“Man, who da fuck you kidding? How you gon’ get to Crockett when it takes you forever to press the buttons on the damn cash register?”
“Don’t worry about my capabilities. I get the job done,” the man replied knowingly. “Been running this joint for over forty years and none of my customers have ever asked for a refund.” He winked again and Cruze read between the lines. The bait shop was a front for a more sinister business.
“Okay, look, old man, I’ma give you half down like you requested, but don’t try to fuck me over or you’ll find this little shack you running, burnt down to the ground.”
“Be careful with the threats, moulinyan,” the old man said with his mouth twisted viciously. Then he quickly displayed a huge smile.
The old dude had called Cruze a nigger in Italian and had followed the insult with a ready smile. But the menace that lurked beneath his broad grin hadn’t gone undetected by Cruze. He was dealing with an old-school mobster, the kind of man who killed without flinching and never lost any sleep.
And though Cruze had his share of bodies, unlike the Italian, he didn’t sleep well at night.
Still . . . fuck the old bastard’s credentials. He was gon’ be introduced to some new-school learning if he called Cruze a moolie, again. Moolie, moulinyan, whatever. They meant the same thing. Moolie was the short version of moulinyan, the slur Italians used for black people.
Begrudgingly, Cruze handed over the duffle bag that was stuffed with crisp bills and sauntered out of the bait shop.
• • •
The team took up three tables at Red Lobster. The boys were excitedly looking over the menu when Tanji and the woman Cruze recognized from one of Tanji’s sex tapes slinked in, uninvited. Both were dressed inappropriately for a kiddie event, showing cleavage and midriff and looking whorish. Earlier that night at the game, Cruze had noticed them both jumping out of their seats and twerking in celebration every time one of the boys scored a point.
Just ratchet!
Now they were ogling Cruze while pretending to peruse the menu. Licking their glossy red lips, they sent him salacious promises of double-dick-sucking pleasure. Tanji was determined to give Cruze some head and he was just as adamant that he wasn’t going to give her the chance. She had caught him during a weak moment in his office and it bothered him immensely that he’d disappointed Bret.
“Y’all boys were on fire tonight!” Tanji exclaimed and then passed her phone around showing the footage she’d filmed. Her friend passed her phone around, too, and the boys excitedly watched the highlights of the game.
Cameras had been flashing all night, and having the moms there snapping pictures and handling the filming hadn’t thrown Cruze off his mark the way the media cameras had done at previous games. It was a relief to coach without the pressure of Bret and Marquan scrutinizing his coaching methods. Those two icons always felt the need to give Cruze pointers and took it upon themselves to give pep talks to the boys. Cruze felt he’d never be a good coach if he didn’t learn by his own mistakes.
After winning with a fourteen-point lead, Cruze felt the boys deserved to be indulged, and he allowed them to order anything they wanted, including all the dessert they could handle. After they filed out of the restaurant and were lined up to get back on the bus, Tanji’s son complained of a tummy ache, and Cruze pulled him out of line. He told Tanji it was best if she drove her son straight home instead of driving behind the bus as she’d intended.
Cruze figured Tanji was going to try to pawn her kid off on one of the other moms who were waiting at the center for the boys to return from Red Lobster. After her son was out of her hair, Tanji and her girlfriend would try to worm their way to his office for a threesome that Tanji would no doubt try to sneak and film.
Outmaneuvered by Cruze, Tanji took her frustration out on her kid, yanking him by the arm and fussing at him for being greedy and eating too much dessert.
Despite being presented with the opportunity to penetrate two hot mouths, Cruze’s dick was oddly uninterested. It didn’t respond to Tanji’s or her friend’s plump tits and fat ass. There was only one ass on his mind . . . Arabia’s. And he had no idea when their paths would cross again.
• • •
“Congrats on the win Friday night,” Bret said, sitting at his desk. “That Barack is starting to look more and more like he has Kobe Bryant potential.”
“Yeah, and Breon did a helluva job, too. All the boys pulled their weight,” Cruze responded. He still didn’t consider himself one of Bret’s peers, and he found it difficult to kick it with him casually. Being in his office was like being in the principal’s office, and he shifted in his seat, waiting for Bret to get to the reason he’d asked to speak with him.
“Cruze, I realize you have good intentions, but don’t you think the luxury bus you rented for Friday’s game was a bit excessive?”
I knew it. Here we go . . .
“That raggedy yellow school bus you got us riding around in is an embarrassment and an inconvenience. Personally, I couldn’t go to another game in that cramped-up rat trap. That bus was a necessity—it’s a quality of life issue for me.”
Bret chuckled. “Having a bus equipped with Wi-Fi, video screens, and leather seats is a necessity?”
“Damn right, man. I need those roomy, reclining seats to stretch out my long legs. I’m getting sick of arriving at games with my legs cramped and hurting. I don’t like being in pain while I’m coaching. And the boys need the video screens for recreational purposes during the ride. I bet you won’t see white kids in the suburbs riding to their games in outdated school buses with no perks, so why should my boys?”
“My only concern about your extravagances toward the youth league is the message you’re sending the teenage players. The older kids are being outshined by a group of little knuckleheads and they’re starting to feel some kind of way about it.”
“I’m not the teen coach and they’re not my problem, man,” Cruze retorted, leaning forward.
“All the kids here are your problem, Cruze. You can’t enrich the lives of a select few and treat the rest like second-class citizens.”
Cruze pondered Bret’s statement for a moment. “Let me ask you something. Outside of HYPE, do you and your wife donate to any other charities?”
“Of course. Martina is passionate about supporting the National Breast Cancer Foundation.”
“Why breast cancer as opposed to . . . prostate cancer?” Cruze asked.
“Her mom is a breast cancer survivor.” Bret wrinkled his brows. “Where’re you going with this, Cruze?”
“I was a young ragamuffin playing b-ball on glass-littered courts with metal hoops and I’m passionate about giving the young kids I’m coaching a better experience than I had. They’re my pet project. You’re the head of this organization, Bret, and if you want the teen league to rock new sneakers, if you want them to wear fly uniforms, and travel in style, then I suggest you and their coach get some funding that’s specifically earmarked for that cause.”
“Coach McKinney is not into fund raising. He’s doing enough by coaching the teens free of charge.”
“Oh, well,” Cruze said, hunching up his shoulders. “Stop trying to make your problems mine, Bret. If you want the teens to look fly, then that’s on you.”
It felt good speaking his mind, and with nothing more to say, Cruze stood up. Hovering over Bret’s desk, an impressive-looking business card with embossed, gold foil lettering caught his eye. He made out the name of Arabia’s agency and his heart took a quick dive. The card represented her flair perfectly and for a fleeting moment, he was tempted to zoom in on the glittery card and memorize the phone number. But that was stalker behavior. The bitch knew where to find him the next time she was in the mood for more raunchy, public sex.
There was a sudden burst of rowdy noise out in the hallway and Bret rushed out the office to go inves
tigate. Cruze was about to follow, but had a better idea. The moment Bret left, Cruze grabbed a Post-It and jotted down Arabia’s personal number that was listed beneath her office number.
He jammed the sticky note in his pocket and joined Bret out in the corridor where a fight had broken out. Cruze gripped up one of the troublemakers by the scruff of his neck and Bret grabbed the other.
With both Bret and Cruze towering over the boys, wearing menacing expressions and threatening to take them somewhere private and jack them up if they didn’t calm the fuck down, the two brawlers eagerly called a truce and shook hands.
• • •
Later that evening, relaxing in bed and smoking a blunt while the TV kept him company, Cruze bolted upright when he heard a breaking news story. Anthony Crockett aka Big Crockett had been murdered behind bars. The anchorman reported that investigators had no suspects in custody at this time as it appeared to be an inside job.
Well, I’ll be damned. That old Italian bastard came through!
Cruze felt a mixture of profound joy and overwhelming grief at the same time. The killing had only just begun, and there would be a lot of bloodshed on the streets of New York. Innocent people that were at the wrong place at the wrong time would probably end up as collateral damage. And no matter how many bodies he’d accumulated over the years, Cruze still couldn’t make peace with the man he’d become. And tonight, he wouldn’t rest easily.
He hated being alone right now. He needed his dick sucked and wanted to pump into some hot pussy in the worst way. Tanji was probably available. If he let her, she’d come running with her mouth wide open, happy to swallow several splashing loads of hot cum.
But he didn’t want that horny bitch knowing where he lived, nor sucking his dick. And he wasn’t in the mood for the funky pussy she was offering. He thought of Arabia’s sweet-smelling drawers and his dick swelled up so big, it felt like it was about to pop.
He got out of bed and took the jeans he had on earlier out of the hamper. He rifled through the pockets, and fished out the yellow Post-It. Although when it came to women, rejection was never something he had to face; they willingly came when he called. But, for some strange reason, when it came to Arabia, something about her made him so terrified of being rejected. His heart knocked in his chest as he picked up the phone and quickly pressed the ten numbers imprinted on the card.
Fuck pride. Fuck acting like a stalker. He needed Arabia, and no matter how wishy-washy the broad acted, he knew in his heart that she needed him, too.
The phone rang four times before she picked up.
“Hello?” she answered in her hot, silky voice.
“What’s good, Arabia? It’s Cruze.”
He heard the surprise in her voice. “Oh. Cruze. Isn’t this . . . Wait. How did you get my number?”
“I have my resources,” he answered coolly.
“Mmhmm,” she purred. “I bet you do. So now that you’ve found me, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
“I was hoping we could link up . . .” I need some pussy. He paused. “Uh, tonight.”
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He was expecting her to say something slick, before cursing him out.
Instead, a deadly silence ticked between them, and he felt the hammer of rejection about to come slamming down on his plans, when she sliced into the quiet and breathed out, “I’ll come to you.”
Cruze hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until that very moment. A slow grin eased over his lips. “Cool,” he said, before giving her his address, then telling her he’d see her when she arrived.
“And Cruze?” she said, low and husky.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“I hope you’re not planning on getting any sleep.”
With that said, she was gone. The line disconnected.
And Cruze felt his dick stretching, along with an unexpected smile.
Twenty-Five
Candles flickered, their flames dancing seductively across the walls, as Arabia’s heated breath cascaded over Cruze’s dick, and she parted her lips, stretching wide to accommodate the girth of him. She whimpered around the long, rigid column of flesh, and pleasure pulsed through him.
Oh how she loved sucking dick by candlelight. There was something sensual about flames flickering, something soothing, something sexy and wild. And Arabia felt wild—wild for fire, wild for cock, wild for delicious sin.
She breathed through her nostrils as Cruze tangled his fingers into her hair and palmed her head with his hands. Slowly, he thrust in and out of her mouth. Her mouth was hot and silky and so very wet. She peeked up at him underneath her lashes to see his face etched in ecstasy. She decided to allow him to take her mouth. Give him control—something she rarely did when it came to fellatio. But she’d give it, only for a moment.
Mmm.
His grip on her head tightened and his hips moved fluidly in and out, his dick sliding over her tongue again and again and again. His thrusts deepened. Then he started fucking her mouth as if he was fucking her pussy, and she hadn’t choked or gagged. Yeah, this broad was a pro.
Arabia blinked, her eyes brimming with tears. Oh hell no! He was trying to gut her throat, smash out her tonsils, beat up her uvula. She reached up and grabbed his hands, prying them from her head, then smacking them down.
She shot him a telling look, one that warned him to keep off her damn head, and out of her hair, then sucked him back into her mouth.
Cruze frowned. What the fuck?
He wasn’t accustomed to having his hands slapped away, or some pushy-ass broad trying to be in control. He wasn’t used to a female being so aggressive and commanding in the sheets. But, Arabia took the dick, sucked it, like she owned it.
He clenched his fists at his sides. Fuck it. If she wanted to control how she gave him head, then have at it. She could suck him until her jaws locked for all he cared.
Unh, shit . . .
Her tongue and mouth moved synchronously over his dick. Cruze shut his eyes, and allowed himself to get swept up in the heat. He hadn’t expected to be laid up with her again. It’d been two weeks since he’d seen her last—the night after their pseudo-dinner date, the night she so boldly invited him into a bathroom stall of a busy restaurant for dessert. And, damn, that had probably been the best dessert he’d had in his life. The memory alone hardened his dick.
She was wild as hell. And—yes—a sexy-ass freak.
Still, he hadn’t wanted to see her again. Truth was, all she was good for was a good fuck. And he’d fucked her good—damn good—twice already. A third time wasn’t usually his thing; although Laila had been one of those rare exceptions where he’d pushed up into her guts regularly; more out of convenience than anything else. Still, they’d been fuck buddies up until the night he fled New York. Other than her, giving out the dick had to be rationed. Or smashing out some broad more than twice would end with dire consequences. Like some bitch unraveling and stalking him.
Nah, he wasn’t built for the bullshit. After all the shit he’d been through, he was good on that. He’d learned a long time ago that broads usually started feigning for the dick after the first night of him fucking the shit out of them. By the second round, they were already planning a wedding, trying to chain a muhfucka down. And if they got the dick a third time, they officially became straitjacket crazy right after about the fifth stroke.
With that in mind, Cruze wasn’t sure how stable, or unstable, Arabia was. And he wasn’t interested in finding out what level of nutty she was on. He planned on shutting this—whatever this was—down, before shit got hectic, right after he got his nut. Truth was, he thrived off of variety. And loved an assortment of pussy at his beck and call. All he wanted was some occasional companionship, good pussy, good head—a different face, a different hole. Nothing more.
Bitches couldn’t be trusted for anything else.<
br />
But he couldn’t deny it. There was something about her that had him . . .shit . . . she had him bugging.
And he didn’t like it, not one damn bit.
Cruze always prided himself on having self-control—over pussy, over drugs, over alcohol, over anything that would become a distraction in his life. Distractions could get a muhfucka killed. So he learned to do everything, except stacking paper, in moderation. He never wanted any of it to become his kryptonite.
He’d already experienced that shit once with Ramona. Being all fucked up over some broad. That shit was crippling. No way in hell he was about to go there again. Bomb-ass head game or not, it wasn’t going to happen.
Period.
So what was it about her that had him stretched out on his bed, naked, with his dick disappearing in and out of her mouth, and him wanting more of her?
Shit. Damn if he knew.
And that bothered the hell out of him. There was definitely chemistry between them, he’d admitted to himself before he’d called her—sexual chemistry that thickened the air, and made him lightheaded and almost swallow his tongue.
Wait, then again . . . maybe it wasn’t that—the carnal attraction—that had his head spinning. Maybe it was the fact that Arabia suddenly did some kind of trick with her tongue that sent chills reeling through his body.
Her fingertips skittered along the trail of hair that led from his navel to his magnificent dark-chocolate cock, lightly brushing over his skin—while licking under his balls, unexpectedly making him moan and shiver. She bounced them up on her tongue, curling and swirling the wet organ over and around his swelling sac, savoring the taste of him—the manly flavor of his skin, the hint of musk, his maleness on her tongue. So delicious.
Arabia moaned, her tongue and lips sliding up the side of his dick. She licked over the two thick veins that roped over the top of his shaft, and cupped his heavy balls. Every inch of him felt like heated steel. Arabia stroked the length of him once . . . twice . . . thrice, grazing the head of his dick with her thumb.
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