Chapter 3
I didn’t go to Zayden’s house looking for him.
That was the lie I told myself when I turned down his block instead of heading straight home.
Everyone knew where the King brothers lived. They had the biggest parties right at the heart of the Southside of Crestwood.
Showing up unannounced was bold, but I needed to see him. I was drawn to him the way a moth is drawn to a flame.
It was late, but not too late. I knew Zay would be up. Crestwood had a way of staying awake without looking like it was trying. Porch lights on, cars parked crooked. Music low enough to blend into the night instead of announcing itself.
Zayden lived in a two-story brick house that looked like it had stories soaked into the walls. Not flashy. Not hidden. The kind of place men like him chose because it didn’t draw attention and because everybody already knew who stayed there.
I parked across the street and sat for a second longer than necessary, fingers resting on the steering wheel.
I wasn’t nervous but definitely aware.
Aware that this was new territory. This was unfamiliar territory. My best friend, Camilla, and I had been to several King parties, but now Zayden and I had aligned interests. But alignment didn’t mean intimacy.
And intimacy was the thing I refused to give away carelessly.
I walked towards the house, grateful that there were folks on the porch and a kickback happening. It made my intrusion less ballsy.
When I entered the house, I heard it before I saw anything.
A high-pitched sound of laughter coming from the first-floor bedroom next to the bathroom. A woman’s laughter was breathless and high. Then I heard Zay’s voice.
Low, gruff, and sexy as hell. He was commanding in that way that didn’t need volume to be felt.
My chest tightened before I could stop it.
I stood there with my ears pressed to his bedroom door like a fucking creep.
This was the cost of proximity.
Everyone knew Zayden King didn’t belong to anybody. Girls told stories about him slanging dick so good they wanted to make dildo molds from the shape of his shit.
I didn’t want to be with Zayden.
What I wanted was more dangerous.
I wanted to be next to Zayden.
I could hear her screams. She made a crescendo sound as I heard a slapping noise.
She called out, “Zaydeeeennnn.”
I could hear his voice, rough and grunting. “Don’t run now, Shorty. You said you wanted to try this dick, so take this motherfucka.”
She screamed, “Oh fuck, this is good.”
The sound of her panting made my own juices flow.
I shook my head, feeling dumb as fuck. YaYa, get your shit together. You get dick just as much as the next bitch. And that girl is gassing it. No magic stick is that good to be hootin’ and hollerin’ like you ain’t got a lick of fuckin’ sense.
But despite what I told myself, I couldn’t bring myself to walk away. I wanted to hear him cum. I didn’t want to imagine how he sounded; I wanted to know, so when I fingered myself later, I could imagine him between my thighs.
When I heard his deep voice let out a growl and say,“Iight back the fuck up now.” I backed away from the door and entered the living room.
Xavier was on the couch, drinking something brown in his cup while he watched a recap of the Crestwood Tigers game on Sports Center. I sat next to him and smiled.
“Kenya.” He smiled. “Zay is—”
“Busy fuckin’,” I murmured. “I heard him on my way to the bathroom.”
Xavier and two of their friends laughed.
“You’ll get used to his manish way. All the homies know he’s a whore.”
I sat there and watched the highlights as I drank a glass of Hennessy that Xavier gave me. Being here made me miss my big brother. He never treated me like a fragile flower but like one of the Niggas and I missed that.
Ten minutes later, a pretty light-skinned chick with a big ass stepped out into the living room. She adjusted her jacket, and pulled her messy weave into a top knot on top of her head. She had a lazy smile and she looked satisfied and well fucked.
Of course, this bitch was pretty. She had smooth skin, a designer bag, and a confident walk. The kind of girl who knew exactly what she was and exactly what she wasn’t trying to be.
Zayden walked out of his bedroom shirtless.
Sweat still clung to his skin, his hair was slightly damp, and his chest glistened from sweat.
I put my head down, focused on my drink to keep from staring.
“Well damn,” he said. “You always got this kind of timing, Kenya?”
I lifted a brow. “Am I interrupting something important?”
He smirked. “Depends on who you ask.”
He came over to me and gave me a hug smelling of sex, smoke, and cologne. I took it in without comment.
Zayden grabbed a shirt off the back of the couch and pulled it on, movements unhurried.
“You want another drink?” he asked.
“Nah.”
That made him glance at me sideways.
“You always this serious?”
“Only when I’m building something.”
He motioned for me to join him in the kitchen.
The kitchen was clean, organized, and functional. No distractions. A man’s space, but not chaotic. I noted it all automatically the layout, exits, and sightlines. When you get into the drug game, you keep your head on a swivel, especially with your business partners.
Zayden poured himself a drink anyway, leaned against the counter, watching me like he was trying to decide what version of himself to bring to the table.
He swiped his hand down his fresh line up. “My bad that you caught me at a bad time,” he said.
“Nah,” I said. “I caught you being you.”
He laughed quietly. “That bother you?”
I met his gaze. “Why would it?”
The truth sat heavily between us.
Because it both bothered me and didn’t, I couldn’t articulate my feelings fully because I didn’t truly understand them myself.
I didn’t want him less because he had women.
I wanted him differently.
And I hated myself just enough for knowing the difference.
“So,” he said, finally pulling out a chair and sitting across from me. “You ain’t come over here for small talk.”
“No,” I agreed. “I came to make you an offer.”
His mouth twitched. “That so?”
“Yes.”
I opened my notebook and laid it flat on the table.
“This,” I said, tapping the page, “isn’t a hustle. It’s a partnership.”
He leaned forward, forearms on the table now.
“Talk.”
“I don’t want to be one of your girls,” I said plainly. “And I don’t want to be an employee.”
“Good,” he replied. “I don’t mix business and pussy.”
That should’ve offended me, but surprisingly it didn’t.
“I want equity,” I continued. “Decision-making power and the anonymity that we discussed at the deli.”
“Are you sure about the anonymity?” he repeated.
“Yes. I don’t need visibility. I need access.”
“To what?” he asked.
I smiled.
“Distribution,” I said. “Your cover and clean routes.”
He studied me carefully now.
“You talking big,” he whistled.
“I’m talking prepared,” I corrected. “I already have runners lined up on my campus. They don’t know who I am. They don’t know you exist. They move product, thinking they’re doing favors for my friend, Miles.”
He leaned back slowly.
“And supply?” he asked.
“I have contacts,” I said. “Not yours. Mine.”
He stared at me, something like surprise flickered across his face.
“You’ve been sitting on this,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And you waited until now to say something.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I didn’t hesitate.
“Because now,” I said, “you know what it costs when shit goes wrong. And so do I.”
The silence that followed was thick and deliberate.
Zayden finally spoke.
“You know,” he said slowly, “most women come to me trying to be chosen.”
I nodded. “I know.”
“You ain’t doing that.”
“No,” I said. “I’m choosing myself.”
That earned me a look I felt in my bones.
“Tell me something,” he said, voice quieter now. “Why are you really doing this?”
I held his gaze.
“My brother,” I said.
He stiffened slightly.
“Jared,” I continued. “He’s doing life. He didn’t do it,” I said. “I need to get him counsel, keep him comfortable, and help with his kids who are on the outside. I also know the Niggas who set him up are still breathing, and I need to change that.”
Zayden leaned back, exhaling slowly.
“That so?”
“Yes.”
“And you want them handled,” he said.
“I want them erased,” I replied. “From the board and from all of Crestwood’s fuckin’ memory.”
Zayden was silent for a while, then he nodded once.
“I remember X talking about what happened with Jared some years back.”
“And?” I asked.
“And he said the same thing,” Zayden replied. “Them boys still walking.”
My pulse kicked up, steady but alert.
“We should take em out together.” He stared me in the eyes.
He studied me for a long moment.
“You know what that means,” I said.
“Yes,” he replied. “Blood on both our hands.”
“That binds people,” I said.
“That’s the point,” he said quietly. “I don’t trust shallow loyalty.”
His gaze held mine, heavy and intent.
“You ain’t trying to be my girl,” he said slowly.
“No.”
“But you want to be my equal.”
“Yes.”
Then he smiled widely and coyly.
“The dangerous little engineer,” he murmured.
He stood up from the table and walked to the counter, pouring himself another drink. He didn’t offer me one again this time. He already knew I’d say no.
“Come here,” he said.
I stood and followed him into the living room. Everyone had said their goodbyes and headed out. He moved furniture without thinking about it, sliding the coffee table back, clearing space like his body already knew this room was about to become a workspace.
He grabbed a legal pad off the shelf and a pen from the counter.
“Show me,” he said.
I knelt on the floor, spreading my papers out between us.
I had more maps. Not just the campus this time, but of the local structures, from Crestwood to Cherry University. The highways and spots that I thought would make good delivery windows.
Zayden sat across from me, forearms resting on his knees, eyes sharp and focused.
“You've been planning this longer than you've been letting on,” he said.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
I didn’t answer immediately.