Just as I figured.
It was snowing… not thick yet, but steady, quiet, and sneaky; the kind that starts innocently, then turns into a white-out with no warning.
The corner of my mouth twitched.
It looks like fate just booked us all another night in hell.
I was a bit torn. Although I had made up my mind that I wasn’t leaving, it was knowing I’d have to spend a possible full day with Chesteria, Isis,andthat goofy-ass nigga Adrian. The good part, though? I saw that as an opportunity andextra time.
Time to make a move, and time to say what needed to be said and fix what really needed fixing between me and Chesteria.
“Looks like nobody’s goin’ nowhere,” I announced, still staring out the window, arms crossed, and voice flat.
“Wh-What?!” she stammered behind me, full of attitude and disbelief.
“Stay here. I need to go holla at Chesteria.”
“Aboutwhat?!” Isis huffed with her arms folded tightly.
I looked over my shoulder, wearing a mug she should’ve been used to by now. “Aboutshit, you can't help me with. I told youabout questioning me, Isis. You literally on thin ice… don’t make it crack.”
I walked off without another word.
Just as I raised my hand to knock on Chesteria’s door, it opened with Adrian standing in the doorway, wearing that dumb ass smirk on his face and a pair of pajama bottoms only.
“Morning,” he greeted casually, like we were boys, then brushed past me.
I glared at him, biting down on my response.
As soon as I stepped inside of the room, I closed the door behind me. I didn’t care what Adrian thought was about to take place—I’d let him assume whatever.
Chesteria was still peacefully asleep, draped in the covers like some angelic-ass temptation. Even in sleep, she was the softest, most dangerous thing I’d ever seen. I stood there for a minute, then my eyes did a slow sweep of the room. I was scoping out any signs offuckin’. To my relief, I didn’t see any panties on the floor, condom wrappers tossed lazily in a trash can or smell any bed-shifted sweat stench in the air. The room smelled like vanilla, not aftermath.
My eyes then landed on the chair in the corner where that nigga’s bag was chillin’. I snuck over and opened it up like I was trying to defuse a bomb full of red flags. Inside, I found the usual suspects—condoms, of course—the cheap kind, wrapped in crinkly foil that screamed “five for a dollar.” Next to them was a half-used bottle of cologne that reeked of hustler dreams, failed aspirations, and questionable hygiene. Buried beneath the cologne was a couple of crumpled Backwoods and a Ziploc bag of weed, so mid it was practically a misdemeanor. Right on top was a poorly rolled blunt that was thick in the middle and skinny at the ends, looking like it had body dysmorphia.
I picked it up and brought it to my nose. My nostrils flared as I inhaled.
“Nigga got backyard boof in here, not even gas,” I mumbled, taking another whiff and barely resisting the urge to sneeze. “This shit smells like he clipped it off a bush behind the Dollar Tree. Ain’t no stick, no shine, no nothing. Shit, don’t even got a scent trail.”
The next item that stood out to me was a pair of socks. They weren’t regular socks, though; those wereI-grew-up-in-a-praying-householdsocks. They had holes in the toes, the heel was shredded like it fought a blender, and the fabric was so thin I could see through the damn soles.
“I know this nigga didn’t come here with a pair of holy socks,”I muttered, my lips twisting in a mix of disbelief and humor.“What he out here manifesting? A miracle with every step? Walking by faith and not by funds?”
I held the socks up, staring into the eyes of betrayal, silently demanding an explanation from the universe.
“Damn…”I muttered,“Y’all been through it, huh? Y’all ain’t even socks no more; y’all just suggestions.”
They didn’t respond, but I felt the struggle radiating off them like a cry for help.
This nigga obviously can’t afford no Fruit of the Looms but trying to put dick in rotation. Nigga, you don’t bring survival socks to the mountains. I should put his ass out in just his boxers and these tired-ass socks. Deadass… just to see how long he’ll survive. I bethe’d come crawling back in three minutes, eyes bloodshot, nose running, and feet looking like they’d tap-danced on a cheese grater.
I tossed the socks back into the bag, showing them zero respect.
I spotted a crusty toothbrush with no cover and damn near threw the whole bag.
I kept digging, relishing the toxic thrill of my little scavenger hunt at that point. That’s when I stumbled across a pair of Polo boxers that actually looked… halfway decent.
I smirked, slow and dark. “If I had some small crabs, I’d slide ‘em in his boxers and have his ass scratching like a DJ at a '90s house party,”I mumbled, voice low and grimy.“Bet he’d remix the whole damn alphabet. DJ Itch and the Funky Bumps, coming to a clinic near you.”
