Page 37 of Heavy Is The Crown

Jay-1 put his hands up. “A’ight, a’ight. My bad. You right.”

But a few minutes later, after dapping them up and parting ways, as Kenyatta got back in his car, he couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter how much he tried to walk a different path…

The streets weren’t done with him yet.

**********

Kenyatta pulled up to Brooke’s townhouse, the kind of spot that screamed “I leveled up” from where she used to stay when they were together.

It was nice. Cleaner. Quiet. A neighborhood full of nurses, teachers, and social workers; people with steady paychecks and no real connection to the streets. The duplex sat neatly on the block, trimmed hedges in front, a small yard, a porch with rocking chairs that nobody actually sat in.

A Dodge Challenger SRT Hellcat sat parked in the driveway, sitting on 22-inch Forgiatos gold wheels, deep dish with a black lip, sitting on low-profile Pirelli tires; a mix of luxury and street muscle. Shining under the streetlights like a trophy.

Must be the whip she had been throwing up in his face last week. She said it was okay for him to stop by, already knowing she wanted him to see that damn car.

Brooke was calculated. Always had been. This wasn’t just about having her new man’s car in front; this was a statement. A reminder that while Kenyatta was out here piecing his life back together, she was “living good” off a nigga still knee-deep in the game.

Kenyatta clenched his jaw, flexing his fingers against the steering wheel.

She wanted him to feel a way. He did. But not how she thought.

Taking a deep breath, he let the irritation roll off. This wasn’t about Brooke. Wasn’t about whoever she was currently fucking. This was about Kaliyah.

Stepping out, he knocked on the door, already bracing for whatever energy Brooke was about to be on.

It didn’t take long. The door cracked open, and there she stood.

Brooke. She was undoubtedly one of Trinity’s finest, a woman who had always turned heads without trying. But there was a difference between “a bad bitch” and “a woman that commanded a room.” Brooke could never pull that off; too busy with her hand out, a sense of entitlement based on pretty-White-girl privilege.

She leaned against the frame, gray crop top displaying her waist, matching gray leggings hugging her curves, her hair in a messy top bun, lashes full, lips glossed up like she just stepped off somebody’s yacht.

The faint scent of lavender, vanilla, and expensive-ass candles floated past her, wrapping around him before she even spoke.

That smirk was already in place. “Look who finally decided to show up.”

Kenyatta exhaled through his nose. She was on bullshit already.

“Where’s Kaliyah?”

Brooke barely moved as she widened the door.

The inside was exactly how he expected. Neutral tones, sleek decor, throw pillows she’d probably curse him out for touching, a candle flickering on the glass coffee table. The big-screen TV mounted on the wall played some kids’ show on mute.

Curled up on the couch, wrapped in a pink blanket, tablet in her lap, was his baby girl: Kaliyah.

His chest tightened, the weight of fatherhood hitting him hard.

She was eight now, petite like her mama. Though she was biracial, she had his whole face and resembled Traci too much. She was perfect.

Her box braids, beaded at the ends, swung slightly as she shifted, glasses slipping down her nose as she tapped something on her tablet.

He crouched down beside her. “What’s up, baby girl?”

Kaliyah barely glanced up, barely acknowledged him.

“Hi.”

That was it. No smile. No excitement. Just…indifference.

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