Page 5 of Own It

“I—” LaMia cut her own sentence off to sigh dejectedly, causing me to sit up straight as a pin needle.

My forehead creased as the same feeling I’d had the night I’d smoked Judd crept into my bones. I was beginning to feel lame as fuck as a man, unable to keep my girl protected at all times.

Several times during my incarceration, I wondered if I’d done the right thing by killing that nigga Judd and leaving LaMia lonely for over three years. Every time, though, I’d come to the conclusion that I wouldn’t have been able to walk this earth knowing another nigga had violated my woman and went on about his fucking way.

“Let me know something, baby.” I urged her along, becoming more ardent for every second she stayed silent.

“I can’t do this anymore, Rah.” LaMia expelled a breath at the same time she spoke those words, hitting a nigga almost as hard as the bullet I’d shot into Judd Jenkins.

Massaging the bridge of my nose, I closed my eyes, something I rarely did inside of this prison—even while asleep—trying to make sure my ears were working properly. Or shit, that I wasn’t in some fucking dream-like state.

“You can’t do what?” I kept my cool, not wanting to blow the hell up until I fully understood LaMia’s words. She could’ve been talking about any fucking thing. I hoped.

“Us. You being away and⁠—”

“I get that, baby. I do. Trust me, but that’s why I called instead of just making you wait and surprising you. I’m out of this muthafucka in a few weeks.” I dropped my voice a few octaves to a whisper, heart still galloping in my fucking chest.

“Y-you are? I thought you weren’t due to get out for another two months?” LaMia queried, and sadly, I couldn’t ignore the lack of excitement she possessed.

Nodding before I could say a word due to the jumble of thoughts in my fucking head, I replied, “I know but umm,” running a thumb across my bottom lip and feeling the searing pain in my fucking head and chest at the way this conversation was going. “This shit is overcrowded, and I been on my best behavior. Not to mention I ain’t got much time left, so they lettin’ a nigga out.”

“That’s great, Rah . . . I just . . . I don’t think that . . .” LaMia couldn’t forge the words, but even without a viable sentence I had easily figured shit out.

Even worse, I’d caught on to the fact that the reason for all this was because she’d ran into another nigga. I’d feared this would happen and knew the shit was very much possible, but after LaMia had kept her word this whole fucking time, I assumed we’d gotten past that hurdle. I never expected such a wrecking ball to come in only weeks before my fucking release.

“You mean I ain’t the nigga you met, and now you don’ moved on.” I kept it real.

Shock had crept in, burrowing its way through to the pit of my fucking stomach. I wasn’t even gon’ front, . . . a nigga was sick.

“No.” LaMia snickered nervously. “I⁠—”

“You said you couldn’t do the long-distance shit, I tell you I’m coming home in a little bit, and you still saying you can’t do it. So help me understand what it is, Mia, if it ain’t the fact that you don’ found a nigga who can do what I used to do?” I reiterated.

As soon as I’d pulled the trigger on my peer, I knew my career as a boxer was over with. And now, after three plus years, a lot of things had changed, including me going from being one of the highest paid and most talked about, to being a nobody in that regard.

I was cool with that, the wheels already turning on how I’d planned to take the millions I’d saved and funnel it into some other shit to make money.

I wasn’t worried, because all I’d lost was the fame, and true enough, I could do without that shit. In fact, it was preferred. At the end of the day, a nigga was a hustler at heart, always had been, and was never too much worried about making a dollar.

Shit, I’d kept up LaMia’s lifestyle the entire time I was locked up, and she never once questioned how, despite me having lost everything, because that was just the type of nigga I was. I always got the job done to the point where it was expected of me. No one asked how or why because when Rakim was involved, shit always got handled.

“That’s not true, Rah.” LaMia volleyed.

“So you don’t have a new nigga? And you don’t wanna stop fucking with me because I ain’t in the ring winning belts no more?” I threw out, smiling a bit, not out of humor but, instead, disbelief.

Had LaMia told me this shit two years ago, I would’ve been fucked up about it, no doubt, but I would’ve understood it, nodded my fucking head, and told her to be happy. Now, I saw shit differently, wondering how long she’d been allowing a nigga to foot the bill for her lifestyle while she was sitting on another nigga’s dick.

“Rah, this isn’t fair. I⁠—”

“Aye, you got—” A deep baritone that felt like shards of glass penetrating my damn ears cut into LaMia’s sentence before stopping itself.

For a split second, I was speechless, replaying the voice in my head over and over like a broken record.

“My brother?” I quizzed, irate, floored, bamboozled. “Was that Ayan?”

Just this morning, I’d been sure this day would be one for the fucking books, and I was right. However, I assumed the shit would be more positive instead of one filled with negativity and betrayal.

“I have to go, Rah. Congrats.” LaMia spoke quickly.