Gangsta Divas

by De'nesha Diamond

  Pit Bull lowers the phone. “Fiona, what’s the shortest way out this bitch?”

  Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to her to lead instead of follow. “Uh. Uh.”

  “C’mon, bitch. Don’t make me punch you in your throat.”

  That shit makes her stammer harder.

  Is this the way I’m gonna be taken out of the game, surrounded by stupid bitches?

  Fiona’s brain kicks in. “This way!”

  Three short hallways later, we bust out an exit door by several tall garbage bins.

  “Now what?” I ask. At this point, I won’t be surprised if these bitches break out bus passes.

  “Avonte, where your ass at?” Pit Bull growls into her phone.

  Two bright beams of light slice through the inky night a second before a loud car engine catches my ear. In no time at all, I’m able to make out a black, beat-up Oldsmobile as it screeches around the corner.

  “There her ass go,” Kookie huffs in relief.

  My wheelchair takes off again and we meet the car halfway across the lot.

  “Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!”

  More Queen Gs jump out of the car to help.

  My heart bubbles over at finally seeing my fam working to get my ass up out of here. This is my real family. Ride or die. It’s the game that binds us. I still have a place in this world.

  I. Am. Queen.

  My eyes burn with rare tears as everyone fusses to help get me into the car. I’m weak but I do most of it on my own. Once I’m tucked in, everyone scrambles back in and we float our ass out of there.

  “Where to?” I ask.

  Avonte glances up and meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. “It’s a surprise.”

  26

  Ta′Shara

  Home. The word sounds foreign to my ears and I have a hard time untangling my emotions so I can process how I feel about being released from the hospital. My attempt to kill LeShelle had been treated like a temporary psychotic break and the state attorney elected not to press charges. It was one of the few times in my life that I’d gotten lucky. However, I would have to be blind not to notice the tension my release is causing between Reggie and Tracee. In fact, Reggie doesn’t even look at me.

  Tracee, on the other hand, is ecstatic when they arrive at the hospital to pick me up. Her smile is twice its normal size and every move she makes is overly animated. It’s too bad that she never had any kids of her own. She really would have been a great mom.

  “Heeeey, Ta’Shara,” she sings, wrapping her arms around me and squeezing me tight. “Are you ready to go home?”

  There’s no point in trying to match her enthusiasm so I don’t bother—but I do manage to push up a smile. I want to get out of this place. If you’re not crazy when they bring you in here, you will be when you leave. For me, I’m hoping that my nightmares will end once I leave this place—and certainly when I finally get to see Profit again.

  Ever since I learned that he had survived, I’ve been begging to see him. But Tracee sided with Reggie and refused to add his name to the visitors list. She also spent hours telling me that I needed to forget about Profit. He was no good for me. They also told me about Essence and I couldn’t shake the feeling that LeShelle was behind her death, too.Their impassioned rant went on and on—until I dropped the subject and didn’t bring up his name again.

  From that moment on, I focused on getting out. I resisted taking the medicine they gave by tucking the pills in my cheek, much like how I would a blade. The doctors wanted to talk about the night of my rape, but I lied and said that I didn’t remember anything about that night. No matter how hard they pressed, I stuck to that story. Once they realized that they couldn’t break me, the doctors recommended my release.

  The drive home is a long one with the tension nearly choking all three of us to death. It’s so bad that I doubt that things can ever go back to being the way it used to be. This is just one more thing that LeShelle destroyed.

  “What do you say I run you a nice, warm bubble bath?” Tracee asks, as she helps me out of my coat.

  “Thanks. That’ll be nice,” I tell her.

  “Great.” She kisses my forehead. “I’ll go run it for you right now.” Then she is off, leaving me alone with Reggie.

  After looking around skittishly, he tosses his keys on top of the bombé cabinet in the foyer, shoves his hands in pockets, and rocks on his feet.

  “I guess I should go up to my room,” I suggest and head toward the stairs.

  He nods, and then waits until my foot lands onto the first stair before he speaks. “I’m glad you’re back home.”

  Stunned, I turn back around and meet his direct gaze.

  “I mean it,” he says with his eyes wetting up. “That night. When we opened the front door and saw you lying there . . .” Reggie shakes his head while his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “I’ve never been so terrified in my life. I . . . I blamed myself for that night because I didn’t want you going to that prom with that boy. I knew that after the hospital shooting he was nothing but trouble. I went against my better judgment. Then . . . I blamed my wife for talking me into letting you go. Then . . . I blamed you.” He stops while his last sentence hangs in the air.

  I should say something, but I have no idea what. Should I thank him for being honest or tell him to kiss my ass and that I don’t give a damn about what he thinks?

  “I was wrong,” Reggie confesses.

  Stunned, I stare at him dumbfounded.

  “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t Tracee’s fault . . . and I said things during that time that I’m not proud of . . . and I can only hope that one day you will forgive me.”

  I must have been staring at him for too long because his nervousness showed—and I was touched. “I forgive you,” I tell him, letting him off the hook.

  At that moment, tears leap over his lashes and roll down his face like twin rivers. He closes the distance between us with two confident strides and then wraps me in his strong, powerful arms. When his body starts to quake, I feel my own face flood with tears.

  Ten minutes later, I ease my aching body into a tub of lavender-scented bubbles and try to relax—but can’t. In my mind I’m counting the minutes until Reggie and Tracee go to bed so that I can try and reach out to Profit. I could sneak out and steal Reggie’s car again, but I’m not all that confident that Ruby Cove will welcome me with open arms. I have no idea where my cell phone is so I’ll have to call Profit on the house line. That’s not going to be easy. Tracee and Reggie are going to be watching me like a hawk. I decide on 3:30 A.M. Unless they are going to monitor the phone in shifts, I figure it’s later than Tracee can manage to stay awake.

  I remain in the tub until the last bubble pops before climbing out and making it to my old bedroom. It feels strange to see the stuffed animals and the princess-like décor. It’s the room of a child—but what little innocence I once had is long gone.

  There’s a knock on the door behind me and, when I turn, Tracee pokes her head through and smiles.

  “Are you getting settled in?” she asks, grinning.

  “Yeah. Everything looks exactly how I left it.”

  “If you want, I can brush out your hair before you go to bed,” she offers, entering the room.

  “Actually . . . I’m really tired. I’m going to go ahead and go to bed.”

  Her smile falls. “Oh. Okay then. Well, good night.” She backs out of the door, but hesitates in closing it. “If you need anything, me and Reggie are right down the hall.”

  “Okay,” I answer. I want to tell her that there’s no need to crowd me so much, but I don’t want to hurt her feelings.

  Tracee slowly closes the door as if hoping that I’d call out for her to come back in. When I hear the soft click, I sigh in relief and then turn toward the bed. The door springs back open and Tracee pokes her head back inside. “What was that? Did you say something?”

  It’s all I can do not to laugh at her endearing eagerness. “No
. I didn’t say anything.”

  “Oh.” She smiles. “Good night.”

  “Night.”

  We do the whole door dance again, but this time, I’m too afraid to make any noise as I inch my way over to the bed. When I climb under the sheets, the clock on the nightstand reads 11:00. After clicking off the lamp, I stare up at the ceiling and listen as the clock ticks off the minutes.

  At 11:15 a pebble of anxiety rolls around in my chest.

  11:30—it’s a rock.

  11:45—it’s a boulder.

  I don’t know how in the hell I’m going to make it to 3:30 A.M. Plus, what am I going to do if he doesn’t answer his phone? What if he’s changed his cell phone number? How would I find him? How would I get in contact with him? I wish Essence was here—not just to help me with this shit, but because I miss her sass and her way of trying to talk sense into me.

  11:55—a mountain sits on my chest.

  At the stroke of midnight, I hear a strange pecking. Suspicious, I hold my breath to see whether I hear the sound again. I do—and it’s coming from the window. I bolt up and reach for the light, but then think better of it in fear that Tracee will run back in here.

  PECK. PECK. PECK.

  I climb out of bed with my anxiety dissolving into hope.

  PECK. PECK. PECK.

  I tiptoe over to the window, praying and begging God for a miracle. “Profit.”

  27

  Lucifer

  The moon throws an eerie glow over the cemetery. The only thing that’s missing is a howling wolf and a black crow to complete the tragic scene. I lose track of time whenever I come out here to Mason’s empty grave. People say that it’s cathartic to talk to these cold slabs of granite, but each time I come, it feels as if my lips glue together. I can’t figure out what to say and I sure as hell don’t know what do with all this guilt.

  If only I had been able to strike that spark.

  It’s not the first time that thought has raced across my head. Hell, it’s been known to just skip around for hours. Had I blown the SUV up that night, not only would I have saved myself from this empty misery called life, but I would’ve dragged that muthafucka Python down to hell with me.

  Mason “Fat Ace” Lewis

  September 13, 1990–August 24, 2011

  I have to be strong for the baby. I purse my lips together while sliding my hand over the barely-there baby bump. “You’re going to have some very big shoes to fill.” A small part of me worries about my lack of maternal instincts but I’m sure I’ll be better at the whole mommy gig than Mason’s real mother. I wonder if she’s still alive? Maybe I should check into it. And maybe not.

  Squatting, I remove twigs and debris tangled in the flowers. This is the kind of shit I’m gonna be doing until they plant my ass in the ground: creeping out here in the middle of the night to keep this grave clean.

  Pathetic.

  I press two fingers to my lips and then transfer the kiss to the engraved name across the tombstone. “Forever, my nigga.” Feeling the burn at the back of my eyes, I stand and march off into the darkness.

  Snap!

  I whip around and am unable to make anything out. However, I get that weird sensation that someone is watching again. My hand drifts from my belly to the back of my hip for my gat. After a full minute of straining my ears for the slightest sound I convince myself that I must be hearing things. I trek back toward the car where Tombstone is waiting for me.

  Halfway there, I almost miss another lone figure, standing in the dark.

  You’re slipping, Willow.

  I dismiss that thought as I reach for the gat tucked at my lower back—but then I notice the woman gazing down at another grave—oblivious to everything around her.

  Pathetic—just like me.

  I should keep it moving, but my owl-like night vision detects something familiar about her so, instead, I head in her direction. When I get five feet out I peep the name on the tombstone in front of her:

  Essence Blackwell

  November 23, 1994–August 22, 2011

  “I wondered whatever happened to her.”

  At the sound of my voice, the woman whips around and reaches for her own weapon.

  “Ah. Ah. Ah.” I shake my head and I level my shit at her chest. Instant recognition registers in her face and I get a comedic view of her eyes widening.

  “You have me at a disadvantage.You know who I am.”

  “I have you at a disadvantage?” she asks, incredulous.

  “A figure of speech,” I answer with a careless shrug and then wait for her to introduce herself.

  “Cleo,” she spits out, reluctantly. Her eyes deflate to their normal size.

  The name bounces around in my head, but I come up with nothing. “Sister?” I ask, taking in the resemblance to the little girl I tortured out behind the hospital months ago. The girl had heart.

  Cleo throws up her chin in defiance. “What’s it to you?”

  I stretch one brow out of formation.

  “Yes,” she answers, having second thoughts about catching an attitude.

  “Guess that means that you’re a Queen G, too.”

  The muscles in her jaw twitch while her teeth grind together.

  “Don’t mistake me for a bitch who repeats herself,” I warn.

  “Yes.”

  I nod and weigh what I want to do about this situation. Killing a QG might be the sleep aid I need to have a peaceful night.

  “Well?” she prods.

  I stare at her, prolonging her anxiety.

  “Shoot if you’re going to shoot,” Cleo snaps. “You already killed my sister, you evil bitch! Go ahead and pull the fucking trigger. Get the shit over with.”

  “Anybody tell you that you bitches need to change your name to Drama Queens? If I wanted to shoot you, I would’ve done it already.” That shit throws a monkey wrench into her performance. After my words sink in, her entire body visibly relaxes.

  “Then what do you want?”

  “What—a bitch can’t hang out at a cemetery if she wants?” I stump her ass again. She’s as much fun to fuck with as her sister was. “What the fuck did you mean by that shit that I had already killed your sister? Where did you get that shit?”

  “Don’t play me stupid,” she hisses. “I know it was you who doused my sister with gasoline and then tossed a match into the car when she tried to get away from you.”

  “Fuck. That sounds like an awful way to go.”

  Cleo goes for her gun.

  POW!

  Her shit goes flying out of her hand.

  “Fuuucck!” Cleo flaps her hand around.

  “I warned you.”

  Cleo glances at her shit and marvels at how my shot didn’t put a hole through her hand.

  “You’re welcome.” She fixes her mouth to thank me, but then stops herself at the last second.

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  “Though I’m not sorry that there’s one less Queen G in the world, I didn’t kill your sister.”

  “Liar!”

  “And I would lie because . . .?”

  She opens her mouth, I guess, to air it out because she doesn’t say shit to that.

  My attention shifts to the lonely tombstone behind her. “Without using too much brain power, I’m willing to bet that your snake-fucking head bitch told you that I was the one flame-broiled your sister.”

  The bitch blinks at me like a deer in headlights. Why am I bothering with this silly bitch? “Fine. Believe what you want to believe. I really don’t give a fuck.” I tuck my gun back into place. “Have a good night.” I turn to leave.

  “LeShelle wouldn’t lie about something like that,” Cleo shouts.

  I stop and glance over my shoulder. “Really. Where the fuck do they recruit you dumb bitches, off a yellow bus?”

  Cleo shakes her head as tears gloss her eyes. “Why would she kill her? Essence was working . . .” She clamps her mouth shut.

  I cock my head with a half smile. �
��She was working for who—LeShelle? Or was she working for me?”

  “What?”

  Annoyed, I march back over to this simple bitch and jab my finger repeatedly in the center of her forehead. “Think. Damn, girl.You really think that I’d just let a Queen G roll up in my kingdom and hang the fuck out? Your girl LeShelle dumped a full clip into Mas”—I catch myself and lower my hand—“our leader’s brother after his prom. The only reason I allowed your sister visitation with Profit is because we struck a deal.”

  “Essence was no snitch.”

  “Essence wanted revenge.” I wait for her next stupid remark, but when it doesn’t come, I suspect sense is finally sinking in. “LeShelle ordered her best friend’s brutal rape that landed her in the crazy house—are you connecting the dots?”

  Cleo nods as she loses color beneath the silvery moonlight. “You killed all the guys who raped her.”

  “Because I got their names through Essence.” I step back. “I’m a heartless bitch, but I’m an honest gangster. LeShelle had her own sister raped—and you don’t think that she would lie to you? Bitch, wake up.”

  “She found out,” Cleo concludes. “Somehow LeShelle found out that Essence was double-crossing her.”

  I give her a small applause. “Congratulations.You did it.”

  “That bitch,” Cleo swears under her breath, her dumbfounded look transforming into a mask of anger. “I’m going to kill her.”

  “Humph.You mean if she ever wakes up in the hospital.”

  Cleo’s face jerks back up.

  “What?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  I tense up. “Heard what?”

  “LeShelle is awake. She has been for a month.”

  28

  Ta′Shara

  Every part of me melts at the sight of Profit’s smile on the other side of the window. I try to take him in, but he’s changed so much. It’s the same handsome face, but fuller . . . more distinguished. His shoulders are huge, his chest wide, and his arms bulging with muscles.

  Profit winks and then cocks his head. “Are you going to let me in?”