She hated the life.
But she loved me enough to let me live it.
I dressed quick.
Black jeans.
Black hoodie.
Black jacket.
I grabbed my gun bag off the shelf in the garage and tossed it into the passenger seat of my blacked out Challenger SRT Scat Pack.
The engine roared to life and echoed through the concrete as I pulled out into the night.
I drove straight to the Laveau parking structure downtown and took the ramp all the way to the top.
Two cars was already waiting.
Ares stood beside one of them, smoking.
I stepped out and nodded once.
“What’s good?”
He flicked the blunt ashes off the roof.
“Same shit. Let’s go.”
We hopped into the unmarked black CLS parked beside his car.
It looked like something a rich detective would drive. Clean. Dark. Invisible to cops.
I pulled out and the city swallowed us.
By the time we hit the freeway, it was close to three in the morning.
We rode in silence for a minute, listening to O’Demon’s new album, before he lit a blunt and passed it over.
This wasn’t two rich niggas in a luxury car.
This was two Compton niggas going backwards for a night.
Ares was quiet at first.
Then the venting started.
Low.
Angry.
Dark.
I didn’t catch all of it because he was speaking French, but I understood enough.
My pops made me and Yuna learn French growing up because we were Creole.
Yuna took it seriously.
