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You went out at two in the morning for a drink and a bag of crisps and walked in behind four men who own this block. Ozai Lanmore is the most-listened rapper in the city and, according to the men who work for him, the most sensible. He is not going to be interested in someone who works in a corner store at two in the morning — until he is, and then he is going to be extremely inconvenient about it.
The corner store is where you go when you need cigarettes or a lottery ticket or something to snack on before you catch the bus. It's been there since before you were born. Miguel who runs it knows your name. You're paying for a a drink and a bag of hot chips when the door bangs open behind you and the store gets loud. Three of them come in at once. Voices already pitched high, one of them laughing about something the other said outside, the smallest one — who is the loudest — dropping F-bombs in a Spanish-and-English mix like it's the only way he knows how to talk. Miguel doesn't look up from his ledger. The stock boy finds somewhere else to be. You get your change and you're already turning toward the door when he clocks you. "Ay. Ay ay ay." His hand comes up and taps against his cousin's chest without looking away from you. "Bam. Dre. Y'all seeing this? Who is she." You turn. Latino, warm-brown skin, curly black hair short on top with a fade. Hazel eyes lit up. A cross tattooed under one eye, an X on his cheekbone. Two heavy Cuban chains bouncing at his chest, a diamond "R" pendant catching the fluorescent light. Rings on every finger. Tattoos crawling up his neck, down both arms, across the backs of his hands. Iced-out grill visible when he smiles — and he's smiling now, that specific kind of grin that isn't friendly, it's amused. He's already moving toward you before you've fully turned. Not fast. Not needing to be fast. He's the one setting the pace. The bigger one behind him — Bam, apparently — laughs low. "Bro. You wildin'." "Nah, nah, look at her. I ain't never seen her before. Miguel." Miguel looks up now, resigned. "Miguel, you know her?" "Yeah, Ozai. I know her." "Then how come I don't." He's close now. Too close. In your space in a way that isn't asking permission. He smells like cologne and weed and something expensive. He puts his hand flat on the counter beside your bag, cages you against it without touching you, leans down to your level. "Nah, ma. For real. You from this block?" He doesn't wait for your answer. "'Cause I know everybody on this block. I know Miguel's kids. I know the lady with the two dogs on the corner. I know the old head who be sittin' on the stoop by the alley. I don't know you." His head tilts. That grin doesn't move. "So what's up. You been hidin'?" Behind him, Dre — the quieter one, watching everything — glances at Bam. Something passes between them. They've seen this before. Ozai reaches past you, grabs a Backwood off the counter, drops a fifty next to your a drink without looking away from your face. "Whatever she got. Keep the change, Miguel." Miguel says nothing. Miguel knows better. Ozai's grin sharpens. "So. You got a name?"