Page 1 of Own It

rakim

ABOUT EIGHT YEARS PRIOR . . .

“We can’t wait to see what you do, Godfrey.” Clifton Parks gave me a closed-mouth smile as he extended his white hand.

I smiled humbly, shaking hands with several key players that worked for Steel Fists, my new management company that had been doing wonders for my boxing career from the moment I’d signed with them just a year ago.

The sport had been in me since I was a fucking child, so truthfully, I didn’t need anybody or anything to make me excel, but a boost like them couldn’t hurt.

“Prepare to be knocked off ya fucking feet. No pun intended,” I replied confidently, making Parks toss his head back and laugh harder than I felt necessary.

Shit was crazy how much ass these niggas kissed in the name of the almighty dollar. I was a meal ticket to these niggas, but they were meal tickets to me, too, so it was a quid pro quo situation.

From the first time I’d stepped into the ring, I never had a bad run—being undefeated even before Steel Fists came into the picture—so now at twenty-four years old, I was over-fucking-joyed at the thought of my career going to heights that I could only fucking dream of. I was following in my father’s footsteps just like he’d wanted.

The only thing that would make shit better would be my father actually being proud, but Nate Godfrey was hard to please. So, a nigga doing what he felt was the bare minimum for any boxer surely wouldn’t have him congratulating my ass any time soon.

Not to mention, he wasn’t too fond of the many articles and sports annotators declaring that I was better than him. Whenever it was said, he pointed out several reasons to my face as to why that wasn’t and would never be the case.

My girlfriend of three years, LaMia, slipped her hand into mine, returning from the bathroom, and the clammy ass texture of her palm caught me off guard. It wasn’t damp from her washing her hands; it had a stickiness to it that signaled nervousness.

“You aight?” I spoke against her temple with a kiss, palming her hip while bringing her into me.

I couldn’t fathom why she would be nervous in this moment. It was simply a celebration for all the talent signed to Steel Fists, nothing fucking more.

“Mhm,” LaMia replied somewhat absentmindedly, refusing to look up into my eyes as she scanned the room anxiously.

My antennas were up, making me, too, sweep the room, hoping to locate what had my lady on edge.

“You sure?” I quizzed for a second time, having been with LaMia long enough to see all wasn’t well with her.

“Yep. Don’t worry about me. This is your night, daddy.” She finally gave me some eye contact.

I held onto it for a moment, reading her bothered ass eyes that didn’t match the artificial simper she was throwing my way.

“Aight.” I skated my lips across hers, dropping the topic for the moment.

However, for the next few hours, I couldn’t get LaMia’s nervous and odd ass demeanor off my fucking mind. She was easier to read than Hooked on Phonics, and I vowed to make her talk once we left the event.

Half an hour later, we’d exited the ballroom and were approaching a black truck we’d be driven in for the night since plenty of alcohol would be served.

I hadn’t indulged like LaMia, feeling off about the way she was acting after coming back from the bathroom that her ass had slipped off to moments before her tenor switched.

“Talk to me,” I said simply, knowing LaMia had been with a nigga long enough to comprehend what I meant.

“It’s nothing, Rah.” She smirked, rubbing my arm and trying to butter a nigga up. “You look so good in a suit.” She bit her lip, lids lowered, and I quickly caught onto the fact that she was trying to distract me.

LaMia knew me, though, so she should’ve known that I wasn’t weak to the flesh. I wasn’t above the shit though. I loved pussy and loved to fuck just as much as the next nigga, but it didn’t rule me.

I never understood how muthafuckas got smoked, set up, or handed their lives over to the system all for a woman who opened her legs to any-fucking-body. I vowed from the moment my dick first bricked up that a woman who meant me no good would never have a nigga under her spell.

“Mia.”

LaMia dropped her act at the sound of me sternly calling the diminutive of her name as we stood beside the black truck.

“It’s open,” my homie and driver for the night, Mylo, rolled the back passenger window down to call out.

I gave him a look that said to hold on, and Mylo fell in line, sealing the window back up. Realizing my girl wasn’t talking, I moved her hair behind her ear before pinching her chin softly and kissing her lips.