Nyla Bridges has dedicated her entire life to becoming the best FBI agent the agency has seen. Working twice as hard because she's a woman... a black woman... to show that she is just as capable, if not more, than her predominantly white, male colle...
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Having reached its capacity, the club was thick, chanting of Camron's Suck it or Not echoing beneath the banister of my reserved section. My profession has never been one to allow relaxation in large crowds—my alcohol intake limited to no more than two and my senses at an all time high. "It just came in. You want me to send Nino in for a seventy-four?" One of my closest friends, Chino, asked. Seventy-four, code for a count up of inventory.
I glanced at my Breguet timepiece, 1:32,agitation beginning to consume. My supplier, Salvador Esquida, has broken our strict exchange time for the past two months, the compromising act too consequential to ignore. "I'll take care of it," my jaw clenched from the reflexes of sinking into bottomless thoughts, suspicion of the sudden change in movements from Salvador. "Yo?" My head turned, following Dray's voice that was notably distorted from the inhalation of natural herbs. "I need shorty and her friend up here." Tailing his sight into the crowd, my eyes landed on the two women, dancing against one another while one recorded.
"Don't let a phone come through here," I downed the glass of Dom Pérignon, staring back off into the crowd. Precautionary measures were taken at each corner, one being there was to be no one I didn't personally know in any section that I was in, exceptions to be addressed and approved by me, and two being no cell phones allowed. My lack of social media and desire to appear on anyone else's stemmed from despise of having my location and business at hand being accessible to anyone that I didn't want to know.
Dray blew out smoke, passing the joint elsewhere, "I call dibs on the red one eating up her shorts. I don't give a fuck who she feels like she wants to go with when she gets up here. She can suck my dick or the bitch is getting out." Swaying, I shoved Dray with my elbow, teeth on display from the deep vocals of levity. Dray, Chino, and I grew up in East Harlem, accompanying each other throughout grade school. As children, a best friend is defined by who you spend the most time with. At the age of twelve, I quickly learned that wasn't the case, it was how a person spent their time during your darkest hour.
"Who is it," I yelled as I paused the game on my Nintendo 64. "Dray, fool." Hopping up from the couch, I pulled the door open, smacking my lips, "an, why are you always beat boxing on my door? My pops already told you he was gon' kick your ass if you wake him up again with all of that banging." Dray waved me off and invited himself in, "nigga, your pops ain't even here. Go get the laundry and hurry up, fool. I ain't got all day."
I knitted my eyebrows, "what am I getting the laundry for?" Dray's eyes dropped down to my T-shirt that was scattered with stains, "you wore that shirt three days in a row." It was the first time I was truly ever embarrassed. I knew my clothes were dirty, which is why I wore a hoodie in the July heat. "My pops hasn't had time to go to the laundry mat. I think he's gong to go today." That was lie. Working two shifts didn't call for much time to do anything but eat with us and make sure our homework was done.
