Page 17 of The Perfect Verse
Donovan didn’t believe her, then fed her with a long-handled wooden spoon. She begged and pleaded, even agreed to be their driver when they committed a few smash-and-grabs. One day, she was pulled over with plenty of stolen goods in her trunk and pills. Instead of snitching, she took the charge, and Donovan couldn’t shake her.
“Behind Chaney’s back, though, nigga? That shit will catch up with you. How long do you plan to sponsor that broad?”
Unlike Serita, Sashay had no skill unless it was twerking and dick sucking. She was halfway decent-looking, but after smoking like a chimney, her lips were dark, and her skin was littered with acne. She still had a fat ass, which was her meal ticket most days, but Donovan wasn’t interested. He hadn’t been since she was released three years earlier.
“Nigga,” Donovan drawled, shaking his head. “I don’t even know. That’s why I was calling your ass. She was blowing me up. Figured you would come through to be the go-between since Lanky got in the booth.”
“Oh, yeah?” was all he offered, taking the egg carton out of the refrigerator.
“Yeah, nigga. You’ll tell me where you went missing to last night.”
“I’m grown, and I wasn’t missing. I did take Mango to get her hair done at some new spot on the east side around those bougie motherfuckers in Aventura.”
“Where we used to rob those tourist motherfuckers?” Donovan reminisced, feelings of guilt washing over him. “We were grimy as fuck.”
“We were young and hungry, doing stupid shit, but not anymore,” Scooter added, pouring up two glasses of orange juice. “Good thing that shit’s behind us. Now we can pay it forward.”
He hadn’t discussed it with anyone, but he wanted to start some kind of motivational or spoken-word afterschool program to provide beat-making classes for youth as an alternative method to express themselves. He never took his gift for granted, and he never wanted to.
“True. Need Speedy to get on his shit and get my engagement going. You got that gear for my photoshoot?”
That was another way Scooter plugged his clothing line. In their last photoshoot, they wore nothing but his clothing line, from hoodies to T-shirts, tanks, sweatpants, hats, and belts. Instead of generational curses, he was creating generational wealth. Honestly, the money he gave Serita was crumbs to what he brought in weekly from his side hustle. Leah took the lead on the orders, but sometimes Mango helped.
“I do. Need to finalize dates and location with Nazir, then it’s on. And I thought that nigga was security?”
“He is.” They both laughed. All they knew was that when one made it, they all made it.
While Scooter whipped up two omelets and toast, they ran down each single of Donovan’s upcoming album. Two would feature Lanky, and another one would be this female rapper, Switz, which was short for Switzerland. They laughed, but that was actually her name, and she had that Miami sound that mirrored the City Girls. Her lyrics, however, contained more substance.
“Chaney wants in on that photoshoot,” he revealed. “You know my girl has an eye for fashion, with her thick ass. You see her,” Donovan bragged.
“Nigga, that’s your woman.” He kissed his teeth. “Ain’t shit for me to see.” She was decent but a bit too commercial for him, from her exotic hairstyles and colors to her clothing that revealed a bit more than he wanted his woman to wear.
What he really wanted to say was that Kaleela was shitting on Chaney in the wardrobe department, from her hats and outfits, down to her shoe game. She never had a bad day, and even on the days she didn’t try, Kaleela’s selection of attire made a statement. She was laid back like one of the boys, but make no mistake about it. She was all woman. That pussy in his mouth confirmed that. Fuck a wheelchair.
“Fuck you, nigga. You know what I mean. Trying to see if I can bring her own dress to me.”
“Don’t she have a shop to run?”
Initially, Scooter wasn’t fucking with her after Donovan had gotten caught up in her and Kaleela’s love triangle. Over time, though, she won him over. If nothing else, her hustle couldn’t be denied. Like Scooter, Donovan took note, hoping they’d be the next up-and-coming power couple from Miami with offers to do reality television.
He saw himself on different platforms with her, showcasing not only what they were doing but taking it to the next level like Rihanna, Beyonce, and even Arianna Grande from their clothing, perfume, or makeup line.
“She does, but when you’re a boss, you delegate shit.” He beamed, bragging on his girl. “Just got to keep Sashay off her fucking radar.” Scooter frowned, kissing his teeth.
“Nigga, I already know, but still.”
“Fuck that.” Scooter slid the omelet from the pan onto a plate. He’d lost his appetite, but he still had to eat. “Can’t take a bitch where she don’t want to go. She chose not to grow. You kept money on her books and slid her a few stacks when she came home. What did she do with it?” He lifted his hand around his ear and waited. “I thought so,” he spat as Donovan sat, scratching his head. “And whatever you do, don’t fuck her.”
“Bruh, you think I’m sliding in my old work?” Donovan shook his head. “In fact, that’s the fucking problem. I’m not.”
“Hey, then finish it off, and end that shit,” he spoke, thinking about the next few plays he had lined up before he finally ended his situation with Serita.
“Bitch had me by the balls like a life sentence when she didn’t snitch.”
“Yet, my nigga, she still can, and you don’t owe her shit. You told her to go to school, do something productive. And I alreadyknow what she does with her money. Hustling backwards as fuck, buying shit off Temu and Shein, then reselling it for the same fucking price.”
“When you get rid of Serita’s whiny ass, I’ll get rid of Sashay.”
