Page 13 of Invisible Bars

IMANIO “GATEZ”

Later that night, I ended up at some rooftop pool party with Chi—not for fun,hell no,but because he asked me to roll through. After the week I had, though, I could use a drink… or ten. Still, I never let myself get too faded, especially not around strangers. I needed to be sharp, alert, and aware of everything breathing near me.

“These bitches slap!” Chi hollered, tossing a bone into the wing basket like he was shooting for MVP. He was on his second order.

For him to be built like a damn toothpick, the nigga ate like he had a tapeworm and a trust fund.

I sat back and sipped my dark liquor in silence and let the burn settle on my tongue before it slid down my throat. My eyes swept the rooftop—discreet, casual, but calculated. I clocked every exit, every security camera, and every shady corner where somebody could hide a secret or a weapon.

The setup was what one would expect: a pool, a pool table, a poker table, and plenty of half-naked women—some of which definitely should’ve consulted a full-length mirror, a best friend, and maybe a priest before choosing their outfits.

There were bottle girls twirling around like glittery mosquitoes, handing out overpriced liquor, watered-down drinks, finger foods they kept calling “gourmet,” even blunts.Yes, blunts—pre-lit, passed around, mystery blunts; the kind only a damn fool would take. And guess what? The rooftop was packed with plenty of fools flexing for the ‘Gram’.

Niggas were dressed in $1,200 outfits with $12 mindsets, acting like the skyline was their backdrop for a Forbes feature. Chains, heavier than their ambition, swung around necks that couldn’t carry a real plan. Niggas were posted up like CEOs but couldn’t spell “entrepreneur,”. Then there were those who were loud as hell when the music dropped but went mute when the check came. It was a parade of delusion with niggas dressed like wealth, searching for a free connection and a come-up.

Then there was me.

I sat in the far corner, posted up in a lounge chair with my hood pulled low like a man either in mourning or allergic to socializing.

I didn’t go there to be Imanio Kors; I went to lay low, breathe, and watch the room not run it. I just wanted to chill. No cameras. No “Aren’t you the guy from—?” No fake-ass handshakes or folks asking for favors they couldn’t afford. I didn’t want niggas sliding in my space trying to network with a smile and desperation in their eyes. I wasn’t there to save, sign or entertain nobody. I just wanted air, peace, and maybe a few minutes of not beinghim.And if anybody mistook my silence for softness, the Glock tucked near my ribs and the look in my eyes would clear that up real quick.

Chi, on the other hand, was in his natural habitat.

Loud. Flashy. Dripping in designers.

He was all laughs and dap-ups.

“And why you sitting yo’ ass over here looking like the Grim Reaper at happy hour? I also saw yo’ photoshoot from theother day. How you a whole billionaire but still look like you hate money? It’s like, you were mad they direct-deposited the money? Yo’ stiff ass was on the front page ofRich Man Digestlooking like somebody ran over yo’ puppy, peed in yo’ cereal, snatched yo’ inheritance away,andrepossessed yo’ yacht…allbefore breakfast.”

“Maybe that did happen… not the part about my yacht, though,” I said.

Noneof that happened, of course. But don’t play with me about my yacht—that was one of my most prized possessions. Whenever I needed an escape from the madness, the media, from Imanio or even Gatez, I’d hit the water; just me, the waves, and whatever playlist matched my mood that day.

Chi leaned back in his chair, wiping wing grease off his mouth.

“Yo’ ass need yo’ own magazine… something likeBillionaire Behavior WeeklyorForbes & Frowns.”

I was about to respond until some nigga—late-thirties, overly confident, all fake designer everything, and a bottle of Casamigos in hand like that was his entry ticket to a conversation with killers—approached us.

“Yoooooooo! You that nigga Gatez, right?”

The nigga smiled like he just got approved for a black card with no limit.

“Man, I’ve been looking for yo’ ass! I need to rap with you about something!”

Chi stopped mid-chew; his lemon pepper–coated fingers hovered in the air like he wasn’t sure if he needed to grab his drink or his Glock.

“Talk to me about what? Nigga, I don’t know you,” I stated, voice low, calm, and dry as ash.

“My cousin Jamal! He used to run with Dre and them! He told me you the man to see if somebody need something handled on the low, ya feel me?”

Chi let out a long breath through his nose then tapped the dude’s elbow with the back of his ringed hand.

“Aye,” he said, grinning without humor. “You real bold for somebody who just walked into a lion’s den with lunch money and assumptions.”

Ol’ boy frowned. “Say what?”

Chi pointed a chicken bone at him like a wand. “You talking to the wrong muthafucka, my boy.”