The young man was in his early twenties, rocking a white do-rag beneath a fitted Cincinnati Reds cap. His pants hung slightly off his ass and were cuffed over a pair of black-and-red Jordans. He walked over to Reese and just stared at her without speaking.

“Can I help you?” she asked, fingering the box cutter in her purse.

“Sorry, miss, I ain’t mean to scare you,” the kid said, backing up a step. “My man in the ride would like to know if he could get a minute of your time?”

“What, his legs broke? Tell that nigga if he wanna holla, get his ass out the car.” Even as Reese said the words she couldn’t believe her luck. There was only one nigga in Harlem who had that custom red Hummer. She just hoped that it was actually Don B. that wanted to holla and not one of his flunkies. The kid walked back to the Hummer and said something to one of the passengers in the back. After receiving a reply, he stepped back to allow the back door to open. Standing on the corner of 133rd and Seventh, looking like a rock star, was Don B. himself.

Don B. was a typical Harlem nigga. Fitted cap, a white thermal shirt, and a fresh pair of burgundy Gore-Tex boots. The only difference was, his neck and arms looked like Christmas tinsel. The diamonds on his chain were nothing compared to the ones in the piece. The B hung crooked from the chain, and stopped at his belly button. The stones in his ears were so big that they made her wonder how his lobes supported them without ripping. As Don B. approached her, she could feel her mouth go completely dry.

“‘Sup, shorty,” he said in a raspy voice.

Reese’s brain said “speak,” but her mouth said nothing. She finally gathered her wits enough to reply, “Nothing.”

“So, I’m saying though…” Reese didn’t hear much after that. The next thing she knew, she was in the back of Don B.’s hummer, on her way to only God-knows-where.

About forty minutes later, Reese was sitting in the penthouse suite of the Marriott in Times Square. She was hoping that it would be just her and Don B., but unfortunately there were a whole slew of people running about. Don B. led her to a small love seat in the far corner of the room, where bottles of champagne were already lined up. A few quick words from the kid in the Cincinnati hat, whose name was Jay, and the people that had been occupying the seat cleared out.