His cologne and his sweaty, musky, I-just-finished-fuckin’-the-shit-outta-ya-ass scent is stamped in a bitch’s head. Other times, I can hear him whisperin’ in my ear, tellin’ me how good and deep and juicy this pussy is. Or I can taste his dick ’n balls on my tongue. Then there are times when I am in bed and I snap up, feelin’ the nigga’s hands runnin’ up ’n down and along the dangerous curves of my body.

For three months straight, the shit had’a bitch jumpin’ up outta bed and flickin’ lights on ’n shit. And that’s exactly why—well, one of the reasons, I bounced the hell up outta Jersey when I did. It felt like the walls were closin’ in on me. And it was rattlin’ my fuckin’ nerves. The other reason I dipped was if I had stayed I knew I would still be bangin’ niggas’ brains out. I needed to prove to myself that I could walk away; that a bitch wasn’t controlled by the shit.

On some real shit, I’ve bodied a buncha muhfuckas and none of ’em ever fucked me up like what went down in AC. Shit. Even when I took B-Love’s head off after I caught him fuckin’ Patrice, I didn’t feel any kind’a way ’bout it. Probably ’cause I plotted on that nigga. I knew what it was. But Grant…nah, there wasn’t a bullet wit’ his name on it, not from me. That shit was different. I was diggin’ him. Wanted to build wit’ him. Bottom line, the nigga wasn’t supposed to be there. But he was. So the nigga had’a take one for the team. And that’s what it is.

You already know when I was bodyin’ muhfuckas there was no time for compassion or sympathy. And there was definitely no time for muthafuckin’ regret. Unfortunately, Grant got caught up bein’ at the wrong place at the wrong time, and got got. The shit wasn’t personal. I couldn’t let it be. It was ’bout clockin’ that paper ’cause a bitch was gettin’ paid by the body. Not gettin’ clanked up. So fuck all that ying-yang ya’ll been poppin’. I had’a do what I had’a do. And sheddin’ a buncha tears ’bout sum shit I couldn’t change wasn’t gonna bring the nigga back.