Chapter One #2
Dexter swore he could see the devil horns rise from her scalp, and before he had a chance to defend himself, Tyler leaped forward like a possessed animal and attacked him.
Her nails dug into his flesh while Aria tried to choke him with his own chains.
When Tyler’s knee connected with his groin, Dexter's eyes crossed, and he fell to his knees. The duo beat Dex’s ass like he stole something, and thanks to the Don in their system, it felt like he was fighting about five big niggas.
Every time he pushed Tyler to the ground, Aria went harder, and when he was able to get her off him, Tyler was back on her feet.
Bloop bloop!
The red, blue, and white lights might as well have been invisible because neither party stopped. Amber was still tearing a hole in Bobbi's ass, and Tyler and Aria were wearing Dex’s ass out.
“Everybody on the ground now!” One of the officers demanded as his partner called for backup. “On the ground now!” he barked, pointing his gun at them.
“Tyler, chill the fuck out before they shoot our black asses,” Dexter pleaded.
Whap!
“Fuck you,” she swung, connecting to his eye. “They can shoot your dumb ass.”
“Ma’am, calm down.” The officer holstered his gun. “We’re going to detain you if you don’t stop hitting him.”
“Fuck this nigga,” Tyler growled, pulling at Dexter’s shirt. “You a stupid ass nigga.” She continued to wildly swing on him.
“Ty man,” Dexter pleaded as the officers started to pull her off him. “Aye, let me get her to calm down.”
“Sir, back up. You can’t handle her because if you could we wouldn’t be here,” the officer snapped, tired of wrestling with the wild girl.
Whap!
“Calm that down.” Tyler popped Dexter in the mouth so hard that it brought tears to his eyes.
“Fuck,” he groaned, feeling like a kid who had been hit by their grandmother for talking back.
It took three officers to pull Aria and Tyler off Dexter.
He was out of breath, the collar on his shirt was stretched out, and his mouth and face were bleeding.
Amber was now crying her eyes out, yelling that she wanted to press charges.
All she wanted to do was record a song and make a couple of dollars.
Getting jumped outside of the studio was not on the list of things she wanted to accomplish that night, and somebody was going to pay for her pain.
???
In the back of the patrol car, Tyler could hear Dexter trying to convince the officers it was all a misunderstanding, but with the blood trickling down his face, his word didn’t mean shit to them.
Dexter even tried to play the she’s a celebrity card, but again, his efforts went unheard.
Tyler was going to jail, no matter who she was.
After taking Amber’s statement, the officers told her they’d be in touch and informed Dexter, he could meet them at the station.
With those parting words, the cars pulled off with the rowdy women in the back seat.
“Friend,” Aria broke the silence as the car cruised down the highway. “You ok?”
“No talking,” the officer barked. “Almost twisted my ankle getting yall asses in this car.”
“Boy, don’t yell at me. Yall didn’t even ask my friend if she needed anything.”
“She was beating that man ass. What could she possibly need?” He questioned.
“Some water, a snack, or something.”
“I’m fine.” Tyler ignored the officer. “I’m just tired.”
“You should be,” he scoffed.
“I hope this makes you feel better,” Aria whispered, leaning forward. “Reach in my back pocket.”
Curiously, Tyler glanced at the front of the patrol car and then back at Aria, whose face held a goofy grin. Being that they were both cuffed, Tyler blindly felt on Aria’s backside until she felt the lump in her pocket. Pulling it out, Tyler burst out laughing before tucking her lips.
“I snatched that nigga chain,” Aria proudly boasted.
“Oh my god, I love your crazy ass.”
“I love you too.” Aria rested her head on Tyler’s shoulder. “Hey, can yall put us in the same cell, or on the same block? That’s what it’s called, right? A block?”
“Yall in the same cell?” The officer furrowed his eyebrows. “You better hope I don’t put her heavy-handed ass on the men's side.”
???
On the other side of town, Logic sat in the passenger seat of the car, shuffling two dice between his fingers.
The gesture was something he did whenever he was thinking of a master plan.
It was four in the morning, and while most of the city was rolling over to the other side of the bed, he was plotting.
Money. The root of all evil, but the answers to a broke man’s prayers.
“Ok, listen,” Brandi whispered into the phone. “There are four trucks in the Royal Oak area this morning, but only two of them are carrying valuable items. From what I see, there are about ten iPads, a couple of game systems, household electronics, and more.”
“What’s the truck number?” Al, Logic’s best friend, asked. “And send the tracking information.”
“Nigga please, I’m not fucking with you like that.” Brandi frowned as if he could see her face.
“I’m not fucking with yo nappy headed ass either. Tell me the fucking truck number before I slap yo hoe ass.”
“I wish you would bring yo unruly ass to Westland. I’ll have the police on yo ass before you cross Ford Road.”
“Hoes get Section 8 and think they big shit. Keep talking and I’ll tell them people yo ugly ass baby daddy live there too. Send you and all them rugrats back to the projects.”
“Nig-
“Aye. Shut the fuck up. It’s four in the morning. I’m not about to listen to yall argue like scorned lovers,” Logic cut them both off. “What’s the truck number?”
“285116. Get that one, it has the most stuff,” Brandi pouted.
“Aight, cool. I’ll let you know when the job is done and when you can come pick up your portion.”
“And come alone because if you send your baby daddy, I’m definitely robbing that nigga,” Al added. Before Brandi could tell him to eat her pussy, Logic ended the call and glanced over at Al.
“Why you keep fucking with that girl?”
“That hoe was my peace, and I don’t know who told her to move out of the projects.
She sucks dick, swallow, cook, and always got snacks.
I miss chilling over there,” Al admitted.
“Shit ain’t been the same since her baby daddy came home.
Now she wanna be faithful like she wasn’t fucking me while that nigga was on the phone crying about missing his family.
I was at the table eating pancakes with his kids while she was in the bathroom telling that man she’s keeping it tight for him. ”
“You out cold,” Logic chortled.
“Nah, these hoes out cold. This bitch spoiled me and then dropped my ass.”
“Let her make it. Shorty trying to do right.”
“Fuck that bitch and we not giving her equal parts.”
“You sound bitter.”
“Bitter as fuck,” Al snorted, pulling from the blunt. “Bitch better be lucky she came through with a lick because I was about to blow up the spot.”
Logic chuckled, but Al was dead serious. He didn’t give a fuck about Brandi wanting to be loyal to her baby daddy. All she had to do was keep sliding him the pussy on the side and they could’ve been great.
When Brandi initially approached them about robbing trucks, Logic told her to get the fuck on.
First off, he wasn’t a stealing ass nigga, and second, he wasn’t trying to get caught up in the system and leave his siblings to fend for themselves.
Brandi had to break down the entire plan before he agreed to step in.
With her working behind the scenes as a dispatcher, the plan was simple.
She found a truck with a big load and passed the information to Al and Logic.
The plan was to rob the truck, sell everything, and give her a nice cut.
“Here we go.” Logic nodded toward the big blue truck pulling out of the warehouse.
“I’m on it.” Al passed him the blunt and slowly pulled off as all the trucks started to exit the lot. He didn’t have to worry about losing the truck because Brandi had sent them the live tracking.
???
For thirty minutes, Al followed behind the truck while Logic stared out of the window.
It amazed him to watch the city go from urban to suburban.
His stomping ground was filled with liquor stores, rinky-dink gas stations that weren’t safe depending on the time of day, and car washes with run-down equipment that stole your quarters.
Weed dispensaries were popping up like pimples, forcing all the dealers to find other hustles, which made them desperate.
The further they drove out of the city, the more the scenery changed.
Starbucks, yoga studios, art galleries, Ikea’s, and other fancy ass restaurants occupied the clean streets.
Logic couldn’t help but wonder if someone invested in the inner cities, would they look the same?
Politicians spent money fixing Downtown Detroit to attract more tourists, but none of that love was extended to the inner city, where it was really needed.
Government funded programs for schools were cut, but parks on the River Walk were restored.
“Shit so fucking backwards,” Logic vented, shifting in his seat.
“What?”
“Life just fucked up and it’s really a case of the Haves versus the Have-nots. I gotta hurry up and get my paper together to move my troops out the hood. I don’t want them stalking trucks and selling pills for a few dollars.”
“I mean you can always get a 9 to 5…you know, show them the right way...the American way.”
“Fuck outta here. I wish the fuck I would go slave for another muthafucka just to have taxes and all that other bullshit took outta my check. Niggas be working 60-hour work weeks and coming home with dust. Nah, I’mma keep doing what I’m doing until my music pops off.
I’m going to build a legacy, so they don’t ever have to work for nobody but themselves. ”
“Then get the fuck in the studio and make some shit shake. I been telling you these Hollywood ass niggas ain’t fucking with you. The best lyrics come from niggas who lived that shit, from niggas who felt the struggle, you feel me.”
“I been fucking with Duce at The Studio,” Logic uttered.
The Studio was located inside of Duce’s kitchen.
He had all the equipment set up on the kitchen table and the microphone hung from the cabinet.
The sound wasn’t perfect, but Duce was a pro at manipulating the outside noise and erasing all the background sound.
Usually, while he was recording, it was a no-talking zone, and for the most part, people respected his space.
Logic was probably his only artist who didn’t like a room full of people when he recorded.
Most times it worked out, but other times Duce’s baby mama and her friends posted up and turned their sessions into a party.
They’d fry chicken, pass around Tito’s, and smoke whatever was being passed around if it was free.
“I know, he told me you be over there choking up and shit,” Al smirked, glancing out the corner of his eye.
“That nigga talks too much. I just don’t like doing my thing in front of other people. He be having the whole west side of Detroit packed in that bitch.”
“Fuck is you saying right now?”
“I just do better when it’s not so many people watching...you know what I mean?”
“I don’t. Sounds like a bunch of excuses if you ask me.
How the fuck you scared of your own potential?
” Al quizzed. “You talking about change, but you sitting on talent niggas wish they had. You wanna change the hood? Save the troops? Then go harder, be consistent, show the world you ain’t just another wannabe ass rapper. You do this shit for real.”
Logic didn’t respond. Al was right and he was the only person besides his siblings who would call him out on his shit.
Logic was a master at his craft but allowed overthinking and imposter syndrome to deter him from exploring his true passion.
Negative thoughts stole the show when it was time for him to perform, and he couldn’t shake them.
“Be the change you wanna see nigga,” Al continued.
“I didn’t ask for a pep talk.”
“You ain’t got no choice, and as your manager, I'mma start setting shit in motion and push yo ass since I see you too scared to do it yourself.”
“I’m not scared of shit,” Logic growled. “I just, I don’t know,” he sighed.
“Then you better figure it out before I start lip syncing your shit,” Al jested, pulling his ski mask down, prompting Logic to do the same. “Let’s get this shit out of the way and then we can finish this unpaid therapy session.”
“I’m not fucking with you, bro.”
“Yea, you are. We stuck like Chuck.” Al exited the car just as the driver lifted the back hatch.
Quietly, the duo slipped from the car with 9mm’s clutched to their side. Logic did a quick survey of their surroundings before slowly approaching the back of the truck. Al posted up outside, keeping his eye on the empty streets.
“You know I'm going to take yo fine ass to dinner. Where you wanna go?” The driver cooed into the phone, unaware of the figure moving behind him. “Fuck yea, we can go to the Sugar Factory but leave your kids at the crib. We can bring them back a Hot n Ready.”
“Aye, hang up the phone cheap ass nigga,” Logic barked.
“Nig-” the driver started but stopped when the tip of the 9 made his eyes cross. Dropping the phone, he held his hands in the air. “Come on man, don’t kill me.”
“I’m not about to kill you. Gimme the keys and dislocate the GPS tracker.”
“Come on bro, I need this job.”
“And I need this truck,” Logic gritted, popping him in the face with the butt of the gun. “I’m not a patient nigga and I don’t repeat myself.”
“Aye, what the fuck taking so long?” Al hollered from the front of the truck. “Slump this nigga so we can get the fuck outta here.”
“Nah, nah, don’t slump me. Look,” the driver reasoned. “They don’t pay me enough to lose my life. The keys are still in the ignition and the tracker is under the driver's seat. Just let me go and yall can have this shit.”
“We was taking this shit anyway.” Logic popped him again with the gun before tossing him out of the truck.
The sun was starting to rise and the last thing they needed was to be caught robbing trucks in the suburbs.
Putting a little pep in his step, Logic locked the hatch and ran around to the passenger side.
“Good shit.” Al slowly pulled off, not wanting to alarm anyone.
He wasn’t worried about the car they left behind.
It was stolen and couldn’t be traced back to them.
If anything, the police would be looking for a middle-aged white man named Gray who lived in Rochester Hills.
“Another day, another fucking dollar.” Al grinned, riding off into the sunrise.