The Hollywood Hills shimmered like a constellation beneath them, city lights stretching to the horizon as Stacks counted out eight pink pills into the palm of a man donning a diamond necklace and none of it was moissanite.
"This is that good shit," Stacks said, watching the host of the party examine the pills with bloodshot eyes. "Not that stepped-on garbage them other niggas pushing."
The host, Jason, nodded appreciatively and slipped the pills into a small silver case that disappeared into his pocket. "This is why I only do business with the best."
"So we good?" Stacks asked, pocketing the thick wad of cash Jason had handed him. Behind him, Trey shifted his weight for the fifth time in as many minutes, making his impatience known without saying a word.
"Love doing business with you," Jason grinned. "Listen, why don't you guys stick around? Got a couple models coming through, it’s going to be a good time."
Stacks felt Trey's eyes boring into the back of his head, but he already knew his answer. This was where the real connections happened, not on the corner slinging dime bags, but in these Hills.
"Yeah, we can hang for a minute," Stacks nodded.
"Perfect," Jason clapped him on the shoulder. "Drinks are flowing, pool's heated. Make yourselves at home."
As Jason left to rejoin his guests, Trey was on Stacks immediately, grabbing his arm and pulling him to the corner of the room.
"The fuck you doing, Blood?" Trey hissed, "We got three more drops tonight."
Stacks shrugged. "Relax, nigga. This part of the game, Blood. I told you them niggas don’t wanna feel like they’re buying drugs for real."
"This ain't part of no game I'm playing," Trey's jaw tightened. "We got business."
"This is business," Stacks gestured around them. "You think I'm just trying to party? Nigga, we might get off another pack in like fifteen minutes from one of these bitches."
"Man, fuck all that," Trey shook his head, his voice tight with frustration. "You know where we can get our packs off? The motherfuckers that already got paper and are waiting for it."
Stacks checked his watch. "So we're a little late. They'll wait."
"Nah, they'll find somebody else," Trey countered. "And we lose that money."
The bass from the party thumped through the walls as Stacks weighed his options. Through the open door, he caught a glimpse of women in tight dresses, jewelry glinting under the recessed lighting.
"Look," Stacks said, already deciding, "You wanted to roll with me, right? So roll with me, then, nigga."
***
I look in the mirror and see somethin' missin'
I feel like it's you
I know that it's you
***
I look in the mirror and see somethin' missin'
I feel like it's you
I know that it's you
***
"You have to understand, Ronnie," Angela said firmly. "It's not about denying the struggles Black men face. It’s about recognizing that feminism can exist without tearing down one another."
He turned to face her. "But can it really? Look at how often Black men are painted as the enemy in mainstream feminism. It’s a dangerous narrative that we can't ignore. Like if you just replace Black men instead of just men in that 'bear vs. men' discussion and you’ll see exactly what I’m talking about."
"But that's not the point! We can't just pick sides. We have to uplift each other, not pit ourselves against one another."
Ronnie paused, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "I get that. But I also see how feminism often overlooks the unique struggles faced by Black men and puts the struggles of a White woman on par with that of a Black man. I just don’t see how a Black woman can help further that agenda."
Angela took a deep breath, wanting to choose her words carefully and yet simultaneously felt free to speak her mind.
"Sounds like the White man is the problem to him," she shrugged.
"We can agree on that," Ronnie smiled, levity welcomed after their last five minutes, "This all started because you didn’t want to pick dinner."
"And that’s why you love my ass," the word slipped out before she could grab them. He didn’t flinch.
"You know it," his expression shifted, his smile giving way to a seriousness that she recognized from their heated debates and discussions that would last for hours, "I really do, Ang."
Angela stood there, scared to speak, scared to move, scared to think, scared to love.
"I love you, too," she finally muttered, the air crackling with the electricity of their shared vulnerability.
***
My people product of poverty, I don't know why they would play with us
Choppers and luxury vehicles, livin' like Saudi Arabians
Learned Reaganomics and ran it up, we don't got nothing to show for
Infatuated with folklore and we still on some nigga shit
***
My people product of poverty, I don't know why they would play with us
Choppers and luxury vehicles, livin' like Saudi Arabians
Learned Reaganomics and ran it up, we don't got nothing to show for
Infatuated with folklore and we still on some nigga shit
***
Gayle stepped out of the elevator, the soft thud of her heels echoing against the polished marble floor. She adjusted the shimmering gold dress one last time, feeling the fabric cling to her curves. The warmth of the rooftop bar enveloped her as she stepped under the blue lights, laughter and music swirling around like a living thing.
Lamont’s hand settled possessively at the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd. The touch felt both familiar and foreign, a tether to this new life she was still learning to navigate.
She scanned the room, catching glimpses of faces, some familiar, some not. It was the album release for another artist that Epic Records distributed. Gayle didn’t know the artist, not that it mattered. None of it mattered.
A few people turned their heads, their eyes flicking to Lamont’s hand before returning to their conversations, their smiles widening. Everyone saw it but no one said anything. They never say anything.
Gayle mirrored their expressions, a practiced smile plastered on her face, the weight of it feeling heavier than the shimmering fabric she wore. As they reached the bar, Lamont ordered drinks, and Gayle leaned against the cool counter, her gaze drifting to the cityscape sprawled beneath them. The lights twinkled like stars, each one a reminder of the life she had left behind. She felt a tug of nostalgia for the days spent hustling behind the bar, mixing drinks for people who were looking for an escape that night or a reminder of what life could be like. But that life felt distant now, a ghost of her former self.
With her drink in hand, she turned back to the crowd, her smile growing more genuine at the sight of a few familiar faces: artists she had worked with, artists who had promised her a feature but never delivered, producers that Lamont had brought to the studio to help put the finishing touches of her album. But as she stood there, the thrill of recognition faded, replaced by a sense of detachment. They were all here for the same reason.
“Let’s mingle,” Lamont suggested, pulling her toward a small group gathered near the edge of the rooftop. Gayle followed. She always followed.
The conversation flowed around her, a blend of industry jargon and forced laughter. Gayle nodded along, feigning interest, but her mind wandered. She thought about the struggles of making it in this world, the sacrifices she had made to get here. The fear of losing herself amidst the glittering chaos gnawed at her, but she pushed it down, reminding herself that she had chosen this life.
“Gayle!” A voice broke through her thoughts, pulling her back to the moment. A woman with striking red hair approached, her smile bright and inviting. “It’s so good to see you!"
“Thank you!” Gayle replied, her smile widening.
As the night wore on, Gayle found herself laughing, the tension in her shoulders easing with each sip of her drink. Maybe this was where she belonged.
With Lamont’s hand still at her back, guiding her through the night, the weight of the past began to lift, replaced by the prospect of the future. Maybe she would be the one congratulating a young artist in a few year’s time, that patronizing smile that rich people give to the brokies to tell them they’re doing a good job and to keep spinning on the wheel. Maybe it would be other people that would put on a costume, a fake smile, a dress that was too tight, all to appease her. Maybe one day, it’ll be her guiding hand in the small of someone’s else back.
Whatever the outcome, it was better than tending to drinks or doing someone’s nails as they complained about their baby daddy. This, with all of its fakeness and flaws, was the life she had chosen. And she wasn’t going back.
***
To the heavens above, is it a mansion for thugs?
Where did Tupac and 'em go? Where Nipsey Hus' and 'em go?
Swavey and Drakeo?
Ricche and Slim Foe?
I spend a lot of my time missin' our kinfolks
***
To the heavens above, is it a mansion for thugs?
Where did Tupac and 'em go? Where Nipsey Hus' and 'em go?
Swavey and Drakeo?
Ricche and Slim Foe?
I spend a lot of my time missin' our kinfolks
***
Officer Rodriguez stood in the doorway of the bedroom, taking in the scene. The young woman laid on the bed, one arm dangling over the edge, fingers curled as if reaching for something. Her face looked peaceful, almost serene, in stark contrast to the empty pill bottle on the nightstand and the half-empty glass of water beside it.
"Pleasant, Alexis. Twenty-one years old," Officer Hernandez read from his notepad. "She missed her physical therapy appointment this morning and the housekeeper found her."
Rodriguez nodded absently, his gaze traveling over the room. "Yeah, I worked her case last year. Shooting."
"Think it’s related?" Hernandez asked.
"Doubt it," Rodriguez continued to look around the room, "Always felt like the girl was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Phone's here," Hernandez said, picking up the device from the floor where it had fallen from her hand. "No passcode."
"Check her messages," Rodriguez instructed, stepping closer to examine the pill bottle. Prescription sleeping pills with her name on the label. "See if she left anything, maybe a note."
Hernandez swiped through the phone. "Last message was to someone named Stefan. Sent yesterday at 11:42 PM."
"What's it say?"
"'It was all for nothing.'" Hernandez looked up. "That's it."
Rodriguez froze, the name triggering a memory. "Stefan? Let me see that."
He took the phone, examining the profile picture attached to the message thread. The image was grainy, but he recognized the face.
"I interviewed this kid last year," Rodriguez said, the pieces clicking into place. "Basketball player at UCLA. Well, was. He got killed last night in that shooting in Long Beach."
***
Who can I call when I need help?
Jugglin' thuggin' depression and pride
***
Who can I call when I need help?
Jugglin' thuggin' depression and pride
***
Keshawn stared into his glass as the ice had long since melted, watering down what remained of his third—or was it fourth?—reposado.
His phone buzzed again. Another text from Candace asking if he was okay. He ignored it, just as he'd ignored the last three. He didn’t feel like talking. He didn’t trust himself to.
He took another sip, grimacing at the diluted taste. The bartender appeared, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair who worked the bar downstairs in Keshawn’s apartment building.
"Another one?" he asked, nodding at the nearly empty glass.
Keshawn nodded, pushing it forward. "Yeah."
The bartender hesitated for just a moment before taking the glass. "You got it."
The bar was nearly empty at this hour. Just Keshawn and a couple in the far corner. The relative quiet left too much room for his thoughts to circle back to the same painful loop.
If he'd stayed in touch with Stefan after UCLA... If he'd reached out to Alexis after the shooting instead of just sending flowers... If he hadn't been so wrapped up in his own life, his own career...
The fresh drink appeared before him, promising temporary oblivion.
Stefan had made his choices, though. Nobody forced him to run back home, to get mixed up in whatever street shit got him killed. And Alexis—she'd chosen those pills, she’d swallowed them one by one.
The more Keshawn drank, the more his guilt began to crystallize into something harder, sharper. Anger. They had choices. They always had choices. Stefan could have stayed at UCLA, finished his degree. Alexis could have stayed in her pristine home, away from a world of danger she knew nothing about. Instead, they'd chosen paths that led them here, to early graves while he—
He'd chosen differently. He'd kept his head down, focused on basketball, stayed away from the bullshit. That's why he was here and they weren't. Simple as that.
Keshawn drained his glass.
People make their own choices, walk their own paths. Sometimes those paths lead somewhere good, sometimes they don't. Stefan and Alexis had made their choices just like he'd made his.
The bartender approached again, his expression carefully neutral. "Everything alright, sir?"
Keshawn looked up, suddenly aware of how he must appear—NBA star drinking alone, talking to himself.
"Yeah," he said, surprising himself with how steady his voice sounded. "I'm going to be."
He pulled out his wallet, extracted three hundred-dollar bills, and placed it under his empty glass.
"Have a good night," Keshawn said, standing up. The room tilted slightly before steadying.
"You too, Mr. Chase," the bartender replied, already clearing the glass.
***
Tears fall from the sky, mindin' the hooligans
I think I'm losin' it, hope you're along for the ride
Buckle the seatbelt, so many want me to crash and die
***
Tears fall from the sky, mindin' the hooligans
I think I'm losin' it, hope you're along for the ride
Buckle the seatbelt, so many want me to crash and die
***
Trey popped the trunk, grabbing the duffel bag. The night air hit his face as he started walking, the sounds of the party fading behind him. The Hills were different at night—quieter, more mysterious, the mansions like sleeping giants perched on the cliffside. Trey stuck to the shadows, avoiding the well-lit streets where private security patrolled.
He picked up his pace, the weight of the bag pulling at his shoulder. The sooner he got this shit done, the sooner he could get back to the world that made sense to him, not this fake Hollywood bullshit, shaking his head at the image of Stacks chatting up those models like he belonged there with them, like that was his world.
Trey could see the next house now, lights blazing, music thumping.
"Hey! You there! Stop right where you are!"
The duffel bag suddenly felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
***
Sayin' it loud, like James, rollin' the window down, ayy
Bro, do you gangbang? Yeah, click-clack, baow
I'ma regret it mañana, niggas be doin' shit just to be doin' it
We eatin' better tomorrow, real food stamp babies
***
Sayin' it loud, like James, rollin' the window down, ayy
Bro, do you gangbang? Yeah, click-clack, baow
I'ma regret it mañana, niggas be doin' shit just to be doin' it
We eatin' better tomorrow, real food stamp babies
***
"You asking me something?" Trey's face remained impassive.
Stacks studied him, looking for any crack in the mask. "Just trying to figure out your endgame, Blood. What you hoping to accomplish with all this?"
The metal table between felt like it stretched for ages as they settled into the private visiting room, usually reserved for when lawyers meet with their incarcerated clients but for a little cash, no plexiglass barriers, no guards hovering within earshot, just the two of them and whatever truth they could drag out of each other.
"Endgame?" Trey repeated the word. He leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. "This ain't chess, nigga. This is life."
"Come on, man. We go back too far for this shit," Stacks lowered his voice. "What's the play here? You trying to start a war?"
"Start a war?" Trey scoffed, "Motherfucker, it’s Bloods and Crabs. Cowboys and Indians. Cops and Robbers. Or did you forget all that?"
"You talking crazy right now," Stacks shook his head. "You really ready to burn everything down? For what?"
"For what?" Something flickered behind Trey's eyes then, the first real emotion Stacks had seen. "You really asking me that? Nigga, we got in this shit for a fucking reason!"
"It’s just fucking business, bro," Stacks countered, "They ain’t even our enemies for real."
"Nigga, you either an enemy or you not," Trey let out a humorless laugh, "Weirdo ass nigga talking about 'enemies for real’."
"Listen, man, I know the last few have been crazy with what went down with Charlene and that was never supposed to go down like that."
Trey's expression hardened. "You think I give a fuck about you fucking my baby mama? That's part of the fucking game! The fucking game that fucking raised me! The game that your fucking uncle raised you on, fuck nigga! I stood with you when you went against that nigga! I put in work for you, Blood! But linking with them Crips? After everything we been through? Everything we built?"
"The streets changed, Blood," Stacks tried to explain. "While you been in here, shit's been evolving. These colors don’t fucking matter like that anymore, nigga."
"They matter to me," Trey shot back. "They matter to the homies that died for this shit. The ones that’s in here over these fucking colors."
Stacks ran a hand over his face. "So what now? You just gonna keep dropping every Crip until there's none left?"
"There's them," Trey pointed to an imaginary spot on the table, "and there's us." He pointed to another spot. "That's all there is. Always has been. I'm just making it simple again."
"Simple?" Stacks laughed bitterly. "There's nothing simple about what you're doing."
"It's the simplest thing in the world," Trey countered, his eyes boring into Stacks'. "You either with us or you against us. And right now, Blood, I don't know which side you're on."
Stacks saw it then—the depth of Trey's commitment. While Stacks had been chasing money, building his empire, blurring the lines between red and blue, black and white, family and foes when it suited him, Trey had remained unwavering. This gang banging wasn't just something he did; it was who he was, down to his marrow.
"I got people depending on me out there," Stacks said quietly.
"I got family too," Trey replied, his gaze unwavering.
"And you think this is the way to take care of them?"
"I think it's the only way," Trey sat back. "Blood in, Blood out. You knew the fucking rules when you hopped off that porch, nigga."
"What happens now, Trey? How do you see this ending?" Stacks’ question landed more like a challenge.
"See, that’s the thing," Trey stood up, "I don’t got to worry about that."
"Oh, yeah?" Stacks’ eyes carefully followed Trey as he walked over to the door, knocking on it three times.
"Yeah," Trey laughed, "When you solid, when you ain’t a fucking snake, the end don’t scare you. It should scare you tough."
Stacks remained seated as a guard appeared to escort Trey back to his cell. At the door, Trey paused and looked back.
"It’s dark times ahead, Blood. I suggest you get used to it, motherfucker."
Hopefully Vic getting got too because he a fn. Still got that one on my list to celebrate.
