I drove to see if anyone was watching the loft. I hoped since my name wasn’t on the lease, they didn’t know to surveil it.
I pulled up to the empty parking lot and shined my headlights around the perimeter. It looked deserted. I didn’t see anything unusual. The cops must’ve not known about the loft. I parked in a dark corner of the lot, then opened the glove compartment, removed a pistol, and put it in the inside pocket of my sports coat.
Silently, I approached the front door of the loft and heard talking on the other side. It was Melody and Sonya. My heart sped up. I rushed through the door. “You get it?” I blurted out.
Melody was standing at the kitchen counter. “Yeah, we got it.”
“Where is it?”
She nodded toward the bed.
I rushed to the duffel bags and spread them open. Greedily, I reached in to feel the bills between my fingers. My smile was uncontrollable.
“Where’s Briscoe?” I asked.
Sonya walked in from the balcony. “Briscoe didn’t make it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, everything didn’t go as planned, and Briscoe didn’t make it.”
“Goddamn. What did you do?”
“Whatever we needed to get out of there alive and with the loot.”
My jaws tightened. I rolled my head in a circle to loosen my tense neck muscles and sighed.
“One less witness,” I said.
As long as they had my money, I was content.
“Do you realized how many husbands, fathers, brothers, uncles, cousins, and friends ain’t going home tonight because of what we did?” Melody said.
“Melody, please, just shut the fuck up with all that complaining. I mean, shit. Mr. Brooks ain’t did nothing but make us up our game, and here you acting straight ungrateful. Look at all this money. We just got paid.”
Melody stood to her feet. “You know what? You two can have all this bullshit. I don’t want no part of this blood money. Shit done went too far.”
I addressed Melody. “It may have been too far, but there’s no turning back the hands of time. If there were, I might have done things differently in my youth. But I didn’t.”
“Well, I’m still young. And the way you and Sonya wanna live ain’t for me. I’m not gonna live my life foul anymore, for no amount of money. If we don’t end up getting knocked for all the shit we’ve done, I’m turning over a new leaf.” Melody marched past us. She’d made it a few feet when I pulled the trigger. No words of anguish managed to come out of her mouth. She slumped to the floor, and a small stream of blood leaked from her head. The bullet had found its mark in the rear of Melody’s skull, most certainly shattering the bone.
“What in the fuck! Oh, hell naw. Why did you do that—why?” Sonya grew hysterical.
“Sonya, calm down. I didn’t have any choice.” I calmly put my gun away.
She sobbed over Melody’s lifeless body. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“You were just standing hear listening to what she was saying like I was,” I replied. “She was going to the police. She was going to tell on us both.”
Wiping her eyes, Sonya looked her mentor in his face. “You really think so?”
“Of course, I do. Be smart, goddaughter. You could read between the lines. Besides, she was not cut like you and me. We are born hustlers. She was holding you back from being great. Now, it’s unfortunate that she had to go, but it was you and me. . . or her. I chose us.”
“I guess she was bugging out. She has been tripping for days.”
Just as I thought, Sonya bit into my poison apple of deception. “Look, I’ve been thinking about this, and now is as good a time as ever. I want you to pack up all of your stuff and stay with my family and me. I mean, you’re a part of it now, right?”
Sonya’s face lit up. “Wow, do you mean it?”
“Of course, I do. So, I tell you what. I have to run out to my car to grab something. You gather up all the money and jewelry and put it all back into the duffle bags. Then pack your stuff up so we can both go home. I’ll have some of my people come and make sure Melody gets a proper burial. No expenses spared.”
“Home,” Sonya smiled.
“Yeah, home, so hurry up, and I’ll be right back.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Mr. Brooks
I ran to my car to move it in front of the back stairs. I left it running with the trunk open after I took a look around the parking lot. Thankfully, no one was around or heard the gunshot. Once again, I was going to win.
“You got everything together, goddaughter?” I yelled from the bottom of the stairs.
“Yeah, both the duffle bags and the rest of my stuff are packed. I just have to get my sneakers together and a few personal items out of the bathroom,” Sonya gleefully belted out.
I ascended the stairs with my gun drawn and waited at the door for Sonya. She came rushing out of the bathroom—and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw me standing there with a gun pointed at her.
“Yeah, Sonya, about these duffle bags. I’ma need both these before I leave. I got some moves to make. Come drop the bags over here.”
Sonya complied with my command. “Now, step back,” I ordered. She obeyed.
I used one hand to toss both bags down the flight of stairs while the other hand stayed aimed at Sonya. “So, yeah, let’s make this trade-off easy.”
“Yoooou—have you lost your fucking mind?” Her disposition changed quickly, realizing that he had played her. There was a hint of confidence in her tone that I didn’t like. She tried to sneak a peek to locate her gun across the room.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warned. “Moving forward, you little stupid bitch, never let the next man know your weakness.”
“You don’t need to do this. I’m all the way down with you. Just ask, and I’ll do it.”
“Sonya, I’m not a man that asks; I take. And your usefulness has run out, so I’ma take this here. See, I’ve got two other young protégés that are just as eager to please like you. Matter of fact, Melody saw them at the restaurant with me.” I laughed. “See, you and your homegirl aren’t the only youngins on my payroll. I recruit you dumb asses from all over the fucking city.”
“Look, you have the money, just go,” she begged for mercy.
“Yeah, I do have the money, but I can’t have any loose ends. Remember the streets’ golden rule . . . leave no witness alive.” I pointed the gun at Sonya. Without an inch of hesitation, I pulled the trigger. Like her hustle partner, Sonya instantly fell to the ground dead.
I took one quick look around to make sure all the loot was packed. There was no way I was leaving without every last dollar. Sonya had done good and packed it all. I bounced down the stairs full of energy. It wouldn’t be long before I was on a private jet out of the country.
I stopped dead when I didn’t see the duffle bags at the bottom of the stairs. “What the hell?” I said. I stepped out of the doorway.
“FBI. Put your damn hands up,” a man screamed from the other side of the blinding light shining in my eyes. About a dozen vehicles surrounded me with their headlights on high. Standing next to each car were several agents aiming guns at me.
I was old school . . . gangster to the end. I reached for my pocket with a smirk on my face. “Satan, welcome me home.” Before my hand reached my gun, bullets riddled my body.
* * *
While the crime scene was being roped off, the FBI’s supervisor commended Alex for calling in the tip that Mr. Brooks had shown up at the business. Alex didn’t mind that there was no reward for the arrest. He’d known Mr. Brooks had been skimming off his business for a while, so this was his payback.
At home, after Alex had closed his garage door, he opened his trunk. Sitting there were the two duffle bags he’d taken from the bottom of the stairs before the FBI showed up. He smiled and promised he’d make a toast from the yacht he was going to rent . . . to everyone who had lost their lives over his newfound blessing . . . RIP.
Escaping a Thug’s Love
Ms. Michel Moore
Prologue
Once Upon My Life . . .
Without question, my childhood growing up in Detroit absolutely sucked. I know multitudes of people have painfully staked that dramatic claim, but mine was certifiably horrendous. The borderline of Dexter, Linwood, and Davison areas was brutal. Abandoned houses, vacant lots, drugs, crime, and practically a zero employment rate . . . The days of absolute poverty as a kid were long and grueling. And the nights mirrored the days, seeming to drag on forever. With a life filled with turmoil, thanks to my mother and her sometimes live-in boyfriend, I didn’t know if I were coming or going. I was an emotional wreck most times. Others, I was just plain numb. She, Gayle, my mother, was an alcoholic, while her man favored sticking a needle in his arm. A Wild Irish Rose and heroin combination made for a toxic household, to say the least.
When the first of the month came around, we were blessed to get at least one, if not two, decent meals. That was before my mother got thirsty for a taste. When that urge came into play, our first-of-the-month holiday was over. She’d sell all of our food stamps to the highest bidder. Then it was countless trips to the free food pantry with my head lowered in shame. Gayle had no guilt doing as she did. If there was any, she kept that emotion well hidden.
In the dead of winter, my humiliation was worse. In a donated coat and a pair of boots two sizes bigger than what I wore, religiously, I would hit the streets. My friend Mike Mike and I would post up at the gas station, begging for spare change just to make it through the day. See, as luck would have it, sadly, I wasn’t the only kid in the neighborhood suffering. Mike Mike lived on the other side of my block, three houses down. His mother and mine were occasional drinking buddies. That fun fact was what bonded him and me over time. In the long run, that connection would be what made us a power couple throughout the hood and a force to be reckoned with.
A year younger than he, initially, I never looked at Mike Mike as anything more than my homeboy, a cool friend. The older we got, even though I could see the way he’d sneak-lusted at me, I was far from interested. At 14, I should not have had a “type” or even been thinking about that quality in a man. All I wanted to do was go to sleep in a safe environment and without an empty, growling stomach. Sadly, with Gayle and her wild, unpredictable antics, that feat was close to impossible.
Mike Mike would always let me know that one day he was going to hit the lottery and get rich. And when that far-fetched pipe dream would pop off, I would want for nothing. Just shy of my sixteenth birthday, Mike Mike did hit a lick. But it wasn’t by playing a number. The local drug dealer had blessed my neighbor with a bag. And each time Mike Mike made something shake, he made sure I was straight. After he came through so much when needed, I started to see him in a different light. Not just because of the money he was throwing in my direction, but also his loyalty and overly protective actions where I was concerned. Mike Mike loved him some Sable Turner, and when it was all said and done, the feeling was mutual. He was my man. Our devoted love and gangster lifestyle were picture-perfect . . . that was until it was not. Mike Mike was not the same man-child I’d grown to love and respect. He’d rapidly become an animal; a savage and a thug, all rolled into one.
* * *
“Look, Sable, just chill. I need to take care of a few things.” Visibly intoxicated, Mike Mike slurred, fighting hard to stand still and focus.
Jeans sagging, my once beloved needed a shower. He’d been running the streets for well over forty-eight hours and counting. His eyes were bloodshot red, which I easily recognized as looking just as Gayle’s were almost daily while I was growing up. Each word Mike Mike spoke took on added syllables, and his attitude was stank. Checking the time on my cell, I grew increasingly agitated. Here it was nine in the morning, and my supposed man had just dragged in the house two hours before, locking himself in the basement. Without as much as a simple apology or even offer an excuse about his whereabouts, he dared me—his woman—to bat an eye. Here, this drug dealer felt that since he went out in the street, risking his life and freedom all in the name of hustling, I had no right to question him. With pride and chest stuck out, Mike Mike made it clear that he was a grown-ass man. He boasted that he was the head of our household. Repeatedly, the pill-popping creep urged me to get the fuck out and go back to my skid row mother if I didn’t like or didn’t want to abide by his anything-goes rules.
“Baby, slow down. You about to be out again? Where you headed? Ya ass just got back home a little while ago,” Sable said, twisting her face to show her annoyance. Mike Mike’s lips poked out. He ignored her. Mike Mike shrugged his shoulders before slamming the door shut.
I swear his time is running out with me. All of that drinking lean and popping them pills is getting real old. This year has been driving me crazy. I’m not cut like that anything-goes madness that our childhood detailed. If his ass wanna be out in the streets getting fucked up and giving them random sloppy females the dick, then so be it. I just gotta think about it a li’l more. I’ma find a way out of this bullshit. Then he’ll be fucking sorry he lost a bad bitch like me. Until then, I’ma let him play himself.
Chapter One
Sable
“What up, doe? You know what it is. Leave that message, and I’ll holla back. One,” Mike Mike’s thugged-out voicemail recording played into my ear. Low-keyed annoyed, I slammed the house phone down onto the receiver. Sucking my teeth, I swopped my long weave up into a ponytail, allowing a few loose strands to sculpt the sides of my jawline. This nigga got on my last nerve, not answering the phone when I already knew he was out here dead-ass wrong. What dude wasn’t? Knowing Mike Mike, my supposed man, he was probably posted up somewhere with another young girl getting his fat, black, uncircumcised dick slobbered on. Nevertheless, my pretty ass wasn’t about to lose no sleep on it, though. Good for the next bitch getting her knees dirty and a complimentary throat full of thick come. The more she swallowed, the less I’d have to.
“Oh well, guess I’m free a little while longer,” I spoke out into the empty house, shaking my head repeatedly. I paced back and forth on the hardwood floors, and betrayal was staring me head-on. He was starting to stay out, constantly claiming to be with his boys. But I wasn’t no fool—far from it. After all the years we’d known each other, I knew the tricks he was playing.
After checking the chipped red polish of a three-week-old manicure, I lit the flame to my last cherry-wrapped cigarillo. Hitting it a few times, I let a stream of smoke fill the air. I laughed again at how dumb of a girl Mike Mike took me for. Little did he know his bullshit had run its course, and it was now my time to shine. I’m definitely not in denial of who and what Mike Mike really was. He’s a hound dog for pussy, with an assembly line of simple-minded tricks willing to do handstands, belly crawls, and whatever else he demanded for milk shakes. He could continue to run wild. I was not about to squander my life babysitting and handcuffing him down to keep his dick in his pants.
Unlike most kept chicks with a street sponsor headlining their grind, I didn’t run up behind Mike Mike’s sour ass. I never checked text messages or call logs. And as for monitoring his time lines on social media, miss me with all that nonsense. I knew what was up with Mike Mike from jump street since our youth, but I got caught up in the hype. And like most females at some point, I thought my fine-wine pussy was gonna be good enough to keep him tied down. But, nope. Not in this world or any other planet you want to explore. Ain’t no keeping a man that don’t wanna be kept. That’s the first rule you learn in Bad Bitch Training 101.
Yeah, I know you’re wondering how I could go around, not giving two sweet fucks about his cheating ways. Or also him getting down on me with every hot heffa walking, willing to drop it low and spread it wide for him. But that nigga Mike Mike made heavy moves in the city of Detroit, making his pockets even deeper when shit was good. I was in love with the cash and wasn’t leaving the door open for another bitch to sneak
in on my come-up, even if my man fell on hard times now and then.
First, him and all of that excessive drinking. That bullshit reminded me of my mother and made me sick to my stomach. With the combination of that, smoking weed, and them damn pills, our once-comfortable environment was the pits. Mike Mike had stopped paying the bills. We had shutoff notices left and right. And most humiliating, my prized custom-painted BMW had been repossessed one day when I was at the grocery store. I came outside, buggy full, and bam! My shit was getting placed on a flatbed. Thankfully, I had some cash of my own to get it back. But that was beyond the point. Mike Mike was supposed to pay the note and lied about doing so.
Then some of my jewelry had come up missing. He blamed it on one of my girls, but deep down inside, I knew it was him. Now, over the past few months, he’d come back up on the rise, moneywise, but was still getting high. I’d taken a lot from that man over the years, and he owed me big time.
I’d damn near tired myself out attempting to figure out Mike Mike. He was a puzzle, one I didn’t want to figure out. I’d lain back, stood up, and had lain back down once more. I was going insane. Getting up from our king-sized cherry oak bed, I stood in front of the floor-length mirror, sipping on my personal-sized chilled Sutter Home Moscato. The original six-pack was down to three, and I was planning on taking another one out shortly. Our flight was set to leave in a few hours, and I wanted my buzz to be just right for what needed to be pulled off. Getting over on Mike Mike wasn’t a small feat by far. The one-inch bruise on my cheek was proof enough that he’d pop off with no restraints.
Come on, bitch, Get your nerves right. I stared into my eye’s reflection, trying to find some courage. This wasn’t a rip-off I could do in my sleep. Walking into the closet we shared, I reached on the shelf. Putting both calf muscles to work, I pulled down Mike Mike’s safe deposit box full of cash. There were only two people in this world, him and me, trusted enough to know the combination.
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