"You've already been dealt yo' cards. Now it's time for you to play them. I know you got niggas, but make me the chosen one."
"This is dangerous," I sighed, gazing into his eyes, following the fire burning in them.
"I been dangerous, baby. Google me." He smirked cockily and tilted his head to the side. "I walk it like I talk it. Juicy, it's war over you. Would you believe me if I told you I'd kill your cousin for getting in the way of your happiness?"
My eyes grew wide. I waited for a chuckle—for him to say he was joking—but when he stale-faced me, I realized he was dead serious.
"Why do things always end up in death?" I tried to rationalize with his mentality. "It's not the only possible solution."
"It is with me. Niggas can't play with you. My rep speaks for itself, and that's already a forewarning."
"Sometimes I wish I could pedal back and decline Allen's offer when he mentioned stealing those iPhones. It wasn't worth it," I muttered, my voice breaking.
"Then you wouldn't be here, Synthia."
"So you think this is meant to be?"
"It may not be the way you look at it, but shit happens for a reason."
Romelo had loosened up, surprisingly. Instead of putting me in the trunk like I'd half-expected, he let me sit in the front seat, and I surveyed everything in awe as we drove.
The compound was in an area called Twinkle Town—a place where the elderly resided and hung Christmas lights year-round. The air felt clean, not polluted like the hood. The grass was greener, perfectly manicured. Kids could play intheir yards without worrying about shoot-outs. Families could have barbecues without worrying about feeding the whole neighborhood or dealing with uninvited guests.
This was the life I saw in magazines. The life I'd feasted on online but ended up famished for.
Romelo didn't know how lucky he truly was.
"Why you be doin' that?" His deep voice startled me out of my thoughts, robbing me of my daydream.
"Doin' what?" My voice hitched, and my brows furrowed.
"That daydreamin' bullshit. You do that shit all the time. Fuck you be thinkin' 'bout?"
I shrugged, not having a solid answer. I didn't even know he cared enough to notice.
"Life, I guess," I mumbled, turning my head away from him to gaze out the window again, switching my eyes from house to house.
"What about it?"
"You know the 'what about it.'"
"Most of the decisions we make are an outcome of how we live."
I scoffed and released a sarcastic chuckle. "You're a nepotism baby. You don't know how it feels to struggle, Romelo. You're like the rapper who grew up with a silver spoon and gold tissue to wipe your ass with, rapping about living in crack houses because that's what you forced yourself to think. Everybody wants to be ghetto."
His jaw flexed, and he gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Oh yeah? You think you know me so well."
"Am I lying?"
"I grew up in a two-parent household. That doesn't eject me from society. I'm a Black man, Synthia. I was born a statistic." His voice was firm now, almost angry. "It took years for my parents to live this lifestyle people call lavish. My grandparents—my mama's parents—died, and they worked normal jobs. They had a hefty 401K and a fire-ass pension plan. By that time, Roxx was born. My mama got pregnant with him young—at sixteen. So she couldn't touch that money until she turned eighteen. My dad wanted to marry my mama, but it'd be going against my grandparents' wishes. A church-going girl with a thug-ass, gang-banging nigga for a son-in-law isn't something worth bragging about. He signed a prenup to protect her valuable assets so he wouldn't have access to her money. My daddy grew up on the other side of fame, but he had a wealthy mindset. He dropped out of school in eighth grade. He was the first Black man to turn dust into diamonds. You think he had handouts? Unless it's built off word of mouth, niggas don't like seeing each other win."
My head turned. His jaw flexed again as he gripped the steering wheel, lost in thought about his life.
"He had to earn his way back into her heart for the way he treated her. But you think because I grew up with both of them that I didn't have to struggle? Shit wasn't peaches and cream, and my dad don't believe in handouts. I bet you if you ask my brothers what their stories are, you wouldn't hear the same one."
He paused, his knuckles white from gripping the wheel so hard.
"Everything I got, I got on my own. I ain't get served a floor plan. I drew that shit on my own and built it. I'm confident enough to bet on myself because at one point in my life, I was all I had. Trecee is getting the off-brand version of who she brags about now—to you and whoever listens. Y'all are the ones who fall for that hokey-pokey ass bullshit." He grimaced.
