by Noire
“No, Python. Wait,” I beg. I even foolishly lift my hands like a stop sign as if that’s really going to enforce a time-out. Python’s black, empty, soulless eyes narrow. At this fucking moment, I’m no different from any other nigga on the street: disposable. I’m already dead to him, and my tears are nothing but water.
Fat Ace squeezes off another round.
POW! POW! POW!
Wood splinters from the door frame inches above Python’s head, but that doesn’t stop him from lifting his Glock and aiming that muthafucka straight at me. I’m a cop and I’m used to plunging headlong into danger, but I don’t have a badge pinned to my titties right now, and my courage is pissing out in between my legs.
POW! POW!
Fat Ace misses again.
“Please. I’m carrying your baby.” As a desperate act, I clutch the small mound below my belly, and I succeed in getting his eyes to drop.
To my left, Fat Ace’s head whips in my direction. His voice booms like a clap of thunder.
“WHAT THE FUCK?”
I spin my head back toward Fat Ace. Why does it suddenly look like this muthafucka can pass for Python’s twin? Anger rises off of him like steam. I open my mouth but my brain shuts down. It doesn’t matter. There are no words that can save me.
“You fucking lying bitch!” Fat Ace’s gun swings away from Python and toward me, while Python’s gat turns toward Fat Ace. Both pull the trigger at the same time.
POW! POW!
POW! POW!
The bullets feel like two heat-seeking missiles slamming into me. I propel backward, and my head hits the wall first.
Across the room, Python’s bullets slam into Fat Ace’s right side, but the nigga remains on his feet and squeezes out a few more rounds.
Shocked, it takes a full second before the pain in my chest and left side has a chance to register. When it does, it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Blood gushes out of my body as I slowly slide down the wall and plop onto the floor.
POW! POW!
Python shoots the gun out of Fat Ace’s hand.
POW! POW! POW!
“What, nigga? What?” Python roars.
Fat Ace clutches his bleeding hand but then charges toward Python real low and manages to tackle him to the ground before Python is able to squeeze off another shot. They hit the hardwood with a loud thump, and Python’s gun is knocked out of his hand.
I need to get help. There’s way too much blood pooling around me. I’m dying. Me and my baby.
“Is that all you got, nigga?” Fat Ace jams a fist into the center of Python’s face. Blood bursts from Python’s thick lips and big nose like a red geyser.
Tears rush down my face like a fucking waterfall. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. It’s all I can tell my unborn child.
“Your ass gonna die tonight, you punk-ass bitch,” Python growls, slamming his fist into Fat Ace’s jaw.
Christopher!
My head snaps up. My son, Christopher, is in the other room. How can he sleep through all this noise? An image of Christopher, curled up in the bottom of his closet, trembling and crying, springs to my mind. I have to get to my baby.
I slump over from the wall but lack the strength to stop my upper body’s falling momentum. My face crashes into the hard floor, and I can feel a tooth floating in blood in my mouth.
Covered in sweat and blood, Python and Fat Ace continue wrestling on the floor. Fat Ace, still naked, gets the upper hand for a second and sends a crushing blow across Python’s jaw. A distinguishable crack reverberates in the room. To my ears, the muthafaucka should be broken, but Python ain’t no ordinary nigga. And sure enough, in the next second, Python retaliates, landing one vicious blow after another. A tight swing lands below Fat Ace’s rib cage. Its force not only causes another crack, but it also lifts Fat Ace up at least a half foot in the air and gives Python the edge in repositioning himself.
The punches flow harder and faster. The floor trembles as if we’re in the middle of an earthquake. Python is shoved against the side of the bed, and the damn thing flies toward my head. Lacking the energy to get out of the way, all I can do is close my eyes and prepare for the impact. The bed’s metal leg slams into the center of my forehead with a sickening thud, and a million stars explode behind my eyes.
The scuffling on the other side of the bed continues; more bone crushes bone. When I finally manage to open my eyes, Python is trying to stretch his hand far enough to reach for a gun, but it is a few inches too far. Fat Ace is doing all he can to make sure that shit doesn’t happen.
Watching all this go down, I realize that I don’t give a fuck if they kill each other. Why should I? I’m already sentenced to death. I can feel its cold fingers settling into my bones.
More tears flow as I have my last pity party. It’s true what they say—your life does flash before your eyes. But it’s not the good parts. It’s all the fucked-up shit that you’ve done. Now that judgment is seconds away, I don’t have a clue what I’m going to tell the man upstairs, that’s a good sign that my ass is going straight to hell.
I have to say good-bye to Christopher.
Sucking in a breath, I dig deep for some reserved strength. Determined, I drag my body across the floor, crawling with my forearms.
POW!
To my right, the bedroom window explodes, and shards of glass stab parts of my body.
Python and Fat Ace wrestle for control of the gun.
“Fuck you, muthafucka,” one of them growls.
Still, I’m not concerned about their dumb asses. I need to see my baby one more time. However, I only get about half a foot before sweat breaks out across my brow and then rolls down the side of my face. How in the hell can I be cold and sweating at the same time?
POW! POW! POW!
More glass shatters. I turn my head in time to see Fat Ace’s large, muscled ass dive out the window. Python runs up to the muthafucka and proceeds to empty his magazine out the broken window.
“CRABBY MUTHAFUCKA!” Python reaches into his back pocket and produces another clip. He peers out into the darkness for a minute. “I’ma get his punk ass,” he says, and then turns and races out of the bedroom in hot pursuit, nearly kicking me in the head as he passes.
Relieved that he’s gone, I drag myself another inch before my arms wobble and threaten to collapse. I need to catch my breath.
POW! POW! POW!
The shooting continues outside. In the distance, I hear police sirens. Then again, it could be wishful thinking. It’s not like the department would respond this fuckin’ fast.
Christopher. I gotta get to my baby.
Convinced that I’ve caught my second wind, I attempt to drag myself again. I try and try, but I can’t move another inch. A sob lodges in my throat as I hear the sound of footsteps. Christopher! He must’ve gotten the courage to come see if I’m all right. “Baby, is that you?” Damn. That one question leaves me breathless. I’m panting so hard I sound like I just ran a marathon.
The slow, steady footsteps draw closer.
“Baby?” I stretch out a blood-covered hand. When I see it, I’m suddenly worried about what Christopher will think seeing me like this. Shakily, I look around. I’m practically swimming in my own piss and blood. It could scare the shit out of him, scar him for life.
He’s almost at the door.
Tell him not to come in here!
“Baby, um—”
“Your fuckin’ baby is gone.”
Python’s rumbling baritone fills my bedroom and freezes what blood I have left in my veins. My head creeps back around, and I’m stuck looking at the bottom of a pair of black jeans and shit kickers. More tears rush to my eyes. This nigga is probably going to stomp my ass into the hardwood floors.
“You’re one slick, muthafuckin’ bitch, you know that?”
“Python—”
“How long you been fuckin’ that crab, huh?”
My brain scrambles, but I can’t think of a goddamn thing to say.
Python squats down. I avoid making eye contact because I’m more concerned about the Glock dangling in his hand. My heart should be hammering, but instead I don’t think the muthafucka is working.
The gun moves toward me until the barrel is shoved underneath my chin, forcing my head up. Now it doesn’t seem possible that I’ve spent so many years loving this nigga. How does a woman fall in love with death?
Python is not easy on the eyes, and his snake-forked tongue doesn’t help. Big and bulky, his body is covered with tats of pythons, teardrops, names of fallen street soldiers, but more important is the big six-pointed star that represents the Black Gangster Disciples. He’s not just a member. In this shitty town, he’s the head nigga in charge—and my dumb ass crossed him.
“Look at me,” he commands.
My gaze crashes into his inky black eyes, where I stare into a bottomless pit.
“You know you fucked up, right?”
I whimper and try to plea with my eyes. It’s all I can do.
Muscles twitch along Python’s jawline as he shakes his head. Then I see some shit that I ain’t never seen before from this nigga: tears. They gloss his eyes, but they don’t roll down his face. He ain’t that kind of nigga.
“You fuckin’ betrayed me. Out of all the niggas you could’ve fucked you pick that greasy muthafucka?”
“P-P-P—”
“Shut the fuck up! I don’t wanna hear your ass beggin’ for shit. Your life is a wrap. Believe that!” He stares into my eyes and shakes his head. “What? You thought your pussy was so damn good that I was going to let this shit slide? I got streetwalkers who can pop pussy better than you. You ain’t got a pot of gold buried up in that ass. I kept your triflin’ ass around because I thought ...” He shakes his head again and the tears dry up or had I imagined those muthafuckas?
Sirens. I’m sure this time. The police are coming.
He chuckles. “What? You think the brothahs and sistahs in blue are about to save your monkey ass? Sheeiiit. That ain’t how this is going down.”
So many tears are rolling out my eyes I can barely see him now. I want to beg again, but I know it’s useless. Time to buck up. Face this shit head-on.
“I can’t believe that I ever thought you were my rib. You ain’t good enough to wipe the shit out the crack of my ass,” he sneers, releasing my chin and standing up.
The next thing I hear is the unzipping of his black jeans.
“You wanna live, bitch? Hmm?”
I nod but he still grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me up. Next thing I know, his fat cock is slapping me in the face.
“Suck that shit. Show me how much you wanna fuckin’ live, bitch. You fuck this shit up, and I’ll blast your goddamn brains all over this fuckin’ floor. You got that?”
I try to nod again, but the shit is impossible. Python’s dick is so hard when he shoves that muthafucka into my mouth that he takes out another fuckin’ tooth. I can’t even say that I’m sucking his shit as much as I’m bleeding and choking on it.
“Ssssssss.” He grinds his hips and then keeps hammering away. “C’mon, pig. Get this nut.”
I don’t know how in the hell I remain conscious, but I do, hoping this nigga will come sooner rather than later. But when Python’s dick springs out of my mouth, I’m not blasted with a warm load of salty cum but with a hot stream of nasty-ass piss. I close my mouth and try to turn my head away, but this nigga holds me still and tries to drown my ass.
“Open up, bitch. OPEN THE FUCK UP!”
Crying, I open my mouth.
“Yeah. That’s right. Drink this shit up. This is the kind of nut you deserve!”
By the time he lets my head go, I’m drenched from head to goddamn toe but still sobbing and trying to cling to life.
Python stuffs his still-rock-hard dick back into his pants and zips up. “Fuckin’ pathetic. That had to be the worst head I ever had.”
My eyes drop to the space in between his legs. There I see my seven-year-old baby, Christopher. He stands in his pajamas, clutching his beloved teddy bear. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
Christopher’s eyes round with absolute horror.
He’s going to watch me die.
“You’re a fuckin’ waste of space, bitch. Go suck the devil’s dick,” Python hisses, and then plants his gun at the back of my head and pulls the trigger.
From Still A Mistress
1
Chloe
“I want that bitch dead!” was the first thing he said about his mistress after cumming on top of my stomach. The murder that rested in his eyes revealed how serious he actually was as he collapsed on the bed. His sour, stale breath seemed to have climbed on my face as his breathing got heavier. He continued to lie next to me, while I looked over his shoulders and saw the culprit, a large bottle of expensive whiskey. Macallan 17 to be exact.
The bottle, which was only sips away from being empty, sat on the table. It told me that he was pissy drunk, but he held his liquor well. Most crooked politicians did.
Asheville, North Carolina’s most hated mayor had made a request of me that wasn’t in my job description. But as he kept talking, I found myself up for the task, and besides, the longer he talked, the more expensive the perks got. I’d been offered any luxury vehicle of my choice, a house that was big enough for a small army, and an all-day shopping spree at Bergdorf Goodman.
My nipples became even stiffer every time he mentioned an elaborate perk. I was that much closer to closing the deal, and the thought of being a murderess for hire was intriguing to me. I figured that it wouldn’t hurt to add another skill to my résumé, other than fucking everybody. Besides, I could use the practice. This contract was definitely what I needed to prepare me for my next big plan.
“Chloe,” he said, looking at me with glassy eyes. “I really like you, and once she’s out of the way, I want you to step up.”
I let out a slight laugh. “Step up? Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” I asked. “I don’t step up. I move bitches aside!”
“No, baby, I didn’t mean it like that,” he blurted out in an attempt not to piss me off. “It’s just that you do things for me that nobody has ever done, and I want to make sure that you stay by my side.”
Bullshit.
Everything that he’d just said was 100 percent bullshit. I wanted to ask him what made tonight different. What sparked the sudden change of heart? Why did he want to finally make me his main bitch? We’d been fucking for a little over six months now, and he’d never said this to me before, even though I knew he was pussy whipped.
My shit was powerful.
I was sure it was the liquor talking, and I wasn’t upset at his suggestion for my new role, because the only position I’d ever played was the one of a mistress. Hell, I enjoyed being a mistress. It was the only thing I knew how to do. The thought of fucking men who belonged to other women was the ultimate turn-on. Especially since there were no strings attached, and I always got the same benefits or even more. I wouldn’t even know how to be a housewife.
It was just the fact that he thought he was doing me some type of fucking favor that made me mad. Maybe he felt that pacifying me would make murdering his former mistress easier. Little did he know that he could’ve saved his breath. His weak promises of love didn’t matter, because money was my motivator.
“By your side, huh?” I looked at him and rolled my eyes at the thought of what his plan was once he was through with me. His sorry ass would probably do me the same way. “Baby, I would never leave you,” I mustered up, giving him a brief kiss on his cheek. If this was the game he wanted to play, I was down.
“That’s what I want to hear,” he responded.
“What about your wife? Where does she stand?” I asked even though I didn’t give a fuck.
“My wife stays for now,” he said, with remorse in his tone. I poked out my lower lip, pretending to be upset with his decision. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll never treat you like my mistress. I’ll always treat you like number one.”
That was all I needed to hear. “So, why do you want this woman out of your life?”
I tried my best not to get personal, but my nosiness took over, and I had questions that needed to be answered. The mayor’s breath was on fire, and the scent almost melted my nose off as he continued.
“This bitch has been trying to ruin my life from the beginning, and now with her getting pregnant on purpose, I know things are about to get ugly. I want her ass dead before my wife and the public find out. She’s already promised to blackmail me, and I need her stopped before it’s too late!”
I inserted my index finger into my wet pussy, pulled it out, and rubbed it against his full lips. “How do you know that I won’t ruin your life?”
His smile could be seen a mile away. “Because I trust you, baby. Besides, there simply isn’t enough room for the both of you, and she’s the one I want out of the picture. I couldn’t imagine you gone.”
There you go again with more bullshit, I thought. This dude must think I’m some type of rookie. Game recognizes game, and I was a professional when it came down to this shit. I knew in the end, he wouldn’t give a fuck about me. It would always be about his wife.
“I’m glad you chose me, Daddy,” I replied in an assuring tone.
We snuggled on his beautiful white goose-down duvet at his cottage on the Biltmore estate. This was a piece of luxury that not even his rich-ass socialite wife knew about. The only part of the house that I despised was the two-story library, which held thousands of books. It was an instant memory of my bitch-ass sister, Oshyn. Ever since we were little, books had always been her first love. Long ago I waged a war against anything she loved, and literature of any kind had now become my enemy.
I’d made myself at home in Asheville a year ago, right after I left Raleigh. I needed to get out of town after all the chaos, but I also wanted to stay as close as I could to Oshyn. My plan was to get her back for everything she’d done to me. I’d never been to Asheville before, and the mountains seemed to clear my head. Shit, even Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh came here to hide, so I knew there had to be something special about the place. There wasn’t any drama here, any worries, or any problems ... or so I thought.