In These Streets

by Shelly Ellis

  “Which is exactly why I want them with me. I know who they are. I’ve been where they are. I won’t give up on them the way everyone else has. Theo wouldn’t have given up on them either!”

  She stiffened. He watched as she narrowed her dark eyes. “Are you really going to bring him up?”

  “Why shouldn’t I? What I said about your dad is true. You know he loved those kids. He still does.”

  “Oh, yeah, he loved them. He loved them so much that he was willing to sacrifice his marriage, his family, and his life for them. He made it clear to me, Mama, and everyone else that the boys at the Institute were the most important things in the world to him—even more important than us. And then, when he was ready to retire and we thought we finally had him all to ourselves, he went gay and ran off with some dude!”

  Derrick winced. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought up her father after all.

  She looked Derrick up and down. “So is that what you’re trying to tell me? You really want to be just like my daddy? Because if it is, I can give you this ring back right now.” She held up her hand and pointed to the solitaire diamond on her finger.

  At that, his shoulders slumped. All his rising anger dissipated. “Baby, you know that’s . . . that’s not what I meant. I love you. I do! It’s just . . . I love my job too, and the boys need me . . . and . . . and . . .”

  He couldn’t find the right words so he let the sentence drift off into silence and raked his fingers through his dreads in frustration instead.

  “Enjoy your dinner. I didn’t put any sriracha in it this time, so you should like it,” she muttered, wiping her hands on a dish towel, tossing it aside, and stepping around him.

  “Come on, baby, don’t be that way.” He reached out for her and tried to draw her close again, but she pulled out of his grasp.

  “Tell Ricky and Jamal I said ‘Hey,’ when you see them tonight, okay?” she called over her shoulder as she walked out of the kitchen and down the hall to their bedroom. She then bent down and scooped their cat into her arms. “Come on, Brownie. Let’s go grade some papers.”

  Derrick heard their bedroom door slam shut seconds later.

  “Shit,” he said before roughly scrubbing his hand over his face. “Oww, shit!” he said again, wincing reflexively at the pain in his cheek.

  Chapter 2

  Ricky

  “Mr. Reynaud?” someone called out then knocked at his office door. “Mr. Reynaud?”

  Ricky didn’t answer. He was three minutes away from getting his rocks off—maybe two. Anyway, he was pretty damn close and he didn’t want to lose the momentum.

  “Give it to me! Give it to me, baby,” Kia groaned.

  He’d recently hired Kia—a pretty, young college grad and Instagram model who’d moved to D.C. three months ago. She still hadn’t learned the menu and he’d had to comp meals at least twice a week because she kept screwing up orders, but she had a nice smile, big tits, and an amazing ass. She’d been flirting with him for weeks, shamelessly rubbing up against him in the prep area or sitting on his office desk and giving him a perfect view of her thigh-highs as she talked about her roommates and living in the big city. Though Ricky generally preferred not to get down and dirty with the wait staff at his restaurant because it could get messy, tonight he’d made an exception.

  Ricky squeezed one of her breasts, rubbing his thumb over the hard, brown nipple. She arched her back and moaned. He watched as she gripped the edge of the desk while he steadied her bottom, and she met him stroke for stroke, raising her hips off the wooden surface.

  “Come on! Keep goin’!” she urged. “Don’t worry, daddy. I can take it!”

  Daddy?

  He cringed inwardly.

  Some women thought it was a turn on when they called you that, but it always ruined the mood for him. He didn’t want to imagine this chick’s father right now, or wonder if she was playing out some Electra complex with her boss on his office desk. But he shoved those thoughts and the word out of his mind and pumped even harder, making her writhe and groan.

  “Oh, God!” she whimpered. “Oh, God!”

  “Uh, Mr. Reynaud, are you . . . are you in there?” He heard another knock. It sounded more frantic this time.

  “I’m . . . busy!” Ricky shouted between breaths. “Come . . . back . . . later!”

  “You have someone waiting out here, and they said they have to speak with you now. Mr. Reynaud, did you hear me?”

  “Almost done. Almost done. Almost done,” he chanted, feeling his heart thud in his chest, hearing his blood whistle in his ears.

  A stapler clattered to the floor. A rattling mug filled with pens tipped over and the pens went rolling across his desk.

  “I’m sorry . . . what did you say, sir?” the voice called out to him through the closed door.

  Kia fell back against his desk calendar. Her groans and moans turned into yells and Ricky quickly clamped his hand over her mouth to stifle the noise. He didn’t want the rest of the staff on the floor to hear.

  She must have mistaken it for some kinky gesture because she shifted his hand from her mouth to her throat and began to squeeze his fingers, like she wanted him to strangle her. He didn’t take her up on the offer. He was an open-minded dude but erotic asphyxiation wasn’t his kink. Instead, he gripped her shoulders, spread her legs even wider, even throwing one high-heeled foot over his shoulder. He increased the tempo yet again. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head. She began to pant and whine.

  And then, finally, he came with a euphoric rush that made him see pinpricks of stars, and that made him convulse and collapse on top of Kia’s bare chest and gulp for air.

  After a few seconds, he raised his head and gazed down at her.

  “That was amazing, baby,” Kia said breathlessly, trailing a finger along his chin.

  He gave her a quick peck on the lips before pulling out of her with a grunt. He then staggered into his office bathroom, pulled off his condom, knotted it, and tossed it into the trash can. He grabbed a wash cloth, soaked it with hot water, and began to wipe himself down with the efficiency of a man who had done this many, many times before. Ricky stared at his reflection and noticed the bright red lipstick on his sienna-hued cheek, just above his beard.

  Can’t have that, he thought, reaching for a tissue near the sink.

  He had a face that most women would consider handsome—full lips, soulful eyes, and high cheekbones—and he used it to his advantage. The broad shoulders, toned build, and imposing height didn’t hurt either in winning over the ladies. Ricky hadn’t had a serious relationship in years, but he didn’t have to worry about a cold bed at night either.

  After he finished wiping off Kia’s lipstick and cleaning himself up, he tugged his boxer briefs from his knees back up to his waist.

  “Wanna meet up for a second round after my shift is over?” she asked.

  He could see her in the reflection of his bathroom mirror. She was still reclining on his desk, like a cat sunning itself in a window.

  “I would, but I’ve got somewhere to be later. Gonna have to take a raincheck.”

  “A raincheck?” She frowned and pushed herself up to her elbows as he raised his pants’ zipper. “What? What do you mean, ‘You’ve got somewhere to be’? Where is that?”

  He forced himself not to roll his eyes.

  Well, that didn’t take long, Ricky thought. He’d smashed her for the first time literally five minutes ago and she was already asking him about his business? He had been too focused on her body to notice the big, dewy brown eyes and the trembling bottom lip, but he noticed them now. This was a girl who got easily attached. He should have known better. He’d have to be a little more gentle than usual with this brush off.

  “I’ve just . . . uh . . . gotta meet some old friends. That’s all.”

  It was the truth. He was meeting his long-time friends, Derrick and Jamal, later tonight for drinks.

  Ricky made some final adjustments to his clothes, stepped back in
to his office, and reached into one of his desk drawers. He removed a bottle of Gucci Guilty and sprayed a bit onto himself and then into the air before glancing down at her again. “Fix your clothes, honey. It’s almost seven and we open up soon for the evening service.”

  Kia’s glossy lips formed a comical pout as she pulled up her bra cups and dragged the straps back onto her shoulders. “Wait a minute! Are you saying you just expect me to—”

  She stopped when the frantic knocking started up again, making Ricky grouse with annoyance.

  “The fuck . . .” he muttered as he strode toward the door.

  “Ricky, don’t you walk away from me!” Kia yelled.

  “Just go in the bathroom and get dressed,” he hissed over his shoulder at her as the knocking continued.

  Her brow wrinkled and she pushed back her shoulders. “Don’t talk to me like that! Don’t just tell me to get dressed like I’m some . . . some hooker! Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “Mr. Reynaud?” the person on the other side of the door shouted. “Mr. Reynaud, this guy says he really has to—”

  Ricky whipped open his office door, making Kia let out a “yip” that sounded a lot like a kicked puppy. She hopped off his desk and ran to his office bathroom, pushing down her pencil skirt and tripping over the lace thong trailing from one of her stilettoes.

  The door knocker turned out to be one of the floor waiters whose knuckle was still raised and poised to knock again. He jumped—startled, like he hadn’t expected Ricky to actually answer this time.

  “What?” Ricky asked. “What the hell is so important that you had to beat my damn door down? Is the kitchen on fire?”

  The bespectacled waiter hesitated, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, then pointed to something down the hall.

  Ricky leaned into the hallway to see what the waiter was pointing at. When he did, his jaw tightened.

  “What’s up, Pretty Ricky? I’ve been lookin’ for your ass!” the young man called out as strolled toward them. “I was about to bust in on you if you had me waitin’ out here any longer.”

  The young man was wearing a sweat-stained tank top and black skinny jeans slung low on his hips—definitely not proper attire for Reynaud’s, the upscale restaurant that Ricky owned and managed. If he were the average person, the maître d’ would have turned him away at the door. But he wasn’t the average person—and he knew it.

  “What are you doing here, T. J.?” Ricky asked, waving off the anxious waiter who quickly nodded and gave T. J. a wide berth before hastily making his way back down the hall to the restaurant floor.

  “Stop callin’ me T. J.,” T. J. snarled, baring his buckteeth like some feral dog. “It’s Big T now! The only person I let call me T. J. is my mama—and you ain’t her.”

  Ricky leaned against the door frame. “Fine, Big T. Why the fuck are you here?”

  “Why the fuck do you think I’m here? Dolla Dolla sent me.”

  Dolla Dolla was Ricky’s business partner and investor. Ricky had known the D.C. drug kingpin since the early days when he’d finished serving his time at the Institute with Derrick and Jamal, but still had to hustle to take care of his grandmother and little sister. Dolla Dolla had given him a few jobs every now and then—some above board, some not. When Ricky got older and decided to put that life of crime behind him, Dolla Dolla had given him his blessing. He had even loaned Ricky the money to start his own restaurant, with the prerequisite that Ricky become co-owner of Club Majesty, a strip joint Dolla Dolla had started downtown.

  Ricky figured the deal had some strings attached. Dolla Dolla liked him, but he wouldn’t just give Ricky money and make him co-owner of one of his businesses out of the kindness of his heart. He just didn’t comprehend how many strings were attached until it was too late. By then, he’d figured out that the strip club was a front for several of Dolla Dolla’s criminal operations.

  In a locked storage room at the club that was supposed to be used for toilet paper and hand soap were shelves upon shelves of stolen designer purses and electronics. And though Ricky wanted to hire an accountant, Dolla Dolla insisted he already had his own. Ricky noticed after checking receipts one day that the numbers didn’t match the ones the accountant had recorded that previous month. He realized the accountant was cooking their books, likely to hide something from the feds. And on top of all that, on any given night, Dolla Dolla’s men would roll up to the strip club’s service entrance loaded down with duffel bags and suitcases, and head straight to the club’s basement. The suitcases would sit there for days undisturbed, and then mysteriously disappear a week later.

  Ricky didn’t ask any questions about the mysterious suitcases, or anything else for that matter. He knew who his business partner was, and as long as Dolla Dolla let him do his thing as manager and co-owner of Club Majesty, he’d let Dolla Dolla do whatever he wanted behind the scenes. But the restaurant was off limits. That was the implicit agreement they’d had for years. Dolla Dolla didn’t bring that shit here, which is why he wasn’t happy to see T. J. standing in front of him right now.

  “Look, I told y’all if you needed to reach me, call me,” Ricky said, towering over T. J. and dropping his voice to a whisper. “Don’t just show up at my place and ambush me like this. I don’t play that shit!”

  “Man, I don’t give a damn what you said! Dolla Dolla told me to give you a message in person. He’s the one I listen to, not you, nigga.”

  Ricky gritted his teeth so hard the molars might crack.

  T. J. had to weigh less than one hundred and twenty pounds. Ricky could easily whip his little ass up and down the hallway for talking to him like this. But he knew T. J. was one of Dolla Dolla’s prized emissaries. The little punk also carried, which meant a fight with fists could devolve into bullets flying. So Ricky took a deep breath to steady himself.

  “Then just spit it out and be on your way,” he said in a measured voice. “I’ve got a fuckin’ business to run.”

  T. J. shook his head. “Nuh-uh, I’m saying this shit in private. Not with no other people standing around.”

  “What other people are standing around? Nobody else is here!”

  “Then who the fuck is that?” T. J. asked, pointing over Ricky’s shoulder.

  Ricky turned to find Kia standing timidly in his bathroom doorway. He’d forgotten she was back there. She was dressed now, at least, though she had a confused look on her face.

  “Uh, Kia, can you give us a sec, honey?” Ricky asked.

  She quickly nodded. “S-sure, Ricky. I-I think my shift is starting anyway.” She then walked toward the office door and squeezed between the two men. When she did, T. J. looked her up and down. He licked his lips and leered hungrily at her like she was one of the many dishes on Reynaud’s house menu.

  “Damn, you got some good taste in bitches.” He turned back to Ricky, grinning ear-to-ear. “Her pussy good too?”

  Ricky didn’t answer him. Instead, he motioned T. J. into his office and shut the door behind him. He watched, infuriated, as T. J. strolled to one of the arm chairs facing his ebony desk. The young man flopped back into the chair and rubbed his palms over the smooth leather like he was caressing a woman.

  “Nice,” he mused. “I need to get me one of these. Where you get it from? Marlo Furniture or some shit?”

  “Look, just give me Dolla’s message, all right?” Ricky snapped, stepping behind his desk and facing T. J. “I don’t have time for any of this. I told you, I have a business to run.”

  T. J. slouched back farther in his chair, waiting a few beats before he answered. Finally, he said, “Dolla wants you to make sure the restaurant’s back door is open tonight. He said he’s got a shipment he wanna bring here. It’s one he’s gotta move quickly.”

  Ricky shook his head. “No! Hell, no! He knows I don’t want any of that shit in my restaurant. If he has some stuff he’s trying to move, he can bring it to Club Majesty like he usually does. Not here! He can’t—”

  �
�Nigga,” T. J. said, suddenly leaning forward, “you and I both know Dolla can do whatever the fuck he wants. He says the club might be too hot now, that maybe the cops are starting to catch on to what’s going down, so he wants to find another place to put his shit.”

  “But why does that place have to be my restaurant?”

  “Because he fuckin’ said so!” T. J. shot to his feet, yanking up his sagging jeans as he did it. “Man, just keep the door open like he told you to. Don’t be stupid, get buck, and get your shit fucked up! You feel me?”

  Ricky fought back his fury, stuffing it into the pit of his stomach as T. J. walked toward his office door and opened it.

  “Hey,” T. J. said, pausing in the doorway, “y’all do carryout? I think I want some of the catfish but I’m gonna have to get that shit to go. Dolla got a few more peeps he wants me to pay a visit to tonight.”

  Ricky didn’t answer him. He continued to glare at him openly though, making T. J. laugh.

  “Guess not,” T. J. said before walking out of Ricky’s office and into the hall.

  Chapter 3

  Jamal

  Jamal held his tight smile in place and nodded at the man speaking next to him, not paying attention to a word he was saying. Jamal could barely hear him anyway; he was surrounded by a swarm of people—partygoers in suits and other business attire who drank wine and sampled canapés on Krueger, McKenzie, and Sutton Law Office’s dime. He was starting to get a headache thanks to the wall of sound that echoed from the museum gallery’s high ceilings. The bright lights weren’t helping either.

  Jamal nonchalantly glanced at his wristwatch to check the time. When he saw what time it was, he cursed under his breath. Even if he left the cocktail party now, he was still going to be late meeting Derrick and Ricky for drinks. He could envision them talking shit about him over beers and glasses of whiskey in the small rundown dive bar they had been going to for years, even before they could legally drink.