Revenge Is Best Served Cold 1, 2, & 3 by J.J. Jackson

Author:J.J. Jackson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: top urban fiction books, urban fiction, ashley & jaquavis, jaquavis coleman, felony books, jordan belcher presents, leo sullivan, david weaver, sister souljah, wahida clark, eric jerome dickey, e lynn harris, terry mcmillan, street lit, hip hop fiction
Publisher: Felony Books
Published: 2017-08-25T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 26

Terry

"Sage, you one bad ass," I tell'a on the way home.

"No, you are. I saw Miles and his boys all over you and that paid ass Reco.”

“Chile pleaz, he couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

“I thought Cherry Bomb was going to explode. She just knows that's her man. I was watching and prayin' that she would play frog. I been wantin'ta fry her ass for the longest.”

"That sounds like I'ma-fuck-you-up words to me?"

"Nah, it's just that she thinks she's the fuckin' cat's meow and for real she's the cat’s shit."

"Dang, Sage, don't cut'ah too much," I let out, surprised. I neva seen my girl act this way before.

"Anywho, I saw'em slip you his number. How much you make sitting out in the crowd?" She's being nosey.

"I didn't count. I think about 2G's, that's all." I minimize it.

"That's all? Hell, all you did was sit and drink. I did all the work." She laughs. "You should've got up and danced. The skies would've been the limit. I could see it now—Reco jumping up, pouring all his dope change on yo ass."

"Naw, I can't do that. Not like you, you was flippin’ on tables, doing the damn thing! Girl, I neva eva seen no shit like that. No wonder I couldn't hang onto my men. I gotta get my game up," I tease.

"But every one wasn't doing that, Terry. And you see they still got paid. All that is, is showbiz, nothing else," she tries to convince me.

"You right, but everything ain't for everybody. How much you make? It was like two trash bags full of money. I was looking hard, girl, peepin' that fuckin' bag," I say, rolling my eyes, turning to look out the window.

"I think Big Munch counted 8G's."

My head does a flip her way. "Bitch, Bitch you make 8 bands and all you did was flip and lick. Shit, I was in the wrong business. Do you make that every night?!" I ask with wide eyes.

"Hell no. Sometimes 10-15. Sometimes on a slow-slow night 3 or 2; it depends on the night and who’s in the club. Tonight one of the guys—the guy I pulled on stage—it was his birthday. He’s a major hustler."

"All I can do is give you your props. You bad. That's how you got them nice ass cars and that big ass house. And don't think I didn't peep the blinged out Rolly. That damn watch gon' make somebody cut yo' fuckin' arm off."

"Terry, you act like you never had money."

"That I had, but I didn't buy shit like you. I had two cars, one truck and a house. I never flossed ‘cause Byron taught me that flossin' a get you late. That's why it never added up when somebody tried to kill me. I knew it had to be somebody I knew ‘cause they never asked for money,” I remember as a long tear escapes my eye.

"Stop crying, Terry. They got his ass and it's over."

"Maybe, maybe not."

"Why you say that? You don't think they got the person that did that to you?"

"I'm not sure.

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