The Pink Palace

by Marlon McCaulsky

  I slithered my thong off of me and rolled my ass in one guy’s face, making my pussy pop. He was mesmerized by my ass and muttered something that I couldn’t hear. I lay on my back, spread my legs, and gyrated my waist, simulating an orgasm as he slipped a fifty into my garter. I think he came on himself as he breathed heavily through his mouth. When the song ended, I made sure to pick up every dollar that was on stage.

  When I got behind the curtain, I quickly counted up my earnings, and to my surprise, I had over $500 in my hands. Becoming a dancer was definitely the right move to make.

  “Damn, girl, you were better than I thought you would be! You had them tricks hypnotized for real. So, how do you feel, Mo’Nique?” Nikki asked me.

  “Like I just got some money from the ATM!” I exclaimed.

  “Trust me, Mo, this ain’t nothing compared to what we’re gonna be making.”

  1

  I’m a Hustler

  College Park, GA

  Two years later

  JAYSON HARPER a.k.a. TOMMY HOLLOWAY

  “You know, Tommy, outta all these niggas here, you’re the only one I really trust,” Damien says to me. I don’t know why, but I’m always surprised when I hear somebody say that. Here we are, surrounded by dudes that he’s been down with for years, and I’ve only known Damien for four months.

  “Yeah, dawg, you know I’m gonna hold you down,” I say back to him as I give him some dap. Damien takes his .45 automatic, tucks it in his pants, and pulls down his Pelle Pelle shirt.

  We walk out to the black Navigator parked outside. This has become something like a routine every Tuesday afternoon—we ride out to the trap house and collect that week’s profit. Nothing has ever gone wrong, but you can never be too careful.

  Damien is the kind of cat who’s ready for anything at any time—a real live nigga. I’m the same way, too, but unfortunately for him, I’m only playing the role of Tommy Holloway, a hustler from Chicago. I’ve been in deep cover, infiltrating College Park’s drug dealing circuit.

  For the past year, a major crew from New York has been locking down the area. They call themselves the Flip Set outta Harlem. The main man, a big time hustler named Dwayne “King” Smith, calls all the shots from up north. As King’s right hand man, Damien Ruffin was sent down here to set up shop.

  Most of the local hustlers don’t want to deal with the heat King and the Flip Set bring, so they set up shop elsewhere, but there are some local hustlers who don’t mind going to war over a spot they’ve worked hard to build up. Dre is one of those local, corner hustlers who isn’t going to roll over easy.

  As we pull up to the trap, I spot a car of his boys following us. I know what time it is.

  “Yo, Damien, check it out,” I say as I stop at a light.

  “What is it?”

  “Right there on the corner.” I gesture toward the car.

  “Oh, so them niggas wanna do it like that?” Damien says as he pulls out his .45. Damien is the type of nigga to shoot up the whole hood and not give a damn, so I act first and bend the corner, peeling out in front of them. I pull out my nine and bust three shoots at the hood of the car.

  “Yo! What you doing, Tommy?” Damien yells.

  “Keeping us alive.”

  Dre’s boys bust a few shots back at us and pull off in the opposite direction.

  “Fuck them niggas! Turn around!” Damien yells.

  “Nigga, we can’t have a shootout in front of the spot. We gonna have cops all over the place!”

  Damien looks at me and nods his head. “You’re right. Good looking out.”

  Besides, having a gun fight in a neighborhood filled with kids playing outside isn’t what I wanna see happen. By me shooting first and getting us outta an ugly position only proves to Damien how down I really am. Lying and manipulating different situations is what I’ve always been good at.

  It’s probably one of the reasons Lauren left me. Can’t say I blame her. Our marriage was doomed from the beginning. I’m surprised it lasted as long as it did with me being a cop. Marrying a woman because she reminds you of your ex-girlfriend is always a sure promise that it will end in divorce.

  After things get funky up in College Park, I break out and drive up to the spot in Decatur, where I meet with my contact, Lt. McNiven. McNiven is the one that hand-picked me from my department in Savannah.

  “Lieutenant,” I acknowledge him by his title.

  “Harper. So what happened today?” McNiven asks.

  “Dre’s boys rolled up on us on our way to the spot, but I was able to get us out of there before things got messy.”

  “Dre is getting tired of sharing the streets with Damien. I think we should probably bring them in and stop this from becoming an all-out war.”

  “No, I got it under control. Lieutenant, if you bring Damien in now, everything we’ve worked so hard for just to get close to King goes out the window,” I say as McNiven turns and paces back and forth. “Lieutenant, King is the key . . . and I’m this close to him. Now’s not the time.”

  McNiven paces some more. “Okay, but if bodies start popping up, I’m pulling you out and I’m shutting them down.”

  “Understood,” I answer.

  “All right, be careful, Jayson,” McNiven says to me.

  “I always am.”

  Later that night, I drive over to the spot and meet up with Damien. We roll out to The Pink Palace, a local strip club where he’s fucking a dancer named Nikki. She wants to introduce me to her cousin, Mo’Nique.

  “Yo, Tommy, when you see Nikki’s cousin, I swear you gonna flip,” Damien says.

  “Yeah, right. She’d better not be a buttaface.”

  “Man, you’ve seen Nikki. What do you think her cousin gonna look like?”

  “I don’t know,” I say hesitantly.

  “Nigga, you lucky I’m hooking you up like this. As fine as Mo’Nique’s is, I would be hittin’ that shit, too, if it weren’t for Nikki tripping every time I’m around her.”

  “Nikki ain’t stupid, nigga. She knows your ass!” I say as Damien starts to laugh.

  “Damn right,” Damien proudly remarks as he gets out of his truck.

  When we walk into The Pink Palace, we sit at Damien’s regular table, ordering a bottle of Moët and sparking up a blunt. The Palace is filled with the usual horny pimps and playas. The women in The Palace are straight up Booty Talk material. I swear they have asses that come in all shapes and sizes. The DJ drops “Like a Pimp,” and the girls on stage start to work their asses to the beat.

  Then the main lights in the club get dim, and a spotlight shines on center stage. The curtain opens, and a girl steps out. Every man’s dick in the club gives her a standing salute.

  “That’s Nikki’s cousin, Mo’Nique. What you got to say now, nigga?” Damien braggingly says.

  I gotta give it up to Damien on this one, Mo’Nique is a dime for real. Shit! She got every man ogling and nuttin’ up in their pants and she knows it. Mo’Nique’s a thick sister. She’s about 5 feet 5 inches tall with long, jet-black hair, skin the color of brown caramel, and some sexy-ass lips. She has a flat stomach and a slim waistline that makes her ass look even bigger and rounder than it already is, and a tattoo on her lower back that says “Mo’ Betta.” Couldn’t be more right.

  It’s hypnotizing the way she moves her body like a belly dancer. Her light brown eyes are seductive. She bends over and touches her toes, making her ass clap. She looks over at our table and sees Damien and me sitting there. I guess Nikki told her about me and she sees dollar signs. She walks off the stage and over to me and begins to pop her pussy. I ain’t gonna lie; she has my dick harder than a brick.

  “I told you I was gonna take care of you, nigga,” Damien says to me.

  I can’t bother to answer him because Mo’Nique straddles me and starts to nibble on my ear. Her sheer black thong rubs on my pants, and my dick is screaming to be let loose. Then she eases up and walks back on stage and disappears back behind the curtain.

/>   “So, what you gonna do with all that ass, son?” Damien asks.

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  DAMIEN RUFFIN

  It’s a good thing I found a loyal nigga like Tommy to roll with down here. This nigga got heart. I like that. The funny thing is, at first I didn’t trust him. Some slick-talking nigga from Chicago hustling down south in the same spot we were in? I thought he was 5-0 for sure, but he proved himself to me and saved my life.

  We were picking up a delivery from King three months ago with Corey, Quan, and Horse, when Dre and his niggas tried to jack us. Tommy pulled out and blasted a nigga getting ready to pop me. Even though Corey’s dumb ass doesn’t like him, I still got love for that nigga. Tommy’s more reliable than his dumb ass anyway.

  That’s why I put him up on Nikki’s fine-ass cousin, Mo’Nique. Shit! I wanna fuck her ass myself! Not that Nikki ain’t fine, but damn, Mo got a fat ass! I don’t know what it is about these Southern girls, but they all seem to be thick as shit. Nikki is my main bitch down here. Sure, I trick around, but Nikki is my personal Foxy Brown.

  Fuck Dre’s country ass. Do they even know who they fucking with? If this was Harlem, I would have one of my little shorties bodybag this mutherfucka! King told me to be careful fucking with these down south niggas. He said just because these niggas have a Southern drawl, don’t think them niggas are slow.

  Atlanta is definitely a different world than Harlem. People love it here. Must be the weather. All this Southern hospitality was weird to me at first. In New York we don’t say shit to somebody we don’t know if we walking by them. Mind your own business is the rule of thumb when walking the streets.

  Nikki certainly used that Southern charm on me when I first met her in The Pink Palace. Not that she had to try hard to get my attention. She was the finest thing in the club that night. Soon as she heard a nigga’s accent and saw me flossin’ up in there, she knew I was that nigga to be with.

  “What up, ma?” I say to Nikki.

  “Nothing, baby. I was just waiting for you to get here,” Nikki says.

  “Bring your fine ass here.”

  Nikki walks over to me, and I grab two hands full of that fat ass. Nikki looks at Tommy.

  “So, Tommy, do you like my cousin?” she asks him.

  “Hell yeah. Where is she?”

  “She’s getting changed. She’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Good. Get your stuff. We gonna bounce back to the crib,” I say.

  “Is something bothering you, baby?” she asks.

  “Naw, just hurry up. I’ll be out front.” I walk out to the truck and roll up another blunt. That shit today with Dre’s boys is still fucking with me. I never used to let any nigga like that try me. Tommy keeps saying that when the time’s righ,t we’ll smash on dem niggas. I trust his judgment for now, but sooner or later this nigga is gonna get dealt with.

  Nikki walks outside and gets in the truck with me. I don’t say anything to her, but honey knows what to do to relax a nigga when I’m tense like this. She slides her hand up my thigh and feels on my dick.

  “What ya doing, ma?”

  “I’m just playing with my big man.” She unzips my pants, pulls out my dick, and slips the head into her mouth. She slowly slobs me down with a whole lot of saliva, just the way I like it.

  “Oh, shit . . .” Shorty was definitely a head doctor. “Damn, ma . . . what about your cousin and Tommy?”

  She doesn’t even slow down and continues to suck the skin off my dick. About five minutes later, I bust a nut in her mouth, and she slurps it down.

  “Oh God . . .” I utter in total bliss.

  “There. Didn’t that make you feel better?”

  “Hell yeah.” That’s why she’s my main bitch. She knows how to take care of her nigga. I don’t even mind trickin’ on her. Any girl who can suck a mean dick like that deserves it.

  I put the truck in drive, get on I-85 South, and head to my spot down in College Park. I love staying in this part of town. It’s near the airport and just outside of Atlanta. Plus, the crack heads are like the Night of the Living Dead here. They never go to sleep!

  Nikki certainly puts my mind at ease with that good brain she gives. I can’t wait to get her ass in my crib so I can break that back.

  We pull up to my place about 15 minutes later.

  “You sure got here quickly,” Nikki says to me.

  “Well, you gave me all the motivation I needed, ma.”

  “Did I? So you ready for the main event, daddy?” Nikki coos in that sexy-ass voice as she moves her hand up her thick brown thighs and pulls her skirt up for me.

  “You damn right.”

  We walk into the house and I toss my keys on the coffee table, grabbing Nikki by the waist and unzipping her miniskirt. I pull her G-string down, take out my still hard dick, and rub the head up and down her wet slit. Fuck using a condom. I wanna feel all that gushy pussy on my dick, and she wanna feel it too.

  “Ummmm . . . put it in, daddy,” Nikki moans out.

  I give her what she wants as I push my dick inside her wet walls. I lift her leg and give her some long, deep strokes. I swear she gets wetter than a waterfall when I’m inside her. I love how she clenches on to my dick with her fat lips when I go up in her.

  “Oh, shit! Fuck me, daddy! Give me that good dick!” Nikki exclaims.

  “Oh, you like that nasty shit?” I ask her as I smack her ass.

  “Yeah . . . I . . . love it! Give it to me!”

  I pick her up and continue to give her the business as I carry her to the couch and lay her down. I push her legs back and stare at that juicy pussy. Damn, I swear I ain’t never had a freak like her before and I’ve fucked plenty of bitches.

  “Put it back in, daddy . . . Ahhhh,” she moans as I stab that fat pussy. I get up on that ass and start to bang her like a jackhammer while she moans at the top of her lungs. Damn, her shit feels so good! She’ll make a nigga come quick if I ain’t careful.

  For the rest of the night, I’m fucking the shit outta Nikki. I swear she got more stamina than I do. I know she done cum at least three times already and she still wet. I hope Tommy is hitting Mo’Nique’s fat ass tonight. If he don’t, then I’m gonna tap that shit sooner or later.

  MO’NIQUE

  I’m a hustler, and these fools throwing money at me are my customers. They more like dope fiends who can’t get enough of my shit. The most these dumb winos get is just a peek of my precious pussy. They’re lucky if they even get a whiff of my sweet juices. Only a few select clientele get to feel my goodies.

  Nikki puts me on to some big-time hustlers from New York she’s messing with. She’s had this dude Damien trickin’ on her for the past five months or so. She says she wants to hook me up with his friend, Tommy. Normally, I don’t fuck with the broke-ass niggas that roll up in here, but hustlers with huge bank accounts are the exception to the rule.

  When I see Tommy with Damien, he don’t look like what I thought he would. He is tall, with a tight bald fade and a freshly shaven goatee. He wears a spotless button-down shirt, a nice, diamond-encrusted cross around his neck, and all-white Air Force Ones. Shit, this dude is fine. But he’s still a trick.

  I come out and see him sitting at the table drinking. “So, you must be Tommy,” I say as I sit at his table.

  “And you must be Mo’Nique. Thank you for the dance.”

  “Just doing my job. So, Tommy, you from around here?”

  “Naw, I’m from Chi-Town. I’m just down here on business.” Tommy takes another sip and glances up at me.

  “Yeah, Nikki said you and Damien were partners.”

  “Something like dat. So, where you from, Mo’Nique?”

  “Bankhead.”

  “Do you wanna drink?” he asks me.

  “Sure.” He pours me out a glass of Moët.

  I don’t know what it is, but there’s something different about this guy. When I met Damien the first time, I knew what that nigga was all about. He’s been trying t
o get at me behind Nikki’s back for a while now.

  I look into Tommy’s eyes and try to get a feel for him. He smiles and takes a drink.

  “So, do you wanna get outta here?” he suggests.

  “You don’t like the view?” I playfully ask.

  “I do. I’d just rather view it in private.”

  I got no doubt where this is heading and what he wants. As sexy as he is, that’s all he has to say.

  “Okay, but there is a price for a private viewing.”

  Tommy pulls out a money clip and peels out $1,200. “Am I covered?” he asks.

  “No doubt.”

  We slip out of the club and walk to his Cadillac XLR-V. The butter-soft interior hugs my body as I melt into the seats. Tommy gets in and turns the key, making the engine turn over. He shifts the stick into reverse and backs out of the parking lot.

  Changing gears again, he speeds off down the street, handling the car nicely as he dips from lane to lane on I-85 South. He’s quiet most of the ride, as if he’s lost in thought, a thousand miles away. Most of the niggas I deal with are too busy telling me this or that, bragging about what a baller they are, but Tommy is so low-key. It’s like he has the quiet confidence of a stone-cold hustler that doesn’t need to prove anything to anybody.

  We exit off on 69 and on to Old National Highway. We soon turn down a street and enter an apartment complex, pulling up to a townhouse.

  “This is way back in the cut,” I say to Tommy.

  “Yeah, it’s nice and quiet back here.”

  We walk to the front, and Tommy shuffles for his keys and opens the door. He flips on the lights and we walk in. I look at his nicely decorated place.

  “Nice place,” I say as I walk around his big living room.