A/n: about to wrap this up 😬
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Y/n's POV
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I let the blunt burn slow between my fingers, the smoke curling thick into the air above my head. Ty, Q, and Roy were all scattered around the spot, chillin' while the low hum of the NFL game played in the background.
Nobody said much. We was just passing the blunts, letting the silence settle.
The weed wasn't even hittin' like it should. My body felt heavy. I slumped back into the couch, legs stretched out, my arms slung across the back like I ain't have a care in the world. But my mind? That shit was working overtime. But I wasn't tryna talk about it. Not yet.
Not with these niggas for real.
All night we been talkin' about random shit—mostly bullshit, keepin' it light. But that wasn't what a nigga was thinkin' about. My mind was stuck on her. On Beyoncé. On how I felt like I was fucking up everything, on how I felt like I was spinnin' out.
And then it was on Aaliyah and this baby.
Shit was a mess, but the guys knew better than to bring up what was happenin' with me and Bey. They knew I needed space, time to sort through my head before I lost my shit completely. So, we kept it casual. Kept it cool. But damn, that shit was burning me up inside.
Because on top of all this, I was fightin' a whole other battle.
I had lawyers involved now. Ian playin' with Aaliyah—I was making sure I had everything in place to force a DNA test, to prove if this so-called baby was really a nigga's or not. While she playin' that dodging game, coming up with excuse after excuse, talkin' about some "You just need take accountability for what you did and accept your responsibility."
Man, suck my dick.
A nigga not dumb. If it's really mine, let me take a test. Simple. But she tryna drag this shit out, making it harder than it need to be.
At the end of the day, I ain't want this shit to be real. None of it. But if there was even a chance that baby was mine, I had to be sure. I wasn't about to be out here lookin' stupid, takin' care of a kid that ain't mine, lettin' Aaliyah run some fucked up ass game on me.
I'm simply just not that type of nigga. Never have been. Never will be.
A silence fell over the room once the laughter died down. The type of silence that happens when everybody comfortable but there's still something heavy hanging in the air. I could feel Q's eyes on me.
Watchin'.
Waitin'.
Finally, he cleared his throat. "Yo." He started, his voice steady but tight. "I was gon' tell you this shit later, but...niggas back home been talking. And everything kinda makin' sense now, bruh."
I huffed, takin' the blunt from him as he passed it. I took a hit not even lookin' at him. My lungs burned, but ian care. I exhaled slow, tryna keep my face neutral, but I was already pissed. "What niggas sayin'?" I mumbled.
Q hesitated before he spoke again, the words coming out slow, like he wasn't really sure on how he should say what he had to tell me. "Some bartender out in Brooklyn been tellin' niggas he spiked your shit. Said he was spiking all your rounds 'cause a shorty paid him to."
The blunt damn near slipped out my hand.
"What?" My voice was low, sharp with disbelief. "Nigga, what the fuck is you talkin' about?"
Q ran a hand over his head. "That's just what I heard, bruh."
"Nigga gon' risk losing his job for a quick pay out?"
