That’s when I moved.
She was standing at the bar with a drink in her hand and her cute laugh in the air. I stepped up behind her, close enough that she could feel me.
“What you sippin’ on, lil mama?”
She turned slowly, eyes flickering like candles. She had a playful smirk on her lips. I could tell that she was already half-annoyed.
“Hurricane. Don’t start.”
“Nah, I ain’t starting. I’m just saying. You out here by yourself, now? Ain’t no big bro watching. What you on tonight?”
I let my eyes drop, just a little, taking her in. Her all-black fit. Her curves. Her attitude. Yummi was a vibe and always had been. She was younger than I by a year, so we were on the same level.
She narrowed her eyes.
“I’m grown, nigga. I go where I want.”
“Yeah, you grown. Grown enough to let a nigga take care of you.”
She sipped her drink, not backing down, but I saw that flicker in her eyes—hesitation, maybe curiosity. She wasn’t used toanybody pushing up on her like that. Not in Coast’s territory, but he wasn’t here now.
“Why you always acting so hard, huh? You don’t need to be.”
She stepped back, but not all the way. Her voice dropped, just a little.
“Because I don’t trust no nigga in this city, that’s why. I got Coast.”
I leaned in, close enough that she could feel my voice in her ear.
“Maybe you just ain’t been with the right one yet. You ain’t gon’ always have your brother either. That nigga can’t give you no dick.”
She froze for a split second, then slipped out of the space between us, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
“Boy, I gotta go. You’re talking crazy.”
“I ain’t crazy, I’m real, and about you. You’ll see.”
“Bye, Hurricane.”
I watched her walk away, hips swaying like a problem I wasn’t trying to solve, but I knew—this wasn’t over.
Not even close.
I SEE EVERYTHING
It wasafter midnight atThe Decks. The warehouse lights were low, and shadows stretched long across the concrete. The smell of money, weed, and saltwater clung to the walls.
I sat at the table as stacks of cash lay out in front of me, and rubber bands popped as I counted. The weight felt real good in my hands. I ran my thumb across a thick stack. I couldn’t even count correctly because of my gut. That shit was tight.
Hurricane.
I wasn’t a dumb nigga.
I’d been checking his temperature for a minute now… little shit. The way the product moved, the way the numbers didn’t quite add up. The way Hurricane had been talking, like he was bigger than what he was. Like he had something to prove. I knew that type. The muscle that thought he was a boss just because he stood next to one. I had known Hurricane since my early twenties, and I was pushing thirty now. He grew up in Southwave with us, but always did his own thing, always bought product from me until he realized he would get more money by getting on my team. He had always been solid, up until I let him get too comfortable next to me.
I leaned back in my chair, blunt hanging from my lips, eyes on the camera’s feed from Velvet South. When I said that club was mine, I meant it. I had money moving in and out of there, and I had access to the tapes. So, I was watching what happened when I had left. I knew once I left scenes, niggas moved funny.
Hurricane’s face popped up on the corner screen, caught outsidethe clubtwo nights back. That nigga was moving funny, high as fuck off X—talking to one of the side runners who didn’t even come up through us. The fuck was he doing talking to him?
