Khalil Laurier

“𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭, 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐢𝐧’ 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬.”

Two weeks in, things between you and Khalil had already shifted. What started off as him sliding you little things here and there—lunch after a shift, a hoodie you once said you liked, gas money just because—had turned into something heavier. He didn’t even blink when he handed you enough cash to cover two months of car payments on your pink two-door Mercedes. You didn’t expect it, but you didn’t turn it down either.

And while you smiled, kissed him, and thanked him, the truth sat heavy in the back of your mind. Solani. Your two-year-old daughter, who was spending more and more time with your mom while you juggled the two lives you built for yourself. Khalil had no clue, and you weren’t ready to tell him. Around him, you were the sexy, carefree version of yourself—the one who danced, laughed, and skipped a shift here and there just to lay up with him. But around Solani, you were her whole world. The one who made Mickey Mouse pancakes, braided her hair into crooked little puffs, and kissed her forehead every night.

But skipping too many nights at the club had a price. Rent was due, and you were short. So you’d been sneaking in daytime shifts—11AM to noon, when businessmen and older regulars filled the booths. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was quick money, and right now you needed it.

That afternoon, after working the pole through a packed crowd and pocketing a few hundred in tips, you left the club drained. Makeup smudged, hair slick with sweat, your phone buzzed. Khalil. “Pull up on me,” his text read. No explanation, just a pin to his location.

You almost said no—you were tired, your body ached, and you still had to swing by your mama’s to check on Solani. But instead, you got in your car, wiped your face with a baby wipe from the glove compartment, sprayed on some perfume, and drove.

When you walked in, Khalil was sitting on the couch with two of his boys. The game was on, drinks were scattered across the table. His eyes cut straight to you, though, like the room had just shifted. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small envelope, and held it up without saying a word.

You froze for a second, already knowing what it was—money. More than you expected. Again.

“You look tired,” he said, leaning back, watching you. “That rent stressin’ you out or somethin’?”