BRITISH MAHOGANY RACER. CHICAGO, IL SEPTEMBER 2019.
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"Kyrin, just leave me the fuck alone, okay?" British angrily mumbled as she walked down the dark street of east 63rd street. It was nearly 10:00 pm. Everybody was outside on the block looking for some action if any. British was utterly surprised Kyrin finally got the guts to come out, he used to be in the house so in pain but now he was outside drinking cheap ass Remy Martin and standing on the corners. Nothing better to do.
"What the fuck you block me for?" He repeated the question for the sixth time. British rolled her eyes feeling a headache coming on. She got a panicked call from Celeste telling her to come to Provident hospital and no further information she was over tonight already.
"Do you not understand English? Are your fucking comprehension skills not working?" She asked sarcastically. "Get the fuck away from me before I cut you, and you know I'll do it."
"You mad cause I fucked another bitch—"
"No I'm mad cause you fuckin' disrespectful," she frowned taking the blade in her hand shoving the knife at him making him jump back, "Fuck away from me fo' I cut yo ass for real."
She ignored his commentary as she continued walking down the block, visibly irritated. Plopping down at the end of 64th and King Drive waiting on the bus at the bench. Her head spinning as she pulled out her phone, calling Celeste's phone which went right to voicemail, again. Her nerves were bad and she was starting to slightly panic. Going to the CTA website to see when the next bus was coming, twenty minutes. Way too fucking long. But the fact it had started to rain, Uber was charging $80 for a ten minute ride and she wasn't feeling it.
While calling Celeste once more British cursed. Why was her phone always dead? Trying to keep her feelings at bay, she tried to not overthink and let her mind race.
"Aye?" Nearly jumping out of her skin, she turned her blade in hand still as she met eyes with Dayvon. Sucking her teeth, she closed her blade.
"You can't be sneakin' up on people like that is you good?" She rolled her eyes, attitude laced in her voice.
"Ain't nobody sneak up on yo ass gang," he sucked his teeth, "and naw, is yo ass good? Don't nobody roun' hea' sit on bus stops, you tryna be Tooka Jr. i see."
British glared at him before cutting her eyes, turning her eyes back to her phone screen. "You not funny. And what y'all got a bench ova here for if y'all so called don't sit at bus stops?"
"Shorty, yo ass sittin' on a dead man bench," Dayvon laughed, "this whea' we slump niggas at...you prolly sittin' in blood and don't know it." British jumped up quickly, turning to see a perfectly clean bench. Looking up at amused his face, she frowned.
"Haha, such a comedian." She said sarcastically.
"Naw, fa real. Don't be sittin' at bus stops, whea' you tryna go i'a take you." He insisted.
