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Authors: Kelli London

BOOK: Boyfriend Season
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SPECIAL INVITATION TO THE HOTTEST SURPRISE PARTY OF THE SUMMER
For
 
Dynasty Young
One Guest
 
 
Dynasty gripped her invite, and held on to her date for balance. She wasn't used to high heels or standing on tiptoe in search of some boy. But the guy she was looking for was different. Super fine, he'd swaggered his way down from New York to Hotlanta, and stepped straight into her heart—just as she'd accidentally slipped into her date's—without trying. So was it her fault that she was digging one guy and had shown up at the most blazing party of the year with the one who dug her most? She shrugged. Her date was the greatest boy she knew, but they were friends.
Just best friends
, she told herself.
Fireworks exploded in the sky, catching Dynasty off guard. She jumped and almost fell. Then she saw him. The guy who had her heart. The same dude who had swaggered his way to Hotlanta and, apparently, into the heart of the girl he'd brought with him. Her name was Meka, and her swagger matched his. Dynasty blinked back her disappointment and swallowed her jealousy.
“You okay, Dynasty?” her date asked.
She looked at him, saw the beauty that lived behind his eyes, and thought,
isn't this what every girl wants—her boyfriend to be her best friend?
She had a decision to make, and she decided it'd be tonight. It was the party of the year and, for her, boyfriend season.
SPECIAL INVITATION TO THE HOTTEST SURPRISE PARTY OF THE SUMMER
For
 
Patience Blackman
One Guest
 
 
Dear God. Thank you. Thank you so much
, Patience prayed silently as lights flashed and microphones were thrust in her and her date's faces. She smiled a megawatt grin, and took in the positive energy surrounding her. Like the star everyone was now calling her, she stood tall on the red carpet with a real superstar next to her, and had not an ounce of remorse about leaving the one she'd left. She'd chosen the right guy as her date, she knew she did. So why was she so nervous about running into her ex?
Just nerves
, she told herself as anxiousness climbed her. She'd never been to a party before, hadn't ever attended a real concert, and now here she was, a church girl with an R & B /hip hop record who was surrounded by celebrities and Atlanta's it crowd. No, Sunday service hadn't prepared her for this, not her new life.
“'Ey! You look good, Patience,” her cousin, Meka called through the crowd, pushing her way over.
Patience waved, and excused herself from her date. “Hey to you, too,” she greeted her rowdy, but fun-loving cousin, then turned to Meka's best friend she hadn't seen until they were closer. “Hi, Santana! You look wonderful.”
Santana grabbed Patience by both wrists, bopped up and down, and cut her a coy look. “Who's looking fab, superstar? I heard your song on the radio. Hot to def! I mean, it sounds really good.”
Patience pulled away, laughing. “Thanks. I tried to do a lil something-something.”
Meka laughed. “Patience, it's sumthin' sumthin', not something something. Don't worry, you'll get it.” She stopped talking, and began waving her arm frantically. “Hey Dynasty! Over here!” She turned to Patience. “Now this one you must meet. She's right up your alley. Good girl. Smart. Going places . . . and a little homely,” she teased. “But you'll love her. I promise.”
1
SANTANA JACKSON
S
antana burst out of the classroom and into the hall. She couldn't take it anymore. Not the classroom. Not the students. Not the teacher or her rules. It was summertime. Boyfriend—Pharaoh—and boosting—clothes—season. She had things to do, and plenty of time as far as she was concerned. Well, at least now that she was skipping the rest of the day she did.
“This school can kiss my entire
asssk
me no questions and I'll tell you no lies!” Santana mumbled as loudly as she could, breezing past Beekman, the summer-school principal. She wanted him to hear her, just not be able to
prove
what she'd said. Cursing in the Atlanta public school system was forbidden—a major violation she thought ridiculous and refused to be penalized for. She didn't do detention, and had no plans of starting today.
She had more important things on her agenda like shopping and meeting her boyfriend, Pharaoh. Besides, if her mother didn't care what she said, who were the teachers to question what escaped her lips? Plus, being on lockdown in a classroom was raggedy with a capital
R
. But rappers, thugs, and corner boys—hustlers around her way who made things happen by connecting the dots—they were a different story. Who didn't want a dude who was saucy, could feed your pockets, stomach, and mind, and spat “shawty” through platinum and diamond grills covering his teeth?
Pausing in the middle of the hallway, Santana turned and mean-mugged Beekman, who'd quietly fallen in step behind her. She silently dared him to question her being in the almost desolate hallway during class time, then shrugged her shoulders in a what's-up-whatchu-wannado gesture. When she wasn't met with opposition, she mouthed
I didn't think so
to the principal's lack of action, then hoisted her book bag over her bra strap, swooped her index and middle fingers through her belt loops, and hiked up her too-tight jeans to cover her butt that Rashad, her neighbor, referred to as an onion. An apple. A badonkadonk that served as an asset in the hood. Then she exhaled, realizing she'd been holding her breath and that she had an audience. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth when she noticed two boys staring. They were admiring what was beneath the denim separating their eyes from her juiciness, so she got her sway on, moved her hips like a pendulum while their eyes followed the switch of her hips. She was fly and knew it.
“A'ight, Santana!” they greeted with a head nod.
“Yep.” Santana threw up the deuces and kept it moving. Yes, they knew her name, but so did just about everyone else in the school. She was Santana Jackson. Pharaoh's girl. And they were just fans.
Her phone vibrated in her purse as she pushed her weight against the door, exiting with a bang. It was almost one o'clock, close to their predetermined meeting time. Her feet lightened with each step as her shoes connected with the concrete beneath them. As always, she couldn't wait to see Pharaoh. Not only was he her dude, he was
the
man. His name rang bells, and his hood power preceded him. There wasn't anything that Pharaoh couldn't do—except Santana. She wasn't going to give in to him or be like one of the floozies who dropped their panties to guys because they were fly. She knew better and vowed to heed her mom's example: If you give a guy what he wants, he has nothing to stick around for, but if you give him just a smidge of what he wants, he'll stay for the rest.
“ 'Bout time! I was just calling you. I thought I was gonna havta come up in there and jailbreak you,” Meka Blackman, Santana's best friend, said, snapping closed her cell and leaning next to the door.
“I know, right? I tried to leave faster, but Principal Beekman was parading around like he running something, so I had to walk the halls for a minute,” Santana answered as they left the grounds and turned the corner.
“So we scared of principals now?” Meka teased.
Santana shrugged and walked up to the passenger door of the borrowed pickup Meka was driving. “I ain't scared of nothing. But I'm not doing detention for nobody . . . especially not two days before summer school lets out—I'm not trying to risk doing a repeat. Ya heard?” Meka clicked open the locks with the car's alarm remote. Santana stepped up into the cab of the truck and asked, “How long you got this one?”
Meka stuck a key in the ignition, turned, and winked. Throwing the gear in DRIVE, she brick-footed the accelerator. “Until whoever's-this-is pays my brother. He must owe him big time 'cause the rims alone on this godda be at least ten stacks. Don't worry, I'll get you to your man on time. First we got biz to handle, though. Then after that I need to check on my cousin, Patience.” The truck blew down the street on the ten-thousand-dollar rims, zooming faster than any speed limit in the country, blasting music. “You ready?”
Santana held on tight. “You mean your church cousin with all the money?”
Meka nodded, adjusting the radio dial.
“That's what's up. When's she hanging with us?”
Meka turned, and deadpanned. “Either when hell freezes over or heaven warms up. My uncle
The
Bishop Blackman ain't having it. He don't want our ways tarnishing his daughter!” She turned up the radio, nodding her head to the music.
“Turn that up! Is that Trill's new song, ‘Talum'bout'? We godda cop us tickets to his next concert.”
“Yeah . . .” Meka agreed, nodding her head to the song. “That's that ish.” She turned up the radio. “Okay, enough. We got biz to handle.” She muted the speakers when the hottest teen rapper's song went off.
“And I'm ready too. You got my silencer?” Santana asked, referring to her boosting bag, the one they'd lined with foil and magnets and others things that prevented store's security detectors from sounding off when they exited the store with stolen goods.
Meka smiled and took a sharp corner on Peachtree, headed toward Lenox Square Mall. “Nope. I didn't bring your silencer, sis. . . .”
Santana scowled.
“. . . I brought you two. Your old one and a
new
one. Check in the back. Now fix your face! Over there looking like someone pissed in your cereal,” Meka said, then laughed.
Santana joined her, then reached into the backseat of the truck and retrieved a big brown, recycled shopping bag. She was proud of her friend. “Even thieves are going green!” she teased.
“Ha-ha. I made some extras this morning 'cause I got orders to fill,” Meka continued while Santana pulled a new tote from the brown bag.
“This the new Gucci? Jungle tote? The two-thousand-dollar jammie?” Santana's jaw fell in her lap while she admired the bag.
“Yep.
And
it's a silencer. Merry Christmas in the summertime. Don't say I ain't never give you nothing,” Meka rattled. “ADT, Brinks . . . Atlanta Police Department—they can all kick rocks. Ain't no alarms gonna ring with all the stuff I lined our bags with!” She laughed and whipped into Lenox's parking lot.
Santana hugged Meka as soon as they hopped out of the truck.
Meka shrugged. “Don't be too happy. It's a knockoff, but no one can tell. Not even the employees that work at the store. Trust me. I returned one knockoff last week.”
The M.A.C. counter was calling her name when they entered the mall and walked past Macy's, but she knew she didn't have time to stop. She was there to “shop” for a few items, maybe pick up some new Js, and then meet Pharaoh out front. He was due to pick her up in less than one hour.
“Where you wanna hit first?” Meka asked, smoothing out her sundress, then her extra short hair that was styled to perfection as usual. “You need a new Louis, right?”
Santana walked beside her, shouldering her dressed-up boosting bag and rocking her black and purple high-heeled Air Jordan 8s. There wasn't a soul who could tell her she wasn't a showstopper. Pausing in front of a store window, she checked her reflection. Fingering the top of her hair that was expertly spiked in a Mohawk, she turned sideways and admired how her graduated length cascaded down her back.
Even if I didn't grow this, no one can tell me my hair isn't fire.
“I do, but wrong mall. Louis is in Phipps Plaza across the street. You always forget.”
“Right. Phipps. Too expensive and too much security for me. I'm not trying to get locked up again,” Meka answered, capping her lip gloss and putting it in her purse, signaling she was done and ready. “You're cute. Come on,” she added, interrupting Santana's beauty session.
“I know. You too.”
Meka grabbed her wrist, then pushed Santana's hair from her face. “What? When did you get these,” she asked, fingering Santana's earrings. “These are ultra hot!”
Santana blushed. “Pharaoh had them made for me. If you look carefully, you can see Ps in the design,” she squealed, proud of her man.
“That's what's up. He's claiming his woman! Now it's time to get to work.” Meka tilted her head; then they both nodded. If they were going to boost, they decided long ago that they'd better do it dressed to the hilt so they would be inconspicuous. Being raggedy would make security hawk them.
A crowd of dusty teenage boys walked past them and headed back toward the entrance of Macy's. Rundown sneakers, last season's clothes, jeans sagging too low and voices talking too loud, they were definitely targets for mall and department store security. They were also the distraction Santana and Meka needed to keep them under the radar.
“Guess Macy's it is,” Santana said.
 
Silencer bag filled to capacity, Santana exited the third store they'd hit and headed toward the escalator. Her adrenaline rushed, her heart raced, and she was sure she was shaking. It took every ounce of willpower she had not to turn around to look to see if they were being followed. She was nervous.
Just nervous
, she told herself.
“We need to go upstairs. That's where the Js are,” Santana said, leading Meka through the mall, past the Starbucks, and finally to the escalator. “One of us needs to buy something. I'm gonna cop the Js for Pharaoh.” She stepped on the ascending stairs, then turned around so she could check their surroundings while she was speaking to Meka. “We're good. Nobody's thinking about us.”
Meka's expression was twisted. “Why you buying Pharaoh something? Shouldn't it be the other way 'round?” she asked, hopping off and following Santana.
Santana laughed, then entered the store. “Girl, nah. He always buys me stuff. A pair of Js ain't nothing. Plus, for what I'll get in return . . . it's a good investment. Anyway, I want my man to look good.”
“Don't keep him looking too good. You know them floozies at your school be after him. Especially Nae.”
Santana sickened. She couldn't stand Nae, her ex-best friend who'd gone after Pharaoh at a party. “Meka, forget it. Don't even bring it up. He don't want Nae. How could he . . . after this?” Santana swung her weave while strutting over to the men's sneaker section. She grabbed the new Js and Ones off the display, then asked a salesperson to bring her a size-twelve pair of each.
“Hmmm. Don't ever say what ya man won't do. K?” Meka said, following Santana to the counter.
Santana turned on her three-inch-heel Jordans. “Why Meka? Is that a warning or a hint? You know something? Talk to your girl, Meka!” she said, peeling off a few big bills, paying for the sneakers.
Meka eyed the money.
“Courtesy of Pharaoh.” Santana took the bags from the salesperson.
Meka walked out, shrugging. “I'm just saying, Santana. Don't ever be so sure. K? Nae may not be fire like you but, just like ya man, she gives courtesies too. Maybe not cash, but her courtesies rhyme with cash.”
“And I'll kick her in hers if she tries me again,” Santana pointed out as they exited the mall. “There's Pharaoh's car over there. I'll call you later, Meka.” She blew her best friend air kisses, then sashayed toward her man. “ 'Ey, baby!” Santana waved and cheesed so hard she was sure her teeth would shatter. The wind swept her weave off her back and moved her closer to him.
Pharaoh played with the chew stick in his mouth, biting and turning and sucking on it as if it were sugarcane. He gave Santana a head nod, reached over and opened her door.
“S'up, shawty? You lookin' kinda right in dem there jeans.”
Shaking her head, she put her bags in the backseat and suppressed the melting feeling that swept through her every time he was near. Pharaoh had a way of appealing to her senses, starting with his street talk. Everything he said, no matter how simple, was beautiful to her because she loved his ghetto-fabulous country grammar. Sliding into the seat next to his, Santana leaned her weight to the left until her shoulder touched his, then wrapped her arms around him and met his lips with hers, giving him a sweet peck. They could've shared a seat and, still, she couldn't be close enough.

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