“Um, no ma’am. We’ll keep these. Thanks, Beautiful.”
“Girl, we’re on light. This hood mix ain’t going to agree with our systems,” I fussed.
“Oh, Mahasin, please. If anything goes wrong, I’m pretty sure you know a doctor who can get us a new kidney,” Amber slurred.
“Um, bitch, it doesn’t work like that. And I’m not worried about our kidneys—well, not entirely—I’m worried about being sick to my stomach,” I explained.
“That’s what they make Pedialyte and B-12 IVs for. Now hush up and throw these shits back with me. I’m Martin Lawrence, and you’re Danny DeVito. On three—1, 2—”
“Wait,” I stopped her. “Martin Lawrence and Danny DeVito?”
She shrugged. “What’s the Worst That Could Happen?”
I rolled my eyes and shrugged with her before downing both shots back-to-back.
“Fuuuck!”
That damn Hennessy burned so good it was criminal. Shit had the magic to give the most uncoordinated individual rhythm. I'm fairly certain this is how teenage boys develop hair on their chests. Judging by the screwed-up faces around the bar, the ladies were feeling it too.
Dark liquor—especially Hennessy—hit Amber and me differently. Amber wanted to fight. Me? I wanted to fuck. Which is exactly why I usually stayed away from that dark potion. Five shots later, I was torn up, having the stability of a newborn baby and the judgment of a blind man picking out curtains.
Amber, smartly, tapped out after the first two shots so she could play babysitter. If she sat next to me, I wouldn’t get into trouble.
“Hey, Amber, a group of fine brothers just walked in. Be my wingman? I’m rusty when it comes to picking up men,” one of my affirmation sisters asked.
“I can coach you, keep the conversation going, but I can’t sample anything. I got a good man at home,” she said.
“Deal!”
As Amber’s sociable ass got up, I grabbed her arm. “Bitch don’t leave me at this bar. I've done mixed dark and light—and Hennessy at that. You know what Henney does to my pretty penny.”
She cackled. “Yeah. It makes you refer to your pussy as a penny. Sit your loose ass right here. I’ll be close enough to keep an eye on you. Besides, maybe somebodyneedsto relax that little penny of yours.” She winked.
“Ambs!”
Gage
Icouldn’t say I was heartbroken that Kelsey and I didn't work out. Being heartbroken would require a betrayal of love, admiration, and affection you’d given to someone. Kelsey wasn’t even allowed to stay with me more than three nights in a row, and by the afternoon of that third night, I’d make it clear it was time for her to go—with the famous, “So… what you about to do?” question.
Naw, heartbroken wasn’t it. If I had to put a verb on what I felt, I’d go with disappointment. But not disappointment in Kelsey. I was disappointed in myself for wasting my time, letting misery settle in over someone who cared more about me stretching out her passed-around pussy than getting to know me.
I couldn't care less about that girl.
And yet, oddly enough, I still found myself at RYZE with my boys, Jason and Desmond, toasting to the single life.
“There’s some fine-ass women in here tonight, ooo wee!” Desmond cheered.
“Nigga, calm yo ass down. This ain’t Chuck E. Cheese’s,” Jason scoffed.
“Might as well be, ’cause I’m definitely about to pay for a few rides,” Desmond laughed.
I shook my head, laughing at them both. The three of us couldn’t be more different—Desmond Givins, the funny one; Jason Connor, the dapper, prim-and-proper type and borderline ignorant; and me… well, just me. But our love for film and brotherhood kept us tight. We met on the set of a reboot of a classic ’90s Black sitcom, and we’ve been locked in ever since.
“And this our boy Gage—he’s the big-time producer on the film,” Desmond said, pulling me out of my thoughts. Apparently, three gorgeous women had approached us while I mentally drifted off.
"But nine times out of ten, you'll catch him on set as if he was the line producer and not the executive," Desmond continued.
"Nigga thinks he's the producerandthe director. He yells, 'Be quiet!' and 'Cut!' more than me — but fuck it, makes my job a lot easier," Jason chimed in.
