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  They hung out just like old times. Sometimes alone, and sometimes they got a few of his kids and took them out too. Dre had some bank, but it wasn’t all that long.

  “Just wait,” he promised. “The NBA draft is coming, Muddah. That’s when you and me both gone be set.”

  Muddah didn’t care about no money. She was just glad to be with him, talking and laughing and acting like a carefree young woman her age was supposed to act.

  And they weren’t even fucking neither.

  “Uh-uh,” she told him one night as they were stretched out on her bed, grinding and humping through their clothes. “I don’t know what kinda freaks you been slinging your dick in up there in that college, Dre.”

  He laughed and sat up. His dick was so hard the head was sticking outta his waistband and had a big clear drop of pre-cum glistening from the tip. “Muddah, why you always worrying about shit like that? Them girls are just booty calls. Hit and hauls. They don’t mean nothing to me, baby. You do. It’s always been about you.”

  “No, niggah. It’s always been about you. When you gonna start thinking with the big head and not the little one?”

  “I’m thinking with the big head now, Muddah. I’m thinking about you. About us. I wanna give you the world, girl. Hand that shit to you with a big red bow on top.

  “Check this out, Muddah. This for you, girl.

  Honor and respect never gets you no regrets…baby

  And I’m learning from my own lust

  Putting it in check is gonna take a couple steps…maybe

  Gotta roll to the toll cause

  Every project takes a little process to make it

  Come together for the better girl

  Honor and respect never get you no regrets…lady

  And I’m learning from my own lust…

  I ain’t with the mind games/giving me migraines

  You so special/I respect you/held me down when the time came

  Damn it musta hurt/when I took you for granted/and ran your feelings in the dirt

  Couldn’t see what you was worth

  Playing touch me, tease me/I cussed you/greasy

  Didn’t go my way then it was fuck you leave me

  Always there when I needed a ride/ and though I/cheated and lied/how conceited was I?

  But now I’m learning from my own lust/feeling you so much

  Grown man/with mine that’s far from the young crush

  From day one ma it’s gotta be real/talk to me yo/don’t let the animosity build

  I keep thinking bout how good you on top of me feels so be cool stay in pocket and chill

  Cause I’m all yours…

  Honor and respect never gets you no regrets…lady

  And I’m learning from my own lust

  Putting it in check is gonna take a couple steps…maybe

  Gotta roll to the toll cause

  Every project/takes a little process to make it

  Come together for the better girl

  Honor and respect never get you no regrets…lady

  And I’m learning from my own lust…

  “I don’t know, Dre. You can rap and all, but your ass just can’t do right! You been a ho for so long it just comes natural to you now.”

  “Okay, I’m a ho, Muddah. I know that. But I luh you, girl. Gimme a chance to prove that shit to you. What I gotta do, ma? Huh? What I gotta do?”

  Carmiesha had a slick little grin on her face. It had been almost eight months since Ya-Yo’s death. Eight months with no dick. Not even a finger in her pussy to give her a quick orgasm.

  She stood up and took off her jeans and panties, then smirked as Dre’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “Don’t get happy, joker,” she said laying back on the bed with her legs spread wide. “You still can’t get in this pussy until I’m sure you ain’t still out there gaming bitches.” She gripped his cornrows in her fingers. “But you can bring that sweet tongue over here and give mama a few quick licks.”

  Chapter 23

  Six months later…

  I had made it through to my senior year of school and life was rolling for me. I had two banging singles climbing the charts so my recording career was hot and my stats were unshakable, and the media was on my dick like mad. And there were even more scouts than usual too. Coming out the ass. My game was so tight I was named the NCAA College Player of the Year for the second year in a row. I lost the Wooden Award that year to a fast kid from North Carolina, but I landed the Naismith, which was even better.

  All kinds of talk about the NBA draft was in the air and not only was I almost eligible, I was ready. Coach predicted either L.A. or Houston would snatch me, but I was hoping it would be the Knicks. They had first pick, and I wanted to live in the city. Not in Harlem, but close by, with my peeps. After being upstate around all these white people for so long, I was ready to do the hood thang at least part-time.

  I wanted to chill with Muddah a lot more. And my cousin Pimp too. I’d had four long years to think about what had gone down that night at T.C.’s, and my guilt was just as strong as if it had been last night. I couldn’t be sure about that niggah Rome, but Pimp wouldn’ta shot me that night. He knew it, and I knew it too. We was Dawgs-4-Lyfe. Him and Smoove was my only bit of family, and I missed them.

  I’d been going down to Harlem a lot to see Muddah, and if she was busy at the shop or had something to do, then I’d go looking for Pimp and we’d drink a little and chill. There was something real different about Pimp, but I couldn’t figure out what the fuck it was. Word on the street said he was handling niggahs. Had ’em working for him like sons, collecting rent on businesses and taking in bank from bitches and product. I tried to stay clear of all that. I was too close to reaching my goals to get caught up in the street scene now.

  The last few weeks before the draft went by in a blur. I was all about positioning myself and I had signed on with the same agent who hooked up that sweet deal for LeBron. I’d asked Muddah to be by my side so she could help me represent, and she was sitting in Madison Square Garden with me on the night of the draft. We was holding hands like we was kids again, excited like hell at what the next hour or so would bring.

  Four of my kids were there too. They were with Mere’maw, who was sitting up higher in the stands where Noojie and Miss Lady shoulda been. Muddah had insisted my kids come with us. She said even though I didn’t have no relationship with them they had a right to witness this, so they was chillin’ in the stands with the kids of the other players, coaches, and draft hopefuls.

  “I can feel it coming for you, Dre,” Muddah said. I grinned and checked her out again. She was the finest thang in the whole damn Garden. My single “Lick and Move” had made it to number four on the Top Ten charts, and I had gotten a nice check from Ruthless Rap. I cashed that shit and took Muddah shopping in Midtown and told her to get any damn thing she wanted. And we was wearing that check too. From my three-thousand-dollar shoes to Muddah’s seven thousand-dollar dress. My girl was all the way fly. I’d surprised her with a diamond necklace and earrings that matched, and sitting there next to her made me wanna hurry up and get in the NBA so I could make millions and keep her laced in fine shit for the rest of her life.

  I slid my hand down her back to her ass and whispered, “I can feel something coming for you too, baby.”

  She elbowed me and laughed. “Boy, you need to stop! I just gave you some last night. And hush. Some old white guy is going up to the microphone….”

  It was the commissioner. He gave a short welcome speech and all that bullshit, but I wasn’t trying to hear nothing except what I came there for. I grinned and laughed when everybody else did, but just like the other college hopefuls and the one or two trying to get picked up straight outta high school, all I could think about was who was gonna make those picks.

  The commissioner was finally finished bullshitting. “The lottery was conducted and the New York Knicks,” he said loudly, “have the number-one draft pick. The clock is now running.”

>   All eyes was on Coach Larry Brown as he leaned over to say something to his general manager. I knew they already knew who they wanted, and I hoped they wasn’t planning to sit up there chitchatting all day. A few minutes later Larry sent a runner up to the mic, and the commissioner accepted a piece of paper and looked at it and smiled. “The New York Knicks have selected…ANDRE WILLIAMS as their number-one draft pick!”

  The Garden exploded. Niggahs was hugging me and jumping up and down congratulating me like crazy.

  “You did it, Dre!” Muddah screamed. “You did it, baby!”

  I swooped her up in the air and kissed her, grinning like crazy. Then I waved for Mere’maw to send Lil’ Man, T-Roy, Shantay, and Duqueesa down, and headed outta the stands with my kids, dapping fists until we got down to the floor.

  Cameras flashed from every angle as they snapped mad photos of me. I took one official photo with just me and the commissioner, and then after he handed me my Knicks cap I stepped over and took some with Larry Brown and the general manager, who handed me my official team jersey.

  I held that jersey up in the air and it was the best thing my hands had ever touched.

  “Thank you,” I said over the noise. Lil’ Man and them stood next to me acting shy for the cameras as I looked up in the stands trying to spot Muddah. And even though I couldn’t see her little ass I knew she was smiling just like me. “Thank you. Thank you! I wanna say thanks to Coach Brown and the Knicks management team for seeing star quality in me and giving me this chance. New York is my home and I’m gonna wear this jersey with power and pride, cause home is definitely where my heart is. I also wanna send up some special props to T.C., who pushed me toward my dreams and made sure the word failure wasn’t part of my vocabulary. And last but definitely not least…thanks to Miss Lady who loved me better than I loved her, and to my moms, Noojie, who left us too soon to see how bright her baby boy could really shine. I luh you, Miss Lady! I luh you, Ma!”

  Chapter 24

  A few months after the draft I was hanging out at the House of Homicide in Harlem. Hurricane Jackson had the recording industry on lock in these parts. He’d sent me some props through Pimp for getting picked in the draft, and said he wanted to holla at me about a sweet deal he had to offer with his label, Homicide Hitz.

  Like everybody else, Hurricane knew Ruthless Rap was where I was holding, but he didn’t give a fuck.

  “Fuck them punk motherfuckers,” he told me. “I’ma buy you outta that weak-ass contract so we can get you right and take your shit to the next level.”

  I was ready for that too. I liked the numbers Hurricane was talking and we shook hands on that shit. He knew I was worth every penny of what he was offering me too. I wasn’t nothing like them other fake-ass NBA rappers. Shaq, Iverson, Roy Jones, and even Carmelo. Cutting weak albums and crying and shit cause they got banned from wearing they bling. I had actually lived the life I rapped about. Fought, stole, hustled, and came up on those grimy-ass streets, and that’s what made my lyrics so powerful and high-post.

  The House of Homicide was live, and the music was off the hook. The last time I was up in here I had watched some real fine shawty with red hair and blue eyes do her thang in the pit. Her name was Candy and the girl had hot vibes and mad style. She had a voice on her too, and a body that was phatter than Beyoncé’s. Her girl group Scandalous! had come up fast and lovely, and now Candy had a solo thang going that was blowing up too. I had gotten a little disappointed when Hurricane stepped up and claimed her that night cause the jawn was fine as hell and if my man hadn’t been blocking I woulda got me some of that for real.

  But tonight was another night, and after dropping a few bills shooting C-low in the gambling room, I headed to the VIP lounge with my ex-roomate Dave tagging along to chill with me.

  Dave was a deep niggah. I’d just found out that he was one of them closet spitters. All this time he was fronting like a sherm, when his head was deep in the rap game. He had gotten accepted into grad school to study pre-med, and since he was on break he came to see me at the crib and showed me a little bit of what he had. He was nice as hell. I agreed to take him down to Harlem and introduce him to Hurricane and see could he get put on.

  My face had been all on TV and in the papers because of the draft, and I was getting noticed left and right with niggahs dapping me out with big props. It wasn’t long before I had jawns trying to climb on my lap and aks begging me to spit. I knew Hurricane would appreciate me blowin’ it up a little bit for him, so I grabbed a mic and jumped in the pit and started freestyling like a motherfucker.

  We get it in/my team pack the club out

  Straight to the bar/no crys, yak the cup out

  Niggas talk slick/we pull straps and bug out

  Step on the kicks/we might black

  THE FUCK OUT!

  I got the haze/a whole batch to puff out

  goons in the back/waitin’ for cats to stunt out

  Ladies in the dugout/big breasts and butt out

  No names needed, that takes the fun out!

  Do it like I’m doing it/when I’m doing it big,

  Pluck it then I duck it/and boot it outta the crib

  Niggah if it’s nothing/you niggahs know what it is

  You “Thuggin” and you love it?

  Then come and roll with the kid!

  Let’s move!

  I’m trying to pop-off with Mami/hit the floor show her how we gone pop-off the party.

  Let’s move!

  I’m tryna blow sticky in the back/shawty dancing in the front/bouncing with me to the track.

  Let’s move!

  I’m tryna get tips on the liq/sit and watch baby girl strip to my hits.

  Let’s move!

  We can blow a whole ounce in this bitch/just make sure my squad gets pronounced in this bitch!

  Them haters ain’t nice and I can smell ’em from here/so tell ’em I’m here

  The niggah wit’ the vest on under his gear/Thug of the Year/Keep ’em all runnin’ in fear

  If you ain’t down with Homicide get yo’ ass outta here/ so cheer!

  The name is Thug-A-Licious/yeah I’m young and vicious/when it comes to the Hitz I intend to be the biggest

  Lemme hear it! So when I say Thugga…y’all say Licious!

  Thugga-LICIOUS!

  Thugga-LICIOUS!

  Thugga-LICOUS!

  I left the pit while they was screaming for more and went down to the video room to watch a triple X flick, but ten minutes into it Dave started complaining about all the cigarette smoke fuckin’ with his allergies, so we left and bounced over to a rib joint down the block to get us some grub.

  We was in the restaurant working over some barbecue when a commotion started outside.

  “Man, go see what the fuck is happening out there,” I told Dave, digging into my ribs and gulping down some potato salad with them. The food was good and greasy and I didn’t wanna leave my plate. “Niggahs can’t just party and bone a few chicks. They gotta test each other’s manhood up in these parts.”

  Dave walked outside for a minute, then came running back in.

  “Yo, man. Something happened down the street at your boy’s joint. Mad people is tryna get outta that place. They’re pressed up against the exit doors screaming and fighting, but can’t nobody get out. People are trying to help ’em, but there’s a whole lotta niggahs up in there and the doors won’t open.”

  I ran outside and down the block, and all I could do was stand outside of the House of Homicide with my mouth open just like everybody else. Just minutes earlier I had been spittin’ in the pit and clowning with these peeps, and now they was smashed up against the glass doors like big bugs. There was no way to get ’em out, neither. The doors swung in, not out, and with so many bodies jammed up against the glass, opening them was outta the question.

  I watched for as long as I could take it. People inside was piled up on top of each other, banging on the glass and begging for help but everybody on the street was
helpless, just like me. I saw about twenty people tryin’ to get through to 911 on their cell phones. My chest started hurting real bad, and I was sweating like crazy. Some of my boys was up in there. Cats I had made music with, had chased pussy with, had run the streets of Harlem with my whole life.

  “C’mon, Thug,” Dave told me. He turned me around and pushed me down the block toward the whip we’d rented. “We gotta slide, man. The ambulance gone be here in a second, and the po-po and the paparazzi too. You don’t need your name on none of this, man. Plus, your boy’s shit is a wrap. Let’s bounce.”

  The stampede at the House of Homicide really fucked up my head. So many people had died up in that joint that it was just crazy. And if Dave hadn’t been one of them sherms with stupid allergies, both of us woulda been caught in that mob and prolly dead too.

  It came out later on the news that Hurricane had been shot and killed in the middle of all the madness, and while my heart went out for my boy and all, I was glad I hadn’t signed shit and fucked up on my Ruthless contract like that.

  For a minute I stayed away from real crowded places like Big Ben’s and even the new Ruthless spot, but I hung out in a few smaller Harlem joints when I wasn’t running and lifting weights and getting ready for training camp.

  I was chilling with Pimp more too. Right after graduation I had come back to Manhattan and leased a phat crib over on the Upper West Side. It was bigger than every apartment on my old floor put together.

  “Yo, son,” I told him one night when we was getting ready to go spit at a party. “I got a slick-ass agent, man. My contract is phat, so we gone be paid.”

  Pimp laughed. “We? Man, you hustled for that shit. It ain’t a “we” thang, Thug. Now if you wanna tear a niggah off, you can do that. But you don’t owe me shit.”