Another Sisterwives of MBJ Collaboration is here! A compilation of short stories featuring none other than Michael B. Jordan as expected. If you enjoyed our last installment, then you're familiar with the smut, fluff, and humor we have to offer. Onl...
Reposting this one, hopefully it'll let y'all comment right this time🤞🏾🤬 ————— "So you coming girl? It's gon be lots of niggas there."
"I'm good. I'm not tryna meet no niggas. I'm tryna meet a man."
Violet was thirty-three and far past the time for games. She was focused and didn't want a man to come and throw her off her game. That's what her 20s had been for and she'd left them behind almost four years ago.
"I need you to be my wingman though. Pleaseeeeee."
"Fine. I'll come, but I'm driving and just know I'm leaving yo ass when I'm ready to go."
Three hours later she was in her car listening to Siri giving her directions to the kickback.
"Girl, where the hell we going?"
"Uhhhhh..." Trina knew if she'd told Violet where the party was, she wouldn't have come. She loved her friend, but she could be uptight and snooty.
"Um, hello. I'm not talking to Siri's ass, Trina."
"Oakland," she squeaked.
"Trina!"
"I know. But I really wanted to come. This is Devante's best friend's party and I didn't want to go alone. I won't know anyone else there."
Trina was the opposite of Violet in that she was blinded by her desire for companionship. Most times she'd end up hurt or used, or both, only to make the same mistake with the next guy. Devante seemed to be a little better, but Violet hadn't met him yet, so she couldn't say for sure. Violet had a keen intuition and she rarely read people wrong. She was eager to see what Devante was all about.
Violet looked at the GPS and saw they only had about 10 minutes left on their ride. If they hadn't been so close, she would have turned back in the direction of her condo.
They pulled up to the home and compared to the others on the block, it looked out of place. It was, well, nice. No doubt an anomaly among the rest of what comes to mind of what people may think "typical" Oakland looks like.
Violet groaned when she realized they'd have to park about a block down the street. Cars lined the area and she hoped the people who drove those cars weren't in the same place they were headed. It was a futile hope and as they got closer, the smell of ganja overwhelmed them. They were hit with another wave when they opened the door to the home.
"You're paying to get my hair washed, Trina!"
Violet was forced to yell in her friend's ear. Music was blaring from a wall of speakers to her right. It was artistic in a way. They resembled something she'd seen at a museum last summer in Brooklyn.
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The pair weaved through the crowd of people. Some looked like Oakland natives, some looked like hipsters, others looked like something else entirely. It was just mid-afternoon but there were already people here and there passed out drunk.
