The leather interior was cold on my thighs because he had the air bumping. I felt my nipples harden and swell on instant. Regardless of the season, hot or cold, Street kept his whip cold and the windows slightly cracked to keep the smoke circulating. He always had a cigarette, blunt, or even a joint up to his lips. If not there, then behind his ear, waiting to be lit.
“What up? You looking good.” He looked at me, licking his lips, and at the same time smacking me on the thigh and squeezing it tightly. Street had big hands. His touch had me squirming in my seat.
“Thanks, bae. You do too,” I replied, blushing and meaning the compliment.
Every inch of his entire body was cut and sexy to me. His hands were rough, but it didn’t matter. He’d been hustling all day. I wouldn’t have liked him if he were a straight and narrow, nine-to-five, working college boy. It was his thuggish ways I was attracted to.
“Thanks, shorty. But I’m good on all that small talk if you are. What’chu tryin’ to get into?”
“You tell me. You already know I’m down for whatever.” I wasn’t timid to be his hot girl.
He chuckled the type of chuckle that makes you know a nigga ain’t taking you seriously. “You been talkin’ a good game all day to a nigga, P. We’ll see what that mouth really be like when it comes down to it, though.”
Not waiting for a response from me, Street turned the music up loud enough to blast our eardrums out, then pulled away from the curb. I held on to his words, knowing I’d have to make good on mine. If I even tried to backpedal, Jamika would surely step into my place in a heartbeat.
I didn’t necessarily know where we were going, nor did I care. As long as he made me feel good when we got there and made good on his word to get me back home before the cabaret was over, I was good and comfortable. And since we both could die if Calvin or Trinity caught us together, I knew I could settle in and enjoy the window of freedom I had.
“You trying to sip, or are you on that kid shit tonight?” he questioned, pulling up to the liquor store.
“If you’re buying, I’m drinking,” I replied boldly, trying to act grown since he’d called me out.
He laughed sarcastically like I had him twisted. “Don’t ever play me close, shorty. I ain’t no suck-a-dick-ass nigga who puts his hand out to a female. Never have and never will be. Now is ya drinking on something or what?”
Street wasn’t on the same level as boys my age were. I couldn’t run him in circles with my games. Each and every time I tried to, he shut me down and let me know I didn’t have the mentality to fuck with him on his level. And this time was no different. I quit playing and answered, “Yeah, I’m sipping. Can you get me a bottle of green apple Cîroc, please?”
He snickered as if I might’ve been a handful to deal with. “I swear to God you’re just like your momma. A nigga gotta get nutty with you before you act right. But I got you. Lock the doors when I get out.”
I did more than that. Trained to be a thug’s girlfriend because I was raised in the trap by thug parents, I watched his back until he disappeared up an aisle of the store. Instead of getting lost in my phone on a social network full of chickenheads posting their whole life story, I kept checking my surroundings to make sure no one was lurking or creeping. If something even looked suspect, I’d be letting my dude know any way I had to. I wanted Street to know I was loyal, a rider, and resilient to the streets, in spite of me being immature sometimes. The way I figured it, he’d be quicker to wife me knowing I wasn’t going to be easily broken.
There was nothing going on around the store. In the night, everything was still but the few bums standing right outside, waiting for folks to give them change. I paid them no attention because I didn’t have any intention of giving them a dime from Street’s cup holder. They could get it how they lived.
Just when I thought Street and I were getting ready to make a clean break from the store without running into anyone we knew, his homeboy Pete Rock pulled up. I rolled my eyes so hard at him that my head started hurting.
Hate was a strong word, but it was perfectly appropriate when describing my feelings toward Street’s best friend. He was tall, lanky, weird, and always had something smart to say when he saw me and Street together. It was always something referring to my age, followed by statements about my dad. That hating shit was on purpose, so I hated being in his presence. I couldn’t wait until I was 18 so I could quit living with a lie and having simple muthafuckas hold it over my head.
“What up, young P?” Pete Rock’s annoying ass approached the car, putting emphasis on the word “young.” He could’ve kept his greeting if all he was gonna do was irritate me.
“Nothing,” I dryly responded, not extending a question back of what was up with him. I didn’t care nothing about Pete and didn’t want him thinking I did.
“Where that man at you fuckin’ with, baby P?” He boldly snuck one in.
“Oh, I see you’re in rare form tonight with ya weak-link ass,” I clapped back. “Get the fuck on up outta my face, Pete. I ain’t in the mood for your tainted ass trying to ruin my night.” Born addicted to drugs, Pete Rock knew I was referring to him being a crack baby and having a nutty personality because of it.
Cackling like a hyena, he wasn’t the least bit fazed by me calling him out. “I ain’t the one you need to be worried about ruining ya night. It’s ya daddy Cal you should be focused on finding out, li’l creeper.”
Knowing this back-and-forth battle could go on and on without either of us letting up, I rudely ended it. “Speaking of daddies, yours is in the store. Bye-bye.” I rolled the window up, turned straight ahead, and dismissed him. He better hope his hate game is strong, ’cause if not, I’ll be dismissing him as Street’s lackey in a few weeks forever. I didn’t want Pete Rock nowhere around me, let alone tagging along like the third-wheel loser he was.
Through my peripheral vision, I saw him mean mugging me with hate in his eyes. I knew he was salty about me calling him out as Street’s son, but it was not my fault he couldn’t be controlled and must have an overseer. Street monitored every move Pete Rock made because Pete was out of his rabbit-ass mind. I’d seen him go ham on females, men, and even grandmas. A filter never existed when it came to him attacking a muthafucka.
Pete was like a mangy mutt, especially when he’d gone off them pills. But I was not worried about him laying one of his psychopathic fingers on me. If he kept staring or making threats, though, I would put a bug into my daddy’s ear that’d have him murked. Matter of fact, I might do that anyway just to get rid of his irking ass. My hate for Pete Rock was through the roof.
After a few more seconds of staring me down with his nose flared, Pete flicked me the finger and mouthed the word “bitch” before walking away. I watched his booty closely to see if it switched or jiggled with his steps, instead of checking him for calling me out of my name. I swore he had more female tendencies than I did.
First kicking it in the store for a few minutes, Street and Pete Rock finally walked out, continuing their conversation in front of it. I rolled my window back down a little on the sneak tip so I could try ear hustling. I wanted to know what they were saying.
As expected, Pete had my name in his mouth, hating. He wanted Street to “put me back into the playpen” so they could shoot some moves. His words and not mine. I had to sit on my hands, bite my lip, and close my eyes as tight as I could to keep from jumping out and going ham on Pete. Like I said, I had no qualms when it came to saying I hated Street’s lackey.
My boo put him in his place before sending him away with a mouthful received about minding his business, not ours. On the inside, I was grinning like a kid. If Street was taking up for me, he and I must’ve been as serious as I hoped we were. When he turned to walk my way, I hurried and dropped my head into my phone, acting like I was all in the gossip on a celebrity blog site.
“Here.” He opened the door, handing me the plastic bag with our stuff in it from the store, then slid in. “I was gonna take you back to the crib an
d see those pics you sent in person, but there’s been a change of plans. I’ve gotta trail this nigga while he makes a few runs.”
I smacked my lips hard, twisting all the way around in my seat to face him. “Are you serious with me right now? Is that nigga my age or something? He can’t never say nothing to me about being a baby if he need you to trail behind him like a fuckin’ little boy,” I snapped, disappointed because I didn’t want to part ways with Street so soon.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Chill out with all that rah-rah shit, P. I ain’t with the drama, and you know that.” He called himself putting me in my place.
“And I’m not trying to go home.” I huffed and puffed again, gearing up for a full-blown tantrum. “I hate when you put other people before me, Street. Like you tried to do with that Jamika trick. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it!” I fussed, stomping my foot like a little kid.
Street flipped on me, exposing a side of him I’d never seen. Reaching over the console, he covered my mouth with his hand, then forced me to lean back in the seat. My breathing deepened when he put his face close to mine.
“You better give your daddy a hug and kiss when you see him. If it weren’t for that nigga Cal, you’d have the imprint of my hand across your face instead of it over your mouth. Now make the decision to either chill the fuck out or get the fuck out and walk home. I won’t be saying ‘calm down’ again.” Uncovering my mouth, he leaned back over the console, staring at me.
I stared back at him, trying to figure out how to play my next move. Even though I wanted to go ham and give him a taste of what I’d learned from my momma, I sucked up my ego and sat still. However, this was the last time I’d be on record as bowing out gracefully. The shit was killing me to be quiet and compliant. Turning the car back on, he cranked the radio up on full blast and started rolling a blunt. Me not being the focus of his attention was really pissing me off.
Street ended up getting me a bottle of water, a Sprite, and a half-pint of apple Cîroc. I cracked the liquor open and called myself guzzling it straight down from the rim. Taking it like an amateur, I almost choked as it burned my throat, and I only managed to swallow a few mouthfuls. I was grumpy as hell over him not caring about me being grumpy as hell, so much so that I sipped another mouthful, this time only choking on the burn a little bit.
“I see you over there in that passenger seat trying to be grown and shit. You know good and damn well you can’t handle liquor yet, so slow it down,” Street said, reaching over and taking the bottle from my hand. “And you can fix your spoiled-rotten attitude, by the way, P. I’ma let you ride with me to take care of business,” he gave in, lighting his blunt. “But as soon as we hit the freeway, drop ya head in my lap. I ain’t trying to hear you talkin’ the whole ride to the east.”
I smiled, glad to be getting what I wanted. All I was trying to do was be by Street’s side and prove I was the girl for him. He had a few chicks down to ride, Jamika being the ring leader of the rat pack, so I was about to make my time with him most memorable. It wasn’t enough that I was the daughter of Calvin and Trinity, because he wasn’t fuckin’ with my parents. Holding my own was what mattered in the grand scheme of thangs. As soon as he said to drop it, I was going to fill my mouth up with spit and give his sexy ass the wettest and sloppiest blow job a girl had ever blessed him with. Just like the freak did on the porno.
Pete Rock had to grab the packs he was selling before we could head east. I was apprehensive as hell about going on the block even though my dad wasn’t supposed to be there trappin’. He’d kill both me and Street with his bare hands if he found out about our secret relationship. Me for fuckin’ the help and Street being disloyal. I was his most prized possession and wasn’t supposed to be touched by a nigga from the hood. If I could be honest, my dad was foolish as hell for thinking I wouldn’t get sprung on a thug when it was the only type of man I knew.
“Hey, do ya mans a solid real quick and re-bag these couple of bundles,” Street addressed me before tossing one of the Ziploc bags I’d just filled up with baggies earlier into my lap. I wasn’t sure what he meant.
“Huh? Re-bag ’em? What’s wrong with the way they’re already bagged up? Me, my dad, and Fame ain’t make no mistakes when we was weighing and packaging them. I can do that shit in my sleep,” I bragged on my trapping abilities. I didn’t care how many girls threw themselves at Street. I was the only one who could match his level when it came to hustling. He never seemed to give me my props, and this time was no different.
Blowing out all the smoke he’d just sucked in, he threw his hands up, frustrated. “Damn, why yo’ ass just can’t do what you’re told?”
“All right, all right, just forget I even asked,” I backed down, not wanting to argue.
“Naw, this shit needs to be spoken on before we go any further. When I tell you to do something, do it simply because I said so. I don’t give a fuck how you and your daddy run thangs. That’s y’all dynamic, and that ain’t got shit to do with me.” He laughed, showing his true colors. “You gonna either be my girl or a daddy’s girl. You can’t be both, li’l P.”
Sinking farther down in my seat, I looked at Street with a closed mouth and wide eyes. I was itching to pop off on his ass for disrespecting me and my daddy like it wasn’t shit. I felt slightly sick to my stomach. Here we were, not far from the house I was brought home to as a baby, with the dope that provided for me and my family in my lap, next to a disloyal nigga who basically worked for me but I was emotionally wide open for. Yup, super complex . . . and messed up!
If it weren’t for my family, Street wouldn’t eat, but I fell back and played the role of a basic bitch. I knew better, and it was tearing me up on the inside to be acting so dumb. The game was fucking me raw dog and without remorse. To soften the blow to my ego, I kept telling myself that following his lead was part of the territory of being his girl. I thought this was what my momma meant about me finding out when it was too late that I was young and dumb.
“Well, what’s your answer? I ain’t got all day.” Street put me on the spot, blowing another cloud of smoke in my face.
I refused to verbally say I was going against the grain. That meant I should’ve jumped out of his car and walked home like fuck him. That didn’t happen, though. Instead, I slid on a pair of surgical gloves, then opened the Ziploc bag I’d personally sealed earlier. Street stopped staring when I started moving the rocks from one baggie to the next.
Whereas my dad’s baggies were green, the ones Street had me putting the dope in were miniature manila envelopes stamped with the word “Thriller.” It didn’t take a fool to figure out what Street was doing. He was slanging my dad’s product as his own. It took me approximately seventeen minutes to help a muthafucka come up off my flesh and blood’s back. This was the type of dick-sprung shenanigans my momma warned me about.
After I finished putting all the tiny envelopes in the Ziploc bag, Street gave it to Pete Rock and then told me to hop out and throw my dad’s no-name baggies into the trash. I snickered to myself, wanting to tell Street that this was the part of the game where he needed to listen to me and get schooled. My daddy didn’t have a particular color for his baggies or a name that he called his product because those things were easily traceable. Cal wasn’t about to give the cops puzzle pieces for them to make a picture out of, and now that I was in the position to see things done differently, I completely understood my dad’s logic. Even knowing better, I continued playing dumb.
I had not gotten my lips wrapped around the rim of the Cîroc bottle before Street was back at my head. “Oh, you can drop that bottle and throw that mouth in my circle in my lap. Don’t act like you forgot.” He reminded me of the sexual favor he’d bluntly requested.
Being that I’d just been disloyal to my dad, which meant my mom and Benzie too, I really wasn’t thinking about anything sexually related. Matter of fact, the thump in my panties had completely vanished without me even noticing. However, when he reached over and grabbed the back of my n
eck and started lowering my neck, I sprang into action.
CHAPTER 11
PORSHA
Glad to be up for air, I wiped my mouth and tried fixing my messy bun from where Street was grabbing in my hair. It was no use. No longer was my hair cute, but a bunch of flyaway strands ruffled on top of my head. Combing it up with my fingers into a basic ponytail was the best I could do.
My mouth game had him swerving and flooring the gas pedal more than a couple of times. All that did was make me lock down and lick on it more. He swore he was a boss ass nigga with his big mouth wanting to control a bitch, but all that mouth did for miles west to east was moan my name. Street was lovin’ the shit! My edges were on fire from him holding on to my strands for dear life.
Sitting back in my seat, I took a sip of the Cîroc again, then put it underneath the seat so I could stay alert. I felt uneasy as hell riding through the east. It was unfamiliar territory to me. From the many stories I’d heard, muthafuckas didn’t hold ’em up around these parts. And just from the stance and glare of niggas I saw in passing, wasn’t none of the venomous stories I heard lies. Shady was an understatement for how these dudes were out here looking. I didn’t even blame Pete Rock for wanting Street to follow him at this point. The area we were bending blocks in looked worse than our hood, and that was saying a lot.
Street was in serious mode with his jaw locked, his stare game on steroids, and his eyes moving back and forth around the angles of his car. Never seeing him this focused, I could easily tell he was just as uncomfortable as I was. Seeing him seeming to question his control made the butterflies in my stomach swarm around even faster. Either that or the liquor wasn’t mixing well with the leftovers remnants of pizza I’d managed to eat earlier.
Street didn’t even put the car in park when Pete made his first two stops. The third stop was what had my young head slightly fucked up, though. Pete pulled on the side of a gas station that looked like a death trap. Half of the pumps had signs covering them, saying they were out of order, and half of the overhead lights weren’t working. The ones we’d parked underneath spooked me by flickering every few seconds. It was like some shit out of a scary movie. In the scene I was in, there were two dudes posted up like this was the hangout spot: one sitting on the trunk of a Tempo that was on bricks near the alleyway, and the other right beside him but standing up. They were in the middle of a conversation and sharing a cigarette when we’d arrived, but dropped all that, making us the center of attention shortly afterward.
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