Dear Summer Read Online Free

yanked the sheets off him. “Tommy, look at me.”
They made eye contact.
“Tell me you don’t love her.”
“I can’t say that.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You can’t say you don’t love her. This shit cannot work.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing, Tommy. Nothing. You’ll never understand.” *****
    Scooter’s hustle wasn’t drugs; it was Nikes, counterfeit Nikes. He’d made a fortune off them, importing them from China for twenty bucks and reselling them for thirty-five. On any given week, Scooter could profit between thirty-five and forty hundred dollars. He and Tommy had met in the feds and had become cool. Because they were from the same city, they hung out and worked out together. Scooter had done ten years for drug conspiracy. The U.S. attorney had convicted him on pure hearsay, and when Scooter got out he swore to himself that he’d never sell drugs again. But he knew he’d hustle again.
    Tommy drove up in the vehicle—it was a black Porsche Cayenne. Scooter was showing a nigga a BAPE hoodie when he looked up and saw Tommy. He turned and faced him.
“What’s good, my nigga?”
    Tommy smiled. Scooter was funny to him. He was always hustling, even in prison. He could have ten grand on his books but still be wheeling and dealing. Card games, dice games, loan sharking…you name it, Scooter was into it. He told Tommy that in the ten years he had been locked up, he made more than seventyfive grand.
    The kid slid into the hoodie—perfect fit—then handed Scooter a fifty-dollar bill before walking away. Scooter said, “Don’t fuckin’ call me again unless you’re trying to buy wholesale.”
“Wholesale?” the kid asked.
    “Twelve hoodies or more. Don’t call me for a fuckin’ fifty-dollar sale.”
“How much will you sell them wholesale for?”
“Forty dollars each.”
“Cool,” the kid said, then hopped into a black Dodge Charger with twenty-inch rims, and scurried off.
Scooter hopped into his Denali and Tommy got in on the passenger side. Scooter gave him a pound. “Nigga, what’s good?” Tommy said.
“Nothing, man. Still tryin’ a make a dollar.” He tossed the fiftydollar bill under the armrest. Tommy noticed several bundles of money under the armrest. He figured it was maybe five or ten thousand.
“I see you doing good for yourself,” Tommy said.
Scooter smiled. “Did you really think I would be doing bad?”
“No, not really, but I came to let you check out this Porsche truck I got. I remember you saying you wanted one.”
“Not that one.”
Tommy looked confused. “Why not this one?”
“This ain’t the new one and the other one is a V8.”
“I can give you this for thirtyfive grand, Scooter. This shit has leather interior and a Bose sound system.”
Scooter laughed. “First of all, I’ve never seen one that didn’t come with leather interior, and that sound system shit don’t impress me.”
“Come on, Scooter. Man, thirtyfive grand, you ain’t gonna to find that nowhere.”
“Tommy, come on, man. Nothing personal, it’s just business. I like what I like, but if you can find me a Cadillac Escalade we can do business. I don’t care what color it is.”
“I got ya.” Tommy opened the passenger door and, before he could get out, Scooter grabbed his arm and made eye contact with him. “Tommy, man, please be careful out there.”
“I got ya, man. Don’t worry about me; I ain’t gonna do nothing stupid.”
“I know, but your associations can get you in trouble, man. You know where we just came from.”
Tommy smiled, gave Scooter a pound then got back into the truck and pulled off.
*****
    The white boys had called and said they had three Porsche 911s and a Yukon Denali. Tommy knew the Porsche would sell fast, but the problem was that he had two vehicles that had not sold, and he didn’t want to have too much inventory and not enough money. Tommy had two hot cars that, it seemed, nobody wanted. He was sure he would have sold that Porsche