Page 38 of Queen of the Pole

“What’s up bae? Why you ain’t tell me you were dropping by?” he asked me.

“Because you never tell me when you’re dropping by to my house either, nigga. Javaris, don’t start with me. I’m already not in the fuckin mood!” I spat, walking in the house, and removing my shoes. He slapped me on my ass as I was doing that.

“You never in the fuckin mood. Every time I see you, you carry on like your period always on. What’s wrong with you today?” he asked me.

“Nothing,” my answer was short, as I walked away and I went into his family room area.

Hitta had a nice set up in here. He had such a strong addiction to sports, mainly because that’s how he made his money by betting, so when you walked into his family room area, it reminded you of a sports bar. Because he had an apartment, it obviously wasn’t the biggest space, but he made good use of what he had. There were six flat screen tv’s mounted on the wall. The tv’s were close together, so it looked as if it was one huge TV. Every screen had something different playing. There was basketball, baseball, and football. Four of the screens had different football games on, while the other two screens were the basketball and baseball game. That let me know that he had six tickets in.

There was a dark leather loveseat in here, and it reminded me of theater seats. This was usually where I liked to sit whenever I came over. I would extend the seat out, grab a throw blanket, turn on the custom seat massager that came with the chair, and just relax. That’s exactly what I did the moment I walked in.

The throw blanket that I kept over here, I grabbed it, wrapped it around me, and sat down. There was pizza and wings sitting on the small table in front of me. Any other time, I would have grabbed something to eat, but I was still in my feelings about what just took place at my grandma’s house, so I chose not to eat.

“What the fuck Stafford got going on tonight? Bitch ass nigga, acting like he don’t know how to throw the fuckin ball. Messing up my entire ticket!” Hitta snapped, as he stood in front of the TV.

His shirt was off, and the basketball shorts he had on were hanging off his waist a little bit. His dreads were covered by his black stocking cap that he would typically wear whenever he was in the house. His hands were on his hips, and I could tell that he was pissed. He could get so ugly whenever his tickets started losing, especially if there was a lot of money on the line.

“My last fuckin leg on my ticket, and this nigga about to make me lose out on two hundred thousand dollars. All because he acting like he don’t know how to throw the fuckin ball. Ain’t this some shit,” he spat. He was stressed. He picked his hands up, putting them on top of his head.

Dealing with a man that sports bet, and always had his TV on sport channels, I knew a little something about football.

“How many yards did you put in for him to throw?” I asked, sounding like I was a professional too.

I could tell my question annoyed the fuck out of him because he sucked his teeth. He just admitted that two hundred thousand dollars was on the line. I’m sure the last thing he wanted right now was to be questioned about anything.

“I wanted him to go over 275.5,” he voiced.

“How many does he have right now?” I asked.

“Deja, baby please. The nigga only got 200 yards. I swear I’m not trying to be mean to you, but bae give me a minute,” he said, not even turning his head around to look at me because he was too engrossed in the game right now.

He was staring at the TV, as if that was going to help Stafford give him those yards that he needed for his ticket. I knew the kind of bad moods that he could get in once he lost, so I didn’t say anything else. I just looked at the time on the clock, needing to see how much time was left. There was only thirty seconds left, and we were in the final quarter of the game. Stafford’s team didn’t even have the ball. Whatever money that Hitta bet on this ticket, he might as well just kiss that money goodbye because it wasn’t going to hit. There was literally no way it would. Stafford needed almost another 76 yards, and with only 30 seconds left on the clock, with his offense not on the field right now, there was no way.

“Fuck man! Fuck! Pussy ass nigga fucked up my ticket! This some bullshit!” he spat.

I really watched this man stand here, and punch at the air. I let him have his moment and didn’t bother to say anything.

I eventually stood up, so that I could go to the back, and use the bathroom. Hitta only had one bathroom at his apartment, and it was the one that was attached to his bedroom. I walked to the back and made it to his bedroom. His bed was freshly made, and everything about the room was spotless. Hitta was very clean, and tidy. I’ve never come to his place and had to witness anything out of order.

I walked into his bathroom, and quickly went over to the toilet, so that I could handle my business. After wiping, and flushing, I washed my hands at the sink. Looking at myself in the mirror, I was just realizing that my eyes were still a little red from the crying that I’d done in the car, plus they were puffy. This is how you knew that Hitta hadn’t been paying my ass any attention, and he was heavily engrossed in his ticket.

Shaking my head, I dried my hands off on a nearby hand towel and walked out of the bathroom.

Cutting through his bedroom again, I was almost to the door when I heard his other phone ding on his nightstand. I learned years ago to never go through a nigga’s phone, so when I heard the text message notification, the plan was to continue walking, but then it dinged again. It did it again, and again. I felt like I was being summoned. That phone was telling me to walk my ass over there, and see what was going on.

It was his personal phone too. This was the phone that probably had all the hoes and was going to give me the answers to all my questions.

I felt like whatever I saw in that phone was going to hurt my chest, but I walked over anyways. I took his phone off the charger and held it in my hands. Hitta didn’t have his alerts showing on his lock screen, so I wasn’t able to see anything. I didn’t know the code to his phone, either.

I can’t tell you the last time that I’ve even been this close to his phone. Hitta protected that phone like he worked for the CIA, and whatever was inside it was classified information.

I tried typing in his birthday, but that failed. I should have known that a sneaky ass nigga like him wouldn’t have made his birthday the code for his phone. I even knew his mama’s birthday. I only knew because his mom had the same birthday as Nari. That wasn’t his code either. I knew that I only had a couple of tries left before this shit locked up on me. I really had to turn my brain on with this.

Hitta wasn’t the smartest nigga in the world, so he didn’t give me that he would have such a complex password. It had to be his birthday. He probably just rearranged the way that it was imputed. Instead of putting it in as the month, day, and year, I did it backwards. I did year, day, and month.

Bingo!

I felt like I just opened a vault, that had hundreds of millions of dollars inside. My hands were literally shaking, and right when I was getting ready to go for his text messages, he walked in the room. He saw me standing here with his phone in my hands, and there was a calm look written all over his face. Even though he looked calm, I could tell that he was shocked to see me standing here with his personal phone in my hands.