London was disappointed that Paris choose not to confide in her, but she wasn’t going to let that stop the fake compassion from pouring. She wanted O.T., thug or not, Paris’s man or not—fuck Chocolate Bunny, Santa Claus, and the Tooth Fairy! They were all irrelevant to her!
If Gran was watching down from heaven, she would be ashamed at how London was behaving. Yet, London felt like the world had stepped on her for the last time. From day one she always tried doing the right thing and the only reward she got in return were several swift, hard kicks in the ass. Life for London was not fair in her eyes.
Her parents were both murdered when she was a baby. Gran was gone, the only one who truly loved her. Her favorite uncle, Stone, was killed. Her virginity was taken from her against her will. She had to suddenly drop out of school and now the only thing or person who she had left to cling to, Kenya, was slowly being snatched away by these strangers that her twin now called family. It was no way that London intended on that happening, no matter what the cost. Her vindictive alter ego had taken over and she didn’t care who paid the price for her happiness.
What’s taking them so long up there? London thought, staring at the stairs. I hope that O.T. is okay. Maybe he needs me?
Kenya had only gotten around to removing Storm’s filthy, sweat-soaked shirt by cutting it off, when she noticed a huge-sized dirty gauze taped across his shoulder. She peeled it back. It revealed an ugly, open sore.
“O.T., my God, come here! What is this? What happened?”
The doctor ran over and investigated. “It looks like a gunshot wound to me. As far as I can tell, I think the bullet went in and out. I need to get a closer look at him. Hurry and flip him on his side.”
O.T. did as he was instructed, gently handling his older brother. He held him in his arms just as their mother used to do when they were kids before she started smoking. Big Doc B rubbed his hands over Storm’s back.
“Yes, here it is! Here’s the exit wound. Yeah, I was right, it was a clear gunshot, in and out,” he verified his earlier prediction. “And it appears as if it has been treated with bacterial ointment of some sort. There are no signs of infections. Someone seems to have cleaned it up pretty good.”
“What the hell does that mean? Is he okay?” Kenya worried, confused. “Shouldn’t we take him to the hospital?”
“We can’t,” O.T. cut her off. “That shit is out—no hospital!”
“Yes, Kenya, I’m afraid he’s right, we can’t risk doing that. You see, the doctors are sworn by law to contact the authorities when treating any gunshot wounds big or small,” Big Doc B reasoned with her. “Besides, like I said, all in all, he’s okay and healing just fine. Just let nature take its course. In the meantime, I’m gonna give you some morphine to keep him sedated and still. If he awakes in pain keep him calm and up the dosage slightly. I can also give you penicillin to fight off any of the remaining infections.”
“How is he gonna eat?” Kenya inquired, having no idea how to care for Storm. “Or pee?”
“When he awakes, even for a few seconds, feed him warm broth, even if you pour a little bit down his throat, but the other part is on you. I sure hope that you’re up to playing nursemaid for a couple of weeks. Storm’s gonna need it!”
Kenya glanced back at Storm, who was tossing and turning and seemed to be gasping for air. The doctor had O.T. go out to his car and bring in a big, sealed cardboard box. After they got Storm comfortable in the bed, Big Doc B opened the box and pulled out ointments, syringes, penicillin, and plenty of morphine. He instructed Kenya in all the aspects of being the perfect caregiver to the badly injured Storm.
Storm was finally resting peacefully, back at home, in his own bed. With an IV in his arm, a slow-drip morphine keeping him doped up, and all his wounds treated, the doctor was finished for the night. O.T. escorted Big Doc B out to his car and paid him a nice chunk of change for the long, extended house visit and his agreed-upon silence.
Kenya stayed next to Storm’s bedside, rubbing his forehead and begging for his forgiveness. Paris fixed some tea for them both and made her way upstairs also, deciding to spend the night and lend her best friend some much-needed moral support. That left O.T. and London all alone in a dimly-lit living room.
“Is she okay up there?” London whined, leaning her head on O.T. “You think Kenya needs me?” London would be first in line to receive an Academy Award for her acting performance, knowing in all reality she was starting to care less about Kenya’s feelings.
“Naw, but I think I might need your ass. How about that?” O.T. had a long, rough day. Seeing his big brother and hero broken down had taken a heavy toll on him. “Come to think of it, I do need you.”
O.T. rested his head in London’s lap and in no time flat he was snoring, not once giving a second thought to Paris being in the same house. His brother was home and nothing else seemed to matter.
Things are about to be in my favor for once! O.T. said he needed me! Not Paris’s stuck-up-ass and not that slut-bag Chocolate Bunny they keep arguing about, but me! London couldn’t help but smile as she closed her eyes, finally dozing off to sleep herself.
Hopefully to avoid conflict, Paris and Kenya were upstairs doing the same. They had all had enough drama for the day and Paris catching her man cheating with her best friend’s twin sister would only make the day end with a bang. No doubt about it, it was going to be a long couple of weeks for Kenya, Storm, Paris, O.T., and London.
12
Da Game Ain’t Fair
Several days passed and Storm was basically still out of his rabbit-ass mind. There was little to no change in his overall condition. The swelling in his jaw was, however, going down, but still had some very bad bruising. The gunshot wound was the only thing that appeared to heal quickly. Storm would move his bad leg from time to time in his sleep, when he would scream out in pain, like he was a small animal being hunted down, caught, and killed. Watching him in that state made a weary Kenya cry on the regular at his bedside.
The perfect brush waves Storm always sported were gone. His hair was growing daily and nappy as a fuck. His beard was thick and looked downright messy as hell. And even though Kenya kept his face washed, his once-brown, perfectly toned skin was dry and blemished. With all the weight that he had dropped since Javier first held him hostage, Storm was only a shadow of the man that he used to be. He stayed unconscious most of the time because of the intense pain he was suffering, making Kenya’s job of getting even a tiny sip of soup down his throat almost an impossible task.
And then it was keeping the covers dry and clean, which was a bitch, seeing how Storm was pissing on himself and sweating like a motherfucker. Kenya refused to use the Depend undergarments that Big Doc B suggested. She felt like that was humiliating for her fiancé to have to deal with when he did come back to reality. When he would awaken, all Storm would do was moan and mumble about a lot of nothing that made no sense. Each day seemed to stretch out longer and longer before he would fully recover to his old self and things got back to normal. Kenya was exhausted, but was extremely devoted.
Big Doc B stopped by every other day to examine Storm and check on his healing process. Slowly, he was decreasing the amount of morphine that Storm was under the influence of. He didn’t want to keep him sedated so long that he wasn’t able to regain use of his leg without the aid of therapy. Big Doc B knew that with some of the excruciating pain, Storm would have to be a thoroughbred trooper and man the fuck up. It would be some hard shit to do, but nothing that Storm couldn’t handle.
KENYA
“I don’t know how much more of this I can take.” Kenya was distraught and moving around like a zombie. Staying up late at night, waiting and catering to Storm’s every need was breaking her down both physically and mentally. She was starting to truly look like hot death on a stick. It had been days since she had a long, hot bath or sat down to watch her stories on television. Her hair was standing on the top of her head and her face had forgotten what makeup was. Every
moment that Kenya was awake, she spent posted by Storm just in case he opened his eyes and needed any little thing.
London would help her at times, but felt like it wasn’t her duty or her responsibility to be a stranger’s slave. Only when O.T. was around would she put on a front and act like she gave a shit about Kenya or Storm. Kenya had just finished changing the sheets and getting Storm settled when she heard her cell phone ring. She kissed Storm on his dry lips and went into the den to answer the call.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Kenya! What’s good, woman?”
“Who is this?” Kenya yawned, sitting back on the couch, laying her head back on the arm.
“Oh, it’s like that? Your ass out in Dallas and forgot about me and your godson that quick!”
“Oh, my God! Young Foy, is that you? It’s so good to hear your voice!”
“Yeah, it’s me. I was just checking in with you and wanted to give your sexy self some good news.”
“I need some good news right about now. I hope that it’s about Jaylin. Does he miss his Auntie Kenya?”
“You know he misses you, but that ain’t the news.”
“What is it, boy! Stop playing with me!” Kenya managed to crack a smile for the first time in weeks.
“My CD just hit the shelves! That’s what’s really good!” Young Foy was excited and Kenya could feel his energy jump through the phone. “Me and Jaylin is gonna be rich. My shit is about to blow the fuck up.”
“Damn, I’m so happy for you. I knew you could do that shit. I always told you that you had mad skills.”
“Yeah, you always did encourage a brother and help me get on my feet.”
“Right, right!” Kenya said, smiling.
“That’s why you the first person that I called. I got love for you Kenya, flat out.”
“I got love for you too. My girl Raven is probably up in heaven dancing on the clouds with pride.”
“Yeah, I miss the shit outta her ass. Jaylin is starting to look more and more like his mama every single day that passes.” Young Foy glanced over at his sleeping stepson and smiled. “I’m about to head to the cemetery in a few and take some fresh flowers. I feel close to her when I’m there.”
“Next time I’m back in Detroit, I’m gonna have to go out there.” Kenya rested her eyes, momentarily reminiscing about the good old days when her and Raven were hustlin’ hard, making all the cheddar in Heads Up.
“Me and Jaylin both will be glad to see you.”
Before the conversation ended, Kenya’s call waiting clicked in with another call. It was from Paris and O.T.’s crib and she had to take it.
“Hey, that’s my other line. I’m gonna call you back later on tonight and give Jaylin a huge hug and kiss from me.”
“Okay, Kenya! I’ll holler!”
Young Foy hung up and Kenya answered the other line. “Hello?”
PARIS
“Why every day it gotta be the same old fake shit from you, O.T.?” Paris was in the bathroom, yelling at O.T. as he took his morning shower. “You just got in this motherfucker at four-thirty in the morning, now you back out the door again! Nigga, I ain’t slow or crazy. Ain’t shit open that late at night, but the jailhouse and a stankin’ bitch’s pussy.”
O.T. continued to let the hot water pound his body as he zoned Paris completely out of his mind. His hands rubbed the soap on his chest and let his imagination drift to thoughts of fucking the shit out of London. He had his fingers up inside of her tight, moist pussy and had sucked on her titties, but had never actually given her the dick. His thick, long manhood throbbed from his hands letting the lather work its way up and down as he stroked it hard. At that second O.T. would have spit in his dead great-grandmother’s face if he could have had London bent over with his dick knee-deep up in her. He loved Paris as much as a man could love a woman, but her constant nagging was starting to turn him off. His motto was that there was nothing better than brand-new pussy. And London was his new target.
“Do you hear me talking to your half-nickel slick dumb ass?” Paris yanked back the shower curtain and rolled her eyes, immediately catching a serious attitude. “I’m trying to talk to you and you in here beating your motherfucking meat! You ain’t shit!”
“Why don’t you get out of my ear with all that ying-yang-ing and put your mouth to better use?” O.T.’s shit was about ready to explode, with or without Paris’s help with it. “Now come on, girl. Come catch some of this cream!”
“Nigga, please. Why don’t you get that bitch you was with last night to suck your little dick? That broken-ass cell phone of yours called me back after you hung up and I heard them bitches giggling and shit.”
“Damn, Paris, stop tripping and come get on your knees!” O.T. let what his woman said come in one ear and fly out the other. “You know ain’t shit little about this motherfucking monster I got in my hands! So why don’t you come see Daddy?”
Paris was pissed off even more by O.T. ignoring the information she’d just confronted him with. “Didn’t you hear what I said, with your trick-ass? I heard that slut talking about the ringer on her phone being ‘Gold Digger’!” Paris pulled her robe tight and folded her arms. “What kind of real woman would have that bullshit on their phone? Don’t fuck around and give me AIDS or something! You’re a poor excuse for a man!”
O.T. had enough of her accusations and insults. This time he was innocent and didn’t feel like all that drama she was bringing his way. O.T. was past running late for an appointment and still had to swing by a couple of his dope spots before he headed for his meeting. He was determined to get his nuts out the sand before he left and snatched an angry Paris into the shower with him.
Her hair was now drenched and her short, pink robe was soaking wet, causing her nipples to harden. In the middle of her struggling to break free from him, O.T.’s dick got harder than it ever had been before. He quickly turned her around, pressing her face on the wet shower wall, raising up her robe. He ran his hands down the crack of her ass and soon he had his index finger working her out. Paris was out of breath and gave in to her man as the steam filled the bathroom. He shoved all eight and a half inches up into her while he watched the water drip on her backside. Right before he was about to cum, O.T. shut his eyes, imagining that she was London. He tilted his head back and almost busted for what seemed like an hour straight past eternity.
“Now! Do that seem like a nigga been fucking around on your silly-ass?” O.T. blew Paris a kiss as he stepped out the shower, grabbing a towel to dry off. He splashed on some Armani Black Code and started getting dressed. Rubbing lotion on his face and brushing his hair, he double-checked the mirror twice, clipped his cell phone on his jeans, and got his wallet out of the nightstand. “I love you, Paris!”
Paris was too exhausted from the sexual beat-down that he had just put on her to even argue. “Whatever!”
“Here’s some dollars for you to go get your wig tightened up for Daddy! And buy a new outfit.” O.T. peeled off four or five hundreds and tossed them on the dresser before he left out the door.
“I need to talk to you,” Paris yelled out, still weak in the knees. “I’m serious!
“I’ll be back later, boo! Keep it hot for a nigga!”
Paris was left speechless as she heard him pull out of the parking lot and away from the apartment. “I know that bastard is cheating on me!” She had to vent and decided to call her girl. Maybe she could convince her to go to the hair salon with her. After grabbing the cordless phone, she dialed Kenya’s cell and waited for her to pick up.
GIRLFRIENDS
“Hey, Kenya. Are you busy?”
“Naw chick, not really. I was just taking a little break and just got off the phone with an old friend. What’s really good with you?”
“Girl, I’m sitting over here mad as a son of a bitch. If I didn’t have a lot of self-control, I think I would just put two bullets in O.T.’s cheating-ass and get it over with!” Paris stood in front of the mirror, brushing her wet hair
back into a ponytail.
“Slow down, Paris.” Kenya knew that her best friend was in pain and mentally tired of O.T. and his crap.
“Naw girl, enough is enough. I done about had it with him and his dogmatic ways!”
“Paris. You ain’t making any sense right now. Tell me exactly what went on over there.”
“First that fool had the nerve to slither his behind in the house at damn near four-thirty this morning,” she argued as her friend listened. “Even when I close the club at night that nigga will bug out if I’m more than five minutes late getting home, but he thinks he can fall up in the crib whenever! Girl, bye with all that—for real!”
“Dang! Where did he say he was? Or did he?” Kenya shook her head with disgust, knowing when it came to Storm’s brother he could’ve been anywhere with anybody.
“You know that bullshit would be too much-like, right, but that ain’t even the bad part!” Paris threw herself on the bed and put her feet up on the headboard. “His cell phone dialed me back by mistake and I swear to God I heard that tack-head Chocolate Bunny running her big mouth in the background.”
“You lying to me!” Kenya was now also frustrated about the shit. “Please tell me you lying, Paris!”
“Hmph, I wish the fuck I was. And when I asked the two-timing dog he started playing the dumb role, then he had the audacity to flip the script and take the damn pussy!” Paris was shouting into the phone receiver by this time and was back on her feet. “If I didn’t have an allergy to fucking prison, I’d kill him in his fucking sleep!”
Kenya couldn’t understand why O.T. couldn’t be loyal to one woman and was so damn ruthless. He was a bona fide ho! If she was dealing with a Negro like that, it would be no way that she would tolerate all the mess that Paris put up with. Paris was a way better woman than she was.
O.T. would stop by the condo every afternoon and sit by Storm. He filled him in on all the news from the club and the goings-on in the streets. The fact that Storm was doped up on morphine and didn’t even realize that O.T. was in the room, never once stopped his brother from talking. O.T. had a split personality. He was like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He was sweet as pie one minute and the next, a beast ready to kill you at the drop of a dime.
Ruthless and Rotten Page 9