I’m dressed in my wears zippin’ down I-580 East in my rental, a slick-ass XK convertible Jag, toward Oakland. It’s bright skies and sixty-eight degrees out, and I’m chillin’ wit’ the top down, lettin’ the cool breeze whip through my hair as I make my way down the highway. If I were in Brooklyn right now chillin’ wit’ Chanel we’d be blazin’ and poppin’ mad shit to niggas tryna push up on us. But, I’m here, and it’s me on some solo type shit—for now.

Anyway, I’m on my way to meet up wit’ this nigga Tone—a tall chiseled nigga who reminds me of a browner version of that sexy-ass Boris Kodjoe—for a hot meal. I met the nigga in one of my real estate classes I took a few months back. Uh…yeeeeeah, a bitch’s been in school. And I’ve completed all’a my coursework; just waitin’ to take the exam for my broker’s license. Thank you very much. What? Ya’ll thought a bitch was layin’ low, trickin’ up my paper on wears ’n trips ’n dumb shit? Bitch, puhleeze. I’m tryna make power moves. I’m sittin’ on stacks, and I’m tryna clean that shit up. So far, I’ve been fortunate not to have heat wit’ the Feds or IRS, and I’m tryna keep it like that. So while I’ve been out here I decided I might as well do sumthin’ constructive to occupy my time. Shit, there’s only so much shoppin’ and travelin’ a bitch can do ’fore that shit gets played, anyway. Besides, I’m always gettin’ at Chanel ’bout doin’ sumthin’ wit’ her life, so I figured I needed to be a true bitch and step shit up a notch and do the same. The way I see it, I can get a Cali license, then go back to New York or Jersey and get my papers there, too. There’s fetti to be made and I’m tryna get at it on both ends. And if Chanel decides to get her mind right, I’ma put her on, too. That’s what real bitches do!

Anyway, this nigga Tone finally convinces me to meet up wit’ ’im at this spot called Soul’s Restaurant.