20. Pressure Mensah
Trill-Land, Jungle Estate.
R ight after choppin’ it up with Lola, I walked out the room and was met with Chanel’s gaze.
“So… about that time in,” she said, runnin’ her hand down my chest like she was claimin’ her spot.
These women was somethin’ else, man. Every time I turned around, one of them was ready to pull me off somewhere, and it was startin’ to feel less like I was pickin’ a wife and more like I was runnin’ a damn daycare for grown women.
Still, I wasn’t about to dodge her. If I said we’d spend time, I’d make space for it.
“A’ight,” I told her, noddin’ toward the back. “Let’s walk.”
We stepped out the side door and hit the long stone path that wrapped around the back of the estate.
The air was warm, and the smell of the garden hit me as soon as we got past the patio.
I lit the blunt I had behind my ear, lettin’ the smoke trail up while she matched my pace, her heels clickin’ against the stone like she was on a runway.
Before we even cleared the first corner, she was already in her bag. “You know I been in like six music videos, right? Not just the background stuff either, I’m talkin’ front and center. That Lil T. one? That was me in the red dress. That shit went viral.”
I took a slow pull, not rushin’ her. She kept talkin’ like I asked for her résumé.
“And I stay in designer. This,” she tugged at the strap of her top, “straight from Paris. The bag? Limited drop. Only a handful of people even own this color. Most these girls wouldn’t even know where to shop for it. ”
She glanced over like she was waitin’ for me to be impressed, then slid right into the next subject without givin’ me a chance to say much.
“And between me and you, I don’t think some of these hoes are even here for you.
I mean, you can tell. The way they move?
It’s like they just want the money, and attention.
I’m not like that. I’m ‘bout the realest bitch here.”
We cut past the pool area, the blue glow from the water bouncin’ off the glass walls of the guest house. She slowed a little when she caught her reflection in the water, adjustin’ her hair like we was on a photo shoot. I just kept walkin’, lettin’ her catch up.
The path curved and led us through the garden, rows of flowers stretchin’ in both directions with soft lights lining the walkway. She didn’t even pause to take it in, still runnin’ her mouth about places she’d been, shoots she’d been on, and all the people who “knew her name in the industry.”
I let her keep goin’ until we hit the far edge of the property where the stone walkway narrowed.
The sound of the fountain carried through the air, and for a moment, she actually went quiet to look at it.
But as soon as we kept movin’, she started again, this time namin’ women in the house she thought were “fake” or “just playin’ the game. ”
Finally, I stopped walkin’ and turned to face her. “You know I’on care about none of that shit you just said, right?”
The words hit her like I’d just pulled the rug out from under her. That mouth that stayed movin’ went still, and her eyes was fixed on me.
“I’m not saying you care,” she said quickly, her voice smaller than it had been the whole walk. “I was just… striking up conversation.”
I leaned in just enough, so she knew I meant what I said.
“You ain’t gotta bring up other females to do that.
I don’t care about what designer shit you got, how many videos you been in, or none of that.
I could put you in some shit you never even heard of a day in your life.
None of that impress me. Just chill and enjoy each other’s company. ”
Her lips pressed together, and she swallowed hard, noddin’ once. The arrogance she’d been walkin’ with since we stepped outside had dropped right off her.
“You’re right,” she said, reachin’ for my hand like it was her way of showin’ she could reset.
We started walkin’ again, but she was different now.
We passed the open lawn where the fire pit sat cold and unlit, the grass smellin’ fresh from the sprinklers earlier.
Chanel wasn’t pointin’ out her outfit or namin’ women she didn’t like no more.
She wasn’t talkin’ over me or tryin’ to fill every bit of silence.
She was just here, matchin’ my stride, and lettin’ me finish the blunt while we moved through the far garden and back toward the main patio.
When we reached the back steps, she glanced up at the glowin’ windows of the mansion, then back at me. The confidence was still there, but it was toned down now, smoothed over like she was remindin’ herself she didn’t always have to be on stage.
By the time we stepped back inside, she turned to face me, her hand still holdin’ mine. Without sayin’ much else, she leaned in and kissed me on the lips soft and quick, like she didn’t want to risk pushin’ it too far.
“Thank you for the time,” she said, her tone calm now, almost respectful, before she walked off toward the stairs.
I stood there for a second watchin’ her go, then turned down the hall toward the elevator. My body was ready for a shower, and my head ready for some quiet.
These women had a nigga needin’ some space and a hard ass reset.
As the days went on, I spent time with who I could.
The mansion was still full, but the number of women left was shrinkin’, and the ones who was still here knew the competition was gettin’ tighter.
Every interaction meant somethin’ now, even if it was just an afternoon conversation or a late-night laugh.
Toni Roc had become a regular part of my days without me even realizin’ it.
She was my homie, my workout partner, and a woman I could kick back and chill with all in one.
Every mornin’ she was there with my breakfast, servin’ a nigga eggs, turkey bacon and fresh fruit plated like it came straight out of a chef’s kitchen.
She’d stand by the counter with that sly grin, waitin’ for me to take the first bite before askin’, “It’s hittin’, right?
” And it always was. By noon, she was in the gym with me, keepin’ up rep for rep, talkin’ shit between sets, and pushin’ me harder than my cousins sometimes did.
“You gon’ let me outlift you?” she’d tease, rackin’ weights like she wasn’t sore.
When we wasn’t workin’ out, we’d be on the balcony sippin’ somethin’ cold, jokin’ about the chaos in the house, or talkin’ about other shit.
She didn’t try to be perfect, and she didn’t hold back when she had somethin’ to say.
That was why I liked her. She was real, through and through. Yep, she was my lil’ ghetto bae.
Still, not everybody had that same effect on me.
Soriya was one of the first to go durin’ this stretch.
She was fine, no doubt about it. Baby girl had a body that could stop traffic, but every time we talked it was surface-level, like she was holdin’ back or just here for the lights and luxury.
She laughed at everything I said but never gave me much of herself.
I didn’t have the patience for that. This wasn’t about who could smile the prettiest in pictures—it was about who could stand next to me in real life.
So, durin’ the elimination process, I told her straight up, “You cool, but I don’t see this goin’ anywhere.
” She nodded, tried to play it like she didn’t care, but I could see it in her eyes.
She packed her things and was gone before dinner.
Zaniyah and I had hit the town again, and she was still the same livewire she’d been the first night we went out.
We blew money like it was going out of style.
We bought bottles, food and clothes she didn’t even try on before buyin’, and we laughed the whole way through.
“You got a problem,” I told her as she handed the cashier my card without even lookin’ at the total.
“And you enabling me,” she shot back, slippin’ her shades on like she was in a movie.
But she wasn’t just fun in the streets. Back at the mansion, she’d become my main chess opponent, teachin’ me strategies I didn’t even know existed.
She leaned over the board one night and said, “You move too fast. That’s your problem.
You gotta think three moves ahead.” She talked about patience, about settin’ up your moves so far ahead that your opponent didn’t see it comin’ until it was too late.
“Chess is like life,” she said. “You can win fast, but the real victories are the ones you build for.” I liked that about her.
Even so, I had to make cuts. Jayla was next.
Imani had overheard her on the phone one night, talkin’ low about how she missed her child and couldn’t wait to see them again.
I didn’t have a problem with women who had kids, but it wasn’t gon’ be part of my legacy.
I had clearly stated from the jump that I ain’t wanna marry a woman with kids because I wanted to start my family from scratch.
What pissed me off was how ol’ girl knew that and still hid the shit from me.
I guess she thought she could just pin her kid on me if she got chose.
Hell nah. When I confronted her in the lounge, she looked like she’d been caught stealin’.
“I didn’t know how you’d take it,” she said, her eyes droppin’ to the floor.
“I would’ve told you… I just didn’t want it to be the reason you sent me home.
” By then, it was too late. I sent her ass packin’ the next mornin’.
Imani, on the other hand, was still here.
She came on strong—too damn strong sometimes, but she turned into my eyes and ears in the house.
She noticed shit, paid attention to people, and wasn’t afraid to bring it to me.
She’d drop little comments like, “Watch how so-and-so switches up when you walk in the room,” and she was usually right.
That alone kept her in longer than I originally planned.