Actually, it wasn’t that he talked me into shit. The nigga caught me at the right time. I was bored, and wanted sumthin’ to do. So that’s what it is. He claims the shit is bangin’, so we’ll see. Although I’m not really feelin’ him on any extras—aside from the fact that he’s mad young; like twenty-four, he’s a cool nigga. Partly ’cause he’s a Jersey head and he got swagger and he’s also tryna make moves, still…

My cell rings. I peep the number, and pick up. It’s him. “Wassup?”

“Yo, ma, you left yet?”

“Yeah,” I say, quickly glancin’ at the GPS. “I’m actually gettin’ ready to turn onto MacArthur Boulevard.’

“Oh, aiight. You almost here. I’ll be outside waitin’ for you.”

“Aiight, peace.” I disconnect, tossin’ my cell onto the passenger seat. Five minutes later, I’m pullin’ up into the restaurant’s parkin’ area. I spot Tone leanin’ up against the passenger side door of a black S550, talkin’ on his cell. He hangs up when he sees me pullin’ up toward him. I park two cars down, shut off the engine, rake my fingas through my hair, then step out like the fly bitch I am in a pair of stone-washed jeans and a brown pullover and a pair of six-inch light brown python Gucci platform pumps. My Gucci jungle tote hangs in the crook of my arm. The nigga watches and grins as I sashay over to him. His eyes lock on the sway of my hips. I bet the muhfucka thinks I’m throwin’ the pussy at ’im. Niggas!

He’s rockin’ a black True Religion long sleeve tee wit’ the front tucked inside a pair of True Religion Joey jeans. He tops his wears off wit’ a bangin’-ass pair of black Mark Nason square-toed boots and belt. The tee is clingin’ to his muscles. Goddamn, I think, flashin’ him a smile, I mighta been sleepin’ on this young nigga. This muhfucka got body for days. He’s lucky I ain’t a bird. Otherwise he’d be pluckin’ tail feathers tonight.

He smiles wider. “Damn, ma, you lookin’ good.”