by Nikki Turner
Game on, bitch.
She then started her Porsche 918 Spyder and let the engine of the best of German engineering run wild as she made the fifteen-minute drive to her other house. Ivy punched the six-digit code into the keypad, and the gate swung open. She drove the Spyder down the long, winding driveway, past about a dozen other late-model exotic automobiles. It was a collection of whips that would make the heart of a certified luxury whip aficionado skip a beat.
Pau, the bodyguard and butler, met her at the door. He was as big as a sumo wrestler—not fat, but solid as a tree trunk. She asked, “Is Molly here?”
Pau nodded. “Yeah, ma’am.”
Every time she walked through the oversized French doors, she was reminded of how much she loved the place. She paid for it with cash about ten years ago, one of her proudest investments. It came equipped with all the amenities that any overprivileged girl could ever want: an infinity pool that peek-a-booed over the Atlantic Ocean, three Jacuzzis, two saunas, a game room, eight bedrooms (three of them masters), and ten full bathrooms. The house was home to a lot of history, sex, and her multimillion-dollar empire, and although she refused to call it what it was, the house was also a first-class, high-end brothel.
And Ivy was the madame!
The mansion housed at least twelve girls at all times, women from all over the world. All of her girls lived a life of luxury, courtesy of Ivy. Let Ivy tell it, she provided them with more indulgences than the richest, most privileged kept woman.
Her ladies were above the rest and sported the best of the absolute best clothes, the best shoes, drove the best cars, were seen by the best cosmetic surgeons, and had access to the best parties and the richest customers. But the ladies were constantly reminded that everybody had to pay the piper; there were no free dances. This meant that to pay for their keep, they had to please her clientele, some of the richest and most powerful men in the world.
Ivy kept them so intoxicated on living, dining, and traveling first class that many of them thought that fucking a few rich men a night, if needed, was the least they could do to pay her back. Others were happy to be a part of her stable. They already liked sex and were willing to fuck for free pre-Ivy, so why not live lavishly while doing it? The richest men were usually old, and old men didn’t keep it up long, so most of the time, the work wasn’t hard.
Ivy called out for Molly, her bottom whore to the core. They’d been together for many years. When they met, Molly was an illegal alien from Brazil who couldn’t pronounce a syllable of English if she needed it to save her life. Ivy found her left for dead in the alley of a strip club in the hood. She had OD’d on pills. Ivy nursed her back to health and then helped her get her green card. Since then, Molly had not only been loyal, but helped her make a lot of money. More money than either girl had ever dreamed of seeing.
Molly was a long-legged brunette with a beautiful golden complexion and gray eyes. She now spoke three languages. She also liked to walk around the house in bathing suits that were barely large enough to cover her private parts.
Ivy asked her, “How did everything go while I was away?” She hadn’t been at the house since Saturday morning.
Molly went to the safe inside her room that was camouflaged to look like a piece of furniture. “Great. I tallied everything up for you.”
“No problems?” Ivy questioned.
Molly hesitated.
“Spit it out,” Ivy said. “You’re getting soft on me. Stop trying to protect those hoes. They don’t give a fuck about us. You know these bitches. They come, they go. Only thing that stays true is you and me. Now spit it out, Moll—”
“It isn’t that,” Molly said. “I know they don’t breed bitches like us anymore.”
Ivy agreed. “You ain’t never lied, Moll. That cloth we cut from, they just don’t make. Now tell me what happened.”
“It’s Juicy.”
You could almost see the anger ooze from Ivy’s pores. “That bitch still fucking up, huh?”
Molly said, “The new girls are bringing in the most money right now, but they’re drawn to Juicy. They can learn nothing but bad habits from her.”
Ivy nodded. “What else?”
“I found out that she hasn’t been forthcoming with all of her tip money.”
“Is that right?”
“I’m afraid so,” Molly said.
“This is good,” Ivy said.
“I don’t understand,” said Molly.
“Don’t worry about it. You will. Soon enough.”
Molly searched Ivy’s face for a sign as to what she had in mind. Ivy’s face was a blank canvas. Molly changed the subject. “I was about to have the chef make me a salad. You want one?”
Ebony, the live-in chef, was the ex-wife of Ivy’s deceased brother. Ivy looked at Ebony like a sister, but she kept her at a distance all the same. However, Ebony loved Ivy like the sister she never had.
Ebony wore many hats in the house. She was the chef, the dietician, the herbalist, the nutritionist, and the personal trainer for the ladies. Ebony was damn good at what she did. She could have gone into business for herself and made more money than Ivy was paying her . . . a whole hell of a lot more. But like Molly, Ebony was loyal to Ivy, except for a different reason. Ebony was loyal to Ivy because she’d loved Ivy’s dead brother more than life itself, and she promised him she’d always have his sister’s back.
Ivy took one forkful of the salad and blurted out, “Damn, girl. I can’t front. This shit is the bomb. Oh my goodness! And just to think, a lady from my church tried to get me to stay and eat some greasy-ass chicken they were serving.”
Ebony took pride in her cooking. “Hell to the naw.”
“Girl, I’ve traveled the entire world, and I ain’t never had nobody make a seafood salad as good as this. What’s in it?”
“Shrimp, lobster, and crab meat for the most part, and some other treats.”
“Lord have mercy!”
There was no greater compliment. Ebony said, “Aw, thanks, Ivy.”
Ivy helped herself to another serving. “I’m going to start going extra hard this week with my training,” she said.
Ivy worked out harder than any woman Ebony had ever met. She was strong as an ox but still looked like a woman. “Girl, you look great.”
Ivy gave credit where it was due. “You got some of these bitches’ abs cut up like a bag of raw dope.”
If the other girls in the house were cut up like dope, then Ivy must have been chiseled like a flawless diamond. Body was tight, fit, and rigid. It was clear that missing a workout hadn’t been on her agenda in a very long time.
Ebony modestly said, “Well, I’m only doing what I signed on to do.” She was cheesing, because she knew that she was damn good at what she did.
Molly had to agree. “For someone that’s self-taught, you are amazing.”
“Thank you, but y’all need to cut it out with the compliments. You know that shit go to a bitch’s head.” Ebony cleared the dishes from the table.
Ivy asked Molly, “Do we have any guests here?”
“Not yet. The Sunday pool party is set to begin in another hour or so. I scheduled a few girls to go down to Fontainebleau for their pool party also.”
That’s all Ivy needed to know. She rose up from the table.
“Juicccccccyyyyy!” Ivy started toward the pool.
Molly nudged Ebony in the side. “Oh, shit! This is about to get ugly.”
Molly followed behind Ivy out to the pool, where Juicy was sitting with a few of the other girls around her, cackling. They were listening to Juicy tell old ho stories.
“Juicccccccyyyyy!”
Juicy got up and was on her feet fast.
“Yes!”
“Come here, bitch!”
“Coming, Madame.” Juicy quickly made her way over to Ivy. “Yes?” she said with a refreshing, confident smile.
Ivy cocked back and punched her square in the face, breaking her nose. You could hear the bone crack from fif
ty feet away. “Get me my money, bitch!”
Juicy starting bawling alligator tears. She stammered. “I–I–I . . . .”
“I my ass, bitch!” Ivy smacked the stutter from her mouth. “Bitch, don’t play with me.”
Juicy fell to the patio like a bad hairdo. The girls that had been eating up Juicy’s ho stories were petrified, looking on in shock. And that was exactly what Ivy wanted to happen. She could administer one good ass-whooping and snatch the attention of the entire house to set an example.
Once she knew all eyes were on her, Ivy kicked juicy in the face with the toe of her high-heeled Jimmy Choos. Ivy hadn’t even busted a sweat. That’s what the hoes didn’t know. Ivy had rumbled with some of the best men, so toe-to-toe with a bitch was featherweight work.
“Bitch, get yo’ ass up before I tear into your ass for real.”
Juicy pulled herself up. She had a broken nose, two black eyes, and a busted lip. She was afraid to look Ivy in the face.
“Now carry your scary ass upstairs and get my motherfucking money, bitch! Not fucking part of it! Not half of it! All of it.”
Juicy took off, but she was moving too slow for Ivy’s liking. Ivy couldn’t care less that the girl was injured. Ivy grabbed Juicy by the hair and dragged her up the stairs.
“You hoes think these tricks care about y’all? Trust and believe they don’t. They are only loyal to me. Hoes come and go, but I’m the one that consistently provides them with services and favors. Remember that shit the next time one of you decides to try and short me in any way.”
Juicy handed Ivy the money she’d stolen.
“Bitch, you owe me an extra five hundred for breaking my nail while I was whipping on your larceny ass.”
Juicy humbly said, “No problem.”
“And mop this blood up off of my marble floors.” To the rest of the girls, she looked each of them up and down then calmly said, “Now, doll babies, get back to your Sunday festivities.”
Ivy made eye contact with Molly, who had always played the good cop around the house, and headed off to the room to see about Juicy.
A few minutes later, she pulled Ebony to the side.
“Have you heard from Prince?”
“Naw. I called him because he was supposed to train with me, but he ended up being a no-show, which is odd.” Ebony looked up from the icepack she was putting together to take to Juicy.
“And he didn’t call you back?” Ivy asked.
“As a matter of fact, he didn’t.” She looked off. “Which is so unlike him. You already know how that dude feel about his sexy.”
“Hmmmm.” Frown lines somehow managed to appear on Ivy’s Botox-filled forehead. “That’s odd,” she said.
“A’ight,” she said to Molly, who had just returned from checking on Juicy. “I gotta go make a run. Hold it down for me until I get back.” She kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll call you shortly.”
“Okay,” Molly said.
Where the fuck is Prince? was the only thing on her mind when she left the mansion.
Prince was Ivy’s little brother, her only biological living family, and honestly, the only thing besides Benjamins, that Ivy actually gave one solitary fuck about. Their other brother, Lucas, was killed taking up a beef that was meant for Ivy. Actually, it was Ivy that the bullet was meant for, not Lucas. After Lucas’s death, Ivy made a vow that she’d always take care of Prince.
However, it wasn’t a simple promise to uphold. Prince was his own man and hated walking in the shadow of his older brother. The only thing he hated more was being referred to as Ivy’s little brother. And he damn sure wasn’t in the business of taking money from a woman, especially not one that shared his same DNA!
Ivy pulled up in front of the valet at The Lady Lagoon. The first person she saw was Mike. “Where in the hell is Jaffey?” she asked
“In his office, as far as I know.”
“I’ve been calling that motherfucker and he ain’t answering.” Ivy was pissed. “That motherfucker got some nerve to be ignoring me, as good as I am to him.”
Mike had learned long ago not to take sides when it came to Ivy and Jaffey. “Y’all two and y’all bullshit.” This was normal between those two. They went back and forth all the time, fussing about pussy and money.
Ivy said, “Have you seen my brother over here?”
“I haven’t seen or heard a peep from him,” Mike said. “As far as I know, Jaffey hasn’t either. As of two hours ago, anyway.”
Ivy slipped past Mike, heading to Jaffey’s office.
She banged on the oak door. “Open the fucking door.”
Mike came up with a novel idea. “Maybe he’s not in there,” he sarcastically said.
Ivy turned to Mike. “Did you see him leave?”
“Nope. But that doesn’t mean shit. Nigga be in and out all the time.”
Ivy screamed, “Open the door or buzz him!” She wasn’t upset with Mike, but he was the only person available right now for her to take her frustration out on.
“He’s not answering,” Mike said after buzzing the office.
Ivy stood with her arms folded, while Mike kept trying.
“Open up the door, Mike. This silly motherfucker could’ve had a heart attack or something. You know what happened the last time he took all those Viagara and tried to fuck those three young bitches.”
Mike was silent for a minute. “Turn around,” he said.
“Nigga, please!”
“Turn around.” Mike held his ground.
Ivy turned around slowly.
Mike punched the code into the keypad, hoping that Jaffey wasn’t in there with some chick’s legs on his shoulders. That’s the type of shit that may get Mike fired, regardless of whether he was married to Jaffey’s sister.
“Damn . . . “Mike said once he went inside. “He isn’t here. His computer is gone too. He must have gone out the back door.”
Ivy stood there with a raised eyebrow. “When he gets back, let him know that something is wrong with my brother. And he better not have anything to do with it, or I swear on Lucas’s grave . . . and you already know how I roll. I will get to the bottom of this.”
Chapter 39
All Work
Since his arrival in Miami, Chase had worked around the clock. He temporary living accommodations with Simone were a sparsely furnished two-bedroom apartment in corporate housing. He transformed the second bedroom into a makeshift workspace. Dozens of boxes, filled with reams of paperwork, lined the walls. The bed was littered with manila folders, brimming with files. Photos of crime scenes, suspects, and witnesses were either taped or thumb-tacked to nearly every square foot of two of the four walls. But every lead either came to a screeching halt before gaining any traction, or took off into a thousand different directions, like the windshield of a car shattered by a BB gun. After a while it became difficult to ascertain where one lead began and another lead ended. Witnesses looked like suspects, and suspects turned out to be witnesses.
In an attempt to break the monotony, Simone slipped into the self-imposed prison that her husband called an office. In a heavy voice, she said, “All work and no play makes Chase a dull boy.”
The see-through lingerie number she wore was about an inch or two negligent of covering the area where the undercarriage of her plump caramel ass connected with her toned legs. Simone’s perky breasts stood at attention like obedient solders, standing sentry above her pancake-flat stomach. She’d waxed or shaved every hair on her body besides her head.
For as far as Chase noticed, she might as well have been dressed in baggie jeans, covered in dog manure. The room reeked of old coffee and stationery. His clothes were unkempt, and puffy, dark bags loomed heavy underneath his eyes.
“I have to break that Cashmore case,” he said.
Of all the cases that have been piled on him . . . . she thought. Wouldn’t you know it would be the armored truck that he was obsessed with.
Simone played it cool. At least this time he was inve
stigating a case in which she and her sisters weren’t the actual bandits. This time they’d only taken the money from the people who had really taken the money. Wasn’t that different?
“Baby, you have get some rest. You can’t continue to run on coffee and fumes.”
“I can sleep when I die,” he said. “Or once I solve the case. Whichever comes first.”
Being awake for eighteen straight hours not only made him fatigued, but also caused him to be frustrated and cranky. Chase just wasn’t thinking clearly—and maybe that was a good thing. Simone wasn’t sure. On one hand, she loved her husband and wanted to help her man, but not if it ended with her and her sisters going to jail,
“Maybe you should get some rest, regroup, and start fresh in the morning. I promise to make the break worth your while.”
Chase ignored her.
Simone pouted. Twirling a strand of hair with her fingers, she asked, “Is there anything I can do to help you? Would like for me to make you a drink, or something to eat?”
He snapped. “No. I don’t want a fucking drink.” The moment the outburst was out of his mouth, he wished that he could have swallowed his words. But it was too late. The stress from the job was making him crazy. He thought the promotion would enhance their lives. He’d only been in Miami for two weeks, and the job was already driving a wedge between them. The two love birds never used to argue before.
“My apologies.” He begged her, “Baby, please forgive me.”
“I know you’re stressed, but you can’t just snap on me or shut me out,” she said. “Allow me to help. Can you talk about it?”
Chase didn’t want to talk about it, but he didn’t want to be in the doghouse with Simone in addition to the headaches at work.
“There were some electronic files that were stolen from the Cashmore heist.” He sighed. “You wouldn’t be able to fathom the potential shit storm it will create if in the wrong hands. Every law official in this entire country is on edge.” He looked at her with complete despair in his eyes. “The name of every confidential informant ever used in the entire country is on those files. It could turn the law enforcement world on its head. So pardon me, please, if I’m being an asshole. Okay?”