Girls From Da Hood 5

by Keisha Ervin

  Instantly, he fought to remove the cord, but to no avail. The assailant’s grip was too strong. The next thing Sean knew, he was being dragged across the room. The air in his lungs was decreasing by the second. Sweat poured from his beat red face while drools of spit slid out of the corner of his mouth. Before he could no longer breathe, the person attacking him whispered in his ear, “Next time you’ll think twice before crossing Roc, muthafucka.”

  With that being said, Sean was let go and dropped to the floor. The attacker left before Sean could even get a glimpse of his face. After that, Sean was more paranoid then ever. He doubled their security team. Neither he nor Q could go anywhere without a guard. Q glanced over her shoulder two tables away at Ahsim and a new guard, Cash, who sat watching her and the door’s every move. Hearing the restaurant’s door open, they both focused their attention at the entranceway.

  There, standing looking around the restaurant for Q, was Annalisa. As usual, she looked beautiful. That afternoon she wore a leopard-print, tiered-ruffle dress by D&G, but there was unavoidable sadness in her eyes. Q raised her hand in the air and signaled for her to come over. Spotting her friend, Annalisa released a warm smile and headed her way. Q happily stood up and greeted Annalisa with a hug and an air kiss to the cheek.

  “How you been, mama?” Q asked as they sat down.

  “Well, I’m sure you’ve heard by now that me and Roc broke up.” Annalisa placed her Bottega Veneta purse down beside her.

  “I did. Are you okay?”

  “I just can’t believe it.” Annalisa shook her head in disbelief. “I mean, a part of me seen it coming but I never really thought it would happen. We’ve been together for a little over three years. I thought I was going to marry this man, but this new chick that he fuckin’ evidently has something that I just don’t have.”

  “First of all, you can’t think like that. You and Roc breaking up just means that your relationship ran its course. It wasn’t meant to be. He’s obviously found the person he wants to be with, so now it’s time for you to do the same. Like my mama always says, ‘Don’t cry over spoiled milk. Go out to the store and get you new one,’” Qjoked.

  Annalisa couldn’t help but laugh too.

  “Girl, you are silly.” She crossed her arms and rested them on the table. “I guess you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right,” Q replied as the waiter came over and took their orders.

  Once their drinks were at the table, the two women chatted some more.

  “So what’s been going on wit’ you?” Annalisa took a sip of her ice tea.

  “Girl, you don’t even wanna know.” Q waved her hand.

  “Talk to me. What’s going on?” Annalisa said, genuinely concerned.

  “This is what’s going on.” Q slid down her shades so Annalisa could see her slightly healed black eye.

  “Oh my God,” Annalisa gasped, shocked. “Who did that to you?”

  “My husband.” Q placed her glasses back on.

  “Why?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re the only person on the planet who hasn’t seen the picture of me and Grip.”

  “Girl, I don’t know what’s going on. I’ve been too busy dealing with my own drama.”

  “Well, about a week ago I was at the Loft, and Grip and some photographer approached me, trying to get a picture of us together.”

  “For real?”

  “Yes, I was pissed the fuck off.” Q rolled her neck. “Like the dude is straight-up crazy and delusional. The shit he’s been doing is borderline stalkerish. But, of course, I’m the one who comes out lookin’ like a slut because of it.”

  “That shit is crazy.” Annalisa sat with her mouth open, stunned. “So let me guess, when Sean saw the pictures, he went berserk?”

  “Yeah.” Q nodded. “Homeboy lost his mind. This crazy muthafucka woke me up out of my sleep, whopin’ ass.”

  “I never saw Sean as the abusive type.”

  Q laughed.

  “Nobody does. He hides it from the public well.”

  “So why don’t you leave him?”

  “I want to, believe me I do, but—”

  “Uh-uh,” Annalisa cut her off. “There is no buts and no excuse for letting a muthafucka pound on you. What you need to do is come up with a plan to leave, and do it. If you need my help I’ll be glad to assist you any way I can.”

  “You’re right,” Q had to admit. “There is no excuse. I have to leave him.”

  Right then and there, at that moment, Q had it set in her mind that Sean would never be able to put his hands on her again. It was just a matter of time before he was out her life for good.

  Part Five

  Black Widow

  Q sat with her legs crossed inside Gotham Studios. The setting was very intimate. Soft lights illuminated the space. In front of her was a recording and mixing board. Keyboards, drum machines, an MPC, Mac computer, and speakers were also in the room. Sean bobbed his head and zoned out to the hypnotic beat that was playing. Q couldn’t stand being around him, but to see him at work was fascinating. Sean was a genius at making hit records. Once the beat played and he connected with it, rhymes instantly came to mind.

  He’d jump into the booth and magic would happen. What fucked people up was that he never wrote anything down. Q still couldn’t understand why he wanted her in the studio with him. She felt totally out of place. She and three groupies who fawned over her husband relentlessly were the only women there. The rest of the people were Sean’s homeboys from the north side.

  Q loathed being around them. They were nothing but a bunch of freeloading hooligans up to no good. The studio Sean was renting out for $10,000 an hour had been completely trashed. Bottles of Heineken, Moët, Ace of Spades, and leftover take-out containers were everywhere. Weed smoke hovered over their heads like clouds. The whole atmosphere was like a bad scene from a Shorty Lo video. Q would much rather be spending her time with Ahsim, making love. Whenever they had a spare moment alone they went at it like wild animals. They’d made love all over the house, but now here she was stuck in hell with Sean and his goons. Q tapped her foot against the wooden floor as she counted down the time. They’d only been there two hours, but she was beyond ready to go.

  “Huh,” she groaned, popping her gum.

  “What the fuck is you huffin’ and puffin’ for?” Sean spun around in his chair, annoyed by her attitude.

  “I’m ready to go. Why couldn’t I have just stayed home?”

  “’Cause I wanted you here with me. We husband and wife, ain’t we?”

  “Unfortunately,” she mumbled under her breath.

  “Well, act like it,” he replied, unaware of her comment.

  “Ay, Sean.” Mo B poked his head into the room. “I think you need to turn the radio on. Grip on The Beat talkin’ mad greasy about you.”

  Sean rolled over to the stereo and turned it on. Everybody in the studio became silent. Q unconsciously held her breath. Nervous butterflies filled the pit of her stomach.

  “So, Grip, what’s up?” Shorty, the radio host, asked. “You going hard against my man. Sean a good dude. Why can’t y’all just squash the beef?”

  “Man, fuck Sean.” Grip spoke into the microphone. “That nigga’s a fag. I mean, can’t y’all see that he’s fake? The nigga’s the rap version of T.D. Jakes.”

  Shorty tried to keep his composure, but couldn’t help but laugh.

  “You wild, man. But why you have to go and say, and I quote, ‘You’s a misdemeanor, don’t let the Nina hit you and split yo’ beam up. Fuck them punks wit’ you, we hit yo’ team up. Y’all niggas is hurtin’, that publicity stunt is not workin’. ’ ”

  “Yeah, I said it, what?” Grip spat, not giving a fuck. “It is what it is. I fucked his wife and I’m fuckin’ him in the game. Understand,” he said, stressing his words, “I’m not gon’ argue wit’ no nigga. Like I said, come see about me. It ain’t no secret where I be. That nigga Sean is a studio thug, flat out! This ain’t shit but Young Buc
k all over again. Except for I ain’t fifty. I will kill that nigga and you can quote me on that.”

  “Wow,” Shorty said, dumbfounded by his words. “So you don’t see no ending to the beef?”

  “Nah,” Grip said. “Not until the nigga say sorry.”

  “You crazy, G, so be honest wit’ me. You messing wit’ Sean’s old lady or not?”

  “Man, please. I skeeted over Superhead and kept it moving.”

  “Okay,” Shorty said. “Let’s go to a commercial break.”

  Sean switched off the radio. He was furious. Q could practically see smoke coming out of his ears.

  “You see how this shit making me look?” he questioned her, furious.

  Q gulped, swallowing the lump in her throat. Not wanting to cause a scene, she remained quiet.

  “Yo, Sean, we gotta do something about this nigga, cuz.”

  “Don’t worry.” He nodded, taking a pull from the blunt. “I’ma handle this shit tonight.”

  Sean was sitting on top of the world. Fuck that, the world was his. He and his crew were posted up in the VIP section of Society. Twenty scantly clad women fulfilled their every desire. Blunts were being passed. The finest champagne was popped, toasts were made. Cigars were lit. Club-goers on the lower level couldn’t take their eyes off of him.

  This was the life. He was as high as a kite and loved every minute. The bottle of Goose in his hand only added to his buzz. For a nigga that was once considered black and ugly as a child he’d come a long way. Sean took a lengthy swig from the bottle and swallowed hard. Grip said to come see about him, so he had.

  There was no way on God’s green earth he was going to get away with saying the things he’d said. Sean was a man full of pride. His reputation meant everything to him. No man was going to be able to disrespect him and live to tell about it. Sean even went as far as to leave his security at home. He couldn’t be seen as a studio thug to his fans. There was only about an hour before the club was supposed to close and Grip still wasn’t there. Maybe he ain’t a super thug after all, Sean thought. His theory was proved wrong when Grip and his homeboys came strolling through the door.

  “Yo, Sean, there go yo’ man,” Mo B said in his ear. “What you gon’ do?”

  Sean pulled out the pearl handle .22 tucked in his waist and checked the clip. It was full. Ready to handle his biz he put the gun back inside his pants and walked down the steps. His pot’nahs were behind him. The crowd parted like the Red Sea. People wanted to see an altercation. Nobody was willing to miss a showdown between two of hip-hop’s favorite rappers. This would be a once-in-a-lifetime event. Sean stepped to Grip, who leaned against the wall.

  “Talk that gangsta shit now, nigga.” He mean mugged him.

  “My man, I’m warning you. Get the fuck out my face.”

  “Nah, nigga fuck all that. Come see about me.” Sean pulled out his gun.

  Grip lowered his head and laughed.

  “This nigga laughing at you, cuz,” Mo B continued to amp Sean up.

  Sean was really pissed. Grip stood up straight and got in his face.

  “This ain’t even you, fam. Don’t let yo’ man soup you up to get killed, so I’m advising you either put the gun up or do something.”

  Sean could see in Grip’s eyes that he wasn’t playing or willing to back down. Pulling guns out on cats wasn’t his thing, but Sean couldn’t come off as a punk. He had to do something. Maybe he should snuff him.

  “That’s what I thought,” Grip shot before he could make up his mind. “Now if you’ll excuse me . . . pardon my back.”

  Grip signaled to his homeboys while ice grillin’ Sean as they began to walk away.

  “You just gon’ let that nigga leave?” Mo B looked at him like he was soft.

  “Man, fuck that nigga.” Sean waved him off. In the end, killing someone wasn’t worth ruining his life or career.

  “Nigga, fuck that.” Mo B took the gun from his hand and let off a shot aimed at Grip.

  The next thing Sean knew, everything was moving in slow motion. People were running and screaming, ducking for cover. The music had stopped playing. He stood frozen in fear as he watched Grip dodge the bullet and pull out his own gun. With the precision of a trained killer, he aimed for Mo B’s head. Thankfully for Mo B, he saw the shot coming and headed for the floor. Not ready to die, he stayed low to the ground and headed for the closest exit, leaving Sean alone.

  He was fucked. Things were never supposed to go this far in the beginning. All he wanted was some publicity for his album. Guns were never supposed to be drawn. Their beef was to be strictly on wax, at least in his mind. Now here he stood, seconds away from death. Sean’s entire life flashed before his eyes. Q was the first person who came to mind. Maybe if he would’ve treated her right he wouldn’t be in this predicament. Grip stared at him with pure hate in his eyes.

  “This for Q, nigga,” he spat before unloading five shots into his chest.

  Each bullet felt like venomous poison. Sean fell back and landed on the floor with a thud. He’d always thought that the last thing he’d hear before dying would be the cry of his loved ones, but all Sean could hear were sirens nearing as he lay in a pool of his own blood.

  “Ooh, just like that,” Q whispered, barely able to breath.

  “You like that, ma?”

  “Yes, baby! Lick it just like that!”

  Doing as he was told, Ahsim placed the tip of his tongue on Q’s clit while she looked on with a look of sheer appreciation on her face. She couldn’t wait for him to taste her. Ahsim gazed back up at her and flicked his tongue across her clit at a feverish pace. Q never knew that the feel of someone’s tongue on her clit could feel so good.

  Ahsim’s tongue felt like a feather fluttering ever so lightly across her pussy. Q had no other choice but to rub his head and moan.

  Deciding that she was ready to cum Ahsim targeted her spot on the right side of her clit. He licked and sucked until Q couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Ooooooh, baby stop I can’t breathe,” she yelled. “Ooooh! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh! This shit feels so good!”

  “You want me to stop?” He asked, daring her to say yes.

  “No baby! Please don’t stop! I don’t want you to ever stop! Ooh . . . yes . . . ahh . . . I’m cumming! I’m cumming! Ahhhhhhhhhh!” Q shrieked, as she rotated her hips in a circular motion.

  Cum slithered from the lips of her pussy onto his tongue. Ahsim savored every drop. Q’s entire body shook as she came all over his face and sheets. Then, before she or Ahsim knew it, someone came bursting through the door.

  “Mrs. Pynn.” Rosa rushed in, unaware of what was going on.

  “What the hell is it, Rosa?” Q quickly covered herself up.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.” She turned her head and shielded her eyes with her hand. Rosa wasn’t that surprised by Q and Ahsim’s affair. She’d noticed stolen glances between the two of them, but had kept her mouth shut.

  “I have terrible news, Mrs. Pynn: Mr. Pynn is dead!”

  Q anxiously fiddled with her Chanel glasses as she sat alone inside a cold, sterile interrogation room. The florescent light above her head flickered on and off. For the first time in her life, she was scared. Funeral arrangements hadn’t even been finalized and she was being brought in for questioning. Q examined her surroundings. The green and grey paint on the walls was peeling.

  The table at which she sat was black with names, numbers, and hood slang etched into it. A huge mirror faced her. Q was pretty sure that on the other side there was someone watching her every move. Unexpectedly, the door swung open and the detective strolled in. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Q smoothed down her hair and sat up straight.

  The detective was immediately captivated by her beauty. The photos on the Web didn’t do her any justice. She was way prettier in person. Her smooth, raven hair was flat-ironed straight with bangs. She was simply but chicly dressed in a wife beater, sleeveless grey cardigan, black skinny jeans, and leather ankle boots. A purple, wh
ite, and black scarf hung from her neck, while her $15,000 Birkin bag rested on the table beside her hand.

  “How are you, Mrs. . . . ah,” the detective stuttered, glancing down at his file.

  “Pynn,” Q replied.

  “Mrs. Pynn, I’m sorry. I knew that. I’m Detective Johnson.” He stuck out his hand for a shake.

  Q begrudgingly took his hand into hers.

  “I apologize for the circumstances, but, unfortunately, we have to be here.”

  “I guess.” She shook her head. “Can you . . . tell me how long this is going to be? I have to find a suit to bury my husband in.”

  “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I actually can’t tell you how long this will take. I’ll try to get you out of here as quickly as I can.”

  Q looked away and sighed.

  “You do understand the gravity of this situation?”

  “Of course I do.” She looked the detective square in the eyes. “My husband is dead.” Her bottom lip quivered as she began to cry.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He handed her a tissue.

  “Thank you.” She wiped her nose.

  “Mrs. Pynn . . . Did your husband own a gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he ever threaten to kill you with it?”

  “Yes, but what does this have to do with anything?” She sniffed.

  “We just want to know if your husband was known to have a violent temper, that’s all. Now, did he ever hit you?”

  “Yes, on occasion.”

  “Did you ever file a police report?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I was afraid no one would believe me.”

  “Hmm.” Detective Johnson paced the room. “Well, that’s all for today. If I have any more questions, I’ll be sure to get in contact with you.”