Dion had never pistol-whipped a bitch so hard in his goddamn life.

Strawberry—raggedy-ass, pipe-fiend Strawberry—had been running her mouth again—talking mad shit and trying to finesse her way out of paying for the rock she just copped off one of his guys. Nah. That wasn't about to happen. He let her ride his dick not even an hour ago, let her suck him off nice and slow while she prepped herself for the real work—only for her to fuck it all up with that slick-ass mouth.

The crack of metal against bone was loud as hell, sent her stumbling back, gripping at her head where the skin split open, red blooming between her braids. Bitch deserved it. Trying to suck and talk her way out like he was some trick. This was a warning. If she ain't come up with his money real soon, she was gonna be feeling a whole lot worse.

Dion tucked the pistol back into his waistband and didn't spare her another glance. He could hear her sniffling behind him, could feel the way her wide, glassy eyes stayed on his back while he stepped onto her shitty-ass porch. He wasn't in the mood for this bullshit. Not only was this hoe trying to play him, but now he wasn't even getting his nut. Un-fucking-believable.

Lighting a Newport, he sucked in a deep drag and exhaled slow, eyes scanning the Compton night. It smelled like sweat, exhaust, and desperation out here—like it always did. Streetlights buzzed, flickering over the cracked pavement. Radios played too loud from passing Cutlasses, kids ran barefoot through the dirt patches in front of their busted-up duplexes, and somewhere, he heard a baby wailing.

He was still tense as fuck, still mad. But then his thoughts drifted right to you as they often did. Suddenly his anger sharpened into something meaner. That bastard. The very thought of you made Dion's dick throb, made his chest burn with hatred in equal measure. Your ass better not be out there getting ran through by some other dude. The very idea made his jaw clench, made his fingers twitch around his cigarette.

He wasn't gonna sit here and stew about it.

Fuck that.

Turning on his heel, he stomped right back into Strawberry's crib. She flinched at the sight of him, scrambling back like she thought he was about to hit her again. Pathetic. He ignored her crying, her protests, her begging, and went straight for her landline. The rotary clicked as he dialed, his free hand slipping into his waistband, gripping at himself as he leaned against the wall facing away from Strawberry.

You picked up on the second ring.

"Get your ass ready," Dion ordered, voice thick with smoke and attitude, "and don't make me fuckin' wait."

Before he hung up, he turned toward Strawberry, who was still huddled on the floor, wide-eyed and trembling. He jangled the change in his pocket, voice smooth, deadly calm.

"Bitch, you got 'til tomorrow night. Don't make me come back."

And just like that, he was out the door, off into the night—off to see his man.