And I always mean it.”
We laughed and hung up, and I proceeded to get ready for the day. Once I was showered and moisturized, I put on a crop top and wide-leg jeans with a pair of heels before taking my hair down. The body wave curls flowed down my back. I grabbed a pair of sunglasses, a designer clutch with my keys, and was out the door. When I stepped out onto the street, men looked. They always did. I didn’t even have to try.
My first stop was the nail salon, where I told my nail tech to perfect my coffin shape and make the design give Halloween vibes, Spirit style. And yes, that was my real name.
“You always got somebody blowing your phone up,” she teased while shaping my nails.
“And I always ignore most of them,” I shot back, smirking as I hit the “block” button as she began to prep my lashes.
After the nail salon, it was the boutique. I didn’t need new lingerie, but a new dress was calling my name. I saw one with black lace that would have a man selling his soul, and I bought it without trying it on. Confidence was my size. I also purchased some exclusive heels and jewels.
By late afternoon, I was at my stylist’s chair, sipping champagne while she toughened my bundles and fixed my lace. “You tryna kill ‘em on Halloween,” she said, laughing as the flat iron glided.
“Always,” I said, checking myself in the mirror. The body wave curls were long gone, and I now rocked a buss down middle part, bone straight. “Dead bitches can’t compete.” We both cracked up.
When I finally headed home, bags on my arm, nails gleaming, hair laid, lashes full and curled, I felt exactly how I wanted—untouchable. My loft smelled like warm honey when I walked back in. I set my new dress out on the bed, poured another glass of champagne, and scrolled through my DMs. Men begging for attention. Tricks asking for discounts. Randoms telling me they “don’t pay for pussy” in the same breath they offered me money. I ignored them all. My mind was already locked on tomorrow.
