Wild thoughts of fucking Lovely had him going, and his smile grew wider at the thought of getting more of Lovely. He rubbed his palms together, thinking life was good. Eventually Red would have to tell Low that he was fucking Lovely. That could be done much later.
Even though it was damn special, her pussy was not good enough to jeopardize his future, and livelihood. He was aware that Low hated secrets, but figured that Low wouldn’t give a fuck once he told him about Lovely. Women were an added luxury to a man of Low’s status. A long time ago, Low made it clear to Red that only his wife, Michelle was off limits. Red wasn’t going to allow Lovely to deter him from his destiny. This was a monumental turning point in his life. At this moment, Red’s mind was on presenting Low with a million dollars in cash tomorrow. He needed the dough to complete the final stage of his initiation then he would be an official member of Zoe Pound.
Raising the money was the final test. It had taken four years to raise the amount. Red did this without the guidance or help of Low, and he didn’t have the muscle of Zoe Pound. Low needed to see that Red was not only a hustler, but that he was sharp, and street smart. If Red were able to garner the resource to accumulate one million dollars without attracting the FBI, ATF, and DEA or getting set-up, or worse—getting robbed along the way, he would be worthy to carry on the torch of the Criminal Enterprise known as Zoe Pound.
2Pac’s, All Eyez On Me album rolled on, Check Out Time flowed through the car’s sound system. Nodding his head, Red’s mind drifted further into the struggles he faced in the last four years. Setting the foundation, he was in the midst of making the necessary moves to get a million dollars tax-free. Success came down to making the right decisions. That philosophy never rang as true as it did when it came to the final connection that eventually got Red over the seven-figure milestone.
It was the most critical decision he had to make throughout the whole ordeal. Keys were going for twenty-seven-five up north in Massachusetts, and two determined hustlers out of Boston were in town, and looking to cop thirty of them at fifteen a piece. The thought of killing these out-of-towners, taking their money, and doing away with their bodies seemed like the easiest route at first. Red’s long-term frame of mind kicked in. Quickly, Red realized that if these buyers were about money then not only would he surpass the million-dollar mark necessary, he would also have another out-of-state customer.
There was no necessity to flip coin on this deal. Red already had a solid circle of connections, and was making real good money locally. With close to seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars stashed away already, Red was not in a rush to get that last quarter million. Never the anxious one, Red knew it was better to be safe than sorry.
Knowing this deal could push him over the top, Red chose to roll with his gut feeling. He hit the buyers with the bricks they were requesting at a price tag of seventeen thousand dollars. The deal went down smoothly—that was three months ago. After hitting the Bostonians with their last ten keys earlier, and collecting one hundred and seventy thousand dollars, Red’s net worth stood at nearly a million and a half.
Red put Low’s million in a safe at his condo in Decatur. With the money he owed on the bargained price of two hundred thousand, Red was able to pay for a new Benz, and Torri’s Volante. He headed straight to the Aston Martin dealership, and paid them off. Then he put fifty thousand on a pre-paid credit card for Torri. While shopping at an Armani outlet in DeKalb, Red bought a few dozen outfits.
He booked a V.I.P reservation at P Diddy’s exclusive five-star restaurant, Justin’s. It was there that he planned to entertain his sister in style on her first night back home. Four years ago, Red chose the street game over a shot at going to the NBA. Looking back at the decision, Red felt he made the right choice. Once he started working with Low’s connections, twenty million dollars at the end of the year was a guarantee. Then he and Torri would reap untold rewards. It was a vow he had already staked his life on.
His vibrating iPhone broke Red out of his ruminations. Glancing at the screen, he saw another text from Lovely, sent with a video message. Scrolling, Red opened the video message. He could feel his eyes growing in size while looking at the screen. His mouth stayed open for the entire two-minute video of Lovely seductively rubbing her clit with a vibrator.
‘I’m on my third nut and counting Daddy! WHERE R U?’
The message read, and Red felt an immediate response. “Ooh-wee!” He shouted, his dick already rock-hard.
Desperately pressing the reply button, Red was about to reply, but saw that Low was coming his way. He secured the phone on his waist, and shook his head, whistling in blissful anticipation of a booty-call. Sighing thankfully that Low only needed a ride to the stash-house, Red wanted to drop off his mentor, and haul ass to Lovely’s condo.
“This nigga swear he fly,” Red muttered under his breath when Low got closer.
Looking freshly dipped in Versace silk linens from head to toe, Low was his unflappable self. Flossing five-carat diamond cuff links on his ivory white and gold Versace button-up lit up with every step, Low’s matching ivory white Versace silk slacks were tailor pressed perfect. Cuffed precisely over ivory ostrich skinned, round-tip slip-ons, his slacks were complemented by two large Versace sun pendants on the face of each shoe. Each pendant made of solid gold, with a three-carat diamond flooding the face of the sun—worth about fifty thousand each. Throw in his five-hundred-thousand-dollar, ruby studded Cartier watch, Low looked like a million bucks.
Making his way through the hotel’s massive double doors, Low walked to the valet parking area. A car’s horn caught his attention, and Low’s face lit up when he locked eyes on Red’s McLaren Roadster. Hustlers have a way of communicating without saying a word. The suicide doors swung open on the Benz. Red was telling Low that he was officially in the building. Then Red, one gator foot at a time, stepped out the two-door coupe. Low’s face straight beamed with a great smile. It was a joy similar to a father witnessing his son reaching a higher level of success.
“Okay then pimpin!” Low excitedly exclaimed.
Red glanced to his right, and began to lightly brush his shoulders off. Low threw his head back in laughter at the move.
“I see ya shining nigga!” Low joked, making his way over to Red.
“Yessir, I’m in my motherfucking bag!”
The two hustlers locked hands, embracing with a homeboy hug. Low stole a glance at Red’s wrist.
“Damn, my nigga. You could’ve at least bought yourself a rollie,” Low joked.
“You right,” Red smiled.
“Fuck is this? What you need to know the time in Asia for? Nigga you ain’t an international playa like me,” Low chuckled.
“Nigga, you’re laughing cause your old-ass ain’t up on this new shit,” Red retorted, gesturing towards his canary studded watch.
“That’s what you think…”
“After tonight, even bitches in Japan gonna want a taste of this eggroll. Cause the boy knock down these bricks like King Kong in the flesh nigga!” Red laughed, giving the face of his iced-out watch two assuring taps.
“Say no more, playa…” Low said, jokingly lifting up his hand in an act of surrender before he continued. “But say bro, that’s a mighty nice car you got there.”
Low quickly gave Red’s new ride the once-over. With a raised eyebrow, he glanced back at Red, and asked, “You got your license, my nigga?”
“Ah nigga
