You not fooling no one with this Candace red herring. We all know Keshawn ass gonna wife up Nadia.
Dro gonna get got trying to kill Stacks. Stacks is gonna kill Vic to get back at Trey. Lock it in.
Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
who is to say who is the red herring
This man has been killing off Vic for three months
Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
The scent of bacon woke Keshawn before his alarm did, a comfort that felt oddly foreign in his apartment. For a moment, he laid still, disoriented by the unfamiliar combination of familiar sounds—the sizzle of breakfast cooking, cabinets opening and closing, soft music drifting from the kitchen.
Gloria.
The events of the previous night came back to him in fragments. The bar with his old teammates. Gloria's hand on his arm. The ride back to his place, her lips against his in the elevator. Nothing they hadn't done before, yet somehow weighted differently now.
Keshawn pushed himself up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The hardwood floor felt cool beneath his feet as he pulled on a pair of sweatpants and made his way toward the kitchen.
He paused in the doorway, taking in the scene before him. Gloria stood at the stove, wearing one of his t-shirts, her hair tied back in a messy bun. The apartment, which had been cluttered with his hastily unpacked boxes and scattered belongings the night before, now looked remarkably organized. The boxes were stacked neatly against the wall, his clothes no longer draped over furniture, the countertops wiped clean.
"Morning," she said without turning around, somehow sensing his presence. "I know you got a workout this morning but was hoping we could sneak some breakfast in. This kitchen was too fire for me not to get busy in here!"
"You didn't have to do all this," Keshawn said, gesturing vaguely at the cleaned apartment.
Gloria shrugged, sliding the eggs onto two plates where bacon and toast already waited. "Don’t mention it, I don’t mind." She turned with the plates in hand, her smile bright and easy.
As they sat at the small dining table by the window, Keshawn felt a tightness in his chest. This scene—breakfast together with the morning sun streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows—felt like a glimpse into a life he wasn't sure he wanted. Or rather, a life he wasn't sure he could commit to right now. At least not with her.
Gloria watched him over the rim of her mug as she drank her tea, reading the shift in his mood with the intuition of someone who had spent considerable time learning his expressions. "You've got that look," she observed.
"What look?"
"The one where you're overthinking something instead of just saying it."
Keshawn took a deep breath, steeling himself. "This next year is going to be crazy for me. New city, new team, traveling all the time. I just don’t know if I can commit to anything right now and be the kind of person that maybe you’re looking for? I don’t want to string you along if this isn’t something that I can really invest in right now."
"Why stop now?" Gloria teased, raising her eyebrows with a slight smirk on her face, "I’m just joking, Ke. I don’t think you’re stringing me along and I don’t expect anything from you, I really don’t. Not in a bad way, I just get that a lot is happening for you right now. Whatever my spot or role in your life looks like, it’s fine with me. I just like being around you."
Gloria’s understanding only made Keshawn feel shittier about all of this.
…
Sunlight streamed through the blinds of Alexis's dorm room as she held up two different outfits in front of her full-length mirror, while Tiffany lounged on the bed scrolling through her phone and Brittany perched on the desk chair, sipping an iced coffee.
"That one," Brittany declared, pointing with her straw. "Definitely the blue. That ass be assing in that dress."
Alexis tilted her head, considering her reflection. "I don’t want to be doing too much. Half the time, we end up just hanging out at his cousin’s house."
"Then definitely not the white," Tiffany said without looking up from her phone. "You don't want to come back with blood stains on that."
Alexis rolled her eyes. "God, you're so dramatic."
"Bitch, please," Tiffany finally looked up, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Wasn’t they shooting people last time y’all hung out?"
"Nobody got shot," Alexis protested, though a small smile played at her lips. The memory of that cookout—the gun, the chaos, the exhilarating rush of danger—still sent a thrill through her body.
"The dick must be crazy if you’re slumming through Long Beach with this guy," Brittany said, shaking her head. "Your dad would literally have a stroke if he knew."
"That's half the fun," Alexis winked, tossing the white dress aside and slipping the blue one over her head. "Can you zip me?"
Tiffany moved to help her, fingers deftly pulling the zipper up. "So what's the deal with you two anyway?"
Alexis shrugged, a practiced gesture of nonchalance that didn't quite match the gleam in her eyes. "We're just having fun. You know I keep a basketball nigga around."
"Damn," Brittany shook her head, "So you and Keshawn is like done, done?"
Alexis's expression hardened slightly, though she quickly masked it with a dismissive laugh. "Bitch, I upgraded. He wasn’t a real nigga like Stef."
…
"Do you know what you’re doing?" Nadia asked as she sat on the dock with her legs dangling over the water. She watched Keshawn fumble with the fuel line, his large hands surprisingly delicate as they worked.
Coach Bronstein's boat bobbed gently in the marina slip. Keshawn had volunteered to prep it for their afternoon outing, a decision he was quickly regretting as sweat beaded on his forehead under the California sun.
"I got this," he insisted, though his furrowed brow suggested otherwise. "I’ve done this a bunch of times with your grandpa."
Nadia snorted, pushing her sunglasses up into her curls. "It’s so funny when you call him grandpa."
It had been weeks since they'd last hung out—their text conversations maintaining a connection that felt both comfortable and incomplete. Seeing her in person again brought a familiar warmth that surprised Keshawn. She looked different somehow—her hair longer, her face slightly thinner, but her eyes still held that same intensity, that quiet intelligence that had drawn him to her from the beginning.
"So," she said, leaning back on her palms, "how's the NBA treating its newest star?"
Keshawn rolled his eyes. "I don’t know about all of that but it’s been cool. Summer League’s not really the league though."
"How?"
He paused, considering his answer. "Almost none of the guys I played with, played against, are actual NBA players so yeah, it’s different from college but it’s different from the league too. When the actual season starts, going to be a whole different ball game, literally."
"Poor baby," Nadia teased, "At least you have all those millions to wipe your tears with."
"You know what I mean," he said, but he was smiling too.
A comfortable silence settled between them as Keshawn returned to the fuel line. Nadia watched him work, her mind drifting to the conversation she'd been avoiding with her grandparents—the one about not returning to UCLA in the fall.
"I'm thinking about dropping out," she announced suddenly.
Keshawn's head snapped up. "Wait, what?"
Nadia shrugged, aiming for casual though the tension in her shoulders betrayed her. "What's the point? Two years in and I still don't know what I want to major in. Just feels like I'm wasting time and money."
"That's normal though, isn't it? Plenty of people don't figure out their major until junior year."
"Maybe," she conceded, "but I don't even know if I want to be there. I'm just going through the motions because it's what everyone expected."
Keshawn straightened up, wiping his hands on a rag as he studied her face. He recognized that look—the same one he'd seen in his own mirror during those moments when the weight of others' expectations felt suffocating.
"What would you do instead?" he asked, genuinely curious.
"I don't know. Help out at the shelter more? I don’t know, something that actually matters, means something." She looked out at the water, avoiding his gaze. "Besides, my grandparents have you now. Who cares if I’m a bum with their NBA star grandson?"
The words were meant to sound light, joking, but Keshawn caught the undercurrent beneath them.
"That’s not true," he said quietly, "You’re also not a bum if you drop out."
Nadia's laugh was a brittle thing. "Please. You should hear how they talk about you. 'Keshawn this, boychick that.' You're the golden child now."
Keshawn moved to sit beside her on the dock, their shoulders almost touching. "They're proud of me, sure. He’s had a lot to do with where I’m at now so I get it but come on, you know it’s not like that."
She didn't respond, just continued staring out at the horizon where the ocean met the sky in a hazy blue line. Keshawn wondered what she saw there—escape, possibility, or just distance from the expectations that surrounded her here.
"For what it's worth," he ventured, "I think you'd be great at whatever you decide to do. But I also think running away doesn't solve the problem."
"Who says I'm running away?" Nadia challenged, turning to face him.
"Aren't you?" Keshawn held her gaze. "Look, I get it. Sometimes it feels like everyone has your life planned out for you. But dropping everything without a plan... that's just trading one problem for another."
…
Elijah's knuckles were white around the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's as he stumbled down the cracked sidewalk. He'd told Loraine he was meeting up with some old friends from the neighborhood, but that had been a lie. There were no friends left to meet—just ghosts and memories that haunted him more potently than any living person could.
The strip mall loomed ahead, a dark silhouette against the night sky. Most of the storefronts were vacant now, their windows covered with brown paper or plywood. "For Lease" signs hung in dusty windows, some so faded by the sun they were barely legible. The parking lot was empty save for a few abandoned shopping carts and scattered trash tumbling across the asphalt in the evening breeze.
Elijah paused in front of what had once been Chase Family Market. The sign had been removed, but he could still see the faint outline where it had hung for nearly thirty years. Through the grimy windows, empty shelves stood like skeletons, a few broken tiles on the floor visible in the dim light filtering in from the street.
"Goddamn waste," he muttered, taking another swig from the bottle.
He fumbled in his pocket for the keys—keys he still carried even though they opened nothing of value anymore. The lock had been changed after the foreclosure, but muscle memory made him reach for them anyway. Instead, his fingers closed around the small flashlight he kept on his keychain.
Elijah moved to the side of the building, to the employee entrance that had once been his private domain. The door was secured with a padlock, but the window beside it had been broken, likely by neighborhood kids or homeless people seeking shelter. He shined his flashlight through the opening, illuminating what had once been his office.
With a grunt, he hoisted himself through the window, glass crunching beneath his shoes as he landed inside. The smell hit him immediately—dust, mildew, and the lingering scent of what had once been a vibrant business serving the community.
"Look at you now," he whispered to the empty room, his voice echoing slightly. "All that work for nothing."
Elijah made his way through the darkened store, his flashlight beam cutting through the shadows. The deli counter where Mrs. Jenkins had worked for fifteen years, the checkout lanes where Simone had bagged groceries for a summer, the produce section where Elijah himself had carefully arranged fruits and vegetables each morning—all stripped bare, leaving only the bones of what had once been.
He settled onto the floor, his back against what had been the customer service desk, and took another long pull from the bottle. The alcohol burned pleasantly down his throat, numbing the edges of his thoughts.
Neighborhood.
Gloria when she convince Keshawn to knock her up and get that NBA child support 
Alexis want an ol' roughneck that's gonna beat her ass, huh?
I see you laying the groundwork for Nadia to be free to be where Keshawn is for that romantic storyline since she already talks about him like they married.
Not Elijah on that bottle! sad bidnes
Alexis want an ol' roughneck that's gonna beat her ass, huh?
I see you laying the groundwork for Nadia to be free to be where Keshawn is for that romantic storyline since she already talks about him like they married.
Not Elijah on that bottle! sad bidnes
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 4745
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Neighborhood.
Alexis might the weirdest character you've ever written, all -around.
Neighborhood.
After seeing how her homegirl (Jessica) went through it, she might just want the lifestyle without the baby thoughCaesar wrote: ↑12 Aug 2025, 09:23Gloria when she convince Keshawn to knock her up and get that NBA child support
Alexis want an ol' roughneck that's gonna beat her ass, huh?
I see you laying the groundwork for Nadia to be free to be where Keshawn is for that romantic storyline since she already talks about him like they married.
Not Elijah on that bottle! sad bidnes
Alexis looking for some thrill, just looking for it in the wrong places now.
Nadia's journey is her own.
from a fringe millionaire to convicted felon with a record that won't allow him to go back to doing what he used to...can't blame him
She, along with just about every character I write, is based on someone I knew/know, I just turn up the volume for effect. A lot of sheltered people fetishize the street life and it's tenfold when that happens among girls since they feel like they're more excluded from the violence that does happen, assuming that even if things do go wrong, they'll get a pass or won't be affected.Captain Canada wrote: ↑12 Aug 2025, 15:29Alexis might the weirdest character you've ever written, all -around.
Neighborhood.
Angela's heart hammered against her ribs as she stared at Vic across the park bench. She had spent days rehearsing this conversation, but now that it was happening, the carefully prepared words dissolved on her tongue.
"I need to know everything," she said finally, her voice steadier than she felt. "When it started, how long it went on. All of it."
Vic nodded slowly, his eyes tracking a jogger passing by rather than meeting Angela's gaze. The weight of what he was about to say pressed down on his shoulders.
"She was friends with this girl that Keshawn was seeing," he began, the words feeling like stones in his mouth. "She was just around when I would visit Keshawn and one thing led to another…"
Angela's jaw tightened. "Come on, Vic. You don’t just stumble into getting some girl pregnant."
"I know," Vic said, though he knew any explanation would sound hollow. "We just started talking, getting to know each other. She asked to hang out one time and I said yeah. Keshawn didn't even know about this." The lie slipped out easily, protecting his cousin while still offering Angela the truth she deserved.
"Once," Angela said, more statement than question. "It happened once."
Vic's silence told her everything.
"How many times?" she pressed, needing to quantify the betrayal somehow, as if a number could contain the hurt.
"I don’t know," Vic admitted. "It just sort of became a thing."
Inside, Angela felt something crack. The fact he had lost count was proof that it wasn't a mistake. It was a choice, repeated.
"And after that? When I came back?"
"Nothing," Vic said quickly. "I swear to God, Ang. I haven’t been with her since you’ve been back."
"Would you have told me if she hadn't shown up that day?"
The question hung in the air, unanswerable in any satisfying way. Vic wanted to say yes, that he would have found the courage eventually, but they both knew the truth was murkier.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I'd like to think I would have. Not like I could hide a whole child."
Angela appreciated his honesty, even as it hurt. She'd always valued truth, demanded it even when it was painful. Now she was getting exactly what she'd asked for, and it felt like swallowing glass.
"Did you love her?" The question escaped before she could stop it, betraying a vulnerability she'd tried to hide. "Do you still love her?"
"No," Vic answered immediately. "It wasn't like that. It was just... there. Convenient."
Somehow, that hurt worse than if he'd claimed to have fallen in love. She could relate to that; her situation with Paige, how she made her feel things that she hadn’t in a while and other things she had never felt before, even with Vic. To know she'd been devastated by something "convenient" made Angela feel hollow.
"And now?" she asked, her voice barely audible above the rustling leaves. "What is she to you now?"
Vic stared at his hands, calloused from years of basketball and manual labor. "She's the mother of my child," he said simply. "That's what she'll always be now."
The reality of it settled over them both. No matter what happened between Angela and Vic, Jessica would always be connected to him through their child. She would be at birthday parties, graduations, maybe even weddings someday. A permanent fixture in a life Angela had once imagined sharing exclusively with Vic.
"I still love you, Angela," Vic said, his voice thick with emotion. "I never stopped loving you. This whole thing—it wasn't about not loving you enough. I just didn’t love myself enough to be disciplined."
Part of her wanted to believe him, to find a way forward together. But another part, the part that had been building her own independence at Howard, questioned whether love was enough anymore.
"I don't know if I can do this, Vic," she said finally. "I don't know if I can be with someone who isn’t really mine."
"I am yours," Vic promised, reaching for her hand across the bench. "I know what I almost lost—what I might still lose."
Angela didn't pull her hand away, but she didn't return his squeeze either. Her mind raced with questions about their future. Would she always be wondering where he was, who he was with? Would every fight feel like a countdown to another betrayal?
"What does moving forward even look like?" she asked, more to herself than to him. "You're going to be a dad."
"I know," Vic acknowledged. "But it doesn't change how I feel about you. We can make this work, Ang. I'll do whatever it takes."
A squirrel darted across their path, momentarily distracting them both. In that brief pause, Angela realized that despite everything, a part of her still wanted to believe him. Still loved him. The question was whether that part was strong enough to overcome the damage that had been done.
"I can’t right now," she said finally. "I don’t even know how I’m feeling right now or what to do with what I’m feeling right now."
Vic nodded, disappointment and understanding mingling in his expression. "I get that. Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere. Obviously, I don’t deserve you but I still want you."
The irony of his statement wasn't lost on either of them. He had gone somewhere—to someone else—when things got difficult. But Angela kept that thought to herself, too exhausted to voice it.
…
Dro leaned against the brick wall outside Slim's apartment, watching the street with eyes that missed nothing. A few doors down, the last of his crew hung around, restless energy evident in their postures. No product to move, no money coming in—the signs of Dro's weakening position were impossible to ignore.
"So we gonna do this thing or what?" Slim asked.
"Yeah," Dro said, his voice low and measured. "Trey putting it in motion."
He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, the flame briefly illuminating the hard lines of his face. At forty-eight, Dro had survived longer than most in the game, but the toll was evident in the deep creases around his eyes, the permanent furrow between his brows.
"Says he can convince him to come alone." Dro exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Says he don't want any of the other homies getting caught up in this."
Slim snorted. "Yeah, aight."
"I’m with him," Dro surprised his long time friend, "Ain’t no use being king of a dead nation. We already done lost some homies over this, don’t need to lose anymore."
"They ain’t exactly going to take this shit laying down," Slim shrugged, "Even with Stacks out the picture."
"It’s a reason why my nephew only got a bunch of babies around him," Dro countered, "It’s monkey see, monkey do. If they feel like the best route is to jump ranks, they’re gonna do that. Ain’t nobody over there pushing heavy enough to take over from him. A couple of the older niggas might poke their chest out and once we handle that, it’s going to be clear who runs this shit again."
"It sounds good," Slim shook his head, "We still need dope, we still need guns."
"Look," Dro sighed, "Once that situation is handled, we can focus on that. Fix the relationship with the Woods, which Trey can help with, and once we the only game in town, the dope gonna pick back up."
"This shit done got out of hand," Slim scoffed, "Neph really going out like this?"
"He got to," Dro answered, "Ain’t no other way. Believe me, I’ve looked for one."
The truth of those words hung heavy between them. In their world, weakness wasn't just a liability; it was a death sentence. Dro had seen it happen too many times—OGs who held on too long, who didn't recognize when it was time to eliminate a threat, ended up in the ground themselves.
…
Keshawn set a brown paper bag of takeout on the kitchen counter as the savory aroma of jerk chicken filled his parents' modest home. Elijah stood by the window, staring aimlessly.
"Mom said she's running late," Keshawn said, pulling containers from the bag.
Elijah nodded, turning from the window. "I've been thinking more about what we talked about. About the store."
"You have?" Keshawn’s eyebrow rose.
"I ain’t looking for no handouts," Elijah clarified, moving to the kitchen to help unpack the food, "You said you had investors?"
"Yeah," Keshawn hurried his mind, "One of the guys, Gordon, I think he’d be interested. I know he helps fund small business in the community and stuff. That’s kind of how he got started."
"So they're just gonna hand over money to an ex-con with fraud charges?" Elijah's voice carried a bitter edge.
Keshawn wasn’t sure how to answer that. So he didn’t as he busied himself with plates and utensils.
"Just get me a meeting," Elijah told him, "I don’t need nothing guaranteed or them giving me the money because I’m your dad. I already got a business plan, I got the numbers. Just have them look at it, objectively, and we can go from there."
"I’ll set it up," Keshawn tried his best to hide his excitement but his father could read it on his face, cracking his own smile.
"I know there was more than six patties in here," Elijah shook his head, "I can see the crumbs on your face, boy!"
…
"I'm telling you," Gayle said, swirling the last of her third lychee margarita, "Everything I write feels fake. Like I'm trying to be something I'm not."
Lamont leaned back in his chair, his button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves. "That's because you're still rapping what you think people want to hear instead of what you need to say."
"What if what I need to say isn't interesting?" She set her glass down with more force than intended. "Nobody wants to hear about some girl from Baldwin Village who does people’s nails all day."
"That's bullshit and you know it," Lamont replied. His voice remained calm but carried the weight of experience. "Your story is your power. Everything else is just costume."
The bartender approached with another round that Lamont had ordered earlier. The bar was nearly empty now, just a couple of industry executives in deep conversation at the far end and a bartender who recognized them enough to leave them alone.
Despite the bar's vintage aesthetic, it remained one of the city's best-kept secrets—a place where industry people could talk shop without constant interruptions. The recording session had run long, pushing past midnight, and both were feeling the strain of creative fatigue.
"I don't even know where home is anymore," Gayle admitted, her words slightly slurred. "My apartment doesn't feel like mine. The studio is just work. The only time I feel... I don't know... grounded or something, is when I'm with you."
He had seen this before with artists he mentored, the blurring of lines between professional guidance and personal connection.
"You're finding your voice," he said carefully. "It takes time."
"No," Gayle leaned forward, her eyes locking with his. "It's more than that. I tried going on these dates, like you told me to, nothing there. I even went back to my ex, if I could even call him that, nothing there. The only time I feel like I’m actually living is when we’re hanging out, making music. Or at least, trying to."
The air between them seemed to thicken.
Gayle moved close. "I think about you all the time, just counting down the time until we get to record again." she whispered. "Do you?"
Before he could respond, she leaned across the small table and pressed her lips against his. For a fraction of a second, Lamont felt himself responding to the kiss—the instinctive pull of attraction, the flattery of being wanted by someone young and beautiful. But reality crashed in almost immediately. His wife at home, of the twins who called him Daddy, of the life he had built that meant everything to him.
He pulled back, gently but firmly placing his hands on her shoulders to create distance between them.
"Gayle," he said, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions beneath. "You've had a lot to drink. We both have."
"Don't tell me that," she said, a flash of anger cutting through her intoxication. Not again, she thought to herself as she took a sip of her water. Gayle felt heat rising to her cheeks, embarrassment flooding her system and sobering her instantly.
"I'm going to call you an Uber," Lamont said, already reaching for his phone.
Gayle nodded, unable to meet his eyes. "Yeah," she mumbled. "Sure."
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 4745
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Neighborhood.
Of course Gayle messy as hell too 
Neighborhood.
Nooticer Caesar nooticed that Gayle ting chapters back!
Angela pining for a chick that said she just college fun and letting that be a potential yellow light for Vic to stick around when he had a baby on her is crazy work
Angela pining for a chick that said she just college fun and letting that be a potential yellow light for Vic to stick around when he had a baby on her is crazy work