When I step back into the room, he stands up, smilin’. I scan his wears, peep the ice drippin’ from his lobes and the rose gold Brera watch strapped to his wrist. He’s rockin’ faded True Religion jeans, a thin brown True Religion thermal-type shirt, and a pair of brown Prada lace-ups.
“Why you smilin’?” I ask, grabbin’ my Bottega Veneta. I let it drop in the crook of my arm.
He shakes his head. “Same reason you are.”
I suck my teeth, grabbin’ my keys. “Nigga, I ain’t smilin’.” I tell ’im to keep still while I set my alarm, then usher ’im out the door.
“Yeah, aiight,” he says, openin’ the door. He waits for me, then shuts it. “That’s what ya mouth says.” I roll my eyes, lockin’ the top lock.
“Whateva,” I say, followin’ him to his whip. Truth is the muhfucka’s right. A bitch was smilin’.
CHAPTER TEN
Puff, puff, pass…Blazin’ wit’ a sexy nigga…Gotta bitch feelin’ right…got ’er shiftin’ in ’er seat…pressin’ dem thighs… roamin’ ’er eyes…thinkin’ ’bout givin’ up da ass…fuckin’ ’im all night…then doin’ ’im dirty…like a real bitch should…toss da nigga out…’cause a bitch know he ain’t no fuckin’ good…
“So, where we goin’?” I ask, slidin’ into the passenger seat of his Range, then fastenin’ my seatbelt.
“You’ll see when we get there,” he says, flippin’ through his CD collection. “Tonight, I’m in charge.”
I laugh. “Nigga, trust, you only in charge ’cause I’m lettin’ you think you are.”
He turns his head in my direction, raisin’ his brow. “Like I said, tonight, I’m in charge. So sit back, relax and enjoy the ride, baby.”
I turn my head, lookin’ outta the window, actin’ like I ain’t beat for that shit he’s talkin’.
He laughs. “Oh, what? You poutin’ now?” He backs outta my driveway, then heads for the highway.
“Nope. I’m chillin’.”
“Oh, aiiight. That’s more like it, baby. Daddy got you.”
I cut my eyes at ’im, sittin’ back and foldin’ my arms ’cross my chest. “Oh, nigga, puhleeeze. Don’t even start. I told you ’bout that baby shit.”
He laughs. “Yo, chill. I’m tryna make you my baby, but you ain’t tryna act right.”
“Oh, trust. You can’t make me nuthin’ I ain’t tryna be,” I state, shootin’ ’im a look.
He grins. Damn, this sexy muhfucka kinda reminds me of Grant, I think, shiftin’ in my seat. True, he’s more aggressive and ’xtra cocky wit’ his, still the nigga’s swagger is right. “Yeah, aiight. You love talkin’ slick ’n shit, but it’s all good. I know what you need to get ya mind right, ma.”
Yeah, a stiff, thick dick. “Ohhh realllllly? Do tell,” I say, shiftin’ in my seat to face ’im.
He pulls out a fat blunt, then sparks it. “Some’a this,” he takes two pulls, then passes it off. I take it straight to the head, leanin’ my head back on the headrest. I hold the weed smoke in my lungs, then slowly blow it out. “And this,” he adds, slidin’ a CD into the dashboard CD changer. He cracks the windows and sunroof.
A few seconds later, I hear Erykah Badu’s voice comin’ through the speakers. “20 Feet Tall” plays.
I turn my head toward ’im, grinnin’ as I pass ’im back the blunt. “Oh, shit, let me find out. What you know ’bout Erykah?”
“Don’t sleep, ma,” he says, glancin’ over at me. “I ain’t ya average type cat.”
“Mmmm, if you say so.”
“Nah, it’s what I know.”
“Well, since you know so much, is there anything else I need?”
He laughs, glancin’ over at me. “Yeah, but you ain’t gettin’ any of it ’til you start actin’ right.”
I laugh, chokin’ back weed smoke. “Keep it, nigga.”