Blood Diamonds [URBAN Y.A.]

Chapter 1: California Love

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Welcome to Blood Diamonds...

California Love! California... knows how to party. In the city of L.A. In the city of good ol' Watts. In the city, the city of Compton. We keep it rockin!

Crenshaw, California -- June of 2002

Carter

BAM! BAM! BAM!

"What the..." I groaned, irritated as hell as I sat up in my bed.

I yawned as I scratched my scalp and stretched my stiff ass arms.

Marcus was sleeping in his bed next to mine. He obviously ain't heard a thing.

"Ay! Ay, Marcus..." I whispered while hitting his arm with my hand.

"Hmmm?" He hummed, obviously irritated, but I ain't care.

"You heard that noise?" I asked him.

"Man, I ain't heard shit. Take yo' ass back to sleep."

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Marcus suddenly jumped up in his bed after hearing the same noises I heard.

"Yo, man what the fuck was that?!" He asked with a deep frown on his face.

That's when I realized that someone was at the front door.

I frowned as I took a good look at the neon red clock sitting on my dresser. It was damn near 4 in the morning. The fuck knockin' on our door?!

"Man, something ain't right about this shit," I stated confidently as I shook my head.

I threw my Adidas flip flops on. Apparently, I had fallen asleep in my knee-length white socks. I ain't have time to put on anything else. Something in my gut just told me that I might have to fuck a nigga up at all costs right now.

BAM! BAM! BAM! The knocks came violently again.

I looked over right beside my bed and grabbed the thick silver metal baseball bat with the black grit tape wrapped firmly around the handle.

"Fuck this shit," I whispered to myself.

"Bro, what 'chu doing?" Marcus asked, concerned as he kicked on his Adidas flip-flops.

"I might have to break a muh' fucka's bones tonight."

I walked straight out of our bedroom with the bat ready in hand. I ain't for takin' this shit, man. It's summer right now and I know niggas is jumpin' silly on the bangin' in the streets. Shit, whoever these muh' fuckas is, they picked the wrong crib to run up to.

By the time I walked to the open entrance leading to the foyer in the house, I saw my mama already two steps from the front door, with a very concerned and irritated look on her face. She's 8 months pregnant and her stomach is more than showing as she wore her pink pajama pants and a large spaghetti-strapped tank top over her basketball shaped belly. Her hair neatly tucked under a silk hair scarf as she yawned before speaking.