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The guy quickly stood up, and then he all but ran out of the section. I watched as Billionaire straightened his clothes and then looked over at me. I could smell his cologne; it was Clive Christian. That cologne was very expensive, running at almost $800. I recognized it because it was the only cologne that my father liked to wear.
“You straight?” he nonchalantly asked, like two seconds ago, he wasn’t just choking someone.
I stood up and pulled my dress down because it had risen while I was sitting. The whole time, his eyes were on me.
“Yeah. I’m about to leave. I’ve witnessed enough action for the night,” I blurted out.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” he offered, but I quickly shook my head.
“I’m fine. You don’t have to do that,” I said.
With a solemn expression on his face, he came closer.
“I look like I let someone tell me what I don’t have to do? You a woman! A woman in a dress, and for whatever fuckin’ reason, when some men see a woman in a dress, they act like fuckin’ vultures. Ion want shit from you, ma. Ion want your name, your phone number, a kiss, a hug, not even a thank you. Let me just walk you to your car, then I’ll go on about my night, and you can do the same,” he spat.
He was so rude. I looked at him long and hard before I turned on my heels and led the way out of the section. We had to pass the dance floor to get out of the club. Slow music played throughout the club, and Twinkle and Monterius were damn near having sex on the dance floor. He had her bent over and was slowly moving his pelvis against her. She had the nerve to tell me that she was only going to be gone for ten minutes. I would text her when I got in the car to let her know that I had left. She was going home with Monterius anyway, so it wasn’t like I was leaving her.
“Damn, Billion. You leaving already? Me and my girls are just getting here,” a very beautiful woman said to Billionaire as soon as we reached the door, and he opened it for me.
“I’m coming back,” was all he told her, and then we walked out together.
We didn’t say anything to each other on the walk to my car. I pulled my keys out from my clutch, and in just a few seconds, I had popped the lock and let myself inside. He stood by the driver’s side door, watching me.
“Thank you,” I told him.
“I don’t need a thank you, shorty. Drive safe,” he said, and just like that, he hit the hood of my car and left.
I watched as Billion swaggered back into the club. He was right; he really didn’t want my name or my number. It was cool because, just like I felt that he was out of my league, I was sure he more than likely felt the same way about me.
“Damn, ma! Ride that dick just like that… just like that! Shit!” I groaned and tossed my head back, removing the blunt that I was smoking on from my mouth. Fu
ck around and choke on this good ass blunt while I was getting my dick rode straight up nasty style.
It wasn’t the best pussy in the world, but it was enough to have my toes curling, throwing up gang signs and shit. It was four in the morning, and I’d just gotten to my hotel suite from my welcome home party. I had two of the prettiest bitches in the room with me, and they were doing some sinful shit, not only to me but to each other.
I won’t even act like I went five years without sliding in some pussy. While I was locked up, my baby mama, Denim, would come and see about a nigga every other week. She would bless a nigga with that royal shit that sat between her legs too. It was always quick shit, though. Quick and on edge because either I would have her watching to make sure that the fuck ass guards didn’t catch us, or I would be the one looking out. Those type of visits always required Denim to come in either a dress or a skirt, giving a nigga easy access. That fingering under the table shit just wasn’t for a nigga like me. I needed to feel it, dig in it, and bust all in it.
I don’t know why Florida didn’t just go ahead and make conjugal visits legal because niggas be in that visitation room, risking it all for a quick ass nut. Then again, Florida legalizing conjugal visits didn’t have shit to do with me because I swear I wasn’t going back. I’d kill myself before I did a day in prison again. I don’t give a fuck what anybody says, that prison life will bring the hardest nigga to their fuckin’ knees. They kept us caged up for twenty-three hours out of the fuckin’ day, and during those twenty-three hours, you’re forced to be locked inside of something equivalent to a fuckin’ box. That shit was made to kill us.
The circumstances that came along with prison was meant for us, especially the niggas, to off ourselves. Before I was put in the back of that squad car, I used to think that I was fuckin’ invincible. I had been doing bad shit since I was five years old. In kindergarten, I would go to the back of the classroom and steal my teacher’s candies and shit that she had for the kids who behaved well. I never got none of that fuckin’ candy because I was always bad. Because I knew that I wouldn’t get any of it, shit, I would just take it.
By the time I was ten, I was hanging with teenagers, following them niggas. So, I was breaking into people’s cars and shit, stealing whatever the fuck they had. I was gangbanging and fuckin’ bitches at twelve, like I was a grown ass man, smoking weed by the time I was thirteen, and I sold my first dime bag before I even got hair on my dick! I mean, what the fuck did you really expect for me to do, especially when I grew up in the type of environment that I grew up in?
My mama had me at fourteen years old. I had a young mother and a young grandmother because my grandma had my mother when she was only twelve. Growing up, I would alternate between living with my mama, who was still living with my grandmother, and my ole boy on the weekends, who lived with his mama. Two grandmothers, one on each side, and none of them ever put their foot down, so I was off the porch at a young age.
In my teenage years, I was living like I was twenty-one, coming into the house whenever I wanted. The hustling, the robbing, and all the other shit that I was doing, that came from me just wanting to get a quick buck.
My ole boy hustled. Back then, he was the flyest nigga I knew. Roca Wear, Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, and Adidas were all some of the shit that he used to rock when I was a kid. He kept me flyer than a motha fucka too. I had all the Jordans and Nikes as a little boy. Because he kept me fly like that, I knew that when I got a little older, I would want to keep this shit up.
My mama named me Billionaire, so that shit was just in me to like money. I loved money. I loved having money in my bank account. Then again, I was a hood nigga, so when I used to make my money back then, it was usually given to me in duffel bags. Shit, if I’m going to be honest, sometimes it would have blood on it because we would just get the money whichever way we could.
I liked to look good. I loved for a bitch to tell me that I smelled good, and I loved the sound of a few chains dangling around my neck. Most of all, I loved being able to walk my ass into any designer store and buy whatever I wanted without even having to check the tag. With the type of taste that I had, I had to push dope. Pushing dope gave me easy money, so that’s what I chose to do.
At twenty-five years old, I was the man to see in Miami. I was bigger than my daddy. Somehow, I surpassed him and eventually brought him along, so he could eat with my crew and me. My crew consisted of me, Monterius, and a fuck nigga named Trucks, whose mama should have fuckin’ swallowed, or his daddy should have busted him out on the carpet or a rag. I never got around to asking the fuck nigga why he did what he did. Before I could even change into my jumpsuit at the jail, Monterius had put two and two together, ran down on Trucks, and put a couple of slugs in his brain.
I was good to that nigga, man. Went and got myself checked because I wanted to give him a kidney since he needed one, but it turned out that I wasn’t a match. When we jumped headfirst into this drug shit, we were like the three amigos. We had always planned to get into this shit and stay in for five years at the most, just so we could stack enough money, get our people out the hood, and have the chance to go legit one day.
Nigga put dirty guns in my fuckin’ whip, that were more than likely his, called them boys on me, and had my black ass sent off to prison for it. This wasn’t just some nigga that I met in my adolescent years. I really knew this nigga. We had grown up together, I called his mother ma sometimes, and I thought of his little sister as my little sister. As mad as I was about that shit, man, God had to sit a nigga down for them five years because I was living too fuckin’ dangerous.
