Page 32 of Gang of Roses: Dice

I parked behind a row of luxury cars, climbed out of the white G-Wagon, adjusted the pistol resting against my waist, and glanced down at my Apex watch.

Yeah...I already knew I wasn’t staying under nobody’s garage all damn day. I wanted to get out, catch a vibe, and enjoy my day off.

As soon as I walked up, the homies started dapping me up.

“Not muthafuckin’ Radar here,” one of the unknown young bulls stepped in to dap me up again.

“Damn, it’s gon’ snow. Look who decided to leave the casino,” Tre said while pulling me in for a dap and bro-hug.

“I could say the same yo’ ass always on vacation,” I said.

“Man, Lani ain’t letting a nigga breathe fo’ long. She takes the destination wedding business shit to heart. But shawty be making her bread, so I can’t speak on it, gotta support you feel me?”

“You already know I feel that. Loaf first, slice later,” I said, letting him know that getting to the bag and stacking up was always the mission. Playtime could come when you were comfortable.

Tre was good peeps. He was a little younger than us, but he was about his business. Once he locked in and leveled up, he invested in his wife’s business. It took off, and she wasn’t on no slime shit. Shawty put his ass to work, and he left the street to thrive with her. I could respect it. Bronco’s dumb ass needed to take notes.

“When you gon’ need us?” he said, speaking about the service they provided.

“No damn time soon,” I shot back.

He just laughed, but I was serious as hell.

“Let me make my rounds. I will holla at you, bruh,” I said, and we dapped up one more time before I kept it moving.

“Aight.”

Walking farther up the driveway, I spotted a few more of the little runners Oats trusted enough to know this house existed.

Oats wasn't a nigga you crossed twice. His name carried enough weight that most people knew to mind their business, keep their mouths shut, and never mention what they saw around him. Still, just like me, Oats wasn't stupid. This wasn't his real spot. Only a handful of us—including me—knew where he disappeared whenever he wanted a break from the bullshit.

“'Bout damn time, Radar!” Gwop hollered.

“Hell yeah... It’s on today. This nigga finally left the money machine,” Wallie added.

“Y’all niggas wild.”

Gwop and Wallie had been damn near attached at the hip since diapers. First cousins by blood, brothers by choice. We all grew up wearing out the courts at Golden Shores before life rerouted us down the same road—the streets. Somewhere between chasing hoop dreams and chasing money, the four of us became problems people learned not to play with.

Funny how four broke-ass youngins from the projects ended up touching millions before we were old enough to legally rent a damn car.

“The hell I miss?” Oats asked, coming around the corner with a black apron hanging halfway around his neck like he forgot he even had the damn thing on.

I looked his ass up and down.

“I know yo’ ass ain’t the one on the grill.”

“Fuck you, Radar. I got this,” Oats said, lying through every tooth in his mouth.

I’d bet Monroe’s Casino Oats wasn’t cooking a damn thing. Nine times outta ten, his uncle was somewhere in that house seasoning meat, checking temperatures, and making sure nothing burned while Oats stood outside acting like Bobby Flay.

“Dawg... where Unk at? Hope he know you out here cappin’ like a bitch.”

The yard broke into laughter.

Oats lifted the apron like he was proving a point.

The designer fit he displayed? Yeah,... this nigga wasn’t flipping, patting or turning over a damn thing. Knowing Oats, he probably changed clothes just to throw that apron on.