Teri Woods - True to the Game

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright 1994 by Teri Woods

Discussion Questions copyright 2007 by Hachette Book Group USA

A Letter to Readers and excerpt from True to the Game II copyright 2007 by Teri Woods

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This Warner Books edition is published by arrangement with Meow Meow Productions, P. O. Box 866, Havertown, PA 19083.

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First eBook Edition: May 2007

Warner Books and the W logo are trademarks of Time Warner Inc. or an affiliated company. Used under license by Hachette Book Group USA, which is not affiliated with Time Warner Inc.

ISBN: 978-0-446-19566-9

This book is dedicated
in loving memory
of my father, Clinton Brother Woods,

and to

my mom and my stepdad.

Thank you for being there.

You are always there and You are always right.

I love you.

Jessica,
you are what life
is all about.
I love you.

Mommy

Meow Meow Productions would like to thank the following for all their past support, time, efforts, concern, and moments shared, which have helped MMP in all its endeavors as an independent publishing house:

Phyllis and Corel the financial institution for MMP, thanks for the dough mom! Leon Blue (how did you do so much for me? You are truly that legendary nigga and thats why I fuck with you. One, nigga, always), Sheena Lester (I try to be nice to people, you just are. Thank you for being so nice to me and for being my editor), Brian Murray, Shirley MacIntosh, my brothers Chucky and Dexter, Ms. Hughes and Radio One (You are a magnificent lady and a true role model. Thank you for helping me), Queen Latifah and the Queen Latifah Show (How can I thank you? Thank you!), Robert Morales and Ayanna Byrd, Leah Rose, Mia X (your story is next; you are amazing), Amil (if you need the shirt off my back nigga, Wha? I got you!), Queen Pen, Nelly and Camp QP (for opening up your door and always keeping it real, One), Method Man, Red Man, James Ellis, Shauna Garr (I love you both and even though its been a battle this last year, I truly and sincerely appreciate your various efforts on this project. I really do! You two just dont know how much with or without the dealsthank you for everything), Tariq and Uniquest Designs (thank you for everything you do for my Web site and for me personally, thank you for the past year), Darryl Miller, Esquire (you understand shit I cant even read; you are that nigga. Thank you!), Michael Jackson, Esquire, Milligan and Company, Anslem Samuels, Carlito, Tone Boots and Lamont Henchman, Branson and Eddie (thank you for holdin me down Uptown), Don Diva Magazine, Tiffany Maughn and Cavario (fire escape nigga 4th Fl.), the FEDS Magazine, Dave and Antoine (Smokey) Clark and Monique, Niki Turner, the many individuals locked down and still holding me down and of course the Streets. You held me down, you helped take True to a level I wouldnt have been able to by myself. Thank you so much.

I cant go without saying to the various distributors and many bookstores and individuals who sold my book published under my company, MMP, to the people across the countrythank you for giving my book the chance to be read! It is a pleasure doing business with you all. Thank you.

As you struggle to hustle, taking gain after loss, dont get discouraged. Just remember whos boss. Handle your business, and always watch your back. Dont sleep on the stick-up boys waiting to attack. As you creep through the streets, the crack fiends holler. Theyve done any and everything just to give you those dollars. I hope it will last. I hope you make something of it. Time will tell if something good can come from it. But as you count the highs, count the lows too, and whatever you do, forever remain true. What choice do you have? Its in you by nature. Your only fault is...

Being a player.

H arlem, New York. It was the summer of 1988, and it was hot. Too hot. Harlem had to be the hottest place on the planet in the summertime. Exiting the West Riverside Drive on 125th Street, Gena was amazed to see so many people standing outside a nightclub. Damn, look at that limousine, girl. We need to be with them! Laughing out loud, she was now suddenly anxious to get uptown.

We damn sure do, said Sahirah, looking smug. It was amazing; there was nothing like it: 125th was a mini Greek playland in the middle of Harlem. Gena had no understanding. It wasnt like Philly. It was larger, and the niggas looked like Eric B and Rakim, with humongous gold chains and diamond medallions the size of bread plates. If it was meant to represent wealth, that shit did its job. And Gena liked it. She looked at the girls and could not help staring at them. They had no clothes on. They were sexy and revealing, and Gena wanted to be among them, fucking with niggas, getting her life on. New York was the shit. There was no way she could live there, though. It was so fast, too fast. Fast niggas, fast cars, and fast lifestyles. The magnitude was large, as was the amount of men. Even the cars in New York looked different. Gena didnt know if it was the rims or the tires or what was going on. The dashboards were customized, leather MCM and Louis Vuitton seats, not to mention the detailed piping and thousand-dollar sound systems. That shit turned her the fuck on. Everything about New York turned her on, especially the guys. And to think, this was all so normal for them.

Suddenly, Sahirah did an about-face and shouted, No! Look at that BMW. Is he the man of life or what? Riding by, there he was with a squad of brothers deep in his Beemer. She couldnt contain herself. Leaning out the window, she called, Hi! Turning back to Gena, she grabbed her arm.

Girl, dont he look good?

Sahirah! Bitch, is you crazy? This is Harlem! You just cant wave at these people up here! Gena tried to pull the top of her friends body back into the car.

Oh, shit, Gena. Hes pullin over.

Yeah, but hes all way on the opposite side of the street.

Against Genas protests, Sahirah made a U-turn into traffic, causing every moving vehicle to screech to a standstill just so she could meet the guy driving the BMW. She greeted them even as she double-parked just behind the Beemer, waving and calling to the driver.

He stepped out of the car, fine as wine, and walked toward the girls. Whats up?

Whats up? Sahirah repeated.

Whats your name? he asked, walking up on them.

Getting out of the car, she replied, Im Sahirah. Whats yours?

Rasun.

I see you have Pennsylvania tags. You from Philly? Sahirah asked.

Yeah. Tell your girlfriend to get out of the car.

Gena insinuated herself out of the car and chimed, Im Gena.

Rasun openly admired what he saw.

Whats up, Gena? Im Rasun. Thats my homey Quadir in the car. Why dont you go over there and talk to him?

What does he look like?

Smiling, he told her, Go and see.

How convenient, she thought, Sahirah got the driver, and I got the passenger. When she reached the other car, she announced, Hi. Im Gena. Your friend Rasun told me I should come over here and talk to you.