Page 7 of Blake University: HBCU Chronicles: Brynleigh & A.Z.

brYNLEIGH

I smiled as Yasmine walked into the tattoo shop. “Getting another tattoo, or you here to see your boo?” I asked with hiked brows.

“I’m here to get my nipples pierced. I am not stalking Penz,” she giggled.

“I want mine done so bad, but I’m scared of that pain,” I sighed.

Penz had told me more than once to stop being scared, but I couldn’t help it.

The thought of a needle going through my nipples made me want to vomit.

The visual was fire as hell though after it was done.

Even though my breasts were small, nipple rings would still look good in them.

I got the necessary forms for Yasmine to complete.

A quick glance at my watch made me realize that I’d be getting off in thirty-five minutes, so I started cleaning up the front of the shop.

Penz didn’t play about his tattoo shop being clean and smelling good.

Monthly, I purchased essential oils for the diffuser, and I bought no less than fifteen plug-ins at a time.

He also had air purifiers and candle warmers that melted the wax without the candle having to be burned.

I didn’t mind sweeping, mopping, or cleaning the bathrooms. Penz paid me a nice salary and all I had to do was respond to email inquiries, send out confirmation text messages for bookings, give clients forms to complete, keep the supplies stocked, run errands for him, and keep the shop clean.

I spent ninety percent of my workday in his suite watching TV, listening to music, just talking to him, or scrolling on my phone.

I was also cool with the other tattoo artist that worked in the shop. His name was Omar.

A delivery guy entered the shop with a vase filled with white roses in his hands.

My brow hiked because I was the only female that worked in the shop.

I doubted Penz or Omar were getting flowers, but who the hell would send me flowers?

I was single, single with no hoes, no roster, no potentials.

If it wasn’t one of my friends or someone calling about pills, my phone was dry as fuck.

“Brynleigh Howard?” the delivery guy asked me.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Here you go,” he smiled. “I need you to sign this pad for me.”

I scribbled my name on the pad he passed me. “Thank you.”

“Okay Miss, who is sending you flowers?” Yasmine inquired before the delivery guy was even out of the door good.

“I don’t know ma’am, I haven’t even read the card yet,” I giggled.

Thank you for all your help and sorry for being an asshole. (A.Z.)

“I’m waiting,” Yasmine stated anxiously making me lift my head.

“You are too nosey. They’re from A.Z.”

Yasmine’s eyes widened. “Phi Rho A.Z.? The one you cursed out?”

With a snigger, I nodded. “I actually cursed him out a few times.” I recanted the times I’d run into A.Z. since the kick back and how I’d helped Tyra the night before.

“Yo the way she gets is really sad. Don’t get me wrong, I see women like that every other night but if you’re around her when she’s sober, you know that’s not even her character for real. She’s not the party girl turn up type.”

“I agree. I think she’s trying to either numb something painful, or maybe she’s just stressed. Either way, she gets way past wasted, and that’s not safe. Her brother might be somewhat of a jerk, but he’s not wrong for looking out for her.”

Yasmine’s brows wiggled as she simpered. “Does this mean you and him are going to be like a thing?”

Drawing back, I scrunched my nose. “Um no. The flowers are a nice gesture after he was a jerk, but us being a thing is a little far-fetched. He’s a rich kid that drives a foreign car in college and is in a fraternity. We don’t exactly mesh.”

It was Yasmine’s turn to scrunch her nose. “Why wouldn’t you mesh? He’s fine as hell, has a nice body, and is educated. You are fine as hell, have a nice body, and you’re super smart. Oh, you don’t have a foreign car? That’s it?”

Yasmine’s naivete was cute. “Yas, you know I love you. You’re a bad bitch, I respect your hustle, and I’d never judge you for dancing.

But one of those preppy ass college boys that come from well off families with old money, if one of them took you home, their parents would faint.

Same goes for me. I might not dance, but I’m not rich, shit, I barely grew up middle class.

I don’t have a fancy college degree, and I have more than fifteen tattoos.

I’m not the kind of woman you take home to a snooty ass mother. ”

Yasmine kissed her teeth. “You do not know that. There are some people with money that are very cool and down to earth. Not everyone is like that.”

I didn’t even feel like debating with Yasmine.

She was right. I didn’t know the first thing about A.Z.

’s family, but the way he was ready to blow a gasket when he saw his sister talking to me spoke volumes.

It was cool, however. I was done being angry and holding grudges but anything other than us being cordial wasn’t up for debate.

I wasn’t looking for a man with money to save me.

I wanted to become a postpartum doula, start my own business, and be successful.

Prayerfully, I could buy a house by thirty and be on my way to being set.

If I met a man and we got married and had kids, I could sell my house or rent it out.

But I wasn’t waiting around to find a man to get my life in order. I had goals to crush.

I had dated here and there in the last two years, but men my age blew me.

Everyone was so caught up in capping for social media.

If a man wasn’t being thirsty and sliding in every woman’s DM’s some of them neglected their kids and responsibilities just to party every night, dress fly, and look like they were doing it big.

I knew niggas were losing it when I saw a well-dressed guy with a lot of jewelry on buying prop money out of the gas station.

I wanted a clean cut, educated man that wasn’t on that dumb shit, but I didn’t want one that judged me for what I didn’t have.

I was working towards it, and that was all that mattered.

Penz came to the front and told Yasmine he was ready for her.

I continued to clean and when I was done, I went to tell Penz, I was leaving, take a peek at Yasmine’s nipples, and tell her goodbye.

As I drove home, I wondered what it would have been like to grow up with money.

We weren’t dirt poor, but we were hood rich.

My parents were both named Chris, but my mom’s was spelled Kris.

When my parents met, my mother was a stripper, and my father was a dope boy.

When my mom got pregnant with me, they were able to afford a nice townhouse.

My mother had to stop dancing when she started showing, and she said she didn’t get her body back until I was five months old.

My father didn’t want her to go back to stripping, but my mother loved money.

She kept herself and me fly while my father paid the bills.

By the time she got pregnant with Bree, he told her she was done with dancing.

She didn’t want to get a day job, and she was mad that he made her stop dancing only to catch him cheating with a stripper.

My parents were the true definition of ghetto love.

They were a hot mess, but I loved them, and they always made sure me and Bree had what we needed.

When my father stopped hustling and got a job, it was a culture shock for us.

Drug money came fast and on a good day, it came plentiful.

Having to wait two weeks for a paycheck only to spend it all on bills then be broke again was frustrating for my father.

I respected the fact that he realized he couldn’t sell drugs forever.

His being free to me was more important than new sneakers every week and getting my hair done every other week.

My mother also taught herself to do nails and lashes.

When I walked into the apartment, I heard music coming from Bree’s bathroom which meant she was getting ready to go out.

When she told Q that she was pregnant, he offered her $4,000 to get an abortion.

Since she didn’t want the baby anyway, Bree jumped on that offer and terminated the pregnancy the next day.

Two days after her abortion, Bree found out that Q had a baby on the way by some Hispanic looking chick.

The woman was eight months pregnant. Bree didn’t care too much about the baby, but she didn’t like the fact that he lied.

Her get back consisted of going out damn near every night trying to meet someone new.

It hadn’t even been two weeks since the abortion.

I was going to take a shower and curl up in bed with a good book. I had been out late three nights in a row selling pills, and I was tired. I only had thirty left and would need to reup soon. Bree entered my room just as I was opening my book.

“Those are cute. Who bought you flowers?”

“This guy that goes to Blake U. It’s nothing serious. You look nice.” The black dress that Bree wore was so tight it looked like a second layer of skin.

“Thank you. So, you’re dating? Because I keep telling you to come out with me and snag one of these ballers.

I’m not rushing you out, but you want your own place.

A lot of these niggas you don’t even have to fuck to get money out of.

If you have a pretty face and the gift of gab these real money getting niggas trick heavy out the gate. I promise you.”

Getting money and not having to screw for it sounded nice, but I didn’t even want to get caught up in that.

Most of the guys that tricked heavy were also obnoxious and arrogant.

I couldn’t stand a man that felt like he was God’s gift to women.

Nor could I stand women that let them get away with the most because they did have a few dollars. It was corny and cringe.