Oakland [✓]

02. worldstar

A/N: What's your favorite color?

"I tell 'em don't fuck with the gang. It's time to fuck up the whole game!"

***

Drake's house was packed wall to wall. The front door was left open, letting anyone who wanted to have a good time on a Friday night enter. So much for invite only. I pass through a sea of sweaty bodies and grinding trying to find Shareese. There's a makeshift DJ booth in the living room where Drake's couch should be, the DJ is rapping along to Rocky as A$ap Forever booms through the speakers. 

A haze lingers over the room smelling like weed and Hennesy, girls are throwing all kinds of ass on the makeshift dancefloor, even though I would hardly consider this a twerking song. I made my way through the maze of red cups and into the kitchen, helping myself to the glass bowl of red punch on the counter. It only takes one sip for me to spit that shit back into the cup and pour it down the sink. 

Shits spiked. 

I stick my tongue out at the nasty aftertaste, replacing the liquor with water from the sink. 

Drake was what I like to call hood rich. He has the biggest house in Lower Bottoms, two stories and a basement. Three years ago Drake moved to Oakland all the way from New York, specifically the Bronx. His dad had some unfinished business to deal with so they flew five whole hours just to take care of it. People say that the Honoret's got their money from their long history of being involved with the Hornets, but others think Drake got his money through making deals with the Maddogs. 

West Oakland turned into a battlefield when some Maddogs decided to raid a Hornet Hive a few months back. Ever since their decade-old feud was retrieved from the dead causing a whole ass territory war. The only proof that related Drake back to the gang was that Hugo, his older brother, repped the Hornets proudly, wearing his yellow bandana around his arm proudly. 

Momma said that if I ever even think about joining a gang she'll whoop me until I can't remember my own name. 

"Zay!" a familiar voice shouts. 

Reese's curly ponytail bounced as she moves through the crowd. We give each other the handshake we made up in middle school. One dap with an added snap, then an intertwining of our pinkies, and to finish it off a two-fingered salute with an "aye" added at the end. 

"Aight so you already know you're my wingman for the night," Reese says, grabbing my hand and leading me towards the living room. "See, I was thinkin' about talkin' to Quincy, the one on your basketball team, but Zion is looking real fine tonight."

"Already trying to get a head start?" I laughed. 

"Duh, why would I miss out on seeing you get 'Shareese' tattooed on your ass forever?"