Aight. Enjoy and be safe.
I shot a quick text to Steph to let her know I’d be back in a few days, and if she needed anything, she could use the emergency credit card I had in place for her and Junior. We weren’t together, but I always made sure she and Junior were taken care of. I didn’t give a damn what anyone said or thought about my life and what I was doing. I knew Steph was giving the best to my son because I was giving my best to them both, even in the co-parenting aspect of it.
Soon, it’d be even better because once Junior hit eighteen, I could give him money directly. He’d asked about getting into the business with me, and I’d brought him along a few times so he could see how things went. Although I wasn’t killing or fighting niggas or any of that shit regularly, if I needed to, I could. That was what I needed him to understand about being in the industry of protection. One had to immerse oneself in risky situations.
That summer, after he graduated, I planned to have him shadow me for a bit and put him on payroll so he could get a taste of the entrepreneurial life and see how it felt to have his own money that his mom didn’t issue out to him. He had everything he could ever want, but I felt, as a rite of passage into adulthood, it was necessary for him to know what it felt like tohave his own money coming in. I always said if I was around long enough, I would see to it he earned his first dollar from me.
I locked my phone and put it back into my suit jacket pocket.
“You getting into anything special tonight, mane?” I asked my right hand, Rico.
“OG, you already know I am. Got some sexy waiting for me at this hotel right now.” He rubbed his hands like Birdman. The nigga was silly.
I couldn’t do anything but laugh and shake my head because that was me back in my twenties, too. Shit.
“Make sure your ass strap up. These Miami hoes different. They come with a plan in motion.”
“Trust. I am. I got plenty on me.” He patted his pants pocket, and I saw the print of gold wrappers tucked tightly in the pocket. Again, I laughed because those were every young nigga’s condoms of choice. As I became older, I ventured into other types, and gold wrappers were my least favorite. They were some last-resort type, as I thought about it.
We pulled up at a hotel that looked well-kept, but I didn’t trust too much of anything when it came to different places, especially ones I didn’t actually own myself. It was the way the streets and the game were set up that had me that way. I wasn’t the type that felt the need to look over my shoulder every waking moment of the day, but I kept a watchful eye on the things around me. Rico and I dapped each other up, and he grabbed his small bag.
“Catch up with you later, OG.”
“Aight, nigga. Don’t be late tonight at Ground Zero,” I spoke.
“I won’t.”
I hopped out of the passenger seat and walked around to get in on the driver’s side. Finally alone, I could breathe easier and listen to some shit that wasn’t nerve-wrecking like the nigga that played a few moments before. I called Mr. Smith.
“Did Louie come through?”
“Yeah. Thanks for checking,” he responded.
“You know I got you, by all means.”
“’Preciate you, man.” When business was being handled, he was Mr. Smith, but on a personal level, he was Frank.
I hung up my phone and put on some music. The first song that came on my playlist was ‘Woman’s Gotta Have It’ by the great Bobby Womack. I needed a good glass of whiskey and a blunt for that. I couldn’t wait to roll up a lil’ something when I got situated. I sent one last text to Lyra before I cruised on to my place.
Me:
Make sure you’re ready to walk out of the door at 8:30 beautiful.
I didn’t wait for a response; I locked my phone and placed it in the cup holder. The weather was good for a change, not scorching hot but not cold either. I let the windows down slightly and turned the volume up in the black Lexus truck.
South Beach was on a different level. It could be six in the damn morning, and the streets would be popping the same way they were at night. The energy there was also highly sexual. The women loved black men, and it was easy to fall victim to sex appeal, and I never did. I preferred my women out of the way, classy, full of confidence, and a little attitude, just like Lyra’s sexy ass.
I drove up to the gate where my home here was located. I punched the keys on the silver keypad to put the code in, and the gates opened smoothly. This was a small, gated communitywith maybe about twelve houses. I drove in and pulled into the circular driveway.
I hopped out of the car, then locked it without looking back. That was the luxury of staying in a gated community. Shit felt extra secure. Even if a motherfucker tried it, there was less of a chance it would happen here. I used the sole key on my key ring to unlock the door and stepped inside. The first thing that greeted me was the fresh scent of laundry and whatever plug-in the housekeeper put in before she left.
Whenever I came, I would have my housekeeper come in and tidy things up and do whatever laundry I needed done from my last visit, a day or two before my arrival. No lie, it felt good as hell to walk into a clean, quiet home that had everything I needed—weed included. Since Frank and I were longstanding partners, I would purchase a large amount from him twice a year, which I would keep stashed away in the house for times like that.
I walked through quickly to make sure the housekeeper did what needed to be done, and as always, she did. I sent her $250 via Zelle as soon as I made it upstairs to my bedroom. Once I put my shit up, I went back downstairs to what I called my smoke hole. It was basically my man cave. I went down there to roll up, smoke, and watch games and shit without disrupting the cleanliness of my actual living room. I rolled, and while I was doing so, I called my homie up. He owned a nice ass rooftop restaurant.
“OG Dre, what’s good?” He answered on the second ring.
“Self-made millionaire Mike, nothing much. I need a favor tonight, ya dig?”
