Page 10 of Color Me Broken
His phone buzzed.Lil’ Mook. He answered.
“Whaddup tho?”
“Nigga you are coming or not?”
Rage swept over him, “Look, man, I’m comin’.” He hung up, shaking his head. “Dumb-ass niggas always rushin’,” Juelz blew out a breath, getting irritated. He slid the gun under his shirt. “Let’s ride.”
They hit the whip, engine growling as he peeled out of the alley. The city of Detroit flashed by broken streetlights, boarded windows, and kids running wild in front of corner stores. All that chaos, but to him, it was a rhythm. He’d been in it too long not to move like it was home.
Before the drop, his phone lit up again, displaying a private number.
He looked at it for a second, thumb hovering over the screen, then flipped the phone face down.
“The fuck keep playin’ on my shit?” he said under his breath, easing up on the gas.
Juelz parked the Charger tight in the alley behind a raggedy trap house with graffiti tagged all over the back door. Bricks were crumbling, an old washing machine was by the door, windows fogged up, but this was where the real moves got made. No cameras. No nosey neighbors. No weak links.
Mar hopped out first, glancing around before hitting the fence with two quick knocks. That was the signal.
A few seconds later, the side door creaked open. Smoke spilled out first, then Lil Mook came limping out in dirty Crocs and a ski mask halfway on. Always acting like he was built for this, but stayed folding under pressure.
“Bout time,” Lil’ Mook mumbled, eyes bouncing from Juelz to Mar. “We been waiting.”
“Watch yo tone, nigga.” Juelz said, real low. “Ain’t no such thing as late when I’m bringin’ the product. Muthafucka, you want the shit or not?”
“Yeah, nigga, I do. What you got for me anyway?” Lil’ Mook asked, trying to peek through the tinted glass.
Juelz popped the trunk. Inside: two black duffels zipped and packed with inventory. Pills, powder, a few extras for the right buyers. All sorted, all counted.
“Shit, nigga, I got that new Pookie Pack for ya ass. I betcha ‘gon love that,” Juelz said, adjusting his Robin’s jeans.
Lil’ Mook folded his arms, intrigued. “Man… What the fuck is the Pookie Pack?”
Juelz glanced at Mar and back at Lil’ Mook. “Shit… hit it too much and watch yo ass be doin’ jumpin’ jacks. Singin’ out loud,one and a two and a three and a four, just like the nigga onNew Jack City.”
Lil’ Mook laughed and leaned in the trunk like he was about to sample the pack. Mar stepped forward quickly, placing a hand on his chest to stop him.
“Nigga, this ain’t the food court. Ain’t no fuckin’ free samples. Drop that bread, nigga.”
Lil’ Mook nodded fast, reaching into his pocket and tossing an envelope on top of the bags. “It’s all there.”
“Shit, it better be, Nigga!” Mar snatched the envelope up, flipped through the cash, noticing something seemed off. “It’s short,” he said coldly, not even looking up. “Way fuckin’ short.”
Lil’ Mook started stuttering. “What? Naw, naw, can’t be. I counted that shit twice?—”
Juelz stepped closer, calm but lethal. “You think I’m some goofy ass nigga? Lemme find out you tryna play with my name.”
Lil’ Mook backed up, hands up. “Nah, bro, I…I…I swear. Maybe I miscounted?—”
Juelz reached under his shirt, pulled out the Glock just enough to let the handle show.
“Fix it then, nigga. Put them muthafuckin’ Crocs in sport mode and go get my fuckin’ money.”
Lil’ Mook nodded like a bobblehead, dipping back inside. He came out with a second envelope. This one was thicker this time.
“Give me that shit,” Mar barked, snatching it and going through it before stuffing it in his jacket.
They dropped the bags by the door. One of Lil’ Mook's boys scooped them fast, disappearing inside. And just like that, it was done.
