22. Rakim
TWENTY-TWO
rakim
A WEEK LATER . . .
Peeling off some cash, I handed it over to Téa, watching as she nervously took it.
“Relax. We got the results, so we good.” I expelled a breath. “I’m probably the only muthafucka that don’ took multiple DNA tests for my brothers.” I shook my head, speaking more so to myself.
Téa smirked, but then it dissipated once she processed my words.
“Wait, who else?” She pushed the money down into the pocket of her robe.
“Just some other shit,” I threw out, not even wanting to get into all that.
“But look, now that we got proof you’re carrying my niece or nephew, I’m gon’ continue to take care of you.
I want you to get some shit going for yaself though.
You not gon’ be living high off the fucking hog, but you gon’ be stable.
I suggest you start working towards something so you can afford the extras, ’cause once you give birth, I’m only funding the basics.
Only my girl can use my bread for leisure shit. ”
“I understand.” She gave me a closed-mouth smile. “I plan to figure something out.” She moved away from me to sit down on her couch. “I need to tell you something. I wanna keep open and honest communication between us because it’s the right thing to do, but also, I’m a little afraid of you.”
“Aight.” I folded my arms, remaining calm. Nothing could be worse than her lying about being pregnant by my little brother, and that had been confirmed already. So whatever the fuck she had to say, I was sure it wouldn’t bother me in the least.
“Um . . .” She ran her hands up and down her thighs. “So Mylo came over one day to bring me some food—a platonic gesture,” she assured me. “Anyway, after we ate and kicked it for a little bit, . . . we . . . had sex.”
“Wait, is this recent?” I frowned.
“It is. B-but we haven’t done anything since. I can promise you. I haven’t even been talking to him because I feel so bad.”
Running a hand down my face, I replied, “I can’t control what you do—so long as it ain’t drugs or alcohol consumption—or who you do the shit with, Téa.
Do I want you fucking on niggas while carrying my niece or nephew?
Nah, but it ain’t gon’ keep me up at night.
I got my own pussy at home to be worried about. If you like the nigga, do you.”
“So you’re not gonna kill him for . . . you know?”
“You want me to?”
“No! No, I’m just making sure.”
“Nah. I’m not gon’ kill the homie for smashing you,” I said dryly, making her roll her eyes once she realized how dumb the fucking thought was.
“Future deposits are gon’ be just that, Téa. Get a bank account, and send me the Zelle information once you do.” I turned to pull the door open before I left.
As soon as I got in my whip, my phone rang, and it was the man of the hour, Mylo.
Answering, I placed the phone to my ear before saying, “Sup.”
“Hit pay dirt, nigga. You free?”
“Even if I wasn’t, I am now. Where you at?”
“The usual. No rush either.”
“Bet.” I hung up then calculated the quickest route to the warehouse before pulling away from Téa’s apartment building.
It took me about an hour to get there since it was evening time and prime rush hour traffic. But when I pulled up outside the warehouse, I damn near sprinted from that fucking car to get inside.
Rushing through, I hurried right to the soundproof room where we typically held victims for torture and murderous purposes.
Entering, I saw a white man with a busted nose and lip, tied to the chair while Mylo sat partially on the stainless steel table off to the side, inhaling on a blunt.
“This our man.” He blew out smoke, rising to his feet and coming toward me.
For a moment, I took the white man in, deaf to his pleas for his life and explanations as to why he shouldn’t have been here.
“Shut the fuck up,” I commanded cooly, and he did, instantly, eyes widening in fear despite the fact that I hadn’t raised my voice.
“Name is Jonah Galloway. Niggas call him JG in the streets, but he been pushing fentanyl like he fucking chief of surgery round this muthafucka,” Mylo explained.
“Listen, I only sell to people in the suburbs!” JG blurted.
“Fuck you trying to say, nigga? We don’t look like we know muthafuckas who live in the ’burbs, bitch?” I spoke through clenched teeth, pulling my shit off my hip.
JG’s eyes bounced between my hand clutching my Glock and my face, nervous as fuck. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d shit on himself by the way he was sweating and trembling.
“N-no. It’s just when people start looking for me, it’s usually because a crackhead off the street died. I don’t deal with those types,” he expounded.
“Is that right?” I eyed him. “So why the fuck you think it’s him?” I questioned Mylo.
“Nigga Téa met at the club connected me to him. Said he known for selling that shit and nothing else,” Mylo replied.
“Who is it? If it’s not a rich doctor, dentist, or celebrity, it wasn’t me. I can promise you.” JG heaved, looking as if he was about to fucking faint at any minute.
“Fuck.” Mylo shook his head, defeated. I loved that he cared as much as I did, though Zaire wasn’t his brother or shit, even his best friend.
I, too, felt disheartened until I replayed JG’s words in my mind.
“Celebrities you said?” I queried, and JG nodded profusely.
“Actual ones. No low level or unknown people,” he explained further, hope overflowing in his eyes as if he thought that tidbit of information would clear him.
“What about Big Bully? Nate Godfrey. The boxer.”
JG frowned, but then he lit up as if a light bulb had gone off in his head.
“Uh, yeah. I sold to him one time, but it was a very long time ago. It wasn’t anything recent.”
As the words spilled from JG’s mouth, Mylo’s head popped up with bulged eyes.
“Ain’t that some shit.” I aimed the gun at JG’s forehead, and he began to flail about as much as one could while tied to a chair.
“Niggas like you are why my brother is in the ground.” I sent the bullet into his forehead, slumping him.
“I know I sound like a hypocrite, but that fentanyl shit is another level,” I explained.
“Nigga, I already know. No explanation needed.” Mylo shook his head as he watched blood leak from JG’s dome. “I’m just not understanding why Nate would buy that shit.”
“Why you think?” I shot Mylo a look before realization and sorrow set in simultaneously.
“But why? Fuck would Nate wanna murk Zaire for?”
“Shit, same question I got.” I paced a little bit, racking my brain, but nothing came to me.
Nate Godfrey had never showed us love or care and that meant in all aspects.
He never gave a fuck about us enough to kill one of us.
Therefore, it had to be a very specific reason why my pops bought a fatal dose of a drug and administered it to my brother.
What that reason was, I needed to find the fuck out.
Silence lingered as I left the room, Mylo trailing me. I needed a drink to help process what the fuck I’d just learned and to assist me in maybe putting the pieces together.
I always knew Nate wasn’t shit, but to murk his own son was an evil I didn’t even know the bitch ass nigga possessed. I was infuriated, finding it difficult to keep my emotions bottled in at the moment. Sending a bullet into JG eased my violent urge, but only slightly.
“You fucked Téa?” I asked after handing Mylo a glass of brown and sipping my own. I needed to think and speak on something else, or I was gon’ paint the fucking town red over what Nate did.
Mylo froze mid-sip.
“I did, Rah. I apologize I—”
“Why you apologizing if you like the girl? She told me you brought her food and shit. Mylo I know don’t do them kind of favors just for any-fucking-body.”
“You right.” He smirked almost inconspicuously. “I do like her, but I feel fucked up because she pregnant by Zaire. He was like a little brother to a nigga—at least through you.”
Setting my drink down after polishing it off, I said, “I get that, but you gotta own yo’ shit, Mylo.
If you like her and want her, don’t half step that shit.
Being double-minded over some blind loyalty to my brother is only gon’ make you look like less of a man and make her hate you eventually.
I’d rather be a shady muthafucka who owns what I do than play both sides.
“I know you love Zaire, but you love him ’cause he my brother.
Y’all didn’t get a chance to really forge some deep ass bond, but I appreciate the respect you got for him regardless.
And to keep shit real, she was a one-night stand, Mylo.
Maybe he did like her ass a lot, but we will never fucking know.
All I ask is that you don’t have one foot in and one out with her.
She pregnant and with my blood, so I don’t want shit stressing her out right now. ”
“I hear you.” He bobbed his head for a little bit as if he were chewing on everything I said still. “I do like her. I told her all the same shit you just said, but she disagreed, and it got me to thinking that maybe she was right. But won’t be no half stepping, especially since I got yo’ approval.”
“I don’t know about approval.” I chuckled subtly, refilling my glass. “But we all grown, and I got my own shit and problems to be focused on. I ain’t about to be policing a grown ass man and woman, unless it’ll harm that baby she carrying.”
“Real shit.”
* * *
THE NEXT AFTERNOON . . .
“Hey, Mr. Fine A—I mean, Mr. Godfrey.” Chari, the receptionist, gave me a five-finger wave.
“Better relax ’fore you mistakenly say that shit in front of my girl,” I scolded, and she scoffed but nodded to say she understood.
I could only shake my head as I ascended the stairs of the Godfrey Boxing Gym, wondering if Chari’s husband knew she was up at the job flirting and shit.
As soon as I made it to the second floor, Ayan and I made eye contact as he stood in the ring, chest heaving as his trainer waited for him to catch his breath.