if she cries, she cries.
Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
Alexis had never seen a real gun drawn in anger before. She had seen them in movies, in music videos, even in glass cases at charity auctions her father sometimes attended. But never like this—never with intent, never with fear and fury behind it.
"Back the fuck up!" The man — Darnell — shouted, his voice cracking with panic as three other men advanced on him. His hand trembled slightly, making the weapon dance in small, erratic movements. "On Insane Crip, I was repping the set!"
The cookout in North Long Beach had been going so well just minutes earlier. The scent of barbecue smoke hung in the air, mixing with the thumping bass from speakers someone had set up near a picnic table. Children played in the distance, carefully shepherded away from the adults and their red cups. Alexis had been perched on a folding chair, feeling both self-conscious about her summer dress from Neiman’s among the sea of casual wear and secretly superior for the same reason.
She watched now, frozen in place, as Stefan's cousin Lorenzo—recently home after a three-year bid—stepped forward, unimpressed by the weapon.
"You a lying-ass nigga," Lorenzo said, his voice deadly calm. "My cellie was on that yard and said you was hiding the whole time. Claiming you wasn't affiliated."
Stefan had left her side ten minutes ago, promising to be right back after he "politicked with the homies." She'd watched him join the growing circle of men, their voices rising gradually until the argument erupted into shoving.
Across the park, mothers were grabbing children, elderly folks were struggling to their feet, and people were backing away slowly, not wanting to run and draw attention to themselves. But Alexis remained seated, her heart pounding not with fear but with a strange, intoxicating excitement.
This is real, she thought, a shiver running down her spine.
The standoff lasted only seconds but seemed to stretch into minutes. Then someone shouted, "The homie got a gun!" and chaos erupted. Bodies scattered in all directions. Darnell, seeing his opening, backed away quickly, the gun still raised, before turning to sprint toward the parking lot.
Stefan appeared suddenly, grabbing her arm. His expression was urgent but controlled, no panic in his eyes. "We gotta bounce, C.R.A.S.H gonna be here any minute."
She let him pull her to her feet, stumbling slightly in her impractical sandals as they hurried toward his car. Behind them, shouting continued. Someone called out, "Buster ass nigga!" and car doors slammed in rapid succession.
"That nigga always been a mark," Stefan muttered, unlocking his car with the remote.
Alexis slid into the passenger seat, her pulse racing. "What the fuck just happened?"
Stefan glanced in the rearview mirror, his jaw tight. "A buster ass nigga running away from a 'DP' he know he got coming yet showing his face around the homies like everything good."
As they pulled onto the main road, putting distance between themselves and whatever might happen next, Alexis realized she was smiling. Not a nervous smile, but a genuine one—exhilarated, alive. The manicured safety of her parents' Brentwood estate felt a million miles away, and she didn't miss it one bit.
Stefan glanced over, noticing her expression. "The fuck you smiling about?"
"That was fucking crazy!" she said, not bothering to hide her excitement.
A look of disbelief crossed Stefan's face before dissolving into a reluctant laugh. "You're crazy, you know that? Most girls would be crying right now."
"I'm not most girls," Alexis replied, tossing her hair back and feeling more alive than she’d ever been.
…
The aroma of sweet potato casserole and country fried steak filled Keshawn's apartment, carrying memories of Sunday dinners from his childhood. Loraine stood at the stove, humming softly to herself as she stirred a pot of mac and cheese, while Elijah sat at the kitchen island, nursing a glass of whiskey. His eyes wandered around the spacious living area, taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the Los Angeles skyline.
"How much they charging you for this place?" Elijah asked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
Keshawn looked up from setting the table. "It's part of the package from the UCLA group. They're covering it."
Elijah's eyebrows shot up. "They just handing out apartments now? Shit, I thought you had to actually play in the league before you got these kinds of perks."
"He did make it to the league," Loraine said without turning from the stove. "These kids are investments now. They’re just getting in early now, that’s all."
Keshawn nodded, leaning against the counter. The thought that had been brewing in his mind since he received his signing bonus finally found its voice. "Speaking of investments... I've been thinking. Maybe we should look into reopening the store."
The kitchen fell silent. Loraine's spoon paused mid-stir, and Elijah's glass froze halfway to his lips.
"I know that’s our family legacy," Keshawn continued, words tumbling out faster. "I know how much work you’ve all put into that store and if we have a chance at bringing it back, maybe even expanding…"
Elijah let out a bitter laugh, setting his glass down with more force than necessary. "The store is dead, son."
"It doesn’t have to be," Keshawn argued. "If I’m going to be investing my money, I might as well invest it in my own family."
"You don’t just restart a business like that," Elijah cut in. "Not after the fraud charges. Not after everything that went down. Trust me, I’ve tried"
He reached for the whiskey bottle, pouring another two fingers into his glass.
Loraine turned from the stove, wiping her hands on her apron. Her eyes held a spark that had been missing since before the trial. "I think we should at least discuss it," she said carefully. "As a family."
The emphasis on the last word hung in the air like a challenge. Elijah shook his head, taking a long sip of his drink.
"There's nothing to discuss," he muttered. "That chapter's closed."
…
Gayle swirled the last of her Lemon Drop, watching the ice cubes clink against the glass. The bar's dim lighting couldn't mask the disappointment of another wasted evening. Three dates in two weeks, and each one worse than the last.
"Can I get you another?" The bartender gestured toward her nearly empty glass.
"Yeah, why not?" Gayle pushed the glass forward.
She smoothed down the front of her red dress—the one she'd spent forty minutes deciding on. All that effort for a man who'd spent the entire dinner talking about his crypto investments before suggesting they "continue the conversation" at his place. His hand had already been creeping up her thigh when she'd excused herself to the bathroom and never returned.
The bartender slid her fresh drink across the polished wood. "You good tonight? Need me to call you a ride?"
"I'm good," Gayle said, offering a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Just enjoying my drink."
She took a long sip, feeling the alcohol warm her from the inside. The buzz was pleasant, taking the edge off her frustration. Three men approached the bar beside her, their eyes lingering a moment too long. She ignored them, pulling out her phone instead.
Gayle opened the Uber app, then hesitated. Her thumb hovered over the screen before she closed it and opened her messages. She scrolled until she found Keshawn's name, their last exchange from months ago still visible. Without giving herself time to reconsider, she typed:
you up?
…
"Damn," she whispered, stepping into the space. "NBA money different."
"It's just temporary," Keshawn smirked. "I'll be heading to Portland after the summer, doubt they got views like these."
Gayle wandered toward the windows, taking in the view. "Still. This is some grown man shit right here."
In truth, Keshawn himself was still getting used to the apartment. It felt like living in a hotel, luxurious but impersonal. Still, he couldn't deny enjoying the comfort and the view.
"You want something to drink?" he asked, moving toward the kitchen.
"I'm good," Gayle replied, turning to face him. The alcohol from earlier still buzzed through her system, lowering her inhibitions just enough. "I didn't come here for a drink. They had plenty of those where I came from."
Before Keshawn could respond, she crossed the space between them and pressed her lips against his. The kiss caught him off guard, but only for a moment. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer as he returned the kiss with unexpected intensity.
Memories flooded back for both of them—being his first, the easy connection they'd shared despite their drastic differences, the way their lives had pulled them in different directions.
Keshawn was the one who pulled away first, his breathing slightly uneven. His mind raced with conflicting thoughts—desire warring with caution, better judgment.
"You might have had too many lemon drops," Keshawn said, gently placing his hands on Gayle's shoulders as he stepped back.
Gayle's face flushed with embarrassment, the rejection hitting harder than she'd anticipated. "I'm not drunk," she protested, though even she could hear the slight slur in her words.
Keshawn smiled kindly, maintaining a respectful distance between them. The attraction was still there, it had always been there. He doubted it would ever leave.
"Listen," he said, his voice soft but firm. "You can take the master bedroom tonight. It's got the most comfortable bed I've ever slept in."
"I’m not even that drunk," Gayle crossed her arms, a defensive posture that betrayed her wounded pride. "Why you acting like you don’t know me or something? Like I’m just some random girl?"
"You're not some random girl, Gayle. You know that," Keshawn clarified, "But this? Right now? Like this? I don’t think either of us want that."
The truth of his words penetrated the alcohol-induced haze surrounding Gayle's thoughts. She had come here seeking comfort, connection—an escape from the emptiness that had been building inside her. But Keshawn was right; jumping back into something physical wouldn't solve anything except maybe finally giving her something to rap about.
"Fine," she conceded, her shoulders dropping slightly. "But it better be some fancy ass bath tub in there too."
Keshawn laughed, relieved at the break in tension. "Sure is, with bubbles and all."
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 4745
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Neighborhood.
Nadia, swing BACK!
Neighborhood.
This man turn down every lick of pussy thrown his way but I’m supposed to believe how he views Nadia is strictly platonic…? 
Alexis gonna get Stefan killed. Gonna gas him up so she can get off on it and he gonna catch a hot one to the chest.
Alexis gonna get Stefan killed. Gonna gas him up so she can get off on it and he gonna catch a hot one to the chest.
Neighborhood.
Keshawn practicing sexual discipline bro
Neighborhood.
"So you gonna tell me about why Gayle was in your kitchen this morning?" Vic's voice cut through the rhythmic sound of Keshawn's breathing as he completed another set of bench presses. "Looking real cozy in that bitch."
Keshawn's jaw tightened, but he finished his rep before responding. "It ain’t like that."
"Oh, it ain't?" Vic's eyebrows shot up, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. "I get it, cuz, ain’t nothing like home cooking. You’re a Jungle nigga, now, through and through. Can’t none of this fancy shit change you now."
The weights clanged as Keshawn racked the bar. He sat up, wiping his face with a towel, aware that Tommy was pretending not to listen from the squat rack nearby.
"There's nothing there," Keshawn tried to hide his smile. "Not anymore. She crashed at the spot, that's all."
Vic nodded, unconvinced. "If you say so, cuz."
The gym door swung open, and Stefan walked in, twenty minutes late.
"My bad," he called out, not sounding particularly apologetic. "Traffic was a motherfucker this morning."
Tommy snorted from his position at the squat rack. "For someone that’s always late, you’d think you’d get better at your excuses."
Stefan's easy smile faltered for just a moment before returning, sharper now. "Your momma don’t be letting me leave the crib with a full sack."
"Come on now, let’s get some work done. We ain’t got this fancy ass gym to ourselves all day," Vic chimed in, "Keshawn ain’t that rich."
For the next few hours, Vic pushed them relentlessly, just like he had done to Keshawn during those early morning workouts in high school. He knew exactly when to encourage and when to challenge, when to ease up and when to demand more. It was this intuitive understanding of training that had made Coach Stewie offer him a spot on his coaching bench for Hamilton High School just a year after his graduation.
"You're dropping your elbow," Vic called out as Keshawn went through shooting drills. "Keep it tucked! Don’t get lazy now!"
Across the court, Tommy and Stefan were paired for one-on-one drills. What had started as routine practice had evolved into something more intense, particularly from Tommy's end. He defended Stefan with an intensity that seemed disproportionate to the setting, his face flushed with effort and something deeper—a resentment that had been building all summer.
Tommy had watched from the sidelines as Stefan's minutes decreased and Keshawn's star rose. He had endured Stefan's complaints, his excuses, his thinly veiled jealousy of their teammate. But what Tommy couldn't stand was how easily Stefan still moved through the world, how his confidence never seemed to waver despite his diminishing role on the team. Perhaps more importantly, how someone he cared for, Alexis, had seemingly tethered herself to this sinking ship. Keshawn, he could understand. But Stefan?
"Stop hacking!" Stefan called as Tommy's forearm connected with his chest during a drive.
"That's not a foul," Tommy shot back, his voice tight. "Stop being so fucking soft."
"Who the fuck you calling soft, nigga?" Stefan laughed, the sound hollow and mocking. "Fuck nigga, learn how to play basketball, bitch ass nigga. Being on the bench this long got you forgetting what a foul is."
Tommy lunged forward, shoving Stefan hard enough to send him stumbling backward. Vic was between them in an instant, one hand on each player's chest.
"Save that shit for Westwood," Vic commanded, his voice sharp with authority. "We here to get some work in. Go fight on Coach Cronin’s time."
Stefan recovered his balance, adjusting his tank top with exaggerated casualness. "White boy just mad I’m fucking his little fine shit."
Tommy's face darkened, a vein pulsing at his temple.
"Fuck this," Tommy spat, stepping back.
"Tommy, come on," Keshawn called after him, but Tommy was already striding toward the exit, snatching his gym bag from the sideline as he went.
The door slammed behind him with a finality that echoed through the gym. Stefan shrugged, grabbing a towel to wipe his face as if nothing had happened.
…
The yard buzzed with the usual chaotic energy—men shouting across the concrete expanse, weights clanging against metal racks, the occasional whistle from a guard tower. Trey stood with his back against the chain-link fence, eyes fixed on Laroy's impassive face.
"This ain’t no light accusation," Trey's voice was barely audible above the din. "You sure about this, OG? I mean, I know we at odds right now and shit but I respect you, you know that."
Laroy didn't flinch, his eyes betraying nothing. He'd delivered news like this before, had watched men crumble under the weight of betrayal.
"They got pictures and everything," Laroy confirmed, his voice flat. "Been going on for months now. He's there most nights. Got his own key. I can get that for you; the pictures, the videos."
The information landed like a physical blow. Fifteen years. Fifteen fucking years he had taken for his best friend. Trey had been inside these walls for six of those, holding onto the image of Charlene and their son waiting faithfully for him. He'd endured beatings, solitary confinement, missed his boy's first steps, first words, first day of school—all while Stacks was playing daddy in his home, sleeping in his bed.
"Your boy's calling him 'Uncle Stacks' now," Laroy added, the cruel detail unnecessary but delivered nonetheless.
Trey's face remained a carefully constructed mask, though a vein pulsed dangerously at his temple. Inside, a storm raged—memories of Stacks promising to look after his family, to make sure they wanted for nothing while Trey did his time. All those commissary deposits, all those assurances during visits that everything was good on the outside.
"I appreciate you, my nigga," Trey said finally, his voice steady despite the chaos within. He extended his hand, which Laroy clasped firmly in the familiar handshake.
Trey pushed himself off the fence and began walking away, his gait measured and unhurried. To show weakness here, in this place, was to invite predators. The yard was always watching, always assessing. So he walked with his shoulders back, chin up, face impassive—a man unbothered, untouched.
…
The scent of barbecue smoke curled through the air as Gayle stepped through the gate into Lamont's backyard. The modest but well-maintained suburban home in Culver City wasn't what most people would expect from a successful music producer, but that was Lamont—understated in his personal life, letting his work speak for itself.
"Look who finally decided to show up," Lamont called out from beside the grill, spatula raised in greeting. His wife, Tanya, offered Gayle a warm smile and a brief hug.
"Sorry I'm late," Gayle said, handing Tanya the bottle of wine she'd brought.
"You mean you were overthinking what to wear," Lamont teased.
The backyard was filled with about twenty people—family members, industry friends, and a few faces Gayle recognized from Lamont's studio. Junior and Layla, the twins, raced past her legs.
"Watch it, y'all!" Tanya called after them, shaking her head with the resigned fondness of a mother who had long given up on containing their energy.
Gayle made her way to a folding chair near the cooler, accepting a drink from one of Lamont's cousins. The afternoon sun warmed her bare shoulders as she settled in, observing the normalcy of the scene. Children shrieked with laughter by the small pool, while adults clustered in conversation groups, plates balanced on knees, red cups in hand.
"So," Lamont said, appearing beside her chair with a plate of food. "Tell me about this fool you went out with last night. The fact you’re here tells me it didn’t go that well."
Gayle groaned, accepting the plate. "Man, don't even get me started."
"Nah, I want all the details," Lamont insisted, pulling up another chair. "These dating stories of yours are better than reality TV."
"Another crypto bro," Gayle said, stabbing at a piece of potato salad. She decided to leave out the part of the night that ended at Keshawn’s.
Lamont threw his head back and laughed. "This is still LA, baby."
"It's not funny," Gayle protested, though she couldn't help smiling. "I'm starting to think I'm cursed."
"Not cursed," Lamont corrected. "Just not writing about it enough. All this material going to waste." He gestured with his drink. "That's your problem—you trying to write about cars and money when your real life is full of stories people would connect with."
Before Gayle could reply, Tanya called out to Lamont from the back door, gesturing toward a new arrival. With an apologetic smile, he squeezed Gayle's shoulder before heading off to greet the guest. Gayle watched him go, the easy confidence in his stride, the genuine warmth with which he embraced the newcomer. Her eyes followed him as he moved through the gathering, stopping to ruffle his son's hair, leaning down to listen to something his daughter whispered, throwing his head back in laughter at his brother-in-law's joke.
There was something magnetic about him that had nothing to do with his success in the industry. It was the way he carried himself—present in every moment, generous with his attention, comfortable in his own skin. The perfect balance of ambition and contentment.
Gayle sighed, taking another sip of her drink. Would she ever find someone like him? Not Lamont specifically but someone with that same grounded energy, someone who pushed her to be better while accepting who she was and would push her to become who she could be. Her string of disappointing dates flashed through her mind. Men who either put her on a pedestal or tried to dim her light. None of them with the quiet confidence, the steady presence that Lamont possessed.
…
It had been 187 days since his last drink—a number he knew by heart, counted each morning when he woke up, and recited to himself during moments of weakness. Like now.
The bartender, a heavyset woman with dyed red hair, kept glancing his way. She'd seen this struggle before—the trembling hands, the tortured expression, the internal war playing out across a weathered face. Quincy had been sitting there for twenty minutes, the untouched shot a monument to his willpower.
"You gonna drink that or just look at it all night?" she finally asked, wiping down the counter nearby.
Quincy didn't answer. His mind was still replaying the argument from earlier that day. His manager at the fairgrounds, a pimple-faced kid half his age, had berated him for taking an extra five minutes on his lunch break.
In his pocket, Quincy's sobriety chip felt suddenly heavy, a physical reminder of promises made—to Eleanora, to himself, to the memory of the man he once was and could be again. One hundred and eighty-seven days of fighting, of waking up clear-headed, of facing life's cruelties without numbing them.
"Fuck it," he muttered, pushing the shot glass away and standing up. He threw a crumpled five-dollar bill on the counter. "Keep it."
Outside, the night air hit his face like a splash of cold water. Quincy took a deep breath, filling his lungs with it, feeling a strange mix of pride and emptiness. The pride would fade, he knew, but the emptiness—that was the constant companion of sobriety. The space where the alcohol and drugs used to live, never quite filled by anything else.
A black Escalade with tinted windows rolled to a stop at the curb, the passenger window sliding down smoothly. Quincy squinted, recognizing the face of Fat Stacks behind the wheel.
"OG," Fat Stacks called out, his voice carrying the casual authority of someone used to being obeyed. "Need a ride?"
Quincy hesitated, glancing down the empty street. The bus wouldn't come for another forty minutes, and his feet already ached from standing all day. Still, getting in a car with Fat Stacks felt like trading one bad decision for another.
"Come on, Damu," Fat Stacks continued, a smile spreading across his face. "Don’t nothing come with this. Just offering a ride to a neighbor."
Neighborhood.
GPT reading back these profanities will never not be funny 
Neighborhood.
Gayle on some “falling in love with your psychiatrist” type shit, huh?
Tommy had to have known Alexis was a pass around. Making the lone white male character in this shit look turrible. Cuck energy.
Tommy had to have known Alexis was a pass around. Making the lone white male character in this shit look turrible. Cuck energy.
Neighborhood.
Keep it clean!
She wants to find her Lamont is all.
Tommy wants to know what its hitting on, can't blame him
Neighborhood.
The restaurant wasn't much to look at from the outside—just another storefront wedged between a cigar shop and a Verizon store in a strip mall in South Pasadena.
"Is this another test?" Keshawn asked, peering through his car window at the faded sign that read "Mama Lou's Kitchen."
Candace smiled, already unbuckling her seatbelt. "Maybe."
The interior of Mama Lou's was a time capsule from the '70s—vinyl booths in cracked burgundy, wood-paneled walls adorned with faded photographs of local sports teams, and ceiling fans that spun with a slight wobble. The smell, though—spices, slow-cooked meats, and something sweet baking in the kitchen—immediately made Keshawn understand why they were there.
A heavyset woman with silver-streaked hair looked up from behind the counter and broke into a wide smile. "I didn’t know you was coming today, baby! I would have made some catfish!"
"Miss Yvette," Candace beamed, accepting the woman's enthusiastic embrace. "Just flew in this morning and I’m sure whatever you got cooking back there is just fine."
"Speaking of fine," Miss Yvette laughed, turning her appraising gaze to Keshawn. "And who's this tall drink of water you brought with you?"
"This is Keshawn," Candace said, a hint of shyness coloring her usually confident tone. "He’s a friend of mine."
"Nice to meet you," Keshawn smiled, extending his hand, which disappeared into Miss Yvette's firm grip.
"My baby girl sure knows how to pick her friends," Miss Yvette winked. "Y'all take that booth in the back. I'll send Darnell over with some sweet tea, I just got done brewing it myself."
"You come here a lot?" Keshawn asked, sliding into the booth across from her.
"It’s that obvious?" Candace replied, her fingers playing with the paper napkin. "I don’t know, it just reminds me of home."
"Your mom throws down in the kitchen?"
"Fuck no," she cackled, "Growing up, she would always take me out to eat every Friday night. Usually some place like this since she couldn’t cook soul food to save her life but sure loved eating it. Once I found this place when I moved out here, let’s just say my trainer had his work cut out for him."
A young server approached with two glasses of sweet tea, condensation already beading on the sides. "Miss Yvette says she’s frying the catfish and she ain’t taking no for an answer."
Candace laughed. "I know she is."
"So," Keshawn began after the server left, "You and your mom still close?"
"Yeah," Candace replied, "After everything went down, we ended up in this tiny apartment in Santa Clara, and there were weeks when I know she was skipping meals so I could eat. You’re kind of bonded for life after that."
Keshawn nodded, understanding etched in his face. He knew what it was like to watch parents struggle, to feel the weight of their sacrifices. He’d seen that burden on his parents’ face, on Auntie Elly’s face.
"But every Friday," Candace continued, "No matter what, she'd pick me up from school and we'd go somewhere like this. Never fancy, always these little hole-in-the-wall places with the best food."
A plate of cornbread appeared on their table, steam rising from the golden squares. Miss Yvette placed it down with a flourish. "On the house. Main course coming up."
"Thanks, Miss Yvette," Candace said, her eyes bright with gratitude that went beyond the free appetizer.
As they broke the cornbread apart, Keshawn found himself opening up about his own family's struggles. "My dad used to own this grocery store back in our neighborhood. It wasn’t Walmart or anything, not even Ralphs but it was ours."
"What happened?" Candace asked, her full attention on him.
"Just some bad decisions with COVID and those PPP loans," Keshawn paused, the memory still raw. "His accountant kind of messed up but his name was on the paperwork so they both went away, my mom too."
Candace reached across the table, her fingers brushing against his. "I'm sorry to hear that. Yeah, I’ve been hearing about those loans and people getting caught up."
"The crazy part is," Keshawn continued, "The building's still there, just sitting empty. I don’t know, I’d think it’d be dope to get it back up and running again."
"But?" Candace prompted, hearing the hesitation in his voice.
"But my dad doesn't want to," Keshawn admitted, the words carrying the weight of his disappointment. "I brought it up, and he was not with it at all. Said that chapter's closed."
"My mom wouldn’t take any of my 'handouts' either," Candace sympathized, "I think sometimes they feel like if we’re the ones helping them, they failed at their job as parents."
Their main courses arrived—smothered catfish with rice, asparagus and fried okra.
"This looks amazing," Keshawn said, genuinely impressed.
"Wait till you taste it," Candace smiled, the momentary heaviness of their conversation lifting.
As they ate and exchanged stories from their childhoods, Keshawn found himself studying Candace.
"What?" Candace asked, catching his gaze.
"Nothing," Keshawn smiled. "Just thinking about how you’re not like how I expected. In a good way."
"Kandi is a character I play. She's part of me, sure, but she's not all of me. Not even the most important part. I save Candace for the actual people in my life."
"The people that pass the test," Keshawn teased, nodding with understanding, "I get that. Sometimes I feel like people just see the NBA player."
"I can see that," Candace nodded. "Not everyone deserves to see the real you, either."
Miss Yvette appeared at their table, breaking the moment with perfect timing. "Room for dessert? Got some fresh peach cobbler."
They both laughed, the tension dissolving. "Like we have a choice, Miss Yvette," Candace smiled.
As the evening progressed, filled with laughter and stories and the comforting weight of shared experiences, Keshawn realized something important. Both of them had lost something precious—a sense of stability, of family legacy. But they both had built something new back up.
Outside, as they walked back to his car, Keshawn once again found himself reluctant for the night to end.
"Thank you for bringing me here," he said, his hand finding hers naturally now. "I’ll definitely be coming back."
"The food was pretty good," Candace smirked, "The company wasn’t bad either."
…
Trey sat with his back to the wall, his tray of untouched food pushed to the side. His eyes scanned the room constantly out of habit: noting which inmates sat where, which guards seemed alert and which ones were just counting down the minutes until shift change.
Laroy slid onto the bench across from him, the older man's face betrayed nothing as he picked up a plastic spoon and stirred the lumpy mashed potatoes on his tray. They could both tell that all eyes were on them, some openly staring, others pretending not to notice while catching every detail. Laroy was Dro’s guy on the inside and Trey was Stacks’. The sight of the two of them sitting together, publicly, was surely a sign. The onlookers just didn’t know of what.
"You got what you needed?" Laroy finally looked up, trying to read Trey’s face.
Laroy’s guy had slid a stack of pictures into Trey’s cell. The evidence was clear, leaving no room for interpretation. The intimacy between Charlene and Stacks evident. Perhaps too evident as Trey clinched his jaw.
"Yeah, I got it," he replied.
"So what we doing, Blood?"
Trey let out a humorless laugh. "What you think?"
"Your commissary is going to be taken care off," Laroy counted off on his fingers. "We’ll make sure your baby moms is straight, nothing changes there. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind the yard being wide open again, no more of us beefing with each other while them white boys and Southsiders get more control of this shit.”
"That'll work," Trey leaned in, "I need something else, though, OG."
"What’s that?"
"I want Dro to do it himself," Trey said slowly. "No lieutenants, no soldiers. And I want him to tell that motherfucker it was me who set him up. I want that fat fuck to know it was me that did him in."
…
The music pulsed through the bar with familiar faces scattered throughout the place. Keshawn nursed his club soda, watching his former teammates from across the table. Stefan was in the middle of another animated story his hands gesturing wildly as Andrea, Gloria and the rest of them laughed at all the right moments.
"I swear to God I thought that nigga was gonna pass the fuck out right there," Stefan concluded, slapping the table for emphasis.
The laughter that followed felt distant to Keshawn, as if he were watching the scene through glass. He smiled and nodded, going through the motions while his mind drifted elsewhere—to his upcoming meetings with various brands, to his conversation with Candace at Mama Lou's earlier that day, to the world that was opening up before him while his friends remained tethered to college life.
As Andrea launched into complaints about her statistics professor, Keshawn caught Gloria watching him. Her eyes held a knowing look, as if she could see right through his attempt at engagement.
"Your social battery running out?" she asked him, sliding closer until she was practically leaning on him.
"I’m good," Keshawn nodded, "I should probably head out soon though, got an early morning."
"You always do," she smiled, "When are you going back to Portland?"
"Camp starts in October so I’ll probably head out there around September," Keshawn answered, "Get settled in and stuff."
"So am I the only one that’s not going to get a chance to check out this crazy new apartment you got?" she teased him, placing a hand on his forearm.
"Stefan?" Keshawn raised an eyebrow.
"It’s all he was talking about," she laughed.
"Of course," Keshawn looked towards Stefan with a half-smile, already regaling the audience with another story.
"This is the part where you invite me to check it out," she nudged Keshawn.
"Sure," he said finally, trying to sound more enthusiastic than he felt. "It's nothing special though."
"I doubt that," Gloria smiled, her eyes lighting up.