“Because that’s not right, Love. I thought we could maybe try again.”
I placed the cup I had in my hand down, walked around the island, grabbed Jada’s arm, and walked her to the front door.
“Girl, you outta your damn mind if you think I’ma run anything back with you.”
Jada snatched away from me. “Nigga, you know you can’t find anybody better than me.”
I laughed. “You think I can’t do better than a hoe?” I asked with a straight face. “You weren’t a hoe when I cuffed yo ass, but the money and the internet fame sure did turn you into one. Get the fuck outta my house.”
I opened the door for her and gently put her ass out.
“Fuck you, Love!” she yelled just as I was closing the door in her face.
I walked back to the kitchen, grabbed my drink, and went to the living room.
Amir was already on his game; he looked at me as I sat down.
“Ma trippin’?” he asked.
I laughed. “Man, I love you, son, more than anything. But ya mama… ya mama might be the reason I go back to jail.”
We laughed, and I hopped on the game with him for about an hour, then I got dressed to take Amir out.
I did this every other week, got my lil’ nigga lined up, haircut, new drip if he wanted it, and then stoppin’ by my store for him to cop some jewelry.
He liked choppin’ it up with my staff; they have known him since he was born. He told them about his last basketball game while I checked messages on my phone that I had ignored while spending time with him.
Some of my niggas were asking me if I was down for a poker game later, a few bitches were asking if I was going to pop up at the club. I said yes to my niggas, ignored them bitches. I was about to put my phone up when I got a message from Islah. She sent me a picture of herself that put a smile on my face.
I texted back: I can’t wait to be the reason why you smile.
We texted back and forth for a minute while I sat in my office until my son came in.
“Dad, Mom said I had to come home.”
I smirked and put my phone in my pocket.
“Come on, I’ll take you to mad ass.”
Amir laughed, grabbed his shit, and we walked out to the car. He was on his phone most of the time; that shit was dinging more than mine.
“Who are you talkin’ to, lil’ nigga?”
He smirked. “My lil’ shorties.”
I laughed. “Shorties? With an s at the end? You are turnin’ into your daddy, boy.”
He went on to tell me the orders in which he liked them, how they were trying to rub his back and shit in school. Amir was just in middle school, but the way he talked, I knew by the time he got to high school, he was gonna be a monster.
When we pulled up to his house, Jada was already sittin’ on the porch, with a tall glass of wine in her hand. Amir looked at me, and we both shook our heads.
“Aye, listen, respect ya mama for me. I know she can be a lot, but it’s okay. And them lil’ girls at school, treat them right and respect them.”
He nodded. “I got you, Pops.”
We hopped out, and I hugged him. “Call me when you need me. I love you, boy.”
“I love you too, Dad,” he responded.