Her.

1.

1. Flashbacks

"Ms. Wynter James," an irritated voice yelled, echoing through the clinic's waiting room full of patients waiting to be looked at. I rolled my eyes, getting up from my seat. Could the bitch be an louder?

"I'm her," I announced, approaching the pale heavyset middle aged woman. She sized me up and down before reading her little clipboard and looking at me over the glasses on her skinny ass nose.

"Funny, I thought the chart said you were eighteen," she mumbled, reading the chart again. I folded my arms across my chest and popped my neck, intentionally smacking my gum loud enough for everyone to hear, "I am eighteen—and?"

I could feel half the eyes of the niggas in the clinic glued to my ass. Too bad I wasn't here to be takin' anybody's daddy home, I was here to stop Dre from becoming one.

"Hmm," she ran her eyes over me again before turning her heels, "follow me, please."

My mama named me wynter because she said a cold heart is what makes a good woman. She's sensitive to nothing, makes her money, and stays out of the way. The best part is, everybody in the streets wanna fuck her, and they all even dream about it sometimes, but they ain't never gonna say nothin' cause if ya nigga doin' his job right, they would be scared to even look ya way. And that was my mama.

She also named me wynter cause my daddy's name was ice—well that's what the street's called him atleast, until he died. I was only one, but I know that had to be the only man my mama ever had true feelings for.

"Alright, wynter, so I just need you to lay back for me and relax," Dr. Gilbert instructed. I clenched my jaw, hesitantly laying back into the cold mental table, careful not to move. I took a deep breath.

Mama always told me only a weak woman has an abortion. She said you had the decency to lay down with a nigga and let him stick his dick in you raw, you suffer the consequences, but a real woman always takes care of her responsibilities. My mama ain't know I was pregnant, but I didn't want her to. She got pregnant with me when she was sixteen, and my daddy made sure we had everything we could ever want or need, But Dre doesn't want kids and neither do I—so why would I bring a child into this world that isn't wanted?

"Now first you'll feel a little pressure, then some discomfort, and then you'll feel some slight pain. After that, you shouldn't feel anything at all for the rest of the procedure." I swallowed, closing my eyes and breathing heavily.

"Deep breaths, ms James. Deep breaths."

"You too fine to be fifteen," Dre tipped my chin, smirking, "You a dime, shorty. You carry yaself well, I like that. You mature."

"And? So what you tryna say, Dre?" I blushed, playing with my manicured fingers. Looking up, Dre leaned in closely, biting his lip.

"I'm sayin' I want you to be my girl, Wynter. Fuck them other girls, they ain't shit like you. I could take care of you, get you out the hood."

Andre Harris is Twenty-four and fine as hell. He's brown skin with curly hair and a sexy ass Colgate smile. His mama cuban, but his dad is black. He sell drugs around the way but he works at the Cheesecake Factory as a cover up so niggas wouldn't be suspicious.

I been fuckin' wit him for a year and some change now, and he's different than all them other lame New York niggas. He's not broke and he drives a BMW. Me being seen on his arm is too good of an opportunity to pass up, I think it's bout time I let these bitches know.

We met outside a bodega right around the way. I was just leaving from buyin' my mama's cigarettes and afterwards I was gonna go over mahogany's house. Dre was outside the store with his niggas, posted against the brick wall, just chilling.

He was fine too, I noticed him tryna peep me out, but I ain't say nothing. I'm only fifteen and he looked way older than me, but ion care. A nigga Is a nigga, and by the looks of his creaseless 12's and his Gucci belt, Dre was a nigga with money. He had a lil chain too. By the way it glimmered in the sunlight, you knew that shit was real.

"Aye, ma, Hold up," Dre chased after me, calling behind me. I rolled my eyes as I turned around knowing I really wanted to smile. He ran after me just as I thought he would.

Just like mama said, I'm cute. Ain't a nigga in the world that don't want what I got to offer; this beautiful chocolate skin and naturally long hair, fat ass, thick full hips and sexy thighs.

"Where you off to?" Dre asked, trying to make conversation.

"Why?" I popped my neck. He smiled, his eyes running over me slowly.

"I can't have yo pretty ass out here walkin' these streets. Niggas might think you single."

I dropped my hand to my hip and rolled my eyes, "mister, you want something? Cause I know you ain't jog way over here to ask me if I'm walkin' home."

"Let me give you a ride," he licked his lips.

I blinked at him. I knew his ass wasn't serious.

"I'm aight," I turned away, flipping my hair over my shoulder.

"Aight," he shrugged, "nice meetin' you, shorty."

That's it? I turned around, furrowing my eyebrows together.

"That's it? You just gone let me go just like that? You New York niggas lame," I turned up my nose at the thought.

Dre smirked, chuckling.

"I'm not just one of these New York niggas baby, I'm Andre. I'm parked right over there in that white Benz truck. You want that ride or nah?"