B-More Careful

by Shannon Holmes

  B-More Careful

  Shannon Holmes

  Kingston Imperial

  B-More Careful Copyright © 2020 by Shannon Holmes

  Printed in the United States of America

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved, including the rights to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Kingston Imperial 2, LLC

  Rights Department, 144 North 7th Street, #255 Brooklyn N.Y. 11249

  First Edition:

  Book and Jacket Design: PixiLL Designs

  Cataloging in Publication data is on file with the library of Congress

  ISBN 9781733304153 (Trade Paperback)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  I. The Past

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  II. Black

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  III. The Future

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  Kingston Imperial

  1

  “Yo, y’all come here! Hurry up!” Netta yelled, as she hurried back into the kitchen.Leaning over the sink, she looked out the window of her two-story row home. Netta pierced her eyes on a startling event transpiring in her alleyway.

  They still out there, she thought, as she waited for the other four occupants of her house to come and see for themselves.

  Mimi, Fila, Petey and Rasheeda came running as if it were a race, wondering what in the world could be so important to interrupt their sessions.

  This better be good, Mimi thought.

  Netta was boss and what Netta wanted, Netta got. When she called, they came. Like a herd of wild horses, their footsteps could be heard thundering through the house until they reached the kitchen.

  “Damn bitch, what?” Fila playfully asked, as they hurried over to the window. Everyone quickly gathered around Netta, bumping and jockeying for position.

  “Sssshhhushh!” Netta said, with her finger held across her lips.

  “What?” Mimi asked, as if she could have stayed where she was on the couch with her blunt.

  “Look,” Netta said, pointing to the two figures in the cut of the alley.

  “Oooh, Meeka is at it again,” Rasheeda said.

  “Mmm hmm, she got another one,” added Petey.

  The girls huddled around each other watching and waiting for the jump off. Rumors had been circulating about Meeka for some time now. People said she was trickin’, but now they were about to witness it with their own eyes.

  Oblivious to the prying eyes, Meeka was engaging in her newfound profession of trickin’, or better yet, trading sex for drugs. In broad daylight, Meeka and the young boy off the Ave were carrying on like it was late night.

  “Ummmm,” moaned the young hustler. His eyes rolled up in the back of his head from the pleasure he was receiving. Her mouth was simply dulling his senses. He was a freak for oral sex, trickin’ away a nice amount of his profits on a daily basis.

  Meeka was good at using her mouth as a sexual favor. She had mastered the art of that shit down to a science and this was far from being her first time. However, this type of sexual act was supposed to be reserved for the man in her life, but lately she resorted to these kinds of degrading sexual acts to support her growing drug habit. There was no shame in her game.

  Looking at Meeka, one would never have guessed she was a fiend. Her appearance was still up to par. Her hygiene and dress hadn’t slipped, yet. A couple of months from now, though, you wouldn’t be able to say the same. The monkey was just beginning to climb on her back. Every day she was doing more drastic things just to get a blast. She was only sniffing dope, but soon she’d graduate. Her tolerance level was growing every day and she was getting curious about life on the other side, shooting dope. As it stood right now, it took her a half a bundle just to get off E. Snorting that amount only kept her from getting sick, not high.

  Back and forth, her head moved slowly and deliberately. Meeka was deep-throating him and it was driving him crazy. Without breaking her rhythm or skipping a beat, she calmly slid her free hand into her jacket pocket, retrieving a small steel box cutter. In one smooth motion, she replaced her warm mouth with the cold steel razor. Thus, bringing this cat and mouse game to an abrupt end.

  “Don’t move, muthafucka! Just gimme ya stash and everything will be alright,” she said, as she yanked his penis and applied pressure on him with the steel razor.

  Shocked and caught off guard, the young boy froze. He looked down at her in disbelief. His words were stuck in his throat and the only thing he could do was point to his pants, which were hanging around his knees. Still on her knees, Meeka immediately yelled to one of her dope fiend accomplices.

  “Lefty, come on! I got ‘em,” she said, in a whispery sort of way.

  From out of nowhere, a tall skinny dope fiend appeared from behind some trash cans. Anxiously, he began waving his arms signaling the getaway car. They ran this game all over Baltimore, from east to west and they used Meeka as bait. They had it down to a science. Quickly, the pair fumbled through the boy’s pockets until they found what they were looking for.

  “Jackpot,” Meeka said, as her eyes lit up like little tiny Christmas trees. She pulled out a sandwich bag from her victim’s pocket filled with bundles of dope and money. She found what appeared to be at least a $1,000 in product and $500 in cash. She placed it all inside her bra as Lefty watched over her like a hawk. He already knew Meeka might try to stash anything extra she could if he wasn’t watching and that wasn’t going to happen.

  One cue, the old beat-up hooptie came to a screeching halt right next to them. The driver, another dope fiend, scanned his eyes up and down the alley looking for any signs of trouble. Meeka scrambled to her feet, releasing her iron grip on the boy’s penis. Still holding the box cutter in her right hand for protection, she backed up into the car until the car door was safely closed, never once taking her eyes off of him. Once Lefty’s door was closed, they all zoomed off.

  Dumbfounded, the boy watched as the car drove off for a few seconds before he decided to act. Grabbing a handful of his jeans, he quickly pulled them back up and then dashed to the trashcans where he kept his gun, hoping to squeeze off a couple of rounds at the car. His attempt proved futile. The car was long gone by the time he gripped his gun. He stood in the middle of the alley, gun in hand cursing the air.

  “Ah, haa! That’s food for his young dumb ass,” Netta said, breaking the silence. “That’ll teach him. Everything that looks good to you, isn’t always good for you,” she added.

  “Yo, that’s a damn shame. I ain't know she was going out like that. But, I guess seeing is believing,” Fila said.

  “It hurts me to see her go out like that. That was my dog in middle school,” Petey said.

  “I swear I ain’t never going out like that. I’d rather die first than live like that and if any of you bitches do, y’all get cut the fuck off,” Netta said, meaning every word.

/>   Netta had no compassion or sympathy for a dope fiend or any kind of addict for that matter. It wasn’t hard to understand her reasons why. Her mother was a stone-cold junkie. As a young girl growing up, all Netta could remember was never having anything. Thanks to dope, she never got any birthday or Christmas presents. Her childhood scarred her so deeply, she carried memories around with her like an open wound in her mind.

  “No doubt, we feelin’ you on that,” Petey said, completely agreeing with Netta.

  Solemnly, yet quietly, they were all in agreement. Anything harder than weed or alcohol was a no-no for this all-girl clique.

  “Come on, y’all. Let’s go back to the living room and finish what we were starting. I had enough of this shit. It’s blowing my high,” Petey said, changing the subject.

  “Yeah, you right. Let’s go get our puff on,” Netta said.

  And with that, they all marched back through the house to the living room.

  The Pussy Pound was the name of these self-proclaimed bad girls. These young ladies defied the age-old theory of females not being capable of having casual sex without becoming emotionally attached. On the contrary, you had to pay to play with them. They got down for their crown. Flipping the script on nature, they played the field and they saw nothing wrong in what they did: exchanging sex for pay in whatever form the currency came in. It could be cars, jewelry or cash. It didn’t matter, as long as it was something. They all had yet to discover, whoring isn’t something you do, it’s something you become.

  Netta, the most outspoken amongst the Pussy Pound, was without a doubt its leader. Not only was she beautiful, which could be said about the whole entire clique, Netta was very intelligent too. She was book smart and street smart. Every spectrum of the black woman was represented in the Pussy Pound. From the light-skinned and chinky-eyed Mimi, to the full-lipped, golden complexion of Fila, to the brown-skinned, bow-legged Petey, to the dark-skinned, cut cap-tooth smile of Rasheeda and the jet-black, smooth skin of Netta.

  However, no matter how attractive and beautiful one is, beauty is only skin deep. The comparisons among the girls ended there. Each and every one of them was scandalous to a point. However, Netta was ruthless in her pursuit of the almighty dollar and once she pinpointed the exact weakness in a man, she exploited it, using it to her advantage. In her book, every hustler was fair game. They were just stepping-stones on her way to Easy Street.

  Headquarters for the Pussy Pound was at Netta’s crib, better known as crime central. Her row home was smackdab in the heart of West Baltimore on Monroe and Fayette Street. She recently purchased the newly renovated two-story row home, which was a world away from the others on the block. True, it was in the ghetto, but the ghetto didn’t exist inside this crib. Every imaginable kitchen appliance was on display here, courtesy of all the hustlers she played. Netta had big screen televisions, black Italian leather furniture, wall-to-wall carpeting, video games, a well-stocked mini bar and everything you could imagine one needed to be comfortable. Yes, the game was good to her.

  Recognized citywide, the Pussy Pound was infamous amongst all thugs, ballers and hustlers. Their fame spawned plenty of counterparts, wannabes and rival female cliques. The Pussy Pound members were all dimes, or close to it. There was nothing average about them.

  Rarely would you find these ladies up at this time of the day. Usually, during these hours, they would be catching zzz’s, making up for the late-night hours they spent. Since none of them were employed, they could afford to do this. Hustlers paid their bills and partying was their full-time job. But today was different. It was a hairdo day. They had to be up early to keep various beauty parlor appointments. It was mandatory for them to keep their wigs tight because it was a part of their appeal, the Pussy Pound mystique.

  Back in the living room, puffing on hydro and sipping Cristal, the Pound was relaxed and enjoying each other’s company. Looking around the room you’d think this was a fashion show. These young ladies were high maintenance. Each one had enough designer clothes that would make Lil’ Kim proud. Every hot and in-demand European designer was represented in the living room; from Dolce and Gabbana to Prada, Chanel and Gucci. Even on bad days, the Pussy Pound represented. You could catch them in the trendy ghetto designs of Roc-A-Wear, Fubu, Sean John or Karl Kani. They would accessorize by wearing platinum or gold chains accompanied by medallions to round off their wardrobe. Their jewelry made them stand out, even when they were dressed down. Their lifestyle and wants were dictated by fashion trends, clubs, the streets and even the game. They were true to their game, too. Striving for uniqueness, each Pussy Pound member was branded with three dog paw print tattoos which ran down their thighs and along their hips. This was an initiation, a rite of passage into the clique. It separated them from other girls’ cliques. This was something they were proud of.

  When females gather in groups like this, they naturally become talkative. There’s something about getting high and socializing that loosens the lips, allowing one to speak more freely. They say a drunken tongue speaks a sober mind, and that was certainly the case here. The hot topic amongst them was sex. Sex was discussed at length and no details were spared. Vulgarly, yet humorously, it was all said in fun. Well-known hustlers’ sexual appetites and acts were put on display amongst the members of the Pound. No secret was safe.

  “Yo, this weed is the bomb. It’s making me horny as hell. Damn, I wish I had that nigga who could really do me right, you know. I don’t know what these weak ass niggas out here be thinkin’ they doin’ in the bed,” Fila said disappointedly, feeling the effect of the liquor and the weed.

  “Girl, ain't that shit the truth. I don’t even know why I fuck with that nigga, Rock. His money long, but his dick is short,” Rasheeda chimed in.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” Petey joked.

  “Fat motherfucker! I swear, if he wasn’t getting money, he’d never get no pussy. Sometimes, I think that nigga ain’t never had no pussy since pussy had him. Y’all should see me faking it while he hittin’ it. ‘Ooh, Aah, don’t stop!’ I should get an Oscar for the shit I got to go through. He just swear he be killin’ it,” Rasheeda said with her gap-toothed smile.

  High fives and laughter broke out around the room.

  “Bitch, you need to stop,” Petey said.

  “Seriously, though,” Fila said between chuckles. “A nigga could never be my man if he couldn’t fuck me right.”

  “Girl, I’m just stroking his ego,” Rasheeda replied. “He gives me what I want, and I give him what he needs. Fair exchange is no robbery.”

  “That’s right, Fee,” Netta agreed between tokes on her blunt. “Work that nigga.”

  “All these so-called hustlin’ ass niggas is alike. They fuck like they’re in a race to see who cums first. And you know they always win. They bust one nut and it’s over for the night. I feel like saying, ‘What about me motherfucker? I wanna cum too!’ But that’s alright, ‘cause I’m getting mine on the side,” Mimi confessed.

  “On the real, y’all ain’t never had no dick ‘til y’all had some dope dick. A nigga will fuck you all night off that shit,” Petey said.

  “The only thing though, you can’t trust those dope fiend bastards as far as you can throw ‘em,” Fila added with a nod like she been beat before.

  “I know. You know Mark stole money out of my purse while I was sleep. Y’all know that was the last time his addict ass got some of this pussy,” Petey said, realizing a dope dick wasn’t good for nothing but a hard dick.

  Even that horror story couldn’t damper the festive mood. The drinks continued to flow while they talked and smoked endless blunts of dro.

  “You know what kills me,” Fila asked, as everyone looked at her for the answer. “These frontin’ ass niggas don’t have no problems with they mans and them. They break them off, but you ask for something. It’s a fucking headache for ‘em. And why is these niggas tryin’ to front like they don’t eat pussy when they know they do? Joe from Cherry Hill knows.”<
br />
  More laughter ripped through the room, as girlish giggles magnified their high. Fila, best known for telling the truth, always told it like it was.

  “Look, Joe used to say he’s too good with his hips to use his lips. That nigga, I swear y’all should see him now, munchin’ on this fur burger,” Fila finished, as everyone continued laughing.

  “Yeah, that’s what they all say ‘til you get ‘em behind closed doors, then it’s a different story. You gotta beat ‘em off the pussy,” Petey added.

  “Most niggas think they too cool and then you got the ones that wanna keep it on the down low, like it’s a big deal,” Rasheeda said.

  “Well, you know me, I can keep a secret. But I’m only gonna ask a nigga one time. After that, it’s Lil’ Kim all the way, no licky licky, no sticky sticky. And a nigga really needs to know that shit,” Mimi chimed in and let it be known.

  “True dat! Men pick, women choose, but pussy rules,” Netta said, sarcastically.

  “I will tell all these niggas, eatin’ pussy ain’t nothin’. It’s a part of sex. It’s an acquired taste like drinkin’ beer, but better,” Mimi said. “Guess what?” she then asked the room.

  “What, heifer?” Rasheeda answered for everyone.

  “I got a letter from Kevin yesterday. He said he misses me, and he asked me if I was okay and if I needed anything to just let him know. He said when he comes home, we gonna do it real big together. He asked me why I stopped writing and he asked about the family. His lawyer told him that he’s gonna beat this case. He’s just gonna have to sit for a minute and let the publicity die down.”