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Maybe This’ll Help Pt 2

Fontaine

I watched her.

I stood in the hallway of her big-ass house. The back door wasn’t even locked. Rich-ass niggas get comfortable. She ain’t know I was right there. Watchin’ her.

She laughed at somethin’ on the TV, curled up under her husband like she wasn’t just playin’ with that pussy to the sound of my voice a couple nights ago. Her legs tucked under her, ass sittin’ fat beneath them shorts. My tongue remembered how she tasted. My fingers remembered how she gripped.

That pussy was mine.

She just ain’t accept it yet.

I clenched my jaw, eyes fallin’ on him. Her husband. Weak-ass, basic-lookin’ nigga with zero flavor. I could tell by how he sat back with his chest out that he thought he owned her. Thought the ring on her finger made him safe.

Nah.

I wanted to shoot him.

Dead in the fucking face. Blood on the carpet, her screamin’ my name, realizin’ too late that she shoulda never denied me.

But I didn’t.

I waited.

The next night, I pulled up outside that soft-ass corporate building where he worked. Parked the matte black Maybach right across from the entrance. Window down. Cuban lit. I waited.

Suit was clean again. Red this time. Velvet. Because I was in the mood to get dirty.

He walked out lookin’ like nothin’. Just another number in a system that ain’t mean shit. I watched him kiss his fingers and press ‘em to a photo in his wallet before stuffin’ it in his pocket.

Corny.

I followed.

I tailed his Benz through the hills, slow, patient. When he turned onto a quiet-ass residential street, I knew it was time. I pulled up right behind him when he got out, and before he could even look over his shoulder—

CRACK.

The butt of my pistol met his jaw. He hit the ground hard.

“Bitch made ass nigga,” I growled, liftin’ him by his collar and draggin’ him to the trunk.

When he woke up, he was in my basement. Tied to a chair. Sweat drippin’. Cryin’ like a bitch.

“H-Holy shit, what the f—where the fuck am I?!”

I exhaled slow, blowin’ smoke in his direction. My blunt danced between my fingers as I walked around him like a lion circlin’ dinner.

“Hush.”

SMACK.

His head snapped sideways from the force of my backhand.

“Too much noise,” I said calmly, straightenin’ my cufflinks. “You in my house. Use yo inside voice li’ man.”

He sobbed, shakin’. “Please… please, man… I got money. Just—please don’t hurt me.”

I crouched low, eye level now. My face inches from his.

“Money?” I scoffed. “Nigga, do I look like I want your fuckin’ money?”

I gripped his chin with one hand, my ring pressin’ into his skin. “You know what I want?”

He shook his head, lips tremblin’.

“Janelle.”

His eyes went wide. “No—no, please, don’t—”

“I tried to be nice,” I snarled, squeezin’ his face. “But s-she’s just too addicting to let go.” I laughed.

I leaned in, nostrils flarin’. I felt my moods changing by the second

“I should kill you,” I whispered. “But I’m gon’ let you sit in this bitch and know she already mine. She moaned my name, dog. You don’t come back from that.”

He started cryin’ harder.

I smacked him again.

“Don’t cry. Be a man. BE A FUCKIN’ MAN BITCH.”

He whimpered.

I stood up, adjusted my suit jacket, took one last puff of my blunt.

“You gon’ sit here, think about her legs wrapped around me, about the way she screams when I shove my dick in her. You gon’ sit here and simmer , bitch.”

I walked off, laughin’ to myself. The sound of his muffled sobs trailin’ behind me.

My heart beat steady. Calm.

Janelle was mine. I just had to remind her. And maybe teach her lil’ husband what happens when you touch what belong to me.

The game was only just startin’.