Page 32 of Certified Pressure
As soon as we hit the gym, I turned up Key Glock and let the beat bang. The bass vibrated through the floor, and I ain’t even gon’ lie, it did somethin’ to me. This was my space with high ceilings, custom equipment, black floors with gold accents, full mirror walls, and a walk-in fridge stacked with water and fresh fruit. I even had a weed stash tucked in one of the spaces.
Toni Roc stepped in like she was ready to go to war. I was glad she had changed outta that hot-ass wig ‘cause she was lookin’ like somethin’ to a nigga now.
“You ready to sweat ‘til you stank?”
She smirked and grabbed a resistance band without even lookin’ at me. “Nigga, I stay ready.”
I let out a low laugh and stretched my arms behind my head.
We started off with squats, then hit push-ups, mountain climbers, and weight trainin’. I wasn’t takin’ it easy on her, and to my surprise, she wasn’t askin’ for it. She was sweatin’ hard, lips parted, breathin’ deep, and locked in like she had somethin’ to prove. I didn’t miss the way she matched my pace. I’d finish a set and she’d still be goin’. I’d grunt from the weight, and she’d just shoot me a look like, “That’s it?”
We fed off each other. The whole gym smelled like we was puttin’ in that work. Her body moved with purpose, and I couldn’t help but notice the stretch marks on her hips peeking from her waistband. Shit like that was sexy to me.
After a good hour of goin’ pound for pound, I walked over to the fridge, popped it open, and grabbed two waters. I tossed one to her, and she caught it without missin’ a beat. I cracked mine and took a swig, still breathin’ heavy.
“You smoke?” I asked, already reachin’ for my stash tucked behind the dumbbell rack.
Toni looked up and wiped sweat from her face with a towel. “Hell yeah,” she said. “Gimmie that.”
I passed her the weed and papers and sat back on the padded bench. “You know how to roll?”
She squinted like I just insulted her grandma. “Boy, yeah, I know how to roll. The fuck?”
I shook my head and handed it over. “We gon’ see.”
She sat across from me, cross-legged on the mat, and got to work. And I ain’t gon’ lie, she was good. She had fingers, a tighttuck and perfect finish. I raised my brow as she lit it and took the first pull.
“Damn,” I said. “You might’ve just rolled that shit better than me.”
“I know I did,” she said, exhalin’ slow.
“Girl, watch out,” I replied as I took the blunt from her, hit it, and leaned back. We passed it back and forth in silence for a moment before I spoke again.
“So what made you come here?” I asked. “To Trill-Land. To this whole… wild ass setup?”
She paused like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to tell me, then sat up a little straighter.
“I want somethin’ real,” she said. “I been tough my whole life, and just want a nigga that can put me in my softens.
I smirked and took another pull. “Oh yeah?”
She looked down for a second, then glanced at me again like she was tryin’ to gauge how honest she should really be.
“I know I’m not like the rest of these girls in here,” she said. “I ain’t delicate or soft-spoken. I’m not the one you bring out when you wanna flex for the cameras. I get all that.”
I took another hit, leanin’ forward a little. “You think I’m lookin’ for soft?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I just know I’m not everybody’s type, and if I ain’t your type, I just wanna know now. Save us both the time.”
I smirked a little. “You do the most. You loud as fuck… wild… Got a mouth sharper than a muthafuckin’ blade.”
She tilted her head like she was bracin’ for the worst.
“But you cool,” I added. “You real, and I fuck with that.”
She smiled, not all big and dramatic like she usually do—just a small, quick curve of her lips before it faded. “I needed to hear that. I ain’t gon’ lie.”
She grabbed the joint from me and sat back like her mind was ‘bout to drift somewhere else.
