Love Trumps Game by D.Y. Phillips Page A

day.” Kaykay was about to step on Neema’s imported white Persian rug but checked herself. She took her shoes off and felt good for it. The new heels she had on were killing her. “Damn, girl. You got it fly up in this ’mutha.” It had been weeks since she’d been to Neema’s place. Their meet-and-chill spots were clubs, the mall, and sometimes at Kaykay’s place. “When all this jump off?”
    â€œA week or so.” Neema beamed. “You like it?”
    â€œHell yeah!” Kaykay panned her view, admiring all the new touches: paint, furniture. A creamy vanilla leather sectional with matching coffee and end tables. A fancy looking painting adorned the walls. Everything was too fly, in glass and leather. Any fool would be shocked, stepping up in the place, since the outside of Neema’s Crenshaw district apartment was old and rundown. But the inside was the difference between Compton and Palos Verdes. She walked over to the smoky glass dining room table where Neema had some coke piled on a mirror. “Looks like you’re doing good, for somebody unemployed. Hell, girl, I work six days a week and still live in a shack.”
    â€œThat’s because you not hooking up with the right niggas.” Kaykay was a true get-money chick who mainly dated big-ballers, but occasionally she went through a dry spell. Neema wasn’t sure who her main man was now, but the last she’d heard, her girl was involved and stalking a married man who had to uproot and leave town with his wife and family to end their relationship. “Hell, I was tired of my place looking like a dump while that nigga Topps kicked it in luxury. Shoot, I like nice things, too.”
    â€œYou ain’t never lied.”
    Attired in a short, yellow sundress, Neema sashayed over to the table where she had Topps’ package wide open for her dipping pleasure. “Make yourself at home.”
    â€œHell, yeah,” said Kaykay, pulling out a chair. Her hungry eyes locked on the white blow like a kid lusting behind chocolate cake. “Good looking out for inviting a sistah over for a lift party. I sho’ appreciate it.”
    â€œKay, you know how we do? You my homie. We share.” Neema took a seat across from her. She took up an index card and sectioned off four generous lines. “Here you go.” She passed Kaykay a cut-off straw, then watched that greedy girl fly two lines up so fast that it made her shudder. “Girl, look at you. You a dope fiend crackhead.” The two shared a brief laugh.
    â€œYeah, right, Miss Pot-Calling-the-Kettle-Black. I do a few lines every now and then, but I ain’t no crackhead. I can’t stand smoking no crack.”
    â€œI know that’s right.” Neema flew the last two lines and stood up feeling as light as air itself. “Want something to eat?”
    â€œNah. Maybe somethin’ to drink. Nothing with too much sugar in it. You got any diet Coke?”
    â€œDiet? Girl, please.”
    Kaykay was one of her closest friends. The two had met during jury duty a couple of years back. The girl was constantly crying broke but always dressed like she was running with a big-baller with heavy pockets. She wore diamond rings on all fingers, and gold dangled from her neck and wrists. Kaykay’s long, reddish-brown hair, as usual, was fly to perfection; even if it was a lace-front wig. Neema admired the slamming black miniskirt with a matching top over a red Baby Phat tank she wore. She resisted the urge to ask where she’d bought those jamming Jimmy Choos she’d kicked off. The look was way hot for a chick with a hotbody—something Neema appreciated from her friends because she couldn’t be seen in public with skanks who didn’t know how to dress to impress. Truth be told, Kaykay could pass for Ciara’s twin. At least from a distance. Up close she had a mad scar on her left side from a car accident three years