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“I’ma go grab it. Somebody has to take care of your goofy ass,” he said, not looking back as he left which meant I didn’t have to try to hide my smile.
Or the subsequent sadness.
I hadn’t moved to the Heights for Kyir, by any stretch of the imagination. I’d actually been caught off guard by the knowledge that he actually lived here. And still, somehow, his presence had been one of the things that made the transition of it all easier.
Hiscompanyhad made it easier.
After nearly a year, I’d made some friends, sure, but none of them even knewIreally knew Kyir.
Which to me, was probably a good thing.
A framed poster on the wall caught my attention and I approached it with a smile.
It was a gift from me, a few months ago. A large scale print of his cover shoot forSugar&Spice, made even more meaningful by the fact that I’d taken the picture the second time I shot him.
The first was when we’d met.
“Make Lyrics Great Again”was the headline the copyeditor had chosen, perfect for a rapper like Kyir. There was a lot of conversation around him, deservedly, as an artist on the rise, known for being as a true lyricist in a culture where that was becoming a lost art.
And then there was also the fact that he wasfine.
That was a rarity too.
As such, he had appeal to damn near everybody, which made his visibility… intense, to say the least. It struck me, suddenly, that he really shouldn’t even be out without security, but the Heights was pretty safe, and it was too late—or early—to fear running into too many people.
Can’t really get lost in the crowd either though.
Shit.
The same thing that made menotwant to be out with him was the same thing that made me wish I’d gone.
Now I was worried.
But… another layer of Kyir’s appeal rested in the fact that he was not one of those rappers who grew up in the suburbs but talked about the hood.
He was from the Heightsbeforeit was “The Heights”, before the ancestors started drawing people back to rebuild. He was actually, factually, a “real nigga” and had the scars and stories and reputation to prove it, even if didn’t really get down like that anymore.
He could handle himself if necessary, but… still.
I couldn’t relax until he was back at his front door, prompting me to put away my laptop and failed attempts to distract myself with work.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, this coziness we had going on.
I was supposed to have gotten some dick and gone home.
Instead… we ate from the same damn plate and then got back in his bed and went to sleep.
Trouble, I knew.
But I’d have to figure out what to do about it another time.
