Page 6 of Just Like Summer

“Nah…I don’t. I ain’t never fucked on nothing I didn’t want to. And I ain’t never did it while committed to someone. You got yourself to blame for the monster you created with Dania. How much you need?”

“I’m not taking a dime from you,” Nate protested, as Cairo pushed his tattooed hand into the pocket of his Dickies shorts. “I’m going to hit up the block after this.”

“Nah, nigga. Block is hot tonight. Take this shit and get your ass back to the spot and fix whatever you fucked up,” Cairo directed, handing him the knot of cash. If it were anyone else, Cairo would’ve bypassed the offering. But Nate, he trusted with his life. It was a test they’d passed for one another countless times.

“Who side you on? Hers or mine?” Nate asked, taking the money in thanks.

“Hers, ‘cause she makes you a better nigga, nigga. Get out of here. I’ll hit you up tomorrow.”

The men exchanged a signature handshake before Nate exited the house, leaving Cairo to draw in a deep breath, hoping to pick up the faint scent of mango lingering behind from his unexpected guest.

“Fuck you doin’, nigga? Don’t have time for the headache,” he muttered to himself before he scoffed. “She green as hell. Yeah, nah.”

None of it was convincing. Regardless of how many times he told himself that his focus would be stacking his money, working on these beats, and getting out of the hood. He found himself wrapped in the covers holding the sweet mango aroma. The encounter would be life-altering. How? He’d determine that later.

four

Morning came before he was ready for the restless sleep he’d found to release him. However, there were pressing matters at hand. Tiredly, he pulled himself from the bed, swiped a hand over his hair and overgrown facial hair in need of a cut and trekked to the bathroom. The birds chirping their joyous melody outside of the window alerted his brain that it was still early enough for the birds to enjoy the silence of 46th and Husten. No tires screeching, no gun shots, no neighbors fighting about whatever, and no bad ass kids running up and down the block without supervision. It was early enough for him, the duffle bag filled with product, and the beat he’d been working on to drive up the coast without interference.

After showering, he trudged his body back into the room, finding the cellphone and wallet from the unexpected guest still on the dresser. He dressed in his signature summer fit – fresh white tee out the pack, navy blue Dickies, flag hanging out the left side, and Chuck Taylors. Then he grabbed the things off the dresser like he had plans of bumping into her again, along with everything else he needed for the day. Double checking his gun and clip, Cairo headed out of the house. Duffle bag secured, house secured, he started the ninety-minute ride ahead of him.

It was mindless until he passed through the interception of 23rd and Huey. A mental recall echoed the shots heard around the hood. The first body he ever caught at ten years old. His mother’s drug-addicted boyfriend, who’d threatened her for the last time. A quiet, scrawny kid no one expected to have heart. Especially not more heart than the grown men in the neighborhood who saw his mother being mistreated and sat by like nothing was happening.

Since then, he’d had a flag and a gun. By the time his grandmother came to get him, he was too deep into the gang life. She agreed to ignore his street-running, and he agreed not to bring gang shit to her steps. A promise he kept ‘til this day. The small house she left him hadn’t seen a lick of action in the last ten years, and he vowed to keep it that way. Well, outside of crazy ass Reshia. The small house served as his haven.

Cairo drummed his fingers against the steering wheel of the sports car, weaving in and out of lanes, wracking his brain about what was missing from this beat to make it marketable. He’d sold a couple beats. The money came and went just as quickly. If he was going to use this as his escape, he needed to finish this and stack enough to have some weight in the game he was getting his feet wet in.

The drive up the coast had come to an end as he crept to the gate. Cairo’s dark orbs took in the massive estate. No noticeable security, a few cameras and from this side of the wrought-ironed gate, about five luxury cars. When the pack was handed to him with directions, he didn’t have the particulars. Rubbing his hands together, Cairo reached out of his window and hit the buzzer.

The longest ten seconds passed before a gruff, “fuck you want?” came through the speaker.

“C4,” he announced before the gate buzzed open. Cairo nodded to himself and pushed his car through the gate up the minimal hill and parked on the far end of the luxury cars lined up like it was a video shoot.

Women clad in bikinis pranced around. A few men with large chains hanging around their necks, blunts hanging out their mouths, no signs of guns tucked in their pants. Players, niggas from Andres Bay, playing gangsta. Cairo grabbed his duffle bag and headed toward the open front door. He left his car running, the beat still playing; this wasn’t going to be a long transaction. He’d peep the scene and determine if robbing whoever owned this spot would be worth the risk.

Once he made it through the foyer, he followed the giggles of women, prideful cheers of men with nothing better to do, and some trash ass rapper playing throughout the space. Once his Chuck Taylors hit the white concrete leading to the infinity pool, he knew exactly who this work was for.

Ray da Don. Outside of the Husten Boys, Trap Playas, and RowdyRedd, Ray da Don was the least threatening of the group of gangsta rappers that emerged. Especially with a star like Jay Lucci settling into his solo career. Ray was more like an industry plant. Some nerdy ass kid they found down in The Bay; gave him millions of dollars and some made up street cred. He was climbing up the charts with whack ass music and beats to accompany it.

“Ay yo,” Ray shouted, spotting C4. “What’s good my, nigga? You got that shit?”

Cairo attempted to school his expressions. Too much attention already. Ray was the type of fake to call his name first if the cops came. He was preparing to exit the chaos before a baritone took his attention from the tattooed clown attempting to get out of the pool.

“That muhfucka ain’t paying, I am,” the man spoke from behind Cairo.

He turned, finding a man mid-forties, bald, stocky with a scowl on his face. Once Cairo made eye contact with the man, he turned and roamed into an undisclosed part of the house and motioned Cairo to drop the duffle bag on the pool table.

The man grumbled as he watched the mixture of party favors fall out of the bag onto the green felt. “Muhfuckin’ record label got me babysitting this dumb ass nigga. Paying for fuckin’ drugs to keep him making this bullshit ass music.”

Cairo didn’t say anything. This play was going to put him up about three grand after his cut.

“Renting this house so this lame ass nigga can front,” the man continued.

Still Cairo didn’t speak, he watched the disgruntled man punch in a code and pull out a stack of money from a wall safe that was stacked with money, guns, and jewelry. Jackpot. He figured by six o’clock tomorrow, everyone would be passed out. Him, Nate, and Tiny could slide in and out without too much of a fight.

“You rap?” the man posed. “I need some real talent to manage.”

“Nah,” Cairo answered coolly.