Free Thirsty by Mike Sanders

“I’m half-African American and half nigga.”
She laughed.
She looked at me and stated, “I figured you to be part Asian or somethin’.”
She reached for my necklace and caressed it as if she were appraising it. She raised her sunglasses and squinted, trying to make out the charm.
She finally asked, “What is it?”
I lied again. “It’s a face.”
Actually, the charm was a white-gold, diamond encrusted ski-mask.
“Nice ice. What do you do?” she asked nonchalantly as she readjusted her Gucci frames.
“I direct traffic,” I replied, exhaling smoke.
“Say what?” She sounded confused.
“I make sure certain niggas stay in they lane, ya dig?”
She looked perplexed as hell, missing my meaning. However, I didn’t bother to clarify myself. We conversed for a few minutes before I ended up giving her my number. She wouldn’t give up hers, a clear indication that she more than likely had a man. If her man was the owner of the BMW, then I definitely wanted to see that nigga, just to make sure he was in the right lane.
I walked back to my bike to rejoin Cross while D.C. continued to holla at the passenger.
After I’d climbed onto my bike Cross looked over and asked, “Who them hoes?”
“Some bitches from Jersey. The driver is…is…damn, I done forgot the bitch’s name already. Um...um, damn!” I was snapping my fingers, trying to remember the girl’s name. “She just told me. I know it’s a color. Beige? Nah, that ain’t it. Oh, yeah, Tan! That’s it, Tan. Damn, a nigga need to quit smokin’ so much weed. That shit’s fuckin’ wit’ a nigga’s memory.”
Cross shook his head with pity as if he wanted to say “that’s a damn shame.”
Just then, D.C. was smiling as he walked back over to where we were parked.
He said, “Yo, I don’t know who them bitches fuckin’ with but whoever it is gotta be holdin’. Did you see them diamonds on them bitches’ fingers an’ shit?” D.C. was climbing back onto his bike as he spoke.
“Yeah, I peeped that,” I replied. “You come up?” I was hoping he’d gotten the girl’s number.
“You know I did. Hell, I knew you wasn’t,” D.C. responded, laughing. He waved a piece of paper. “You know I got the gift of gab, nigga. A bitch don’t stand a chance if she sit there and listen to me for more than five minutes.”
It was a good thing he had come up with the digits because we would surely need a way to contact the girls if we planned on getting at their niggas. While we were talking about the broads in the Beemer we heard the sound of motorcycles with loud ass pipes coming down Beatties Ford Road, nearing the park. The bikes were so loud it sounded like a thunder storm was headed in our direction. I looked around and tried to pinpoint the noise and I saw four bikes being stalled near the entrance of the park. The two bikes in front were painted with that candy shit that looked like it was dripping wet. The two in back were flip-flop painted and all four were Italian-built Ducatis, the most expensive bikes on the market.
The sound of Cross starting his bike made me look over at him. He was putting on his helmet as he watched the four bikes slowly progress up the strip in the slow moving traffic.
He looked at me and D.C. and said, “I’m about to bounce. Y’all comin’?”
D.C. and I looked at one another.
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere; it’s too much pussy floatin’ ’round out here,” D.C. answered.
Cross then looked over at me with raised eyebrows.
“Hell nah I ain’t ready either,” I answered.
Cross continued to watch the strip before abruptly pulling off. As I watched his bike with the new paint job he’d recently gotten I realized how much differently his joint looked. It looked like a totally different bike.
“Paranoid ass nigga,” I mumbled to myself while watching Cross pass the four Ducatis as he exited the park.
“What that nigga goin’ through?” D.C. asked.
“He act like he geeked up.” I replied while watching Cross