Free Jayd's Legacy by L. Divine

stocked with Hennessey,” he says, taking two glasses out of the cupboard.
    â€œNow you know I don’t drink. But, I will take some water.” Looking around, I notice it still looks like a party house. There are no family pictures around at all. Just fancy Black art on the walls, big tropical plants in every corner, and plenty of liquor. Nigel puts a bottled water on the counter and I walk over to retrieve it.
    â€œAlright y’all. Let’s get this session started,” Raheem says, coming in from the hallway and leading us through kitchen toward the garage. I step out of the living room, following them both.
    â€œSo, how’s life treating you, Lyttle?” Raheem says, calling me by my former nickname. Nigel hands Raheem a glass of Hennessey and follows right behind me.
    â€œJust fine. And, no one calls me that anymore,” I say, passing him as he opens the back door leading to the converted garage. When I step inside, I’m stunned by how much work he’s done in here. It no longer looks like a garage turned into a makeshift studio. It looks like a professional studio where the garage used to be.
    â€œDamn, Rah. You’ve been hustling hard, huh?” I say.
    â€œMe too, Jayd. We’ve been working hard up in here,” Nigel says, taking a seat on the green, L-shaped couch along one wall. On the other side of the room is the producer’s area, which has a turntable and a mixer damn near the length of the entire wall, several studio monitors, a subwoofer, and two sets of headphones and a microphone. There’s also a desk with a leather executive chair, and two computers for his Pro Tools. On the wall behind the desk is a large shelf lined with CDs, tapes, and vinyl.
    â€œYou guys ain’t playing at all about your shit,” I say, impressed. Most brothas talk about making music but never invest in their art. These two spend every dime on their music, and it shows.
    â€œNot at all. As a matter of fact, we’re only two tracks away from our demo being finished and I plan on taking it to Atlanta with me next month. I want to see if some of Def Jam’s people are interested. I was there over the summer and I ran a track by this DJ up there who says he’s feeling our shit and got the hookup with some of Def Jam’s people. So, we’ll see what happens,” Raheem says, setting his Hennessey down on his desk before taking a seat. “Alright, Nigel, get your punk ass in the booth and make our heads bop,” he says, sounding like the Raheem I know and used to love.
    â€œDamn, nigga, can’t we chill for a minute? I ain’t seen Lyttle—I mean, Jayd—in a couple of years. And, I know you want to catch up with her, don’t you,” he says, taking a blunt and some weed out of his pocket, ready to bless the session in their usual way.
    â€œSo, how’s the White school, Jayd?” Raheem asks, taking a sip of his drink and fiddling with controls on his mixer. Some smooth tunes start to play through the sub woofers, mellowing the vibe in the room.
    â€œIt’s real good, huh, Jayd?” Nigel says, ready to let all my business out. “She’s holding it down, from what I hear.”
    â€œShut up, Nigel,” I say, pinching him in the arm before taking a seat next to him on the couch.
    â€œI wouldn’t expect anything less from you, girl,” Raheem says, smiling in between sips. He looks at me as if he’s undressing me with his eyes and reading my thoughts at the same time. His spirit is so strong. I swear he’s been here a thousand times before.
    â€œHow’s Westingle?” I say, changing the subject. I don’t like being on the spot around Raheem. He can see straight through me, just like Mama. And, I don’t want to tell him too much about my new relationship, knowing he’ll dissect it and twist everything around, like he always does.
    â€œIt’s cool. Better than that