Page 25 of Gotta Jones For Ya
“You starin’ hard,” he said with a laugh, turning down the music as we hit the freeway.
“I’m just taking it all in. This time feels different. This isn’t just sex, Keon.”
“Been tryna tell your ass that.” I rolled my eyes, and he chuckled, lacing his fingers with mine. “I gotchu. This my city. I’ma show you a good time aside from droppin’ this dick off in you.”
That confidence was different. It wasn’t just cocky. It was real. You could tell this city molded him. East Hollis ran through his veins like blood, and now I was here in the passenger seat, thighs tight, cheeks warm, wondering how the hell I let this man pull me into his world so quickly.
“You nervous?” he asked, glancing at me.
“I ain’t never nervous,” I lied.
He smirked. “We’ll see.”
We rolled down a quiet residential street, a black gate guarding a sleek modern home tucked between two older remodels. He pulled into the driveway, killed the engine, then leaned in. Knuck kissed my cheek and then climbed out, coming around to open the passenger door. And of course I didn’t stop him.
This wasn’t a regular home. This was some grown-man, kingpin-with-good-taste shit. As soon as the door swung open, a subtle blend of masculine cologne, lemon wood, and money hit me square in the face. Not literal money—but that smell you associate with being well-kept, exclusive, expensive. The kind of scent you could only get from hand-picked candles and somebody’s auntie who knew what oils to mix.
“Damn…” I muttered before I could stop myself.
The foyer alone looked like something out of one of them home décor pages—dark hardwood floors, gold inlays, oversized abstract art on the walls that probably cost more than my rent. His whole downstairs layout was open concept, the kind that flowed effortlessly into a sunken living room with a sectional that could seat ten and a fireplace trimmed in smooth matte black. Floor-to-ceiling bay windows showed off the night skyline, and the city lights bounced off the polished floors like they knew who the hell owned this place.
Pictures hung above a low console—some of him younger with a fresh temp fade and braces, him with a woman I assumed was his mom, and a few with an older woman who had to be his grandma. You could tell he loved her from the way he smiled in every shot she was in. Then there were a few candid ones—hoodpolaroid-style, with faces blurred mid-laugh, cash being flashed, red cups held high. Real memories. Real people.
I was lowkey stunned.
He kissed my cheek and said, “Gimme a few. I’ma go shower, change and make some calls. Kick back, baby.” Then he disappeared up the wide floating staircase like he had zero worries in the world.
I couldn’t help but laugh. Then I walked toward the bathroom and snapped a mirror selfie to post on my story.
Out the way…because yeah… I kinda was.
I had just sunk back into the couch again when I heard his deep voice coming down the stairs. “Nah, make sure that nigga know what’s at stake ‘cause if I do it, his mama gon’ request a closed casket. That’s what I pay you for. I’m just ‘round to collect.”
His tone was smooth but firm, the kind that made men tighten up and women cross their legs. My head turned, and my eyes immediately locked on him. Light blue jeans, navy blue Essentials shirt, white sneakers and a fitted on his head. Diamond chains back around his neck, designer watch catching the glow from his recessed lights.
And the smell? Damn. Whatever the hell soap, cologne, or potion he used in that shower needed to be bottled and sold on God’s green earth. Because he smelled too good. Dangerously good. Like heartbreak and home all in one breath.
“Hold on. Kev on my other line,” he said into the phone, taking a pull from the blunt between his fingers. “Yeah… aight, bet. Yeah, sign off on it and email me the paperwork, bro. Good looks.”
He ended the call, placed his phone in his pocket, and then put the blunt in the ashtray on the coffee table. He turned toward me, flashing that damn gold-mouthed grin that had been wrecking my willpower since the moment I met him.
“You ready to get some food?” he asked, walking toward me slowly like he already knew the answer. “A nigga starvin’ like a muthafucka.
I swallowed, nodded.
And then I was in my head again—heart racing, thighs pressed, eyes locked on a nigga I knew I shouldn’t be falling for but damn sure was. Every look, every touch, every fucking word that came out of his mouth felt like a slow unraveling. I hadn’t even been here a full hour, and I could already feel it happening. I was falling.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I hit the street, leanin’ back in my seat, palm still on her leg, thumb casually strokin’ the inside of her thigh. I kept the windows halfway down, lettin’ the early evenin’ breeze float through while the city moved around us. Hustlers posted on corners. Moms and aunties out front of stoops yellin’ at their kids. The sun was beginnin’ to go down and shit. I glanced at Nyomi every few seconds while I drove, feelin’ my chest tighten.Damn, bruh. The fuck did you do to me?
“Are you gonna stare at me the whole ride or focus on the road?” she asked, side-eyein’ me.
I smirked. “I multitask well, baby. Especially when I like what I’m lookin’ at.”
She rolled her eyes, but I caught the way her thighs squeezed just a lil’ tighter together.
When we pulled up to my man B’s spot—a small hole-in-the-wall seafood and soul food joint in North East Hollis—the old heads already sittin’ outside nodded at me like I was family.
