by Cash
Diamond’s Blackberry rang.
“Hey, girl,” she answered recognizing Vee Vee’s ringtone.
“Hey. What are you doing?”
“Just lying around the house. Monroe’s old ass is gone to play golf with his buddies. Thank God! I swear if I have to stay here and let his ancient ass lick my pussy one more day I’ma be mental.”
“I got the money for that kilo,” said Vee Vee without responding to Diamond’s clowning, which was unlike her. They always shared a few laughs before chopping it up.
“You okay?” Diamond asked.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“You sure? You don’t sound like yourself.”
“I’m tired, that’s all.”
“Well, get some rest. I’ll come by and pick that up tomorrow. And why did you just put me on speaker?”
“Uh . . . ’cause I was doing something.”
The gun pressed against Vee Vee’s head encouraged her to lie.
“Tell her to come through now!” Fazio whispered tersely.
“You can come through now and pick that up, “Vee Vee followed his demand. “I’m over to Raveion’s.”
“Okay, I’ll be there in about forty-five,” said Diamond.
“Sounds good,” replied Vee Vee in a strained voice.
As soon as Diamond hung up she began hurriedly loading her suitcase into her whip. Something in Vee Vee’s tone made her wary of going to collect the money from her. The stress in Vee Vee’s voice reminded Diamond of the way her friend Simone had sounded the night she was killed by her man two years ago. Diamond was confused because Vee Vee and Raveion’s relationship wasn’t all that serious.
Fazio and his goons waited for hours, but Diamond never showed up at Raveion’s house. Finally, tired of waiting, Fazio began torturing Vee Vee and Raveion, trying to get them to tell him who had told them about the fake wall in his pantry, and where the rest of his drugs and money were.
“I swear . . . we only . . . took . . . that one kilo!” Vee Vee cried as one of the goons slashed open her right breast with a sharp pocket knife.
“Kill that bitch!” ordered Fazio.
The goon slashed her throat.
Raveion saw what they’d done to Vee Vee and guessed correctly that he was next. Had he not been duct taped to a chair, he would’ve tried to break free and run, even though he hadn’t done a thing.
“Man, I ain’t never took nothin’ from no one,” he pleaded for his life. “All I do is—“
Boc! Boc! Boc! His pleas got silenced by three slugs to the head from Fazio’s Glock.
“Now I gotta find that other bitch,” Fazio said to himself.
The bitch that he was referring to was already on the highway putting distance between them.
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Chapter Eight
Quantavious was getting tired of Persia nagging him to buy her a new whip. He didn’t see anything wrong with the Toyota Cressida he had purchased for her last year. Other than it needing a tune-up, maybe. More importantly, he didn’t think he should make any large purchases just yet. A brand new whip for Persia might end her nagging, but it also might end Q’s life.
He hadn’t spent any of the money or sold any of the cocaine he’d stolen from Fazio two months ago. Q was determined not to do anything to raise Fazio’s suspicions. It unnerved him a bit that his connect had not mentioned the robbery. He’d heard a whisper or two in the streets right after he’d pulled the stunt, but nothing since, and that made him paranoid. Several times when Q was with Fazio, he half expected a bullet to the head. Fuck that, if it was going down, he wouldn’t just fold up like a coward. Q didn’t try to fool himself that he was a stone-cold killa, but neither did he consider himself soft.
“Q, what you gon’ do? My car cut off on me three damn times on my way home from the mall!” Persia complained as she came into the condo loaded down with shopping bags full of clothes an a half dozen pair of new shoes she had just bought at Lenox Square.
Dropping the keys to the Cressida on the coffee table, she added with finality, “I’m not driving that piece of junk no more. I’ll ride around on a skateboard before I drive that shit again!”
“Dat guy don’t need nothing but a tune-up,” Q distractedly replied without even looking up at Persia and continued playing Grand Theft Auto.
“Hmmmpf!” remarked Persia. Then she stormed to the TV and turned off the video game.
“Look, Persia,” Q sighed. “Why you pressin’ me to buy you a new car?”
“Why you being so damn cheap all of a sudden?” Persia countered with much attitude. “You used to buy me any and everything I asked for. What happened? You spending all your money on that lil’ trick bitch in Thomasville Heights that I heard you be creepin’ with?”
“I wouldn’t fuck none of them skanks in Thomasville if my life depended on it. Gimme some credit, shawdy,” Q lied. “And I’ma cop you a new whip if you’ll just chill for a minute.”
“I can’t believe you’re acting like a crab. Yo’ ass didn’t hesitate to send Khalil two-fuckin-thousand-muthafuckin’ dollars! But when I—”
“Damn, Persia. You still stressin’ over dat? That was two months ago, shawdy. Khalil about to come home now,” he said.
“I know!” her voice was laced with sarcasm. “And you spending a lot of money on his welcome home party. I don’t see how you can throw money away on a fuckin’ party, yet, can’t buy me a new car!”
“Don’t even go there,” warned Q.
“Why not?” Now she was all up in his grill, mushing him in the face. “You treat a nigga better than you treat your woman? What kind of sideways shit is that? You think I’m some bird-ass bitch you ain’t gotta do shit for? Nigga, you better go back and check my file. I’m platinum with a capital P!”
“Girl, you betta back the fuck up before I slap ya eyebrows to the back of ya head!”
“Nigga, please! You put your hands on me, you better not ever go to sleep.”
“Yeah, yeah—I’m scared,” laughed Q. “Now you a black widow, huh?”
“Try me, nigga!”
Q didn’t bite the bait. He wasn’t the type to hit women. When Persia realized he wasn’t going to hit her, she switched tactics.
“For real, Q, you need to get back on your J-O-B. If you can’t afford a platinum bitch, just say so and I’ll pack my shit and leave.”
“So what you saying? A nigga gotta cake you off or you gon’ get ghost on me?”
“What I’m saying is,” Persia mocked, “I ain’t no Reebok bitch. Don’t turn into a crab or I’ma feel like you don’t deserve me.”
“Whateva, shawdy.”
“Whose pussy is this?” he asked arrogantly as he slammed nine inches of thick, hard dick in and out of Persia’s wet walls, tapping that ass doggy-style.
“Ahhh . . . ooohhh . . . shit! Beat this pussy up, nigga. You got it talking to you,” Persia said.
She was throwin’ that ass back at the dick, while at the same time working her vaginal muscles like a blood pressure sleeve.
Persia wanted to make sure he never got confused about where he got that good-good from. That way, he would never hesitate to come off that stack when she held her hand out.
He kept talking about how he would eventually become that nigga in the game, and if she would just believe in him shit would be lovely for both of them in the end. Maybe, maybe not. Either way, it mattered none to Persia. Fuck tomorrow. She was making that pussy pop for the benefit of today.
“Tell me this is my pussy!” demanded B-Man.
Persia’s antics were making him feel like a true stud.
“Ahhh . . . shit!” she moaned. “It’s . . . your . . . pussy!”
B-Man kept right on beating up the pussy as if his intent was to give it a black eye. Persia had climaxed and was now too drained to continue throwing the ass back at him. Plus, B-Man’s big-ass dick began to hurt like a muthafucka. Persia wasn’t into pain.
B-Man was like a black Energizer Bun
ny, he kept going and going and going. Fuck that! This horse dick nigga ain’t finna rip my shit the fuck up! She wondered why ugly niggas seemed to always have good dick. B-Man wasn’t damn ugly, but he wasn’t too far from it. To prevent herself from being literally fucked to death, Persia looked over her shoulder and cooed, “Take it out and let me suck it.”
“Hell the fuck yeah,” B-Man hurriedly complied, already picturing her pretty lips wrapped around his dick.
After B-Man withdrew from inside her, Persia removed the condom and replaced it with a fresh one. Then she stepped to her business. B-Man might’ve had a punishing dick game, but Persia had confidence that her head game could break his ass down. A platinum bitch couldn’t rely solely on her looks and style, she had to be able to break a nigga off with that fi’ head and whatever else in the bedroom. In ten minutes Persia’s hot head game had B-Man seeing little green men and quoting scriptures.
After his nuts were empty and the condom was full, B-Man exclaimed, “Damn, baby girl! I wish there was some way I could sack up dat fi’ head you got and sell it like weight. That shit would have the game on lock.”
Persia smiled. “Did it feel good?”
“Fo’ sho,” he replied. “Q wasn’t lying when he said you’re like that chick Super Head.”
“Oh, Q be putting me out there like that?” she asked.
B-Man nodded his head and smiled.
Persia hit him up for a stack and a half before they dressed and left the motel in their separate cars. Persia’s Cressida took her home just fine.
A while later, Persia relaxed in a hot tub of water and scented body oil. She felt no guilt over letting her man’s brother tap dat. She had initiated the tryst yesterday, calling B-Man after she’d argued with Q and he had left and stayed gone all night. If the nigga wanted to act like a crab, plus creep around on her, she wasn’t about to sit around boo-hooing. Two could play games.
Persia had douched with a vinegar and water product to clean and retighten her wet walls so that if Q came home tonight with a better attitude and she decided to break him off some wet-wet, her walls would grip like always.
Chapter Nine
Q felt bad about the argument with Persia a couple days ago. Moreso, he regretted staying out all night after they’d argued. Some hater had already told her he was creepin’ on her; now, he figured his staying out all night probably made his girl believe that shit.
Though he was unfaithful, Q loved Persia. She was materialistic, but he’d known that from the jump. He felt it was his job to give her everything her heart desired. Q hustled to be able to afford all the things he wanted. Well, Persia was his main “thing”. He had to be able to afford her, too. He just hadn’t liked hearing her spit it in the raw like that.
Q was planning a surprise for his boo boo, something that would make up for the argument. This morning he had gone to pick up the new whip he had secretly ordered for her last month. He had bought Persia a 2004 Ford Escape SUV, had it tricked out with twenty-six inch rims, sound system, TVs and DVD. He knew that what Persia really wanted was the 2004 Porsche Cayenne SUV, which cost $40,000 butt-naked. Q hadn’t wanted to kick out that much then have to spend another 15-20 stacks tricking it out. At first he had thought about buying Persia the new Kia Sportage but realized Persia wouldn’t have been pleased with that. A Kia was cool for Corlette, but Persia had expensive taste. The Ford Escape would be a compromise. Q hoped that his shawdy would be pleased with it.
He also hoped the new SUV wouldn’t rile Fazio’s suspicion. It wasn’t like he had gone out and copped a Rolls Royce Cornische for his girl. He was gettin’ enough dough to be able to justify the Ford Escape. Fazio was still hitting him off with work, plus he’d earned extra stacks from deals he’d put together for Maldanado.
Q figured he was good; Fazio shouldn’t look at him crossways. Still, he was stressed out trying to keep Persia icy and content, keep Fazio from suspecting his betrayal, put together a welcome home party for Khalil, and find that lil’ nigga, Lamar. Not to mention having to take care of Corlette and her mama. All things combined had Q smoking Newport’s back to back.
It was like he wasn’t sitting on 79 bricks and a quarter mil. He couldn’t put the bricks out on the streets, yet, and he couldn’t stunt too hard with the money. Q still hadn’t told B-Man the business, because he feared B-Man might cross him.
A second voice in his head told him: Naw, B-Man won’t do no trife shit like that. Hasn’t he always come ready to bust his gun whenever you needed him? Q had to admit that it was true, B-Man always strapped up when it was time to go see a nigga.
Q called B-Man’s cell phone.
“What up, shawdy? What’s poppin’ fo’ today?”
B-Man was just rolling out of bed.
“Fuck, shawdy, I’m just waking up. What da business is?”
“I just went and picked up this SUV I copped for Persia,” Q related. “I had Corlette with me, to drive my car. So you know lil’ mama talking a lot of shit about me buying Persia a new whip and she still pushin’ the Kia.”
B-Man laughed. “Mo bitches, mo’ problems.”
“You got that right, bruh. Anyway, you know it’s on tomorrow—Khalil comes home.”
“Damn, I had forgot. You got everything hooked up?”
Q assured him that everything would be on point. He again mentioned the SUV he had just copped for Persia. B-Man laughed to himself, knowing he had just cut the bitch yesterday, and today Q was surprising her with a new whip.
Switching subjects Q said, “I gotta make a mover later on. These niggas over by Greenbriar wanna cop two of dem guys. I’ma need you to ride shotgun ‘cause this my first time fuckin’ wit’ em.”
“It’s all good. Just hit me back when you’re ready to do dat.”
“Fo sho, and you know I’ma break bread.”
“You betta, nigga.”
“Oh,” Q remembered. “Once Khalil comes home, and we get his party and shit out the way, me and you gotta find Corlette’s cousin—for real, bruh.”
“Damn, shawdy. You ain’t done went to see about that nigga, yet?”
“I can’t find that nigga.”
“Shawdy, you fuckin’ his cousin. Body dat bitch then catch Lamar at the funeral.”
“I can’t do no shit like that. Man, lil’ mama spose to be carrying my seed.”
“Whateva, nigga-No mercy!” replied B-Man.
B-Man was done with it. He was tired of having to help Q collect money and straighten beefs. Khalil will be home tomorrow. He can step in and bust his gun for Q. Q is funny-style anyway! Always acting like he gotta eat better than me! If Khalil come home acting anything like Q, I’m a build my weight up and stop fuckin’ wit’ both of ‘em.
“Just hit me up when you ready to fuck wit’ them niggas over Greenbriar way,” said B-Man.
“That’s what’s up. Let me go surprise wifey with this new whip,” Q replied.
B-Man shook his head, and laughed out loud. A new whip? I just gutted your bitch.
“What’s so funny?” asked Gwen.
Gwen was a thirty-five year old, half-decent looking chick who had a drug habit that she couldn’t admit having. B-Man fucked with Gwen because her apartment was a place to lay his head, and she knew how to treat a man when she wasn’t snorting cocaine or smoking woo woos—crack-laced joints.
“What’s so funny?” she asked again, wiping at her runny nose.
B-Man again ignored the question. He went into the bathroom to take a shower.
“What time will you be home?” Gwen asked when he was dressed and leaving out.
“Bout nine or ten o’clock. Why?”
“I need some money to buy groceries.”
He peeled out a hundred and fifty dollars off his trap and gave it to Gwen. Then he handed her about a gram of cocaine and a quarter ounce of dro.
“Here. That’s so you don’t spend the grocery money on no drugs.”
“Man, I ain’t gon’ do no shit like that,” she said, m
aking a face at him: Don’t even play me like I’m a junkie.
“You startin’ to get high every day. You gon’ fuck around and become a smoker, “he warned.
“No, I’m not, baby. I can put this shit down anytime I want to.” Clutching the gram of cocaine and the dro like she was afraid B-Man was going to call her bluff.
B-Man left the Brandywine Apartments, where he lived with Gwen, and whipped over to his partna Bed-Stuy’s crib on Jonesboro Road. Bed-Stuy’s real name was Marlon, but he was known in the “A” as “Bed-Stuy” because he was from the Bedford-Stuyvesant area in Brooklyn, New York.
“What’s up, son?” Bed-Stuy greeted B-Man letting him into the one-bedroom apartment.
“Ain’t nothing. What it do wit’ you?” B-Man dapped hands with his jack partna. “What’s the business on dat lick you been tryna set up?”
“Which one? You know me, B—I keep a coupla things on deck.” He passed B-Man the blunt he was smoking and they sat down in two folding chairs that were in front of the flat screen television and began playing NBA Live. B-Man hit the blunt and passed it back.
“Shawdy, I got dat dro. Twist up one of these.” He pulled a half ounce of dro out of his pocket and tossed it in Bed-Stuy’s lap. An eightball of powder fell out of his pocket onto the floor.
“Fuck, son—you tryna hide the dust?” asked Bed-Stuy, pointing to the small package “Gimme that shit, B. I’ma roll a blunt of this dro and lace that guy,” he said, incorporating Dirty South slang into his up-north lingo.
B-Man reached down, retrieved the eightball off the floor, and handed it to Bed-Stuy. They both snorted a small bit before Bed-Stuy sprinkled some on the dro he was gonna roll up in a blunt. This wasn’t the first time B-Man fucked with cocaine, he’d been smoking laced joints for a minute now. Snorting cocaine, however, was a recent indulgence.
While the two partnaz got high, Bed-Stuy filled B-Man in on the two licks he was trying to set up. One was on hold because the girl whose baby daddy they were gonna rob kept wavering on setting him up.