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  Toy has one backpack on her back and the other she holds in her hand. She takes her time, prancing prissy-like down the steps. “Hurry the fuck up!” Storm shouts. The way she bosses Toy around, no one would ever know that Toy is older.

  Toy picks up her step and trots over to the car. She snatches the door open and plops into the seat. She drops the backpacks onto the backseat before slamming the door shut. “Storm, you is crazy!” Toy shouts with amazement in her eyes. “How the fuck did you pull it off?”

  “Girl, I told you I would!” Storm speeds off recklessly. She slams on the brakes inches before banging into the parked car to her left. “We needed a ride and I got us one.”

  “Let me drive. You gonna kill us in here,” Toy suggests.

  “I can fucking drive!”

  “Bitch, you drive stolen cars.”

  “And this shit stolen.” Storm laughs. “In a matter of minutes, every cop car in Newark and a bunch of niggas gone be looking for us.”

  “Well, let me drive, so we can get the fuck out of Newark. We got a long way to go!”

  Storm doesn’t put up any more resistance. She figures that, with Toy having her learner’s permit, letting her drive would be best. She gets out of the car and they trade seating positions. Storm presses eject on the CD, which is playing loudly. “Fuck that lovemaking shit!” she says with disgust as she tosses the CD out of the window. She digs into her hoodie pocket, retrieving her own CD, which she slams into the deck. The sound of Clipse’s, “Riding around Shining”, rips through the speaker. “Watch out, Virginia! Here we come!”

  3

  Virginia Beach

  Six Hours Later

  4:46 p.m.

  Storm and Toy must have left the rainstorm back home behind them. At around DC, it was like they drove into a different world. The weather here is beautiful. It’s a bright sunny day with temperatures exceeding ninety degrees.

  The traffic here on Atlantic Avenue is bumper to bumper. So many European cars on both sides of the street that one can easily forget their geographic location and mistakenly think they are overseas. People pack the sidewalks on both sides, just observing the car show. A string of motorcycles zip past the still traffic along the yellow line in the middle of the street.

  The group of motorcyclists show off, doing stunts to take the attention away from the exotic cars that fill the block. Camcorders are rolling as a few men pop wheelies along the entire block. Suddenly the block is filled with smoke and the smell of burned rubber as two motorcycles do donuts in the middle of the street. The motorcycle show lasts for minutes, and the whole street is just one big cloud of smoke.

  The traffic opens up a little, and they are able to now cruise.

  “Yo!” a group of males shout out at them.

  Storm cuts her eye over and turns away from them as if they are peons to her. Truly this is overwhelming to them because they have never received this much attention ever.

  Toy slams on the brakes to avoid hitting the group of men, who are crossing the street in front of them. The young men who are dressed in the flyest attire and gleaming jewelry, are staring into the car. One man stops and locks in on them, very suave and debonair-like. As he passes, he spins around and backpedals slowly with his eyes still glued onto them. He flashes a wink at Toy. “Yo, ma!” he calls out.

  Storm watches Toy as her cheeks turn rosy red from blushing. Storm feels as if all the attention is on Toy as usual. She’s so tempted to take the wheel just so she can shine. Before she can ask for the wheel, her attention is caught by an oncoming vehicle.

  A money green Range Rover approaching on the opposite side of the street forces the men on foot out of the picture. The driver and the passenger sit up in their seats staring into the BMW with baffled expressions on their faces. Storm and Toy try their hardest to hide their desperation by staring straight ahead as if they don’t see the men staring at them. The men’s necks swivel as they pass.

  “Damn! Whole truck on it,” Toy says as she watches the Rover in her mirror. The big and awkward truck makes a wild U-turn in the middle of the street, stopping all traffic. “They coming behind us,” she says like the giggly little girl she really is.

  The Rover causes a scene as it comes behind them against the traffic. Just as the Rover catches up with them, the traffic light turns red. Toy stops the car on a dime. The Rover cuts into the space behind them before zipping around the right side of them. Storm looks up into the truck.

  Her sixth sense kicks in and she gets a strange feeling in her gut. As she looks around at the men’s faces, she gets the feeling that these men are from home. She can smell the Newark coming out of their pores. Her heart begins to pound as she remembers that the car they are in is stolen.

  The driver stares at her through squinted eyes. “Shorty, where y’all from?” he asks.

  “It ain’t where you from, it’s where you at,” she replies, thinking quickly on her toes.

  “Real slick. Y’all know K-Black?” he asks suspiciously.

  Storm’s heart skips a beat. “K-Black, who that?” She knows exactly who K-Black is.

  “My man from the Bricks. He got a whip just like this.”

  Toy nudges her discreetly as nervousness spreads over her face. “When they made one, they made more,” Storm says slickly.

  “Same rims and all,” the man says as he studies the wheels closely.

  “They say great minds think alike, so your friend must be a great dude.”

  The light changes and the horns start honking.

  “Where y’all say y’all from again?”

  “We didn’t say,” Storm replies. Toy pulls off into the intersection, leaving the Range Rover sitting in the same spot. Storm watches the truck in her mirror. “Shit,” she says.

  “Yo! We gotta get the fuck outta here,” Toy says nervously.

  “Calm the fuck down. We ain’t going nowhere. We here now. Fuck that!”

  A group of girls dressed in skimpy bathing suits step out in front of them, taking their sweet time. Toy stops short to let them cross watching the girls in admiration of how fly they are. Storm, on the other hand, watches with envy. She immediately singles out the one high yellow complexioned girl in the pack and her rage kicks in.

  She reaches over and mashes the horn aggressively. The girls ignore the horn and continue prancing slowly. “Fuck outta the way!” she yells into the air. “Run them bitches over,” she says loud enough for them to hear. “Acting like they got bumpers on their ass.”

  The girls continue not paying them the least attention.

  Before the group of women are out of the picture, a long line of customized Harley Davidsons creep along the yellow line. The hottest and best designed bike of them all stops short right next to them. The chrome blinds them. Through squinted eyes, they can see the best piece of eye candy they’ve seen so far. The man on the Harley is as black as the tar on the street. The wife-beater chokes his muscular frame. Tattoos cover his shoulders, back, arms and neck. The chrome half-helmet exposes his baby face. Bulky platinum jewelry graces his dark skin like a wealthy African king.

  He sits still as he revs up the bike, screaming for their attention. All focus is on him and the chopper. The entire bike looks like an all-chrome skeleton. Motorcycle lovers know this to be a hundred-thousand-dollar toy with all the bells and whistles: the rest just know it is a beautiful motorcycle.

  They give him the attention that he demands, and when they do, they see his mouth moving but can’t hear him over to the sound of their loud music playing. Out of pure habit, Storm pulls her cap low over her eyes just so he doesn’t see her hair. She looks at him with her best look of seduction, hoping to snatch his attention away from Toy. She’s so used to men falling at Toy’s feet and totally ignoring her that she knows she has to go the extra mile to get attention.

  With his hand, he signals for them to lowe
r the volume. Both Storm and Toy sit on the edge of their seats, hoping to be chosen. Their desperation, they can’t even hide. Suspense fills them both as they wonder which one of them he will choose. “I ain’t gon’ take too much of y’all time,” he says as he flips a card into the car. Just as Toy is reaching for the business card, Storm snatches it out of his hand. Custom Cycles is spread across the top of the card. “That’s my cell number at the bottom,” he says as he looks back and forth into their eyes. “Y’all call me up tonight and see what we can get into. This my city. Let me be y’all tour guide. The whole night on me,” he says with charm. He begins popping the throttle as he stares at them seductively. He flashes a wink at them before cruising off.

  “Bitch, looks like we just hit the jackpot,” Storm says, staring at the fancy business card. Toy rolls her eyes with jealousy, feeling that Storm has stolen him from her. Storm senses Toy’s anger, but she ignores it. “Bitch, we at the money! Told you the money was on the road. Fuck Newark niggas. We global now.”

  4

  Hours Later

  It’s a beautiful night, eighty degrees with a brisk breeze. The chromed out Harley cruises along Virginia Beach Boulevard at a slow pace. The bright blue lights along the Harley’s frame illuminate the streets for many blocks. Lights so bright, the bike looks like a carnival ride.

  This bike was beautiful in the daytime, but it’s twice the beauty in the dark. On the back of the bike, Toy sits with her arms wrapped around the man’s chiseled frame, her hands planted on his chest for her own pleasure. A few feet behind the Harley is the convertible Storm drives, one hand on the wheel, the other on her head, sulking in jealousy.

  She made the call to the man not an hour after their meeting, not even caring if they came across as desperate. Before they linked up, Toy had already decided to fade to the back, thinking Storm already had him in her web. When they got together, although his conversation was indirect, the way he watched Toy was a clear indication that his interest was in her and not Storm. As much as it bothered her, she never let it be known. She’s gotten used to being the third wheel or the last choice when it comes to Toy and a few other girl associates. Even with being used to it, it doesn’t take away the bitterness she holds inside.

  The Harley slows down and pulls over right in front of a club. The line of people at the door, wraps around the corner. Storm double parks as the man and Toy get off the bike. He turns to Storm in the BMW. “Pull right here on the sidewalk,” he commands.

  Storm looks around with uncertainty. “You sure?”

  “Man, pull that motherfucker right here!” He looks to the people in line. “Yo! Watch out!” he shouts with aggression. A few look at him with hatred, but they all move.

  Storm pulls onto the sidewalk awkwardly and is quite embarrassed as one wheel hangs off the curb. She nervously revs up the engine, bringing more attention to herself. Finally, she gets it together and has the car parked in the center of the sidewalk. The line forms around the car.

  She gets out and the attention is on her, not just because of the blooper she just made of herself, but because everyone wants to see who the woman is with the BMW with the out-of-town plates. Toy and the man wait for her at the door. He’s skipped ahead of the line like the boss he obviously is. As Storm is approaching, she and Toy are wearing the same facial expression. Seeing the bouncer checking identification is a problem because neither of them are even legal.

  The three of them stand at the door for minutes before his entourage appears. They are now more than twenty deep. The men chip in their money and come up with over four grand. Toy’s date is obviously the treasurer because they forked every bill over to him. Both Toy and Storm notice that he hasn’t chipped in a dime for his entrance or theirs. He hands the money over to the bouncer who unloosens the velvet rope for them all to enter.

  At the door, a waitress greets them and leads them to the VIP section. With Storm and Toy being the only girls in the entourage of fine men, they feel and are looked upon as royalty. Storm may have lost the man she had her eye on but she has twenty-five more to choose from or rather twenty-five to choose her.

  * * *

  Hours later, after popping countless bottles of champagne and smoking through a half pound of weed, the entourage called it a night. All twenty-five of the men stand at the entrance of the garage. The sign on the garage reads Custom Cycles, which was on the business card that the man gave them. Storm looks to Toy with discomfort as the man fumbles with the keys to go inside the shop. The group of men stand at the door with perversion and desperation in their eyes as they swarm the doorway.

  He looks to the group of men, and with a solemn face, he speaks. “It’s over, y’all. I’m just gonna hang out with my lil peoples for a little while, and we gonna call it a night.”

  “Aw! Come on, man,” a man sighs from the back. “I thought we all was about to chill. It’s still early.”

  “Nah, it ain’t that type of party, y’all. They with me,” he says as he holds the door open for Toy and Storm to enter.

  “You selfish motherfucker. You always hogging the bitches for yourself,” a voice sounds off, causing all the men to fall into laughter.

  “Nah, this ain’t that,” he says as he backs into the garage. Clowning remarks are sent back and forth before he closes the door in their faces. “Please, excuse them,” he says like the gentleman that he’s been all night. “They act like they never saw two pretty girls before.”

  Toy blushes from ear to ear as Storm turns away, not impressed by the flattery. They bang on the door for minutes, clowning and refusing to give up.

  They walk through the garage, and it’s nothing as luxurious as the card seemed. It’s a hole in the wall garage filled with old, beat-up motorcycles, motorcycle engines and parts. The smell of motor oil in the air is sickening. He leads them into the back office, which is a lot tidier than the other room.

  “Have a seat,” he says as he pulls his shirt over his head. He tosses the shirt onto the old and beat up couch in the corner. He walks away giving them a full glimpse of his tatted up back. His wings spread like that of a Silver Back Guerrilla and his traps sit up like shoulder pads.

  He opens a file cabinet and pulls out a bottle of Cristal. They are both impressed, especially since they have never tasted Cristal. Hell, tonight is the first night they’ve tasted champagne. It made them feel quite sophisticated to be sipping champagne, although it was only Moet. They both found it to be disgusting, yet they drank it, just enjoying the moment.

  To them, Cristal is the big league because all the rappers speak of it in their songs. Their mouths water at the thought of it. He passes the bottle to Toy like it means nothing to him. “The cups are over there,” he says, pointing to a desk.

  Toy rushes to the desk to get the cups while the man digs into his pants pocket. He retrieves the Ziploc bag of weed that Storm witnessed him cuff at the club while it was being passed around in plenitude, she caught him cuffing a bag and tucking it into his pocket. She saw him as petty for the act but didn’t think much about it.

  He rolls blunt after blunt, stuffing them generously while the two of them stand like starving Ethiopian children, sipping cup after cup of the Cristal. Just a few cups and they are already dizzy. After three cups, they realize this champagne is no different from Moet. It’s equally as nasty. The thrill is gone. They put the half-filled cups onto the desk and go on over to the couch.

  They look at the coffee table where eight blunts are lined up side by side. He crunches the empty Ziploc bag and holds it over his head. He aims it precisely before tossing it at the wastebasket across the room. “Money!” he says as the bag lands into the basket.

  Obviously no one has ever shared the golden rule with him when it comes to smoking weed with women because he passes them both a blunt of their own. It’s a silent rule among weed smokers to be sparing with the weed when smoking with females because they w
ill huff through all your weed greedily in no time flat. Just as the rule states, they huff and puff on the blunt until the roach burns their fingers. He’s never witnessed a blunt disappear so fast. With no hesitation, he passes them another.

  In less than thirty minutes, they have evaporated both of the blunts he gave them. He passes them the third one while he nurses the same one he’s been puffing on the entire time. The last one he tucks under the magazine on the table, hoping they didn’t see it. They immediately light up and get to puffing.

  Both of them are more high than they’ve ever been. The first one had them at their zenith, but they smoked the other two out of greed. They are so high that they can barely lift their hands to put the blunt to their mouths. They sit there in a near-vegetated state, only able to move the arms that hold the hands that hold the blunts. The rest of their bodies, they can’t even feel.

  The dizziness and the heart palpitations they are experiencing make them feel like they’ve reached a level of high that they never reached before. They are just happy to be in the twilight zone.

  5

  The next morning

  Storm wakes up groggy-eyed and out of it. The room spins before her eyes as she looks around with unfamiliarity. Her surroundings are just not clicking. She can’t remember where she is or how she even got here.

  Baffled, Storm looks down and sees her total nakedness. She looks around at the many motorcycles, motorcycle parts, and engines lying around all over the garage. Slowly it all starts to come back to her.

  She remembers linking up with the man on the motorcycle last night. Faintly she remembers meeting him here, and while he was supposedly waiting on a phone call, he lit a few blunts for them. Strangely that is where her memory stops serving her. The moistness in between her legs makes her wonder what else has happened that she doesn’t remember.