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FUCKIN MY OPP?

I woke up to somebody damn near beating down the screen door. At first, I thought it was a drug head. One of them bold ones who ain’t got no respect, just a habit and a death wish. I reached under the couch, gripped my piece, and slid to my feet into my Prada shoes, still halfway in a dream.

I ain’t mean to fall asleep at the trap. After the club, I was too tired to drive back to Prince Valley, so I crashed here at Southshore Terrace—where the roaches knew my name and the walls still remembered who I used to be.

The banging didn’t stop.

“Mula! Aye nigga, come outside!” Tory’s voice cut through.

I rubbed my face, grabbed my shirt off the armrest, and slid my feet into my slides. With jeans sagging slightly because I had taken off my belt, I pushed the door open with a hard sigh.

“What the fuck now?” I mumbled, stepping onto the porch.

Tory was standing in the lot, arms crossed, head shaking. I followed his eyes, and that’s when I saw it.

My shit. My Benz. All four tires were slashed. Deep-ass scratches carved into the hood in messy, crazy handwriting:

I’M FUCKING YOUR OPP.

I stared at it for a solid five seconds before I realized whose work this was.

My pulse ticked up.

“I’m gon’ kill this bitch.”

I pulled out my phone and dialed. As soon as Storm picked up, she started screaming.

“I’ma call your fiancée and tell her everything, nigga! How you let me suck your dick! All of it! You think I won’t?! I hope Yummi leave yo’ stupid ass?—”

I chuckled, slow and cold.

“Do whatever you gon’ do. Yummi gon’ love me, regardless. So stay mad, bitch. And when I catch you? I’ma wring your fuckin’ neck. And if you with that Rivera nigga, you can die with him.”

I hung up and blocked her. Let that be that.

I called the tow truck next so they could take my shit to the auto body shop, then leaned against the side of Tory’s car, pissed off but quiet with it.

“She really lost her shit,” Tory muttered.

“Yeah. But it’s cool. She wrote her name in blood with this one. She fuckin’ Rivera, too. So when we kill him, we kill her.”

Once the tow pulled off with my Benz, I told Tory we had to make a stop. We slid over to my mama’s house on the west end. She opened the door in her robe, already shaking her head like she knew I wasn’t here for no good reason.

“I ain’t got time for no drama this morning, Meek.”

“Ain’t no drama. I just came to get my other car,” I said. “Shit got dumb.”

She let me in and pointed to the garage. As I grabbed the keys, she followed me, arms folded.

“You know… I wanna see my grandson more. I can’t keep making it to Prince Valley like I’m young. Y’all need to bring that baby back to The Cove.”

I nodded, keeping my tone chill. “I got something in motion.”

She stared at me for a second, then cracked a smile. “I believe it.”

As I turned to leave, she called out, “Oh—and call your Aunt Ruth. She just opened up that new spot by the water. Real nice. You need to support. And take my girl, Yumila, out. Get that woman to yourself.”

She winked and closed the door before I could say anything slick.

I walked to the garage, hopped in the old black-on-black Charger I rarely touched, and linked back up with Tory. The heat was rising early today. Felt like the city woke up pissed off. We hit the block, moving like we always did—quiet, calculated, grinding.

While we rolled through the Terrace, I hit up Aunt Ruth, made the call, and locked in a reservation for two. I couldn’t wait to tell Yummi. This time, I had more than dinner on my mind.