by Wahida Clark
“It’s me,” Summer said, putting the truck in park. She exited the vehicle and stood there so he could see her from his office window.
“I’ll be out in just a second.” They hung up as Summer laughed to herself.
“I thought so . . .” she said in an even voice.
It’s true that Glen looked like a version of Eddie Murphy who had a serious bout with weight gain. He could dress nice, but the flopping love handles on his bad body threw everything off.
“I haven’t heard from you in quite some time,” Glen said, subdued by the lust egging at every ounce of his core.
“Glen, I’m really, really needing a really big favor,” Summer said as she ran her fingers along his neckline and got closer and closer.
“I knew you needed something.” He was almost about to break into a sweat. Summer was damn near breathing down his neck.
“I only need a dozen,” she said as she slid her hand over his crotch area and gripped his dick.
“A dozen!” Even with her hand on his dick massaging it so pleasurably, the request was way beyond his limits. “I’ll give you three.”
“No!” Summer whined like a spoiled child. She pushed him on her truck and stuck her tongue down his throat.
“Okay, I’ll give you five.”
That still wasn’t enough. She had calculated that the account numbers’ figures would make a bit over eighty grand after she cashed them. But that would mean she’d need twelve checks to arrive at that amount. She knew what she’d have to do.
“Get in the backseat of the truck,” she said.
Glen couldn’t believe his ears. She briefly gave him some a year ago, but he had begged and begged for some more, but she never relented, using it as a carrot for a chasing horse.
He got in the back of the truck, and she followed him as she shut the door. Glen felt the pressure of his stiffened penis as she zipped his pants down and slammed his dick in her mouth.
“Oh God yes, Butterfly!” He sounded pathetic. It wasn’t cries of pleasure, but admission of the love he still had for her.
Summer sucked on his dick as she looked at her watch. Fuck! It was nearly 12:00 p.m., and she still had to print the checks, get dressed, and pick up Peyton. She started to hum on his dick until he shot a wad down her throat that she gladly swallowed.
“Oh my god! I’m in love with you!” He kissed Summer’s soft lips. How much longer would this have to take! It was unbelievable, but he was trying to undress her and his dick was still hard!
“Glen, I’m gonna give you some more tonight,” Summer said in her most seductive way.
“I know, baby, but we’re only at eight if you leave now.”
Summer could have cursed under her breath, but she had to hurry and get twelve account numbers and skedaddle the fuck out of there.
“I ain’t going nowhere until you fuck me in the ass and give me twelve.”
“Oh baby, you’re gonna give me some ass?” His lips were almost quivering with excitement.
“That’s what I said I had for you.” Summer didn’t waste a moment. She spit amply on his dick and again in her hand as she pulled her mini-dress up and lubed up her ass. He was already groping away on her tits as she put her back to him and guided his medium size dick into her asshole.
“Oh fuck, Cla—” She almost slipped and said Clayton, but she corrected herself gracefully and said, “Glen. You feel so good.” She hadn’t fucked around in a minute, and it didn’t feel good at all—it hurt like hell. But she slammed her hips back faster and faster until he was grunting and panting.
“Ahh—yes!” he uttered as he exploded. That time around, Summer had drained him completely. “Twelve . . . no—I’m gonna give you twenty.” And that was that.
* * * * * *
Summer was back home in a flash. She looked at her watch. She had eighteen minutes left before she’d have to pick up Peyton. Her computer already had the software she needed to make the checks, so she entered the account numbers she had gotten from Glen, who in turn had gotten the account numbers from the accountant who worked at his firm. Summer pressed twenty copies each for all twenty account numbers.
While that was hatching, she ran to the shower and washed Glen off her and out of her and then dressed in a business skirt suit.
Time was ticking away.
She had to make the transactions during lunch hours, which was the busiest time of day. It would give her a higher chance that the bank wouldn’t call on the checks to see if the people had written the checks out to her. But she knew if she didn’t get a hold of herself, she would later regret it.
Summer took her medicine for her bipolar disorder and popped two Molly pills behind it. It was her favorite forbidden mix. After she made sure she looked decent, she grabbed the payroll checks off the laser printer and was out the door.
* * * * * *
Peyton was outside awaiting Summer’s arrival. Peyton looked the part well enough. Since Summer had taken her meds and got fucked fast and hard in the ass, she didn’t feel so hateful toward her friend.
“No time to waste. We have to cash these checks at their home branch. If they call on the check, leave immediately. We can go to the same banks and cash them together, but we have to hurry up and do this while it’s lunch time.” Summer explained every detail of the process.
Peyton flipped her eyes because she didn’t need the pep talk. She had done this a thousand times, but she never learned how Summer got the paper. She still didn’t know Summer’s source.
Bank of America on M Street was their first stop. Each check was made out for eight G’s, and if everything went according to plan, they’d be finished by the end of the lunch hour.
“You ready?” Summer asked.
“Yeah, I’m ready. I’m going to wait three minutes, and then I’ll come in behind you.”
“Okay. I’ll see you then.”
Summer went straight into the bank. Everything was going smooth. The guard standing at the door smiled at her and that always was a good sign.
As the line dwindled down to her, she noticed that Peyton still hadn’t come in yet. Gosh, the bitch had to be faster on her feet, or they would never be finished by her timetable.
It was her turn . . .
Summer went to the bank teller, who was a female. That was always a bad sign. She should have allowed herself to be skipped until a male bank teller’s counter became available.
Damn, shit wasn’t adding up. And just then Summer remembered: she had forgotten to put super glue on her fingertips to cover up her fingerprints. Shit!
Everything in her mind told her to abandon this mission. But she couldn’t just walk out with the threat of death hanging overhead. And shit! She didn’t even have her ID anymore.
“Can I help you?” the easy-going bank teller asked.
Summer smiled kindly, and all her tension and uneasiness came off naturally.
“Yes. I’d like to cash this check.”
“I’ll just need your ID.”
Of course, Summer thought. She fumbled through her purse and her wallet and lucky enough, her driver’s license wasn’t taken by the masked gunman. She always kept it behind her ID.
But still no Peyton anywhere in sight. What the fuck!
Summer laid her driver’s license on the table to hear words that anybody who cashed checks illegally would hate to hear: “I’m going to have to check something real quick.” If the bank teller called on the check, the owner of the check would say they never made the check out to Summer, and she would be arrested on the spot.
Summer had to control this situation. “I’m really in a rush—my lunch break’s almost up.”
The bank teller studied Summer for a second. “Oh, forget about it. How would you like it?”
“Large bills,” Summer said, and she could have kissed the lady as she cashed the check for eight thousand dollars. It brought back good memories of survival and making it finally out of the mud. “Thank you.”
Whe
n Summer left out the bank, guns were drawn on her, and she fainted.
* * * * * *
“Bobby Moore, wake up,” the detective said.
Summer awoke from her peaceful sleep. But when she saw the same detective who had put the gun to her head, she knew she wasn’t having one of her recurring nightmares.
“Bobby Moore . . .” the detective chanted again and again, and Summer whose alias was Bobby Moore, couldn’t believe the detective knew her real name.
Born a man, Bobby Moore had gone under the knife to add more bust to her bra-size, and had her ribs removed to make her waist seem slender. By taking butt shots, she tailored her figure until she had her desired results. The only thing left was to go all the way and have the sex change, which she put on hold after her break up with Clayton.
“I’ll just die if I go to jail! They’ll kill me in there!” Summer whose nickname was Butterfly, couldn’t contain her worst fears coming to life.
“Oh, you won’t die. You have too much going for you,” said the unkempt, fat detective, who smelled of deli pickles, bacon, and raw onions. Mustard stained his shirt and tie. Dark rings under his eyes didn’t cover up the scattered moles, and his lips were too loose and gummy. Butterfly just hated him!
“You’re going down!” the other detective said, who looked like a ridiculous version of ex-NBA baller, Jason Kidd, with his bushy eyebrows and slit lips.
“I can’t. I’ll die! I’ll kill myself. Please don’t take me to jail!” Butterfly begged, placing her hands in front of her face and noticing the handcuffs around her wrists. “Take these off, take these off! I promise I’ll tell you everything.”
The detectives smiled at one another. Why couldn’t everybody be this easy?
“We have you on bank fraud, identity theft, counterfeiting and manufacturing—”
“Uttering forged documents,” the other detective aided his partner’s statement.
“You’re going to get an enhanced sentence for sophisticated skills and a far lengthier sentence for the dollar amount,” the Jason Kidd look alike said.
Butterfly heard nothing but her own sobs. How could her life continuously go deeper into a ditch? Wasn’t it enough that she was born a man for crying out loud! There was no way she’d make it in a male prison. She’d be raped and passed around like reefer in a group of Rastafarians.
“Where did you get the account numbers from?” the detectives asked, and before the words were off his lips, Butterfly said, “Glen! He gave them to me after I gave him some head and some butt!”
Notwithstanding Butterfly’s distraught conditions, the detectives both broke down and laughed.
“It ain’t funny!” Butterfly couldn’t think of anything worse than being killed in prison by somebody who looked like Big Bubba on Money Talks. “I had stopped doing fraud, but my friend Peyton came to me because she owed Ellis, the loan shark, eighty grand, and I was only helping her out.”
It all became clear to the detectives. They knew Peyton had set Butterfly up. But when they thought about Ellis the loan shark they laughed hysterically, because Ellis wouldn’t loan money for gambling debts. From their investigation of that individual, he funded Black Market enterprises, not gambling debts.
“Get her the fuck out of here,” the unkempt detective told the one that looked like Jason Kidd.
“I’m gonna kill myself,” Butterfly said to the detectives.
“Get her, her medicine or tranquilize her ass.”
She was being escorted to her cell at the DC jail, when she was sat down momentarily before being dressed out to don her prison garb. Moments later, Peyton came out of a room near Butterfly.
Peyton stopped right in front of Butterfly, and Butterfly wouldn’t have noticed her through the lens of tears in her eyes until Peyton said sweetly, “Summer . . .” When Butterfly looked up, Peyton blinded her with a searing slap across her face. “Fuck you, you faggot bitch!”
* * * * * *
The following six months were a blur. Butterfly was heavily sedated during the whole ordeal in the DC jail. All she remembered was the frightening nightmares that tackled her in her sleep, and she’d scream herself into a corner of her cell and hug her knees to her breasts. She couldn’t even remember her lawyer, or how he or the judge looked. The only thing she remembered was the judge finding mitigating circumstances to give her eighteen months in a medium security federal prison. She was being sent to FCI Schuylkill, PA.
During those six months, Butterfly only received one letter in the mail because she wouldn’t tell anybody in her family that she was in jail.
Butterfly opened the letter to read the following:
Summer, Bobby, Butterfly, or whoever you think you are.
I finally was able to get you back for turning my family against me. You broke up our whole family because you never told me you were a “MAN” before I hooked you up with Clayton. Just know – Faggot . . . You TWISTED FREAK– that I got you in there. I set you up, sissy!
I hope you kill yourself in there, and if you don’t have the courage to rid the world of one more fag, then I hope you get killed.
Just know, bitch, blood is thicker than water, and just because your family rightfully hates you for being a punk doesn’t mean you have to [pervert] everybody else’s. And since you’re not even punk enough to own up to being a twisted man, you done got yourself tangled up in one of your twisted frauds. LOL. Get it: You faggot fraud.
If I ever see you again, I’m going to try to stick my 6” YSL’s up your ass. Fuck, you’d probably like it, faggot! TWISTED-FREAK!
Butterfly was leveled. She ripped up the letter and flushed it down the toilet. Her inner shell was so weak, brittle, insecure and unsafe, that the smallest test could throw everything out of whack.
She grabbed the nearest razor, took out the blade, and deeply sliced both her wrists. The pain and the fear of death felt better than the pain from her life and the fear of going to prison. She climbed under her bunk until she fainted again.
Her cellmate found her and hit the panic button. Without that, Butterfly would have bled to death. She was placed on suicide watch until she made a full recovery, and then sent to FCI Schuylkill.
Chapter One
How Would She Survive!
Six months and a day and Butterfly was finally leaving DC jail. She was little more than a semblance of her former self. She had lost ten pounds and couldn’t weigh more than a hundred and thirty pounds. Butterfly had lost her cinnamon color, and now she was high-yellow from not being exposed to the sun all that time in DC jail.
The US Marshals did all the transporting for the Feds. So after fifty or more inmates were cuffed and shackled, they were loaded on the transportation bus that everybody called the grey goose. The wee hours of Monday morning brought a cold breeze that left everybody shivering until they were on the heated bus.
“What you in for?” a Mexican asked Butterfly as he took the seat next to her. He wore dark D&G glasses that had to be corrective wear, or the DC jail wouldn’t have let him have them. His mustache was perfectly trimmed, and his hair was slicked back.
Butterfly studied him for a few seconds, and she decided she wanted to talk. “Bank fraud.”
“What are you? Dominican?” The more the Mexican talked the more Butterfly could tell that he had a sexy, heavy accent that was surprisingly easy to understand.
“No, I’m Black,” Butterfly said. Notwithstanding the fact that she felt she looked like hell. But by the way she was being stared at because she could see nothing but raw hunger, and it told her she still looked good.
“Everybody calls me Sosa.”
Despite Butterfly being filled with the fear of going to jail and having tried to kill herself not even three months ago, as well as her conflicting feelings about Peyton, Clayton, her uncle, and her family, it felt good speaking to Sosa.
“My name is Butterfly.” A hint of a smile spread across her face.
“Mariposa,” he seductively chanted in Spanish
while licking his bottom lip. “Damn, I wish you were Mexican, or at least Spanish.”
“What for?”
“Because I could have asked for you to be my cellmate. I just came from Schuylkill a year ago. I went back to Mexico, and the Feds came back and got me. Now I have a thirty year sentence.” They were silent. Butterfly didn’t know that he was the under boss of the biggest drug lord in Mexico, Chapo Guzman.
“But I own this pinche pais. You see, when I get back to Schuylkill, they’re gonna make me shot-caller again. Ever since I’ve been locked down I’ve always called shots for my people. They got some nice names for shot-callers: they call us Reps or Representatives. Like we’re running for Congress.” They laughed. “But I spend lots of money every month.” If Butterfly didn’t know any better she would have thought he was over-exaggerating in the animated and excited way that he spoke. But she was so charmed by his charisma that she didn’t notice it. “Every month,” he continued, “I put $500 on ten different commissary accounts. I spend the shit like it’s water.”
Butterfly looked around to see if anybody was looking. It was still dark outside, being that it couldn’t be any later than 5:45 a.m. Most everybody on the bus was asleep. “You must be rich.”
“Listen to me.” Sosa’s accent was heavy and forceful. “I’m from Sinaloa. I know a lot of mero-mero. I think you call them Bosses. But listen, I want you to give me your name and register number.”
“Register number?” Butterfly asked as she interrupted him.
“Yeah, it’s the number everybody has in the federal prison system. Excuse my English; I think I’m saying it right.” He organized the sequence of words in his head. “Yes, Federal prison system.” He was pleased with himself, almost forgetting his train-of-thought. “Yes, I want your information.”
“For what?” Butterfly was somewhat defensive, but elated that Sosa was so into her.
“I swear I gonna send you some money!”