The Real Deal

by Warren, Alexandra

  Ugh.

  The bass hit me dead in my chest, forcing me to put a hand over it. I still didn’t understand why Leilani was so pressed to get close to the stage as if either one of our washed-up asses knew who these young dudes were. I mean, you could tell they were young by the demographics of the crowd that surrounded us, most of ‘em being college kids. And since both of us were a solid three years removed, I knew we had no business being there, let alone being at the front of the stage.

  “When I say G, ya’ll say Griffey. G...”

  “Griffey!”

  “G…”

  “Griffey!”

  I looked over to Leilani who was all chanting along, hands in the air, eyes wide as she watched the performer on stage. I finally decided to take a peek myself and… damn.

  G. Griffey had it goin’ on.

  His skin was maybe a shade or two darker than mine, but still qualified him for the lite-brite category. His hazel-green eyes twinkled under the lights from the stage, so much so that I wondered if they were colored contacts. And his lips were perfectly full, curling as he spit his lyrics to the crowd’s enjoyment.

  No wonder Leilani’s ass wanted to get close to the stage.

  I certainly couldn’t blame her now.

  I mean, the way he commanded the stage was damn near hypnotizing. Before I knew it, I was singing along to the chorus that thankfully wasn’t about selling drugs, or shooting somebody though by this point I would’ve probably been singing along to that too.

  G. Griffey did a few more tracks that everyone in the building seemed to know before he quote-unquote, “slowed it down for the ladies”, eliciting all types of screams and squeals. The bass was still heavy, but the tempo was slow as he rapped a song about a bunch of freaky shit I could hardly stand to listen to. Not because I was offended, but because I was painfully turned on as his raspy voice flowed about eatin’ it up and beatin’ it up and, “not trickin’ but treatin’ it up.”

  Surely his raps weren’t all talk.

  I mean, everything else he rapped about had sounded realistic, so why would these songs be any different?

  And it wasn’t only his words that were hypnotizing, it was his mannerisms; the way he used his massive hands to emphasize the point of caressing a woman’s shape and licking his lips to emphasize how much he enjoyed devouring a woman from top to bottom.

  Damn, this dude is a problem.

  His final song was a duet with a girl that had performed earlier in the night named Shy. She was a pretty good singer, more pop-style R&B than soul. And this track wasn’t any different, a pretty upbeat song about love.

  G. Griffey stepped back as Shy belted the first verse and chorus before he stepped up to her to deliver the second verse. He had his arm wrapped around her waist as he looked down on her and rapped lyrics about doing her wrong, but making it right and how even if it didn’t last forever, he’d make it worth it for the night. Shy was all in, seductive smiles and caressing as she grinded her way down his body with the mic still in her hand as she belted the chorus once again.

  It was a cute song, made even cuter by their obvious chemistry.

  But being completely honest, I was a little jealous.

  And that was stupid.

  I mean, what did I really have to be jealous about? I didn’t even know this dude and I was already attracted to him enough to be jealous of his little songstress?

  Oh my God, I even called her “little” like a petty bitch.

  Thankfully the performance came to an end before I could get even worse.

  “Reagan, wasn’t he super dope?” Leilani’s voice knocked me out of the trance that had my eyes still fixated on the stage as if the pair was still there.

  “Yeah, he was pretty good,” I answered honestly. Regardless of my bias coming into The Black Market, I was leaving impressed with G. Griffey’s skills. He wasn’t the typical auto-tune, just yelling over a beat type of rapper. He had actual, relatable flow that made it obvious why everyone, including myself, enjoyed him so much.

  “See! I told you, you would have fun! And to think your ass was gonna stay home and watch a Snapped marathon all night.”

  Little did she know, I still planned on doing that at some point this weekend. But right now, I was actually glad that I had came out with her after all. Even if it meant going home with wet panties and an earache.

  &

  I couldn’t sleep.

  It was Sunday night and I knew my ass had to be up in a few hours for work, but my mind was racing with a bunch of irrelevant shit; starting with G. Griffey.

  After the show, I had gone home and for lack of better terms, social-media stalked him. I found his Instagram, Twitter, Facebook Fan Page, Facebook Personal Page, and most importantly, links to his music. I even went as far as downloading one of his mixtapes to my phone and had listened to it during my Sunday morning jog, then a second time while I was cleaning my apartment.

  I really shouldn’t have been surprised when his voice played over and over in my head; random punchline after random punchline that gave me chills as I processed its rawness. But then I’d think about him performing with the singer girl, and get a little attitude.

  I didn’t even like rappers; had practically dated everything but one on purpose. So I wasn’t sure what it was about this particular one that made him keep coming to mind.

  But he did.

  And now here I was, 66 weeks into his Instagram feed at two in the morning.

  How pathetic.

  I flashed back to my own Instagram profile, admiring the picture of Leilani and I from the night of the show. I had a bunch of followers, mostly sorors from around the country and associates from college, so I wasn’t surprised that the picture had amassed 236 likes. What I was surprised by though, was when I scrolled through and saw a new “like” from the username I had been staring at for the last fifteen minutes.

  @GGriff23

  I panicked.

  My first thought was that I had “liked” a picture of his from fuckin’ 50 weeks ago on accident like a creeper, so that’s how he found me. My second thought was, “Oh shit! He liked my picture, so now we go together.”

  The top of my screen flashed with another notification.

  Lookin’ good, ladies. Thanks for your support at The Black Market. -G. Griffey.

  My quick high was blown.

  He didn’t even know which one I was, and had left a generic ass comment all because I had hashtagged #TheBlackMarket.

  That was enough for me to calm down and take my ass to sleep.

  Gavin

  I tapped my pen on the steering wheel as I tried to figure out what tempo I wanted my flow to follow. Caleb had just sent the latest instrumental he created to my phone at the same time I was supposed to be meeting with the organization I’d be completing fifty community service hours with.

  Fifty.

  All over some fuckin’ weed.

  I was grateful they hadn’t locked me up for it which was quite honestly what I thought was gonna happen when they pulled me over. Either that or they were gonna take advantage of my color. But the officer only wrote me a citation, which sent me to court, which resulted in this bullshit ass community service.

  Whatever.

  I jotted a couple lyrics down in my phone before I hopped out of my whip and strolled into the building. There were kids everywhere, all shapes and sizes, roaming freely. And even though there were hella people in motion, everything still felt at peace, felt under control, felt…

  “Tyson Lamar Dickson! If you don’t slow your behind down in these hallways!”

  I peeked up just in time to see a little dude no older than eight look back to where the voice had come from, yelling in return, “Sorry, Ms. Reagan!” before taking off in a fast-paced walk. I shook my head, laughing until I realized the name he had used.

  Ms. Reagan?

  I pulled the letter from my probation officer out of my pocket and sure enough, whoever Reagan was, was who I’d be rep
orting to.

  Now it was my turn to follow where the voice had come from, turning around and walking to where I assumed she must’ve been. It took a few doors before I found the one with her name plastered on the outside of it.

  Reagan Charles.

  Then I knocked lightly before I ducked into her office, the frame of the door being too low for me to fit standing straight up.

  “Hey, how you doin’? I’m Gavin,” I announced even though I could assume she heard my knocking. But her eyes remained on her computer screen, her glasses sitting right on the edge of her nose as she continued to type.

  Uh… okay?

  The silence was too thick for me to be cool with so I added, “I’m supposed to be meeting with you. 10 o’clock.”

  She sighed, pulling her glasses from her face but still not looking at me as she replied, “And it’s 10:07. Which means your late. Which means I should report your ass already.”

  Damn, she’s cold as hell.

  I held my hands up, already desperate to defend myself. A call to my P.O on the first day was the worst look possible.

  “Chill, Miss. It’s only a few minutes. You ain’t gotta do all that.”

  She stood up, finally giving me her eyes as her lips parted to say something, but nothing came out. In fact, it felt like the whole room had gone still as her eyes went wide with shock, then squinted with confusion. And I did the same, squinting right back at her though I couldn’t figure out where I recognized her from right away. But considering how good she looked, I really didn’t care where I knew her from.

  I wanted to get to know her.

  I mean, she wasn’t like big ass, big titties, face full of makeup fine. She was more like cute little shape, big brown doe eyes, smooth beige skin, pouty lips fine.

  Normal girl, ‘bout her business fine.

  The type of fine that was more intriguing to me than any supermodel because it was so simplistic yet incredibly endearing.

  Since she was still looking at me with the weirdest expression and I wasn’t one to let curiosity brew, I asked, “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  She ripped her eyes away from me, shoving her glasses back on as she said, “No.”

  I still wasn’t convinced.

  Something about her face stood out to me, though the sleek bun and glasses she was sportin’ threw me for a loop. “Are you sure we haven’t met before? Maybe at a show or somethin’?”

  She sat back down in her chair, fixing her eyes back on the computer screen as she asked, “A show? What are you? A magician?”

  I laughed as I answered, “Nah, I’m an artist.”

  “Well the only type of artists I know that are summoned to community service hours are con-artists, so I’d use that title lightly around here if I were you.”

  I had a strong feeling there was a lot more to her little attitude than my seven minutes, but it certainly wasn’t my place to ask. So I took the cue of her lingering silence to sit down in the chair opposite of her.

  Her eyes remained on the computer, but she spoke simultaneously with her keystrokes. “According to your file here, you got caught up with some weed. Care to tell me what happened?”

  I slouched back in the chair as I quickly played the story over in my head before telling it out loud. “Me and a couple friends had plans to celebrate by indulging in a little. I had the plug so I picked it up. Got pulled over on the way back to my crib.” I still wasn’t exactly sure what the officer had pulled me over for in the first place, but it was too late to ask those kinds of questions now.

  “So you were picking up weed to celebrate. What exactly were you celebrating?”

  “A song I made… we made… got played on the radio for the first time.” The exact moment I heard my voice blaring through the car speakers was still fresh in my head. Even though the song had only got a play during the local music hour, it was still a dream come true to ride to my own shit.

  “So you’re a what… rapper or something?”

  “I told you, I’m an artist.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Right. Well I hope you understand that the kids we serve here are incredibly impressionable, meaning all that weed and whatever other illegal activities you may... or may not rap about in your songs gets left outside of these doors. Understood?”

  I nodded my head yes.

  “Now there’s a few things I need you to…” her voice trailed off while her eyes went wide at whoever had entered her office. She stood up abruptly, smoothing out the bottom of her dress as she rounded her desk. I turned around to see who had stolen her attention and to no surprise, it was some suave ass mothafucka.

  Reagan was fine as hell, even though she looked mean more often than not in the short amount of time we had spent together. But there was still no missing the pretty. And this mothafucka certainly matched her pretty.

  From the looks of things, I could assume she was sweatin’ ol’ boy as her whole demeanor seemed to change right before my eyes. Though I couldn’t exactly tell if she was happy to see him or so pissed off at him that she was forcing herself to play it cool instead of going off.

  “Hey Reagan. I was just…” He peeked over at me, changing the route of his statement. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I had caught you at a bad time.”

  “That’s usually what happens when people show up uninvited.”

  Oh shit.

  She’s definitely pissed off at him.

  I sat back in my chair amused as I watched the drama unfold.

  “Reagan, I told you I was coming by the center this week when I saw you the other day.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, cocking her head to the side to hit him with another blow. “Which has nothing to do with you being in my office right now, Michael. As you can see you’re interrupting something important.”

  “Oh, what is this? Another one of your charity cases?”

  Wait… hold on.

  I’m a charity case?

  “No. Actually he’s my… boyfriend.”

  Boyfriend?

  Reagan peeked over to me with a smile, the first smile I had seen from her since I’d been here. But her eyes read totally different, pleading with me to go along with what she had said.

  So I did.

  I stood up to my full height which was a few inches taller than baldy, wrapping my arm around Reagan’s shoulder as I told him, “Listen, man. I’m not sure who you are or why you’re here or why you’re so… put together. But Reagan’s obviously not feelin’ you anymore.”

  “Because she’s what? Feelin’ you? I hardly believe that shit.” He brushed me off with a laugh like I was just some clown, adding fuel to my acting flame. Surprisingly, Reagan remained quiet, probably unsure of how to make her point.

  So I did it for her.

  I leaned down, using my free hand to tilt her chin up before I gave her a kiss. And not just a peck, I’m talking tongues and groans and a whole bunch of other shit I didn’t really know I was capable of until I tasted her lips. I pulled away, skeptical of how she had taken the whole thing and she actually looked satisfied, her eyes still partially closed as if she was savoring the moment.

  “Still don’t believe me?” I asked him with the biggest grin I could come up with, though I was still confused about the whole situation myself.

  And of course he was pissed, fumes damn near coming from his ears as he said, “Oh, it’s like that, Reagan?”

  She sighed, her body getting even closer to mine as she said, “Michael, you can either leave or I can let him kick your ass. But either way, we are through. Beyond through.”

  My ears perked at the whole “kick his ass” thing. I mean, sure I could throw blows with the best of ‘em. But I damn sure wasn’t about to fight some nigga over a girl that wasn’t even really mine.

  Luckily I didn’t have to as baldy took the cue, tossing out, “Fine then, Reagan. Be that way.” before turning to leave. But he only got a few steps away before he stopped dead in his tracks.


  “Oh, by the way.” He turned around wearing this deranged ass smirk as he continued, “Alicia wanted me to give this to you.”

  I watched closely as he reached into his coat pocket and thankfully pulled out a pearly white envelope as opposed to a gun, handing it to me instead of Reagan.

  His grin was cocky as hell as he told her, “I’ll be sure to mark you down for a plus one.” Then he walked out for good.

  Once he was completely out of sight, she snatched away from me while also snatching the envelope from my hand and ripping it open to pull out whatever invitation was inside. And after reading the contents a few times over, she threw them on her desk.

  I could only sit there, unsure of what to say. I had picked up a few context clues along the way, but…, “Who’s Alicia?”

  Reagan’s eyes were tight as she answered through clenched teeth, “Alicia is Michael’s fiancé.”

  “Fiancé? Yo… he was in here gettin’ tough with you and he’s engaged? What type of shit are ya’ll on around here?” The situation was way deeper than I thought. I mean, I honestly just found it fun to do a little improv, and I did get a bomb ass kiss out of it. But I certainly would’ve stayed in my rightful place if I knew the plot was this thick.

  Reagan only sighed, initially appearing overwhelmed herself. But it quickly turned into a scowl as she said, “You know, this is really none of your damn business.”

  “Oh… that’s funny. Cause it certainly seems like my business… girlfriend.”

  She only rolled her eyes in response to my teasing, shuffling papers around on her desk as she tossed out, “Don’t you have a girlfriend of your own, G. Griffey?”

  “Nah, I don’t have a… wait a minute. G. Griffey?”

  Her eyes went wide again once she realized she was busted. She did know me; at least that side of me. But I still couldn’t put my…, “The show. You were at the show this weekend at The Black Market with your friend. Front row.”

  That’s where I recognized her from. Her hair was a lot different then, wild curls swept to one side of her head. And she wasn’t wearing the glasses that night either, though they did give her the whole sexy-teacher vibe. But I could remember watching her go from unimpressed to singing along like everyone else by the end of the show, up until I did my final number with Shy.