by Meesha Mink
Sorry. I’m not goin’ be able to do it.
Right now, I need her more than I ever needed any woman. I watch her like a hawk as she parks in front of our building and climbs her big ass out the car.
Don’t get me wrong, Shaterica is finer than a motherfucker with that good hair, sweet caramel complexion, big eyes that can make a dude’s knees go weak, and those Angie Stone lips that are made to kiss or to suck a dick. But it’s below her neck that it all goes the fuck downhill. She makes up two Angie Stones and a Mo’nique. The pussy good. Shit, the pussy is damn good, but Shaterica’s a big bitch and it’s some major exercise to get to that motherfucker. For real.
She walks around the car and waves to someone across the courtyard. My eyes shift in that direction. I ain’t surprised to see them two old ladies sittin’ they nosy ass in their usual spots by their buildings. They ain’t shit but a couple of fuckin’ spoons, always dippin’ in people business and shit when they old ass should be feelin’ bad that they gone die in the projects. Over a hundred years between the both of them and they ass ain’t made it no further than the front door of their damn buildings.
Fuck ’em.
My eyes shift again and I see Delia headed behind the building across from me with one of Kaseem’s foot soldiers. One good blow for another. Dumb bitch.
While I wait on my girl to waddle her ass up them two flight of stairs to the apartment, I turn away from the window and kick off my jeans and boxers. My oversized Rocawear white T-shirt goes flying on one of the many piles of dirty clothes on the floor. I lay back on the squeaky full-sized bed that is as square and flat as a big-ass box of cereal. Last, but not least, I jerk my hip to the side to make that long, thick dick of mine lay across my thigh like a snake.
See, I know Shaterica. I been inside of her life, her pussy, her apartment, but most important her motherfuckin’ head. And trust that there ain’t much goin’ on inside that motherfucker. This bitch loves me and this big dick of mine. And once I lay the right words and the right dickin’ down on her dumb ass, she will do exactly what I want her to do. She better.
The thin-ass fake wooden door of the bedroom swings open and she strolls in, turnin’ sideways to walk in the room.
“Damn, I missed you, baby,” I tell her, reachin’ out for her with my arms spread wide and already knowin’ she’s comin’ straight to me.
“I missed you too,” she says, sitting her fake Gucci purse on the bed as she looks around the room. “But why you ain’t clean up? I worked hard all night long and I don’t like my room lookin’ like this, Rhakmon.”
This bitch act like this the motherfuckin’ Ritz. More like The Shitz. I start to flip on her ass but I got bigger fish to fry than an argument about some dirty-ass bedroom. “Baby, when I tell you the trouble my ass in you gonna forget ’bout this dirty room just like I did.”
She looks concerned and shit. “What’s goin’ on?” she asks me, her southern girl accent thick as hell.
I drop my head in my hands and I don’t look up until tears are in my eyes. “I…I…shot this guy last night—”
“What?”
For a hot second I think I lost her when she steps back from me and puts one of her pudgy hands over her mouth. Fuck that, I need this big bitch, so I cry like when I was eight and my grandmother, Mom-Mom, was about to whup my ass with a switch. Snot runnin’. Shoulders shakin’. Chest heavin’. Eyes red like a motherfucker.
Seconds later I feel her hands on my shoulders pullin’ me back toward her soft-ass body. “Talk to me, Rhak. Tell me what’s goin’ on, baby.”
“I didn’t mean to do…do it,” I tell her as I turn on the edge of the bed and press my face against her big old titties. “He tried to carjack me last night—”
“Last night? In my car?”
I nod and I don’t look up because I don’t want her to see I’m lyin’ my ass off. “Before you went to work.”
She leans back from me and I lean into her, not lettin’ her get the fuck away. I need her. I need her bad as hell. “Did someone see you shoot him?” she asks.
I know her. I really know her. I make it my job to know the ins and outs of every bitch I fuck with so that I know just how far to push them for what I want.
“I don’t know, baby.”
She presses my head closer to her chest and one of her nipples is hard and poking through her orange T-shirt. I ain’t gone lie. I had to fight the urge to reach out with my mouth and suck that motherfucker. Big titties is big titties and Shaterica had a set of 50s made to suck.
I wrap my arms around her wide-ass waist and hug her body close to mine. “I already got two assaults charges on my record and if I get caught my ass might get a murder charge. That’s fuckin’ life or the death penalty or some shit, Sha. What the fuck I’m gone do?”
Her hands are rubbing circles on my back. Takin’ care of a nigga. “But you said he tried to carjack you, so ain’t that self-defense?”
I look at her like she crazy. “For a black man in Georgia?”
“I know, baby. I know.”
“This shit fucks up everythin’ when they catch me, Sha.” I drop my head in my hands again. “How the fuck we gone get married and have a baby if my ass locked up behind some dumb shit.”
And that’s when my body gets still as hell because I just dropped the kicker. The deal breaker. The motherfuckin’ showstopper.
“Get married? Have a baby?”
Her big body is shakin’—fuckin’ shakin’—and shit. Women are so fuckin’ easy to play.
Before I look up at her, I make sure my face is sadder than a motherfucker. “Damn right, Shaterica. I love you, girl. This was supposed to be our year. Just when everythin’ is goin’ our way here come this bullshit.”
I look deep into her eyes and I see all I want to see. The trust. The love. The devotion. The desire to help a nigga out.
“If I get locked up I’m gonna die or get life and then me and you ain’t gone never be.” Fuck it, pushin’ that shit home once more ’gain ain’t gone hurt a damn thing.
She drops her head on top of mine and I feel her tears wet my cheek as she cries. “I can’t live without you, Rhakmon. Fuck that. I ain’t gone live without you.”
Bingo.
“What can I do, baby? Just tell me and I’ll do anything for you. Fuck the dumb shit.”
See, she works at night and a nigga like me had all night to get this shit together for her ass bright and early this mornin’ when she got off work. Still, I hoped and wished like a motherfucker but who knew if it would work.
“Unless…”
“Unless what?” she asks, jumpin’ right on it.
“Naw, I couldn’t ask you to do that for me.”
Shaterica puts her hand on my chin and pulls my face up so that I am lookin’ into her eyes again. “It ain’t for me. It’s for us. Tell me what I gotta do for my man and I’m gonna make it do what it do, baby.”
“You could say that he tried to jack you and you shot him. Without a record and you’re a woman, they’ll believe you.”
Her face scrunches up. “Wait a min—”
“This way we can be married this year and get the fuck up outta this ratty motherfucking projects…together.”
“Together?” she asks sounding like a six-year-old child and not a grown-ass woman.
I stand up and press my face into her neck as I grind my dick against the softness of her belly. Like I said, the pussy good as a motherfucker and my dick gets hard as the jail time I’m duckin’ like a motherfucker. My hands massage her ass as I suck her neck. When I feel her body shiver and her hands come down to grab my ass like it’s goin’ somewhere, I know this dickin’ down is just the last push I need to get her ass down to the police station. Oh, I’m gone fuck this bitch like I ain’t never fucked any bitch in my life.
Peep this—and don’t hate the playa—but I just talked this girl into takin’ a murder charge for me. Oh, I’m a bad boy. For real.
7
The
Dealer
The last thing I am is a stereotype. I completely blow this jacked-up vision of what a drug dealer is supposed to be. I don’t walk around carrying guns and shit. My trunk is filled with shopping bags, not concealed weapons. My ass ain’t angry. I’m not stupid as fuck—I even have my associates degree in Computer Technology. I’ve never ordered nobody killed and don’t plan on it. I don’t even smoke weed and I hardly ever drink. The last thing I am is a 2008 version of Nino Brown. I don’t want to do shit but make my money, dress my ass off, get bitches, do good by my people, and have fun. Fuck it.
The thing is, it ain’t just the people out of the hood that got that hyped-up version of what the fuck I’m supposed to say and do. Now, don’t get me wrong, my ass ain’t soft worth a damn but I’m no Maleek. That motherfucker would choke a fool out over fifty damn dollars.
My boys want me to be the same way.
From where I’m leaning against the rear of my milk-white Cadillac, I cut my eyes over to the corner at the sound of someone hollering out in pain. Okay, not someone. I know exactly who the fuck it is and I know exactly why that cat gettin’ his ass beat by Usher. Lloyd got caught with his hand in the cookie jar big-time. Since Usher caught him, Usher is making it his personal project to punish him.
I wince as Usher delivers a fisted blow that lands against Lloyd’s dark jaw. A sound like ice being crushed echoes and my stomach turns as blood gushes from his mouth.
Being in some deserted parking lot late at night whuppin’ some fool’s ass until he’s bloody isn’t my type of fucking party. “That’s enough,” I call over to Usher just as Lloyd’s body slumps to his knees and his head lags back.
Usher delivers another slap against his bloodied cheek. WHAP!
I push off the car to rise to my sneakered feet. “I said that’s enough,” I stress, my voice hard. I demand to be heard when I speak. I never forget my position. My Air Force 1s eat up the space between me and them. I reach them in just enough time to catch Usher’s fist before it lands another blow.
He swings his head to look at me. His eyes are red with rage and his chest is heaving like some fucking bull or some shit. His mouth is curled in disgust. Sweat’s popping off this motherfucker’s head like crazy.
What the fuck? Usher look like a black-ass devil. Evil as fuck. He lookin’ like he ready to kill a motherfucker.
“What?” he asks, like he confused or some shit.
I look at him long and hard. “That’s enough, Usher,” I stress to him again. Ain’t nobody trying to kill a motherfucker over no dope or sense of fucking honor. Like I said, I ain’t no fucking gangsta. Scarface, Godfather and Goodfellas don’t have me fucked up.
He shakes his bald head like he trying to clear his shit as I undo his fingers from being clutched so tight around the front of Lloyd’s bloody shirt. I look down at him for the first time and the chicken and waffles I had for lunch start to come back up. I swallow hard as hell hoping I didn’t vomit. His lips are so swollen and bloody they look fake. One of his teeth is hanging loose from his gum. His left eye is swollen shut already and the right one is bloodshot. His nose is twisted to the side and there is a deep gash on his chin—probably from the platinum bulldog ring Usher wears on his right hand. Damn. He fucked up.
As soon as he is free, Lloyd scrambles to his feet and finds the strength to run like Kunta Kinte across the parking lot.
“Why the fuck you lettin’ him get away?” Usher roars from behind me; his voice sounds as rough as the asphalt we standin’ the fuck on.
The white of Lloyd’s wifebeater and sneakers gets smaller as he runs for his life. I turn just in time to see the streetlight glint against the steel 9mm in Usher’s tight grip. It’s pointed in Lloyd’s direction.
POW!
Just as the gun fires I jerk his hand up, sending the bullet up into the night air. “Are you fucking crazy?” I yell at him.
“Shit,” he swears as Lloyd disappears around an abandoned Pick and Save.
I shove my hands into my linen shorts as I walk away from him. “This what the fuck you brought me here for? This fake-ass gangsta shit?” I ask him in a low voice as I stop and turn back to look at him.
Usher slides his gun back under his shirt before he uses one large hand to wipe the sweat from his face. “I brought you here so you can man up and handle these motherfuckers. How the hell you gone run these streets and your ass be lettin’ niggas handle you any kind of way?”
I just shake my damn head as I look up to the sky. I got enough patience to count every fucking star. “This is about business for me. Plain and simple. Supply and demand.”
Usher nods. “I hear what you sayin’. These young fools just be pissin’ me off with that thievin’ bullshit.”
“Don’t sweat it,” I tell him as I pull my keys out my pocket and walk to my car.
“I’m just used to Maleek’s way of doing things,” Usher offers as he frowns at the blood staining his dark hand.
“My way or the hard fucking way,” we say together.
I don’t say shit else as we climb into the car. Even as we eventually ride up Piedmont with my system straight blasting, my thoughts are filled with the bullshit involved in the game—the part of the game that I don’t want no part of.
The motherfuckers caught up in the money, power, and respect of pushing the type of weight I deal in.
The wannabe ganstas thinking dope dealing and violence had to go hand in hand.
These bitch-ass niggas looking to take my spot.
Motherfuckers pressing me to handle these streets hard as hell like I’m Gotti or some shit. Motherfuckers better stop taking them rap videos and movies so fucking serious. Any three motherfuckers with the same color shirt calling themselves a gang and out there killing people to prove it.
Always being on my toes to stay the fuck out of jail or at the end of some young buck’s damn gun.
Always having to be two steps ahead of everything and every damn body.
I ain’t gone lie and say my conscience all fucked up because I’m helping to kill up black people with drugs, because I believe whether I do it or the next man, a junkie gone be a damn junkie. And I ain’t one of them motherfuckers handing out dope for free hoping to hook new customers or getting kids to sell for me. I deal with nothing but grown-ass folks who know damn well what the fuck they doing.
Still, I’m tired as hell but as long as my ass in the game I know I got to deal with this shit. I gots to do what the fuck I gots to do. I knew that from the first time I got in where I fit in at fifteen. It’s going to stay that way until I get out…which is no time soon.
“Maw-Maw,” I call out as I close the wooden front door of the house. The scent of something cooking makes my stomach grumble. It reminds me how hungry I am.
The wooden floors and crystal chandelier of the foyer is a long damn way from either my apartment or the dirty tiled floors of Bentley Manor. This is my parents’ three-thousand-square-foot home in Alpharetta, Georgia. When they did live in Atlanta it was a long way from spots like Bentley Manor. They weren’t rich but my mother’s a registered nurse and my father owns a real estate business…so they are comfortable as fuck. And my life here in the burbs was comfortable, too. Really, my spoiled ass had no business out in those streets hustling….
“Man, if y’all really want to make some money I can help you out…for real.”
Usher and I were sitting on his bumpy and beat-down twin bed, looking up at his eighteen-year-old cousin Pee-Wee like he was Biggie or some shit. He was tall, with a fresh fade and enough gold jewelry to open his own store. Every time he moved, his jewelry flashed until my eyes fucking hurt. We were just fifteen. Young as hell and easy to impress. And right then, Pee-Wee was the shit.
From the minute Usher and I sat next to each other in our eighth-grade homeroom class we became the best of friends. It was my first year there and I was glad to have a friend as cool and popular as Usher. For me everything about his life was new and different. I was soaki
ng it all in. The busy-ass three-bedroom apartment where he lived with his mother, three brothers, his aunt, and her four kids. The bunch of people always hanging in the halls or in the front of the project building where they lived. The cars riding by with their systems booming. Random fights between hot girls who would beat and strip each other all at the same time.
There was always something jumping off in the hood and it was different as hell from my life. Different and fun. Different and exciting. Different and addictive. I spent more and more time in Usher’s world.
“Y’all look like a couple of hard heads looking for some pussy to spray in,” Pee-Wee said, his short and pointy tongue running across his bottom grills as he reached in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a wad of money.
Our mouths dropped open as he began to count it in our faces.
“Money makes the world go ’round and the drawers go down, young bucks. You understand?”
We nodded like we were in a damn trance or some shit.
Pee-Wee’s money fanned out as he gestured with his hands. “I know I’m a ugly motherfucker. Fuck that. I’m like Biggie, keepin’ it real, you know?”
He leaned forward and lightly tapped the money against our cheeks. “But this here money makes sure I gets all the pussy I need from all the bitches I need it from. These birds out there today about one thing…and this is it.”
Fifteen, horny as hell, and tired of jacking my own dick? Pee-Wee’s shit was sounding like a damn plan.
“For real?” I asked, ready to get next to something other than my damn hand.
Pee-Wee made a face like “of course.” “I paid Georgia twenty dollars to suck my dick in the cafeteria yesterday,” he boasted.
Shee-it. My dick got hard right then and there.
“Fine-ass Georgia Wilson with the big ass?” Usher asked.
Pee-Wee nodded like “for sure.”
“Where you get all that money from, Pee-Wee?” Usher asked.
Pee-Wee shoved the money back in his pocket and walked over to the banged-up bedroom door to peek out. The constant sounds of the TV and radios blaring mingled with people talking got a little louder than before. As soon as he shut it, it lowered again to a muffle.