Hustlin' Divas

by De'nesha Diamond

  “Take this dick! Take it!”

  I’m losing consciousness. The vibrant colors slowly fade, but there’s still a bright light shining in the distance.

  Python roars and releases the bag as his hot nut blasts onto my ass and then all over the python tattoo on the center of my back. “Sssss. Goddamn, baby.”

  The sudden rush of oxygen is a shock to my system. I cough and wheeze as he pulls the bag from my head. Tears sting the back of my eyes, but I fight the muthafuckas back with everything I have, which is harder than when he dug the bullet out of my arm. Weak but still tingling, a smile softens the corners of my lips.

  “Sssss. You liked that, didn’t you, baby?”

  “You know it, baby,” I croak, and force a smile on my face.

  Python smears and swishes his seed around my back with his still-rock-hard erection. When my back is good and glazed, he orders me to clean him up again. By the time it’s all over, we’re sated and passing a fat cigar-sized blunt between us.

  I snuggle close and absently trace the numerous bullet hole scars on his chest. He’d been shot seventeen times since he’d been inducted into the gang life, and none of them came close to killing his ass, but seventeen niggas got dropped for the attempt. “You feel good, Daddy?”

  “Fuck. You know you got the sweetest ass in Memphis.” He winks and flicks his wicked tongue out at me.

  “All for you.” I smile and accept the blunt for my toke.

  “It better be.” He reaches behind me and squeezes his prized possession. “If I ever catch another nigga digging in my spot, I’ll fuckin’ squash that ass, Momma.” He pulls the blunt from my lips and takes another hit. “Believe me greasy on that shit.”

  I love it when he gets all possessive. It’s the only way I can tell he really cares. But I also believe I’m not the only bitch in the Queen Gs he’s throwing dick to—but at least he isn’t stupid enough to throw shade over my game in front of my face, and neither are any of his gangsta hoes. Long as we keep that shit going, everything is everything. The number-one problem between us is trust. Python doesn’t trust no fucking body, except for Momma Peaches, and sometimes he be looking at her sideways, too.

  “What?” Python asks.

  “Hmm?” I glance up from his tattooed and scarred chest.

  “What the fuck you thinking so goddamn hard about? I can damn near see smoke coming out of your ears.” He chuckles and passes the blunt back. “Tell your man what the fuck is on your mind.”

  “Mmmm. My man,” I croon. “I love the sound of that.”

  “You better like that shit. You’re the Bonnie to my Clyde, ain’t you, girl?” He kisses me again.

  “You know it, Daddy.”

  His thick lips stretch into another grotesque smile. “That’s why I fuck with you. Your ass is down for any and everything.” His fingers drift lightly over my sore neck. “You know how to really get a nigga off. You play your cards right and nigga just might have to wife you.”

  I light up. “Really?”

  “You keep passing these tests, baby girl. Word is bond.” He takes the blunt from my hand, stubs it out with his fingers, and puts it aside. “Now get on up here and sit on my face. Daddy still hungry.”

  My body is still tingling and wet, but I quickly climb up into a sixty-nine and melt like butter when he parts my cheeks and tries to suck the nut he’d just planted there a few minutes ago out my ass. Before I can blast my own cum all over his face, Dr. Dre’s classic “The Chronic” blasts from his cell phone. With his “business before pleasure” motto, he reaches over to the nightstand.

  “Talk to me,” he says, answering his phone with my ass still hovering above his face. Then the energy in the room saps out when his baritone voice drops to a dangerous level. “Say that shit again.” He slaps me on the ass, and I scramble off him. “Gather some top-notch niggas. We’re rolling through.” He jumps out of bed as he disconnects the call.

  “Daddy, what’s goin’ on?” I ask, leaping out of the bed after him.

  “We finally found that nigga.” He laughs, snatching his clothes off the floor.

  “Found who?”

  “Who the fuck you think? Fat Ace. Nigga is up at the Med visiting some muthafucka.” He grabs his gat. “We’re going to handle this shit tonight.”

  I turn toward my own clothes. “Hold up. I’m coming with you to earth this muthafucka!”

  13

  Ta’Shara

  The stench of evil rolls off of Fat Ace in waves and threatens to choke me. For years I’ve heard of the man. As with most stories about niggas on the street, I don’t know what’s true and what’s urban legend.

  To say that Fat Ace is a big man would be an understatement. To say that he is fat would be a downright lie. Truth of the matter is, Fat Ace, even folded into a metal chair, is a giant. His chest alone is as massive as the side of a mountain, and as far as I can see, his arm muscles even had muscles. His head is the size of a sixteen-pound bowling ball and just as black and shiny on top. His eyes are hidden behind a pair of black shades, his nose is large but not broad, and his lips, framed in a thin goatee, are big and thick.

  Fat Ace and Profit look absolutely nothing alike.

  “Appears that you’ve been holding out on me, lil bro.” Fat Ace’s voice is low and rough, like his throat has filled with shards of broken glass. “This your girl?”

  A corner of Profit’s lips kick up as he reaches out and grabs my hand. “That’s right. This is my shawty, Ta’Shara. Baby girl, this is my brother, Fat Ace.” He winks at me. “I bet you can’t guess why they call him that.”

  When Fat Ace laughs, his chest rumbles and the entire room vibrates.

  Essence inches closer to me and Profit. I don’t know what to make of this muthafucka either.

  “My lil nigga always got jokes.” Fat Ace smirks, shifting a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other.

  Even though I can’t see his eyes, I can feel them roaming over my body.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around before,” Fat Ace says suddenly. “Where do you stay?”

  It’s a loaded question and everyone in the room knows it.

  My fingers clamp around Profit’s while Essence practically becomes closer than my damn shadow.

  “Nigga, will you squash that bullshit? How you going to sit there and interrogate my woman? You see her ass cares for a nigga.” Profit lifts my hand and brushes a kiss against my knuckles.

  Fat Ace cocks his head at his younger brother. “How the fuck you gone tell me what to do, lil man? In case you forgot, we’re in the midst of a muthafuckin’ war with those grimy ass Gangster Disciples. Muthafuckas dropping our family like a fuckin’ bad habit. They started this shit and we going to finish it.”

  I sense Essence reaching toward her pocket, but I’m too afraid to say anything or try to warn her. All I can do is pray that my girl don’t do anything stupid—like get us killed.

  “Trust when I say these muthafuckas got people everywhere. To be straight up, I don’t know these two bitches from Adam.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to check his ass for calling me outside my Christian name, a habit most niggas learn early, but this time fear chokes off my vocal cords and I can do little more than just stand here and take the verbal abuse.

  “Bro, again, this is my woman. We’ve been kicking it for a long while now. I ain’t going to abide you calling her all kinds of bitches.”

  In that moment, I witness something that I’ve either never seen or ignored in my man. No, he isn’t as large and domineering as his brother, but there’s a quiet strength about him that hints at a darkness that lies just below the surface. I feel it and I have a sneaking suspicion that Fat Ace feels it as well.

  “I know you’re tryna impress your girl and everything, but I suggest you get that bass up out your voice,” Fat Ace says, reclaiming authority.

  “I…we stay over off Cowden in midtown,” I squeak.

  “There, are you satisfied?”
Profit challenges, annoyed. “My girl ain’t into all that gangbanging bullshit. I told you before that you can have that.”

  Fat Aces continues to smirk. “What you call gangbanging, I call street politics.” He stands up from his chair and towers over all of us. “And you’re looking at the muthafuckin’ president of these here United Streets.” He reaches up and finally removes his sunglasses.

  My heart drops to the soles of my feet when I look into one brown eye and one milky white eye. The sight of it curls my stomach. I want to look away—I try to look away, but I just…can’t. I’m riveted by what I’m seeing.

  “Look, I didn’t risk coming up here to watch you face fuck your girlfriend or argue with you over bullshit. I just wanted to see for myself how you were holding it down.” He slaps hands with his brother, and they add a small fist bump for unity. “I heard how you handled your shit like a true solider with that racist pig O’Malley.”

  “You know that white nigga?”

  “Sheeeiiit. Everybody knows that slick muthafucka. Always rolling through the sets like he owns the whole fuckin’ city. If you ask me, the wigga just wish he was out here making this real paper. The muthafucka always jack niggas shit without an arrest. NahwhatImean?”

  Profit bobs his head. “I can see that shit. Muthafucka has a real chip on his shoulder. His ass is pissed that he had nothing to charge me with. Maybe it was a good thing I wasn’t strapped.”

  “Nah. You could have easily blasted your way through those fools.”

  I’m dying to ask again what happened, but I figure I’ll get a clearer answer once Fat Ace leaves.

  “But I tell you what, your boy is a crazy muthafucka out there. He damn near got my ass killed.” Clearly Profit left out a name on purpose. “I don’t know what the fuck he was doing with that cop, but you might want to check to see if he’s on that shit.”

  Fat Ace bobs his head. “Yo, leave that shit to me, man. I’ll handle it. You just chill the fuck out and take care of yourself.” Another slap and a dab. “You rolling up out of here tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. First thing, man. I don’t like all this hospital bullshit.”

  “A’ight, then. I’ll make sure someone picks you up. One, nigga.” He slides his shades back over his eyes and tilts his head toward me and Essence, who’d become a mute during this whole time. “Maybe I’ll see you around again, shawty.”

  I just stare at him.

  Fat Ace laughs and then strolls toward the door. “Let’s roll out,” he tells his people before the door swings closed behind him.

  I finally expel the air I had trapped in my lungs and then immediately glance back over my shoulder at Essence.

  “Don’t say shit to me,” E snaps through gritted teeth. “I’m so fuckin’ mad at your ass right now I can hardly see straight.” She jerks her gaze away and folds her arms.

  Profit lifts and kisses my hand. “You do realize that we just came out of the closet?” His eyes sparkle. “Sort of speak.”

  “It didn’t seem as if we really had a choice.”

  Profit laughs. “Damn, Ma. You should feel special. I ain’t never introduced a girl to my family before like that. And I damn sure haven’t been willing to take no beatdown over them either. ’Cause trust my brother’s right hook ain’t for the faint of heart.” He pinches my cheek. “Ain’t that at least worth a smile or something?”

  “Profit, what happened?” I ask, needing some answers.

  Smiling, he reaches up and brushes his hand against my cheek. “C’mon, baby. I don’t want you to be all worried about that shit. Everything is fine now. That’s all that matters.”

  “You’re lying up here in the hospital with a bullet hole in your shoulder.”

  “It’s no big thang, baby girl. Really. It’s just a little sore.”

  “What. Happened?” I insist.

  He looks as if he is going to hold out, but seeing how visibly upset I am, he caves. “Ah, baby. I’m not all that sure my damn self. I was just out chillin’, hangin’ with some friends. One of the niggas said that he had to roll and stack some paper and asked if I wanted to come with. Shit. He said it wasn’t goin’ to take too long, and I’ve known him for a hot minute. I didn’t think shit of it, you know?”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, the nigga has been known to smoke a few too many las from time to time, and before we rolled out, I wondered if the muthafucka was too blazed up, but you know, sometimes it’s hard to tell. Anyway, we get over on Sharpe, then suddenly I can’t go into this church where he’s supposed to be meeting up with someone. He just wanted me to hang outside for a few and then we were going to keep it moving.” Profit shook his head. “But a few minutes after he entered that building, all hell broke loose. I was just tryna get out the muthafuckin’ way.

  “I guess my boy was carrying some serious firepower in that dufflel bag he was carrying, ’cause this nigga was shooting up the joint: cars, streetlights—you name it. Yo, really. It was all a fuckin’ blur. I got caught up ’cause my ass wasn’t strapped.”

  “Wait,” Essence jumps in. “You were over in Orange Mound strolling without your gat like it was a muthafuckin’ park?” She twists up her face. “What? Are you stupid or something?”

  “E!” I elbow my girl.

  “What? Even a third grader knows better than that shit.”

  Profit laughs. “Ease up off of her, Shara. She’s right. Around here, if your ass ain’t dodging bullets from other niggas, you’re dodging them from the po-po. Trust. I’ve learned my muthafuckin’ lesson.”

  RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!

  POP! POP! POP!

  “What the fuck?”

  I jump. “That can’t be…”

  POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!

  RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!

  “Niggas are up in the muthafuckin’ hospital shooting?” Essence says, looking as stunned as I felt.

  “Ace,” Profit whispers, and then jumps out of the bed to rush toward the door.

  I quickly leap forward and grab his good arm and whip him back around. “You can’t go out there. What do you think you’re going to do?”

  POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!

  RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!

  “I gotta go help my brother!”

  He turns, but I hold firm. “How? By throwing yourself in front of a bullet? You don’t have a weapon!”

  POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!

  RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!

  “I gotta do something,” he shouts, and wrenches his arm free.

  “Wait!” I turn toward Essence. “Give me your gun.”

  Essence digs into her baggy pocket and pulls out her 9 mm.

  Profit’s eyes light up as he runs over and takes the gun. “Got an extra clip?”

  Essence bends over to her ankle and produces a second clip, then looks at me. “What?”

  “Y’all stay right here,” Profit says. “I’ll be right back.” He races toward the door, his naked butt cheeks flashing through the split up the back of his hospital gown.

  POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!

  RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!

  For a full three seconds, I try to stay put, but I can’t. “E, I’ll be right back!”

  “TA’SHARA, NO!”

  14

  LeShelle

  Python and I roll out of Shotgun Row with a dirty dozen Gangster Disciples and with enough artillery to go hard with the muthafuckin’ Taliban. Everybody is amped the fuck up, and I’m feeding off the danger and testosterone in Python’s ink-black ’77 Monte Carlo like a dope fiend. Behind us is the second group in a honey-colored ’71 Cutlass with McGriff at the wheel. The murder train is rolling through Memphis, and niggas are going to die tonight.

  “Six poppin’, five droppin,” Lethal barks.

  “FUCK YEAH!”

  Everyone wraps their blue scarves around the lower half of their faces and then checks or slaps in their clips, me included. I hope I’m the one to put a bullet in the center of Fat Ace’s large skull. A kill like that would clinch the deal on
Python giving me his last name. No question about it.

  The moment we hit Adams Street, we see the hospital looming large in the distance. It’s been only a few minutes, but it feels like it’s taking forever. Fantasies of how this shit can go down start to fill my head. I bounce in my seat and feel my nipples get harder than a muthafucka while my clit throbs to the same beat of my racing heart.

  “There that muthafucka go right there,” Python hisses, grabbing his TEC-9 and jamming hard on the trigger.

  RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!

  Those bitch-ass Vice Lords duck and scatter like the muthafuckin’ gutter rats they are. Half of them race back through the glass doors of the hospital, and the others dive behind parked cars or vans, but they quickly come up with their heat and start firing back.

  POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!

  RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!

  Two cars of GD assassins unload and start blasting at anything and everything that moves. It straight up sounds like we’re in the middle of a war zone. We dump so much heat at the thick glass doors that the muthafuckas explode, and glass falls like rain. Inside, people scream and try to get the hell out of the way. A few aren’t successful. Collateral damage.

  I feel a few bullets whiz by my head, singeing wisps of my hair, but I never once blink or stop shooting. One big, greasy muthafucka pokes his head around the bumper of a Toyota and lifts his gat, but I pick him off, slamming two bullets into his forehead.

  With four Vice Lords spilling their blood on the concrete, Python leads his crew in toward the entrance. He isn’t going to pass on this fucking opportunity to put Fat Ace’s ass in the earth for nothing in the world. None of us are—even with the sound of police sirens suddenly filling the night air. No surprise, those grimy muthafuckas hightailed it out of the main lobby. Judging by the droplets of blood on the floor, the muthafuckas separated.

  “Split up,” Python barks. He and a few of the crew take off in the direction of the emergency room.

  I end up running behind Lethal, G-Blast, and Lil Chuckee toward Radiology. I’m so high off the adrenaline that is pumping through my veins it feels like I’m floating. One good shot, I pray. That is all I need and this shit is a wrap.