an unplugged Sega.â They began laughing hysterically.
âNo play!â they simultaneously shouted.
âLou ainât about shit, but Iâd be a fool to waste my time beefinâ with him. I got money to make. By the way, let me tell you what that nigga DJ did,â Menage said. He gave Dough-Low the short version about DJ and the out-of-state DB-7. They were about to go to the grill for seconds when a young girl about sixteen or seventeen walked up and ran her blue nails through Menageâs wild-looking afro.
âLet me do your head. I can hook it up with a fly X & O pattern.â She sat on the table with him between her legs, doing just that in an hour flat and left a C-note richer. Revealing that she would be turning eighteen soon, she and Menage exchanged numbers and a few âwhat Iâma do to yous.â
âI might need to give her a job at my salon,â Menage said as the girl pranced off wearing a smile.
âYo, I heard Louâs in a gang now,â Dough-Low said with a smirk. âBut I wouldnât give a damn if he was in the Cub Scouts! I told Liâl Coonk he was funny actinâ. Iâm waitinâ foâ him to cross me. CD or not, Iâll blaze his ass and make him famous like 50!â
âMore like Tupac, you mean,â Menage said knowing that Dough-Low didnât usually aim to maim.
âYo, Kamesa had some chickenhead she wanted you to holla at the other day.â Kamesa was Dough-Lowâs shorty that stayed in Carol City. âLook, I gotta go hit the block, so holla at me later,â Dough-Low said and hopped into his Denali. Menage stayed a bit longer and kicked it with Liâl Coonk. Everybody was asking him about Lou. Fuck Lou.
âWell, he âbout to go to L.A. for a week. He leavinâ tonight,â was all Menage kept hearing.
Menage glanced over at the windshield of the Cadillac XLR parked next to his SUV. On the hood sat a tall and slender female, clad in a white skimpy tank top and a pair of red boyshorts. He read the message on the top half of the windshield. It read DNNN. âWhat does DNNN mean?â he asked standing by the fender of her ride.
She cocked her head to one side and without cracking a smile said, âDonât need no nigga.â She said it good and slow, obviously wanting to make herself clear so she wouldnât have to repeat herself.
âSo I guess I can get your number, huh?â he said letting his eyes travel up and down her long, dark, hairless legs. Little did he know that she was Louâs ex. She smacked her full lips and slid a strand of blonde weave behind her ear. She then stood up, her stiletto sandals increasing her height to five foot nine.
âYou donât get it, do you?â she said placing her hands on her hips.
Menage could see her nipples pushing against the thin top. âNah, not yet,â he said smiling. âYou might not need a nigga but I know you want one, so whatâs your name?â She rolled her eyes. Most of the time a brother would call her a bitch and move on, which made no difference to her. Menage was right; she didnât need a man, but she sure as hell wanted one.
âMy . . . name is Andrea,â she said blushing. The game was spit and they discovered that they both wanted the same thingâsex. Menage got into his ESV and followed Andrea to the room she had rented at The New Radisson Hotel. Andrea had a body like Eve, and he wondered if that was the reason she wore her clothing line. Once in the lavish hotel room, Menage untied the strings of Andreaâs tank top. He immediately began sucking on her breasts and helped her slide out of her boy-shorts. They fell onto the bed as they groped one another and Andrea began to nibble on Menageâs neck with her blood-red coated lips, leaving prints all over his body. Menage slipped on his jimmy and Andrea reached for his dick without hesitation. With her back to him, she
J. M. Redmann; Jean M. Redmann