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. . .

July

It was hot as hell in Crescent Park. That sticky, back-of-the-knees kind of heat that made lashes lift and Black mamas come outside in house shoes with ice water.

The air was thick with baby oil, fried food, and the smell of a community that had been cracked opened and patched up too many times to count.

Kids ran through the street barefoot with no real direction. The older heads sat on milk crates under a busted awning playing cards, talking shit and swatting flies. Music bumped from a Crown Vic that creeped slowly down the block, the bass rattling so hard it made the stop sign jiggle.

But none of that phased Aku.

She was outside the Jeep, standing tall in her red Rick Owens boots like she didn’t care that her feet were already sweating.

Her bob was full of body, bouncing every time she turned her head.

Expensive, silver-lensed sunglasses sat perched on her nose with a sheen of sweat on her forehead like she’d been in the elements too long.

She scanned the street, one hand on her hip, the other holding a garment bag that looked like it cost more than the average Crescent Park rent.

Her lips parted. “I don’t care how hot it is, if I see one more nigga with his shirt off and them same damn Nike slides—I’mma scream.”

“Girl, shut up,” her assistant Niah muttered, dragging a case of shoes behind her. “We in his hood. Let these people be comfortable.”

“Yea I know, but being comfortable don’t mean you gotta look dusty.” She said it loud enough for two teens across the street to hear. One of them snorted.

“Hey, stylist lady,” the boy called, laughing. “You tryna get styled?” he humped the air vulgarly.

Aku turned and blew him a kiss. “Go get some socks first, baby. You look like you fight roaches barefoot.”

The block erupted.

“Damnnnn!” echoed from somewhere behind her.

But nobody took offense. She was funny, fly, and fearless—and she looked like money, but she didn’t act like it.

That’s what made Crescent Park immediately rock with her.

After laughing, she went to the trailer to get started.

The shoot was for Zaire Cooks, one of the only Black pro golfers who hadn’t let fame wash the hood off his bones.

Nike was dropping a new ad campaign on community roots and hometown pride, and Zaire insisted on shooting it where it all started—on the same cracked courts where he used to practice his swings with hand-me-down clubs and dreams nobody believed in.

Aku had been hired to style him for the entire rollout. Today was the first look. Clean white polo, stacked gold chains, and crisp tailored trousers with a perfect sneaker flex.

She was adjusting his collar when he smirked at her. “You always this bossy?”

“Only when I know what I’m doing.”

“You single?”

She gave him a look. The kind that said, don’t ruin the vibe. “If I wasn’t, you’d ask for the ring size?”

“Something like that.”

She chuckled, then stepped back. “You look good, Z. Now don’t sweat through it before the

second look.”

Aku didn’t say anything else as she followed him to the first part of his shoot. The photographer looked a little on edge, but Aku could tell Cresent Park wasn’t stuntin’ her or the fear they could smell.

Aku just shook her head when the photographer jumped at the loud bang of someone’s car backfiring.

“She ready to run,” Niah snickered, standing beside Aku.

“Ready to call the police or something,” she agreed before going over to adjust Zaire’s clothes. He smirked at her, but like earlier - Aku ignored him.

She wasn’t on the market—had stopped looking for love. So, Zaire’s handsome face did nothing to sway her back on the prowl.

After a few hours, the crew broke for lunch and scattered to eat under pop-up tents. Zaire

walked off to take a call, then waved her over. “Ayo, Aku. You mind grabbing something for me real quick?”

She raised a brow, cocking her head back. “From where?”

He flashed his phone. A sleek black app sat open on his screen. “Plugged In. It’s like a verified network. I don’t trust nobody else out here.”

She squinted skeptically. “Plugged In? That sounds like a burner app…some sex trafficking shit and I ain’t trying to be kidnapped, Z.”

Zaire laughed. “You so damn funny. But it’s solid. You can book services, buy plates, get recs—all kinds of shit. Hood Amazon. Everybody in Crescent uses it.”

“Including your rich ass?”

“Hell yeah. I just requested a quick drop. Key should be pulling up soon. I’m gonna send the QR code to your phone for him to scan. I paid already.”

She sucked her teeth, took his phone, and glanced at the order. “So let me get this straight, you’re making me pick up your weed?”

“It’s for my back…and you look trustworthy.” Zaire’s lips curled, knowing he was full of shit.

“Trustworthy my ass. This is unpaid labor.”

He smiled that too-rich-for-his-own-good smile, and Aku rolled her eyes, but headed to the pickup point anyway, which wasn’t far from where they were currently standing.

She had just got to the corner by Weller Grocery when she heard it.

The low, guttural rumble of a four-wheeler pulling up slow, like it had nowhere to be, yet still moving with intention.

When she turned around. Her first thought was, Damnnnn.

He had the kind of face that didn’t ask for attention…

it demanded it. Clean braids under a hat that barely sat on his head, smooth yellow skin and tattoos climbing up both arms like stories waiting to be told.

Shirtless, wearing dark jeans, and a look that said he knew exactly what kind of trouble he was and didn’t feel bad about it.

He didn’t park. Just killed the engine and looked at her over the handlebars. “You Aku?”

All that shit about niggas walking around Crescent Park with no shirt on, went out the window.

Aku never wanted to see this yellow-skinned man with a shirt on.

His skin looked sun-kissed and the ink covering his body was designed to perfection.

Even his straight back braids looked sexy, and she never really cared for niggas with hair.

It was clear Zaire had already given her name, like he was certain she would do him that favor.

“Who’s asking?” Her perfectly arched brow slanted.

He smirked. “I’m the drop.” His eyes swept over her body as his teeth sunk deeper into his lip.

She blinked. Then blinked again. “You selling weed…on a four-wheeler?”

He leaned forward a little. “And you buying weed in red Rick Owens in the hood, so I guess we both a lil dramatic. Red ain’t yo’ color, try blue next time,” he added with a low glint in his eyes.

She couldn’t help but to snort. “I ain’t buying nothing. This is for Zaire. And don’t worry about my fashion choices.”

“Ahhh, the pro golfer with the perfect teeth and tight-ass pants.” Malik nodded, still eyeing her up and down, though his eyes didn’t linger like he was turned on. They fluttered over her body like he was remembering every little detail in case he needed to prove who he gave it to.

Malik swung off the bike in one smooth motion, blue Chucks hitting the pavement with a solid thud. He walked toward her slowly. His height met the sky—broad shoulders, long limbs, and a calmness in the way he moved, that made it hard to look away.

Aku straightened up without meaning to, suddenly aware of her own height in a way that felt… feminine…desired. She liked tall. Liked how it made her feel soft without shrinking.

Her eyes dropped. The dip of his abs showed the lines cutting deep into his waist. The sharp V disappearing beneath low-slung jeans. She swallowed. Hard. Heat spread through her like her body remembered something her mind hadn’t even lived yet.

He pulled her attention to his hand that held out.

Aku handed him the phone, and he scanned the code, then passed her a small package wrapped like it came from Amazon Prime.

“Tell Zaire to rate five stars.”

Aku grinned, shaking her head. “And what if I wanna rate you?”

Playfully, he raised his brows. “Then say that.” He held his hand out again without giving her much direction.

Aku just stared at him. “Umm…” Her eyes bounced.

“Pass me your phone.”

“For what?”

Malik cocked his head to the side. “So I can download the app on your shit… you wanna rate me, right?”

Aku wanted to do more than rate him, but she wasn’t going to say that. Instead, she handed him her phone, watching his every move. Maybe she was ready to be back on the prowl if the men looked like the one in front of her.

Malik looked so laid back as he loaded the app on her phone, while leaning back slightly on the handlebars of the four wheelers. His phone beeped just as he handed her phone back. “I’ll approve you when I get a chance. I’m Malik, by the way.”

“Okay,” Aku tucked her phone back into her pocket. “Why they call you Key?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout what they call me…you call me Malik.”

Lifting his body up, he got back on his 4-wheeler and revved his ride. As if a thought popped into his head, he asked, “Cuh your nigga?”

Aku giggled, loving the way his words seemed to be spoken in a different dialect—swirly u’s and echoes of the last letter in every word he said. “No, why?”

His slim shoulders hiked. “I was just asking.” Slowly he reversed before facing the direction he came from.

She laughed. “Nice to meet you, Malik.”

“I ain’t say all that,” he smirked. “But don’t be too friendly out here with these niggas in Crescent.”

“I’m grown.” She sassed.

Malik gave her one last look before taking off down the street. “Be easy, baby.”

She could hear the kids running up to him asking for money that he must’ve been handing out ’cause their little laughs got happier.

Aku switched down the sidewalk with a satisfied smile on her face.

“Girl, who was that?” Niah asked since she’d been watching the whole exchange.

“Malik.” Aku shrugged her shoulders lackadaisical like she’d known him her whole life. The way she said his name, one would assume she did.

Niah squinted. “You know him?”

“Girl, no…”

Squinting deeper, Niah assessed her boss harder. “You like him?”