Sister Souljah returns to her beloved character Winter Santiaga in the captivating and heart-pounding sequel to instant #1 New York Times bestseller Life After Death . After suffering a horrifying, yet soul stirring death experience, worldwide top bitch Winter Santiaga, of The Coldest Winter Ever , is alive and facing a dilemma that every living person faces: how to respond to the Fear of God, awareness of heaven and hell, while pursuing and satisfying deep desires for sex, fun, love, money, revenge, and fame. In her new novel, Love After Midnight , Sister Souljah delivers a powerful hip-hop hood style, global romantic comedy. Sister Souljah is a graduate of Rutgers University. During her college years, she was known for her powerful voice, sharp political analysis, cultural allegiance, community organizing, and for her humanity. Post-graduation, Sister Souljah earned the love and support of her African American community by creating a national youth and student movement. She is credited for serving homeless families, creating academic, cultural, and recreational after-school programs, weekend academies, and sleep-away summer camps. Partnering with major mainstream celebrities, she provided her efforts free to all young people and families in need. A multidimensional woman, Souljah was the only female performing artist and voice of Public Enemy. She is also a wife and a mother. A storyteller who makes the entire world her home, she lives wherever she is “pushing her pen.” Chapter 1: Mood 1 MOOD Tonight, I need something stronger than weed. It hit me all at once. After being the coolest, nah, the coldest bitch on the planet, it was like, I was getting hit, by an intense heat wave. Then anger overtook me. Fifteen fucking years on lock and finally free. But right now in this moment, I’m more hateful than grateful. Fuck the bullshit. Hate has its place. Suddenly famous, I’m out of my element. I’ve been all Brooklyn, da peeps and da streets or the cells. Upon my prison release in January this year, I caught a reality show starring me. The bag was big. Course I was amped about it. But somehow today… Fame gotta bitch feeling like comfortable is the most uncomfortable feeling. Blank mind. Blank soul. It’s false, empty, and vacant. I realize I’m addicted to struggle and hustle, moving and maneuvering, fight and fury, action and reaction, pressure and tension. That’s how I got here in this dark club they calling a lounge. See, even the scene and the lingo switched up on me. No matter what they call it though, it’s where I need to be right now. It’s hot. The walls are sweating. Every body is body to body. No air, the scent of perfumes and colognes and funk and strong liquor and scented smoke intermingling. Inhale weed, exhale frustration. Music, louder than thunder. This is how I need to party, with hood bitches who can’t pay their rent, but got $150 mani-pedis, $500 weaves, and $700 shoes. Fuck cameras and papparazzi and the rich crowd of fame, and children of fame. Whether they young or grown, they all be insecure, suicidal, fake, and psychotic. They perform and talk too much about nothing. Think they know everything but never did nothing real. Don’t know the real deal about shit and whine like newborns bout this and that. My party needs to be packed with niggas and bitches who ain’t got a damn thing to actually celebrate, but who keep on pushing, rock the spot, make it pulsate, rhyme, sing, scream, or just mouth the lyrics, eat the beats, and make moves that look like seizures, or others who just lean back or glide and ride the rhythm real smooth. I party with the ones who got no real reason to be confident, but still be the boldest, baddest, and the coldest. I love that. I crave that. But, in the twenty-first century I find myself chasing a feeling I used to feel. So much so, I am wondering if the feeling I felt before is no more in existence. Somehow, wafted away in the wind. But I’m still here . Ain’t found one man who can make my pussy pump, soul jump, or hips hump. I want to feel something. Make my eyes widen. Make me cry. Make me laugh so hard my stomach aches. Make my nipples plump, my thighs shake, my toes curl. Bite me. Fight me. I’ll bite you back. Excite me. Make me cum six or seven times in one night. That’s the only way for me to feel right and alive. Cause I am alive and love that fact. But neer nigga got that look, style, clout, or that energy. I know what it looks like. When I see it, I’ll snatch it, trap it, and make it mine. But I ain’t seen it day or night, night or day in the short amount of weeks that I have been free, awake, and active. My bodyguard is with me. My investors insisted. They guard me like gold. My new accountant told me to look at each of my body parts as units of wealth. My time and each and every second as representing a certain dollar amount that I choose as my price quote. Make all pay to play. That’s the only way to prevent people, agents, businesses, an