“What’s your rush, baby? We have all night.” He slaps me on the back of my ass and then lays down flat. “C’mon, Agent Hayes. Climb on up here and twerk that fat ass on this dick you claim to love so much.”
I climb up into the backward cowgirl position, taking my time burying that thick, silky pole of his into my still-creaming pussy. Inch by inch, I swear to God I’m falling deeper in love. When I reach the base, I take a few seconds to rotate my hips to adjust.
Keston hisses and settles his hands on the bottom of my ass. “Twerk it, baby.”
“Like this, baby?” I lean forward and squeeze one ass muscle at a time to make it pop. “You like that, Daddy?”
“Fuck. You know I do.” He slaps my ass. “Keep it going.”
Pop. Bounce. Pop. Bounce.
His hissing grows louder, so I speed it up.
Pop. Bounce. Pop. Bounce.
“Hold on. Hold on,” he says, trying to control this situation.
But I want him out of control—sort of how he does me when he unleashes that fat tongue of his on my pussy. I want him to cum when I want him to cum.
Pop. Bounce. Pop. Bounce.
“Ahhh. Wait.”
Pop. Bounce. Pop. Bounce.
“Jor—dan.” His toes start curling.
Pop. Bounce. Pop. Bounce.
“FUCK!” Roaring like a lion, Keston’s hands clamp down hard on my hips. He cums so hard that I can feel his hot cum seep out the front of my pussy. “Shit.”
I start to climb off him, but he stops me. “Don’t move. Shit. Please don’t move. You got my shit all sensitive.”
I laugh because I know he’s just mocking me. That’s what I usually say when he has worn me out. I roll off of him, give him a quick peck on the cheek, and head off to the shower. A minute later, he’s in there helping me scrub my back and a few other places. But being naked around each other can last only so long. Somewhere in between the second rinse cycle and splashing on some baby oil, Keston has me pressed up against the bathroom tile, trying to blow my back out.
Whatever vitamins this brother is on, I hope that he never stops taking them. Not to mention he has the sexiest fuck faces I’ve ever seen. He always bites his lower lip and stretches his upper lip so high it touches his nose. And when he starts growling, I always start cumming.
“Take this dick. Take this dick.”
“Give it to me. Give it to me.”
My shower proves to be too small to do all we want, so we return to the bed, dripping wet and still a little soapy. But at some point I black out and then wake hours later snuggled under him and the room dark. It’s so comfortable, lying pressed against him like this, that I find myself hoping that I’m not just living some brief fantasy that’s going to vanish as fast as it appeared.
“Are you awake?”
I jump at the sound of his deep voice and then laugh at myself.
“I’m going to take that as a yes.” Keston chuckles and then plants a kiss at the back of my head. “Good. Now that you’re awake, maybe I can get some sleep. It was a little hard to do with all that snoring you do.”
“What? I don’t snore.”
“I don’t know who told you that bullshit.” He chuckles, pulling me close. “Baby girl, you be mowing down some serious trees. For real.”
My face is blazing with embarrassment. “Stop lying.” I reach back and smack him on the leg. “Why the fuck you playing me like that?”
Keston’s chest rumbles and shakes the bed. “Settle down, Ma. It ain’t like I brought up all those silent-but-deadly fart bombs you be letting go in the middle of the night.”
“WHAT?” I grab a pillow and whip around and smack him dead in the face. “Stop lying.”
Keston cracks up, putting up very little defense as I hammer his head.
“Take it back,” I demand, even though I’m laughing as hard as he is. “Take it back.”
He holds out as long as he possibly can before finally throwing up his hands. “All right. All right. I take it back.” He wrestles the pillow out of my hands. “It looks like someone can’t take a joke.”
“I can take a joke. That just wasn’t funny.” I mush him on the head.
“I don’t know. I was laughing.” He rolls me beneath him and then starts raining kisses all around my neck. “Damn, girl. I just can’t get enough of you.”
A lazy smile floats across my face while his large hands drift farther down my body. Just when I think he’s about to peel me open again, I hear a cell phone ring. The kissing stops as we both groan and pull apart.
“Is that you or me?” I ask, rolling toward the right side of the bed.
“I think it’s me,” Keston answers, leaning over the bed and swooping up his pants to grab his cell phone. He takes a quick look at his caller ID and huffs out a long breath. “I gotta roll.”
“Now?” I frown as I watch him climb out of the bed.
“Afraid so.” He jumps into his boxers and jeans so quick I’m wondering if there’s a fire somewhere he has to put out. “Sorry, baby. Maybe we can hook up tomorrow night or this weekend.”
“But … I don’t understand. What’s so important that you have to leave at … three o’clock in the morning?”
“Business.”
“Business?” I cock my head. “What kind of business?”
Keston jams his T-shirt over his head and then grabs his white Nikes. “Just business, baby girl.” He leans over. “Give me a kiss so I can run.” I hesitate, so he kisses me instead and even tweaks a nipple. “I’ll catch up with you later.” He bolts for the bedroom door.
Stunned, I sit in bed for a moment, but then I hop out of bed naked to storm after him. “KESTON!”
“I got to go, baby,” he says, still not breaking his stride.
“Fine. Go. But you can still tell me what kind of business you have to take care of in the middle of the night.”
“Look, baby. We can talk about it another time.” He opens the front door. “I promise.” He turns to me and kisses me again. “Later.” He races outside and hops into his chromed out black Escalade.
I’m stuck holding the door and watching him as he pulls out of the driveway. I have a bad feeling about this. And when I get those feelings, I’m never wrong.
“Shit. I knew his ass is too good to be true.”
Chapter Ten
“Cancer?” Jonathan’s fingers slip on the button of his shirt as he stares at Dr. Ryan. “Are you sure?”
“I’m afraid so,” he says, and then returns to pointing at the X-rays on a light board. “I’m also sorry to tell you that … it’s inoperable.”
Jonathan’s shock widens.
“Maybe if we had caught it a year ago, we may have stood a chance.”
Jonathan nods while the backs of his eyes begin to sting. “I understand. How long?”
The doctor pauses for a second and then pulls in a deep breath. “I don’t know. It could be anywhere from six months to a year.” He clicks off the light board. “I’m sorry, Mr. Banks. Is there anyone here with you today that you need for me to talk to?”
“No. No, I came by myself today.” He clears his throat and resumes buttoning up his shirt. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“Again, I’m sorry.” The doctor turns away and leaves him to finish getting dressed.
Six months to a year.
That shit keeps replaying in his mind while he drives his ‘98 Cadillac back to his crib. That and a long list of regrets. The number one being that he never married his childhood sweetheart. Now he doubted whether her divorce would even be finalized before he kicked the bucket. Instead of going straight home, Jonathan stops by Opulence jewelry and starts looking at rings. Even the smallest thing he can find has a price tag that could choke a horse.
“Is there anything I can help you with, sir?”
Jonathan shakes his head. “Nah, nah. I was just looking.” He turns and heads out of the store. However, the rings are still on his mind two hours later when his buddies show
for their poker game.
On the television, reports of the Jackal striking again runs on the ticker tape on CNN. Shaking his head, Jonathan shuts it off.
“Can you believe that cat? Stealing all our moves?” Mishawn asks, running a hand through his thinning gray hair.
“You know what they say: imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.” Jonathan cocks a smile and starts dealing out the cards.
“That’s just bullshit,” Mishawn huffs. “How come they can’t get their own moves? Using our calling card with the jack of spades. C’mon, son.”
Jonathan laughs. “This shit is really getting to you, huh?”
“I can’t believe that it’s not bothering you guys. We’re talking about our reputations here,” Mishawn says.
Rawlo finally jumps in, shrugging his large shoulders. “Aw. It’s no big deal. It’s like Jonathan says: At least this dude or dudes aren’t just doing those smash-and-grabs. These cats are hitting them where they live—in those big vaults. Shit. Ten million here. Twenty million over there. These muthafuckas are stacking some serious bank.”
Jonathan laughs as he tosses back a long swig of beer. “Yeah. They didn’t have that kind of dough back in the day. I remember that one bank we hit out in Rochester, New York, and all that motherfucker had in it was like twenty grand. Big-ass double-steel motherfucker and it just had some damn chump change jiggling around in it. Y’all remember that shit?”
Everyone’s head bobs at the table except for Tremaine.
Jonathan slaps his cards facedown on the table and rolls his eyes. “TREMAINE!”
Tremaine glances up.
“Turn your damn hearing aid up!”
He frowns. “What?”
“TURN UP YOUR FUCKING HEARING AID!”
“Oh, wait. Let me turn up my hearing aid.” Tremaine reaches behind his ear and fiddles with the volume. After a loud piercing sound, he asks, “Now what are you guys talking about?”
“Nothing. Forget about it,” Jonathan huffs while Rawlo and Mishawn crack up.
“Then why in the hell did you tell me to turn up my hearing aid? Shit. I gotta concentrate so I can win back some of my money. I got doctor bills, you know.”
The boys laugh at him.
Jonathan takes in the scene with a dose of nostalgia. Damn. When did they all get so old? They are all gray-haired. One is blind, one is deaf, one is morbidly obese, and one is dying of cancer. Is this how he’d pictured their golden years? Day after day, playing poker and eating chips? How sad.
“Sooo … how are things with you and Sandra?” Rawlo asks, changing the subject.
That pulls Jonathan out of his depression. “Good. Good. We’re taking things day by day.”
“So are you two officially back together?”
“I like to think so, even though she’s still dealing with some unfinished shit with that asshole she married.”
“Divorce?” Rawlo asks.
“Fingers crossed.”
“Then are you going to make an honest woman out of her?”
Jonathan nods and hopes that no one notices the tears gathering in his eyes. Six months to a year.
“Are you going to play?” Mishawn asks Jonathan over the thick rims of his glasses.
“Oh. Sorry. I’ll bet ten,” he says, and moves two red chips forward. “Can I ask you guys something?”
“Shoot,” Rawlo says, and then adds, “I’ll call.”
“Do you guys ever regret retiring when we did?”
“Hell, yeah.” Mishawn tosses down his cards. “I fold.”
“If I remember correctly—and I believe I do—you were the one who gave everyone their pink slips,” Rawlo reminds him. “Your turn.”
“I know. I know.” Jonathan shrugs. “I guess what I’m getting at is do you guys ever miss it? The danger? The adrenaline?”
“Don’t forget the money,” Rawlo and Mishawn echo at the same time and then laugh.
Tremaine turns up his hearing aid again. “What’s so funny? What did I miss?”
Mishawn leans over. “Jonathan is asking whether we ever miss being the Jackal.”
“Oh, hell yeah!” Tremaine grins. “It was the only damn thing I was ever good at, and it beats the hell out of what we do now. No offense, guys. I call.”
“No offense taken,” Rawlo says. “I know exactly what you mean. Hell. If I knew the cost of living was going to spike like it has, I would have stacked a little more cash instead of spending most of mine on bitches and hos. Now my monthly pharmacy bill runs more than my rent.”
“Hear, hear,” Mishawn and Tremaine cosign.
“And let’s not forget doctor visits. Between copay, coinsurance, and deductibles, I feel like I’m the one being robbed,” Rawlo finishes.
Everyone grumbles and bobs their head again.
Jonathan sets his cards down on the table. “Then why don’t we do something about it?”
The boys freeze while their eyes roll toward Jonathan.
“Do something like what?” Rawlo asks.
Jonathan can’t stop the smile spreading across his face. “Do something like … get back into the game. Why not? One last score.”
Four sets of eyes start shifting around the table.
“What? What’s the problem?”
“The problem,” Tremaine says slowly, starting to crack up, “is that we’re old. Just look at us. We’re not exactly as quick and nimble as we used to be. Every twenty minutes, Rawlo has to take a piss, Mishawn can’t see for shit, my hearing is shot, and arthritis is wearing all our asses out.”
“I didn’t say there wouldn’t be some … challenges.” Jonathan pumps his shoulders. “I was just thinking that it would be … kind of fun.”
The boys fall silent while they shuffle poker chips around.
“Ain’t nothing wrong with a little fun every now and then,” Rawlo says, and then slowly Mishawn’s and Tremaine’s heads start to nod.
“What are you thinking about hitting?”
A big smile spreads across Jonathan’s face. “I have this one jewelry store in mind.”
Chapter Eleven
In a nice suburb in Gwinnett County, the DEA, along with the local police department, move in on a two-story brick McMansion. With the agents’ shields up and guns pointed, Elliott barks out the command, “Everybody get down on the floor!”
Two large brothers in the living room reach for their weapons and come up shooting. Before I can squeeze off a shot, the sound of a baby crying catches my ear. I pivot and sure enough there is a woman standing behind us holding a baby with one hand and a ·38 in the other. “Put down your weapon!”
The woman doesn’t even seem to be concerned about her child as she squeezes off a shot. The bullet goes wild, but I aim for her left shoulder and pull the trigger. The woman jerks back, drops the baby, and smashes into the wall. I don’t know why this crazy shit always surprises me, but it does.
When the action calms down, we make seven arrests and find drugs stashed everywhere—the couches, the freezer, the mattresses, and even in the toy bins. This shit doesn’t make any sense.
“Cheer up,” Elliott says, noting my long face. “It’s not like you shot the baby.”
“Yeah. I know. Not that his momma gave a damn.” Which is true. At no point when she was screaming and yelling about what sons of bitches we were had she inquired about the safety of her child, who was steadily screaming at the top of his lungs. We couldn’t even get an answer out of her on who we should call to come and take care of the baby, so Family and Children Services were called.
Much later, we stroll into Flint’s to toss back a few much-needed whiskeys, and I find myself questioning how much longer I can actually do this fucking job.
“Why are you so quiet?” Elliott asks, already looking a bit tipsy.
I shrug my shoulders. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
Drawing a deep breath, I turn and look him straight in the eye. “About whether it’s time for me to hang
up my boots.”
Elliott’s face twists with surprise. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
“C’mon, Hayes. It was just a bad day.”
“I’m starting to have a lot of bad days. And that can’t be good.” I feel a little better getting that off my shoulders. “I think it’s time to start looking into something a little less stressful.”
Elliott keeps shaking his head as Mitch sets another drink down in front of us. “You’re trippin'. You’re an adrenaline junkie like the rest of us. We either do this or join the military to be shipped out to Afghanistan. We’re not the kind of people who can just settle for a nine-to-five. We need excitement.”
“I don’t know. It’s all starting to feel hopeless to me. The more drugs and criminals we take off the street, the more there are to take their place. It’s an endless cycle. The war on drugs is a joke, man.”
“And what are our options? To fucking give up? Make all the shit legal so crackheads and junkies can take over? You really think that’s the answer?”
I shake my head.
“So what are you saying?”
“I don’t know. I just fucking know that I’m getting tired of this bullshit.” I toss back my shot and then relish the burn. “I need a break from dodging bullets.”
“Then you’re in luck. Tomorrow we’re babysitting a transport down to Columbus. Should be a walk in the park.”
“Oh, goody-goody. I get to sit and listen to you bump your gums in a car for about six hours.”
“Damn. You really are in a pissy mood.” He cocks a slick smile at me. “Does that mean that things between you and Mr. Thug ain’t working out too good?”
“Get your nose out of my business, Elliott.”
“What?” He chuckles. “Clearly something ain’t right. I’m just trying to figure out what it is. I share shit with you.”
“Oh, yeah. About that: stop.”
Elliott throws his head back and laughs. “That’s fucked up, partner. Fucked up.” He turns toward Aaron and Eric. “Y’all hear my partner over here?”
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