“Yo, DaVinci!” Rico called out when he saw me. Then he saw the carrier and Brixxi. “Bro, is that a dog?”
“Yeah, man, damn. My girl needed me to keep her, and I can’t say no.”
“Is it dressed?”
“She has a name, nigga. It’s Brixxi. Not only is she dressed, but she also iced out too,” I said as he peeped her collar.
She looked around, ears back, taking in the scene. The music and noise did not seem to bother her.
Chance sat down next to me, still grinning. “Man, you are down bad. Like you got the city boys in a hole we will never get out of.”
“I’m not down bad. I’m securing my spot.”
“You’re at a club. With a dog, that’s dressed and iced out. Because your girl had to work.” He laughed. “That’s down bad, my nigga. But I respect that shit.”
“Say what you want. I’m getting the W tonight.”
One of the bottle girls came over with the sponsored liquor, cameras trailing behind her. I posed for the photos, held up the bottle, and did all the performative bullshit they expected. Meanwhile, Brixxi sat on my lap, posted up as if she knew it was a photo shoot.
“Can I get a pic with the dog?” one of the photographers asked, reaching out to grab Brixxi.
“Nah. She’s off-limits.”
“Come on, man. That shit would go viral,” Chance encouraged.
“Halo would kill me if I let her dog be in a picture with a half-naked girl. No. That is like using a kid as a chick magnet.”
Chance leaned over. “Bro, you might as well propose. Is she coming to the game?”
“Yeah, she’ll be there.”
“Bet.”
I chilled for another hour, sipping 1942 and letting the liquor smooth out the edges. The bass thumped through my ribs, and the energy in the club was electric. When the DJ cut the music and announced I was in the building, the whole place erupted. I stood, Brixxi secure in my arms, and'White Ones'by Montana 700 dropped through the speakers. The crowd went wild. Lights strobed across the VIP section, phones lifted in every direction, flashes cutting through the smoke and darkness.
For a minute, I became that nigga. The one with a chip on his shoulder and a point to prove. The one with money in the bank and a baddie in his life. I popped my shit because I had a lot to be grateful for, a lot to be thankful for. I raised my glass to the crowd, and the roar got louder.
About an hour in, my phone buzzed.
Angel:How’s my baby?
I snapped a picture of her sitting on my lap, looking annoyed but safe, and sent it.
Me:She’s good.
Angel:You really took her to the club!
Me:Told you I had it handled.
Angel:Thank you. You are the best.
Me:Anytime, baby. Focus on work. We’re good.
Angel:Not my girl is famous. She’s all over the blogs.
I hit the link she sent, and sure enough, an off-guard picture of Brixxi and me was posted on a few blogging pages.
One headline read:DaVinci Bryns is not beating the allegations that he’s found love. Is this the soft launch? Is this the firefighter?
