Page 7 of Body Language (Mind, Body, & Soul #2)

Kendrix

I made my rounds. Gripped every palm at the table with that same firm shake that said “Yeah, I’m him.”

Eye contact. Nod. Small smile, but nothing extra. Just enough to remind these niggas I wasn’t pressed to be here. They were pressed to play me.

Half the room had been begging for this game for months. Always talking shit. Always claiming they were “up next.”

I was in a good mood too, so I said fuck it. Let’s play.

I pulled out my chair, unbuttoned my jacket, and took my seat like I owned it. Because in a lot of ways, I did.

I own cigar lounges, underground clubs, and high-end nightlife.

I built experiences, rooms that men like them paid to sit in.

I came in with my mind clear, fully focused. Ready to flip egos and stacks like I always do.

But the minute I stepped through that door, something shifted.

She caught my attention and didn’t even have to try.

Every room I walk into had dancers. Bottle girls. Strippers. Models.

Half-naked women who’ll do a back bend just to get close enough to ask what I do for a living.

So trust me when I say—I’m used to pretty. But she didn’t move like she was performing. She moved like she was at peace. Like the pole was a prayer and her body was the scripture.

All rhythm. All grace. And her skin was smooth and deep like brown sugar under candlelight.

The way she spun—slow, sensual, with intention. It didn’t just catch my eye. It locked it, and I kept trying to refocus.

The dealer sat down, cards got shuffled, chips started getting stacked, and the boys were already running their mouths. But my gaze drifted back to her.

She was hanging upside down, arms extended, heels pointed, body stretching like temptation itself.

Fuck.

I shifted in my seat.

She was beautiful as fuck. The kind of beautiful that doesn’t ask for attention—it just owns the air. Her face was unbothered. Her body was speaking in a language I didn’t know but suddenly wanted to learn.

I leaned back, tossed in my first bet, and nodded at the dealer to keep the game moving.

But truth be told, I wasn’t thinking about the damn cards anymore.

The dealer slid the next hand across the table. I looked down at my cards. Solid. Not perfect, but enough to run with. I tossed in another stack, leaned back, and tried to pull my focus in, but her body kept dancing on the edge of my vision like it had a goddamn magnet in it.

Every slow twirl… every glide down that pole…

Shit was witchcraft.

I lost the next hand. Then the one after that. I squinted at the cards, then at the men across from me, then right back at myself like—

“Nigga… get your head back in the motherfuckin’ game. You down two hands behind somebody doing aerial yoga in heels.”

I leaned forward, whispered under my breath like I was about to slap myself.

“You acting like you ain’t seen ass before. Focus, Kendrix. That pussy is not yours. That stack is. Stop thinking with your dick and play your damn cards.”

The man next to me chuckled. “Something funny?”

“Nah,” I said, cracking my neck. “Just talking to myself. He’s the only one in this room I trust.”

But right when I tried to zone back in, she cleared her throat.

My eyes snapped back to her. She wasn’t dancing like before. The rhythm had changed. It was subtle, but different.

Her eyes were locked on me. Not flirty, but focused, intentional, and sharp. Her body was swaying side to side, but there was a pattern like she was moving to a beat only I could hear.

She glided across the pole, spun once, then bent low, her body still rolling like waves.

Then she did something that made my gut tighten. She lifted her right leg slow and deliberate, toes pointed toward the floor… and then flexed it to the left. Directly at two men across the table.

A soft pivot. A dancer’s move. But her eyes never left mine.

That was a signal.

I didn’t even blink. I adjusted my wrist, leaned back in my chair, and started watching the two she pointed at. One was already counting his chips like he won the round. The other kept looking at him… like they knew something I didn’t.

Until I did.

A bluff. A tag team. They were playing me. The little head tilt. The too-casual glance. The way their hands moved in sync, betting and folding on a rhythm like it was rehearsed.

Got you, bitches.

I matched the bet. Then raised and watched them fold like they had never played a hand in their life.

They tried to hide it, but that split second of surprise gave them away.

Both of them looked at each other like how the fuck did he know?

And I just smiled. Real slow.

Then I looked back at her.

She was still dancing, back to looking like nothing happened.

But her lips curved just enough for me to see it.

She knew I caught the message.

I wanted her even more. I wanted to know everything she wasn’t saying.

The poker game was over. Stacks cleared. Chips collected. Men shaking hands like it hadn’t just been a room full of quiet betrayal and fake math.

“Good game, Ken.”

“Next time, I’m coming for you.”

“We headed out to the main floor. More fine ass girls about to hit the stage.”

I nodded, dapped a few of them up, smirked like I hadn’t just taken their money and a little pride too. They left in packs, ego limping behind them.

Meanwhile, I sat there, sipping my drink like I hadn’t been staring at the reason I won all night.

Her.

She was finishing her last set. The music slowed. Her body still rolled like smoke.

And when that spotlight dimmed and the bass faded out, she stood tall, wiped her hands on a towel, and grabbed her robe off the stage bench like it was just another day.

She was about to leave, all unbothered and goddess-like, but I wasn’t done.

I stepped in front of her before she could pass, close but not too close, and dipped my head low so only she could hear me.

“You always warn strangers mid-spin? Or was I just your charity case for the night?” I whispered.

She blinked at me once. I expected something sweet. Cute. A little “just looking out” moment.

But no.

“You looked like you was either about to cry… or piss on yourself.”

She shrugged. “I help the needy.”

I choked on a laugh. Caught off guard, but in the best way. Most women try to flirt soft. Pretty. Passive. She threw punches and smiled while doing it. I liked that shit.

I leaned in closer. “You talk to all your heroes like that?”

She didn’t flinch. “You think you’re a hero because you finally stopped getting your ass handed to you?”

I raised a brow. “I think I’m the reason they built this private room for you to dance in and not have a GoFundMe link in your bio.”

She smiled, slow and wicked. “That the same mouth you use in business meetings?”

I grinned, “Nah, this the one I use to get women who think they’re immune to men like me.”

She laughed and didn’t cover her mouth or giggle all fake like most girls who want to be chosen. She just let the sound hit the air like she wasn’t afraid of shit.

Damn.

We stood there, quiet for a second, just looking. Her arms crossed. My drink in hand. Staring like we were both trying to figure out what the other person’s deal was.

I licked my lips out of instinct and caught her watching when I did.

She smiled. Real soft like “Careful. That’s the road to hell.”

And I was about to say something slick, probably inappropriate when Arlette burst through the door like the building was on fire.

“Y’all still in here?” she said, eyes bouncing between us like she’d walked in on something she didn’t exactly expect. “We got a whole damn club full of money waiting and y’all back here playing.”

She started to step away from me, but Arlette narrowed her eyes. Not at her, but at me. Like she just felt the shift in the room. She knew energy, and something wasn’t sitting right.

“MissCommunication, why are you still in here?” she asked, squinting. “You got another set in twenty, baby.”

“I was just heading out,” she said, straightening up and smoothing her robe.

I never took my eyes off her, so Arlette made sure to walk around me slow and placed her hand flat on my back—real familiar. Real marked territory.

It was light. But it was loud. And it pissed me the fuck off.

I stiffened. Let it linger just long enough for her to think it meant something, then stepped out of her reach like she had a bad scent.

She clocked it. Eyes narrowed. Jaw tight.

That little move back was me saying, Don’t pull that shit with me.

She looked at me like, “Really?” But didn’t say it.

Instead, she cleared her throat like she was still in control and said,

“MissCommunication, go get ready, please.”

Then turned back to me and smiled wide and fake.

“And give me and this fine-ass man of mine a little privacy.”

I blinked.

Then smacked my lips so hard it echoed.

“Man of who?” I muttered under my breath, but not low enough.

She didn’t say a word. She just walked out the room slow, hips calm, face unreadable. As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, Arlette crossed her arms.

“Really, motherfucker? You just gon’ flirt in my face?”

I looked at her, unbothered, then I dropped my voice and said it straight so she could really get it through her fucking head.

“Man, chill the fuck out. You not my girl.”

She blinked, trying to hold her composure, but her eyes said everything her mouth wanted to scream.

“Stop doing that shit every time you see me with somebody,” I said, stepping back, giving her space like she needed it. “Touchin’ me. Claimin’ me. That shit’s dead. Been dead.”

“What the fuck ever, Kendrix,” she snapped, brushing her hair out her face like she needed something to do with her hands. “I got a club to run.”

She turned, heels already clicking toward the door.

But right before she walked out, she paused just long enough to say:

“I’ll find you when it’s over, so you can take me home.”

She didn’t even wait for a response. Just slammed the door behind her like that meant something. I stood there for a second, shaking my head.

“Take you home? You lucky I still hold the door open for you, the fuck.”