“‘Sup, lil mama?” CJ’s thick Brooklyn accent drawled in my ear.
I turned slightly as he slid onto the barstool beside me. “You can’t just run up on people like that,” I said.
CJ set his helmet on the bar top, his brown eyes gleaming with mischief. He had on a leather jacket with the Gotham Reapers emblem, a black tee that hugged his firm chest, dark jeans, and Timbs. The man was Brooklyn through and through.
“Hello to you too, Nai,” he replied with a slow grin, leaning in to kiss my cheek.
The bartender reappeared and slid a napkin towards him.
“I’m good. Just close up her tab,” he said, nodding at me as he pulled a thick wad of cash from his pocket.
I rolled my eyes as he peeled off a crisp hundred-dollar bill and placed it onto the bar. “Keep the change, sweetheart,” he said with a wink.
The bartender blushed, pocketing the bill as she went to close out my tab.
“How long do I have you for?” he asked, reaching for my glass. He sipped my martini and immediately recoiled, scrunching up his face in disgust. “I don’t know how you drink this shit.”
I drained the rest of the drink. “Because it’s not for you. And I’m leaving for Atlanta in the morning.”
“Damn, we gotta make the most of tonight then, huh?”
I nodded.
Getting sleep wasn’t a concern—I was sure I’d knock out before the plane was up in the air. I needed twenty-four hours in Atlanta to myself before dealing with my mother's hysterics.
“Aight, let’s roll,” he said, standing and grabbing his helmet off the bar.
The cool fall air nipped at us as we stepped outside. CJ’s black Yamaha Tracer was ignorantly parked in the fire zone.
I took the helmet that he handed to me. “The fire zone?” I asked
“Nobody was about to touch my shit,” he said, pulling on his helmet.
I strapped mine under my chin and climbed on behind him, arms going around his waist as the bike rumbled to life beneath us.
“Where we going?” I asked as he started the bike and revved the engine.
“Brooklyn,” he replied. “You good?”
I nodded and tightened my grip on him.
CJ weaved us through lower Manhattan, picking up speed as we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. The city skyline fadedbehind us and the energy switched the moment we hit his borough—it was different from Manhattan in a way that you felt before you could explain it.
He slowed as we turned into a block of brownstones, bikes lined up along both sides of the curb. Music blasted out of one of the homes which was clearly Reapers affiliated. CJ parked in front of the one with a crowd gathered on the steps.
“Whose house is this?” I asked, pulling off my helmet and leaving it on the seat.
“My cousin’s,” he said and held out his hand. I took it—his grip was warm and firm—and followed him up the steps. People greeted him as we went, dapping him up, nodding, and stepping aside without being asked.
Inside, the air was heavy with weed smoke. A DJ was set up in the corner with two large speakers flanking him, the music bumping loud enough to feel in your chest. People milled about with red cups in their hands.
“Lil Creed!” a deep voice boomed from across the room.
”Fuck outta here with that little shit, nigga,” he called back.
The man pushing through the crowd was massive and easily had a few inches and at least a hundred pounds on CJ. But the resemblance was clear. They had the same skin tone and sharp features. He wore a black leather Gotham Reapers vest over a long-sleeved black shirt.
CJ dapped him up and pulled him into a quick hug. “Dylan, this is Nairobi,” CJ said, jerking his chin toward me. “Nai, this my bitch ass cousin, Dylan.”
