Page 6

The morning light seeped through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Krys’ 4,200-square-foot modern masterpiece, casting golden streaks against the polished marble floors. The house was all clean lines and understated luxury, black and gold accents complementing the sleek, minimalist design. Everything about Bayfront Heights screamed wealth and exclusivity: gated mansions perched high above the city, a view of Silverstrand Beach just a short drive away, and neighbors who flew out of town just to get coffee in another time zone.

This was Krys’ domain. Yet, in that moment, her thoughts were in complete disarray.

A deep sigh left her lips as she padded across the cool marble, silk pajama shorts hugging her hips, her off-the-shoulder top slipping slightly as she adjusted her hair wrap. She barely noticed the faint scent of vanilla and sandalwood lingering in the air; her home was always pristine, curated to perfection.

But her thoughts were chaotic.

She reached the kitchen, where the gold-veined quartz countertops gleamed under the soft glow of the recessed lighting. As she grabbed a bottle of alkaline water from the built-in fridge, she heard the familiar heavy padding of paws against the marble.

Musa .

The massive Cane Corso strolled into the kitchen, his jet-black coat gleaming under the lighting, his golden eyes watching her with quiet scrutiny. He didn’t need to bark or nudge her to get her attention; his presence alone was enough to command it.

“You judging me too?” Krys muttered, twisting open the bottle cap and taking a sip.

Musa sat down with the weight of a king settling onto his throne, his muscular frame taking up an absurd amount of space. His gaze stayed locked on her, as if assessing her energy, sensing the whirlwind of thoughts she was trying to suppress.

Krys sighed, walking over to scratch behind his ear, feeling the warmth of his fur under her fingertips. “It’s almost time for you to go to the groomer. You can’t be out here looking rough, big boy.”

Musa exhaled through his nose, unimpressed.

Krys smiled. “You got a reputation to uphold. I don’t need people thinking I neglect you.”

She was met with more silence, just the slow, knowing blink of a dog who tolerated no nonsense.

Before she could say anything else, her phone rang from the oversized island.

Meisha .

Perfect. She needed a laugh. Krys tapped the speaker button, leaning against the counter. “Girl.”

Meisha’s cackle hit first. “Krysta! You still ain’t text me back! Where the hell did you disappear to last night?”

Krys rolled her eyes. “Long story.”

“Oh, I got time.”

Krys hesitated, biting her lip. Did she really wanna get into all that?

Meisha must have sensed the hesitation because her voice dropped into full interrogation mode. “Nope. No, don’t start that vague ass shit. You was supposed to be at Mark’s, then poof—nowhere to be found. What happened?”

Krys sighed dramatically, setting her water down. “I made a stop.”

“A stop where?”

“A gas station.”

Meisha’s confusion was immediate. “...A gas station ? Krysta, what? Since when do you pull over at random gas stations?”

Krys rubbed her temples. “Since I got ambushed by a nigga pretending to be my man in front of the police.”

Silence.

Then Meisha screamed laughing.

Krys groaned, walking toward the living area, where her plush ivory sectional sat beneath a custom abstract chandelier. She could hear Meisha wheezing on the other end.

“OH MY GOD, Krys! A whole-ass boyfriend at the gas station?!”

“I hate you.”

“No, no, no, I need details. Was he ugly? Oh my God, please tell me he wasn’t ugly.”

Krys huffed, thinking back to Kenyatta’s stupid smirk, the confidence in his eyes, the way he carried himself.

That man was anything but ugly.

“...He wasn’t ugly.”

“Ooooh!”

Meisha clapped her hands through the phone. “What’s his name? What he look like? I need government info, bitch.”

Krys smiled, swirling her water bottle. “Kenyatta. And he’s… tall. Fine. A little too confident.”

Meisha gasped. “Kenyatta…Oh, that sounds strong. Mandigo-ish. Baby-making sounding name.”

Krys blinked. “Meisha, really?”

“I’m just saying.” Then she shrieked with excitement. “Krysta Davis got a man, y’all!”

Krys rolled her eyes. “No, he’s not my man. It was a fluke. I was helping him out.”

“Yeah. That’s how it starts, but that’s okay.”

Krys was about to cuss her out when her phone vibrated in her hand. A notification from the family group chat.

She tapped the message and skimmed through the endless texts from her aunties, uncles, and cousins, until her eyes landed on one.

Couple’s Night Reminder – This Saturday! Hope to see everyone with their boos!

She had no man, but couple’s night was fun, and she wouldn’t mind being in attendance. Maybe she could invite an ex—not Zahir—to be her plus one.

Or maybe…

She wondered what her fake-ass gas station boyfriend was up to. Too bad she didn’t even have his number. Maybe she could call on Tyra to do her dirty work and get it somehow.

Musa huffed, resting his massive head on his paws like he was unimpressed with her predicament.

Krys sighed, rubbing his head absently. “Yeah, yeah. I know. I’m thinking too much.”

Musa simply blinked. He had no time for her shenanigans, and neither did she.

What was she thinking?

**********

Kenyatta woke up frustrated.

Not the kind of irritation that faded with coffee or a couple of deep breaths; this was deeper. A slow-burning, gut-knotting frustration that came from knowing better but still letting himself get caught up in bullshit.

The cheap blinds over the living room window did a trash job of blocking out the sun, thin rays of light streaking across the peeling beige walls and the cluttered coffee table covered in old mail and loose change.

He let out a slow exhale, rubbing a hand down his face.

Last night was a mistake. Not just the scene at The Velvet Room but letting Jay-1 pull him into some bullshit he should’ve walked away from. He was too damn old for this. But the problem was, the streets don’t come with an exit plan.

His phone buzzed against the faded couch cushion. He grabbed it, expecting Jay-1 or Tez blowing up his line, but instead, it was just one name: Nub

[Nub] 7:02 AM— U good?

Simple. Direct. No extra words, no long-ass paragraphs.

Kenyatta stared at the message for a second before texting back.

[Kenyatta] 7:05 AM— I’m straight

Not even five seconds later, the phone buzzed again.

[Nub] 7:06 AM— Jay-1 still breathing?

Kenyatta smirked, shaking his head. Nub already knew.

[Kenyatta] 7:07 AM— Unfortunately

[Nub] 7:07 AM— I figured. U moving stupid?

That hit different. He wasn’t. Not yet. But last night’s shit was too close for comfort.

[Kenyatta] 7:08 AM— Nah. Just a slip

Nub didn’t text back right away. Kenyatta knew what that meant. He didn’t like that answer.

Finally, the three dots popped up.

[Nub] 7:10 AM— Watch yo’ back. Everybody watching u. See what lane u gon’ pick

Kenyatta ran a hand over his waves, leaning his head back against the stained couch cushion.

The old crew. The new players. The people who heard ‘ Yatta was home ’ and expected him to fall right back into place. He wasn’t in the game, but he wasn’t out, either, which was the most dangerous place to be.

He didn’t text back. There wasn’t shit else to say. And though he wasn’t in the mood for conversations, he needed to check on Jay-1.

Kenyatta hit his number, pressing the phone to his ear.

It rang twice before Jay-1 answered, voice lazy like he had no cares in the world. “Nigga, you a’ight?”

Kenyatta exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Am I a’ight?”

Jay-1 chuckled, like this was all a joke. “You made it home, didn’t you?”

Kenyatta’s patience thinned. “Barely.”

“Aye, relax. Everything worked out.”

Kenyatta’s grip on the phone tightened. “Bruh, you almost had me in a fucked-up situation last night. I can’t be in no car getting chased by 12. That’s not my life no more, Jay-1.”

Jay-1 sighed on the other end. “Man, it wasn’t even like that.”

“It was exactly like that,” Kenyatta snapped. “I ain’t going back. You hear me?”

Jay-1 was quiet for a second before he muttered, “Yeah, I hear you.”

Kenyatta knew Jay-1; he wasn’t taking this shit seriously. And that was exactly why he had to start moving different.

“Stay outta trouble, man,” Kenyatta muttered before ending the call.

He let the phone drop onto the couch and leaned back, rubbing a hand over his head. He had bigger shit to focus on. Like getting his life in order. Like finding a damn job.

Kenyatta pushed off the couch, his muscles stiff from sleeping in the same position all night. He stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders before making his way to the bathroom.

The one-bedroom apartment wasn’t much. His mama’s place. He had nowhere else to go, so he was there sleeping on the couch, feeling like a grown-ass failure every time she side-eyed him.

The place smelled like a mix of Pine-Sol, coffee, and frustration. The kind of frustration only a mother can have for a son she loves but don’t trust to get his shit together.

By the time he stepped back into the living room, his phone was buzzing again. This time, it was his pops.

Kenyatta hesitated. Bruce wasn’t the type to call just to chat. Still, he answered. “Yo.”

“Boy, what the hell you been up to?”

Kenyatta sighed. Here we go. “What you talkin’ about?”

Bruce let out a dry laugh. “I got ears everywhere, Yatta. I heard about the bullshit last night.”

Kenyatta clenched his jaw. Damn. Word really got around that fast?

“It ain’t nothin’, man.”

“Your ass gon’ end up locked up again.”

Kenyatta exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I hear you, Pops.”

Bruce’s tone shifted slightly, a little less frustration, a little more business. “Good. ‘Cause I got something for you.”

That caught his attention. “Yeah?”

“Job opportunity.”

Kenyatta frowned slightly, already feeling that familiar resistance.

“Before you start that prideful bullshit,” Bruce cut in, “it’s honest money.”

Kenyatta sighed, leaning back against the wall. “What’s the job?”

“Maintenance work. A friend of mine put me on to it. You need to go in Wednesday morning, before ten, and ask for a dude named Chris. No later than ten, Yatta. Don’t fuck this up.”

Kenyatta hated how Bruce said that last part like he expected him to.

Maintenance work .

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t money falling out the sky, but it was something. At this point something was better than nothing.

Kenyatta let out a slow breath. “…Alright.”

Bruce let out a breath like he’d been holding it. “Good. Go handle that.”

Kenyatta ended the call and stood there for a minute. His mind was everywhere.

Jay-1. The streets. Nub’s warning. The job. His mama, who barely looked at him the same anymore. Brooke, who stayed talking down on him.

And then there was Krys, his fake-ass gas station girlfriend. He wasn’t going to lie; that shit still had him tripping.

The way she went along with his bullshit so smooth, like she did that type of thing every day. The way she stood her ground in Tez’s house like she belonged there. The way she looked at him; not like Yatta. Not like a legend from the streets.

Just…like a man.

**********

The scent of frying bacon, buttery grits, and scrambled eggs clashed with the faint bite of pine-sol and stale cigarette smoke filled the apartment now. A familiar, frustrating mix: the smell of home when home ain’t yours no more.

Kenyatta sat hunched over on the sinking couch, elbows on his knees, staring at a burnt-out spot on the carpet that had been there since before he got locked up. He was trying to shake off the weight of last night, but it clung to him, heavy, like a bad dream that felt too damn real.

His body was tired, but his mind was worse. Jay-1’s bullshit. Not seeing Kaliyah. The maintenance job Bruce threw at him. The growing pressure to prove to himself, to everybody that he wasn’t a lost cause. But all that had to wait.

First, he had to survive this kitchen conversation with his mama.

Traci moved around the stove with precision, her silk bonnet tilted slightly to the side, and her robe tied so tight it might’ve been a bulletproof vest.

She didn’t acknowledge him at first, which was already a bad sign. That was Traci’s signature move; the silent treatment wasn’t silence at all; it was a warning.

She wanted him to pull it out of her, to ask, to invite the storm himself. Kenyatta wasn’t stupid.

He sighed, pushing up from the couch and stretching, letting his joints pop before he made his way to the kitchen. “Smells good.”

“Mmm.” Short response.

Strike one.

He pulled out a chair, rubbing his face with both hands. “You cook all this for me or just you?”

Traci finally turned, arched a sharp eyebrow, but didn’t stop stirring the pot of grits. “I cook for who’s contributing to the bills.”

Kenyatta exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “Here we go.”

That was all it took.

Traci turned, hands on her hips, looking him up and down like she was about to tear into him.

“ Here we go . Nah, boy, you tell me, where exactly are we going? ‘Cause right now, you in my house, eating my food, sleeping on my couch, and last time I checked, that ain’t part of the ‘I’m a grown-ass man’ package.”

Strike two .

Kenyatta clenched his jaw. “I ain’t been home that long.”

Traci scoffed. “And? What that mean?” She turned off the stove, setting the skillet aside like she had all the time in the world to break him down. “You been out long enough to know what you ain’t gon’ do. But what about what you are gon’ do?”

Same conversation. Different day. And he was tired of it. But Traci had enough energy for them both.

“You moving like you waiting on something to fall in your lap,” she continued. “Like I’m supposed to just sit back and watch you lay up in my house without a plan.”

Kenyatta exhaled slowly, choosing his words carefully. “I’m trying, Mama.”

“Try harder.”

Strike three .

Kenyatta leaned forward, frustration tightening his chest. “You act like it’s easy. Like I don’t got no record, like people ain’t shutting me out the moment they see my name on an application.”

Traci didn’t react at first. Just stared at him, arms crossed, then sighed like she’d been through this a thousand times before. “Boy, you think you the first man in this family to have a felony?”

Kenyatta frowned. “What?”

Traci wiped her hands on a dish towel. “You think you the only one who done had to get it out the mud? Your uncles, your cousins, they done all been through the system. Difference is, they figured it out. And you?” She shook her head. “You still sitting here looking for excuses.”

That hit different. Kenyatta’s pride flared hot. “So, what you saying…I ain’t trying hard enough? That I’m just sitting on my ass?”

Traci gave him that look. The one that made him feel twelve years old again. “If the shoe fits.”

Oh, she was pushing it.

His pride burned, but he swallowed it down. He wasn’t about to give her the reaction she wanted. Instead, he leaned back, tapping his fingers against the table. “I actually might have a job lined up.”

Traci’s face didn’t change, but her body stilled just for a second. He caught it.

She folded her arms. “Yeah? What kinda job?”

Kenyatta hesitated. Here we go. “Maintenance work. Pops put me on to it.”

The room went quiet. Too quiet.

Traci’s lips pressed together, and just like that, her whole energy changed again. She turned back to the stove and started scraping the already clean skillet.

Kenyatta sighed. “Mama.”

“Mmhmm.”

“You hear me?”

“Oh, I heard you.”

Kenyatta exhaled, rubbing his temples. “Man, why you always do that?”

Traci turned slightly, eyes sharp. “Do what?”

“Act funny every time I bring up Pops.”

Traci scoffed, setting the skillet down a little harder than necessary. “Boy, ain’t nobody actin’ funny. You just don’t see that man the way I do.”

Kenyatta’s jaw tightened. “Mama, this ain’t about y’all; this about me getting a job.”

Traci sighed, shaking her head. “Whatever. Just don’t hold your breath on nothin’ that man say.”

Kenyatta sat back in his chair, shoulders tight. He didn’t expect congratulations, but damn .

Traci went back to fixing plates, but he knew she wasn’t done. And he was right.

“So, what happens when this don’t work out? Then what? Back to the same old shit?”

Kenyatta clenched his jaw. “Mama, I got it handled.”

Traci scoffed, setting down a plate with unnecessary force. “Uh-huh. Just like you had it handled before you got locked up, right?”

Kenyatta froze. That one stung.

For a second, he just sat there, fists clenched at his sides. But he wasn’t about to do this today. He wasn’t about to let her keep seeing him as the same lost nigga he used to be.

So, instead, he grabbed the plate she made—because even when she was mad, she still made him breakfast—and walked out of the kitchen.

Traci didn’t stop him. She didn’t have to. She had already said what she needed to say.