Page 153 of The Coldest: Stay Dangerous Part 2

“Trust me, I’ll be handling his lil’ ass, too. But you’re out of line, Luney. Don’t forget, I have your passwords. I seen what the hell Gianna sent you last night. You gonna handle her?”

“You seen what she said, then you seen me tell her I’m not on that and I got a lady. Now what?” I fold my arms, thinking I got her, but she just laughs and backs away, flipping me off.

“Your hoes are like roaches, Richard. I see one, that means there’s at least five lurking in the shadows. Go fuck yourself.” She turns and switches off toward the bathroom.

Dal throws me an amused glance before following her, leaving me and Nutty in our corner.

“She has that nigga saved with red and blue hearts, Dub. You sure that’s your one?”

I don’t even have to think about it. Still glaring in the direction Snow went, I say, “On my mama, I’m more than sure.”

“Well, aight then.” He clamps down both hands heavy on my shoulders, shaking me out of my spot before dragging me toward the restaurant part of the arcade. “Beating yo ass and watching y’all fight made me hungry. Buy me a slice of pizza, witcho pussywhipped ass. Never thought I’d see the day. I feel like a proud daddy!”

I shake my head and knock his hands off me. But the smile that forms as Snow’s words play over in my head doesn’t leave, even after I realize I’ll be going another day without seeing Miss Snowflake.

Wyn

Most people say like “Oh I get migraines” and it’s a tension headache or something. They’re dehydrated or have been looking at a screen for too long. I was one of those people.

Until I got a real migraine.

It’s been me and a dark, silent room for three days. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t open my mouth to eat.

Rico thinks it’s because of my new gum habit. Patience wants me to come to the hospital.

But now, on day four, my head isn’t trying to kill me, and I’m reminded of all the real world problems I have. The good thing about having a doctor for a sister-in-law, is that the hospital will always be there.

I need a hit single today.

That week in Texas with the very adorable nonbinary producer Rembrandt was fruitful, but none of the songs pop out to me. They’re really good, don’t get me wrong. But none of them scream “comeback.” Sheisty agrees, and now we’re back to the drawing board.

Which means I don’t have time for a doctor to tell me I’m dehydrated, or refer me to another doctor who will tell me all this is residual shit from my accident. I’m done with gum. I’m drinking five bottles of water a day. And I’m getting this fucking single if it’s the last thing I do.

Dressed in a hoodie, biker shorts, and uggs, I pack a couple changes of clothes, some period underwear, in case I’m gone for a week, and some travel toiletries. Excitement begins to fill my veins as I triple check my purse and backpack. Back when I first linked back up with the Get Money Crew, it would be me and Shaddy, in the studio for days on end, working on not only my mixtape but everyone else’s music. We’d be in all these different random studios all over the state and neighboring states, sometimes in New York, or Georgia, chasing a dream. Now he has awards, his own studio and producer label, an amazing life.

I want that. And it feels like it’s right there, waiting for me to snatch it.

My phone vibrates, telling me my rideshare is downstairs. I throw my backpack over my shoulder, grab my purse, and lock up, holding a hair tie in my mouth as I call the elevator.

My hair was basically matted by the time my migraine receded, so in the shower this morning, I took my time, combing out the knots and deep conditioning it. I never gave a fuck about my natural hair after I learned to do my own wigs. Sometimes I’d cut it into a buzz just to get the wig to lay flat. No one saw me without one anyway–except that one time with Coach, and that’s why I stopped shaving my head.

Besides appearances, I haven’t had the urge to wear a wig. And lately, it’s been harder and harder to choose between the blonde and something closer to my natural hair color.

And don’t even get me started on my freckles. Coach loved my freckles too, and always begged me to not wear such heavy makeup. I paid his ass dust every time.

Now, one heated look from Rico, and I haven’t touched my foundation besides the one time we went to my parents’ house. And yeah, maybe it’s because I went a year without covering myself, but I could be lying to myself if I didn’t acknowledge how much I want to please this man, and I’m trying not to lie to myself anymore.

I chuckle once as my rideshare takes me to West Kenton. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. If twenty-one year old me was told that ten years later Rico would be the most important person in my life again, she’d laugh, do a line or two, then laugh again. Through all the hurt and bullshit, the ego dynamics whenever he was in the city and outside with us, and even us coming to blows in Belize while he forced me to get sober. We ended up exactly where we were nearly twenty years ago.

I share my location with him, which he hearts immediately before calling me. I waste no time answering, rolling my eyes at myself as embarrassment and giddiness begin to war with each other.

“What a pleasant surprise,” he croons into the receiver. “My Snow is feeling better and actually acting like she belongs to me.”

“Yeah, yeah. You better be sharing yours.”

“Did that before I called. But I’m curious. Why are you allowing my raging control issues to spark?”

“Hold on a sec.” I thank my driver then get out, looking around the quiet street in the West. There’s coffee shops and yoga studios and outdoor restaurants on the block, with metered parking and a man sweeping trash from the curb. A long cry from the strip malls I’m used to, and I bet if the patrons and residents knew the windowless building next to the dog groomer houses a recording studio where all the greats have been to at one time or another, they’d petition to get it moved.