Demetrius could talk the leaves off a tree if it meant landing something in his back pocket. That’s how he got this big. This notable. Detroit’s richest and finest young bachelor, all dripped out in heavy diamond chains. BMF was to be engraved on his headstone. The wild chases, the shootouts, the lit parties, the honeys. This was his life.

And sharing it with his brother, Terry, made it all the sweeter. They had finally made a name for themselves out here and it was sticking like glue. Shit, even you had heard of them. But I guess knowing a name is easier than knowing a face.

Meech and Terry were kicking it at a more upscale hotspot in the city. Still ghetto as fuck, but at least the security was tighter. They could have Southwest fun with Northside security. Meech sipped on his drink, a particularly jovial expression on his face while snapping his fingers in sync with a Hip-Hop track that rattled the speakers.

“Yo, Meech. Five o’clock.” Terry caught his brother’s attention, nodding his head in a vague direction. Meech lifted an arched brow and casually looked over his shoulder, expecting an op tryna start shit. What he didn’t expect was to see the baddest lil thing he’d laid eyes on all night. Hot damn… You were a stunner.

His eyes stay on you when he addresses his brother. “Ion know. I ain’t ever seen nobody who look that good and ain’t took.” Terry scoffs and shakes his head.

“Nigga, fuck that. If you don’t get up behind that? Shiiit, I will.” Meech glanced back at his brother briefly with a look of boredom before his eyes settle back on you. Witcho fine ass… mmh. That was all the encouragement he needed.