by Tysha
Shy helped make her son’s stay comfortable by making every visiting day, writing letters, and sending encouraging greeting cards. Parents and grandparents were the only people allowed to visit inmates so Shy allowed Prince to call home daily. The support Prince received made him a target on the inside. On more than one occasion, Prince had his personal items stolen. He’d even been jumped by fellow inmates during lunch. There was no other reason for others to hate on him. Prince could only reason that his fellow inmates were jealous of him. He spent most of his time alone. Prince knew the rules of the street carried over into the inside so he trusted no one. At times, he didn’t even trust Raequan.
Prince was bothered by his best friend’s inconsistent attitudes toward him. He understood Raequan being upset that the judge gave him a longer sentence but it wasn’t Prince’s fault. Raequan had a record, Prince had none. In spite of it all, Prince remained loyal to his partner in crime.
After lunch, Prince joined in on a pick-up game of basketball. He and Raequan were on opposite teams. Nothing was at stake but the boys played hard to be slated the winner.
“What’s up with all the hacking?” Prince shouted.
“Man, shut the hell up and play the game,” Raequan barked back.
Prince dribbled the ball down the court, stopping at the top of the key. He searched for an open man as Raequan tried to steal the ball. Unable to find a teammate, Prince squared up and took the jump shot over Raequan’s head. Prince hit the three-pointer with nothing but net.
“Hell no, dude stepped over the line, that ain’t no three,” Raequan said angrily.
“Whatever, man, don’t hate the player, hate my game,” Prince mocked. “Just play the game, nigga.”
“Fuck you, trick,” Raequan snarled.
Raequan was intent on winning the game. He was fed up with Prince and his superior attitude. He now had his hand on the ball. He saw a clear path for a layup and charged ahead. Raequan pushed forward with his left shoulder down when Prince stole the ball and took off in the opposite direction. The team’s power forward chased after Prince. Prince made it to the hoop and went up for a dunk. His shot was hacked from behind and he was hit with a hard foul. Prince went down with a loud thud. He grabbed his right arm, curled up into a fetal position, and rocked from side to side in obvious pain.
“Bro, get’cha punk ass up.” Raequan laughed deviously.
“Fuck you, man, you broke my arm,” Prince said through clenched teeth.
“Get help! Call the CO over here,” Rex, a cool, tall white boy, instructed.
“You wrong, Rae, this ain’t shit but a game. Your slimy ass meant to do that shit,” Tyrell voiced. He was a young thug with prison in his future.
“That’s dat bullshit right there. Raequan, nigga, you ain’t shit,” Sam snarled. Sam was a natural-born criminal with hatred in his heart for people like Raequan. He knew his type. Raequan would sell his own momma up the river at the drop of a dime if he’d benefit from it.
“What are you trippin’ about? You don’t even like dude,” Raequan countered.
“That doesn’t have shit to do with it. Anyway, we like him more than your bitch ass,” Tyrell declared. He too had distain for Raequan. The two had crossed paths on the streets and Tyrell knew what Raequan was capable of. Prince was supposed to be Raequan’s boy and he had just broken his arm over a meaningless basketball game.
Prince made it to his feet with help from Rex and Sam. He was still gripping his arm and in excruciating pain. Prince and those around him heard the bone crack when he hit the floor. At the time, Prince was in too much pain to recall how the incident happened. He put it on pause until he could see the replay clearly, in slow motion.
After having his arm X-rayed, set, and placed in a cast, Prince was back inside his cell asleep. The doctors had given him a shot of morphine for the pain when he first arrived in the emergency room. When he returned to the facility, the detention center nurse gave Prince two Percocet pain pills. The medicine put him out like a light. It would be his first full night’s sleep since being locked up.
“Hey, Jackson, my boss wants to see you,” Baldwin announced. He was Raequan’s least favorite corrections officer.
Raequan immediately followed Baldwin down the long corridor. It wasn’t the first or second time a staff member woke him in the middle of the night. Raequan may have been a menace to society but there was a method to his madness. He had made a deal with the devil and was playing an award-winning performance.
“Come back in an hour, Baldwin. Jackson, have a seat,” the night shift staff supervisor directed. His job mostly confined him to a desk. The $9.85-an-hour position did not compare to his last job. Mr. Roberts was once Roberts, the crooked undercover police officer who killed Melvin McGee in front of his ten-year-old son. Since the highly publicized scandal that rocked the city, no one would hire him. He had to take whatever he could get.
Holding the dead-end job was both humiliating and emasculating for the man but he had to live. The menial position was all he could find. Loss of his position of authority within the department dried up his side cash flow as well. Even his drug connections quit dealing with him. In the past, Roberts was a high-level drug dealer, earning hundreds of thousands of dollars; unfortunately he was a horrible money manager. What came in immediately went right back out. Roberts had very little saved when his career fell apart. His wife had divorced him years before his life had fallen completely apart. After public opinion pinned him as a common criminal, his kids became ashamed of him and cut all contact with their father. They moved across the country to escape the shame of sharing his name. The house was foreclosed on, cars were repossessed, and family and friends turned their backs on him.
In the years since being thrown off the force, Roberts lived off various women, and pulled robberies and every single-minded hustle in between. Roberts was able to wiggle his way into his current position seven months ago. His life was slowly returning to a sense of normalcy but memories of that fateful day haunted him. He blamed all of his misfortunes on Melvin. Roberts often fantasized about exacting revenge on the dead man. Payback was only a dream until the seed of his nemesis was sentenced to juvenile hall. If he couldn’t make Melvin pay for every bad mistake, poor decision, and immortal sin, he’d have to settle for the next best thing. Torturing and breaking the soul of Melvin’s son had become Roberts’s new life’s mission. Making Prince’s life a living hell was his obsession.
“You went over and above today, Raequan. You’re even more ruthless than your father was in his glory days.” Roberts laughed.
“Don’t talk ’bout my pops. Just pay up, bro,” Raequan griped.
“Here you are.” Roberts handed over Raequan’s reward. “You’ve earned this Bellaria pizza, my man.”
“True dat,” Raequan joked.
“Why’d you do your boy like that?”
“Shit, we all gotta get it in,” Raequan replied, taking a bite of pizza. He had no conscience and no qualms about double-crossing his god brother/best friend. When Roberts stepped to him, Raequan instantly knew who he was. Prince kept newspaper clippings of Roberts. Prince, much like Roberts, had a mission one of retribution. Raequan kept that piece of information to himself. It might serve him well in the future.
“Give the little nigga a couple of days before getting at him again. Spread a rumor that he’s snitching on everybody, including you. That’s how he scored less time than you,” Roberts suggested.
“Shit, I got that. It’s probably true anyway. You know some of these dudes are gonna try to get at him,” Raequan warned.
“Let them. I want him to get a beat down, a serious beat down,” Roberts replied through an evil smirk. “I won’t reveal myself to him until the time is right. If you play the game long enough, we might get more time added to his tab.”
Raequan nodded his head as he bit into the pepperoni and mushroom pizza. This fool’s tripping. How long does he think he can hide out in this office before Prince spo
ts him? Prince will beat his ass on sight, Raequan thought, shaking his head. That boy will do a life sentence just to watch this fool die. I should tell on him myself.
Monica sat on her bed with the phone cradled between her ear and shoulder while she flipped through the cable channels. It was her favorite time of day, she was home alone and talking on the phone with Prince.
As his deep voice sang in her ear, Monica looked at the wall calendar. In three short weeks, Prince would be home and Monica’s world would make sense again. Everything would be back on track.
“So, what’s up, girl? What you into?” Prince asked with a grin.
“Nothing, boo. School was boring, as usual, and my mom’s is still on my case about everything under the sun. Of course my perfect, prissy-ass sister still can’t do any wrong,” Monica whined.
“Baby girl, if you wanna start with the complaints, I can holler at you later,” Prince warned his young girlfriend.
“Naw boo, you right. I’m good. You down to the last turn, boo. I can’t wait to see you. It’s some bullshit that your mom is the only visitor allowed to come see you. I want to see you so bad my body aches. I miss you so much.” Monica sniffed.
“You don’t miss me, girl, you just miss my backstroke,” Prince joked.
He heard the sadness in Monica’s voice. She was feeling like she didn’t belong, like she was being punished just for being born. Prince understood her pain; it was the same anguish he was forced to live with, day in and day out. It was only one of many similarities Prince and Monica shared.
Both of the seventeen-year-olds were the oldest of a set of twins. They were born on the second day of a new year at the same hospital. Their parents had been high school sweethearts. Prince and Monica felt like their existence on the earth was a mistake. Their lives had been filled with heartache and disappointment. Prince and Monica shared a bond that could never be broken. They had an unspoken understanding that no one else could never understand.
“You have no idea how much I miss you. All I do is think about you, boo. I love you,” Monica said with sadness.
“I miss you too, girl. Have you been doing what I asked? I want you to be prepared when I touch down.” Prince smiled at the thoughts he was having.
“I’m watching one right now.”
“Are you seeing anything you want to try?”
“Yes, there’s one called the joystick joy ride. It’s when I would straddle you and put my feet near your head and tilt my back slightly,” Monica explained proudly.
Prince was much more experienced with sex. He’d been kicking it with older women since he was fourteen. Those older girls taught him things that he wanted Monica to learn. He was her first and she wasn’t comfortable with her sexuality. Certain things embarrassed Monica and kept Prince from totally enjoying having sex with her. Prince asked Monica to watch movies, videos, read books, and study up on the Kama Sutra. He also suggested she learn how to masturbate. Prince explained that if she knew how to please herself, she could teach him how to please her. Monica was willing to do anything to keep Prince from cheating on her again. So, she did as he asked. Her letters to him were reflective of her good study habits.
“That sounds good, babe. What else?”
“We can try a tight squeeze where we’re both horizontal with you on top of me. I thought we could take a shower together and attempt the frisky floor show position too,” Monica said excitedly. She thought it would be fun taking a shower with her man.
“You’re starting to get me hard, girl. I’m not sure what that is but it sounds real good.” Prince took a deep breath.
“I’d bend over, touching my palms on the floor, and you’d enter me with one strong penetration. The book says this position puts you in complete control.”
Monica was proud of her findings and sharing them with Prince. She hoped he was proud of her too.
“Yeah, keep doing those stretches and learning yoga. We’re going to put it in the day I get out of dis bitch. I’m gonna be all up in that. I’ll be able to tell if you’ve been giving my shit away,” Prince warned excitedly.
“You know this pussy cat is all yours.” Monica blushed.
“A’ight, I have to go. I love you, baby girl,” Prince declared.
“I love you more.”
After hanging up with Monica, Prince put in a call to his cougar. She was stacked like a brick house and straight hood. Vanilla Cream was her stage name and Prince considered her his chick on the side. She had no expectations of him and they had great sex. Prince described her skills at performing oral sex as phenomenal. Vanilla Cream was a grown-ass woman who hustled hard for hers. Prince had nothing but respect for her drive.
Prince spoke with Vanilla Cream for five minutes before heading back to his cell.
“Aye, aye, nigga, aye,” Tyrell called out.
Prince turned to find Tyrell trying to catch up with him. They greeted each other with a handshake and one-arm hug.
“What it do, my man?”
“Some straight up shit,” Tyrell announced.
“What up?”
“I know he’s your boy and all but don’t turn your back on him. Dude dirty and your broke arm is proof,” Tyrell explained.
“For sho,” Prince replied, appreciating the heads-up.
Prince had suspected that Raequan was tripping on him for some reason. It was hard to accept the idea that his lifelong friend would suddenly have a vendetta with him. As far as Prince knew, things were cool between them. Prince thought that Raequan was upset about the time he had to put in but quickly pushed the idea aside. Raequan should have known he could trust Prince. Tyrell wasn’t the first person to tell Prince about Raequan. Prince never put anything past anybody so he’d keep a watchful eye on his best friend. Things done in the dark always surfaced in the light. If Raequan was dirty, Prince would be able to find out. Raequan was sloppy. His arrogance always gave him away.
Chapter 17
That’s How I Do
Shy and Cherise were primped and primed for a girls’ night out. After dinner at Ruby Tuesday, the best friends stopped in for a drink at Frieda’s Bar. Shy wore her hair flat-ironed and parted down the middle. Her off-the-shoulder lavender blouse showed off the tattoo of her children’s names and offered a hint of sexiness to complement her look. The torn-at-the-thigh jeans hugged her curves perfectly but it was the royal purple peep-toe, four-inch stilettos that screamed diva.
The olive green sleek material of Cherise’s above-the-knee dress turned heads when she walked. Her hair was pulled back into a perfect ponytail, showing off the contours of her neck. Cherise stepped high in black slingback heels and she carried a matching satchel.
It was a little before eleven when they walked through the door looking like hood stars. Only a handful of patrons surrounded the square-shaped bar situated in the middle of the establishment. The DJ played mellow sounds from the seventies. Shy and Cherise found two empty barstools and made themselves comfortable. They were able to see both the front and back entrances from their seats.
“Hi, babies, what are you drinking?” the barmaid asked after looking the women up and down.
“Gin and cranberry juice,” Cherise replied.
“Long Island Iced Tea, all top-shelf dark liquor please,” Shy said, adding her drink choice. She planned on having fun after being a couch potato queen for so long. Cherise had suggested they go to a bar known to serve their patrons stiff drinks of generous proportions, but Shy opted for a place where she could drink all night and keep hold of her whereabouts.
The best friends laughed, joked, and chatted. They were both enjoying their rare evening out, mostly in part to the funk and old school slow jams blasting through the speakers. The unmistakable sound of Roger Troutman’s classic “More Bounce to the Ounce” filled the bar. The song never failed to fill the dance floor; that night was no different. Anyone who was lucky enough to secure a barstool remained seated. They swayed back and forth to the beat for fear of losing their seat
s. The large crowd in the bar forced some to lean against the wall. Sore feet did not keep them from moving their bodies to the music.
Shy was deep into the funk and failed to hear the husky voice speaking to her.
“Excuse me, Shayla,” the stranger extended his hand and smiled.
“Oh hey, how are you?” Shy spoke.
“This might sound like a weak line but I’m doing fine but not as fine as you are.” He took in Shy’s undeniable beauty and the scent of her hair.
Shy laughed at the stranger’s awkwardness. He reminded her of Derwin from the hit show The Game. From what she could tell, he passed her height requirement by an inch. It was close but he made it. He was well groomed and sexy.
“Do we know each other?”
“We’ve never formally met but I remember you from high school. My name is Dwayne.”
“So, you went to South?”
“No, Chaney. We had English class together our freshman year,” Dwayne explained.
“I was only at Chaney the one year before transferring to South. I’m sorry but I don’t remember you. What did you say your name was again?” Shy quizzed.
“Dwayne Willis.”
Cherise watched the meeting from the sideline. Dwayne looked all right but he wasn’t her type. She gave Shy and Dwayne another glance before smacking her lips and standing to leave.
“Shy, I’m going to the restroom. Your friend can save my seat for me,” Cherise flirted.
Cherise walked away, shaking her hips, hoping Shy’s man of interest was watching. She was certain the sway of her hips would garner some male attention. Her body moved with precision. There was no way she would be outdone. If Shy thinks she’s the only one who can get a man, the bitch is crazy, Cherise thought. The bar was elbow to elbow and everyone was having a good time. Cherise scanned the crowd for something to get next to but came up empty.