Page 14 of The Birthday Girl

M ercedes upended the Gucci box over the kitchen counter, sending neat stacks of twenties spilling out.

Her acrylic nails clicked against the bills as she sorted through her earnings from the baby shower video, her whispered count growing more frantic with each stack.

“Thirty-seven... thirty-eight... thirty-nine...”

“Where the fuck is the rest of my money?” she shrieked, snatching up the empty box she’d stashed the money in earlier.

It was light, a lot lighter than it had been.

She stormed into the living room, wheezing with rage, and took in the evidence of a boyfriend, who’d spent the days lounging on the couch.

There was a controller in his hands, a empty ramen bowl on the floor, and a crisp new pair of Nike Dunks propped on the ottoman.

The box still had the branded tissue paper inside, and the receipt peeked out from underneath the shoes.

Mercedes snatched up the slip and scanned the total: $156.

87. They’d fought for weeks about money, his lack of job and prospects, her taking on double shifts at Nail’d It, and her inability to save because he wouldn’t get off his ass.

And now, there he was, feet up, playing NBA 2024 on a new PS5, wearing a half-grin that made her skin crawl.

“Tremaine, please tell me you didn’t steal from me,” she said calmly, though she was anything but.

“Baby, chill. I’m playing online. They can hear you.” Tremaine pointed to the headphones he was wearing.

“I don’t give a fuck!” Mercedes snapped. “I asked you if your broke ass stole from me. You need to answer the fucking question.”

Tremaine hurried to mute the headphones and dropped the controller onto the table. “You need to chill with the bullshit. You know damn well I can’t steal from you.”

Mercedes’ head pulled back. “What the fuck do you mean you can’t steal from me?”

“Just what I said. We’re in a relationship. What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is yours. I know damn well you didn’t think you was gon’ spend all that money on yourself?”

“Hell yeah! Ain’t no what’s yours in mine and mine is yours up in here. What’s mine is mine, and what’s yours is mine because your lazy ass don’t bring no money in. You fucking owe me, nigga! Are you dumb?”

Tremaine smirked, leaning back against the couch cushions like her fury didn’t mean shit. “You trippin’, Mercedes. I ain’t steal nothin’. I just invested in us. You ain’t want your man lookin’ bummy, did you?”

“Invested?” Mercedes barked out a laugh, her voice cracking with frustration. “You blew my money on sneakers, a PlayStation, games, and credits. That ain’t no damn investment, that’s robbery.”

“Robbery?” He shook his head, chuckling like she was crazy. “Girl, you sound dumb. It’s just money. You got more where that came from, don’t you?”

She did, but that was none of his business. He wasn’t entitled to anything in her wallet or anything he owned. Tremaine was lucky he had some good dick because without it, he would’ve been thrown out a long time ago. Still, hearing him say it out loud made her stomach turn.

“You’re nothing but a broke-ass, sorry-ass thief,” she spat, pointing the receipt. “You sit in this house all day leechin’ off me, and then you got the nerve to steal? I swear to God, Tremaine, I should—”

Her phone lit up on the counter, cutting off her threat, and from the couch, Tremaine glanced at her sideways.

“Go answer your phone. It’s probably your other nigga. Tell him you ain’t got no money to trick off today,” he taunted, knowing his words would get under her skin.

Mercedes flicked him off. “Fuck you, you sorry sack of shit. You’ll be lucky if you still got toes by the time I’m finished with you. Try wearing them Dunks with no feet, you dusty bitch.”

She stormed back into the kitchen, muttering curses under her breath with the receipt crushed into her palm like a tiny grenade.

“Muthafuckin’ thieving-ass—” The phone vibrated against the counter, dancing in small circles across the granite.

Snatching the device off the counter, Mercedes’ eyes landed on the screen, and she read the name: Private Caller.

Normally, she’d have let it ring because spam calls, bill collectors, and scams came from numbers like that. Broke people didn’t answer private numbers unless they wanted to be reminded of how broke they were, but Mercedes wasn’t broke anymore. Not since the baby shower video paid her.

She smoothed her hair back with one hand, straightened her tank top, and forced her voice to sweeten. “Hello?”

For a few seconds, nothing but silence filled the line, then a voice she’d recognize anywhere slid through the speaker. “Mercedes, this is Tah. I need to holler at you about something. Do you have a moment?” Tahlia asked, sounding less confident and less

Mercedes’ grip on the phone tightened, her chest buzzing with excitement.

Tahlia Banks, the posh diva, was gone, and in her place was the dusty little awkward girl she and her friends used to pick on.

For a second, Mercedes could almost see her again, skinny legs poking out of hand-me-down jeans, hair never quite laid right, and eyes darting around like she was waiting for somebody to laugh at her.

Mercedes’ lips curled upward as she savored the moment.

Tahlia Banks, with all her billions, sounded humbled, voice cracking like it used to when she got nervous.

The careful pronunciation and the use of the fancy words she'd practiced to perfection were gone now, replaced by the old cadence they'd both grown up with. My, how the mighty have fallen.

“Yeah,” Mercedes said quickly, her words tumbling out. “I got a moment. What’s up?”

“You’re smarter than the rest of Danielle’s little friends,” Tahlia said, her voice calm but edged like glass. “That’s how I know the video you sold wasn’t everything you have. I want it all.”

Mercedes’ pulse spiked. Her mouth curved into a grin she couldn’t hide, dollar signs flashing in her head. “What’s in it for me?”

“One hundred thousand cash,” Tahlia replied without hesitation. “Tonight.”

Mercedes’ laugh came out nervously greedy at once. “When and where?”

Tahlia gave her an address, and Mercedes saved it in her notes, hands trembling.

“I won’t be able to meet you until around ten. Is that cool?”

“That’s perfect.” Tahlia’s tone was silk, unbothered. “See you then.”

The line clicked dead.

Mercedes spun around, nearly tripping over the coffee table as she grabbed her phone and hit her brother’s number.

“You won’t believe this,” she blurted the second he answered.

“What now?” Tremaine paused his game, eyes narrowing.

“I wasn’t even talking to you,” she snapped, then softened when Jimmy joined the line. “But I’m gonna need both of y’all, so listen up.”

“What’s good, sis?” Jimmy asked. “You sound lit.”

Mercedes paced, words tumbling fast. “That bitch Tahlia just called me—offered a hundred racks for the rest of the videos.”

Jimmy frowned. “Wait. You only had the one from the baby shower, right?”

“Exactly,” she said, her grin wicked. “But she doesn’t know that.”

Tremaine leaned forward, catching on first. “You must want us to rob that bitch?”

Mercedes’ smile widened wickedly. “Damn right. She got that paper, and we need that lick, especially your broke ass.”

Tremaine flipped Mercedes off. “Fuck you.”

“Not until you get some money,” she shot back, and Tremaine grinned, knowing she was lying.

If he wanted to bend her over the couch right then, she’d be more than willing and ready. He knew it, and she did too.

“Listen, Jimmy. Tahlia wants to meet at a spot in Brentwood Park later tonight.”

“Think she’s coming alone?” Jimmy asked, his skepticism evident in his tone.

“Hell no. She ain’t stupid. Nobody meets up in Brentwood Park at ten p.m. without backup. Are you crazy?”

“Nah. You are. I ain’t tryna get caught up in no bullshit,” Tremaine said, shaking his head.

Tremaine wasn’t new to this. He’d spent most of his twenties hitting licks, running up in houses, and stripping cars clean before the cops even knew they were gone. That hustle had bought him fast money, fast women, and ten years in prison when it all caught up to him.

Now, pushing thirty-five, he told himself he wanted different.

He wasn’t clocking in anywhere yet, but he was breathing.

He could wake up without bars over his head, and without checking his shoes for roaches or his food for glass.

A lot of his boys from back then couldn’t say the same.

The streets had swallowed them whole. Tremaine had outlived them, though some days he wasn’t sure if that made him lucky or cursed.

“Quit being a pussy,” Mercedes snapped at Tremaine, pacing the room.

“It ain’t rocket science. We get there early.

You and Jimmy lay low where nobody can clock you.

I’ll meet her like everything’s sweet, take the money, make her feel safe.

Then, when I give the signal, y’all move in.

Hit her and her security before they even know what’s happening, and by the time they figure it out, we’ll already be gone with a hundred racks, maybe more. ”

Jimmy whistled low, a sound equal parts awe and fear. “That’s a lot of money, Merce.”

“It is, so don’t fuck up,” she replied, leveling him with a glare through the phone. “Everybody needs to be on point, so don’t come high, or I’ll pistol-whip your ass,” she told her brother, not in the least worried about Tremaine.

He wasn’t new to this; he was true to this, and he stayed ready to keep from having to get ready.

Jimmy didn’t argue. Instead, she heard the click of a gun being cocked and the rustle of fabric as he moved. “I’ll be ready, but if we see a cop or anything even close to a setup, I’m ghost.”

Tremaine cracked his neck, rolling the tension out with a low grunt. “Fuck that shit. Let’s get this money.”

Mercedes let a slow, menacing grin eat up her face. “That’s what I like to hear. Your broke ass might be able to get some pussy, after all.”