Blood, Sweat & Payback (Payback Series)

by Wahida Clark

  • • •

  “Look! For the thousandth time, I don’t know shit! And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you cocksuckas!” Dark spat as he lay in the hospital, recovering from surgery.

  The two detectives turned red in the face.

  “We’ll see who’s the cocksucka when those guys come back and finish the job!” one of them spat.

  They turned and walked out the door just as Mook walked in. “Police, huh?”

  “Who else? Comin’ around askin’ stupid-ass questions,” Dark gruffed. “But shit, I was dead ass. I don’t know who the fuck it was!”

  “Maine, mad niggas from The Consortium gettin’ hit. Whoever it was probably tried to punch yo’ clock,” Mook surmised.

  Dark shook his head.

  “Naw,” he replied, because up until then, it had been him killing The Consortium members for Sherman. Then he realized, maybe it was Sherman. Maybe Sherman wanted to cover his tracks, and now he wanted to get rid of Dark. But Dark was having none of that. It was time to show that cracker he could be touched too.

  “Maybe it was that nigga Briggen,” Mook suggested.

  “That pussy in jail. Besides, his whole team got ate. So I doubt it. I got an idea, though, and when I get out, we’ll see about it,” Dark said.

  “Say no mo’. You know Mac came through. He ready to get it in. Oak Ridge is wide open for you.”

  Dark nodded. “I wanna meet him first.”

  “Cool. Say the word, and I’ll make it happen.”

  While they were talking, the nurse walked in. Their eyes met at the same time. “Lisha?”

  “Hello, Jerome,” she said, not at all happy to see him, but still in all, glad he wasn’t dead.

  She had just started her shift, and when she saw his name and why he was there, all she could do was shake her head. Will the black man ever wake up?

  “I ain’t know you a nurse,” he remarked, watching those hips looking right in her outfit.

  “It’s a lot you don’t know,” she mumbled.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing.”

  Mook felt the vibe. He checked his watch. “Yo, I’m gone. You sure you don’t want me to have a coupla niggas lay ’round?”

  “Naw, I should be gone soon anyway.”

  “Holla if you need me.”

  “Yep.”

  Mook walked out, and Dark turned his attention to Lisha. “So what is it I don’t know?”

  “I thought you ain’t hear me,” she answered.

  Dark eyed her down and licked his lips. “Come here, Lisha.”

  “No, Dark. Now, do you need anything? I have to make my rounds.”

  Dark scowled. “So, it’s like that?”

  Lisha sighed and came closer to the bed. “Look, Dark. I’m trying to get my life together, okay?”

  “Does that mean you are no longer fuckin’ and suckin’ on that bitch?”

  Their voices were getting louder. “Dark, I can’t keep going backwards and it’s obvious that you are stuck in the past.”

  “How you figure that?”

  “Look at you! You ain’t gonna ever learn, but I have, so—” she said, letting her voice trail off into the obvious.

  She tried to step away, but Dark grabbed her arm. “I still want to see my son, Lisha.”

  “Why? So you can teach him how to be like you? Raise you a little gangsta? What can you possibly offer a child, Dark? Tell me!” she asked, peppering him with questions that deep down, felt like slaps in the face.

  “How to be a man!” he raised his voice.

  Lisha laughed and pulled away. “Like I said, I gotta make my rounds.”

  She walked out, leaving Dark to reflect upon the absurdity of his own statement.

  • • •

  She lay on her back staring at the ceiling listening to the tick of the clock on the wall. The room was completely white. The halogen light overhead bright and hypnotic. She felt like she was up from a dream. As if she had spent her life in blissful ignorance, but only to be awakened to the cold reality once the sedatives had worn off. Her willpower to stay conscious had overpowered their ability to lull her to sleep. She was more awake than she had ever been.

  In the beginning she had tried to pray.

  “Dear Lord . . .”

  But her voice felt heavy. Her prayer, wingless, dropped like a stone into a bottomless abyss, the cold echo mocking her with an anguished sense of emptiness.

  The doctor walked in. “So, you’re awake.”

  She didn’t respond. He looked at her lying flat on her back, strapped to the bed across the chest, legs, and ankles. She was in the psychiatric ward of the hospital. He felt for her. He heard the heartbreaking story. Her father had recently been killed in prison. She was at her sister’s wake when her child and uncle were gunned down right before her eyes. The paramedics couldn’t describe the scream, the primal cry she had yelled until her body had no choice but to succumb to the powerful sedative they injected in her. Since she had awakened, she hadn’t said a word.

  The doctor pulled up a seat. “Ms. Carter, I will not release you until you answer some questions and assure me you’re no threat to yourself or others,” he explained.

  “What do you want to know?” she asked, her voice hoarse from disuse.

  He was taken by surprise. He didn’t expect her to cooperate right away.

  “Do you know where you are?”

  “In the hospital.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a short, and obviously painful pause.

  “Why, Ms. Carter?”

  “My son . . .” was all she could get out.

  The doctor didn’t push it. “Ms. Carter, are you going to hurt yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Do you wish to hurt others?”

  “No.”

  Satisfied, the doctor nodded. “Now, Ms. Carter, we’d like to keep you for a couple of days, just for observation. But I’m going to unstrap you. Do you think you can behave yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  By hospital protocol, he was supposed to have at least one nurse with him. But he was 6-feet 3-inches, 220 pounds, and Janay was, at best, 5-feet 6-inches, 120 pounds. He didn’t worry about any potential problems.

  He started with her ankles, then her legs. She didn’t budge. Before he undid the chest buckle, he looked her in the eyes and said, “Now, Ms. Carter, I’m going to trust you, okay?”

  She nodded. Her gaze glazed.

  He undid the chest buckle. In one smooth motion, Janay grabbed the metal bedpan off the table and hit the doctor dead in the face with it, breaking his nose. He winced in pain as blood ran down to his mouth.

  “Fuck!”

  He went down and Janay didn’t let up. She hit him three more times, until he slumped to the ground unconscious. There was no way she was staying in the hospital three more days. Not while her son’s killer was breathing. She didn’t know if they could legally keep her, but she wasn’t taking any chances. So she took matters into her own hands, in the form of a bedpan.

  Janay grabbed her clothes and got dressed. As she finished, the doctor moaned and began to come to. She picked up the bedpan and beat him until he slumped again. She didn’t give a fuck if she had killed him. She didn’t give a fuck about anything anymore, not even herself. She had lost everything, and now those responsible and anyone who stood in her way would lose everything too. She dropped the bloody bedpan on the bed and walked out.

  • • •

  Mac and Mook kicked back, smoking a blunt, while Heather took a shower.

  Mook’s 70-inch HD was on TV One’s, Celebrity Crime Files as they discussed the situation.

  “Muhfuckin’ Dark said a few more inches and the bullet would’ve hit his heart,” Mook told him, handing him the blunt.

  “He a lucky muhfucka. Who you think behind this shit?” Mac questioned.

  “Ain’t no tellin’. The nigga brought a move to so many niggas, maine. It could be
anybody, yo.”

  Mac nodded in agreement. “That’s why I don’t trust the nigga!”

  “And you think I do? But right now, it’s just betta to get along than to get it on. But once we get our weight up, shit, its whateva,” Mook shrugged.

  Mac gave him dap and the blunt. “Say no mo’, my nigga, say no mo’.”

  Heather came out of the bathroom with the towel wrapped around her and headed for the back bedroom. The exotic weed had Mook ready to fuck something.

  “Goddamn, maine, your li’l snow bunny thicka than shit.”

  “Yeah, yo, she a rider. Bitch do whateva I say.”

  “Word?”

  “Word. Why? You wanna hit that?” Mac grinned.

  “Nigga, you already know I go in on them bunnies!”

  Mac laughed. “Ay, Heather! Heather . . . Come ’ere, yo.”

  She came out, still wrapped in the towel. “What’s up, baby?”

  “Ay, do that dance you be doin’ for my nigga Mook,” Mac instructed.

  “Now?” she asked, smirking, because she knew what it was.

  “Yeah.”

  “But I need some music.”

  “I got that.” Mook grabbed the remote and turned on his Pac CD and went to “How Do U Want It.”

  Heather didn’t hesitate. “I love Tupac!” she gushed with that country twang that sounded so good to Mook’s ears.

  She began to gyrate her hips in a grinding motion, spreading her thick thighs for balance.

  “Naw, wit’ out the towel. And slow,” Mac told her, licking his lips.

  She began to do a slow striptease, pulling the towel up to reveal her wide hips, and then slowly opened it. She wasn’t black thick, but she was definitely country thick, with size D cup breasts that were full and firm. She reminded Mook of Lindsey Lohan, and he wanted to fuck the shit out of Lindsey Lohan.

  When she dropped the towel, Heather began to rub and caress her whole body, loving the attention and getting wetter in anticipation of what was to come. She put her nipple in her mouth while she played with her clit, turning her dance into a call for action.

  Mac had seen enough. “Bitch, come ’ere,” he commanded. She didn’t hesitate to obey.

  Mac pulled out his dick. Heather bent over at the waist and took it all in her mouth with one big slurp and an experienced throat. The way she had Mac grunting and groaning, it didn’t take Mook long before he wanted to join the party. He got up, dropping his pants around his ankles and slid his long, hard dick in her creamy, wet pussy. Mook loved white girls, so sliding up in Heather’s pussy curled his toes in his Timbs. She let out a gasp and began throwing that juicy pussy back at Mook, encouraging him to fuck her harder. She even began sucking Mac’s dick with no hands, reaching around to spread her pussy lips, urging Mook deeper. Mac wasn’t as big as Mook, so as soon as she got a taste of Mook’s dick, Mac became a third party.

  “Hmmm, fuck me, oh, fuck, big daddy . . . oh daddy, oh . . . he’s fuckin’ this pussy!” she squealed, going wild on Mac’s dick only because Mook was beating it so good.

  When Mac turned her around and she began sucking Mook off, she made sure to keep steady eye contact. Her gaze told him, I choose you.

  Mook had to have her.

  • • •

  Shan, Courtney, and Michelle were downtown in Manhattan trying on shoes. Since Spring was only a couple of weeks away they had to get ready. They each had a distinct style to match their distinct swag. Courtney went for the aggressive diva styles, while Michelle was more edgy and chic. Shan’s choices were quiet, sensitive, with a splash of sassiness. When it was all said and done, they had twelve thousand dollars’ worth of shoes between them. But when they got to the counter Shan whipped out her Black American Express card and said, “It’s on me, ladies.”

  She didn’t mind being so generous because she had made more in the last couple of days than she had ever seen in her life. All for basically taking calls, collecting money, and doing what Nick called, “Directing traffic.” The game had been good to her, so she didn’t mind giving back to the game.

  Courtney and Michelle looked at each other. If they hadn’t decided to fuck with Shan already, they did right then. She had proven to be a bitch down by law.

  Shan read their expressions. “Oh, believe me, next time is on y’all!”

  They all laughed.

  When they got back to Shan’s crib, Shan checked with the nanny and the kids, and then she sat down for a drink with Courtney and Michelle in the living room.

  “Damn, sis, you must got that nigga wrapped around your finger to be ballin’ like this,” Courtney insinuated.

  Shan smiled, knowing Courtney was fishing. “Let’s just say . . . It’s fair exchange.”

  “I ain’t tryin’ to be all up in yours. I was just sayin’—” Courtney replied, trying to find the words to come at Shan with.

  “What she tryin’ to say, sis, is, do you love this nigga, or is he just a meal ticket?” Michelle questioned.

  “Why do you ask?” Shan was hesitant in responding.

  “Because that nigga creepin’ on you and his bitch might become a problem,” Michelle informed her.

  Shan wasn’t really surprised that Nick had a chick on the side. She didn’t really consider him her man per se . . . her thing was, a problem? How might she become a problem?

  Michelle nodded. “Like she might be on some stalkin’ shit.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Because we were followin’ him, and so was she. But when he got here, she stopped followin’ him and started stalkin’ your shit out,” Courtney explained.

  “You were following Nick?” Shan scowled, completely taken aback. What kind of shit these bitches on?

  “Yeah.” Michelle nodded. “Because we was gonna rob him.”

  Shan looked at Michelle. “Him and me too?”

  “If we were, you think we’d be tellin you? Look, sis, this is our hustle, just like you got yours. You stick niggas up wit’ the pussy, we stick ’em wit’ steel. At the end of the day, we all eat, feel me? But we fuck wit’ you. Bad bitches gotta stick together instead of knockin’ one another. So when we saw somebody tryin’ to bring you a move, we switched gears.” Michelle explained, being totally honest.

  At first Shan was heated, but by the time Michelle finished, she was actually flattered and appreciative. They had abandoned their own interest in order to hold her down. That was real to her, and it gave her an idea.

  “They say everything happens for a reason, and I believe this is that reason,” Shan said. “Y’all have proven to me to be real. It might have been a funny way to find out, but it is what it is. Bottom line, since y’all kept it real, I’ma do the same.”

  “Speak on it, sis,” Courtney remarked.

  “Nick ain’t really what you would call my man. It’s complicated. But he is my supplier. I make moves here and in Detroit, but I don’t have anybody to hold me down and watch my back. But y’all already proved that you got my back, so you might as well get paid for watching it.”

  Michelle and Courtney sat back, sipping their drinks as they thought.

  “Shit,” Courtney said, looking at Michelle, “I ain’t never been to Detroit.”

  “Greener pastures.” Michelle snickered.

  “Exactly!” Courtney agreed.

  Michelle turned to Shan. “Okay, sis, we wit’ it!”

  “But . . .” Shan interrupted, “if y’all gonna be fucking with me, no more stickups. I gets real paper.”

  “As long as we can get the real paper too, then it’s on,” Michelle told her.

  The three of them shook on it.

  “Now, tell me about this stalkin’ bitch,” Shan said in frustration.

  By the time they finished describing her and how she moved, Shan’s instinct knew exactly who it was. But how did she track her? From Nick? Was she at Choppa’s funeral? She didn’t see her. Shan didn’t know how or why, but she knew that their paths had crossed again.

  Ny
la.

  Chapter Twelve

  Janay stood in the moonlight streaming through the window of the abandoned apartment. She was using it to see the .38 Bulldog in her hand. She had bought it off the street. The guy even threw in a box of bullets and a cellphone. But for what she had in mind, she only needed one.

  With a cold, steady hand she slid one bullet into the chamber, gave the cylinder a spin, and jerked the cylinder shut. She looked down at the steel winking at her as it glinted in the moonlight. The moon was full. She took it as a sign. Her life was over. For whatever reason, God had taken everything and everyone from her. She felt like Job of the Bible, and Marquis had been the final straw. Now she had nothing else to lose and joining Choppa, Boomer, Crystal, and her son is all she wanted. So she had decided to send up one last prayer. One last request in the form of chance. She would play Russian roulette with herself. If she won, well, she’d never know it. It would just all be over and God would have had mercy on her, accepted her prayer, and welcomed her into his bosom.

  But if she lived, she took it as a sign of God’s rejection. To her, he’d be saying, “Fuck you, bitch! Suffer. Live with the shit that you are. Your prayer is denied.”

  Janay took the gun and looked at the moon. Then in one motion she put the gun to her head, closed her eyes, and pulled the trigger.

  Click!

  For a split second all of eternity stopped and she didn’t know if she was dead or alive. But when she heard the click as the gun hit on the empty chamber, she knew she had lost. God had rejected her. She had been sentenced to suffer.

  But I won’t suffer alone.

  Janay loaded the gun and stuck the rest of the bullets in her pocket. As she walked, believing she no longer warranted or wanted God’s grace, she felt free. There would no longer be any right or wrong. She would simply do what she must. Whenever it ended, it wouldn’t matter, because in her heart, she was already the walking dead.

  She pulled out her phone and googled an article on Fat Rich’s death, since it was the most recent. She read it twice. It told her nothing. It wasn’t until she read an accompanying article that she knew where she needed to start.

  Man Found Slain in Car

  Police found Lorenzo “Pookie” Tate dead in a late model vehicle believed to have been used in an earlier gangland-style murder. It appears Tate may’ve been the driver for the earlier homicide. It is believed that he was only a patsy, and the real killer is still on the loose.”