For adult readers only. If you missed Part 1, you can read it here.
So where were we?
Ahhh. I love Miami.
The days here are slow and sun-soaked, and the nights are unreal.
For a Badd Bitch Miami is like a dream come true. Everything you want is at your fingertips.
But, like every city, it has its flaws, and the longer you stay, the more the fantasy begins to crack.
By the second week of my trip, my body was starting to give out from the excessive partying, and I desperately needed a sauna. The Equinox in the building was free for residents, so I dragged myself downstairs and ran into a girl I used to know from New York.
Ana Philipe, twenty-six, profession unknown, didn’t look like her old self.
She had fuller lips and a body that had been carefully constructed. She used to be as small as me. Now she was…built.
“Omg babe, how long has it been?” she said, jumping off her mat mid-plank to hug me.
“Like, seven years,” I answered.
“That’s crazy. We can’t let that happen again.”
She pulled out her phone to get my number. Fresh manicure. Cartier bracelets stacked on her wrist.
Then we did that thing girls do—we said we’d get lunch or lattes, both knowing it wouldn’t happen.
I didn’t take it personally, though.
From her Instagram, I already knew the life she lived. Designer bags, luxury cars, private jets. She never showed her man—but he was always there. In the background. In the captions. In the lifestyle.
Miami is full of girls like Ana. They’re beautiful, strategic, and careful. Especially about who they bring around their man. Because securing a cushy lifestyle is the top priority here, and they can’t have another bitch coming around and messing that up.
Later that week, two girls Zeta had worked with in New York, named Shanice and Mel, DM’d her to hang out. So we invited them to a pool day at the Four Seasons.
Mel, twenty-six, is a cute girl, but wasn’t the most put-together, and if I’m being honest, I didn’t recognize her from the photos Zeta showed me of them earlier. She’s originally from Jersey but has been in Miami for the last few years, selling multimillion-dollar homes. So she’s got that going for her.
Now Shanice, on the other hand, was a badd bitch, twenty-four, from the Bronx, and has the kind of body that makes people stare—curvy but thin in all the right places. She wore a bright red CELINE bikini that popped against her dark skin and had the kind of confidence that comes from getting everything you want.
When the bill came, she pulled out an Amex without hesitation.
“Oh, let me Venmo you for our drinks,” I offered.
“No, don’t worry about it,” she smiled.
“It’s on her man,” Mel added.
“He’s not my man.”
“If he gave you an Amex in your name, that should be your man.” Mel snapped.
“He’s not the first,” she said, slipping her Chanel sunglasses on before leaning back into the hot tub.
We made plans to meet back up later that night, but at the last minute, they canceled. Said Mel wasn’t feeling well.
So instead we went out with my friend Ben, who invited us to a hookah lounge in the Design District. When we got there, the place was so dark and smoky it blurred the room. People were packed into different sections, while bottle girls illuminated the dark crowd every few minutes with dazzling signs and sparkling bottles.
Ben led us to his section, and Zeta leaned towards me.
“Don’t freak out, but J. Cole is sitting right there.”
I played it cool, but inside, I was losing my mind.
Ben poured us drinks and handed us hookah tips.
“We don’t smoke hookah.”
“I’ve got weed too, but you gotta roll it.”
“Perfect.”
I grabbed the bag and pulled Zeta to the bathroom for better light. On our way back through the crowd, we spotted Shanice and Mel.
Posted in a section across from ours.
With Gunna.
Ah.
So that’s why they canceled.
“Weird ass bitches,” Zeta muttered.
I didn’t disagree.
But I also understood.
In Miami, every girl is trying to get chosen, and sometimes that means eliminating the competition.
Andrew, fifty-eight, is an attorney who owns homes in Chicago, New York, and Miami. We met years ago at his New York Marathon party, where I was working as a cocktail server. Although Andrew keeps an estranged wife in Lincoln Park and a girlfriend in Columbus Circle, he was still inviting me to stay at his place in Miami with no strings attached, supposedly.
When he first invited me, I hesitated to accept because Andrew is the type of guy who loves to remind people of what he’s done for them.
We were having dinner at Portale the week before my trip, and he casually said:
“Remember when I took you and your friends to Tokyo?”
Unprovoked. Just a little reminder of how generous he is. Mind you, this was ten years ago, when I was nineteen, so you do the math.
Andrew isn’t ugly, but he’s definitely not someone you’d look twice at if he didn’t have something to offer, and he knows that. Which is why he works overtime to be everyone’s savior in hopes that “generosity” can compensate for his insufferable personality.
“Do you remember Luisa?” he asked.
Luisa is a forty-five-year-old actress from the D.R., whom Andrew introduced me to a year ago when I ran into them walking down Madison Ave. He claims to be “helping her get back on her feet” after a nasty divorce from a doctor in Jersey. But, knowing Andrew, she’s probably his latest project. He gets a new one every couple of years, and they’re usually of the Latina persuasion.
“Yes, I remember her,” I said. “That’s your girl, right?”
“No, she’s just a friend, but she might come to Miami for a few days,” he continued. “I just need you to be extra nice to her.”
“I’m always nice.”
He smirked. “Well…she’s a little insecure because I told her we used to date.”
I nearly choked on my steak.
Now let me be clear: Andrew and I had an arrangement. Has he taken me on trips? Yes. Has he given me money? Yes.
But at the end of the day, Andrew is just a wallet with a mouth.
Not someone I would ever call my boyfriend.
“And why would you tell her that?”
“Because she asked.”
I hated how men like Andrew romanticized transactional relationships to make themselves feel desirable.
But whatever. The trip was already booked.
I just hoped Luisa wasn’t holding a grudge over nothing.
We almost went the entire trip without seeing Luisa. Until Friday afternoon, when Zeta and I came back from the pool to find a trail of my clothes scattered across the floor.
“What the fuck?” we said in unison.