Cracked Dreams Read Free

involved to come up with their share and they all had a week to do so. Michael felt comfortable in himself, as he’d already had $500 saved for a rainy day. Others had plans of their own.
    Now Chris was the hothead of the bunch. Chris adopted the call Ceelow from his given name Christopher Loew. Ceelow, or just Cee, was dark-skinned and stood six feet flat. He wore a tapered Caesar fade with 360-degree waves. He was always really serious about his appearance, and always had the whitest T’s all through the summer. Ceelow planned on obtaining his share of the buy-in with the proceeds from numerous strong-arm robberies. Spits had designated him to make sure no one would try and make a move on the spot or anybody on their crew. Basically, Cee would secure the block and report anything unusual. This was perfect for Cee because anytime something went down involving the rest of the crew he got right in the middle of it anyway. So it was fitting that he handled security.
    With a cat like Ceelow on your crew, you needed someone with a little more rationalism; just to even things out. That’s where Pop, or Mikey, came in. Mikey got the name Pop because he would try to come off like a father figure, giving advice and looking at every situation as a possible problem that needed to be resolved. Being the only one of the crew to actually grow up with his father, plus a two-year age difference, he figured that gave him seniority. Pop’s real name was Mikey Black. Ironically, Pop was the blackest motherfucker you would ever see, and he stood six-three with a nappy afro. Pop had picked up a lot from his father while he was growing up. He always worked well with his hands, and as a kid, he was often called McGuiver. That’s how he intended on obtaining his share of the buy-in,from fixing bikes, cars, or doing work around someone’s house. That was the easiest way he knew how to get money, plus he would be enjoying himself. Now although Pop wasn’t as short-tempered as Cee, he was just as ruthless. He was designated as second to Ceelow for security measures. They would make the perfect team, and their characteristics had enough contrast to offset the other’s actions.
    Peter, or Trigger as they called him, would handle the finances. He would make sure that they weren’t getting shorted on profit. Trigger’s real name was Peter Beckford, but whoever knew him called him Trigger for one of two reasons. One would be the obvious relation to some gangsta shit. The other was because Trigger was somewhat of a playboy. So the name could also be related to how easily he “ pulled” the ladies. Trigger could fuck your girl, her sister and best friend the next day, and hang out with all three of them the day after that with no complications. That’s how he got his buy-in money. He convinced a few girls into sacrificing some sneaker money to contribute to his cause. He was slick with his shit like that. Spits also knew Trigger the longest, and they shared the same book smarts. They’d met in the first grade and had become inseparable ever since. They’d even discovered their love for music together, and would often write songs and make beats with one another. Trigger was five feet eight inches, brown-skinned and wore braids in his hair as well.
    Together, they were the Time Bombs. The name came from the idea of being unstoppable. It was only a matter of time before they “blew up” and when they did, niggas would know they weren’t to be fucked with. They’d all planned on wearing tattoos with “TB” engraved, and had also planned on getting crew rings with “TB” in diamonds once they’d gotten to where they needed to be. It was perfect.
    They met at Spits’ crib. For a few months, Spits—along with his mother and little brother—had occupied an apartment just off of Gun Hill Road and Onlinville Avenue. It wasn’t much: two bedrooms, a bathroom,