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Women swarmed to men who were entrepreneurs. Dollar signs always twinkled in their gold-digging ass eyes in hopes of becoming lucky to be a pick me. It was the everyday life for the suave twenty-six year old Michael Jackson.
Pink Ice is his baby, his money making haven, his sanctuary. The machine to the constant Jacksons, Grants, and Benjamins that forever overflowed his bank accounts on a regular basis. This place in particular was for the ladies only. One thing a man could ever create was an establishment for women to flock to like a moth to a flame.
Pretty faces never gone unnoticed to him, but on one particular night Michael sees her—his interest is piqued. Fine is an understated description. Observation was key and that entire night his eyes stayed glued to her like she was the only woman in the building.
It was something about her that was new and fresh. Talk about mustering up enough courage to introduce himself being that he was the owner and all. He wasn't a rude type of nigga but when he sets his sight onto something, or in other words, someone, there was no turning back. And he dared not to.
For once in his life he wasn't viewed as some rich black nigga with easy access to any woman, but just a regular who invaded her personal space with her girls. That shit done something to him.
That night of their first meeting set off a chain of upcoming events to take place. He wasn't going down without a fight until he got what he wanted.
Her.
This is how shit is about to go down in The Lounge.
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