From the Streets to the Sheets

by Noire

  Monique waited, and about fifteen minutes passed before Cooter came back out. He walked out the front door of the G-Spot like everything was everything, and put his hands in his pockets and strolled calmly through the snow toward the bright lights up ahead on the avenue.

  Monique just didn’t understand that shit but before she could figure it out, the front door opened again and a girl ran outside.

  “No this bitch ain’t butt-ass naked!” Monique screamed out loud when she saw who it was. “No her stank ass ain’t wrapped up in no motherfuckin’ sheet!”

  She watched with her mouth hanging open as Juicy ran barefoot through the ice and snow with a sheet around her waist, then staggered over to the curb and flagged down a bootleg taxi and disappeared into the night. Monique cut her lights on, then pulled out into traffic and headed in the same direction. She knew exactly where that skank bitch was probably going. Straight to that Puerto Rican bitch Rita. The same bitch who had threatened to get one of Monique’s brothers locked up over her hot-in-the-ass little sister last summer. She followed the cab down the slippery streets and a few minutes later Monique sat boiling outside of Rita’s house. She sucked on her burnt thumb and watched as Rita opened her front door and Juicy jumped outta the cab and ran her ass inside the apartment. That bitch is gonna get hers, Monique promised. She didn’t need to know all the little details in order to know what time it was. G was gone and so was all of Pluto’s front money, his muscle, and his pull. Every ounce of their bad fortune was tied to that bitch Juicy, and that burned Monique up worse than the hot stove.

  If it’s the last fuckin’ thing I do in this world, Monique swore to herself again, I’m gonna get her ass back. And if Rita and her ho-ass fuckin’ little sisters wasn’t careful, they could end up getting some too.

  • • •

  Shit was hot all over Harlem for weeks.

  The po-po was outta control, and hustlers was getting knocked every day. As soon as word hit the streets that G had got took down, Harlem was on fire with chaos and turmoil. Moonie did the fuckin’ bird and nobody knew where he had gone. Some young hustler named Flex called himself taking over G’s project operation and got popped with a quickness.

  Ace and Pluto both got bum-rushed by the police.

  They caught Ace coming outta his grandmother’s crib and when he pulled out his tool and started firing, they shot out every window in the joint, catching Grandma with a bullet through her forehead as she sat in her rocker.

  They got Pluto about four o’clock one morning when they kicked the door down and maced him and Monique right in their bed. About twenty cops rushed in and beat the hell outta Pluto, cracking him down to the floor with their nightsticks and digging their boot heels all up in his soft stomach.

  Then them motherfuckers stood around laughing as they made Monique lean up against a wall ass-naked as they admired her from behind. They took turns patting her down even though she was all skin, like she mighta had a gun stuck up in her pussy or under her firm coconut titties. One of the white cops jammed two fingers up in her pussy and inserted his thumb in her ass, but Monique took that shit with her mouth closed. All of the others got them some too, squeezing and rubbing, digging in her hole. One of the young heads pressed his dick against her ass and moaned and yummied against her neck. He pumped against her softness, breathing hard, then grabbed her breasts and squeezed them gently, fingering her nipples until he shuddered, wetting up his drawers. Before he left, he bent down and bit her softly on the meatiest part of her ass cheek and thanked her for her civic cooperation.

  They could only keep Pluto and Ace down for thirty days, but that was long enough to do even more damage to Monique’s situation. By the time her man was free, Monique had gotten put out on the streets and was sleeping on a love seat in Honey Dew’s apartment.

  Of course, Pluto had some bank stashed away, but when Monique finally got hold of his cash and tried to pay the landlord the back rent and the current rent all at once, he just laughed and threw her money back in her face and told her he already had the necessary paperwork required to put them and all of their shit out in the street, and that’s exactly what the fuckin’ po-po did that next morning.

  “You wouldn’t be trying this shit if my man was here!” Monique screamed as they tossed all of her shit on the sidewalk. She grabbed some plastic bags and started pushing her clothes inside them, and Honey Dew rushed over to help her.

  “Well that motherfucker ain’t here,” the landlord said, “and I hope they keep him locked up forever and throw away the fuckin’ key. That way, I’ll never have to see neither one of y’all trifling asses again!”

  Monique was happy when they released Pluto. They didn’t have enough shit on him to keep him, and as soon as he got out he swung by Honey Dew’s apartment and picked her up and took her to get her hair and nails done, then they hit the stores and shopped for all new shit.

  “Fuck all that stuff,” Pluto said when Monique told him Honey Dew had had to help her put the contents of their apartment in storage. She was glad she’d held on to his money, though. Too much had gone on for her to even think about crossing Pluto, especially since she knew he wasn’t gonna be locked down forever.

  “We’ll get new shit, girl. G is gone, but we gone start this shit all over again.”

  That night they checked into a phat hotel in midtown Manhattan and fucked like rabbits, then ordered room service and filled each other in on the details that had caused their world to go dark.

  “It was Jimmy,” Pluto told her. “That niggah capped G, then did himself. Fucked my head up. That fool little niggah popped himself.”

  Monique lay there crying quietly inside. Not for Jimmy, and not for G’s ass neither! She was crying for her damn self, and for what Juicy and Jimmy, that retarded-ass sister-and-brother team, had cost her.

  “G didn’t deserve that shit,” Pluto went on, and Monique could hear the pain that was still in his voice. “He was my niggah, straight up. A real motherfucker who was out there handlin’ a real fuckin’ world. None of us saw that shit coming. All of us slept that night and it cost us our boss. And that’s fucked up.”

  Monique sat up and rubbed Pluto’s fat stomach. The funk coming off him told her he probably hadn’t washed his ass the whole time he was on Rikers. But so what. She let her hand wander down between his legs and started to jack his gummy dick anyway.

  “Yeah,” Pluto repeated sadly, ignoring her fingers. “That shit was fucked up.”

  No, Monique thought. What was fucked up was the fact that Juicy got away. That bitch had dipped outta New York with that niggah Gino and all of G’s money too. Ace said he had gone by G’s crib to get a key outta the safe, only to discover the key was gone and so was all the bank in G’s crib and in all his other stashes too.

  “What’s fucked up, baby,” Monique went ahead and spoke her thoughts out loud, “is how that bitch Juicy got away. We got left hanging while she got to roll outta here with her life intact and all of G’s money too. That trick shoulda got popped for real. Right along with her brother in the G-Spot.”

  Pluto nodded, and Monique could tell he was thinking real deep because his dick wouldn’t even get hard.

  “Don’t worry. I got this. Me and Ace gonna find that bitch and get her back to New York. And when we do, she ain’t never gonna leave again.”

  “Yeah,” Monique said, excitement surging through her at the thought of getting her some revenge on the bitch she hated the most. “I know just how to make that happen too, Papa. Remember, she’s real tight with that trick named Rita who tried to get my brother Maurice locked up. We can use that bitch and her little sisters as bait. Get next to them, and we can get next to Juicy. I guarantee it.”

  Monique squealed with glee as Pluto nodded in agreement, then she dove under the covers and put his sticky dick in her mouth and started sucking him off like a pro. She was too excited to be bothered by the rancid smell coming off of his body or the shit stains she saw on his side of the sheet
s. Fuck all that. She had a plan coming together in her head right now, a foolproof way that was guaranteed to work.

  And if it was the last thing Monique did, she was gonna get Juicy-Mo Stanfield.

  She was gonna pay that bitch back.

  AIN’T NUTHIN’ SWEET

  Plea$ure

  Last Week . . .

  I watched her ass dance in the air, jiggling from one side to the other as she straddled him doggy-style, hovering her nakedness above Whisky’s. Candlelight glowed on the moist droplets of sweat coating their bodies, making their skin glisten in its light. The scene was beautiful; dark chocolate arms gripping creamy caramel, legs candy-caning swirls of brownness in a sexual intertwine of readiness. With juicy lips, she switched up and traveled south, sporadically kissing and licking down the deep groove between his abs. Whisky threw back his head in anticipation, bucked his groin, and closed his eyes. Every move they made suggested they were going to get their shit on and poppin’ tonight.

  “Here, baby?” I heard her ask, zooming in on his thick pole before nibbling on its head.

  “Ooh, damn! Yeah. Right there. Swallow it,” he replied, gripping the back of her head as it bobbed up and down, lips greedily taking his entire dick into her mouth.

  She sucked, slurped, gurgled as she deep-throated him. Ass seesawing in tune with her head, she bounced to a beat that couldn’t be heard, but it was definitely there. A rhythm that said she and Whisky had jigged together before; their moves were effortless, practiced. Too knowing to be new.

  Her cheeks nodded again, teasing me while I hid in the shadows. I gripped my tool as hard as I could when she slid her titties north, lining up her midsection with his, preparing to swallow Whisky’s dick with her pussy.

  But she wasn’t the only one prepared. I raged, watching her reach between her legs, spread her lips with two dainty fingers, then cap the tip of Whisky’s hardness with her moistness. Before she could slide down his pole gunshots clapped through the silence, shattering the quiet, the custom headboard and their sense of safety as I slipped all the way into the room with my tool aimed.

  “Suck it again, bitch! And you bet’ not turn around!” I yelled to her now stiff and quivering back. “Now!” I cocked the burner, hearing the cling of a bullet move into the chamber.

  She bawled as she backtracked. Her café au lait breasts dragged down Whisky’s chest, then stomach, before she reached her final destination: a flaccid piece of meat that no longer saluted or wanted her mouth.

  Whisky reached for the lamp on the nightstand, yelling, “What the hell?”

  “Not a fuckin’ move, Whisky!” I threatened, waving the burner from him to her. “You want me to splatter yo bitch? Huh?”

  Grabbing her waist, he tried to push her off him.

  “Uh-unh,” I said, walking closer to them. “You enjoyed her doggy-style. Now it’s my turn to get a taste.”

  With her back to me, she begged. Pleaded. Prayed for someone to save her when I stuck the barrel of my gun in her asshole, then rammed it as far up as I could.

  “Ya better suck like you ain’t never sucked before. Matter of fact, tea bag him!”

  Whimpering, the chick pulled Whisky’s soft penis in her hands. Lifting it skyward, she rested her head between his thighs, cocked open her mouth, and dunked his nuts in and out of it.

  “Slurp, bitch. Ya betta moan like you love it.”

  “Come—” Whisky began.

  “Oh, don’t worry. I am. Y’all got yours off, I’m gonna get mine off too,” I said, letting loose three shots in her ass, literally blowing her back out.

  This Week . . .

  A bunch of pretty mu’fuckas walked by vying for attention as I threw back a double shot of Courvoisier and chased it, upping the game two bills. 12 o’clock, the niggah I’d held down while he’d rocked a baker’s dozen in the bing before springing on an appeal, sat opposite me. He nodded and called my play, slapping a couple hundred on top of the stack. Reading the other gamblers, my eyes stopped on Lil’ Lee. I knew there was going to be trouble. He was a diesel, blue-black brutha who snuck up on people like nighttime. Down ten Gs, he gripped the edge of the other side of the table while his lower lip twitched—a sure sign that he was frustrated, ready to explode. There was an excess of pussy buzzing around and too much money on the green felt for him to get down. Weak-ass niggahs like him were always distracted by fat asses and the possibility of riding them. That’s one of the reasons I’d gotten in on the game. No way was I going to walk away with less than I came in with. Especially in my own spot: Sweets Treats, an all-night bakery that served up confections in the front and offered every kind of sweet a person could imagine in the back. Drugs, liquid, down-low hoes, and gambling, with a little money-laundering added in for extra flavor.

  “Hurry up, yo. We ain’t got all day,” Runner, my brother and right hand, who’d outrun the police more times than any of us could count, rushed me.

  I swept his tall ass with an icy glare, saw he was slipping. He had his dough in front of him where everybody could see. “Shut the hell up. Five men gotta roll before you even touch the dice.”

  “Yo! Who the fuck you talkin’ to?”

  I snatched the money out of his hand. “Why not just buy you some ass, that’s why you holdin’ your paper up, right?” I winked. “Hoping one of these sack chasers bow down to it?” I asked, knowing that taking his stack had gotten his undivided attention. Kicking him under the table, I tapped my foot twice. Our signal that he should pay attention to the man in the two o’clock position—the one who stood two places over from 12 o’clock—Lil’ Lee. He was too jumpy, eyeing the money on the table like a child tempted by candy.

  Runner gave me a slight nod of approval. I tossed his stack to Lil’ Lee and aimed my burner at him under the table in one swoop. If he wanted to play underhanded, we could both get grimy. “My fault. Pass that to 12.”

  “Word?” 12 o’clock asked, taking the money from Lil’ Lee and laughing in his grill. He shook his head, pocketed Runner’s dough. “American’s Express, baby,” he said, coding the nickname he’d given his gun because in our part of America the streets demanded you have at least one. “Nevva leave the crib wit’out it. Call it!” He sat back and crossed the lumberjack arms he’d choked out plenty of bruthas with.

  Shaking the clickers, I threw in my last shot, and came up on the come-up.

  Lil’ Lee smacked the table. “Aw, hell nah! Them dice’s loaded.”

  “What the fuck you tryin’ to say, niggah?” I barked. I wasn’t in the mood for his shit. Not tonight. Just hours ago, I’d been less than five seconds away from catching a body after I’d caught my main piece with someone else. If it weren’t for a busy intersection and swarms of witnesses, my burner’s chamber would’ve been smoking and the coroner’s dinner would’ve been interrupted. Again. “If it’s any lead in these dice, you put it in’em. They yours, right, bitch-ass?”

  “You the only bitch at the table, Sweets,” he shot back, looking around. “Last time I checked.”

  The table quieted, and the other players turned to stone. Everybody knew there were two things I didn’t allow anyone to play with. My money. And calling me outta my name. “Bitch,” in particular, just got under my skin.

  12 o’clock leaned forward with a Desert Eagle in his hand, turned it on Lil’ Lee. Runner grinned and opened his jacket, revealed he had enough steel on him to start a mill. The other players cleared. Even Lil’ Lee’s phony cronies, who only rolled when his paper was thick, bounced.

  Lil’ Lee held up his hands. “Come on now, Sweets. You don’t really want this. Do you?”

  I swept my arm across the table, raked the money into my bag. “Damn right, I do.” I strutted over to him, kissed him on the cheek and slapped his ass. “What, baby? You were going to sneak-thief us, or just take the money?”

  Lil’ Lee’s stutter ran from his mouth to the south. He quaked in his boots. “N-nah. Y-you know me betta than that. I ain’t no cr-crab-ass niggah. What
I look like h-holdin’ up a wo-woman, Sweets?”

  “Thought I was a bitch.” I dug my long, French-manicured nails into his firmness, gripped his ass. “Ain’t nuthin’ wrong with sticking a bitch for her paper, right?”

  Lil’ Lee threw me a sideways glance; pleading masked the scowl I knew was hidden underneath. He’d kill me quicker than I could make two cents if he could. Fuck me even faster. And I was hella paid, churning out paper faster than the U.S. Mint.

  “Say ya sorry,” I whispered, moving my grip from his ass to his jaw. “Make nice, niggah.”

  Lil’ Lee hung his head. His rep used to precede him around the way. He’d been a tough sonuvabitch who’d taken no slack, stacked his chips as high as his bitches. Dime-store pimp, player, triple-momma baby maker, he’d made himself a millionaire before his twenty-first birthday. But now he’d have to ice my cake—if he wanted to live past the stroke of midnight.

  With a nod of my head, 12 o’clock laced him up—dragged him into the back office—patted him down, shook him for all his weapons.

  “Sit’im down, 12,” I instructed.

  He sat Lil’ Lee down on one of my hot-pink chaises, then took his position, blocking the office door. He cocked his burner, made sure one was in the chamber.

  Lil’ Lee nervously looked from 12 to me. Confusion furrowed his brow before he bitched up. “Can’t we talk about this, Sweets? Y’know I ain’t mean no disrespect, Ma. All kinda shit is said when niggah’s gamblin’. It was game.”

  “Still is, baby,” flowed out of my mouth as I licked my lips. I was going to have some fun with Lil’ Lee. As dirty as I knew he’d wanted to do me at the craps table, I couldn’t help but notice that he was a pretty mu’fucka. His blue-blackness, beating tunes like an African drum, made my pussy throb. With just one look I knew his ancestors hadn’t been as violated as mine, and that shit turned me on. He was a Mandingo brutha if I’d ever saw one.

  Leaning against my desk, I spread my legs, let my skirt ride up my thighs, expose just enough of my amber flesh to tempt him. Lil’ Lee fidgeted. Gave me a look that said if 12 o’clock wasn’t in the room he’d try to push up. But 12 was there, and no one moved inside of my groove unless I said so. Except one man. Whisky.