So Gone - By Jennifer Luckett Page 0,21

you got on 'em,” he replied.

“Since it’s you, I’ma let ‘em go for sixteen a piece.” I quoted a price that he couldn’t refuse.

Millionaire smiled, showin’ eight gold teeth across the top of his grill. “In that case, let me get three of them thangs,” he said like he was ordering a hunnid.

"That's what's up." I nodded.

“I would get more, but I already got a half mil tied up in another move,” he popped, frontin’ like a motha. He had gotten the nickname 'Millionaire' by talkin’ a million dollars worth of shit and exaggeratin’ nine hunnid grand of it.

“I feel you, my nigga, it’s all good. I fucks wit’ you hard. Now that I’m plugged in, I hope we can do business on a regular basis. You feel me?” I said.

“As long as there’s no shit in the game, we can make that happen. You kno’ me, I’m not wit’ the violence. I ain’t never did no business wit’ you. Maddafact, I didn’t even kno’ you made power moves, but on the strength of Deuce's word, I’m gon’ fuck wit’ you.”

I eyed him down. He was rocking Gucci er'thing. I said, “If it wasn’t for Deuce, I wouldn’t fuck wit’ you either. Why do you think you didn’t kno’ I pump weight? I don’t be puttin’ myself out there like that cause the game is too grimey and niggaz can’t be trusted. I’ma give you my number, and if you hit me up by nine tonight, we can make it happen.”

Millionaire locked me in to his Smartphone and promised to get at me by nine. I leaned over and hollered at Deuce before bouncin’.

For the next five hours, I periodically checked the prepaid phone that I copped specifically for dudes such as Millionaire to get at me. A li’l after eight, he called and told me he was ready to see me.

“Give me an hour and meet me at Ms. Winners on Jonesboro Road. Come solo or else it’s not goin’ down. I don’t do the entourage thing. Our business ain’t no one else’s,” I cautioned.

“That’s what’s up,” agreed Millionaire. “I'll be in my old school whip.” I knew the ride he was referring to.

“Say no more.”

I hung up the phone, dashed right off to the meeting spot, and cased it out until I saw Millionaire pull up in his ’64 orange-juice colored Impala on 24 inch chromed shoes. I remained parked across the street until I was confident that he was alone, and then I hit him on the hip.

“Yeah,” he answered on the first ring.

“I just saw you roll up. Drive across the street. I'm over here waiting.”

When he pulled next to me, I rolled down my window. “Sup, Homie? Let’s do this real quick. You got forty-eight bands wit’ you?”

“Yeah, down to the penny,” he assured me.

“Aight, I got the work.” I hopped out of my whip carryin’ a large shoe bag. I went up to the driver’s window and asked him to show me the bread.

He reached in the back seat and grabbed a paper shopping bag. He opened it so I could look inside, and stacks winked at me.

“Game over,” I announced unmercifully as my Glock came up barkin’ irreversible larceny.

The whole side of Millionaire’s face tore away from his head. The scene reminded me of that old newsreel of JFK being assassinated. Homie's head snapped back violently. Boc! Boc! Two more shots splattered what remained of his head all over the seats. I reached my arm inside the car and grabbed the paper shoppin’ bag. Then I was out.

As I pulled off and hit the gas pedal, my ringtone on my personal jack sang Mo’s personal tune. “Sup, Boo?” I answered calmly, as if I hadn’t just pushed a nigga's scalp back.

“Missing you,” she said in a voice as sweet as candied yams.

“I’m missing you too, Baby,” I sang in her ear as I bent a corner on two wheels. “Can I come back home?”

The line grew quiet.

“Hello? Sup, Shawdy, you still there?”

I looked down at the screen and realized that the call had disconnected. I didn’t kno’ if the call had dropped, or Mo’ had hung up. Whatever the case, I would get back at her later. Right now, I was gettin' the fuck out of Dodge.

What You Don’t Want Somebody Else Does

Molaysia

“Dammit,” I hissed.

My phone’s signal had dropped as soon as Blunt asked to come home. As bad as I wanted to call him back, I didn’t. I took the dropped call