Prison Throne

by T. Styles

  Prison Throne

  T. Styles

  Copyright The Cartel Publications 2014

  Published by The Cartel Publications at Smashwords

  PRISON THRONE

  BY T. STYLES

  Copyright © 2014 by The Cartel Publications. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission

  from the author, except by reviewer who may quote passages

  to be printed in a newspaper or magazine.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE:

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,

  Organizations, places, events and incidents are the product of the

  Author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance of

  Actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014938741

  ISBN 10: 0989790142

  ISBN 13: 978-0989790147

  Cover Design: Davida Baldwin www.oddballdsgn.com

  Editor(s): T. Styles, C. Wash, S. Ward

  www.thecartelpublications.com

  First Edition

  Printed in the United States of America

  ____________________________________________________________________________________

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Styles, Toy, 1974-

  Prison throne / by T. Styles. -- First edition.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-0-9897901-4-7 (pbk. : alk. paper)

  1. Man-woman relationships--Fiction. 2. Drug traffic--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3619.T95P85 2014

  813'.6--dc23

  2014015785

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  The End. How To Write A Bestselling Novel in 30 Days

  WWW.THECARTELPUBLICATIONS.COM

  What’s Up Fam,

  I know most of you still have your mouths open from reading, “Silence of The Nine”. I feel you, that novel was on another storytelling level. If you haven’t read it yet, do yourself a huge favor and grab it today. I’m dead ass! (Serious)

  Now, get ready to have your mouths open some more. The book on deck, “Prison Throne”, has to be T. Styles’s GREATEST love story written so far. This joint crashes into the heart and at times leaves you breathless. I felt the love and emotions between Rasim and Snow but I couldn’t deny feeling the pain either. That’s what unconditional love is all about. Trust me, you gonna go through it with this one, but you not gonna put it down until the last page.

  Keeping in line with tradition, we want to give respect to a vet or trailblazer paving the way. With that said we would like to recognize:

  Karen E. Quinones Miller

  Karen E. Quinones Miller is the veteran author of such classic stories like, “Satin Doll”; “Using What You Got”; “Uptown Dreams”; “Satin Nights”; “I’m Telling”; “An Angry Ass Black Woman”; as well as, “Harlem Godfather: The Rap on My Husband, Ellsworth “Bumpy” Johnson”, which she co-authored with the late Mayme H. Johnson. Karen has been penning great novels for well over a decade and The Cartel Publications supports her work completely. Make sure you do the same and check her out.

  Aight, without further adieu, I’ma let you go ahead and dive in! Enjoy yourself and I’ll get at you in the next novel.

  Be Easy!

  Charisse “C. Wash” Washington

  Vice President

  The Cartel Publications

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  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to the City of Philly. You have been tried and true from the beginning of my career.

  I love you.

  Acknowledgements

  I acknowledge all of my fans around the world. I’m a better writer because of you.

  MAY I SUGGEST A PLAYLIST?

  These songs stayed on rotation during the creation of PRISON THRONE.

  I hope you enjoy them.

  B.A.N.S – Sevyn Streeter

  Primetime (Feat. Miguel) – Janelle Monae

  Just To Keep You Satisfied – Marvin Gaye

  4 AM – Melanie Fiona

  Tender Love – Force M.D.’S

  On Bended Knee – Boyz II Men

  Roller Coaster – Toni Braxton & Babyface

  I Don’t Like Me – K. Michelle

  Can’t Raise A Man – K. Michelle

  FYH – TGT

  Love And War – Tamar Braxton

  I Never Wanna Live Without You – Mary J. Blige

  You’re All I Need (Feat. Mary J. Blige) – Method Man

  Ghetto (Feat. Yo Gotti) – August Alsina

  Kissin’ On My Tattoos – August Alsina

  I Luv This Shit (Remix) – August Alsina

  Mine (Feat. Drake) – Beyonce

  DEAR READER,

  MY FAMILY AND I WOULD LIKE TO THANK YOU FOR PURCHASING MY BOOK.

  I AM FOREVER GRATEFUL.

  - T. STYLES

  Now let’s get into some gangster shit!

  I never knew I needed love until I couldn’t live without it.

  To be separated from him brought me despair like I could have never imagined.

  But the funny thing about life is that after awhile, the abused becomes the powerful.

  So I decided to teach the love of my life a lesson in his darkest hour.

  - Snow Nami

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6


  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  AUTHOR NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  MAY 2014

  WASHINGTON, DC

  PRESENT DAY

  Instead of May flowers eighteen SWAT officers with automatic assault weapons dressed the front lawn of the brick house in northeast Washington, DC. All were prepared to hold court in the streets if the terrorist inside so desired. It was totally up to him; well, for the moment anyway.

  Rookie hostage negotiator Alf Herman, who wished to be called by his first and middle name, slogged slowly toward the concrete steps leading up to the property with his hands raised high in the air. “I’m coming in!” he yelled, his heart less confident than his voice. “And I’m unarmed! Please don’t shoot!”

  There was a brief moment of silence, with the exception of the engines of the SWAT vehicles humming in the background.

  “You had better be alone, cop,” the Terrorist chided from inside the home. “I’m not fucking around!”

  Alf Herman swallowed what was left of his valor and said, “I…I am!” His brown skin was reddening due to blood rushing to the surface of his face.

  If bravery were a requirement, Alf would be out of his league. In fact, the closest he had ever come to a crime scene this gigantic was on his living room couch while watching the movie Diehard. Yet there he was, walking up the steps that could possibly lead to his demise.

  Alf believed he was chosen for another reason and only he knew why.

  Before he touched the knob leading into the premises, his stomach rumbled and he released bubbles of gas into the seat of his black slacks. He swallowed again and looked back at the men whose faces he couldn’t recognize because they were veiled with black ski masks and helmets. He prayed they would be as vicious as they appeared if things got animated inside.

  When he was as ready as he was going to be, he focused on the door and opened it slowly. Once inside, he saw what could only be described as a beautiful nightmare.

  Broken glass was scattered along the powder white carpet and sparkled when kissed with the sunlight streaming through the shattered windows. Before him was a cherry wood staircase that could be accessed on either side of the foyer. At the very top were three closed doors and in front of the middle one was a bleeding body, which, from his vantage point, appeared to be a police officer.

  Now Alf was horrified.

  He assumed the Police Officer had been sent to meet his maker until he moaned.

  “The…the man upstairs is still alive but he needs help,” Alf announced as if the Terrorist didn’t know. “Can I take him out and get him some help? Like you promised?” Because he could not see the Terrorist’s face, he felt as if he were talking to the Wizard of Oz instead of a human being.

  “There will be plenty of time for that,” the Terrorist said, his voice so powerful that it vibrated the fragile bones in Alf’s ear. “Right now I want you to take a seat!”

  There in the middle of the floor, as if it had suddenly appeared, sat a wooden chair. The rookie didn’t see it before because he was focused on the carnage and despair.

  “Please help me,” the Police Officer moaned. “I feel weak.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” the Terrorist rebuked him. “You got everything you deserved, homie.”

  Trying to come to the man’s rescue, thereby doing his job in the process, Alf gently said, “Please let me—”

  Irritated with the cop for not following orders, Rasim’s gun sounded off in the house, which caused the SWAT team to respond in kind by cocking their weapons. Everyone was speaking the same language now. War.

  “Are you alright in there, Herman?” the lead SWAT officer yelled from outside of the house.

  Alf was about to respond but the realization that the bullet could’ve been in his body gripped him like a scorned wife to her husband’s balls. So when he opened his mouth to speak, instead of words coming out he vomited. The ham sandwich he consumed two hours earlier slapped against his left boot and stank terribly.

  Aware that the only reason the house didn’t look like a block of Swiss cheese after the Terrorist’s dangerous move was because Alf was inside, he thought it smart to advise the SWAT Officer that he was okay. So he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and yelled, “I’m fine!”

  He could almost feel the officers outside relaxing. A little.

  “Now that the show is over, have a seat, cop,” the Terrorist importuned. “Bullets travel through wood so I won’t ask again.”

  Wishing to get the matter over with quickly, Alf hustled toward the chair. Glass crackled under his boots as he moved forward. Since everything around him was salted with shards, and the chair was not, he assumed the seat was placed especially for him as if he were in VIP. At least it looked that way.

  When he looked closer, he saw two dusty footprints. Who did they belong to?

  He plunked into the chair and focused on the doors. “I’m seated!” He tried to turn off the tremble of his body but it was impossible.

  “Good.” The Terrorist paused. “Now I know this looks bad, cop. But I assure you that everything is not as it seems.”

  “Everything is exactly what it seems,” a woman interrupted. She sounded disgruntled.

  Alf’s heartbeat quickened because he was not made aware that someone outside of the Terrorist and the cop was present.

  “Who are you?” he asked as his eyes rolled over the three doors. He had no idea where anyone was located, which gave them the upper hand.

  “I am Snow Nami.”

  He swallowed and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Snow, are you hurt?” he questioned as if he could do something about it if she were.

  “Beyond understanding,” she replied in a low voice.

  “Don’t play the martyr, Snow,” the Terrorist responded. “This disaster is as much your fault as it is mine!”

  She laughed as if she were taken to another place, like the front row of a comedy show. “You sound like a fool, nigga,” she yelled. “Everything that’s happening is your fault! A man who is not in control of his soul is a savage. And so are you!”

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER 1

  RASIM NAMI

  WASHINGTON, DC

  April 10, 1995

  Hard rain slapped against the public bus’s windows as sixteen-year-old Rasim shared a rear seat with Selena Amo, a seventeen-year-old strumpet. Her damp jean jacket was draped over their legs to hide his finger slithering into her drenched vagina.

  Although the bus was crowded, Selena was totally with the shit. She didn’t care who saw them or what they had to say. She was kicking it with Rasim, one of the cutest boys in high school. Besides, she had been crushing on him for the longest. The only complication was that Rasim didn’t want a girlfriend. And if the truth be told, she was hoping the finger trip she allowed him to take inside her body would nudge him closer to being the relationship kind.

  Occasionally Rasim would eye the bus driver from the large rearview mirror and ninety percent of the time he was looking in their direction. But all Rasim could do was hope he couldn’t see his freak show.

  A few passengers, who had as much going on in the bedroom as an empty bed, couldn’t help but turn every so often to view the juveniles with distaste and pocketed envy.

  The biggest offender was the older black woman sitting in front of him with a rat’s nest on her head that was born a wig. The perfume she sported resembled the odor of a nasty stripper who attempted to conceal the stank of her pussy with cheap eau de toilette.

  Every so often she would turn around, roll her eyes and th
reaten with her body language to get up and tell the driver. Neither teenager gave a fuck so after awhile she minded her own business.

  When Selena’s stop approached she piloted his wrist back and forth, in and out of her vagina until she squirted her cream over his fingertips. She did not want to leave until she got her rocks off. Satisfied, she moaned, bit down on her lower lip and looked over at him with a sly smile. “Ahhh, Rasim. That was nice. Thank you.” She whipped her long, brown hair over her shoulder.

  Having done little work, he didn’t deserve the credit. But he smiled and kissed her pretty pink lips. Despite being a stone cold freak, Selena was a looker if she was nothing else. The kind of girl rappers would kill to have in their videos or on top of their dicks. A tiny mole sat on the tip of her nose and was not offensive in the least. In fact, Rasim found it quite twee.

  In awe, she rubbed her hand over his smooth hair and down his soft cheek. She admired how handsome he was. Of pure Pakistani descent, his complexion was butter brown and his entire body was minus a blemish or flaw. He was scrawny, not a muscle in sight, but he was gorgeous to look at. “One day you and I will be forever connected,” she predicted. “I can feel it in my heart.”

  Selena had the stage so he wouldn’t counter her prediction although he didn’t believe it. He wasn’t trying to be with her for the long haul. Instead he pulled his hand out of her body. The air rushed against his wet digit until it stiffened due to being soaked with her icing. “I don’t doubt it,” he winked.