“Jamal.”
There was a quick pause this time, and there was no doubt he was just processing it.
“Jamal?” he asked, his tone shocked. “Yo’ teammate?”
“Was,” I corrected him, my voice flat. “The nigga shot me.”
“Say less. That nigga owes me some fuckin’ money,” Smoke replied. “But what the fuck did that nigga shoot you for?”
I leaned back into the couch. “He said some slick shit about Sianni, and I whooped his ass for it.”
Smoke let out a short laugh. “So, the nigga was on some hoe shit, basically.”
“Basically,” I muttered. “But you already know I can’t move how I want right now with this sling and cameras on me all the time. That shit is dead.”
“Yeah, I know,” he replied, his tone shifting just a little. “That’s why I gotchu.”
I shook my head, eyes dropping for a second. “Nawl, I ain’t trying to throw you in the middle of that.”
“Man, fuck all that,” Smoke cut in. “As I said, he owes me some money, and that nigga has been ducking me.”
That pulled a smirk out of me. “Bet, but what the fuck is he doing borrowing from you in the first place?”
Smoke huffed out a breath. “Came to me for some bullshit. I don’t even remember what it was. All I know is he’s been dodging me ever since, and you know how I get about my money.”
“Yeah,” I said, letting out a low laugh. “You don’t play about that shit.”
“Not at all,” he replied. “Soon as I catch up with that nigga, though, I’m handling it.”
I nodded to myself, even though he couldn’t see me. “Good looking.”
“Always,” he said. “But wifey just got in, and I got something to take care of.”
I smirked, already knowing what type of time he was on. “Aight, bruh. I’ll hit you later.”
Smoke and his girl were into that BDSM shit—on some kinky freaky type time. Some shit I ain’t even know if I’d be into like that.
After we got off the phone, I let my phone drop beside me on the couch, my eyes drifting back to the TV, even though I still wasn’t watching it.
A few minutes later, the front door opened. I turned my head just enough to catch Sianni stepping inside. She dropped herpurse and keys on the counter—the sound louder than it needed to be—and then made her way to the living room and sat down next to me. The couch dipped under her weight. She smelled like outside, like perfume and city air.
The tension rolled off her in waves.
“You aight, ma?”
“Yeah, I'm good.” She let out a breath that sounded like she'd been holding it for blocks.
I studied her profile. The set of her jaw. The way her hands rested in her lap, fingers twisted together.
“You sure? I saw them muthafuckas swarming you like vultures on TV.”
“Yeah, I'm good.” She turned toward me. “How are you doing?”
My jaw tightened. She’d just gotten mobbed by reporters, and she was worried about me.
“My arm hurts, but I'm straight.”
“Do you need anything for it?” She leaned closer, her knee brushing mine. “The doctor gave you something for the pain.”
