REALITY
Chapter 1 — The Game Begins · by King Legacy · about a 15-minute read
The room smelled like sweat, cheap cologne, and bad decisions. I was waiting my turn on the pool table when she walked over like she had been planning it all night.
Her name was Cassie.
Five-seven. Thirty-four, twenty-four, thirty-six. A hundred and thirty-five pounds of pure intention. Mocha skin, full lips, and a slight bow in her right leg that gave her this cocky cowgirl stance—like she knew exactly what she was doing just by standing there.
"Reality, what's happenin'?" she said.
I had to give her that. Bold. Around here, women don't make the first move. That's just how it goes. But she came in like she owned the room.
I stayed calm. Guard up. Intuition screaming that something's off.
"I'm coolin', lil' lady," I said, nodding toward the table. "'Bout to take some money off these goofy dudes. What's the word with you?"
Her eyes lit up like I just opened the door she had been knocking on.
"Reality, I been watchin' you for a minute," she said, biting her lip just enough to make it intentional. "A bitch just tryna see if she can get cracked tonight?"
I won't lie—that landed. Even the third-person talk didn't sound corny coming from her. Still, I've been around long enough to know: you don't move blind.
Truth is, I'd been wanting her since I saw her at New Millennium, out in Rockaway—twerking on some clown named Reggie like she owned the floor. So yeah... the interest was there.
But before anything, I needed intel. Only one person came to mind: Shaconda. If there was information to be known, she had it. Whether you asked for it or not.
I scanned the room and spotted her by the old Pac-Man machine, posted with her crew. Then I turned back to Cassie.
"Depends how the money look tonight," I said. "And how I'm feelin'. Might take you up on that."
She smiled like she already won half the game.
"Nicely put. I'm in Building 1270, Apartment 13B, Redfern. I'll be up till about three if you decide to come through."
She stepped closer—real close. Close enough to make it deliberate. Every movement calculated.
Yeah... I wanted that.
But there was something in her eyes. Not just interest. Calculation. Like she was weighing me against something I couldn't see yet.
"That's fa'sho," I said. "And if I swing through, I guarantee it'll be worth the wait, ya heard?"
By now, the whole room was watching.
"Say no more. And once I rock your ass to sleep, I won't have to ask you to—"
"Yo, Black! I'm up!"
The voice cut through everything. I turned.
Chris Jenkins. Edgemere.
We went back—P.S. 43, Far Rock High. Used to compete over who could pull the most numbers. I usually came out on top.
Usually.
Cassie didn't flinch at the interruption. Instead, she reached into her purse and pulled out her phone.
"Hold up," she said. "Give me your phone real quick."
I hesitated for a second. Then handed it over.
She unlocked it like she'd done it a hundred times before, typed fast, and saved her number under "Cassie — Redfern." Then she handed it back with a smirk.
"There. Now you don't gotta remember. And don't be that nigga who texts 'who dis?' I will block you."
I laughed. "You think I'm that type?"
"I think all y'all the same type until proven different," she said. "But I'ma believe you're special. For now."
She stepped back, gave me one last look—slow, deliberate, like she was memorizing something.
"Don't keep me waitin' too long, Reality. Three o'clock. Don't make me regret givin' you my number nigga."
Then she turned and walked away.
I watched her go. She moved like she knew everybody was watching—and loved it. Hips swaying just enough to keep eyes locked on her. That bow in her leg gave her this unique rhythm, like a cowgirl who knew exactly how to ride.
At the door, she paused. Didn't look back. Just raised her hand in a small wave and stepped out into the night.
The door closed behind her. And just like that, the room felt a little less interesting.
But I had work to do.
"Damn, bro," I said, stepping up to Chris. "Been a minute. You still comfortable coming in second?"
I chalked my hands slowly, letting it breathe.
"Ain't nothin' changed over here. I don't lose. On God."
Chris didn't flinch. "Cocky nigga, huh? I admire that. But I didn't come here to lose."
"Talk is cheap, twin," I said. "We playin' a dub per ball. Half-a-man on the eight."
"I'm with it," he replied. "Bet whatever."
Now the room was locked in. This wasn't just about money. It was about rep. About who walks out of here talking and who walks out quiet.
And tonight? I needed the win more than usual. A couple grand large in my pocket meant Ma's light bill. Meant I could eat without checking the change twice. Meant I could walk through these streets with my head high instead of dodging eyes. Meant I could invest in my future and still have enough to drop at the food bank. This wasn't just hustle—this was purpose.
"Break," I told him.
Big mistake.
He hit the rack—and didn't drop a single ball.
I couldn't help it. "Damn, homie... rough start."
"How so? I only had time to chalk my hands—not my stick."
I laughed. "It's my first shot, you asshole! Fuck you! My game'll speak for itself. Just sit back and watch a real one work. No cap."
But I could see it already—frustration creeping in. And once that sets in? Game over.
I stepped in, picked up my cue, and leaned over the table. Slow. Measured.
I always treated the table like I treated women—patience, attention, understanding every angle before making a move.
Besides, I wasn't just playing for cash. I was playing for respect. For the right to walk out of here like I owned the night. No cap.
"Son, this shit's like making a bitch cum. In other words... it's too easy. Three-ball, right side pocket."
Smooth stroke. Clean contact.
The ball rolled... slowed... teased the edge... then dropped.
Chris just stared.
"Son, empty your pockets! I told you you were a duck!"
He was ashamed but not broken. Dug into his pockets and handed over the cash.
As I tucked the money, Shaconda strolled by, headed for the jukebox. I stopped her.
"What's poppin', Ma?!"
She smiled wide, hugged me tight. "What's good, Reality?! How you been?!"
She glanced at the table, then the crowd. "Still tearing these wannabes new asses, I see! I can't believe these dudes keep going for it!"
"They got no choice," I said. "And who else got the certification to take money from these cornballs? I'm feasting on these lames. I'm supposed to decorate my dinner table with steak—especially when they're up for grabs."
She sighed.
"Check this, Ma. I need to get in ya ear with a lil' somethin', aight? I'll get at you whenever I'm done cleaning these clowns out. Don't get lost, Ma! And don't have too much fun, ya heard?!"
She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, fuck you! And what the fuck ever! And just so you know in case you forgot, my time is money!"
She dipped into the crowd, showing off her new knockoff Jacquemus outfit.
A minute later, she was back. "Reality, how about buying a bitch a drink?!"
Just when I thought I could count on her, she pissed on my parade.
"Shorty, clearly I must appear soft, philanthropic, kind, and all of the above?!" I kept it moving. "Let me tell you how I really am. No head spin. No backspin. Then, a bitch can't get my dividends! Sorry for rhyming but it's just real that's how I feel!"
She fired back, angry now. "Poor thing! Paying to get laid, huh?! Son, you are so fuckin' disgusting! Truly, if you rock like this, then tell me who's the trick?! Is it the bitch who accepts your cash to pay her bills?! Or is it you, who only receives a tingling sensation that lasts a few seconds?! Who then, is really getting ahead in life?! It hits different when you think about it like that, don't it?!"
She made a valid point. To keep it from escalating, I pulled out a ten.
"Here, take this. Go get your drink."
She headed to the mini bar for one of those sweet-ass wine chicks love to sip on.
Yeah, she got me for ten bucks. But I'm strategic. I view small expenses like this as investments. And after I probe her brain for info on Cassie, she'll have earned every dollar.
"You gonna shoot pool or stand there pretending to be someone's heroic playboy?!" Chris shouted. "If you refuse to take a shot, I'm not at liberty to take your cash, man! Plain and simple!"
Not only was this nigga a duck—he was a pain-freak. You know the type. Keeps playing even when they know they're finished.
I went right ahead and demolished him. One by one, each ball fell. I beat Chris out of a light couple grand large.
And even though it wasn't a hundred grand, I still couldn't believe how good the night felt.
After the rest of the ducks saw how I blistered Chris, they didn't want to press their luck either.
So I decided to pursue the Cassie issue. I took off to find Shaconda.
Wasn't hard. She was back posted by the arcade. Before I could get to her, she beat me to the punch.
"So what was it you wanted to holla at me about?!"
She moved fast. I had to regroup.
"Damn, Ma, press your brakes! Look who tryna act all important and shit! Oh, now I get it. You gotta attend an executive meeting to discuss foreign policy, right?!" I said, sarcastic.
"A yo, have you tried auditioning for that new opening lineup on Comedy Central?! You know what, Son?! You're a funny nigga! Unlike the United States Marines, the cable network is lookin' for a few good clowns!"
I almost got consumed by her witty firestorm. I adjusted my altitude, came back down to earth.
"Ma, you know it just wouldn't be right if I didn't talk shit to you!" I said, laughing.
I nudged her with my elbow until she joined in. Tension dissipated.
"Bro, I didn't mean to appear to be rushing you with your words. I'm just a little uptight about leaving here alone tonight. All the ballers and niggaz of importance came out in droves. Not one of them as of yet has pushed up on me. I'm a bad bitch with entirely too much potential. I'm like, what the fuck is wrong with these weak mu'fuckaz?! I be thinking these niggaz are afraid of a strong and independent bitch such as myself?! There's this one dude in particular sharing strong and steady eye contact with me though. Son, even had the nerve to buy me a bottle from the bar. Had not the bartender told me this, I would've never known because he waited until I left the bar to purchase it. Cowardly mu'fucka though. Son, why y'all dudes be acting all petrified by potential rejection?!"
I shrugged. "Women are much different than men. If we're not interested, we give no hints, no eye contact, nothing. But if we are, all the telltale signs would be evident. No cap."
She looked at me for a second—thinking. Then: "So what's this really about?"
Now we were getting somewhere.
I took a breath. This was the part that mattered.
"Cassie," I said. "What's the word?"
Shaconda's eyes narrowed. She knew I wasn't asking just to be asking.
"You serious?" she said.
"Dead serious. On God."
She glanced around, then leaned in. Her voice dropped low.
"She's trouble, Reality. The good kind. But trouble all the same. And she don't play fair. Plus, she be chasing niggas who got the bag too."
I felt my chest tighten. Not from fear—from anticipation.
This night just got a whole lot more interesting. And maybe a little more dangerous. But then again, when has safe ever paid the light bill or contributed to charity? Real shit.
Shaconda continued. "Son, just make it a priority to strap up, because the bitch has more than likely undergone more head and backspins than a complete laundry cycle!"
"No question, Ma. But I don't play road rules on a one-way street."
Shaconda was confused. "What the fuck you mean, nigga?! You be losing me when you get all out there in left field! What the hell does a one-way street have to do with you?!"
I smirked. "Mean I know where I'm going. Ain't no U-turns, no detours, no wrong-way signs. I pick my lane and I stay in it. On God."
She shook her head, laughing. "You hopeless, Reality. Absolutely hopeless."
But I wasn't worried. Dangerous or not, I was already three steps ahead. And if Cassie was trouble? Good. I always did work better under pressure
.
I impressed myself with my quick wittiness. As I walked away from Shaconda, I looked back over my shoulder to capture her reaction.
She had one finger pointed towards the sky, like she'd just been given a divine revelation. She looked like that old man in the barbershop from Eddie Murphy's classic movie: 'Coming To America'—right after he told his joke and nobody caught on.
Aha! Aha!
That was probably the sound going off in Shaconda's head.
My intuition reminded me to check my phone. I needed to see how much time I had left before the three a.m. pussy deadline Cassie had posted.
Fortunately for me, it was a quarter after two. That gave me an additional forty-five minutes of playing time.
I slid my Predator and Cuetec pool sticks inside my Cuetec and Predator case bags and headed out the door of Rockaway's Billiards.
I disengaged the alarm on my Hellcat. Wasn't long after I opened the car door and placed my pool stick in the floorboard when I heard my name being yelled out.
"A yo Reality!! Hold up, Famo!!"
As the person approached my whip and got into plain sight, I noticed it was my cousin Thug a.k.a. Travis.
This nigga was about to want a full tour around the city.
The family nicknamed him Thug because of his rough and rugged lifestyle. He was a coke-sellin', pistol-slangin', jux-pullin' mu'fucka who, quite frankly, didn't give a damn if he dropped dead on the spot.
But through all the gangsta shit, through all the live drama and action, he only visited jail once—on some bullshit minor infraction like misdemeanor possession of marijuana.
"Yo Son, what the fuck going?!" I asked while starting the car's engine.
"I was hoping you can tell me, Kid! Niggas be knowing your M.O.! Money and pussy go hand-in-hand with you. It's almost like the perfect blend for you! When niggas see you, automatically in their minds they visualize stacks of cash and exotic women layin' around in—"
I cut him off. "Hold up, Thug. You need something or you just here to study my life?"
He laughed, leaning against the passenger door. "Both, Son. Both."
Typical Travis. Always wanted to be where the action was. But tonight? I had other plans.
"Damn B. I didn't know both niggas and bitches both be checkin' for me like that!" I stated.
"But yeah, I put some shit together with a shorty earlier, ya heard?! A yo, let me text her to make sure I got the right address."
So caught up with the pool session, it slipped my mind that I had slid her my phone so she could put her number and directions to her apartment in it.
I sent my text, asking if Building 1270, Apartment 13B was the correct address.
A few minutes later, I checked my inbox. She confirmed everything was official.
"Thug, everything is everything with Ma. She's a shorty so she may have some other bitches resting and nesting there with her. And if not, I don't mind sharing, ya heard?!"
Thug was gamed.
"We need some liquor, Kid!" Thug cried.
"Bro, don't be fuckin' readin' my mind! A yo, remember that bootlegger Red Tatum from around the way?!"
He was trying to recall.
"Never mind, man. He's the closest to reach. Last thing we need to do is be pursued by the Jakes!" I exclaimed.
"Say no more, my G."
I purred the Hellcat engine. Thug and I were on our way to one of the most respected and renowned bootleggers in the whisky and beer business.
When we arrived at Red Tatum's, we ordered a case of Coronas. We sat in the whip and downed a twelve pack with no hesitation.
We were for sure feeling quite saucy when suddenly I gravitated towards my phone to see whether the three a.m. deadline had expired or not.
Luckily for me, it was a quarter to three. Which gave me damn good timing.
As we drove back to Redfern where I was born and raised, and where Cassie presently resides—I just could not help but contemplate on the serious multiple sexual positions I was gonna place her in.
That is Chapter 1. The sample continues free — take it with you.
Read Chapters 1–3 Free Get REALITY — $0.99
The sample opens free — chapters 1–3, no sign-up.