Short stories that aren't all that short, but they are that good.
A book of one-shots all featuring (many different versions of) Chris Brown.
Mostly song-based, alternate universe scenarios. Updated randomly. Chapters with sexual content will be l...
This story is intended for an 18+ audience only. No AI was used in the creative process or writing of this story. All rights reserved
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Take me up on Sweet Lane, down to Sticky Avenue
Chris is already at the bar waiting for his date to arrive when she cancels on him. She doesn't even bother calling to cancel, just sends a (not nearly apologetic enough) text explaining that something 'came up' and that they'll have to reschedule for another day. Never mind the fact that the date is supposed to start in fifteen fucking minutes.
It's humbling as shit. He's never been cancelled on or stood up or anything remotely close to that before, and the cancellation hits even harder because he's been trying to get a date with this woman for weeks now, ever since he first saw her facing a fat blunt outside the club on his cousin's birthday. She was sexy and a stoner, his two biggest weaknesses. They'd flirted for a bit, and he'd left the building with her number in his phone and her name on his lips.
He didn't initially mind the weeks that'd passed in his pursuit of her. He just figured she was a busy woman with her own shit going on, a quality that was becoming increasingly necessary in a woman the older he got. He also really loved a good chase — the flirting and bantering, the building of tension, the slow but sure progress. But as he sits at the bar, fighting to keep the embarrassed flush threatening to creep up his neck at bay, his mind starts to replay all the moments that, in hindsight, kinda make it seem like she was actually playing in his face — and his phone — all along.
Since he's already at the bar, he orders himself an old fashioned to try and take his mind off it. He's lowkey mopey as he sips his drink. The bourbon burns on the way down, a perfect match for the hot disappointment thrumming under his skin. Is he falling off? Losing his touch? He feels like a loser, an unfamiliar emotion for him. How do niggas cope with this?
He decides to stay and people-watch. The drive back is seeming more long and daunting than ever. Plus his fine-ass woman senses have been tingling since he first walked in, but he'd originally thought it was because his date must've been around. This isn't the usual kind of place he'd be seen at, given the aforementioned daunting ass drive, but he put on a fit and drove all the way here, so it can't be for nothing. It's midday on a Tuesday, so he assumes everyone at the bar is either a victim of the current job market or crazy as fuck.
He sips the old fashioned thoughtfully, a single oversized ice cube clinking around the glass with each tilt of the drink to his lips, his eyes slowly moving around the dimly lit bar. Mostly middle-aged white women, one with a fresh baby sleeping on her shoulder as she sips a martini with a group of friends. Somebody's type, but definitely not his. Not interesting enough to observe either.
