Page 5

Krys pulled up to the curb, her black Mercedes looking painfully out of place in front of a rundown, sun-faded, two-story house with chipped paint, an overgrown lawn littered with beer bottles, and a leaning porch that had definitely seen better days.

The street was alive—loud music thumped from a passing Crown Vic, kids ran barefoot across cracked sidewalks, and a couple of older dudes stood on the corner posted up like they were security, their eyes sharp despite the blunt being passed between them.

Just down the street was the projects, Ravenwood Heights, an endless maze of two-story apartment buildings, lined up in rows, one after the other; identical, soulless, and worn-down. No high-rises, no views, just rows of struggle.

This was the hood and Krys wasn’t fazed.

She parked but didn’t kill the engine. “This it?” she asked, side-eyeing Kenyatta.

Kenyatta smirked, rubbing his hands together before grabbing the door handle. “Yeah, this it.”

Krys was about to tell him to get out of her car when suddenly—

“AHT, AHT! I KNOW THIS AIN’T MY COUSIN…AND WHO THE FUCK YOU GOT IN THE CAR?”

Krys closed her eyes.

Damn. Tyra.

She had no time to prepare before Tyra, Trinity’s loudest, finest, and messiest hood-certified diva, was stomping up to the car, her long red acrylics clicking against the window as she leaned in.

Tyra was bad, no doubt. Hair laid, lashes thick, tight shorts hugging her thick thighs with the pink fur slides to match. She was the type that always had a nail appointment, a fresh frontal, and a plan to make money; legal or not.

She peered into the car like a detective, her lashes fluttering dramatically.

Krys stopped her before she could speak. “Tyra, how you know it was even me in this car?”

Tyra hollered, “Bitch, your plate!”

Krys cut her eyes. That’s right, her custom vanity plate: UCLDNEVA

“Ohhh, bitch. Speaking of plates, you out here looking like one!” she declared, eyeing Kenyatta up and down like he was a full-course meal. Then she cut her eyes back to Krys. “This yo’ nigga?”

Krys opened her mouth to deny, to clarify, to stop the foolishness before it could even start.

But before she could get a word out, Kenyatta had the audacity to chuckle and say, “Yeah, I’m her nigga.”

Krys snapped her head toward him, eyes blazing.

Nigga, WHAT!

Tyra gasped, dramatic as hell. “Oh, you real different now, huh? You went and got you a lil’ hood nigga?”

Kenyatta, clearly enjoying this way too much, leaned back in the seat, arms stretched over the headrest, looking smug. “You approve?”

Tyra whistled low. “Oh, I approve.” She looked him up and down again before biting her lip playfully. “Shit. You got any brothers?”

Krys groaned. “Tyra, please. Isn’t your man here with you?”

Tyra ignored her. She was too busy sizing up Kenyatta like he was a fresh Birkin bag that had just hit the shelves.

“I knew you was gon’ stop fuckin’ with them soft-ass niggas one day. You needed a real one.”

Kenyatta smirked, looking at Krys now, waiting to see how she would handle this. She was seconds away from strangling him.

Before she could, the front door of the house swung open, and two more dudes stepped outside; Tez and another man, both pausing mid-conversation when they saw Krys’ car.

Tez, tall and dark-skinned with golds flashing in his mouth, pointed. “Who the hell pullin’ up like they FBI?”

The other dude, lighter-skinned with too many tattoos for his own good whistled low. “Damn. Who that?”

Krys rolled her eyes. Great. Now she was on display.

Tez snorted, walking up to the car slithering his arm around Tyra’s waist. “Nigga, why you ain’t tell us you was getting dropped off in a goddamn Maybach?”

Krys spoke up before Kenyatta could. “It’s a Benz.”

Tyra waved her off. “Bitch, same thing.”

The tattooed one was still looking at her, intrigued. “You got a sister?”

Krys sighed, unbothered. She was used to this shit.

Kenyatta, however, let out a low, amused chuckle. “Don’t even try, bruh. She mean as hell.”

Tez laughed, dapping Kenyatta up through the window. “Damn. So, this yo girl?”

Krys pointed a perfectly manicured finger at both of them. “No, the hell, I am NOT.”

Kenyatta just shrugged, playing too much. “She shy bruh.”

Krys’ head whipped toward him so fast his smirk widened.

Tyra hooted. “Ooooh, I like him for you, cousin. This your friend, Bae?” She had turned to Tez.

Tez nodded. “Yup, this my nigga.”

Krys let out an exasperated sigh. “Tyra, go home.”

Tyra broke free from Tez. “This is home.”

Tez shook his head, laughing. “Man, you play too much.”

Krys snorted, grateful somebody had sense.

Kenyatta nodded, finally pushing the door open. “A’ight, I’m out.”

As soon as he stepped out, the streetlights hit him just right. The way he carried himself, the easy confidence in his stride. Krys hated that her eyes followed him.

Tyra noticed immediately.

“Uh huh. Bitch, you smitten.”

Krys rolled her eyes. “ Smitten ? Bitch, be quiet.”

Kenyatta leaned down one last time, smiling at her. “Appreciate the ride, Bae.”

Krys scowled. “You so fucking annoying.”

He hesitated with a hint of tease in his eyes. “Unless you feel like staying.”

“Yeah, cousin,” Tyra chimed in. “Come in for a drink or sumthin’. The night’s still young.”

Krys sighed defeatedly. Hell, why not. She could use a drink.

**********

Krys had no idea why she let Tyra pull her into this shit.

Maybe it was Kenyatta’s annoying, cocky little smirk, or maybe it was the way his friends, his people, reacted to him. It was intriguing. The way they lit up when he walked inside, the way conversations shifted, energy sharpened; like the room had just been waiting for him to arrive.

They called him Yatta . Like his name carried weight. Like he was still that nigga.

The house smelled like Hennessy, weed, and too much cologne; the walls filled with old posters, a big-screen TV mounted but slightly tilted, and mismatched furniture that had seen better days. Yet, despite its imperfections, this was home to them.

Tez was already rolling up at the kitchen table, a bottle of Rémy in front of him. The tattooed dude from outside, Duke, apparently was in a deep convo about a dice game gone wrong last weekend. Others were scattered throughout: cousins, homies, and a few chicks perched on laps, sipping dark liquor with acrylics clicking against plastic cups.

Krys took it all in. She wasn’t uncomfortable. She knew how to move in any room. But her attention was caught up in the way they all watched Kenyatta. Respect was in their eyes. Not fear, but something close.

A kind of reverence .

“Nigga, look at you, back like you never left!” Kev-O called out, slapping hands with Kenyatta before pulling him into a back-slapping hug. “Ain’t seen you in a minute, Yatta. Thought you got too good for us.”

Kenyatta chuckled, low and easy. “Nah, never that. Just moving different.”

Tez nodded, understanding the weight behind those words. Movin’ different. Meaning, not in the game no more. Didn’t mean they would let him forget, though.

“You still that nigga,” Duke chimed in, lifting his cup. “Don’t let these niggas tell you different. You was on your way to owning the whole city before they sat you down.”

Kenyatta’s jaw ticked, but his smirk never wavered. “Yeah. Look where that got me.”

They laughed, but Krys saw it. The way his shoulders stiffened. The way he took a slow breath, like he was reminding himself to stay in control.

They still saw him as who he was; not who he was trying to be. And from the way Kenyatta’s jaw tightened, Krys knew that shit weighed on him.

Tyra was eating this up. She plopped down onto the couch, side-eyeing Krys before breaking out into a big grin. “You peepin’ how they treatin’ yo man, cuzzo? Like a king. I’m peepin’ it.”

Krys folded her arms, playing along. “Yeah. Real royal.”

Kenyatta glanced at her, amusement flashing in his eyes. Oh, she was funny now?

Duke leaned forward, grinning. “Aye, for real, though, how you bag this one?” He gestured toward Krys, eyes lingering a little too long. “She don’t seem like your usual type.”

Kenyatta exhaled a laugh, throwing an arm over the back of the chair like this was light work. “She wasn’t easy, that’s fo’ sho’.”

Krys snapped her head toward him, eyes narrowing. “Oh?” she mused, tilting her head. “That’s how we telling the story?”

Kenyatta smirked, relishing her irritation.

Tez chuckled, pouring him a drink before glancing at Krys. “You solid, shorty? We treat our brother’s girl like family, long as she treat him right.”

Krys met his gaze without hesitation. “I’m good,” she said smoothly. “But I don’t need a welcome speech. I know how to handle mine.”

Tez raised his brows, impressed. “Oh yeah? I like her.”

Kev-O nodded. “She got a lil’ bite to her.”

Kenyatta chuckled, shaking his head. “More than a lil’.”

Krys turned to him, lips parted, ready to cuss him out. But something in his gaze made her pause.

He was watching her now. Not in the playful way he had been earlier. But like he was really seeing her, and for some reason, that made her nervous.

The room was still loud; laughter, music, the distinct flick of a lighter as someone sparked up. But in this moment, it was just them.

**********

The night had settled into an easy rhythm, the room buzzing with conversation, music, and smoke curling through the air like whispers of old sins.

Krys held her own among Kenyatta’s people, shutting down any slick remarks with her quick tongue, earning both amusement and respect. She hadn’t folded under the pressure of being the only outsider in the room; she had never been the type to fold.

But eventually, the crowd started to thin, people moving into smaller conversations, stepping outside to smoke, or heading to the back rooms for their own personal business.

That’s when her mind settle on the shift between them.

She turned her head and met Kenyatta’s gaze. He had been watching her. Still watching her as he had been all that night. There was something undeniable in the air between them. Something that made the room seem too small, too hot, too charged.

Krys licked her lips and straightened, brushing off imaginary lint from her luxe but understated outfit, like she needed to distract herself from the weight of whatever this was.

“You keep staring at me like you tryna read something,” she murmured, voice even.

Kenyatta smirked, leaning back into the chair, one hand resting against his thigh, the other casually swirling the liquor in his cup. “Maybe I am.”

Krys tilted her head slightly, mirroring his lazy confidence. “And what you think you figured out?”

He exhaled a low chuckle, shaking his head. “That you got a smart-ass mouth.”

Krys grinned. “You just figuring that out?”

“Nah.” His eyes flickered over her face, dark and unreadable. “But I think you use it to keep people from getting too close.”

Krys blinked, caught off guard for a split second before she masked it with a scoff. “Oh, so you Dr. Phil now?”

Kenyatta just stared at her, that smirk still there but quieter now.

Something about that unnerved her. She shifted in her seat, running a finger along the rim of her cup. “You talk like you know me.”

“I don’t.” He took a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving hers. “But I know people.”

“And what kinda person am I?” she challenged.

Kenyatta studied her for a moment before he shrugged. “One that don’t like being figured out.”

Krys hated how accurate that was. So, she flipped it.

“What about you?” she asked, crossing one leg over the other, shifting her body toward him now. “You move like somebody who don’t like being figured out either.”

He chuckled, low and deep. “You tell me.”

Krys leaned in slightly, studying him now. “You got this whole too cool, too unbothered thing going on…but I see it.”

“See what?”

She tapped a manicured finger against the table. “You don’t like being known for who you used to be.”

For the first time, Kenyatta’s smirk faltered. Just a fraction. A flicker of something passed over his face, something heavy.

“You don’t know me,” he murmured, but it wasn’t defensive. Just a statement.

Krys tapped her chin like she was contemplating. “Maybe not. But I know the type. Everybody in there talking about who you was. How you almost had this whole city on lock. How you was on the verge of being that nigga.”

She saw his jaw clench. She had hit a nerve.

He didn’t respond, just rolled his cup between his hands, his mind clearly somewhere else.

Krys didn’t know why, but she felt the need to soften the moment. She asked, her voice quieter now, “So, what changed?”

Kenyatta exhaled through his nose, staring at the dark liquid in his cup like it held all the answers. Then, he said something she didn’t expect.

“I did.”

Their eyes met again. This time, it felt more raw. More open.

Krys didn’t have a reply. What could she say to that?

She looked away first, suddenly needing air.

Kenyatta must’ve felt it too because he leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head like he needed space. But the pull between them was still there.

And they both felt it.