Page 11 of In Too Deep

I made my first sale. The payout went smooth.

It was the easiest $2,000 I’ve ever made.

Before the clock struck twelve noon, I made an easy $3,000.

Allen’s plug got his cut, and I still had more than enough.

I was a few thousand dollars richer than what Rome gave me the other day.

It made me smirk at the thought of flipping it so easily, given the opportunity.

Not wasting any more time, I paid up my rent.

My landlord, Milly, talked shit when I walked inside of his rinky dink office, preparing to contact his notary to serve me the eviction soon.

That was one thing scratched off my list, knowing I didn’t have to keep looking out of my window, jumping when a car door slammed, thinking it was a Shelby County sheriff about to knock on my door and put my things out.

Next would be to get my car fixed and find a reliable repairman nearby.

Soon, I’d have to return the Camry to Enterprise.

Like Allen told me last night, I purchased a storage unit.

The broom Trecee had stuck up her ass had disappeared, which was a shocker.

Something must’ve put a match to her ass.

The constant bitching she did was normal, but I thanked her for the favor anyway.

I had enough inventory left over, but so I wouldn’t have to keep making back to back trips to the unit, I grabbed a few iPhones to carry on hand.

My iPhone pinged with the text.

Keisha: Don’t worry about coming in. There’s been a last minute change in the schedules. Sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused.

My thumb darted across the keyboard as I pondered something slick to say back.

Keisha was an asshole of a manager without even knowing it.

She copied and pasted the same message without a valid reason other than her not liking me.

I exited out of the text message and prepared to toss my phone across my bed, but another text came through, making my phone chime again.

The contact read RJ, making my heart skip a beat before anticipating what the text cited.

RJ: You still plan on feedin’ me today, Juicy?

Biting on the corners of my mouth, I pondered my response.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking about him since the day he dropped me off.

I was already going against the grain by texting my cousin’s boyfriend.

It sort of felt awkward because he’d text me so casually throughout the day to check on me.

I’d kept the conversations short because I didn’t want him to think anything else outside of the ordinary.

Part of me wanted to cancel dinner and ditch him, but I’d already taken a hefty amount of money from him, so in a sense, I became indebted.

With my southern hospitality and good intentions, if I made a promise, I was sure to keep it.

Me: Of course, dinner should be ready by six thirty.

RJ: Is food the only thing on the menu?

I couldn’t help but blush at his text. He was always at random flirting with me, making it become something habitual.

Ordinary girls would become gullible to his fandom and buckle, but guys like Rome came a dime a dozen.

It’s very common for people to flirt with you and not mean anything by it.

So it’d be easy to fall victim to their trap and get caught up, thinking it was genuine, but you have to weed out the good ones from the bad ones.

There was a point I couldn’t stand the sight of him; most of that deep rooted anger stemmed from Trecee’s sudden change in behavior after dealing with him, always acting like she was too good for the roots she grew from.

I never lashed that anger towards him, but I kept my distance.

I never had a problem with him personally, but his influence somehow transformed my cousin into an arrogant and disdainful person.

The change in her was the only effect I ever saw from him.

Instead of responding to his cheesy lines, I shut the message thread, fired up Spotify, and let my favorite power ballads fill the kitchen as I cooked, the powerful notes lifting my spirits.

Cooking to music is the best type of therapy, even if it’s an old school playlist. I’d choose 80s R&B music over the blurred rap that people listen to now, any day.

I’ve always loved to cook. Though my mama died when I was really young, I remember cooking with her all the time.

With it just being the two of us, she never made big meals, only enough for us to eat.

She’d cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I was always well fed and in the kitchen with her, sneaking bites of food and singing along to the music she’d play in the kitchen.

I’d pay just about anything to bring her back.

She was my idol, my doll, my queen, and a prime example of the woman whom I aspired to be.

Those who said she was a whore, I never saw that side of her—she didn’t bring that lifestyle home, so if anyone mentioned it to me, without me knowing, I’d try to prove them to be a liar.

As I sauntered around the kitchen, singing old school ballads, I seasoned the food, cooking with so much love, just like she taught me.

My time spent in the kitchen had to be minimal because I couldn’t afford the food to cook.

Anything other than cold cuts, bread, and ramen noodles, I couldn’t afford much else.

I had to penny pinch off the scraps that I had and make something work.

It’s been a while since my refrigerator was stocked like this, and I had something other than the aroma of Glade air freshener filling my home.

Rome is one lucky ass nigga to have me slaving in the kitchen like this, but I look forward to seeing him rave about my good cooking.