Young and Hungry

by Ms. Michel Moore

  Young and Hungry

  Ms. Michel Moore and Marlon P.S. White

  www.urbanbooks.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I Can Touch the Bottom

  Urban Books, LLC

  97 N18th Street

  Wyandanch, NY 11798

  Young and Hungry

  Copyright © 2016 Ms. Michel Moore

  Copyright © 2016 Marlon P.S. White

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.

  ISBN: 978-1-6228-6728-8

  6

  This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.

  Distributed by Kensington Publishing Corp.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  “I can’t breathe! I can’t fucking breathe! Get your damn hands off me, you crazy, big son of a bitch! I ain’t bullshitting with you!”

  “Naw, dawg. I ain’t gonna be able to do it!”

  “You dead-ass wrong this time around, blood! I ain’t one of these average lames you used to playing the tough role with! I gets money!”

  “Look, youngin’, you might just wanna shut your damn mouth and miss me with all that. I gets money routine. You ain’t making no real noise in the city, only whispering in these streets, just like the next man,” Black Tone insisted, not letting up one bit.

  Li’l Ronnie’s breath reeked of stale cigarette smoke and liquor as his words rang out as he tried to negotiate a reprieve. “You tripping, nigga! Get your hands off me. You out of order!”

  “Naw, playboy. I’m afraid thangs done went too far for all that. See, now we done crossed over into the ‘zero fucks given’ zone. Ain’t no come back!”

  The shoulder-to-shoulder crowd inside the packed club was annoyed. Yet it was an unneeded and unwanted commotion that had to be dealt with. Never mind he was dismissing all of them, as if he was better than the next. They ignored that, some still sipping from their drinks. Amid the crowd’s idle chatter, they fought to understand the man’s muffled words. They could care less about his hate-filled pleas for mercy as their party had been abruptly interrupted. The houselights had come on. The music had ceased to play. And the cameraman was packing up for the evening. It was working on close to midnight, and this was the second “Adios, amigo” occurrence so far. People were starting to ask for their money back, and the owners and staff, including Black Tone, had finally had enough. Someone had to be made an example of if the establishment had any hope of maintaining order the rest of the evening and during the many nights soon to follow.

  Bullshit. Bitches. Bottles. It was just another wild, off-the-chain night at Detroit Live. No question that it was one of the hottest nightclubs in town, if not the hottest of them all. It always went down. Thursday thru Sunday was nonstop partying. That was an absolute given. Known for having a constant lineup of guests, ranging from local high-profile rappers and city councilmen to females who worked as cashiers at Wal-Mart and men who were janitors at the local elementary school, Detroit Live had somehow managed to avoid getting shut down. The nightclub had dodged various tickets and violations from the city officials, and it appeared that the powers that be worked in the owners’ favor. Until the city police, the FEDS, and the ATF raids and padlock notices showed up, if you wanted to turn up and be seen, the riverfront hot box was the place to do it, the place to get your gangsta reputation stripes.

  Of course, the usual suspects were in the house, further adding to the semi-controlled chaos at Detroit Live. Cases of champagne were being popped. Chicken wing bones were disrespectfully tossed underneath some tables. Gators ruled the floor, and packs of extra-long weave controlled the VIP booths. As always, when things were going too good, you could look forward to one, maybe two, simpleminded assholes showing up and showing out. Right here, right now was no different. Li’l Ronnie had got out of hand. Smacking random females on the ass and spitting at a couple of waitresses, he was gone. The nephew of Ethan, the most notorious heroin dealer on the east side of the Motor City, had blacked out. He’d let the top-shelf Hennessy VSOP and Seagram’s Gin double shots convince him that he was bigger than the game. Unfortunately for him and his pride, mixing dark and light liquors was the wrong answer. At least for tonight.

  “I told you, I can’t breathe! Get your hands off me, nigga!”

  “So damn what? You think I give a shit you can’t breathe? Do you?” Black Tone yelled.

  Li’l Ronnie had been snatched up out the booth by his thin-material designer T-shirt. The soles of his shoes failed to touch the floor as he was air dragged out of the red velvet roped-off area. Roughly escorted to the middle of the dance floor by his neck, Li’l Ronnie was on display as the elaborate lights continued to flash despite the houselights being up. As the young wannabe hooligan tried to maintain his swag, he was called out, no holds barred.

  “You all up in here like you running things here at the club. You was a boss back there in VIP, so, I’m begging you, by all means, be a boss out here!”

  “What?” he replied, acting as he had not heard the challenge.

  “You heard me. We all wanna see you show us how good you is with them hands you keep putting on my female customers’ asses. Step to me! That’s the only thing I want you to do. Try me!”

  Li’l Ronnie knew he was on Front Street. Through his intoxicated eyes, he saw several hood rats whispering, while a few others giggled. Friends and foes alike knew he had this coming. He’d been showing his natural black ass for the past twenty-five minutes or so; now it was time to pay the piper, aka Black Tone. Li’l Ronnie’s so-called crew had bailed on him no sooner than he’d initially started clowning. It wasn’t that they were soft, by any means. It was just that they knew this club, out of all spots in the coldhearted city they called home, was not the one to act a damn fool in. It was like signing up to get an automatic ass kicking.

  “I swear on everything I love, you li’l pussy, you better kill my black ass,” Li’l Ronnie bravely vowed as a few people yelled, “Worldstar!” with their cell phones held high. “’Cause if you don’t, that’s ya ass! I swear, you better kill me! I mean that shit!”

  Black Tone always stood tall. Not because he was six feet four and solid muscle, but because he had the heart of a warrior. He had unselfish intentions when it came to doing what he felt was right. The steadfast giant had the same demeanor every night he was at work. Whether
there was trouble or not, he was completely unbothered and committed to making things go smoothly. Some patrons needed a little extra attention in the “how to behave in public” department. And this was one of those circumstances.

  “So you gonna kill me, huh, big shot? Is that right, boy?” Black Tone showed no signs of leniency or remorse. He tightened his grip around the man’s throat and command marched him to the club’s front door. The second part of Li’l Ronnie’s night was about to begin. There would be no more second chances given. No more warnings. Fed up, Black Tone made it be known he was clean out of fucks to be issued. Therefore, it was easy to conclude, there was no hope of this situation having a happy ending for the ill-bred patron of the club that had a burning desire to pop off.

  “You better send me on my way, because I’m telling your big, goofy ass you don’t know who you dealing with. If you don’t let me go, that’s your life. You done,” Li’l Ronnie warned with conviction. Feeling that his bloodline with Ethan would garner him a free pass, he had tried this approach.

  It didn’t work. Li’l Ronnie had wanted to appear to be a superstar and to have all the attention on him that night. Well, his wish had been granted. Ironically, his uncle’s current girlfriend and a few of her friends were also in VIP. They were shaking their heads over what was taking place. Sable used to kick it with Li’l Ronnie when they were younger, before he went to juvenile and knew he didn’t have good sense. The part-time stripper and full-time female hustler knew how her teenage love would get when he was drunk. At this moment she chose to turn her head, so as not to see firsthand what was surely coming next.

  With a stunned audience in awe, Black Tone proceeded to skull drag Li’l Ronnie out the front entrance of the club. “Well, then, that’s just gonna be my ass! See, don’t nobody come up in this club, acting out like they ain’t got no type of home training. That ain’t what we do here. Matter of fact, while I’m thinking about it, why don’t you slap the fire outta my mouth? You know, like you said you was gonna do to the waitress if she didn’t hurry her ugly ass back with your drinks. Talk that bullshit to me, youngin’. Spit at me!” Without so much as breaking a sweat, Black Tone tossed Li’l Ronnie near the valet shed that housed all the keys, causing it to shake. “That Hennessey courage you rocking with gonna have you on an all-liquid diet if you keep messing around with me. Now, go somewhere and get on, before shit really gets real!”

  Reaching both hands around his own sore neck, Li’l Ronnie stared up from the concrete pavement. His pride had been damaged. Known for being a beast in his small circle, he’d shamefully been outnumbered by one person. The immature man-child now understood the true meaning of being up shit creek without a paddle. Promptly, Li’l Ronnie took several deep breaths. Relieved to be free from the beating he’d ultimately caused from his reckless mouth, he secretly thanked God. Not wanting to appear openly straight pussy, he dumbly continued to act as if he could go another couple of rounds with Black Tone. “Dude, you should’ve killed me. I swear on everything I love, you should’ve! Now, that’s gonna be your ass!”

  “Look, get the hell on before I really get pissed! This ain’t what you really want. Not now, not never.” Black Tone glared down at the intoxicated idiot, knowing he was talking out the side of his neck. He’d been in enough altercations with enough guys throughout the years to know when a buster really wanted that bloodthirsty rhythm and was prepared to dance or not. This was a no-brainer. He knew Li’l Ronnie wasn’t about that life or nothing that came with it. Black Tone was ready to bet big money on the fact that even if this dude was related to Ethan, as he claimed to be, his DNA must be tainted. Black Tone and Ethan had had a mutual understanding for the past year or so. Trying to remain as low key as possible, he would never condone or tolerate anyone set claiming his name on no bullshit drunk tirade at the club, especially one that Black Tone was presiding over.

  “You done messed up, big man, Watch!” Still out of sorts, Li’l Ronnie leaned on the side of the wooden valet shed and got back up on his feet. It was apparent to all he had revenge on his mind and the thought of murder in his heart. Humiliated, he wobbled toward the parking lot, trying to dust the dirt off his clothes. “On my life, nigga, that’s gonna be your ass,” he proclaimed over his shoulder before climbing in his car and finally driving off into the darkness of the night.

  “Okay, lame. Let it be known. I don’t give two shits about ya’ life! Matter of fact, fuck your life!” Black Tone shouted loudly at Li’l Ronnie’s taillights before turning his full attention back to the growing crowd. “Okay, listen up. I’m talking to you wannabe gangsters and you broads too. Move all that cheap weave out y’all ears. Pay y’all asses careful attention. See that dude that just came flying out the front door headfirst? He was an asshole. He likes to talk shit to waitresses and spit at them. He likes to order bottles, then not pay. He was an idiot. If you hope to not end up like his stupid ass, then you might not wanna try any of that bullshit.” Black Tone’s voice was beyond stern. His facial expression matched his pitch. He had just about enough ruckus for the night and was not willing to put up with any more. “So to ensure y’all don’t, I’ma need y’all to pump y’all’s brakes and slow this shit all the way down!”

  The boisterous crowd huddled together. They were all ears, anticipating gaining entry to the already packed establishment. But not before getting a clear understanding about how things were going to go down from this point moving forward.

  “It ain’t gonna be no more people getting through these front doors if you good folks don’t wanna play the game right. Let’s make this shit flow easy, and we all gonna have a good night.” The menacing bouncer’s heartfelt words echoed off the nightclub’s paint-chipped concrete wall as a slight chill from the river filled the damp air.

  “What about if you just have your paper ID?” some smart-ass interjected, much to the disgust of others waiting on line.

  “Look, nigga! My house, my damn rules! Y’all understand? So have your IDs, not any Photoshop paper, out in your hand. And please don’t try no ‘I ain’t got it with me’ scam. I ain’t in the mood for it. I’m warning you. Not tonight!”

  “Yeah. Y’all heard him. Not tonight with that slick bullshit!” A girl in the rear cosigned, hoping to gain brownie points and possibly jump the long line.

  “Now, the bad news is my dog got hit by a damn car this morning and was killed. That toy poodle was my best friend in the world. Now he’s gone! He died in my goddamned arms, and I’m sick about it!” Black Tone was talking his regular shit, but with him, people could never really tell, so no one wanted to risk laughing. He was overly intimidating with his words, but far better with his handwork. So for the anxious partygoers, why take a chance of getting choked out on the humble? They, like most people he’d encountered, let him do what he did and say what he said. As long as they got into the club, that was all that mattered, to most.

  “Wow. That’s so sad,” the same female replied while tugging down her tight-fitting skirt.

  Stretching out his arms, Black Tone appeared even bigger than life than he normally did. “But guess what? Lucky for me, the good news is, for all the hell my black ass know, it was one of y’all suspicious-looking bastards driving that Honda.” He slowly eye fucked the crowd with a devilish grin. He managed to make each one feel guilty for some bullshit they know they had nothing to do with, and nervous too. “So I gotsa check all y’all one by one so I can try to get justice for my baby!”

  Often wearing black Timberland boots, a gray hoodie, and steel-lined leather gloves, Black Tone was known throughout Detroit. He was legendary in the local club scene as a bouncer who could ruin anybody’s night at any given time. Weighing in at a little bit more than 312 pounds, he stood taller than the average forty-ounce fed dude in the crime-ridden city. His short-fuse temper was infamous, to say the least. If it cost twenty dollars to get inside the venue he and his crew—known as ZFG, short for Zero Fucks Given—were doing security at, then flat out Negroes had
better have their cash in hand. It didn’t matter it they were blind, crippled, or crazy. Male or female. Black Tone didn’t discriminate or miss a beat. He made no exceptions to the house rules. No sneakers meant no sneakers. No blue jeans meant no blue jeans. And when he said no bullshit on his watch, or risk getting your shit possibly split to the white meat, he meant that as well.

  “Dang. Wow, big man. Why you gotta be so disrespectful and what not?” A random guy spoke out, obviously feeling offended. “Is all that name-calling necessary? I mean damn!”

  “Oh, okay. I see we got another brazen one tonight, caught all up in his special emotions.” Black Tone’s size fourteen special-order boots paused, then turned completely around. Still appearing solemn, he mean mugged the guy, coldly staring him directly in his eyes. “Matter of fact, you look like a damn dog killer! Where was you at about nine this morning huh? Was you anywhere near the West Side . . . Joy Road?”

  “Come on, man, with all that. Just let us inside already. It’s almost midnight, and the price gonna jump! Or is that the bag you working out of?”

  “Whoa! Everybody stop and look at this funny-style poodle killer with all the mouth that want his dental rearranged! Bro, you must be on a serious mission tonight, huh?” With sinister intentions, Black Tone grinned, showing the gap in his perfectly white teeth, as he slow walked down the otherwise quiet line of people toward his verbal opponent.

  The guy, determined not to look like a straight pussy in front of the crowd, which was anxious to gain entry, tried his best to stand his ground. “A mission? Dude, what the hell is you talking about? Mission? We just wanna go inside the club and party. That’s it!” With his chest stuck out, he took a deep breath, bossing up even further. “All that other shit you talking is over the top. Don’t you think?”

  “Over the top here at Detroit Live, huh? Imagine that. Is that how you think we get down? Boy, what you on? What kinda pill you done took?” Black Tone loudly laughed, rubbing his right hand slowly over his unshaven beard. “Okay, bro. I tell you what. I ain’t gonna hold you up no more. Who all with you? How many in your group?”