Daddy Long Stroke полностью

I sigh. “I see you wanna beef, so I’ma let you go.”

“Yeah, nigga, you do that!”

“Peace,” I say, disconnectin’ the call, then tossin’ the phone onto the bed. I feel a muthafuckin’ headache comin’ on. And I’m all outta blunts. Fuck! I swing open the bedroom door and head downstairs to get sumthin’ to drink. All the lights are out and the house is quiet. Pops musta dipped over to Moms’, I think, walkin’ into the kitchen. I grab a glass from outta the dishwasher, then open the ’fridge and pour myself some cranberry juice. I take the bag of Cool Ranch Doritos off the counter and head back into the livin’ room.

I flop on the sofa—still heated. I can’t believe that crab-ass nigga told Akina that bullshit, tryna fuck up my groove. Got her comin’ at my neck all crazy ’n shit, like she’s ’bout to dismiss a nigga. She’s straight trippin’, for real. Aiight, aiight…what I did was fucked up, but that nigga had no muthafuckin’ business runnin’ his muthafuckin’ mouth tellin’ her shit. I can’t front on the chick, though. Akina’s always had my back. No matter what time of the day or night it is, anytime I’ve called her, she’s always been Johnny on the spot. Not that she was sittin’ ’round waitin’ on me to get at her. She just seems to always make time for me when I do. But now this fake muhfucka done went and tossed salt in the game.

I grab the remote off the coffee table, turnin’ the TV on. Nigga, what in the hell you sittin’ here trippin’ for? She ain’t ya girl. If she wanna bounce, then tell her bounce. You had a good run. The shit wasn’t gonna last forever. Eventually, she was gonna be out anyway. So, fuck it! I think, flippin’ through the channels. I contemplate callin’ Gee’s dumb ass and blastin’ ’im for runnin’ his muthafuckin’ mouth, but decide to get at ’im the next time I see ’im, or the next time he hits me up. I tell u, muhfuckas gotta always be on some extra shit. I’ma give her a few days to cool off, then get at her to see where her head is. “Hopefully, back in this lap,” I mumble, chewin’ on a mouthful of chips. I take a long gulp of juice to rinse ’em down. As usual, ain’t shit on the television. I’m relieved to catch Dexter on Showtime. Yo, this dude is one sick muhfucka; a muthafuckin’ serial killer workin’ for the police department. That’s some shit right there. Although I’ve missed most of the season’s episodes, I make a mental note to purchase the DVD when it comes out.

Ten minutes into the show, my cell rings. I suck my teeth. It’s Akina callin’ back. I consider iggin’ the shit, but I don’t. “Where are you?” she asks the minute I answer. She doesn’t sound as tight as she was earlier, but there’s still a sharp edge to her tone.

“I’m at the crib, why?”

“I need to see you.”

“For what?”

She huffs. “I’m on my way over. I’ll get into it then.” She hangs up before I can respond. I sigh, shakin’ my head.

Twenty minutes later, she’s at the door wit’ her face all twisted up. I open it and let her in. “I hope you ain’t come over here to beef ’cause if so, you coulda did that shit over the phone, word up.”

She rolls her eyes, brushin’ past me wearin’ a brown three-quarter leather coat and a pair of knee-high boots. “Nigga, ain’t nobody come here to beef with you,” she says, unfastenin’ her coat. “I’m here to set the record straight. And get shit out in the open, once and for all.”

I stare at her shiny lips. They have me thinkin’ ’bout havin’ ’em wrapped ’round the head of my dick. I wanna grab my shit, pull it out, but don’t. She squints her slanted eyes at me. She knows my mind is startin’ to wander. Knows I’m startin’ to become preoccupied wit’ sexin’ her. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She has a strand of hair swooped over her face and it makes her look sexier than she already is.

She removes her coat and wraps it over her arm. She smells good as hell. I inhale, tryna figure out what she has on. I can’t front, like so many of the other broads I fuck—okay, okay…and fucked over—this bitch is bad as hell. She’d definitely be a good woman for someone, just not me. For me, she’s only good for fuckin’.

“You want me to take that?” I ask, reachin’ for her coat.

“Nope,” she says as she walks over to the sofa. I peep the way her designer jeans wrap ’round her ass like an extra layer of skin, and feel my dick jump. She sits down. “I won’t be here long.”

“Oh, word? So what you gotta say to me in person that you couldn’t say over the phone?”