Trust in No Man 3

by Cash

  “I love it. Tell me you’re my bitch for life.”

  “Don’t play—boy, you—know a bitch—will die—for –you!” The orgasm she felt building up nearly left her breathless. “I can’t hold it, bae. I gotta cum! Cum with me. I wanna feel all your seeds inside of me!” She panted, on the verge of a climax.

  “Okay, I’ma cum with you, shawdy.” He quickened his stroke until they both exploded together.

  Twenty minutes later, he was stretched across the bed while Kamora lotioned his body. He blew Kush smoke toward the ceiling as she studied the tats that covered his torso. They had gotten together a week after Lil T’s seventeenth birthday. Two years later, they were still going strong, so she was not seeing his ink for the first time.

  Her fingers traced each letter of the words tatted across his six-pack. Like Father, Like Son encircled a scar from a gunshot wound. A ski-mask covered one side of his well-toned chest, a tat of his father’s face was on the other side, with Youngblood etched underneath it, trailed by R.I.P. Lil T’s arms were sleeved up, too. But the tat she adored the most, Trust No Man, covered his entire back.

  Reaching for more lotion on the nightstand, her hand brushed across the German Luger and then Lil T’s platinum chain and the icy medallion, which was a five-inch urn that held some of Youngblood’s ashes. It was Lil T’s most prized possession.

  She thought back to the night, a year ago, when a nigga had tried to jack him for the chain.

  They were leaving out of the club on their way to the car, when a short dude with an unusually large head, stepped out from a crowd and threw down on them.

  “Break ya’ self!” he commanded Lil T, who didn’t hesitate. Being a jack boy himself, he respected the game.

  He gave up his trap without protest, but he studied the robber’s face.

  “You too, bitch, with ya cute ass. Gimme ya jewelry, too,” he demanded of Kamora and she obeyed.

  “Let me get that chain, shawdy,” he said to Lil’ T while keeping the gun leveled at his stomach.

  Lil T shook his head. “Nawl man, you gon hafta take my life ‘cause that’s the only way you’ll get this,” he stated while regretting leaving his banger in his whip.

  “You think it’s a game? Nigga, I’ll wet ya shirt.”

  “You’re not getting my chain, homie—”

  The bullet cut off his words. His stomach felt like a ball of fire as the impact knocked him off of his feet.

  Kamora attacked the robber with flailing fists, determined to keep him from shooting Lil T again. She managed to land a half dozen punches before the robber slapped her across the face with the gun and bolted off.

  Afterwards, she blamed herself for what happened because Lil T had told her over and over again that he didn’t like going any place where he couldn’t take his tool. He had only conceded to take her to her cousin’s birthday party to stop her from pouting.

  “If you would’ve died that night I don’t know what I would’ve done,” she said to him now. He knew exactly what she was referring to.

  “Shawdy, let that go. That’s a lesson learned. I bet I’ll never get caught slippin’ again. And sooner or later I’ma run into that nigga and show him that he never should’ve let me live.”

  “Okay, bae, I love you.”

  “Do you?” he teased.

  “With all my heart. I’m gonna ride for you like Inez rode for your father. Or like Keisha did.”

  “Not like that fake bitch, Juanita?”

  “Oh no. Never like Miss Thang.”

  “And definitely not like my fake ass mama.”

  “I wasn’t gonna go there, but since you did— I would rather die than flip like she did.”

  “I believe you, shawdy. That’s why I love ya old ass,” he joked.

  “Don’t clown.” She playfully punched him. “I’m only four years older than you.”

  Their kidding was interrupted by her ringing cell phone. “That’s lil mama named Sharena,” she said with wide eyes as she read the number on her caller ID.

  “Who?”

  “The bitch who fucks with Byron?”

  Lil T sat up. Byron’s mother, Delina, had testified against Youngblood. “Play that bitch right, shawdy. You know how much this means to me.”

  “I got you, bae. Shhh!”

  CHAPTER 2

  Lil T drove down Boulevard Street. A mural of his father was painted across the whole side of a liquor store. He knew the owner of the store pumped weed and pills out of there, but he didn’t put his press game down on dude because the mural showed that he had much respect for Youngblood’s legacy. Other business owners had been pressuring him to do away with the tribute to a deceased thug, but the man refused to buckle under.

  As formality, Lil T honked his horn as he passed by the store. Catching a glimpse of his pop’s mural out of the corner of his eye, he unconsciously fingered the small urn that hung on the thick chain around his neck.

  Making a right at the light, he drove past what used to be the Englewood projects, his pop’s old stomping grounds and the hood where he grew up. The projects were demolished now, but the memories were forever.

  Kicked out of the house at thirteen, Lil T had grabbed a ski mask and feasted off of this hood.

  On Hill Street, he parked in front of a dilapidated house and made a call. “I’m outside.”

  A few minutes later, a tall teenager came out and handed him a manila envelope. “It’s a band short, my nigga,” he mumbled.

  “Fam, stop testing me!” Lil T warned.

  “Nawl, Trouble, I’m not testing you, bruh. Shit been slow. I put that on everything I love.”

  “That’s a new song, right? Nigga, you been singing it every week. Just because I like you, it don’t mean I don’t want my dough. I cut ya taxes because I fuck with you, but don’t try to play me or I’ma get upset. You know my get down. Pay me or the undertaker. Which one?” Out of nowhere, the strap appeared in Lil T’s hand and it was aimed to spit dead between the boy’s eyes.

  “I got you, fam.’ Let me go back inside and get it,” the boy stammered.

  A while later, Lil T drove off with his trap right. He made two other collections without incident and then headed to visit his half-sisters.

  As he headed out to their home in Decatur, he shrugged off the animosity he knew he would encounter from their grandmother.

  Her face was stone when she answered the door. Lil T brushed it off. “How you doing today?’ he asked politely.

  “I’m fine,” she replied with a stiff upper lip.

  “Is Eryka and Chante around?”

  “Where else would they be?” She stepped aside and allowed him into her home, taking in his thuggish appearance, sagging jeans and long dreads.

  He’s just like his daddy, a street thug, she thought.

  Like every time before when he visited, Lil T could feel the contempt that she held for him. He didn’t sweat it, though, because he hadn’t done anything to the bitch beside resemble his pop. If the old bitch had a problem with that, she could eat a dick. He wasn’t going to let her attitude keep him away from his sisters.

  Fourteen-year-old Eryka came bouncing down the stairs smiling when she heard Lil T call her name.

  “Hey, boy,” she said and gave him a hug.

  “Sup, sis? What you been up to?” he asked.

  “Nothing but fighting off the haters.”

  “Oh, you still Facebook banging?”

  “Shut up!” She giggled. “I’m a G like you.”

  “You not no damn gangsta.” He laughed. “Where’s Chante?”

  “In the den doing an assignment for school. You know how she is, always studying. Me? I don’t have time for that. I like to have fun and kick it with my friends,” said Eryka as she led him to the back of the house where the den was located.

  Following her, Lil T noticed her shape was beginning to blossom. She was thick and red like her mother must’ve been when his pop bagged her, he thought. Soon, grown ass niggas would be
tryna holla, thinking Eryka was legal. He already knew he was going to have to smash some old fool for pushing up on his lil sis. He felt a responsibility to watch out for them ever since Cheryl’s suicide.

  “Sup, bookworm?” he announced, startling Chante.

  “Hi, bruh-bruh. I’m working on a science project. You wanna see?” He looked over her shoulder at the computer screen.

  He had bought them the computer six months ago.

  Lil T stared at the monitor, but had no idea what he was looking at. Chante burst into laughter at his facial expression. She began explaining what the project was about. Listening to her explain the project, it amazed him how smart she was and how different she and Eryka were, not only in personality but also in appearance. Eryka resembled Cheryl, while Chante’s features strongly favored Youngblood.

  Both of his sisters were crazy about him. They battled back and forth for his attention, and he enjoyed spending this quality time with them. He kicked back and chopped it up with his sisters, but he couldn’t stay long because Kamora was blowing up his phone. He gave Eryka and Chante two hundred dollars apiece and promised to spend more time with them soon.

  On the way out, he gave their grandmother five hundred dollars to help with their care. This was something he did on a regular, and although she acted as if she didn’t care for Lil T, she gladly accepted the money.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled as he said goodbye.

  Lil T smirked, thinking about what he’d read in Trust No Man 2. The book Youngblood had written:

  I rang the doorbell.

  “Who is it?” the woman asked.

  “Terrence,” I answered as clearly as my wired mouth would allow.

  I heard the door lock turn, and the door opened just a crack. Lonnie’s foot kicked it loose from the security chain and knocked the woman backwards but she didn’t fall, nor did she scream. She just stood there, petrified like a deer caught in headlights.

  I pointed the gun at Cheryl’s mother.

  “Tell me where Cheryl is!” My voice was low and demanding.

  Lonnie closed the front door, grabbed her by the throat and pushed her toward the stairs, damn near lifting her clear off of her feet. His gloved hand dug into her throat as he forced her up the stairs and into the bathroom. When he released her from his grip, Cheryl’s mother coughed violently. As soon as the bitch caught her breath, I nodded to Lonnie. My partner grabbed her by the back of her hair, forced her over the commode and pushed her face down in the toilet water. I nodded again and he yanked her head up. The bitch was coughing, crying, and gasping for breath all at the same time.

  “Tell me where Cheryl’s at!” I said for the second time.

  “I--don’t—know,” she cried.

  I nodded to Lonnie and he dunked her head in the toilet again. This time, for thirty seconds. When he brought her up, she was coughing profusely, desperate for air. “Where’s Cheryl?” I asked again.

  “I swear—I—don’t know!”

  I punched her in the eye. “Drown this bitch!” I said to Lonnie.

  Lil T could imagine the scowl that must’ve been on Youngblood’s face when he said those words and the fear that must’ve been in the woman before him now. Yet, she was still testing the gangsta of his pop’s bloodline. “Let me ask you something,” he said, stopping in the doorway.

  “What is it?”

  “Is that the scar under your eye from the time my father punched you in your shit?”

  She gasped. The look on her face showed that she was appalled by his obvious sarcasm.

  “I’m just saying. Don’t make me go there.” Lil T gritted.

  Slowly, he turned and walked out.

  “You little fucker!” She slammed the door behind his back.

  Lil T chuckled to himself and kept stepping.

  Inside of the car, he checked his phone and saw that he had six missed calls and an urgent text message from Kamora. Something had to be wrong. He called her back ASAP. “What’s poppin’, shawdy?”

  “Bae, I was leaving the West End and I noticed a black Pathfinder get behind me. I made a few turns just to see if I was being followed and the muthafucka is still behind me.”

  “Where you at?”

  “On I-20 East.”

  “You strapped?”

  “Always.” She patted her Glock .50 on the seat between her legs.

  “Okay, don’t panic. If they’re on some jack or murder shit, they won’t make a move if there are witnesses around. So just stay on the interstate. I’m just leaving Decatur. Drive on out this way and get off on the Candler Road exit. Turn into the gas station where I fixed your flat tire that time. Be sure to drive around to the side of the building where the air pump is. I’ll be waiting. How many niggas in the truck?”

  She checked her rearview. “Two, I think.”

  “That’s all? Those fools gonna wish they had an army of goons wit’ em. I got that yoppa in the truck, so when it pops off, stay out the way.”

  “You’re making my kitty cat tingle,” she purred, excited about what was about to go down.

  “Later for that. Lead those lames to their death. I’ma show ‘em what happens when they fuck with my bitch.” He was getting crunk by the minute, anticipating smashing two fools who thought they could test his boo.

  The gas station was only a mile or so from where he was, so he arrived there in minutes. “Stay on the phone and talk to me until you get here. Just pretend that you haven’t noticed them. I hope they’re not just a couple of niggas tryna holla at you ‘cause if so they ‘bout to win the wet T-shirt contest.”

  Ten minutes passed before he saw her pull into the gas station. The SUV she described turned in behind her, as well. Lil T ended the call without a word. Kamora parked at the air pump and checked her strap, making sure the safety was disengaged.

  Lil T crept up on the passenger side of the Pathfinder like a trained assassin. He asked no questions. He just let his AK-47 do the talking.

  The front passenger door windows exploded in a spray of glass. The weapon coughed out quick, repetitive annihilation. Then Kamora’s Glock joined the party.

  When the gunfire ceased, two bodies were left twisted and lifeless. Now came the most dangerous part—getting away from the scene before po-po arrived.

  Lil T shouted, “Mash out, shawdy!”

  They peeled away from the murder scene at the same time. Kamora took the expressway, while Lil T stuck to the residential streets, which he knew well. His hands were steady on the steering wheel but his pulse quickened. The sudden blaring of police sirens mixed with the whirl of the helicopter had him worried about his shawdy.

  CHAPTER 3

  Lil T made sure that po-po wasn’t on his ass and that the helicopter wasn’t following him before he turned onto his grandmother Poochie’s street. He whipped into her driveway and hurried up her porch.

  Poochie was nursing her evening cup of coffee and trying yet again to persuade Shan to check herself into a drug recovery program. The fruitless conversation was interrupted by loud pounding on the door. She placed the steaming cup of coffee down on the table and rushed to the door with Shan on her heels.

  “Hey, Big Ma,” Lil T said, but ignored his mother as he came into the house and began turning off all the lights.

  “Why are you breathing so hard and turning off the lights? What have you done now?” Poochie worried. She knew that Lil T and trouble were synonymous, but he was her heart.

  “He prolly done killed somebody,” said Shan.

  “Shut the fuck up!” he snapped.

  “Boy, don’t talk to your mother like that.” Poochie scolded him.

  “My bad, Big Ma, but she always got something slick to say out her mouth and she know I don’t like her.”

  “I should’ve flushed his disrespectful ass down the toilet when he was nothing but sperm!” Shan replied, glaring at Lil T with contempt.

  Lil T didn’t respond. He was busy peeping out of the living room windows. He took his cell phon
e out of his pocket and tried to reach Kamora.

  “C’mon, shawdy, answer yo phone.” He pleaded, but received no answer. He dialed her number twice more with the same result.

  If po-po had his boo in cuffs, there was sure to be a lot of cop killings in the A real soon.

  Just as he headed toward the door, his phone rang, flashing Kamora’s name across the screen.

  “Sup, shawdy, you okay?”

  “I’m good, bae. What about you?”

  “I’m Gucci. Where you at?”

  “At McDonald’s on Gresham Road in the drive thru,” she responded matter-of-factly.

  “Shawdy, you’re too damn gangsta.”

  “Call me Keisha,” she quipped, referring to the thorough chick she’d read about in the novel about his pop.

  Keisha had immortalized herself in hood lore by busting her gun at po-po instead of surrendering. Though she’d died in a blaze of police gunfire, her legend was almost as strong as Youngblood’s.

  I was worried about you, girl, and you’re chillin’ at Mickey D’s. Go to the house. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Okay, but I’ma need you to beat it up tonight. You know gunplay turns a bitch on!”

  Shan was still ranting as Lil T got off of the phone. He frowned at her and said, “If it wasn’t for Big Ma, I would really hurt your feelings.”

  “Say it, nigga, with ya ugly ass!”

  “Ugly? Look at you!” He looked her up and down.

  Shan’s hair was dirty and pulled back into a little bitty ponytail. Her lips were chapped so bad, they looked like fish scales and her eyes bulged out of her head. She sprang up off of the couch and swung on him. Lil T swatted her punches away.

  “Y’all stop!” Poochie screamed. It pained her heart to see them at each other’s throats.

  For the past six years, she had tried to mend their broken relationship, but the damage was too severe to repair. No one understood the many demons Shan’s drug addiction brought into her better than Poochie, who was a recovered crack addict. She had tried over and over to explain it to her grandson just as she did at that very moment.

  “It ain’t that, Big Ma. It ain’t even got nothing to do with her kicking me out. It’s what she did to my pop that’s unforgivable,” Lil T told Poochie.