You Know How I'm Coming: An African American Romance by Kimberly Kellz

Author:Kimberly, Kellz
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tiece Presents
Published: 2024-01-25T00:00:00+00:00

A week later…

“Aye, you almost done in there? I need to speak to you about something.”

“Yeah, give me a minute.”

“Ight but I meant to tell you, good looks with the assist,” Mitch spoke, as if I didn’t just tell this nigga to give me a minute.

“Fuck you talkin’ ‘bout?”

I moved around the station where I had my newest strain of weed growing nicely in my homemade pots. I took my time watering the soil with compost tea ‘cause this wasn’t something to rush.

“Dionne, nigga. She cool as fuck.”

Discreetly, I sucked my teeth ‘cause that was the last thing I expected this nigga to say. “That’s wassup.”

Mitch started to say something else on the matter until I gave the nigga a look.

“I’ont wanna hear your grown ass gushin’ about a schoolyard crush. Give me a minute and I’ll get with you ‘bout that other shit.”

Mitch nodded, then eased from the doorway. I shook off the irritation and got back to work. Growing weed was an exact science. Certain strains needed more light than others, more water than others, and all that other shit. Everyone knew when I was at the greenhouse, conversation had to be kept at a minimum.

Niggas thought I was wild shifting gears in how I got my money, but change was necessary. Before Pops got clean, the nigga didn’t know nothing about financial literacy. The money he made from his warehouse job went to the necessities and alcohol. I appreciated having the basics in life, but I wanted more. I wanted the same shit the niggas I hung with had. I wanted the foreign clothes and kicks to match. My motivation to get to the money was strictly materialistic, but what sixteen year old didn’t want the finer things in life?

I started out doing errands for some of the niggas that ran the block. Those errands turned into late night hangs with my big homie showing me the ropes. I tested the waters with selling white, but that shit wasn’t for me forreal.

A random regular night out with my big homie turned into a murder scene real fucking quick. Niggas from a rival hood pulled up and sprayed the block, hitting a young boy. That shit couldn’t go unanswered so, when it was time to ride, I rode. We ran up in a few niggas’ houses, killing everyone inside.

By eighteen, I learned the true meaning behind no face, no case. I watched my big homie clean up every crib we ran in, making it look like we were never there. From there, I learned how to strip a body down and where to dump it. Big homie swore he saw something in my eyes that night, a darkness that needed to be fed, and that muthafucka ate lovely throughout the years. Three years later, and I was known as the clean-up man for all the niggas in the hood. When shit went down, I came through making sure everything was spick and span.

What I was doing to get

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