Shaking her head, Girl Six said, “You want me to be your spy. Is that why you’re kicking me out?”
“Our spy. You’re doing this for us.”
“But why? I know she treated me bad, but what are you asking of me? To get myself killed?”
“I’m asking you to do as I say. I can’t explain all of this in fifteen minutes. Get out. And call me when you get into Atlanta,” I said, softly kissing her on the cheek.
I watched Girl Six until she disappeared behind the sliding glass door and into the ticketing area. Her walk wasn’t as confident as her wardrobe. “For her sake, I sure hope she doesn’t fuck up,” I muttered. Neither Lace nor I would show her mercy if she did. No matter what side of the prostitution game a pimp, a hooker, or a cop was on, one mistake could end up deadly.
Before I could change my mind, I headed to the Strip on my way from the airport. The casino I stopped at was sparsely crowded. Half of the crap tables were empty. The slot machines were quiet. Taking a seat at the bar, I greeted the bartender. “I’ll have a double Hennessy straight up, heated,” I said, keeping my eyes on everyone around me. I glanced over my shoulders frequently.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Grant and wondering if he was the man Lace knew. Part of me hoped it was him. Every time I ate peanut butter and strawberry preserves, I thought about him. We’d been young and foolish. I hoped he didn’t think I was a slut for sucking his friends’ dicks, too. Grant didn’t complain when I did him. I’d do him again in a minute, except this time, if I had the chance, I wouldn’t do any other man. My heart raced with each thought. If that was him, what was his connection to Lace? Hopefully, he wasn’t one of her clients.
Black Jack, an amateur pimp, sat across from me with his whore. Peripherally, I observed him schooling his whore on how to approach certain men. His whispering and nodding gave him away. How any woman would work for him was beyond my comprehension. The fact that Black Jack didn’t recognize me meant he was a wannabe pimp who looked like a college dropout. He was a total misfit.
“Here you go, beautiful. Compliments of Black,” the bartender said, sitting my drink in front of me.
Acknowledging my appreciation, I held up a glass, then took a sip. Black Jack had more than twice the number of prostitutes as Valentino, but Black’s tricks were cheap, raggedy chicks from small towns. From their paid-less shoes to their frail, dollar-store outfits, those women could’ve done better by working for minimum wage. Word was Black would make them suck a dick for a dollar if that was the only dollar they’d bring him.
“Yo, Black,” Long Money yelled, walking up to the bar. Then he tried to whisper, “A busload of Little Bo Peep–looking high school students just hit Tropicana. You in?”
If Black said, “Sho’ nuff,” it might prove his best decision of the night. Looking at me, he said, “I’ll catch up to you.” Then he pushed his trick off the stool. “Take this bitch with you. She can lure a few pretty young things to you. Drug them. Then bring them to my place at midnight.”
Dirty bastards. That was exactly how he had so many young girls. The sapphire in me came out. I despised the way these pimps kidnapped and drugged these young, innocent females, and then put them on the stroll. This was why I’d gone undercover as a police officer, and now it was time for me to avenge these women.
Picking up his drink, Black Jack came and sat next to me. “I see you here and there. What’s up with you, oldie? You got a pimp?”
“Of course,” I lied. Not anymore, anyway. Once upon a time, about twelve years ago, Pretty Ricky was my pimp.
I started out sucking dicks for fun. Then, after I ran away from home and ended up in Vegas with Pretty Ricky, I had to do whatever a paid client wanted me to.
Putting a little bass in his voice, Black Jack said, “You know the rules. Give me yo’ money, bitch.”
The unspoken rule was if a prostitute spoke one word to a pimp who wasn’t her pimp, then she had to give that pimp every dime she had in her possession. Reaching into my top, I handed Black Jack three hundred-dollar bills. He was lucky I didn’t pull out my badge and gun instead and shoot him in the head. In time. Three hundred dollars didn’t mean anything to me, but it was probably the most money he was going to make tonight.
Black Jack squinted and stared at me before asking, “Haven’t I seen you around before?”
“Obviously not,” I snapped. “I wouldn’t be the same fool twice. You wanna take a ride?” I licked my lips.
“You that cop Bleu I heard about?”
“Who’s that? You wanna ride or not?” I asked him, rubbing my nipple.
“For sho’,” he said, pushing back his stool. He tossed back his double, ice and all. “Damn. You sho’ all you got is three Cs hidden underneath those big-ass titties?” Black Jack asked, massaging his dick.
“That’s it, Daddy. Where to? I ain’t got all night to entertain you.”
“Bitch,” he said, slapping my face. “Don’t ever question me again. Shut the fuck up and let’s go.”
Throwing one of the hundred-dollar bills I’d just given him onto the bar, Black Jack led the way, trying to walk upright, with his shoulders back. The tip was a payoff for the bartender not to kick Black Jack out of the casino and not to report his illegal activities.
I followed Black Jack to his car, which was parked out back. I hopped in on the passenger side and kept quiet.
“You gon’ make me some money tonight, but first you gon’ suck my big-ass dick,” Black Jack demanded, pulling into a vacant parking lot off of the Strip.
The rip of his zipper reminded me of the first time Pretty Ricky recruited me as one of his substitute prostitutes, sending me out on the stroll when one of the other girls was too badly beaten.
Leaning my head on his lap, I reached for his little dick with one hand and for my gun with the other. He motioned for me to wrap my lips around his swollen head. I moaned, right before swiftly wedging the barrel on my gun between his nuts. Pow!
I pulled the trigger with no remorse. Blood splattered across my face. Calmly, I propped his body up straight, then stepped out of his car and walked away, refusing to look back. Eventually, someone would realize he was dead. Black Jack wasn’t the first pimp I’d killed. Long Money was next. I was saving Pretty Ricky for last, the pimp that had personally beaten my ass for fun.
CHAPTER 17
Grant
Honey stepped into her bedroom, looking ravishing enough for me to drop to my knees and press my drooling lips against her hot, sweet pussy. She came through that door the same way she had each time I’d laid eyes on her; Honey was mesmerizing. Her short dress exposed her sculpted thighs, shapely calves, and diamond anklets. Honey was one sexy-ass woman. The type of sophistication Honey exemplified, a woman couldn’t buy or be taught. I wanted to grab her, throw her on the floor, and make love to her all night long. When I saw that gun, I did not move, not even after she placed it on the dresser.
Honey rolled her eyes long and hard. “Grant,” she said, staring at me. If she hadn’t spoken my name, the livid expression on her face would’ve kicked my ass and thrown my behind out of her house, headfirst.
I should’ve been the one who was pissed off. Opening my arms, I stood before my angel. “Baby, you don’t look happy to see me. I do understand I should’ve called, but, baby, I needed to see you. I was hoping you’d be home when I arrived, and if I’d left before you got here, chances are I wouldn’t have had the fortitude to return. At least give me a hug.” Stepping closer, uh, uh, uh, I got a whiff of her captivating Prada perfume.
She didn’t move, so I accepted that as an unspoken yes.
Slowly, I embraced her shoulders, leaning her head against my chest as I exhaled. “Honey, I miss you so damn much, baby.”
Silence followed our magnetic reunion and lasted for at least fifteen minutes, allowing our body language to confirm we were overwhelmed holding one another. I loved the way her body quivered.
Gently pulling away, Honey said, “So what d
o want from me? Why did you show up at my house unannounced? You didn’t return any of my calls or respond to my text messages. Didn’t you get any of them?”
Whenever a woman was calm on the outside, she was capable of bursting into a rancid rage without notice. I wanted to do my part by not aggravating Honey. Kissing the crown of her beautiful head, I answered, “Yes. I got every single one. Each and every day. And, I did call you once.”
“You consider that a—”
“See? Look,” I said, scrolling through her text messages on my phone. “I wasn’t ready to confront you but knew I had to at some point. So I was in town on business and tried convincing myself to leave, but I couldn’t board my plane to D.C., because I kept thinking of you. So I left the airport, and here I am.”
“So you think you can show up at my home any time you feel like it. Don’t ever step foot on my property without my consent. How would you feel if I showed up at your front door without calling first? And what do you mean by confront?” Honey walked away. “What the fuck do you have to confront me about, huh?” She turned on all the lights in her bedroom.
The huge white canopy bed was illuminated. It complemented the chaise. The bed we’d made love in the two weeks we were together was tempting me to forget about talking, remove my clothes, undress Honey, and feverishly fuck the shit out of her until we were raw and exhausted and our bodies felt paralyzed. I wanted to say, “Quack, quack, quack,” but somehow I didn’t think she’d find my humor amusing.
Rubbing my eyes, I asked, “Is it necessary to have all the lights on? It’s brighter than a sunny day up in here.” No sooner had I said, “Sunny day,” than I regretted it.
Tears filled Honey’s eyes, swarming between the red veins zigzagging across her corneas. When she blinked, I watched the drops fall to her breasts and disappear into her cleavage. “What the hell did you just say?”
I wanted Honey to clarify whether or not she’d killed Sunny, like Benito alleged, but truly I had more tact than to slip in a question on the under. “I don’t want to bicker over my callous choice of words. I apologize for that. I came here hoping you’d tell me the truth about who you are and why you lied to me.” Patting the chaise, I gestured for Honey to sit next to me. I had to look into her eyes when she explained her side of the alleged criminal acts that had transpired. I prayed what she had to say was different from Benito’s confession.
Honey sat next to me, exhaled, then removed her stilettos. As she thumped her left shoe in the palm of her hand, for a moment I became fearful that she might try to nail me in the forehead with her spiked heel, then bury me beneath the peach trees in her backyard, which I’d admired earlier, before the sun had set.
“Where do I begin?” she asked, placing the shoe beside the chaise.
Her question was obviously rhetorical. Patiently, I remained quiet.
“Grant, I miss you, too. I don’t offer any excuses. My past is unchangeable, and my future is unpredictable. My mother kicked me out of her house the day before my sixteenth birthday. I’ve been on my own ever since. Two failed marriages led me to eleven years of working at a brothel and—”
A brothel? Benito was right? I did not want to believe that Honey was a whore. There was no reasonable explanation for any woman pathetic enough to sell her body. Not Honey. No way. Looking deeper into her eyes, I sought clarification. “In what capacity, exactly, were you employed?”
Staring into my eyes, Honey never blinked as she answered, “Prostituting. I was a prostitute for eleven years and a madam for one year afterward. I worked for Valentino James. At first I thought being a madam was above being a prostitute. I was wrong. It wasn’t. It was different but definitely not better. In some instances being a madam was worse. As a prostitute, I degraded myself. Being a madam…” Honey’s words trailed into thoughts. Silence pierced the air between us.
Honey’s honesty definitely wasn’t what I’d anticipated hearing. “So why did you do it? Why did you feel you had to do any of it?”
“Grant, look. I have trampled through way too much bullshit in my life. I don’t give a damn about what you think of me. Do I make myself clear? I wasn’t put on this earth to prove myself to you or anyone else,” Honey said, with tears in her eyes. “But since your world seems to be so fucking perfect, let me ask you a few questions.” Honey sat on the edge of the chaise. “Have you ever slept in a doghouse just to live another day? Have you ever been homeless, Grant? Huh? What about hungry, not knowing when you’d eat again? Have you ever been so afraid that when you lay your beaten and bruised body down to sleep, you’re too frightened to go to sleep, so you lie awake all night, praying for God to rock you into heaven? If you’ve got all the fucking answers, Mr. Perfect, open your goddamn mouth and say something. If you don’t like what you just heard, you get the hell out of my life. But this time you stay gone.”
Instead of being the teacher who’d helped my dad show young entrepreneurs how to make wise investments, today I was experiencing a paradigm shift. I’d become Honey’s student. “No, baby, no. Oh my God, what happened to you?” I asked, forcing back my tears. Wrapping my arms around Honey, all I could think was, How could anyone hurt someone as beautiful as Honey? Then I asked, “So what’s your real name?”
“My birth name is Lace St. Thomas. My deceased sister’s name was Honey Thomas. When Honey passed away, I accidentally gave my birth certificate, not Honey’s, to the guy at the funeral home. With so much going on, Valentino getting arrested, and Sapphire giving me a cashier’s check for fifty million, I decided to leave Vegas and take all of my escorts with me in hopes of giving these brilliant young ladies a better life than the one I had. Then I got sideswiped when Sapphire called and said she didn’t give me the money and that it was hers, but I can handle her. When I realized I had buried myself on paper, I figured it was best to leave the old me dead and start anew with the name Honey Thomas.”
Honey was right. She, like the women she was now trying to help, including Red Velvet, deserved a fresh start. And I wanted to help them, not hurt them. I reassured her. “Honey, there are no accidents in life, just lessons to be learned,” I said. Then I kissed Honey on the nose, her small, adorable nose.
“Thanks for believing me,” she said, resting her head on my chest.
Believing? I wouldn’t take it that far just yet, I thought. Curious, I asked, “How do you define the word love?” I ran my hand through her hair.
“As something I’ve never had,” she said as she began to cry on my shoulder.
Whoa. That was devastating. Continuing to stroke her head, I said, “See, that’s where you’re wrong. I love you. Despite what my father, my mother, and my brother had to say about you. I’m here because I love you.”
Honey exhaled. “If that’s true,” she replied, “then tell me how you define love.”
The answer for me was easy.
“Love is what my parents have. Love is everlasting. Love is the genuine giving of oneself, with the intended purpose of uplifting, embracing, and improving another, for the advancement of another. Love makes us smile. Love makes us happy. Love makes us cry, and underneath our sadness, love brings us pure joy. That’s why we can love so many people in so many ways. Our needs are uniquely different. A man desires a love that reassures him that his woman needs and respects him. That she’s going to be there for him through his toughest times. A woman craves a love that constantly shows and tells her she’s appreciated. True love is painless. I want what my mother and father have.”
“That sounds so scripted,” she said, staring at me.
I chuckled. “I know, and you’re right. What can I say. I’m starting to sound like my father.”
“No, it’s not painless,” Honey countered, shaking her head. “Love hurts like hell. It makes you feel like you’re dying. While you’ve been away from me, not calling me, I’ve been upset, sick, even angry at you. But I never stopped loving you.”
I held my angel closer to my heart. “You know what’s ironic? The
desperation to be loved can come through the deepest expressions of hate, and if you think about it…we hate because what we honestly need is love. Don’t get me wrong. Oh, I am concerned about the things you’ve done, but I care more about you. No woman has ever made me feel the way you do.”
Cutting her eyes at me, Honey said, “You sure about that?” She looked down at my dick.
I gazed out the window and into the darkness of the night. For the quickest second, I thought about Red Velvet. “Let’s not go there. Whatever happened while we weren’t together is irrelevant.”
Honey whispered, “You haven’t asked me why I killed Reynolds.”
Since she was volunteering, I said, “I’m listening.”
“He raped one of my girls.”
“Well, there you have it. It was self-defense. Or somebody’s defense.” Honey was strong in so many ways, she scared the hell out of me. “Damn, compared to what you’ve gone through, my life is squeaky clean, and you might get bored with me. I’m in no position to judge you. That’s God’s job, baby,” I whispered, pausing for a moment.
“Yes,” she answered, her nails meandering along my spine. Her touch was incredible.
“Baby,” I repeated.
“Yes?” she answered slowly.
“Let me make love to you.”
CHAPTER 18
Red Velvet
What had made Tolliver’s wife so insanely jealous that she actually showed up at my job, with the intention of stabbing me in the back? She could’ve killed me! Surely, she must’ve known I wasn’t the only woman Tolliver had fucked. But after seeing her overweight, out-of-shape, too-many-rocky-road-ice-cream-cones behind wobbling out of the club, in handcuffs, I understood how she’d turned him off. Damn, picturing her naked made me want to throw up.
What made some women think a marriage license gave them permission to neglect themselves? If I got married, I would work out twice a day. Once at the gym, and once a day, every day, I was going to ride his dick. Besides, what was Tolliver’s wife going to do? Assault all the women Tolliver had stuck his dick in? I had no remorse for her serving time in jail. At least she would have time to reflect on what she’d done, and I wouldn’t have to wonder if she’d show up at either of my jobs, acting a fool.
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