Hey guys, I'm back with an update :D

We made a stop at Chamberlain Hills cemetery before meeting up with Dad. Tombstones lined the well-tended earth, the warm afternoon sun glistened over the smooth, marble statues of winged angels and tall crosses. Most of the graves were new, thoughtfully decorated with floral tributes and dying candlelight. Black-clad mourners flocked to the headstones, weeping and whispering prayers for the dead.

Franklin and I weaved through the maze of graves until we reached two great slabs of granite. The name "JB Bradshaw" and "Tonya Wiggins" was sharply engraved into the hot stones. They were buried together, side by side, their tombstones stood strong and erect—a proud, bittersweet monument of their love to last centuries to come. Hopefully, one day, when I'm old and wrinkly, and my bones are returned to the soil, I could be buried next to the one I loved too.

"I'm sure they were a great couple," I said.

"Nah, not really," Franklin muttered, his voice quiet, toneless, as he placed a bouquet of red roses between the graves.

I glanced at him. He stared blankly at the headstones of his dearly departed friends, his expression sour and amber eyes glazed with sorrow. My pulse sped up as I fumbled for words of comfort. I had no idea what to say. My fiancé was grieving, and I wanted so badly to empathize with the loss he was feeling, but I never met JB or Tonya. I couldn't reminisce over the time we never spent, or lighten the mood with funny stories about them. Although Franklin wouldn't admit it, they were an important part of his past I never had the joy of knowing. It sucked.

I reached out to him, giving his shoulder a light squeeze. He flinched on contact, his muscles grew rigid beneath my touch.

"Are you okay?" I asked. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

He glared at me, his eyes cold and direct. "For fuckin' what?" he spat harshly. "My homies got clapped 'cause of me, and talkin' about it ain't gon' raise them motherfuckers from the grave, Trace. It's a waste of fuckin' breath."

Fearing the worst, I disengaged, backpedaling away from him to offer the space he needed. He was easily agitated when upset, his emotions a volatile bomb just waiting to explode at the slightest provocation. I didn't want to get caught in the crossfire, especially in public.

"If you can't communicate with me, then fine." It wasn't easy, but I managed to turn away from him. "I'll wait in the car."

Franklin captured my wrist, pulling me back in with gentle strength. "Ay, don't go," he said. "Stay with me—"

A sinewy stranger brushed past us, his shoulder bumped into Franklin's. The stranger spun around stiffly, stumbling almost. Instead of apologizing, his carbon-black eyes shot a hostile glare at my fiancé. Franklin was no stranger to conflict, and was quick to meet the stranger's gaze, his amber eyes all but snapping in challenge.

They stared one another down for quite some time, sizing each other up silently yet intensely. The stranger had a repugnantly lean face, poked and scarred, with bushy black eyebrows and gold-plated teeth. He was heavily bearded, the knotted muttonchops unkempt and drooping like the waistband of his cargos. Below the shaggy hair protruding from his wife beater was dark skin, dull and unhealthy looking.

Finally, the stranger broke the tension-filled silence. "You Franklin, ain't you?"

"Yeah," Franklin retorted fearlessly. "Why? Who the fuck are you?"

"You stupid or something? Bitch ass lil' niglets like you oughta address me as Chedda, balla OG and proud ambassador of all high-grade narcotics dished out on these streets. You lookin' at a motherfucking legend—better educate yo'self before you get yo' wig pushed back, fool."

Franklin rolled his eyes. "Cool, nice to meet you, nigga. Bye." He took my hand and turned hastily around. Chedda clutched Franklin's shoulder roughly. My fiancé shoved him away, his eyes blazed murderously. "Touch me again, nigga. I fuckin' dare you."

"I want my money, mark," Chedda flared, acid in his voice. "Them dead crackheads you standing over owe me a stack, and somebody gotta pay the fuck up." He glanced at the bouquet between the headstones and sneered. "Instead of wasting all that motherfucking money on them motherfucking flowers, you shoulda paid they bills off, fool."

Franklin snickered harshly. "Nigga, are you serious? Crackheads don't give a shit 'bout no credit, dumb ass motherfucker. Tonya and JB wasn't gon' pay you back regardless, and I sure as hell ain't givin' yo' shady ass shit. I don't even know you, dog."

"Nah, fuck all that. Far as I'm concerned, you the only homie they got, so their debt is yours. Hand over the bread, or get that ass laid out right here and now in this goddamn cemetery. I'll bury yo' ass right next to them bum ass crackheads and make yo' bitch watch. And once you in the ground, I'ma make her pay off the debt instead."

Franklin shook visibly, but not from fear. He stepped up to Chedda, fists tight and muscles quivering like a volcano about to erupt. Heads turned, eyes gawked, and conversations stopped. "I didn't smoke none of yo' motherfuckin' crack," Franklin glowered, his face flushed and mottled with fury. "I don't owe you shit, a'ight? The only thing you finna get from me is a bullet in yo' ass, punk ass motherfucker."

"Do something then, biatch," Chedda urged.

They were eye-to-eye now, psyching each other out with ready fists. The seething rage in Franklin's eyes was terrifying. An intense scowl darkened his features, a vein his forehead throbbed profusely. I've seen that look twice—shortly before he slaughtered the hillbillies with a machete, and after our cabin got burned down by the bounty hunters—which led to every single one of them being brutally murdered in a span of an hour.

It was safe to say, that look was really bad news for Chedda. Before something crazy and irrevocable happened, I grabbed my fiancé and yanked him back.

"Can we please just go?" I asked. "He's not worth it."

"You can run, but you can't hide, pussy," Chedda ranted and raved, his gestures wide and violent. "The hood belongs to me. I'ma find yo' ass and take what's mine. Fuck you, and fuck them lame crackheads too. I'm glad they dead, wish I coulda blazed them myself."

He spat a hunk of spit onto JB's grave. And like a bomb, Franklin exploded, nudging me off him. The two men charged at one another, fists flying. Through teary eyes, I watched the savage, hot-blooded violence commence. Thankfully, the battle ended quick and easy—Franklin's raw-knuckled fist collided with Chedda's throat, knocking the wind out of him. He fell to his knees, clutching his battered neck and struggling desperately for breath.

Gasps and shrill screams of shock echoed through the air. Chedda was pale and wheezing, the monstrous blow to his throat must have severely damaged his windpipe. He shook and quaked violently, like he was having seizure. I cringed. Jeez, is he going to be alright?

"Stupid motherfucker," Franklin grumbled under his breath. He turned sharply on a heel, fleeing the scene with his usual wide-legged stride, moderate and purposeful, his chin held high in masculine triumph.

I followed behind him to our car parked on the sun baked roadside outside the cemetery gates, and climbed into the passenger seat. He took the wheel. With a perfunctory glance in the mirror, he pulled out into rush hour traffic.

We cruised along the tree-lined streets silence. Arms crossed over my chest, I stared blankly at the endless river of broken down bungalows and heavily graffitied corner stores. Ambulances zoomed by in the opposite direction, the flashing lights cleaved through the crowded streets at an aggressive speed. With the dire condition Franklin left Chedda in, I wouldn't be surprised if those ambulances were meant for him.

"You didn't have to do that," I sniffed. "I know he was an asshole, but you didn't have to hurt him that bad. What if he's dead?"

Franklin shrugged half-heartedly. "Motherfucker shouldn't start drama he can't finish."

I glared at him. "Why are you so effing violent? You didn't have to go for his throat, you didn't have to fight him at all. That was totally unnecessary."

He snorted in frustration. "Girl, I really ain't in the mood to argue with you right now. Can't we talk 'bout this shit later?"

"Whatever." I shook my head. Apparently, my fiancé could beat someone to the brink of death without batting an eye over it, even in public. Did he even have a conscience? Or has he hurt so many people in the past that fatally wounding another simply didn't faze him anymore?

I frowned. Who am I kidding? The explosive anger, the moodiness, the tendency to play judge, jury, and executioner—none of it was much of a surprise. Franklin was no angel. He was facing a lot of demons, and he's made that blatantly clear since the day he walked into my life.

"Ay," Franklin said. "You wanna get somethin' to snack on before we meet up with yo' pops?"

"No," I mumbled. "I'm not hungry."

"For real? No cake? No ice cream?"

"You're not in the mood to talk, and I'm not in the mood for sweets."

He drew in a deep breath, and exhaled through flared nostrils, the tightness in his muscles loosening. "Trace, we can talk," he spoke slowly, his voice carefully controlled. "But I know it's gon' lead to an argument. When we argue, I say a lot of dumb shit I don't mean. I don't wanna regret anythin'."

"Let's talk about what happened at the cemetery like adults then."

"Yeah? How do we do that without shit gettin' heated?"

"You tell me how you feel, and why you did what you did. Be honest. Be real with me." I laid a tentative hand on his muscled arm. "We're so different, Frank. I just want to understand you. If you could help me see things from your perspective, that'll make things a lot easier."

The car glided into a stop at a red light. Franklin stared wordlessly across at me, his eyes blank and unreadable as stone. He seemed to be strangely preoccupied by something, his attention buried somewhere deep within his own thoughts. What was he thinking?

I chewed worriedly on my lip. "Are you okay?"

He snapped out of his trance and returned his gaze to the road. The light flashed green, and a knot of impatient cars zipped past us. Franklin made a sweeping left into the opposite lane, expertly weaving into an opening within the heavy strain of traffic. "We takin' a detour," he announced, the race car purring as we piloted forward.

I smiled as the sun beat down on my face through the windshield. His spontaneous proposal intrigued me. A small detour wouldn't hurt. Besides, we had all the time in the world to visit my family. Honestly, I wasn't looking forward to breaking the news to Dad about our engagement. With all the tension between him and Franklin, I had a feeling he wasn't going to take it well.

I didn't mind more time on the road. There was plenty of sightseeing to do, considering South LS was like a foreign, forgotten wasteland compared to the prosperity of Vinewood. There were miles and miles of poverty-stricken communities all squished together, scanty bungalows and tenements somehow still standing despite years of neglect. But the community seemed proud of their origins and culture regardless of their financial challenges, people greeted one another with wide smiles as they navigated the streets, often hugging their neighbors and carrying on long conversations.

The good vibes were contagious.

We turned a corner onto Strawberry Avenue, and the world became much more familiar. Franklin parked at the curbside of a locally-owned liquor store and cut the engine.

"What are we doing here?" I asked.

He climbed out the car and opened the passenger door for me. "You wanna understand me better, right?"

"Um, yeah. Of course I do."

"Then c'mon."

I hauled myself up, the blazing sun washing over us in a shower of golden warmth. Franklin took the lead, navigating along the cracked and uneven sidewalk with me at his heels. The neighborhood was rowdier than I remembered. Rap music blasted from windows, clusters of people lounged on their tiny porches, laughing and shouting boisterously as they conversed with one another. Pit bulls barked viciously from weedy lawns, yanking and pulling at their chain leashes. Hard faces and tattooed bodies all clad in green brushed by me. My limbs were jittery, conscious of the probing eyes I could've swore were watching me from a distance.

Franklin reached out to me. As soon as my fingers laced with his, I felt safe. He pulled me close, his protective grasp soothed my anxiety.

A loud outcry of cheerful voices called out to Franklin from behind. "Franklin! What's good, my dude?"

Franklin spun around and gestured a greeting with a slight nod of his head before we pressed on. We walked and walked until we reached the weathered, slouching concrete of a shotgun house. It was abandoned, the boarded windows and white-washed walls fenced in by dusty planks. What happened to the former owners? There was no "for sale" sign in sight. Who would be crazy enough to buy a fossil like this anyway? Maybe for the land, but it didn't seem like the city cared about the neighborhood enough to bulldoze the lot anytime soon.

Franklin stood before the wood gate, the entrance was locked tight with a padlock. "Ay, you ever hop a fence before?"

"No," I swallowed deep. "I never had to."

"It's easy, girl. Try it."

My eyes darted from left to right. There were potential witnesses all around us! "But Frank, isn't that considered trespassing?"

He grinned. "Ain't nobody finna snitch on us 'round here. C'mon, there's a cool spot I wanna show you." With seemingly effortless finesse, he sprung up and swept his legs over the gate in a flash. I trembled, tendrils of mind-numbing anxiety rooted me in place, robbing me of speech. I couldn't do it. The fence was too tall. What if I fell? What if—

A hand appeared over the fence. "Baby?" Franklin's voice seeped through the wood cracks. "Girl, take my hand. I'll help you." After a long moment of mental preparation, I followed his command. "A'ight, now grab the top of the fence and pull that fine ass up the best you can."

I gripped the peak of the splintery planks and began to climb. With Franklin's aid, I clumsily wobbled over the gate and into his strong arms. "I did it!" I beamed, dusting off my hands.

"Yeah, I knew you could," Franklin smiled. He guided me along the side of the house, his gaze locked on the flat roof overhead. "Ready to do some mo' climbin'?"

The fence was doable, but the roof? It was way too high for me to reach. "There's no way I'm getting up there without a boost."

"I got you." He squatted down, dipped his neck between my thighs, and stood tall, my petite body rode his powerful shoulders. From this high up, the dark paneled roof was easily accessible. I rumpled his thick, curly hair affectionately before scaling it.

The hard streets of Strawberry softened from an aerial view, the warm glow of the sun beamed over the pavement, leaving a glossy radiance in its wake. The intimidating faces below were tiny now. Harmless. And I was untouchable. The old bungalows and graffiti-laced buildings was a concrete mess of geometry, each with its own history and story to be told. Maybe this place wasn't so bad after all.

Franklin sat on the ledge, his ankles dangled over the edge of the roof. I took his side, stretching my legs across his lap.

"Before me and Lamar were full time hustlin', we used to cut school every day to chill here," he said, gazing at clouds drifting by. "Never did much but talk a lot of shit, but it was cool with me."

"You cut school just to talk?" I teased.

He smirked. "There was more it to than that. See all these houses? We'd pick one and monitor it, see who goes in and out, figure out them motherfucker's schedules, and hit it when no one was home."

"Wow. How'd that go?"

"Not good. After a few home invasion licks, we realized everybody out here was just as poor as us. Stealin' from niggas and single mothers who barely got scraps to feed their kids didn't feel right, so I stopped. Lamar didn't, but shit like that don't really weigh on him. That fool don't give a fuck who's losin' as long as he's winnin'."

"Robbing people is wrong. You did the right thing."

"Nah," he shook his head. "I mean, there wasn't no guilt, I could sleep without regret eatin' my ass up at night, but then the lights went out 'cause we couldn't afford no electricity. Realized doin' the right thing wasn't worth shit. Ethics wasn't puttin' no food on the table, it wasn't payin' bills, it wasn't gettin' me no-fuckin-where."

I frowned. "I'm guessing applying for a job was out of the question?"

"For a nigga like me with no high school degree?" He snorted. "Yeah, nobody was tryna hire my black ass."

"So what'd you do?"

"Started hustlin' from sunup to sundown, sellin' all kinds of illegal shit from cigarettes to cocaine bricks in canals, alleyways, underpasses—shit, gangbanging was bringin' in bread too. Ballas were never in short supply, and bustin' on them fools was easy. Never saw it comin'."

"You do what you have to do to survive," I said. "I get it. But what about Chedda? You could've walked away, or punched him in the face at least. Instead you went for the kill, you gave him an effing seizure."

"I didn't mean to give that annoyin' ass motherfucker a seizure, a'ight? I wanted to shut him the fuck up, that's all. Everythin' happened so fast. I didn't want you to see none of that petty shit, and if I could take it back, I would, babe. But it is what it is, and…I'm sorry." He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, a sigh crept past his lips. "Man, today has been shitty."

My stomach hardened. I hated to witness him brooding. I rubbed his back, trying to provide whatever comfort I could. "Is this about JB and Tonya? It's not your fault they're dead, you know? Blame Madrazo, not yourself."

He grew silent, his expression blank as he retreated into his thoughts again.

I stroked his back in firm, circular motions, kneading the stiff muscles through the fabric of his shirt. "Frank? What are you thinking?"

"Nothin'," he mumbled.

"Hey, don't lie to me. Let it out. Talking about it might make you feel better."

"I feel like I should be used to shit like this by now," he said flatly. "It's easier to find a nine out here than a fuckin' parkin' spot. Niggas be gettin' murked on the daily 'cause everybody on the block got a motherfuckin' Glock. And nobody talks 'bout it. We pretend like the shit ain't happenin', another dead nigga in the street ain't interestin' enough to make it to the nine o'clock news, so his memory dies with 'em. We been fightin' for equality for all these years, and the life of a nigga still ain't worth shit. Never will be at this rate."

My heart clenched. "Don't think like that. Things are getting better—"

"Why? 'Cause we ain't slaves no more?" He flashed a humorless smile. "Well shit, bein' gunned down in the ghetto, or spendin' yo' life in prison is better than whips and chains, I guess."

"You made it out of the hood. It's not impossible."

"It ain't probable either, Trace. You don't know how hard that shit is. It still fucks with me, knowin' that if yo' pops didn't give me a chance, I'd be another dead nigga rottin' in the ground, just like JB."

His words left a sour taste in my mouth. I kept quiet, my heart sinking low in my chest.

"Girl, I'm a fuckin' hypocrite," he declared with a vacant stare. "Sittin' here mopin' like I'm a victim of society when I know damn well I'm part of the problem. I've put bullet holes in dudes ten shades blacker than me—watched them motherfuckers bleed out and didn't give two fucks 'bout it. Thought they deserved it 'cause they rep a different color than me, you know, just ignorant ass bullshit cats beef over in the hood."

"That's not you anymore," I said.

"No, but that don't make it any easier to live with, you feel me? Like I said, I've dropped niggas before, and I could do it again if I had to. Even though I know it's wrong. Even though I hate myself for it."

I cupped his cheek. I was getting worried now, more so than usual, at least. I knew he had issues, but how deep did the extent of his self-loathing go? How did he smile, and laugh, and go about his day with so such anger, bitterness, and remorse pent up inside? "Frank, how often do you have thoughts like this?"

He shrugged. "Shit, more often than I'm comfortable with, I guess. You were right 'bout one thing though, we are different. Real different. But now you know where I come from, and the fucked up thoughts that run through my mind on the daily. If you wanna see shit from my perspective, it all starts here, baby." He pointed at the world below.

I shook my head. "You're so more than a product of your environment."

Franklin smiled weakly. "Shit, I doubt that, but I'm glad somebody thinks so." He leaned in, his full lips brushing my neck so softly, I could barely feel it. "You crazy as fuck for wantin' to marry a dude like me."

"More like crazy in love."

"Damn, I like the sound of that." His arm encircled my waist, pulling me close. "You know, all this bullshit coulda been avoided if we just stayed home. Instead of bakin' in the hot ass sun, I coulda been makin' love to you instead—with air-conditionin'."

"That would be amazing right now." I nuzzled his cheek, our noses brushing back and forth in a sweet Eskimo kiss. "How about we go home and break the news to my family some other time?"

He planted a quick peck on my lips. "I'm tempted, baby. But if we do that, the long ass trip we made to get here would be for nothin'."

"Are you seriously looking forward to telling Dad about the engagement? He's gonna freak."

"No doubt," he grimaced. "If we get the hard shit outta the way now, we ain't gotta worry 'bout it later—"

"Franklin?" a voice rang out from below, cool and loud. I glanced downward and spotted Lamar and Chop on the sidewalk, staring up at us. "What yo' Vinewood ass doin' back in the cut, homie? I thought you were too good for the hood, ol' trifling ass nigga!"

"Ay, keep yo' head down, baby," Franklin muttered. "If we pretend we don't hear his ass, maybe he'll bounce—"

"I know you hear me, nigga!" Lamar shouted. "Don't make me come up there and knock yo' ass out! The fuck y'all doing up there anyway? Y'all having a date or somethin'? Gettin' all romantic and shit—that's cute. You tryna get some of that white ass on the roof in broad motherfuckin' daylight, ain't you? I didn't know you were into that freaky exhibitionist shit, Frank. You a nasty motherfucker!"

"Man, would you shut the fuck up?" Franklin snapped, his voice louder. "You talk too fuckin' much!"

"You love me for it, motherfucker! Now bring yo' ass down here, man."

"Just my fuckin' luck," Franklin grumbled under his breath. He stood, and took my hand, helping me to my feet. He made his descent from the roof, landing safely on the ground below. I dropped next. His strong hands caught me by the waist, breaking my fall, and gently set me down. We jumped the fence next, Lamar and Chop met us on the other side.

"'Sup, stranger man," Lamar said, offering Franklin a pound. "Been a while, homie. You good?"

"I'm cool, dog," Franklin replied, patting Chop affectionately. "What 'bout you? Everythin' straight in the cut?"

"Ain't shit change 'round here. Just normal gang shit, green versus purple, you know how it do. But I'm doing swell, homie. Bitches still flocking on my dick, and marks still running."

"Bitches flocking?" Franklin's gaze swept over the area. "Nigga please. Where? Where the goddamn flock? I don't see it. Where the motherfuckin' flock at?"

"Man, I always got bitches around me—Black, White, Asian, Latino, Eskimo and Mongolian bitches—but the moment yo' angry, ugly ass show up, the hoes start running."

"Eskimo and Mongolian bitches?" Franklin snorted. "Damn, you really movin' up in the world."

"You know how I do. I'm always moving." Lamar glanced at me. "What she doin' here, man? The hood ain't no place for a delicate flower, all vulnerable, and innocent, and shit. It'd be real easy for some grimy motherfuckers to creep on her sweet ass."

Clearly annoyed, Franklin let out an exaggerated sigh. "I don't see nobody creepin' on her but you, nigga. How the fuck you find us?"

"Running into y'all wasn't nothin' but a coincidence. I walk Chop 'round this block all the time, paranoid ass motherfucker. This is the last place I expected to find you too—you know, with the Mexicans having a hit out on yo' asses and all."

"Which is why we don't got time to be fuckin' 'round with you, fool. I'll hit you up later—"

Lamar tapped my fiancé's shoulder. "Hold up, my nig'. Before you go, come kick it with yo' boy at the crib. My momma been looking for you, dog."

Franklin froze, his expression softening. "Why? She a'ight?"

"Yeah, she cool, but the fam' misses you. So stop bitching, and bring y'all asses on. Kicking it at the crib with the homies oughta beat the mean suntan y'all finna get chilling out here. You black enough already, Frank."

"Shit, you right 'bout that." Franklin gazed at me, silently awaiting my consent.

I nodded, "Dad can wait. Let's go."

Lamar's house was a small gray box, indistinguishable from the rest of the bungalows in the neighborhood except for the bonnet roof, black and deeply slanted. Cars were parked up and down the street, and the weedy lawn was teeming with children scrambling about in a competitive game of tag. The moment we stepped onto the property, they ran to meet Franklin and Lamar like a great herd of stampeding animals, a sea of small, bubbly faces quickly surrounding the men. They welcomed the children with open arms, the swarm of restless limbs managed to remain still long enough to steal their fair share of hugs from the duo before speeding off to continue their game.

There was one child that lingered however, a young girl no older than the age of six I assumed, her velvet brown gaze was fixated on Franklin with a dovelike interest. A pink book bag with tearing straps dangled from her tiny shoulders, her school uniform smudged with dirt. Wild, kinky coils framed the girl's face like a puffy cloud. She flashed a toothless smile at my fiancé and flung out her arms for a hug.

Franklin swept the girl up into his embrace. She melted into the warmth of his side, her reaching fingers clasped firmly around his neck, holding onto him tight.

"Hi," she greeted shyly, her blushing cheek pressed against Franklin's shoulder. I smiled. Whoever the kid was, she seemed to be really attached to him.

There was a woman lounging on the porch, her dainty legs crossed neatly over the other as she watched over the kids play from her wicker chair. Although the corner of her full lips were wrinkled with age, her dark skin retained a youthful, timeless glow. She wore a pink silken robe, and head scarf to match, not a single strand of hair to be seen.

The moment her big brown eyes caught sight of us, she shot up, the wide silver hoops dangling from her ears jangling tinnily. "Good Lord," the woman exclaimed, stumbling down the porch steps. "Franklin, is that you, baby?"

"Yeah, that's him, Momma," Lamar said. "Can't mistake this ugly nigga for nobody else."

"At least I ain't dumb as shit," Franklin muttered.

Lamar's mother weaved her way through the playing children toward Franklin. "I haven't seen you in—what? A year? C'mere and give me some love, child." She pulled him into a half hug, her hand quickly gravitated down his back, squeezing his behind.

He squirmed, laughingly shrugging her off. "Ay, watch the hips, Ms. Davis. I'ma need those."

"Aw, look at you," she patted his arm affectionately. "You changed so much, got rid of all that baby weight. You look good, boy." Her gaze shifted to me. "Who this?"

"Oh, this my girl, Tracey."

"Fiancée," I corrected.

"Fiancée?" Lamar narrowed his eyes at me. "Since when?"

I held up my hand, proudly showing off my ring. "We've been happily engaged for like, two days now, going on three."

"Congratulations, baby," Ms. Davis said. "Y'all young folks look good together. Now come on inside, I made fried chicken and hog maws—"

"Damn, Momma," Lamar said. "You can't be tellin' everybody on the block about the hog maws. This ain't no food pantry, we ain't got it like that, girl—"

She glared at Lamar, her tone deepened with authority. "I bought the motherfuckin' hog maws, and I can give them motherfuckers to whoever I damn well please. Now I suggest you shut yo' ass up. Keep running yo' mouth like that in front of our guests and I'ma knock yo' jaw off ya face and shove it up yo' lanky ass, understand?"

The little girl in Franklin's arms snickered. Lamar rose his hands in surrender. "Alright, Momma, chill. You ain't gotta do all that."

"Good." Ms. Davis spun around for the house and gestured us to follow.

Franklin nudged Lamar, a wide grin spread across his face. "You better watch yo' jaw before it end up yo' ass, nigga."

"Fuck you," Lamar muttered, dragging his feet after his mother.

Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Leave a review, lemme know what you think. Love you guys for reading!