Hood Soaps (G Street Chronicles Presents) by Ric Nero

Author:Ric Nero [Nero, Ric]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, United States, Women's Fiction, Two Hours or More (65-100 Pages), short story, Series, womens fiction, bookclub, Suspense, Urban, Sex, gstreet, African American, street lit, action, essence, goodreads, drama, gstreetessence, urban fiction, relationship, drugs, fast paced, deceit, love, urban lit, Romance, lies, Erotica, scandal, Thriller, Mystery, urban books
Amazon: B00I04E62G
Publisher: G Street Chronicles/G Street Digital
Published: 2014-01-22T05:00:00+00:00

For The Love of the Hustle

Chapter 1

Slay

February 18th 2010

It’s a Saturday night, and I’m looking to get into a few things. New face in a new place. I’m sure to find everything I’m looking for. I talked to a few people ‘round here, and they sent me here to the Uptown, a bar off Vermillion Street. It’s really kind of a small hole in the wall. It wasn’t like the big clubs I was used to going to back where I was from, but it was an all right place, I guess. Plus, I was alone, so wasn’t no need for all the extravagant shit. After walking in, I saw that the bar area was packed from wall to wall. I had suspected it would be, since it was a Saturday night. The chatter of the other people tuned out the music of the juke box. The sound of cue balls smacking into other balls on the pool table rang in my ear as I sat at the long stretch of the bar.

White boys all over the room were half wasted, trying desperately to get the attention of the ratchet women that were scattered all throughout the bar. The aroma of smoke filled the air, but no one was smoking inside the bar. The smell of nicotine was so strong that it had to be in the clothes of some of these chain-smoking motherfuckers.

“What can I get you?” the bartender shouts over everything else going on in here. He is a white guy, maybe mid-thirties, with short hair slicked back.

“Give me a shot of Henn, B.”

“We don’t got that,” he answers. I looked at him in disbelief.

“Seriously?” I ask the man. “What type of bar is this where Hennessy is not an option?”

“Sorry,” he says with raised eyebrows as he bites his lip.

“Well, what do you have that’s close to it? And please don’t tell me Paul Mason.”

“Well, we got Captain Morgan.”

I laugh under my breath. Captain Morgan, the white boy’s version of Hennessy. I shake my head.

“That’s not even a cognac. It’s a rum.”

He remains quiet and repeats the same facial gesture as before.

“Fuck it, B. Give me a triple,” I tell him.

“You talk a little different. You’re not from around here are you, mister?” he asks me.

It’s clear he’s trying to establish some type of bartender regular customer relationship to keep me coming back to this bar, but I really ain’t for the buddy-buddy thing at all. I look at him as if to say fuck what he’s talking about.

“Just get me my drank, man.”

“Comin’ right up!”

I take a look around the room to get a better feel of the place. I see a few Mexican mamis and a few white chicks. Everyone else are white boys, just tryna get white boy wasted. I am just getting into town, and they said this was where a nigga like me could have some fun if I was looking to get into something. The bartender comes back and slides me a tall plastic cup.

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