Signed To The Streets Volume I : LOYALTY
In the shadowy alleys of Queens, Maëva Carter Simmons plays a dangerous game. A pawn in the ruthless gang Everybody Gets Murked, she claws her way from a hellish past, her loyalty to the gang her only anchor...
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Upper West Side, Manhattan, New York.
"SO, sweetie, what's the play for tonight?"
I'm on the horn with Ms. Serenity, my PO. She's always checking in, her superiority never fails to aggravate the crap outta me.
"Just getting ready to hustle, Ms. S," I reply, keeping it cool.
"Alright, but make sure you're back in the house by ten," she orders, her keystrokes tapping away. It's like she's reporting every damn thing. "Now, about your townhouse—"
Huh huh.
"What about it?"
"Calm down," she says, all business. "Turns out your name isn't on the lease," she drops it like it's a crisis.
"No surprise there. No landlord's gonna take a chance on a chick fresh outta lockup with no credit," I shoot back.
"I hear you," she stays calm, "but I need some statement from your landlord or someone to square this away."
Yeah, right, like I'm snitching on Missy? The one who hooked me up with this spot?
"She's abroad or something," I fib, trying to switch lanes.
"How do you reach her?" Ms. S ain't letting up.
"I don't. I just show her I paid up, that's it."
"Who do you call, let's say if something breaks?" she presses, her tone pointed.
I stumble over my words, feeling the weight of my ignorance. "Uh, it's in the papers... somewhere," I mutter, trying to dodge.
Ms. S sighs, her patience wearing slim. "Alright, we're done here. Got anything else you want to run by me?" she softens up a bit.
"Oh, hell no, I'm good," I say, itching to wrap this up.
She chuckles, a hint of warmth sneaking in. "Same old attitude, even after all this time! Goodbye Ms. Simmons," she comments before hanging up.
I slide out of my whip, ready to hit the garage button, when I spot the mailman's rig. Gotta stay sharp, so I decide to scope it out, just to be safe.
He clocks me and calls out, "Nina?"
My pulse quickens, brow arching. *Nina's my street handle, earned back in the day. That night at the deli, my aim was spot-on, and they started calling me Nina.
I keep quiet, closing in on him cautiously. My blade's snug, just in case.
He searches into his truck, hauling out a funky briefcase jammed with orange envelopes. He hands me one tagged "Nina."
Ah, I see what's up.
Dude ain't no regular mailman. This is my cut, dropped right at my doorstep. We can't be seen at the trap house sometimes, so they organize these little drop-offs.
