Lighter Shade of Brown (Urban Fiction) BWHM

Chapter 6 Part 3

The Chevy lurched from the curb, shooting back into traffic almost colliding with a silver Honda Civic. Cleo clawed at the velvet, searching for anything to hold onto as she slid across the seat and crashed into C's side. His arm wound around her, shackling her to him. Not wanting to risk a wreck, by struggling to break the cement hold, she remained tucked under his muscular limb until he pulled the car safely into the driveway of his yard. Soon as he parked the car she wrenched away from him and hurried out of the Chevy, tripping over Ant in the process.

"Slow down." Ant warned as he clasped her shoulder to steady her. "Don't bust yo' dome to spite C's, ole crazy ass girl.

Cleo yanked herself out Ant's grasp, shooting him a unit before she turned to walk in the direction of the porch. Fuck C's. She'd had enough of him for the rest of her grandchildren days. Tech was right, his trifling behind had more hoes than Hue Hefner knew what to do with. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! On a scale from zero to ten, she was off da meter dumb. She should've known a dude as all that, as C's couldn't be for real about a hood rat from the Ninth.

Stomping pass C's into the house, she dived for the phone on the coffee table. If he didn't want to take her home, she'd just call a cab.

C's snatched the phone from her. "Holla at me, bae."

When she served him up a unit, instead of trailing him like a puppy to his room, he shoved the phone in his back pocket, and spun on his heel to jog upstairs. Contemplating everything that had happened that afternoon, she ignored Ant when he came in the living room and brushed pass her to heave himself on the sofa. Folding her arms, she glared at the stairs. There was no way in the world she going after him for the phone. She'd rather go across the street and break up the dice game by begging to make a call, than follow C's double slick ass to his room.

"You might as well go see what he want." Ant grabbed the remote off the coffee table and flipped on the TV. "He won't take that ass home until you do."

Cleo gave him a, stank face, before rolling her eyes back to the stairs. "Fuck him. I ain't goin up there." She snapped, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "Let his ass call one of his hoes. Run his tech on the next, since he don't fuck with black chicks."

Vindicated anger coursed beneath the surface of her skin searching for any outlet in which to manifest the degree of its rage. Now she saw why sisters went for the ride first. Automatic reciprocation. No matter if the brother was white, black or brown, they all worshiped their rides how they should've been loving their woman. Humph. Fuck with the real main chick, and C's would feel her pain in doubles.

"So what?" Ant asked, his eyes trained on the television. "You're gonna cut off your whippin' hand to spite your hustle? If you want that phone or a ride home, better let the devil have his say. You'll be standing there lookin' stupid 'til you do."

Damn! Ant was right. She was done looking stupid on the account of C's. He'd made an ass out of her more than one time that day. One more slight, would drive her head game clean over the edge. Reluctantly, she whirled on her heel. Her tennis skirt flared out around her upper thighs, probably even teasing Ant with a hint of panty. But she could care less about the type of shots she'd served up. She had serious beef to deal with. Beef that had grown and thrived so fast over the course of four days it was sheer ridiculousness in all its bullshit glory.

The march up the stairs to C's room was too damn short in her opinion. A little more time to lock down the ringing in her mental, would've been appreciated. She needed her mind working beyond capacity, firing off like a double barrel sawed down shot gun putting in work in a drive by. C's was slick with his words. Spanish...English it didn't matter. Dude worked both languages for desired results.