Stud Princess

by N'Tyse

  Chyna could hear Ty screaming and cursing in the background. “Tell Ty to shut all that noise up. I’m on my way.”

  “All right, I’ll let her know,” Fantasy said. “I love you,” she added quickly before Chyna could hang up.

  Chyna knew it was coming. “Keep it that way,” she replied, then abruptly ended the call.

  * * *

  The house was noisy, but what else was new? Everybody bragging about all the money they’d made for their pimp that night, betting each other on who outdid the next and sold the most pussy or tricked out the most johns.

  Fantasy remembered boasting and engaging in the same immature arguments, but now, she liked to think of herself as “privileged.” There was a lot of shit she got away with simply because she was who she was and that was all there was to it. But she still wore the same shoes that every last one of those girls in that house wore, except hers were padded and laced with special treatment. Hell, she slept with men for thousands, even women paid for blissful nights of pleasure with her, but what separated Fantasy from the rest wasn’t her pussy-selling techniques; it was the relationship she established with Chyna long before any of the other girls ever entered the picture. A time when it was just the two of them and only a few others that Chyna later ended up contracting to amateur pimps that were fresh in the market and ho hunting. Fantasy was the number one, and number one in the game meant being the bottom bitch.

  Chyna wanted all dimes on her team and those hoes she had before Fantasy were far from it. They smoked whatever they could get their hands on and injected anything, anywhere in their bodies for the sake of getting high. Chyna didn’t want women like that representing her name or jeopardizing what she was trying to build, which was her very own empire. Chyna was a businesswoman before anything else, and the clients she had her eyes set on weren’t going to take her seriously if she had women that looked like Star Jones rejects. She wanted women that men would lie, cheat, and steal for. The kind that silenced the room when they stepped in the door and, with a lick of the lips, could suck the come out of every dick present. She wanted women that would make the president himself take a risk at getting some ass. And if they weren’t that way when she got them, then they damn sure had to have the potential. But most importantly, they had to be loyal.

  Chyna scoped out hoes from sunup to sundown, desperate to replace her uncle’s hand-me-downs. It was a match made in heaven when she came across Fantasy, at the time, Fat Cat. Fantasy was very well known on the streets, and even though she was already on contract, Chyna had to have her. She was sexy, driven, and knew that her place was behind her pimp. It wasn’t too much longer before Fantasy was being promoted, soon to become the wife of her pimptress. Chyna needed someone in her corner she could trust as she recruited eligible women, one at a time. There was no one better to fit the bill than Fantasy. She was Chyna’s main bitch practically from day one. She already knew the game, and for what it was worth, she didn’t mind giving all her money to Chyna, so it was just that much easier for her to convince the other hoes to do the same.

  Chyna rescued Fantasy when nobody else would. She snatched her out of a rugged lifestyle and introduced her to a better one. One that paid real money. Chyna pulled up in a Jaguar late one Wednesday evening and asked Fantasy if she wanted to turn that chump change she was making into $5,000 paydays. Being the loyal ho she was, up until then, she only gave enough info to qualify herself as a player in Chyna’s league, fearing that if it got back to her pimp, she’d be rotting by morning.

  The very next day, her pimp was dismissing her cold. Chyna told Fantasy she had paid Big Benz off to clear her debt with him. So that meant she was free to walk and serve under Chyna’s reign.

  Fantasy found out that very same night that Benz was found dead in his green Cadillac with half his brains blown out. Some said it was a dispute between him and a few roughnecks in the hood, while others believed one of his hoes did him in. Fantasy didn’t care because all that mattered was that the motherfucka was history, and he would no longer be abusing her. She never asked Chyna if she had any association to his murder. She really didn’t care. But while she was free from Benz, Fantasy quickly realized that he didn’t have a damn thing on Chyna. It would only take her a few short weeks to figure out that Chyna wasn’t just another young, ruthless hood legend, but also the niece of a drug lord with a notorious vendetta.

  After proving her loyalty to Chyna, it wasn’t long before Fantasy was being crowned wifey. That title alone gave her status and made her superior to the rest. Every woman in the house knew automatically who had permanent keeps. And Fantasy played her position so well that the girls flocked to her when they were too afraid to go to Chyna if they didn’t make their nightly minimums, which was nothing short of a grand. Fantasy’s relationship with the girls was tight. She took care of them, coached them, and made them believe she was on their side in order to keep everything in Chyna’s eyesight. She earned their respect only because she gave them the street game that they couldn’t get anywhere else for free. And she kept them fly, so they were always dipped in the latest designer fashions from head to heel. And every now and then, so they’d really feel special, they’d throw extravagant parties on special occasions or even holidays. They were one big happy family; however, Fantasy had her favorites. What mother hen didn’t? Still, she tried her best to keep them all under her nose because when it came down to Chyna’s money, there wasn’t a bitch in the world worth dying for.

  Fantasy headed for the downstairs bedroom where she and Chyna slept, but not before warning the girls of the destruction yet to come. As she moved graciously across the second floor of the mansion, her voluptuous ass and breasts bouncing with every step, she squeezed the money bag which held all the cash the strollers pulled in from their Friday night regulars.

  “Chyna’s on her way, so for you hoes who ain’t got dates tonight, you better go walk the stroll, ’cause if you know like I know,” she paused, “it’s about to be some shit up in here!” she announced. She passed the four rooms on her left, peeking inside every last one of them. “I’ll see y’all in the morning,” she hollered to the remaining few that chose to sit around in their rooms, polishing their toenails and gossiping about the crazy run-ins that night.

  “All right, Momma!” the youngest of the bunch replied.

  She then made her way back to the room that Ty, Peaches, and Illusion all occupied. Ty was still ranting about how she was going to stick it to Illusion something serious.

  “Oh, and Ty,” Fantasy interrupted matter-of-factly, “if you were about that life you wouldn’t have caught the beat down that you did, so kill all that noise ’cause you fucking up my high.” Truth be told, she couldn’t stand Ty or the ground her flat-footed ass walked on. Because Ty was one of the youngest in the entire house, barely eighteen, she felt like she had to prove something to everybody. Fantasy made it a point to let Ty learn the hard way. All the women in the house paid their dues and earned their stay under Chyna’s roof. If Ty wanted to walk around like she couldn’t be touched, parading and carrying on like her pussy was golden because she was still young and tight, then Fantasy would let her believe that shit. By the time Chyna was done with her, she’d be begging for somebody to pull out a needle and thread to sew her stuff back together.

  Ty was left to nurse her cuts and bruises alone. She yelled obscenities at the mirror while she wiped away the crusted and dripping blood that trickled down her face and neck. It was a painful sight. Her swollen top lip was split wide open, putting her out of blowjob commission. She pulled the handheld mirror closer. Her right eye was nearly closed shut. She tried to open it, but the pain was so excruciating that she gave up. “Bitch!” she screamed and cried nonstop. This ain’t over, Illusion. Hell to the fucking no.

  4

  Calling the room again, Chyna wondered who Sand could have been on the other line with this late. There was still no answer after several tries, and it was beginning to piss her off. She tossed th
e cell in the passenger seat, spinning a full U-turn back to where she and Sand had been lying low for the past couple of months. While Chyna had eyes on the streets, in the clubs, and back at the house, no one was watching Sand. That was a separate issue she chose to handle personally.

  * * *

  The day Chyna walked in on her mother’s dead body was the day she also died. Someone had taken away the only person that ever meant anything to her. It was that day that she sold her soul to the devil. She didn’t care about anyone but herself, and she terminated anyone that stood in her way. Just like her mother, money was her motivator. But unlike her mother, she’d be damned if she sold her own pussy to get it, not when there were always so many others ready and willing to do it.

  Her mother worked the tricks like she worked her hair when she needed it just right. That bounce or that curl had to be perfect, not a strand out of place. She would freshen up, slip into something provocatively sexy, throw on a Marvin Gaye album, light some sweet-scented incense, and then wait for the knock at the door. She and Chyna had lived in the two-bedroom duplex unit for years. It was in one of the worst crime-ridden neighborhoods in South Dallas, but it was a roof over their head. They had even learned that a murder-suicide had taken place there. The landlord was never really able to rent or sell the property for that reason alone. So when her mother came along and offered him a deal he couldn’t refuse, he handed her the keys, accepting her deposit and first month’s rent in the form of sexual favors until she could establish herself a source of income.

  Chyna’s mother made sure her precious five-year-old daughter was fast asleep before letting her sugar daddies inside. There was no way in hell her baby girl would ever know, if she could help it, how her mother earned a living. How she paid their bills was grown folks’ business. But sooner than later, and now a teenager, Chyna became inquisitive about her mother’s male friends, as well as the nickname she’d heard them call her in the middle of the night. And sometimes it didn’t matter where they were—grocery store, church, or school function—they’d stop her mother and whisper just enough to get her to squealing and carrying on, then they’d wind up at their house later that night, in her mother’s bed. Chyna could hear everything through those cheap walls, more than her mother ever knew.

  Chyna’s friends teased her constantly at school, cracking jokes about how her mama was the sidewalk of everybody’s neighborhood. At first, the jokes made no sense; then they became clear once she sat down and pulled it together for herself. Her mother was a prostitute, and the whole world knew it.

  Her mother’s promiscuous activities came to a tragic end the day Chyna got home from school and found her mother’s bedroom door wide open, and her mother’s naked body lay sprawled across the bed with a black garbage bag covering her face. It was the first time she’d seen her mother helpless without an ounce of fight in her. It was the first time she witnessed death up close and personal.

  After her mother’s death, Chyna fled, refusing to be taken into the legal system. As the streets called, she greeted them with a handshake. They took care of her, introducing her to a newer reality. The one her mother tried to keep hidden from her.

  Shortly after spending a few weeks on the run, Chyna began asking folks in the hood if they knew anyone by the name of D’Troy. As luck would have it, D’Troy was an established household name on the streets. Everybody who fucked around knew who he was or knew someone who did. D’Troy was her mother’s only sibling and the elder of the two. Chyna heard her mother mention him a few times but never enough to indicate that they were close at any point. Regardless of the relationship he had with her mother, Chyna knew D’Troy was the only person she could turn to because he was the only real family that she had left.

  Her mother hardly ever went around her own brother, and after moving in with him, Chyna believed she knew why. People in his hood referred to him as Killer-D, the ice-cream man. The women who walked the street corners knew him as their pimp. Her mother and D’Troy were from two different worlds but still apples under the same hopeless tree.

  Spice 1 pumped out gutter rap lyrics through the worn-out, makeshift speakers hanging on the living-room walls by a nail. Baby bottles topped off with a concoction of cold syrup and codeine, crushed beer cans, empty baby food jars, baking soda, razor blades, scales, foil, and freezer bags cluttered the tabletops of D’Troy’s operation, right next to bowls of weed and empty cereal boxes that stored most of the working supplies. Base heads would beat at the door all times of night, hoping to score some dope or establish themselves a layaway plan. The few workers D’Troy did have grinding for him would also come by numerous times to re-up on product or make a drop. They’d come in empty-handed and leave with a loaded box of Lucky Charms, Cheerios, or Frosted Flakes, holding enough work to last them a week. And the women D’Troy permitted to enter his domain rolled through it like a Soul Train line—dropping payment, scoring, and sometimes doing both. It was a trap—a trap to make money and a trap to lose it if the wrong person stepped foot inside.

  It wasn’t long before D’Troy was getting word from one of his insiders that his name was dropped in a routine drug bust as being the supplier. He knew then his entire empire was at stake. His confidante became the only woman he ever allowed to eat, sleep, and shit on his dime. He knew his days were limited, and it was that time to pass the torch to Chyna. She had watched him run his enterprise for three years, learning every aspect of it from the supply and demand of the dirty snow to the prostitution ring he clandestinely led. D’Troy knew that if Chyna was her mother’s daughter, he wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. He trusted her to manage and oversee all of his dealings just as if they were her own. He had taken his niece under his wing when she needed him, and now it was time for her to take him under hers.

  Just days after Chyna turned eighteen, D’Troy immediately transferred all of his bank accounts and real estate into her name. Before the feds could come kicking in his door, he called up Albery Johnson, the lawyer he’d been paying in advance for well over six years to prepare him for the day he got knocked. Little did D’Troy know, Albery was not only a dirty lawyer that specialized in shady business, but he was also a sellout. When Albery found out all the charges that D’Troy was facing, he knew he could have gotten him off on a lighter sentence, a sentence other than life. But instead of paying them off, he sold the case, putting D’Troy in the mouths of the wolves that wanted him off the streets forever.

  While Albery believed he was walking away scot-free, he had no idea that D’Troy had inherited a business partner along the way. What he also didn’t know was that the day he sold the Donald Troy Wilson’s case, aka D’Troy, his life, just like his defendant’s, had been traded. Albery had a rope hanging around his neck so thick, and Chyna, on the other end, was itching to tighten it.

  * * *

  Turning into the Super 8 parking lot, Chyna decided to try the room again. This time it rang without being redirected back to the operator. On the third ring, Sand picked up.

  “Yeah,” she answered dryly, already knowing who the call was coming from without having to read the caller ID display.

  “So, you’re up?”

  “Tsk. Well, it ain’t like I’m getting much sleep lately,” she answered sarcastically.

  Sand’s sour attitude didn’t surprise Chyna at all. She held the phone as close to her ear as it could go. She listened for any other voices in the background. All she could hear faintly was the television. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Well, why don’t you come on down. We’re staying at the house tonight,” she informed Sand.

  “I thought we were chillin’ here for a minute.”

  “That situation has been handled. I got the all-clear on that earlier today,” Chyna interrupted, referring to the detective that had been following them around. That was all Sand needed to know. “In the meantime, I have an issue back at the house I need to deal with. I’m waiting out in the car, so make it quick.” Not allowing time for Sand to rep
ly, she pressed the End button. This was another big test, and Chyna could feel herself losing control. She didn’t like that shit. It seemed everyone needed a reminder of who she was, and she wanted Sand to be there to witness it, just in case the thought of pulling a fast one ever crossed her mind.

  Chyna adjusted her rearview mirror. She caught a glimpse of herself. She was strikingly beautiful, just like her mother had been. Her smooth ginger complexion, naturally blushed high cheekbones, and long, thick black lashes that enveloped her beautifully slanted eyes, earned her compliments from both men and women. She never needed makeup to enhance her beauty because she looked perfect without it. Her mother would always joke, “You’re mama’s li’l porcelain doll.”

  Chyna rubbed her temples. Her shiny lips were noticeably plump. From top to bottom she had sexy written all over her. She was not the average five-foot-eleven-and-a-half woman. She rocked a Coke-bottle figure with enough breasts and ass to lend generations to come. She even wondered herself sometimes how she managed to be so blessed with a body that most women would kill for and every man desired.

  She studied herself in the mirror. It was time to put her game face back on. She relaxed her thoughts, reassuring herself that she was in control. This was her courtyard. She called the shots. And it was about time motherfuckas recognized that.

  Ta-ta-ta. Sand tapped on the window. Chyna had the engine still running, and her wipers were singing a tune of their own. She unlocked the passenger door.

  “Shit, it’s cold out here,” Sand complained as she flopped down in the seat of Chyna’s vanilla-pearl Lexus, tossing her bag of clothes behind her.

  Chyna ignored her comment. There was other shit running through her mind. She stared straight-ahead, the car still in park. “Who were you on the phone with?” She squinted her eyes, observing the different vehicles that pulled in and out of the motel’s parking lot.

  Sand blew into her hands and rubbed them together in an attempt to get warm. “I don’t know what you talkin’ about,” she said.