by Noire
Hold up. I shook my head real fast. I had been vibing with him for a minute, but I wasn’t co-signing that G-Spot shit.
“Why you wanna be down with them niggahs at the Spot?” I based. “I hate that fuckin’ place! Jimmy died up in there, Fletcher! Did you forget that shit? The only thing I wanna see the G-Spot do is burn down to the goddamn ground.”
“Yo, you don’t unnerstand, Juicy,” he said moving up on me. He grabbed his nuts and hiked up the front of his pants. “I can run that joint ten times better than G did! Them niggahs up in there done let the Spot turn into a fuckin’ wasteland! It’s time for them to fade out and let a real boss take the throne.”
I smirked. “Fletcher, please.”
“Yo,” he grabbed my chin and spit through clenched teeth. “It’s Flex, Juicy. Flex. That old bum-ass niggah Fletcher is dead. Now get that in ya head, ma, ’cause I ain’t gonna tell you no more.”
“I don’t care what your damn name is!” I jerked away and barked at him like I was the big sister and he was still a little kid. “I ain’t gonna never be down with the G-Spot or nobody in it!”
He shook his head. “You better kill all that noise, Juicy. If you ain’t learned nothing else I hope you done learned to put your money on me, baby girl, because I’m about to rake in a whole lot of it. Every town needs a one-stop shop for high-post entertainment. And the G-Spot is about to be mine!”
CHAPTER 2
Truth pulled out of the parking lot of Three Brother’s Funeral Home just as a glistening white Rolls Royce was pulling in. Salida strained to see into the car’s interior as they rolled past each other, but all she could make out was a shadowy figure sitting in the back seat.
“Hold up,” she told Truth as she turned around and looked out the rear window. The bone-white whip rolled up to the side entrance that Salida had just come out of, and at this time of night whoever it was had to be going downstairs to the same place she had just left.
She watched as the car stopped and a tall young man got out. He went around to the back passenger door and opened it, and appeared to be arguing with whoever was inside.
“Go on ahead,” Salida said with a shrug and waved her hand for Truth to drive on. The young drug broker she’d just picked up a bag of samples from must have been getting his pussy delivered from the hoe strip up the street. Whoever the trick was, Salida couldn’t blame her for not wanting to get out of the car. Not even the most desperate hoe wanted to make her money in the basement of a goddamn funeral home.
Let the truth be told, Salida hadn’t been all that anxious to go down those basement steps herself, but the love of money had overruled her apprehension and sent her tipping down those stairs where she had been promised the very best prices on all the club drugs she wanted to sell.
Salida remembered cracking up laughing the first time she laid eyes on the baby-faced dealer. She’d already known he was just as greedy and hungry as she was, but when she saw his little ass dressed to kill in a 2011 version of a zoot suit, it almost blew her mind.
She had brought G a suit just like it back in the day, and it had only taken her sharp eye a minute to sweep over the boy and see exactly what his problem was.
He had Godfathered G.
He was striving to be just like him. Salida had known G better than anybody did, and when she looked at young Flex she recognized G’s style, his swagger, his tone of voice, and his insecurities. And most of all she recognized the replica of the black onyx ring he twirled on his finger. It was damn near identical to the one she had given to G on their wedding day.
But aside from the fact that G had been a seasoned gansta all down in his bones, and this lil’ boy Flex was probably still pissing in his drawers, there was one real big difference between G and the adolescent kid who was trying so hard to be him.
Bitches.
There was no way in hell G would have been caught dead bringing a goddamn prostitute to his crib. G was pussy-phobic and he could only fuck a virgin. He would have never touched a woman who had already been dicked down by another man.
“Where you wanna go now, Mizz Salida?” Truth asked as he steered out of the parking lot and took a right turn on the main street.
“Take me back to the G-Spot,” Salida told him as the thought of sex with G lingered on her mind. She crossed her legs at the knees and gave her unused womanhood a quick little squeeze.
Before G locked her away Salida had been a very sexual and sensual person. Defying G at every turn, she had dreamed about dick like there was no tomorrow. But all those years of being locked up, doped up, and isolated all alone had killed her urges and left her feeling drier than dust down there.
But power was one of the strongest aphrodisiacs, and lately Salida’s body had started talking to her again. All those years of forced celibacy were for the birds, and her dry spell was about to end at the tip of a nice, hard dick.
Putting the right playa on pussy-lock was also part of the next phase in Salida’s plan, and Ace was about to be a lucky mothafucka because tonight he’d be the very first man to fuck her behind Granite McKay.
Salida thought about G, and how pissed that niggah would be to know his right-hand man was about to knock her pretty-pretty out, and she threw her head back and laughed out loud.
“You okay, Mizz Salida?” Young Truth asked from the front seat.
Salida pumped her crossed leg a few times and sighed as pent-up sparks of passion zipped through her clit.
“I’m about to be fine,” she answered, her voice low and husky as she anticipated the long-awaited sexual release she was going to receive. “You better believe Mizz Salida is about to be just fine.”
CHAPTER 3
Make that money-money! Make that money-money! Make that mothafuckin’ money-money, honey!
Once again Monique had the heat meter on broil in the G-Spot. Hustlers and ballers were whistling and wildin’ as they enjoyed the solo act she performed on the main stage. The room was packed out, and Monique had ’em all sprung. They climbed all up on top of tables and jumped up on their chairs so they could peep her shapely onion as she twerked it in her trademark fishnet stockings.
“Yeah, baby!” a professional football player screamed as Monique did her nasty dance with her eyes squeezed closed. “That’s birthday cake! Yeah gimme a slice and I’ll slurp that plate!”
Monique grinned under the smoky lights. There were slumlords in the house and stockbrokers too. Politicians, pimps, and top selling performing artists out the ass were digging her game.
She loved the shit outta them.
And as long as they kept that cash raining down on the stage she would keep moving her ass to the beat.
Grown men cried into their drinks as Monique whipped her chocolate hips and made her backbone slip. Her body was simply stunning, and her silky horse-tail weave swished around her shoulders as she rolled her toned stomach and gyrated her moist pelvis at the same time.
Monique had countless moves and super-erotic choreographed routines that she performed in her stage act. She was dedicated to her grind, and she kept the G-Spot’s customers digging deep into their pocket stash as she popped her hips and dipped her sweet cocoa chips.
They all wanted to fuck her, and she could understand why. There were cries of satisfaction ringing in the air as niggahs grunted and nutted right where they sat.
She got down on the floor for them and gave them a little taste of the scissor-dance that never failed to get ’em drooling.
Mo was packing a nice hump of ass, and when she turned over on her back and arched her spine, a wide patch of light was illuminated between her shoulders and her meaty booty-cheeks.
Monique could hear all the screaming coming from the crowd, but she paid the men no mind. She was up on that stage strictly for self, and as the C-notes floated down on her damp breasts and stomach, she moaned and felt her orgasm barreling through her vagina.
She sat up quickly and spread her legs wide so they could watch her pussy leak. Then
she pulled back the hood on her clit, and let the little man jump right out of his boat.
Her slit oozed thick cream as she masturbated herself for the whole world to see. Her pussy became sloshing wet, and she sat in her own puddle and pushed her fingers into her softness and fucked herself as deeply as she could.
There was pure bedlam in the house.
Monique was panting on the stage as she went all out for her nut. The moans falling from her mouth were the real thing and everybody in the joint knew it. She lowered her chin to her chest and licked her third electric nipple like she was a cat going at a bowl of milk.
Monique rode the wave that was rippling inside her coochie. Her plump booty bounced around in the pool of cream that she had spilt all over the stage. She cupped her pussy and fucked into her palm as her clit became engorged just like a dick.
Then she moved her hand and bent both legs until her heels touched her ass. She let her knees fall open wide, and flicked her pearl back and forth, whimpering and cursing as she came, her clit quivering and her pussy ejaculating thin spurts of cum in the air and all over the floor.
But even before the last drop of cum shot from her snatch, Monique slumped over in sheer frustration as she realized what had happened.
She had been doing a whole lot of fantasizing lately, and as she looked out at the ten or twelve low-level squares who had shown up for a performance that used to draw hundreds, disappointment came crashing down on her. Damn right she had been fantasizing. She had been imagining the way her life used to be before the G-Spot had taken its fall.
But right now reality was staring her full in the face. The four or five twenty-dollar bills that had been tossed up on the stage weren’t even worth picking up. Snatching the thong she had stripped out of, Monique got up from the dirty floor and looked out at the sorry spectacle that the G-Spot had become. Once, she’d had big dreams about giving up her stage act and rolling down to Baltimore to launch the G-Spot 2. She had been hyped about the top billing she would receive, and about her role and status as a First Lady too.
But now, all Monique wanted was what was rightfully hers. Instead of working the stage and letting these niggahs peep at her uterus, she should have been draped in finery and working the front door as the hostess of the house.
Of her own house.
Monique knew her worth, and she wasn’t the type to sell herself short. She was a devastating bitch and she added value to the hustle because she was working with a real brain.
And right now her brain was telling her she was never gonna get what she wanted outta life until she dealt with the blockers that were standing in her path.
Like, that old scheming bitch, Salida. If there was ever a time that Pluto had been right about somebody, this was it. They shoulda let her grimy ass stay locked up in that nut house in Canada. G’s old bitch had been trouble from the gate, and while she had Ace blinded by her shine, Pluto had seen right past Salida’s pretty hair and beautiful face, and right down to the grimy streaks in her dirty-ass drawers.
And Monique hadn’t forgotten about how that bitch had pulled a gat out on her. Or that disrespectful smush she had taken to the forehead neither.
Yeah, Salida had thrown everything way off balance at the G-Spot. It killed Mo to see that old trick walking around draped in designer wear and rocking white pearls, while she had to gap her legs open onstage and flick her pink pearl. The injustice of it all made hatred burn straight through Monique’s heart.
Something was gonna have to be done about that bird. She needed her wings clipped off. Stepping off the side of the stage with her chest still heaving from her orgasm, Monique peered out into the tiny crowd and spotted Salida grinning up in some young playa’s face with her hand all on his chest.
Biding her time, Monique headed toward the fuck rooms to take care of the customer who was waiting for her. Mizz Salida was gonna get what she had coming to her. That crafty bitch shoulda stayed disappeared. But since she didn’t, she was definitely gonna have to disappear again.
Monique was gonna make sure of that.
CHAPTER 4
It had been almost a week since the green BMW convertible had exploded at Los Angeles International Airport. When the call came in from his aunt Renata’s phone, Slick Sallie had snatched his cousin’s car keys and raced to the scene with his heart in his throat. He had prayed that God would let him get there in time to stop his uncle Frankie from climbing behind the wheel of Juicy’s car and blowing himself into raggedy little chunks.
But as fast as he had driven, he just wasn’t fast enough. He saw the flashing lights and heard the sirens as he was getting off the highway, and the huge plume of smoke that had risen in the air above the parking lot was enough to let him know that he was already way too late.
“Oh no!” Sallie had screamed in a panic when he realized what he had done. “Oh God! Oh fuckin’ God no!”
He had driven straight to an old girlfriend’s house so he could drown himself in grief. And later that night, after drinking as much liquor as his stomach could possibly hold, he had cried like a baby and passed out on the bathroom floor.
By the time he woke up the next afternoon, television coverage of the airport explosion was on almost every station. Sallie had stared at the television screen in amazement as photos of the two people who’d been blown up by the detonation were shown.
To his surprise, both of the victims were killers.
They were both men. And they were both black.
Relief had washed over him like a heavy, cleansing rain. The thought that he had killed his uncle had been almost unbearable, and it was nothing but a beautiful stroke of luck when he got two phone calls later that day. One had been completely unexpected, and the other one he had long been waiting for.
Two months earlier Sallie had been in the right place at the right time, and he had weaseled his way in on a heist that could easily bring in over a million dollars in exchange for thirty minutes of simple work.
The plan had been delayed several times due to a local longshoreman’s strike, and now that the port workers were back on the job, Sal’s associates had been given the green light to move forward with the operation.
Parked in the shadows behind a loading dock in the Bay Area of San Francisco, Slick Sallie ran the plan down to his slow cousin Mick one last time.
“I’m gonna stay right here with you until they give me the signal and the electric fence is turned off. Then I’m going in, and I’m going in fast. You stay right here, okay? Just keep the car running, and the second my ass hits the seat cushion you step on it. Are you locked and loaded?”
Mick’s hands shook as he held his Glock 17 9mm out for his cousin to see.
“Good,” Sal said as his eyes swept back and forth over the dock entrance to Uniden Technology, one of largest manufacturers of computer chips in the nation.
It was late in the afternoon, right before the business was scheduled to close. Sal and Mick, along with nine other men, were dressed in all-black and wearing gloves and masks. They were waiting for their inside man, a maintenance worker who was hiding in the ceiling rafters, to cut the wires to the security alarm and hit a button to slide open the wire-meshed electric fence.
Sallie peered out the window as a thin sheen of sweat broke out on his upper lip. He was nervous, but he was excited too. A heist like this didn’t go down every day, and when it did it made big news.
Sallie wasn’t afraid of getting caught or arrested. Their plan had been timed perfectly and they’d be in and out of the warehouse before the employees could call for help. But what made Sallie nervous was the fact that they were about to hit some mob-protected territory.
The Milan crime family of Los Angeles was in control of this area. Uniden Technology was the biggest company on their extortion list, and Sal knew the owners paid top dollar for the level of protection their mob payouts assured them.
Ordinarily, a made man wouldn’t even consider violating another mob family’s territory.
Respect for boundaries was one of the rules that allowed multiple Mafia families to function in small areas simultaneously.
But Sal wasn’t a made fuckin’ man. And since his father was just a lowly Irish son-of-a-bitch, he never would be. He secretly envied Mick and the rest of his dick-weed cousins who could trace their bloodline back to the Old World, yet walked around in this world with shit for brains.
Sallie was a million times smarter, slicker, and craftier than those clowns ever would be, yet he would never be as big-time or as respected as them simply because of the origin of his blood.
“Y-y-you sure about this, right Sallie?” Mick stuttered. “You’re not gonna go in there and get yourself shot or nothing, right?”
Sal stared at his cousin. He loved Mick the way you would love a puppy. He was a simple dickhead, but he was faithful.
“Nobody’s gonna hurt me, Mikail. Everything is gonna be fine. You just be ready to drive like you’re at Daytona, okay?”
Minutes later the signal was given, and like the others who were waiting, Sal exited the car and crept cautiously toward the fence-line. The ten men were silent and had their weapons at the ready. The moment the metal fence slid back they rushed onto the property, and through the recently unlocked door.
Sal was near the middle of the pack as they burst into the office closest to the loading dock. Five men and one woman were busy at work, and in a flash, all ten guns were on them. Sal and his crew ordered the employees to drop their wallets and cell phones into a plastic bag, and then forced them to the floor. They were tied up and gagged, and then the team swept into the warehouse where their moving truck was backed up to the dock and waiting to be loaded.
It took less than thirty minutes for Sal and his cohorts to load massive amounts of processors and microchips onto the truck, and they moved so expertly that everything went without a hitch.