Array 50 Cent - Baby Brother

“Yeah,” Farad said, standing up with his empty plate in his hand. He reached over and punched Baby Brother on his shoulder, then mushed his head like he was ten years old again. “Just make sure you put some damn gas in my car before you fly, though. Shit! I’m glad that niggah leaving. I’ma finally get a chance to push my own whip.”

Malik headed for the door. “Yo, Ant, what time we flying outta here on Monday?”

“Seven. I already told Ra to be here by four. That’ll put us at JFK way before five.”

“Cool.” Malik nodded. “I’ll get wit’chall in a few. They got me pulling a double shift so it’s gone be a long night.”

Fifteen minutes later two of the Davis brothers were ready to hit downtown Brooklyn. Priest let Baby Brother drive. He couldn’t bring himself to get behind the wheel of Farad’s drug-bought car. Negativity was all up in it, and he wanted no part of that.

As they pulled out of the driveway, Priest looked back at the four-bedroom home his mother had scraped to buy for them after their father’s murder. It shamed him to remember all the hoes and drugs and hot gats he’d brought in and out of these rooms back in the day when he was living like a dog and didn’t give a damn. His brothers Raheem and Malik shared a crib in Crown Heights, and Kadir was living down in A.C. These days it was the twins, Farad and Finesse, who were shaming their mother’s house, running a drug empire from her very bedroom, but there wasn’t much Priest could do or say about it. Hell, he’d set them up in the game. Taught them how to hustle on the success tip, and helped them earn their deadly reps.

But when Priest got knocked and sent upstate, things changed. He was locked down for almost two years before the Lord touched his soul and changed his heart. The prison chaplain had mentored him and helped him adjust his outlook on life, and by the time he was released that monstrous killer inside him was dead and Priest had been born. Ministry lived in his heart where menace and mischief had once run amok.

He sat back in his seat and glanced at Baby Brother. California was a long way away and he was gonna miss him, but it was a life or death thing that he go. Zabu was untouched by the poisons of their world. Unaffected by the lure of the streets that seemed to strangle Brooklyn boys like him by the tens of thousands.

Priest ran his hand down his sweaty face and let out a deep breath. He’s almost there, Mama, he thought. Like his other brothers, Priest had made a promise to his mother on her deathbed. They’d stood over her wasted body and held hands and vowed that no matter what happened to them, they’d stay together and make something good come outta their lives. They had told their mother not to worry. Said everything she needed to hear, easing her heart so she could die in peace. And at the very end they had promised to do the last and most important thing that she had asked.

They promised to take care of Baby Brother.

Later that night Eastern Parkway was packed. Everybody in Brooklyn knew that the biggest and hottest event on Labor Day weekend was the West Indian Day Parade. Cameron Davis, Baby Brother’s father, had been from Jamaica. He had come to New York as a teenager, and even though he’d been killed when Baby Brother was just a tyke, his brothers had painted a colorful picture of their father and made sure that shit was cemented in Baby Brother’s mind.

Cameron was a true hood legend. Even to this day, just the mention of his name could strike awe in an OG’s eyes. He’d been a slick gambler with a fearsome rep. They had lived in the projects, but Cameron kept his family in the finest condition and they didn’t want for a damn thing. Reva Davis was known for the African diamonds her husband draped her in. Her mink coats were legendary, and some said she had a different one for each day of the week. Others went even further than that. They said Cameron had stacked so much paper down in A.C. that the feds were hounding him for tax evasion because he was technically unemployed, but kept at least three late-model cars on the curb at all times.

Out of all the tales Baby Brother had heard about his father, one fact stayed consistent. He had loved his sons. He called his boys his lucky seven, and he would have died for them and their mother if need be.

But as hard as Cameron was, he still wasn’t bulletproof. He’d gotten popped behind a jealous niggah and a shady bet, and life for the Davis crew had taken a downhill turn from there.

Eastern Parkway was live when Baby Brother and Sari rolled up. After circling around side streets for almost an hour, Baby Brother found a parking spot on the far side of Lincoln Terrace Park. It was hot and sticky and festive as hell. The steel bands were pounding out that melodic island rhythm, and calypso music played loudly in the air, and dancers and revelers spilled down the middle of the street. There were endless floats and sound trucks inching down the middle of the large urban parkway, and crowds of people lined up along the service road, drinking brew, smoking sticky, and getting wild.

They stopped at a food stand and Baby Brother got Sari a taste of jerk chicken, a piece of coconut bread, and some mauby to drink. He pointed out flags from Trinidad, Jamaica, Barbados, and Grenada. They came up close near a band wildin’ out on steel drums and started dancing with the crowd. Baby Brother grabbed Sari’s shoulders and turned her around. She had on a bright pink clingy halter top that showed the imprint of her nipples, and a pair of pale pink shorts that set off her brown skin just right.

“Come on, girl.” He laughed, trying to make her smile. She was still on that “why-you-gotta-go” shit and he wanted her to chill and have a good time. “Wind that shit up!” he told her, eyeing her firm hips. “Do that thing you be doing when you stand over me on the bed.”

Sari laughed and turned around so he could see her round ass. She started winding her thick wicked like an island girl, working that heavy West Indian beat like she had a few drops of Jamaica in her blood.

“Yeah, that’s it, mami,” Baby Brother said, biting his lower lip as he watched her move. He stepped up behind her, letting that bouncy ass rub against his hardening dick. He never got tired of looking at her or digging in her either. She was brown and dimpled and sexy as hell. Phatty ass, bomb titties, tiny waistline with a tight stomach and a deep navel. He loved the hell outta her, and already he was thinking about getting back to New York for Christmas. He was gonna be doing plenty of pillow-fucking until then, though, ’cause he wasn’t planning to slum around on his honey.

“Sell that shit!” somebody yelled nearby. “Hold up—I think I already bought some a’ that stuff last night!”

Baby Brother took his eyes off Sari’s ass and grilled the cat that had spoken. He recognized him immediately. Borne Reynolds. Baby Brother kept his hands on Sari’s shoulders, but his lips had turned down in a hard frown.

“Yo, who the fuck you talkin’ to?” he barked, his voice heavy with bass. Unlike Farad and Finesse—dealers who lived and breathed their hustle from the trenches—Borne was one of them bitch rollers. A high-bank slanger who kept his hands clean and let his crew do all his dirty work. He was becoming a real headache on the streets and Baby Brother had heard his brothers discussing how to handle him. Borne ran a rival drug click on the border of East New York and Brownsville called the Brooklyn Bornes, and not only was Sari’s brother Tony and his click gunning for him, the Davis brothers were getting tired of him and his crew too.

Borne laughed as Baby Brother stared him down. “Oh, my bad. Sorry, my man. I didn’t see who you was for a minute. I ain’t tryna disrespect your little taco or nothing, homey, so don’t go running telling them bitch-ass brothers of yours nothing tryna start no war.”