The second she was able to speak, Daisy started to beg for her life again. “Don’t do this. I can’t die like this. My parents . . . if I die like this, they won’t be able to give me a proper burial. If I’m missing, it will kill them not knowing where I am. I ran away from home when I was fifteen.” She sobbed loudly.
Cristal didn’t give a fuck. It had to be this way. Daisy was Melissa Chin, and she couldn’t afford to have Melissa Chin found dead, and then have it subsequently revealed that she was really a young girl from the Midwest named Daisy McLeod. It would be too messy and too much of a risk.
Besides, Cristal quite enjoyed writing. It was cathartic and helped her deal with her past. Cristal would keep producing books, but this time she wouldn’t be stupid enough to attach a face to it.
Cristal lifted her eyes to lock with Daisy’s. “Sorry it had to be this way.”
Before Daisy could yell for help or defend herself, the .9mm was quickly raised to meet her forehead, and a bullet went slamming into her frontal lobe. The impact lifted Daisy off her feet and sent her flying backwards into the deep grave with a loud thump against the dirt. The body landed sideways.
Cristal aimed at the body and fired three more shots.
Poot! Poot! Poot!
Cristal didn’t need to cover the grave completely, for it had already been pre-dug by gravediggers for a funeral early the next morning. She just needed to cover the body with dirt and conceal it enough so tomorrow, when the casket was lowered into the ground during the burial, no one would ever suspect their loved one was sharing their final resting place with someone else.
Six
Tamar navigated her black Audi RS 4 convertible through the city streets like a NASCAR driver. The car was sleek, fast, and powerful, and it caught attention—just like her. Her hair was flowing in the wind with the top down, the backdrop becoming a blur as she did 85 on the West Side Highway. Cops didn’t concern her. The law didn’t apply to her. She had connections and resourceful friends in the right places. When she wasn’t a deadly assassin, she found pleasure and comfort in New York’s nightlife.
Life had been extremely good to Tamar. She lived in a penthouse suite on the East Side and had two exotic cars to cruise around in the city—the Audi RS 4 and a black-on-black BMW 650i. She had a monthly stipend to burn, jewelry to show off, and designer outfits she only wore once.
The night was young, and she was feeling animated and horny. She wanted something to take home and play with for the night. Man or woman, it didn’t matter to her. If they were sexy, voluptuous, or endowed, then they caught her attention.
While speeding on the West Side Highway, heading north, Tamar pulled on her burning cigarette and exhaled. With her Jimmy Choo pressed down on the accelerator, she weaved in and out of traffic like she was in a high-speed chase.
Fifteen minutes later, Tamar pulled up to the Copycat Club in midtown. It was 11 p.m., and the line outside was a half a block long to get inside the popular club.
Tamar pulled up to the valet parking and stepped out of her shining chariot looking exotic in something sheer. Her long legs stretched to the sky in her six-inch shoes. She approached the entrance to the club looking like a diva, all eyes on her.
She strutted toward the entrance where two muscular, brutish-looking bouncers stood. She moved with a fiery grace, her persona oozing dominance and style like no other. The bling she wore was blinding. Diamond teardrops dangled from her ears, and a $90,000 tennis necklace adorned her neck.
Subtly, she slipped a hundred-dollar bill into the meaty palm of one of the bouncers. The velvet rope separating the outside from the inside became unhooked as the towering bouncer stepped aside and allowed her into the nightclub with a smile aimed at her. She sashayed inside with a blank look.
Copycat was a moneyed club that exemplified elegance through its rich and polished décor. A regal entryway, typically accented with attractive partygoers, set the standard for the entire venue. Inside, the 5000-square-foot space boasted state-of-the-art technology with forty- to seventy-inch LCD flat-screens and VIP suites perched strategically around the club, giving the occupants a bird’s-eye view of the dance floor below.
Tamar entered the club where a lavish bar spread around the room, followed by a sunken dance floor. The music was loud, blaring Rihanna’s “Pour It Up.”
The crowd was hyped as over a hundred revelers crammed onto the sunken dance floor. As Tamar moved through the crowd, she noticed a lot of pretty faces and handsome mugs. They noticed her too. Her tiger walk demanded attention. Men gawked at her, and women too. It seemed like the elite had come out tonight. DJ Flex was rocking the crowd with his flavor of mixes and gaudy sound over the mic.
Up above everyone else was her choice, the VIP area. Whatever club, whatever state, business or pleasure, it was bottle service. She could afford it.
Tamar sat alone in the cushioned VIP and ordered a bottle of Rosé. From her perspective, everyone looked like a potential victim, when it came to carrying out a contract for the Commission. Tamar had no conscience, and she did her job without judgment. She had lost her soul long ago when she’d gunned down Cristal’s family, from young to old. She had always been jealous of Cristal ever since she started a relationship with E.P. She wanted the top-ranking position and the power, and was willing to do whatever it took to get it.
It had been three years since that day she’d sold her soul to the devil. They were all dead, Cristal, Lisa, and Mona. But one friend from her past remained and was asking about her. Sharon. It was surprising to hear that Sharon had become a cop. Who would have thought that?
But why is she asking around about me now? Tamar wondered.
They hadn’t seen or spoken to each other or crossed paths in so long. The friendship almost felt ancient between them. Sharon had gone her way, and Tamar had gone hers.
Tamar was now on the opposite side of the law. She remembered gunning down Pike when Sharon had just found love in him. She had no remorse about the hit. She had nothing against the man, but it was business. And if she had to do it all over again, she wouldn’t hesitate.
Tamar sipped her Rosé from the flute glass in her hand. From the looks of her, no one could tell she was a stone-cold assassin. She was model beautiful and dressed to kill in her sheer dress. Even DJ Flex casually eyed her from his perch in the DJ booth across the room. A pretty young thing, alone, paying for bottle service in VIP made a strong statement.
Usually, she was about business, watching and reading her victims, familiarizing herself with their lives without them knowing she even existed, and then striking with the speed and skill of a venomous snake, snuffing out lives. But tonight, it was pleasure only. No one’s blood would spill tonight.
She stood up from her seat and walked toward the glass railing, one manicured hand lightly gripping the structure, the flute in the other. She gazed down and tried to search for something that caught her eye. Her pussy throbbed for some action. Lately, she had been so busy with work that she hadn’t had any time to treat herself.
She searched through the sea of people dancing, drinking, and grinding. She downed the champagne, set the glass aside, and made her way down toward the packed dance floor. She wanted to join in on the fun.
The dance floor was dimmed, and Chris Brown and throwback Wu-Tang Clan were playing loudly throughout the club. She paraded through the tight crowd and positioned herself in the middle of the dance floor. She threw her arms and hands up, transitioning into party mode, moving slowly and nicely to the beat, snapping her fingers, swaying her hips from side to side. She had rhythm and style. Her movement was like a mating dance to gain attention from either sex.
It didn’t take long for a pair of masculine hands to touch her sides gently. Her back was to the invader trying to position himself behind her backside. She felt his groin push against her, locking his body into hers.
She had to get a glimpse of him. If he was fine, he had a chance. If he wasn’t, then she wouldn’t be shy about
telling him off. So far, from what she felt from behind her, she knew he was tall. As he gyrated his pelvis against her thick backside, she pivoted slightly to get a good look at him, and what she saw didn’t turn her off. In fact, he was a handsome, well dressed black male with a fit, muscular build. Clad in a black fitted shirt and black slacks, his movement against her was precise.
She spun around to face him, taking in his full height. He was six one with a tapered haircut and a thick, dark goatee sprucing his full lips. His onyx eyes were attractive, and the scent of his cologne was intoxicating.
“What’s your name, beautiful?” he spoke into her ear, his voice competing with the blaring music inside the club.
Tamar smiled, thinking, He’ll do. “Jenny.”
“I’m Mitchell. Can I buy you a drink?”
“You can.”
Their dance together was brief. They moved through the crowd toward the sweeping bar.
Tamar read him quickly. From the block, Brooklyn probably. His wardrobe was simply put together, his jewelry from Pitkin or Jamaica Avenue, his swag, a nigga from the block trying to play Casanova. But he couldn’t compete with her. He was one-dimensional, while she was three.
“What you drinking?” he asked.
“Martini. Shaken, not stirred.”
“I got you.”
He signaled for the bartender and pulled out his wad of cash, desperately wanting to make an impression. His cash was inferior, as was his intelligence. She needed him for one thing only—sex. Though his conversation was engaging, he wasn’t articulate. Tamar couldn’t help but to think, if she’d met him before training on the Farm, working for the Commission, making her money, she would have fallen head over heels in love with him. But her mind had long been set adrift from fools like him.
He paid for her martini, sipped on his Corona, and they lingered by the bar, talking.
“I saw you in VIP alone, popping bottles. I like that shit, a woman doing her own thing. You come here often?”
“I don’t. You?”
“I come with my peoples.”
“Your peoples? Girlfriend?” she asked, as if it mattered to her.
“No, no girlfriend. I’m single.”
Mitchell couldn’t keep his eyes off Tamar, scoping her body from head to toe, making his intentions obvious. She smiled. She flirted. He was transparent. She fed into his bullshit, knowing he was a more than a few steps down from E.P.
...
Tamar and E.P. were an odd couple, if you could call them a couple. She had fallen in love with him, and she missed him. She continually wanted to prove herself to him. They had been fucking since Cristal’s death. At first, it was just rough sex between them—back shots, in the ass, raw dog wherever and whenever. But then, for Tamar, it transitioned into something more, with her catching feelings and falling in love.
In the beginning, she wanted what Cristal had, the respect, his admiration, and his heart. She wanted E.P. to back her, show her favoritism, and help her become known in the underworld. He had that type of pull, the clout to take her to the next level.
But as weeks turned into months, and months turned into years, with Tamar not having any substance, or anyone of substance in her life, she began to latch onto him. She was always dreaming about him sneaking into her bedroom in the wee hours of the night to fuck her. She would yearn for him to stay until the morning, but he never allowed sunlight to catch him in her bed.
Tamar knew that E.P. missed Cristal. It showed in his actions with him sometimes feeling remorseful over what he had done to her. He had reacted on emotion when he found out she was serious about a low-class, low-life drug pusher. It disturbed him deeply. He was educated, distinguished, and handsome. He felt his lovemaking was solid and that he had a lot to offer. So why would Cristal stray away to someone else?
Being rejected by Cristal had sent him over the edge, and he sanctioned the hit that the Commission didn’t authorize. Only to himself would he admit that he’d gone too far without hearing her side of the story first. Now he and Tamar were in too deep, violating all the rules with their sexual relations and sins, and they had to plug the gaping wound before it got even bigger.
...
Tamar smiled in Mitchell’s face, looking innocent like a swimming dolphin. She continued sipping on her martini and making decent conversation with him. She had killed men like him over a dozen times across the country. In fact, as he talked, she visualized various ways of hypothetically taking him down. Poison maybe, or a quick thrust from a sharp blade into his heart; he wouldn’t even see it coming. But he wasn’t a mark, and she wasn’t being paid to spill his blood.
Uninterested in any more casual talk, she downed her martini and blurted out to Mitchell, “Let’s cut the bullshit—You wanna leave here and fuck?”
He grinned heavily, somewhat taken aback by her abrupt approach. Her eyes whispered to him that she was serious. “It’s your world, beautiful,” he replied simply, ready to leave with her.
...
Tamar walked into her spacious penthouse apartment on the East Side, and Mitchell followed inside behind her. The minute she flipped the switch and brought light into the place, Mitchell’s jaw almost hit the floor.
“Damn! You living like this?”
She smiled and continued to walk farther into her residence, smoothly slipping out of her dress, letting it fall to the floor, revealing the black thong that sank into the crack of her ample butt cheeks. She made her way toward the master bedroom. Her actions were clear as day— she wanted some dick.
While Mitchell was still in awe at the full-floor, three-bedroom, two-and-one-half-bath loft with a wraparound planted terrace and soaring ceilings in the living and dining room, Tamar was already in the bedroom wondering if he was coming or not.
“Yeah, I’m gonna definitely like fucking you,” he said, undoing his pants and walking toward the bedroom.
Moments later, he joined her on the bed. He put her breasts together, sucking both nipples at the same time. He licked and sucked the underside of her tits. She gave him a definite invitation, her legs spreading again and again and again. She was soaking wet, humping herself against his thigh and desperate for things to proceed much faster. She wasn’t that kind of bitch. She wasn’t for the lovemaking, passionate kissing, and slow grinding. She liked her sex rough, fast, and hard and wanted the nigga to be crude and aggressive right off the bat.
He went down low, sucking on her pussy and ramming his tongue against her clit, enjoying the way she tasted.
Tamar wrapped her legs around him, clamping him into an unmovable position.
Mitchell was surprised at how strong she was. It felt like she could break his neck with one simple motion.
“Ooooh, suck on that pussy,” she groaned.
His tongue went inside her deep, bringing Tamar into a state of disbelief that he was so adept at pleasing her. She had made a wise choice.
He licked her sensitive button and felt her thighs tighten around his head. Mitchell slid his fingers inside her wet hole, making her buck that much harder, moan that much louder. He used his lips on her wet clit, making it his mission to make her explode in his mouth.
“Don’t stop. Ugh. Ooooh, don’t stop. Right there.” Tamar grabbed his head and held it to her mound, not allowing him to move at all.
Then she pulled her legs back to her chest, giving him an invitation to fuck the shit out of her. He rose up, rolling a Magnum condom back onto his thick, eight-inch length. He was ready to feel that pussy. He aimed his dick at the place he needed to be, pushed the head of his dick in her pussy, and then they both cried out, Tamar’s eyes rolling back in her head.
Mitchell got into a rhythm quickly, steady and deep. Her pussy gripped him. He was in a trance. Her nails dug into his flesh, and they fucked vigorously with his length ramming into her cervix over and over.
Tamar purred her approval, her eyes closed, with Mitchell heavily on top of her, thrusting himself between her open legs.
They both were unaware of the figure suddenly in the room with them. It was like he appeared out of nowhere. He stood a few feet from the bed, gazing at the nigga’s hairy ass and their sexual tryst. He looked at the two of them with an emotionless stare. He extended his right arm with the hefty Desert Eagle gripped in his fist and the suppressor at the end. He pulled the trigger.
Poot!
The bullet tore through the back of Mitchell’s head. The large caliber of the gun made the back of his head explode like a firecracker going off. There was a slight, “Oomph!” coming from the victim, as his blood discharged over the bed and Tamar’s naked body. His body collapsed against her, dead and with a hole the size of a baseball in the back of his head.
“Playtime’s over!” the killer said gruffly.
He stood over them like the Grim Reaper, his eyes cold as ice. He was impassive about his action, looking like a genetically engineered hit man.
Tamar was doused with Mitchell’s blood, but she didn’t panic. “What the fuck, E.P.?”
She evenly pushed the body off of her, placing Mitchell on his back, sprawled out in her queen-size bed and very expensive sheets. She stood up.
E.P. lowered the gun. “Had fun?”
“Until you fucked it up.”
“Where you find him?”
“The club. Why? You jealous?” she asked, smirking.
While Tamar stood stark naked in front of him, trying to clean off Mitchell’s blood, E.P. tossed a book on the bed, catching Tamar’s attention.
“It’s her latest novel,” he said.
Tamar was aware of the book and its contents. Reading these books made her blood boil and her knees quiver. She had been assigned the case and was no closer to getting at Melissa Chin than when she’d started.
“We got a serious problem, and you’re out here having casual fucks?”
“A girl is allowed to have some fun. You stopped fucking me.”
“Not when she has an assignment. And you’re no closer to finding and exterminating this bitch.”
Murdergram, Part 2 Page 4