I pulled open the car door to my Aston Martin DBX707—matte black, stitched in royal plum, and looked back at both of them, and said it clear as hell.
“To Donovan’s bachelor party.”
Kay’Lo blinked. “The fuck we goin’ there for?”
Renza leaned on the hood like he needed to hear that shit again. “You drunk-drunk.”
I didn’t repeat myself. I just got in the car and waited.
They hesitated only for a second before they slid in with me, ‘cause that’s the thing about being my family. You don’t always know what you signing up for, but you still ride, and tonight, we was on bullshit.
While ridin’ to the Kingsraè Estates, I lit up a Trillium cone and rolled the window down just enough to let the smoke ease out slow. This wasn’t regular weed—this wasCrown Gas. A hyper-elevated strain with deep purple buds and black-tipped leaves that looked like somethin’ God painted Himself, and I ain’t just smokin’ it—I owned it. I grew it, harvested it, named it.Trilliumwas my shit, cultivated on my private jungle estate in Trill-Land under guarded watch, where the soil was sacred and the air was rich. Couldn’t nobody else grow it even if they tried. The shit only bloomed under specific climate systems, mood calibrations, and a curing process my team had patented and encrypted.
Every cone came laced with a proprietary mood regulator that shifted depending on how it was cured. It was euphoric, made you horny, creative and even a visionary. Some said they’ve seen ancestors after a few pulls. Some say it saved their life. Others just like to roll it in rose petals and talk to the moon. It didn’t matter what they believed, as long as they bought it. Kings smoked it. Cartel bosses paid for it in bricks of gold. Rappers booked flights to Trill-Land just to sit with me and get an ounce. It was more than weed—it was a million-dollar religion, and tonight, I needed a dose of the divine.
I ain’t even hit it twice before my body started relaxin’ and my mind slipped into that sweet space between clarity and delirium.
Renza glanced over from the passenger seat like he smelled it in his soul.
“That’s that God Smoke?” he asked, already diggin’ in the armrest for one of his own.
“You already know,” I muttered, leanin’ back into the seat while Kay’Lo adjusted the straps on the semi in his lap.
The closer we got, the nicer the streets looked. Smooth-ass pavement, tall-ass hedges, and driveways wide enough to host a yacht party. I ain’t even know they had Airbnbs out here in Kingsraè. This was the kind of neighborhood where they don’t even list properties online. You gottaknowsomebody, so Donovan ass must’ve pulled every favor he had to get this bitch.
When we turned ontoCorvelle Lane, I saw the house sittin’ up on a soft hill, damn near glowin’ under the moonlight. There was white stone, tall black windows, and music thumpin’ like a private festival was goin’ on inside. I parked across the street, let the engine run for a second, then finally cut it.
I took one last pull from the cone and tossed what was left out the window, watchin’ the ember spin through the dark like a fallin’ star. My heart was content, but my spirit wasn’t. That’s what Trillium did. It made shit clear. Too clear sometimes.
Renza twisted in his seat and said, “You sure about this, cousin?”
I didn’t answer at first. I just pulled open the car door,looked at both of them, and said it clear as hell.
“We already here.”
They didn’t argue. Renza adjusted his chain and stepped out like he was stretchin’ for war. Kay’Lo cracked his knuckles and started smilin’ like his body was itchin’ for action. That’s the thing about my cousins—they’ll talk shit and clown, but when it’s time to ride, they ride.
We crossed the street, movin’ like shadows under the estate lights. The driveway was packed with exotic cars and custom trucks—Bentleys, Rivieras, Escalades sittin’ on chrome so fresh they still smelled like the dealership. Loud music poured out the front door, and I could already hear girls laughin’, bottlesclinkin’, and that distinct sound of ass cheeks clappin’ to the beat.
The front door was wide open like they wanted all the smoke. I guess they figured ain’t no need to keep lockin’ it when the liquor flowin’ and the strippers twerkin’ in every room. We walked right in.
It was wild in there. A DJ booth had been set up by the fireplace, and a neon sign that said,“One Last Night, Donny!”flickered above the wet bar. Niggas was everywhere laughin’, drinkin’, snortin’ lines off glass tables while half-naked women danced on ’em. A chick with a shaved head and glitter on her ass cheeks was slidin’ down a pole in the middle of the livin’ room like gravity ain’t apply to her.
Folks looked our way, but nobody questioned it. They just assumed we were some of Donovan’s people. We was dressed in black, movin’ too confident to be strangers. We strolled straight through the chaos, past the kitchen where two girls were tongue-kissin’ on the counter and past the hallway bathroom where I caught a glimpse of somebody gettin’ head between sips of Casamigos.
Then we saw Donovan.
He was laid out on a velvet sectional in the livin’ room, his shirt halfway open and eyes barely open, like he was floatin’ in ecstasy. One stripper was grindin’ on his lap, while the other had her whole ass in his face. They were laughin’, dancin’, and doin’ the most for the weakest nigga in the room.
I stepped forward, lifted the Glock and fired a shot straight into the ceiling.
POP!
The whole room froze.
Glass hit the floor, and screams started. Somebody knocked over a table tryin’ to duck. One dude made a dash toward the door, and that’s when I turned and aimed the barrel at him.
“Try it if you want to, nigga. I promise this clip gon’ greet you faster than the front porch.”
