Mommy smiles at them. “You likkle girl ever a try gwaan like is only your father.” She turns, catching my eye with her bright gaze. Cutie. Look just like har nice mother. I chuckle and lean over them.
“Hey, daddy love both a you the same way, enuh. No need fi a fight,” I say. Zahir looks up, his little hand already curled into a fist. I do the same.
“Knock it nuh, G,” I say. He looks at me, then giggles.
“Ta,” Zahira says.Jah. Their baby sounds fill the room, and I stand with my hands out in front of me. My love for them? Indescribable. Only God and their mother can understand. I smirk, staring at them and thinking about how unconditional my love is.
“It’s time to change you now, my cupcakes,” Mommy says, excited.
“Mi have a problem, enuh, Mommy,” I say. She laughs, knowing exactly what I mean. How mi a go leave?
“Mi affi go distract them so you can leave,” she says, and I follow behind her. She tickles them, and they laugh, giving methe chance to sneak out. I step down the first two steps, but they start crying loudly. I grit my teeth and laugh, walking back in.
“Daddy still deh yer enuh,” I say, and Zahira wails uncontrollably. Just like her mother, always crying. Zahir stares up with tears in his eyes. Jah know.
“What happen to dem?” Zara asks, voice worried. Neva’ member she still on the phone eno.
“Them nuh wah mi lef, as usual,” I say and hear her laugh.
“Ohh,” she says, chewing her food.
“Wah yuh a eat?” I ask, eyes on the twins.
“Steak and shrimp,” she answers.
“Chubble,” I say, making her laugh. Once I’m off her line, I call Rick.
“Yow,” I say when he answers. “Yaw see mi inna fifteen minutes.”
“All right, fam. Mi a wait,” he says.
“Up,” I reply and hang up. Five minutes pass, and I’m still pacing, waiting for the perfect time to leave, when their eyes refuse to leave me.Cas dem know yuh a cut, yuh always deh wid dem, enuh.Dem smart. Mommy waves her hands at me, and I sneak out quietly, closing the door behind me. Downstairs, I get in my car, Gutta jumps in, Manuel already cut. Not even get fi build a spliff. I place the leeds in the safe compartment under the carpet, sliding the banger phone and the 9mm right beside it. The lining folds back down neat, like nothing’s there. Got it done custom.
Gutta glances over and smirks. “Leeds fi days.” I smirk back, close the console, then start the engine. Nipsey Hussle’sRacks in the Middlehits as soon as we pull out. The bass knocks heavy, real meds in every line. My hand rests loose on the wheel as the C63 glides smooth along the road. The sunroof is open, the front windows up, and the back ones almost halfway down. Theheadlights on, even before it’s dark. Gutta leans back, a red cup in his hand, liquor swirling like thoughts. He’s zoning until he suddenly shifts upright.
“Ease up mi dawg,” he says low, eyes on the left. “Some police bwoy inna the corner.” I lift my foot gently off the gas. The car slows. Gutta slips his gun in the safe, I do the same. A patrol officer steps out from the curve, arm raised. I bring the Benz to a halt, my face blank. He walks over, posture stiff. Man look like him already find suh’m suspicious.
He peers in.
“Good evening. License and registration.” I reach for the glove compartment, no rush, no sudden moves. Pass him the papers without saying a word.
“Step out of the vehicle.” I glance at Gutta once, then open my door and step out.
The officer looks me up and down. “Nice car. How yuh buy a Benz like this?”
I open my wallet and slide out the Jacobs Auto Group business card, then hand it to him.
He flips it, then whistles low. “A you own this?”
I nod. “Mi run it.” He squints, maybe doubting it, but the proof deh pan paper.
Two more officers circle the car. One by the trunk, one peeking through the windows.
“Pull the trunk,” he says. I do it without a word. They search, under seats, under mats, glove box, side panels. Gutta’s still in the passenger seat, cup in his hand, calm as ever. The feds lean into the passenger side, hand running close to where the custom carpet rests. One inch deeper and he pulls back. He shuts the door, brushes his and looks at me.
“Car clean,” he says, handing me back the card and papers. I nod once, take it. Step back in the Benz. I shut the door, shift into drive and pull off slowly.
Gutta exhales, shakes his head. “Bagga wasteman…” I don’t respond. Only thing I do is turn Nipsey back up, hand tapping the wheel, eyes lock on the road ahead, then I sing the next line that spills from the speakers.
