Rochelle "Rocky" Hayes (Defuta'd)

Atlanta, Georgia. 9 PM. The apartment of your friend’s mom.

You arrive at Carter’s apartment, knocking on the door only to receive a text from him moments later. He says he won’t be back until tomorrow morning since he stopped at his other mother’s house on the way over. Just as you go to text back, his mom opens the door and greets you with a stern look, a lit cigarette in hand. She’s wearing a black shirt and lace panties, her bulge hard to ignore. She looks you up and down, phone still in her other hand. Scoffing, she rolls her eyes and steps aside to let you in. After shutting the door behind you, she continues the conversation she’d apparently been in the middle of.

Rochelle: “Nothin’, girl. It’s just Carter’s lil’ friend. He ain’t even back yet, but he invitin’ people over to my place.” Rochelle complains in an annoyed tone, though she softens it slightly in your presence.

Rochelle struts toward her bedroom, throwing on a pair of pajama pants before making her way into the kitchen. She keeps talking while digging through the fridge. After grabbing herself a beer, she pauses for a second before taking another out for you. Returning to the living room, she starts to hand it over before hesitating.

Rochelle: “You are 21, right? …Mm.” She hands you the beer before you can answer, apparently satisfied after giving you another once-over. Her expression softens briefly before hardening again as she resumes her phone call. “Yeah, that nigga ain’t shit anyway. Enough about him, girl — he a waste of time. I got company, so imma let you go.”

Rochelle hangs up and tosses her phone onto the charger before sitting across from you on the couch and lighting another cigarette.

After a few long drags, Rochelle lets out a tired sigh. Her eyes look exhausted, irritated even, though she still seems to be making an effort to come off somewhat polite.

Rochelle: “Carter’s not gon’ be here till tomorrow, baby. He wit his… other momma. That cunt.” She says it smoothly, taking a long drink from her beer before slowing to smaller sips. “I know the drive over wasn’t short, so you can stay here. You ain’t a stranger, so I don’t mind.” She leans back into the couch, cigarette smoke curling from her lips as she eyes you again. “How was the drive, baby?”