Page 116 of The Coldest: Stay Dangerous Part 2

“So check it; I always fucked witchu. You saved my big bro Yoshi on multiple occasions. Even gave moms money when he got knocked. I always said if I could I’d pay you back, and now’s the time.” He motions like he’s holding a gun at me and closes an eye. “You got money on ya head. Big money.”

I lean back and place my gun on my lap, hooding my eyes. “Is that right?”

“Yup.” He opens his eye and grins, squeezing his fake trigger over and over. “Slime said you persona non grata in the Birch, shit, the whole Tree streets. On Baby, that nigga told all the homies, first nigga to bring him yo head gets a hunnid. We get half a mil if we can bring you to him alive. Thirty just for giving him your lo.”

I comb my teeth over my bottom lip. A band would change these niggas’ lives, so thirty, while flattering, puts me on edge. I scan the lot; it’s more niggas outside now, since the sun is going down. Plenty of my niggas have a Monte Carlo, as I said, and my windshield is tinted, but who’s to stop any of these niggas from giving the drop on me.

“I feel like we even, big homie. I’d stay out the Birch if I was you.”

He grins like he really doing me a favor. Like I don’t see the dollar signs in his eyes as he sizes me up.

I grin back. “Fasho. Let me give you something for your troubles.”

I reach over to the side pocket on my door with my right hand. I see him in my periphery, rubbing his hands together like he’s finna come up.

He doesn’t even gasp when I slam my knife into his sternum. The car rocks as I pull it out, then ram it into that fucking eye that must be his good one. The one he uses when he’s shooting, like the rookie he is.

Wasting no time, I pull out the parking lot. Niggas move out the way, and at the last second I decide not to roll over them like bowling pins.

YT’s Playhouse isn’t far, only in the warehouse district. At a red light, I dig through the lil’ nigga’s pockets and find a burner phone. The one number that’s been called only rings once before it answers.

“You got eyes on him?”

“You never was a leader, nigga. Sending store runners at me and they fanned out,” I cackle. “Quit while you’re ahead and I’ll think about letting you meet my nephew.”

“There’s plenty of time to get to know my son after I put you and everyone you love in the fuckin’ dirt.”

The pure unadulterated rage filtering through the phone makes me smile wider. “You know threats get my dick hard, Slime. If you ask nicely, maybe I’ll give you what you really want, a last hurrah before I send you to my bro. I’m sure he won’t mind; we’ve shared bitches before.”

“Nah, as tempting as that sounds, I know you and my nigga wasn’t that identical. I picked him for a reason.”

“Fuck off,” I chuckle. “C’mon, Slime. It don’t gotta be like this. This shit only ends one way.”

“And not the way you think. I gotta go though. I was invited to a private performance of the very sexy Wynter Snow. I heard her fine ass is clean and shit… wonder if she still does that thing with her tongue like in that one video.”

This bitch ass nigga clicks in my ear. I pull over into a random strip mall and start calling Snow. She sends me to voicemail, and texts me that she’s getting ready for her show and that she’ll call me later.

“FUCK!” I bellow, grabbing the knife in the lil’ nigga’s eye and pulling it out to stab him more times.

“I swear Fred, he touches Snow and I’ll kill every muthafucka in them goddamn towers!”

He doesn’t answer, but I’m not surprised.

Pulling my knife out of the corpse one more time, I dump him right there in the strip mall and peel off.

Fuck this car. Fuck Slime. And how I’m feeling, fuck Snow for sending me to fucking voicemail.

Wyn

I had the easiest time making girl friends as an addict. I was so surprised at how many girls did hard drugs. Like, no they don’t smoke, and only drink champagne. But they’re also doing lines in the bathroom. Poking holes between their toes to feel good.

One particular girl I kept seeing at the studio and in the club. She was really short, barely coming to my height in stiletto heels. But she kept a nasty heel on, whether we were in the studio, or even going to breakfast. She also kept long, colorful curved nails, and jet black hair styled with Detroit layers that covered one of her eyes and flowed just past her shoulders.

Pandora Jones. She never took Sheisty’s last name when they married.

As she unzips the garment bag in the bedroom of my suite, a blonde streak peaks out of her feathered curls. Her denim halter top is backless, showing the black wings she got tatted a few years back. I smile as the memory replays in my mind’s eye. We were so shitfaced, and ended up in a tattoo parlor. Sheisty loved to call her Demon Dori, so she decided on intricate black wings to embody her nickname.

“Aight,” Dori quacks, blowing an obscene bubble in her gum before popping it with her tongue. “You look like you gained some weight, but the material stretches. And I got some fire kitten heels to go with this purse. The look is like… Y2K almost. I brought some wigs, too. I ain’t Frankie but I can do a lil’ sumn.”