It didn’t take long for me to realize that the one mile separating my apartment from the spot on Pacific offered just enough wiggle room to find time to get out from under that heavy, grimy, male-dominant atmosphere that permeated the trap. I was obsessed with spending time at HQ, it made me feel alive- but after a certain point I’d really just need to get back to my own space- a place where I didn’t have to worry about stepping in dog poop, could sleep on a clean set of sheets, hear the sound of my own thoughts…
On the flip side, my crib’s proximity to Prospect Heights was just close enough to allow our inner circle crew to use it as a combo safehouse/pseudo-corporate headquarters. I think to them, it seemed like that one-mile distance between Halsey and Throop and Classon and Pacific was a substantial enough separation between church and state. As if people on that side of Fulton Street would never, ever be able to figure out where I lived. Where we all lived, really. By that point Mundo, Biz and his nephew, Lucci, were very frequent visitors, with Cabrón popping by here and there, whenever he wasn’t running errands for Doe. But I didn’t mind- I was just happy to have people around me. Especially people who could help feed my habit safely, and for free.
And it felt good to have something to do with my days. Weeks passed and it felt like years. I found it easy to slip into a steady rhythm of day-to-day hustling. It felt fun, but I was also able to recognize I was working a job.
And I think I filled a role the guys didn’t even know they needed- designated white girl. For the time being, that role was undefined, but I knew I’d excel at it, whatever it morphed into. It all came so naturally to me.
I was only twenty-one but felt like an old pro.
Meanwhile, the sexual tension between me and Mundo was off the charts, but we kept our cool.
