by N'Tyse
Stud Princess
N’TYSE
www.urbanbooks.net
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Epigraph
A Note from the Author
Also by
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
Epilogue
Urban Books, LLC
300 Farmingdale Road, NY-Route 109
Farmingdale, NY 11735
Stud Princess Copyright © 2018 N’TYSE
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-6228-6645-8
First Trade Paperback Printing April 2018
This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.
Distributed by Kensington Publishing Corp.
Submit orders to:
Customer Service
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Phone: 1-800-733-3000
Fax: 1-800-659-2436
“Bitches don’t choose, they get chosen. So quit
babysitting time and go make me some money!”
—Chyna, America’s Stud Princess
A Note from the Author
So here we are diving back into the gritty world of Sand, Rene, and Chyna. Hopefully, you will enjoy Stud Princess, Notorious Vendettas as much as you did My Secrets, Your Lies. I’m often asked, “Where did Sand and Rene come from?” Well, the short answer to that is the DNA of my first two characters was inspired by those who I felt were being left out of literary fiction. I had read my fair share of urban and street-lit books back when the genres were making their introduction, but I had discovered that there were not as many that featured characters who identified as being part of the LGBTQ community. I made it my goal to create a fictional world that included characters from all walks of life. MSYL was my first book baby, and I am proud to be one of the first wave of authors who featured stories told or inspired from these perspectives. As always, I appreciate your unwavering support, and I look forward to your thoughts, so do reach out and let your girl know how you feel. And before I forget, be sure to check out the documentary “Beneath My Skin” on YouTube. Peace and blessings!
N’TYSE
www.ntyseenterprises.com
www.facebook.com/author.ntyse
www.twitter.com/ntyse
E-mail: [email protected]
Also by N’TYSE
My Secrets, Your Lies
Twisted Seduction
Twisted Vows of Seduction
Twisted Entrapment
As Editor
Gutta Mamis
Cougar Cocktales
As Producer
Beneath My Skin (Documentary)
Behind the Mask: My Naked Truth (Documentary)
Before the intermission . . .
It was exactly 11:34 p.m. when Chyna pulled up in a pearl-white Lexus on the corner of Second and Berleck Street. She knew from the way Rene was standing that the girl was scared shitless about meeting so late and at such an unusual spot.
The wind was bone chilling, and while Rene was trying to keep warm in her thin jacket, Chyna was hotter than sizzling skillet grease. One glimpse of Rene and her mind thought all kinds of nasty thoughts. And if seeing her from a distance did as much as it did for her now, she couldn’t wait to see the reaction she would get once she was face-to-face with the fresh meat.
Rene spotted the Lexus as it made its approach. She knew then that it had to be the woman she had spoken to over the phone. After seeing her get out of the car, she didn’t look as threatening as her voice made her seem. But she still couldn’t help thinking that Chyna had to be psychologically messed up in the head to suggest such a crazy place to meet. Rene’s guard came down a little. Hell, what am I scared of? she thought. Realizing how her hands had been shaking, she stuffed them into her pockets. She was no longer terrified, but just in case this bitch was crazy, she gripped a full container of pepper spray, ready to aim and shoot if the situation got out of control.
Chyna stepped out of the car nice and slow, throwing her mink on over her dress. “Hello. I’m glad you were able to meet with me tonight,” Chyna started out, undressing Rene with her eyes. Damn, she thought, why would such a pretty feminine female want a butch like Sand?
“Look, half that money is spent, if that’s what this is about.”
Chyna was still contemplating having Rene her way, but she had to catch herself and remember that she was there to conduct business. “No, dear. That’s not what this meeting is about. I don’t want your money, honey. I just want to ask you a few questions and see if you can help me recover what’s mine, that’s all.”
Rene eyed Chyna, trying to remember where she had seen her face before.
“You see, your old boss, Albery, owes me for a job he didn’t complete.”
Rene was lost and wondered how any of this could involve her. She saw herself to be no help and was curious if Sand really had anything to do with this woman coming there after all. “I don’t think I follow . . . uh, what was your name again?”
Chyna raised her brow a bit, then confidently rattled off her government name. “I’m Chyndra Wilson, but people around here call me Chyna.” The smirk on her face was intentional.
“Okay, Chyna. As I was saying, I don’t think I can help you.”
There was no need for Chyna to continue to waste time—her time. “I think you can. As a matter of fact, Sand assured me that you can,” she reminded Rene, hoping she would reflect back to the words in the letter that Chyna herself had forged and had hand delivered right to Rene’s best friend’s doorstep.
Rene looked around, checking her surroundings and listening for any trains.
Why the fuck did we have to meet up on a railroad track? she wondered.
“Look, all I need for you to do is conduct a simple transaction. One time is all it would take.”
Rene’s eyes roamed back to Chyna.
Chyna saw the uncertainty planted in her face. “I’ll tell you like this, ma. You do this thing here for me, and you and Sand will be given the best life has to offer. I’ll even throw in an incentive.” She lifted her brow and batted her eyelash. “This is a sweet deal, honey,” she added while imagining the money she could make off Rene if she was one of the girls on her team. But that was another conversation that she would have to remember to have with her. For now, Chyna was determined to psych Rene up.
The longer Rene took to answer, the more irritated Chyna grew. She was hardly giving this young, naïve fresh meat an option.
Rene considered it for a second. “And what would that incentive be?”
Chyna grinned. When someone responded with a question that showed interest, they usually wanted a piece of the action. And that was all she needed to hook Rene.
“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
Rene’s hair blew with the wind. She was still cu
rious. “How much are we talking that he owes you?” she asked.
“Let’s just say the numbers are up, and it’s tax season.”
“So, if I do this for you, you’ll pay me off, and Sand will come back home to me?”
“That’s what it is,” Chyna said.
Rene stopped for a moment to gather her thoughts. A fresh start—a break like this—was exactly what she and Sand needed because she knew the money she had pinched from Albery’s company would only take them so far. Chyna’s proposal sounded more secure.
“All right. What have I got to lose? The son of a bitch tried to fire me on some bullshit anyway.” Rene couldn’t wait to avenge Albery for threatening to terminate her because she wouldn’t agree to be his little office whore. She’d love to empty his bank account to a negative zero. She laughed inside at the thought. “I’ll do it,” she said finally.
Chyna smiled. “That’s my girl. In the meantime, here’s a cell phone. It can only receive incoming calls, and only I have the number. I’ll contact you when everything is set up. Now, to the right of you, over there under that rock,” she looked over in that direction, “there’s an envelope with your name on it. You can thank me later. Until then, you better get off that track. A train’s coming.”
At first, Rene didn’t hear a train. Then suddenly, the loud horn of a locomotive was banging in her ears. The light from the huge, oncoming train was blinding! She hopped off the tracks so fast that she leaped over a wide ditch.
Chyna smiled wickedly as she walked back to her car, knowing she had proven her point.
Rene headed for the envelope. She tore at it eagerly to see what was inside. She thumbed through several bills. This is about five thousand dollars! She stuffed the money into her purse and couldn’t get in her car fast enough. As she cranked up her engine and drove away, she neglected to notice the red Honda that had been trailing her all week.
and so the saga continues . . .
1
“Illusion! Ty know your ass in here taking a gotdamn nap while she out there working the room?”
Illusion pretended to be deaf. Before Fletch stormed in like a maniac, she was lying peacefully on her backside, peering up at the opulent decor. She’d been in hundreds of hotel rooms, motels, and Holiday Inns, but none of them compared to the luxuries of this one.
“Say, girl, I know you hear me talking to you,” Fletch hollered again.
“Nigga, mind ya own. Shit, I needed a fucking break. Them horny-ass old men ain’t going nowhere with they drunk asses,” Illusion snapped, whipping her head around to face him. “She can manage. Hell, she’s been wanting to prove herself this long. Now, here’s her chance.”
“Yeah, well, fuck all dat. While your ass in here meditating and shit, you know what I’m saying, you sitting on Chyna’s money. And I don’t think she’s gonna go for that,” Fletch said, posting up in an OG stance.
Illusion rolled her eyes at him. “You know what? Fuck Chyna and her money! I’m tired of you running ’round here like her gotdamn puppy scout. Patrolling and worrying ’bout what the fuck I’m doing,” she shot. “Needs to get you some bidness and stay the hell up outta all mine!” She gathered every strand of her fourteen-inch weave, and then let it all fall across her right shoulder. She cut her eyes coldly at Fletch. Just his being there was annoying the fuck out of her.
Fletch waved his arms and waited a full whole minute before he said anything else to piss her off. “You need to calm all that down. It’s ya boy,” he reminded Illusion, in case she’d forgotten who in the hell she was talking to. He extended his arms as if he was measuring something as wide as himself. “I’m just looking out and making sure you straight. That’s all.” Fletch could tell by the look on her face that he was talking for nothing. He tossed his head up at her. “Come on, ma,” he said as he poked out what he called “a real man’s chest.” “Don’t get all hostile on a brotha and shit.”
Illusion stared him up and down. White-on-white Jordans, Sta-Flo starched baggy big boy jeans, crisp white 4XL shirt with Sean John’s signature scribbled across it, jailhouse tattoos that covered every piece of skin belonging to his neck and arms, and eye-candy flash from wrist to ear.
“Kodak nigga,” Illusion mumbled, then frowned at the mere idea of him having bragging rights to say he fucked her. The dreadful memory alone left a sour taste dancing around her mouth. Telling herself that she’d slept with worse, Illusion let it go, equating Fletch with all the other johns that had to drop a big face on her. She closed her eyes, trying her hardest to shake off those plaguing memories. When she finally reopened them, Fletch was still standing there, smiling, desperate, and as pathetic as they came. Illusion didn’t have to say a word because the sickened look transfixed on her face spoke loud enough—so loud that his ass pretended like he couldn’t interpret what the fuck she was saying.
“Fletch, go have a drink, roll a joint, fuck some pussy, do something. Just get off my tip,” Illusion shot, turning her lips up once again until they were kissing her nose. He wasn’t even standing that close to her, and his bad breath was hitting her smack in the face. She shook her head and eyed the shine in his mouthpiece, wondering if a trip to the dentist to take care of that halitosis would be asking him for too much.
“Yeah, a’ight. I see how you gon’ be. Ha ha ha. You got jokes.” Fletch was able to steal himself an eye-quickie up Illusion’s backside as she crossed one leg over the other, exposing a double dose of the smoothest, thickest brown thighs he’d ever seen. He stood there imagining his tongue showering them, then spreading them farther and farther apart, making room for his face to go downtown. She was showing all skin tonight. The sexy red-hot number had peek-a-boo slits cut throughout the entire dress, and it stopped an accessible inch below the dip of her ass, revealing the ultrathin black lace of her G-string.
Fletch’s teeth grazed his lips. He could still taste the assortment of juices flowing from her chocolate sugarcane fresh on his tongue as if it were only yesterday that he was deep-sea fishing between her folds. He recalled her sun-kissed sienna legs and ass sprawled over him, taking the length of his wood to her maximum, slowly, then at full speed. She rode him long, hard, and deep in every position his overweight body allowed him to fuck in.
That night was programmed in Fletch’s memory to autoreplay, and every time he fantasized about it, his jimmy jumped upright. He could vouch that Illusion fucked better than she danced and gave brain so mean, she made Supahead look like a spokeswoman for Oscar Mayer wiener.
A few men often told Illusion she resembled the model Naomi Campbell. In fact, she favored her so much that women who shared work in her line of business often complained about losing money whenever she came on the scene. And although Illusion hated having her looks compared to another woman’s, other than the woman who birthed her, she rolled with it.
With her back to Fletch and no indication that she wanted him in the room with her, Illusion remained in a world of her own.
“With your mean fine ass,” Fletch quipped. He was practically fucking her with his eyes. He glided his hands across his genitals, feeling the rise in his pants as he toyed with the possibilities.
Even when Illusion was mad, she was sexy. Five feet ten without her heels, handpicked apple bottom, and round, firm, perky titties . . . Just the way he preferred them. He was damn near drooling and didn’t even know it. Illusion was a showstopper. She held it down and living up to her name, every guy that came in her direction wanted something that they couldn’t get anywhere else, something to keep coming back for—a sexual illusion.
Fletch knew that it was time to get the hell up out of there. Illusion was playing with his head—both of them. “I’ll be in the front, but you better not keep these folks waiting long. They paid for two-girl action, not one,” he stressed. There was bass in his voice that had not been there before.
Illusion just lay there. Fletch was fucking up her groove and invading the bit of privacy and quiet time she tried to enjoy before she
went to work.
“If this shit gets back to Chyna, you already know,” he warned. While his job was to direct the traffic and play watchdog, he wasn’t about to be cramped up in a room with a bunch of no-pussy-getting old men who all looked like they just escaped from the nursing home. They couldn’t harm a flea. And Chyna said they had long money, but shit, you couldn’t tell from the looks of what they were throwing out to Ty tonight.
Fletch’s manhood was throbbing. His attention was still chasing those wonderful memories of his dick parked between Illusion’s Grade-A servicing factory. He couldn’t take it. He needed some pussy right now.
“Shit. Fuck it. I’ll be downstairs in the car for a minute. I gotta check something out,” he said, now more anxious than ever to pop in that new, uncirculated DVD his boy Slick bootlegged for him. Cherokee’s big booty ass could not be kept waiting a second longer.
Illusion fanned him off. “Bye, nigga. Poof. Be gone.” She didn’t want to hear shit about what nobody paid to see tonight. While that was only half the truth of why he busted up in there like a full-force police squad, Illusion knew the real deal. Fletch wanted a free show, but fuck that. He’d pay for the goodies just like she made him do the last time they got together. Today was no different. If H2O wasn’t free, there was no way in hell her pussy was going to be. She felt like her pudding was the grandest thing on the face of the earth, and for that reason, her rates weren’t negotiable. Just like the stock market, her prices could rise in the blink of an eye. Her pussy had value—black market value. There wasn’t anything mediocre or second best about it, so niggas had to pay up to lay up.