mean to bark on you like that, but I ain’t really feelin’ being around yo’ peoples like that.”
“It’s all good, ’cause by the way you actin’, I don’t want yo’ ass around. You got me fucked up, talkin’ to me out the side of yo’ neck. And who gives a fuck about you not liking my friends? They don’t like yo’ ass either!” She snatched the covers off of her and tried to get up, but State pushed her back down.
“If you don’t move yo’ big ass out my way,” she warned. Dylan played a lot of games, but not when it came to her friends.
“Stop being so damn dramatic. Look, if it’ll make you happy, I’ll go,” he lied.
“Don’t do me no favors.”
“A’ight, you can chill wit’ the Bonquisha-from-the-block shit. I said I’d go, and I meant it,” he lied again.
“Mm-hmm.” Dylan looked the other way and crossed her arms.
“We cool?”
“Yeah,” she said, still upset.
“I don’t like the way you said it. Are we cool?” State made her face him and placed his forehead on hers.
“I said yeah.” She laughed.
“Well, act like it then.” He pressed his lips up against hers and rotated between sucking her top and bottom.
“But check it: I’m finna shake. I’m running late as hell.” He quickly kissed her lips once more. “Lock up before you go.”
“I will. Have a good day.”
“You too.” He grabbed his cell phone and keys.
“And don’t forget to call me!” she yelled after him.
“I’ll think about it,” he teased, closing the front door behind him.
“How could you be so heartless?”
—Kanye West, “Heartless”
Chapter 5
“Kyrese, come and help me with these bags,” Billie said to her ten-year-old son as she entered through the front door of her spacious apartment.
She and her husband of eleven years, St. Louis Rams superstar Cain Townsend, along with their three children, Kyrese and twins Kenzie and Kaylee, had lived there for the past three years—until Cain announced he wanted a separation and he moved out. It was one of their many homes, and one of Billie’s favorites. Unlike most NFL wives, she wasn’t afforded the pleasure of having a maid or a chef. Cain felt since he was the breadwinner, she should be a stay at home mom—and in every sense of the word, she was. Billie couldn’t even take a vacation without him. She took the kids back and forth to piano and karate lessons, participated in school plays, and kept up a nice home, all while presiding over numerous organizations. It was hard work, but somebody had to do it.
Billie waited at the bottom of the stairs for her son, who still hadn’t come down.
“Kyrese! I know you hear me!”
“Ma’am?” He came stomping to the top of the steps.
“If you don’t bring yo’ ass down here and help me with these bags, I swear to God I’ma punch you in the throat!”
“Why can’t Daddy help you?” he asked, taking the bags from her hands.
“’Cause first of all, I didn’t know your father was here, and second, because I asked you, that’s why.” She shot him a look then walked up the steps and entered the kitchen.
Billie loved her kitchen. The space was huge, 1200 square feet to be exact. The custom designed cabinets were made of Wenge, an imported hardwood. Stainless steel countertops mingled with earth tones, including red, yellow, and orange glass tiles on the backsplash. A six-burner cooktop island sat in the middle of the room underneath an exhaust hood. The see-through refrigerator, two ovens, and a microwave were built into the wall.
“And where is Mrs. Robertson?” she asked her son, referring to their next door neighbor who sometimes helped her with the kids.
“Daddy told her she could go.”
“Where is your father anyway?”
“In the room on the phone.”
“When did he get here?”
“Ummm . . .” Kyrese thought. “About a half an hour ago.”
“And where are your sisters?”
“In the sitting room watchin’ True Jackson VP and they
“It’s all good, ’cause by the way you actin’, I don’t want yo’ ass around. You got me fucked up, talkin’ to me out the side of yo’ neck. And who gives a fuck about you not liking my friends? They don’t like yo’ ass either!” She snatched the covers off of her and tried to get up, but State pushed her back down.
“If you don’t move yo’ big ass out my way,” she warned. Dylan played a lot of games, but not when it came to her friends.
“Stop being so damn dramatic. Look, if it’ll make you happy, I’ll go,” he lied.
“Don’t do me no favors.”
“A’ight, you can chill wit’ the Bonquisha-from-the-block shit. I said I’d go, and I meant it,” he lied again.
“Mm-hmm.” Dylan looked the other way and crossed her arms.
“We cool?”
“Yeah,” she said, still upset.
“I don’t like the way you said it. Are we cool?” State made her face him and placed his forehead on hers.
“I said yeah.” She laughed.
“Well, act like it then.” He pressed his lips up against hers and rotated between sucking her top and bottom.
“But check it: I’m finna shake. I’m running late as hell.” He quickly kissed her lips once more. “Lock up before you go.”
“I will. Have a good day.”
“You too.” He grabbed his cell phone and keys.
“And don’t forget to call me!” she yelled after him.
“I’ll think about it,” he teased, closing the front door behind him.
“How could you be so heartless?”
—Kanye West, “Heartless”
Chapter 5
“Kyrese, come and help me with these bags,” Billie said to her ten-year-old son as she entered through the front door of her spacious apartment.
She and her husband of eleven years, St. Louis Rams superstar Cain Townsend, along with their three children, Kyrese and twins Kenzie and Kaylee, had lived there for the past three years—until Cain announced he wanted a separation and he moved out. It was one of their many homes, and one of Billie’s favorites. Unlike most NFL wives, she wasn’t afforded the pleasure of having a maid or a chef. Cain felt since he was the breadwinner, she should be a stay at home mom—and in every sense of the word, she was. Billie couldn’t even take a vacation without him. She took the kids back and forth to piano and karate lessons, participated in school plays, and kept up a nice home, all while presiding over numerous organizations. It was hard work, but somebody had to do it.
Billie waited at the bottom of the stairs for her son, who still hadn’t come down.
“Kyrese! I know you hear me!”
“Ma’am?” He came stomping to the top of the steps.
“If you don’t bring yo’ ass down here and help me with these bags, I swear to God I’ma punch you in the throat!”
“Why can’t Daddy help you?” he asked, taking the bags from her hands.
“’Cause first of all, I didn’t know your father was here, and second, because I asked you, that’s why.” She shot him a look then walked up the steps and entered the kitchen.
Billie loved her kitchen. The space was huge, 1200 square feet to be exact. The custom designed cabinets were made of Wenge, an imported hardwood. Stainless steel countertops mingled with earth tones, including red, yellow, and orange glass tiles on the backsplash. A six-burner cooktop island sat in the middle of the room underneath an exhaust hood. The see-through refrigerator, two ovens, and a microwave were built into the wall.
“And where is Mrs. Robertson?” she asked her son, referring to their next door neighbor who sometimes helped her with the kids.
“Daddy told her she could go.”
“Where is your father anyway?”
“In the room on the phone.”
“When did he get here?”
“Ummm . . .” Kyrese thought. “About a half an hour ago.”
“And where are your sisters?”
“In the sitting room watchin’ True Jackson VP and they
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