Page 34 of Heavy Is The Crown

Then—

Kenyatta laughed, shaking his head. “Ain’t no way you asking me for a favor.”

Her body gave in, relenting. “Okay, actually, I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend.”

Kenyatta blinked. “What?”

Stern. “I’m not repeating myself.”

Then the realization sank in. “You serious?”

Krys shrugged, her expression unreadable. “You scratch my back, I scratch yours. You in or not?”

Kenyatta studied her, his eyes lingering a little longer than necessary.

This woman had just met him. Barely knew his full name.

Yet here she was, proposing a whole fake relationship like it was just another business deal.

Krys waited, her expression smooth. A test.

Kenyatta stroked his chin, letting the moment stretch, drawing it out just enough to keep her wondering.

Then, his smirk returned.

“Ain’t nothing free, huh?” He extended his hand across the desk. “Deal.”

Krys took it, her grip firm, her nails cool against his skin.

Kenyatta glanced toward Musa. “You cool with it?”

Musa’s uninterested yawn was a slow, deliberate display of dominance, his massive jaws stretching wide, revealing sharp teeth and a heavy pink tongue, before snapping shut with an audible clack. His deep chest rumbled as he exhaled, eyes half-lidded, utterly unbothered by whatever nonsense Krys and Kenyatta had going on.

It wasn’t just a yawn; it was a statement. Dismissal. Disinterest. A warning wrapped in boredom.

But Kenyatta had a sense that the deal he just made with Boss Lady aka “Gas Station Bae” was going to be anything but boredom. This was about to be interesting.

Chapter 8

The block over on the south side of Trinity Bay never changed; same hustle, same faces, same reckless energy.

Music blasted from somebody’s open car door, bass rattling cheap speakers. Kids were running a full-on basketball game in the street, dodging cars like they had no fear of death.

Trinity Bay’s signature scent, somebody’s grill smoking up the block, the sharp tang of gasoline, loud weed, and just enough gunpowder lingering in the air to remind you this was not the place to be lacking.

Kenyatta pulled up in his raggedy-ass Impala, the engine rattling like it was one bad decision away from giving out.

He spotted Jay-1, Nub, and Tez right where they always were posted up near the curb, talking shit like they had nowhere better to be.

Jay-1 had a blunt pinched between his fingers, talking animatedly, probably on some bullshit conspiracy theory or wild-ass money scheme. Nub, Kenyatta’s older brother, was posted against a mailbox, one arm tucked in his hoodie pocket; the only arm he had left. His gold tooth flashed every time he smirked, which was often. Nothing rattled Nub. He took life the way he took gunshots: head-on.

Tez was the only one not talking, just sitting on the curb with a red Solo cup, nodding like he was listening to some higher spiritual frequency only he could hear.

The second Kenyatta stepped out, Jay-1’s grin widened. “Well, look who decided to crawl out the house. Nigga, you been put on house arrest or something?”

Nub shook his head, eyeing the Impala with pure disrespect. “Damn, boy. You still driving that weak-ass car? That shit is holding on for dear life. Thought prison humbled niggas, not sent ‘em back to square one.”

Kenyatta chuckled, dapping them up. “That’s funny coming from a one-armed nigga.”

---