Nyce
Monday | 2:19pm
That last lookPrincess gave me stayed with me longer than I wanted it to. I couldn’t lie and tell her the sex meant nothing or that her sleeping on my chest felt like home. That wasn’t who I was, and I knew that shit fucked with her because my head was gone too.
“Yo.” Crook’s voice pulled me out of my own head. He was off the phone now, pacing back toward the car. “Shawn and Flip got him. Warehouse.”
I nodded once. “Let’s finish it.”
I sparked the blunt as he drove. The smoke moved slowly through my lungs, like it was trying to calm something down in me I wasn’t ready to name. I was steady on the outside. Butinside? I was already somewhere else. Running back every word Princess said. Every tear. And I swear, I wanted to hem her little ass up and fuck her to sleep for putting her hands on me again. Missed opportunity.
I was good, though. I knew she would be straight. The hotel was booked for a couple of weeks while she figured shit out. I had one last move to end all this dumb shit and then I was taking a fucking vacation.
“Bro,” Crook started to say as I handed him the blunt. “Lemme ask you something?”
“And that is?”
He hesitated for a second, leaning to the left, gripping the wheel as he drove through the city. “I been watching you and I peeped that shit outside the church with ol’ girl. What’s up?”
I turned my head fully then, my glare sharp. “Fuck you mean what’s up?”
“Nigga,what’s up? I been knowing you how long? I can tell you letting that girl pull at shit you buried a long time ago.” I didn’t speak. Just stared at him while that last sentence bounced around in my head. Crook kept going. “She ain’t the first bitch you done held hostage from a muthafucka who owes you bread, but with her, you moving hella different. Ain’t no way this is strictly business.”
“Watch yourself.”
“I am,” he said, turning his head finally to meet my stare. “You the one who ain’t.”
For a second, I wanted to swing on this nigga. Just off GP. But the truth was, I just didn’t like the way Crook hit too close. I watched as he took a deep pull from the blunt and passed it back to me. I looked away, smoking and exhaling out the cracked window. The silence hung for a moment with heavy tension in it before I addressed it.
“You know what your problem is?” I said calmly, not even looking at him.
Crook chuckled low. “What, Nyce?”
“You’re a feelings type of nigga. Always been. Falling for strippers and chasing hood dreams with bitches who can’t spell loyalty on their best day. That’syou, Crook.” He squinted, but didn’t argue. He just kept driving, nodding slowly. “But me?” I tapped the ash out the window. “I don’t mix what’srealwith what’sfeel. I don’t fuck with shit too complicated. That girl? She was just there when the time came. Pussy was available. Simple as that.”
He side-eyed me. “You ain’t gotta lie to kick it, bro.”
“When have I lied to you, muthafucka? I’m speaking facts. I got my money. Brought the preacher to his fuckin’ knees. And now, it’s done. I don’t wanna hear no more shit about Princess. Dead that shit.”
Crook let out a breath before he finally said, “Bet.”
We locked eyes for a second, then nothing else was said. The rest of the ride was quiet except forDuffle Bag Trappy’ssong, “Life’s Too Short,” that boomed through the speakers. Smoke twisted through the air, and a bottle of D’USSÉ rested onthe floor between my legs. I leaned back, letting the blunt burn down, my mind already shifting gears.
My phone buzzed on my thigh with a text from Belvin letting me know he’d dropped Princess off to the hotel. I stared at the screen for a second, thumb hovering. Then I locked it, dropped it face down in my lap, and kept staring out the window. I told myself it was over. I’d gotten what I needed. So why the fuck did I still feel her?
???
Monday | 3:02pm
That thick, metallic scent of blood and steel, cut with the bite of ammonia, diesel, and fresh plastic, hit my nose the second we stepped inside the warehouse. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, buzzing low, casting sharp shadows over organized chaos.
To the left, my runners were bagging up work with gloved hands. Kilos of the purest cocaine powder were getting broken down, weighed, and sealed tight in vacuum packs before sliding into duffel bags. A table full of youngins worked in silence, headphones in, heads low, eyes sharp. One of them looked up, nodded when he saw me, then got back to it as his life depended on it.
Further back, crates of artillery, like Russian-made AKs, Glocks, and custom shotties, were being loaded and wrapped in shrink wrap, like Christmas came early. Pablo was poppinginventory off a clipboard, calling out serial numbers while Ahkbar labeled the boxes with cities.
To the right, another crew was sorting stacks of burner phones and counterfeit IDs. Paperwork, delivery routes, and untraceable licenses. Whole side hustle just moving identities like candy bars while a couple of couches sat near the middle, where two of my older heads sat playing. And above all, my cameras captured everything on a 24-hour feed, with audio.
Crook and I walked past the tables and made our way toward the back. Lighting another blunt as I moved, I thought about how clean this mayor nigga got snatched. How easy that shit really was once I set the play in motion. All that power, all that pride, but he was still a man at the end of the day, and all men had weaknesses. His was women.
