by Erica Hilton
Papa John pulled on his cigarette, finished it down to the butt, and then flicked it out the window. Ten minutes had gone by, and there was no sign of life yet. His father was still home. He was tempted to call Dina to see what the holdup was. He gave himself five more minutes.
Three minutes later, finally, his father made his way out the home and into his car. He started the vehicle and the Benz went backing out the driveway and drove away.
“It’s about fuckin’ time,” he uttered.
He could feel that pussy already pleasing him. He was aching to wrap his arms around Dina and go to work on her. To be on the safe side, he waited an extra five minutes, and then he called Dina and asked if it was cool to come inside.
“Yes,” she replied.
Papa John climbed out the vehicle and walked toward the house. He implemented the same routine—keep his head down, move coolly in the dark, and go to the back of the house, enter through the back door. Everything went smoothly. Dina was standing in the doorway, butt-naked this time. Papa John’s eyes lit up with excitement. He hugged her passionately and then thrust his tongue into her mouth. They kissed.
“Damn, I missed you,” he said.
“Ooooh, I missed you too,” she said.
He entered the house, their bodies and lips still latched to each other. She undid his jeans and reached into his pants to feel his glory. Papa John could feel his arousal escalating. Her hand against his erect manhood was tantalizing. Dina was hot and heavy too. She could feel her pussy running wet for him.
He kissed the side of her neck and grabbed her healthy tit. Dina exhaled with repentance. She promised herself not to ever see him again, but she couldn’t resist the temptation. When he contacted her, she replied in anticipation. It was so hard to stay away from him. She was either pregnant by him or his father. So far, the pregnancy hadn’t come up. It wasn’t an issue yet, but she needed to address it.
Once again she pulled herself away from their steamy episode. She looked at him and said, “Are you going to ask?”
“About what?”
“Seriously, Papa John? Remember? I’m pregnant.”
“I know. Did you tell him yet?”
“No. I can’t tell him until I know what I’m gonna do with it.”
“And what are you gonna do? You gonna have this baby or not?”
She sighed. “I’m scared.”
“Get an abortion then,” he suggested.
“It’s so easy for you to say that. You’re not carrying it, and you’re not engaged to your father,” she said.
“But we both wanted the same thing.”
“Things are getting complicated.”
“It don’t have to be. Two choices, you can get an abortion or you can end this affair and we can go our separate ways,” he declared.
Papa John was bluffing; he wasn’t ready to end the affair with Dina. She felt like the best thing that ever happened to him, although she was engaged to his father. No more Dina would be like falling from heaven—an angel losing its wings.
He stared intensely at Dina, and said something to her that he couldn’t believe himself. “I think I love you.”
“What?” she was shocked by what he said.
“I wanna be with you.”
“How would we make it work?”
“Look, I know this shit here is tricky between us, but we can find some way to work it out.”
“Do you want me to get an abortion?” she asked him.
“I don’t know. This baby could be my pops’ too.”
“How did we get here?” she asked rhetorically.
“We got here because you got some good pussy,” he was able to joke.
She laughed. “So I’ve been told.”
“Nah, but fo’ real, you is special, Dina. I could see why and how my pops fell in love wit’ you and put a ring on your finger.”
“You is a trip, Papa John.”
“You make me a trip. Hey, let’s finish what we started by the door and we can talk about this later,” he suggested.
She smiled and put her hands into his unbuttoned pants and wrapped her fingers around his thick dick.
“Yeah, just like that,” he moaned.
“Like that, huh?”
“Yeah, like that,” he replied breathlessly.
Every part of him was lit up with stimulation. He closed his eyes and appreciated how she touched him. The hand job was magnifying his erection. She kissed his lips, and then their tongues danced. Each part of Papa John ached for her. His jeans dropped lower, and her stroking continued until he felt on the edge of exploding.
They became lost in each other—paradise was right within their reach. Until they heard the quake of his voice boom out.
“What the fuck is this?” Darryl yelled.
Dina and Papa John quickly pivoted in fear and in awe. There was Papa John’s father burning with rage. His eyes were red like the pits of hell. He charged toward Papa John like a bull, swung fiercely, and struck him with a hard punch to his face. Papa John staggered backwards, but he didn’t fall. Darryl attacked him again with another punch to his face, and then his fist thrust into Papa John’s stomach. Papa John folded like a chair and fell to the ground. Darryl continued with his onslaught.
“You think I didn’t fuckin know?!” Darryl screamed. “You think I’m a fuckin’ fool?! My own son and my fiancée having sex in my house!”
Father fought son, but the son shot up with a bolt of energy and desperately tried to defend himself. Papa John was able to release a few punches of his own. However, the wrath of his father was strong, and Darryl picked up his son like a Titan and tossed him across the room like a rag doll. Their bodies clashed and tussled inside the living room, knocking over furniture and making glass shatter and pictures fall from the walls they hung from. There was no way Papa John could get the best of his father. Darryl was a trained officer—a warrior licensed to carry firearms.
Dina screamed from the attack. She stood there shocked and helpless. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t supposed to end like this, but it was ending, whether she liked it or not. Right in front of her eyes, her worst nightmare came true. She rushed to break up the fight, but it was like trying to wrestle apart two snarling wolves with their sharp teeth exposed. Someone was going to get bit.
“Please, stop it!” she shouted. “Get off him!”
Darryl was on top of his son, punching away zealously. Dina tried to wrestle her fiancé off her lover. She frantically tried to stop Darryl from beating his own son to death. She grasped at him, shouting loudly. Papa John was on the floor bloodied and bruised. She saw that he couldn’t take any more punishment.
“Get off him, Darryl! You’re gonna kill him!”
“Fuck him!”
Darryl pushed Dina off him forcefully and sent her flying across the room and crashing against the china cabinet. Shards of glass fell down on her. She collapsed.
“She’s pregnant!” Papa John shouted.
Darryl tuned everything out. He was completely consumed by rage. Papa John struggled with him on the ground and saw only one option. He reached for that option in panic. He unlatched his father’s holster and hastily freed the gun, and it went off—bang!
In an instant, Darryl felt the bullet from his gun tear through his abdomen with his shirt turning crimson. He finally stopped attacking his son and pressed his hand against the fresh gunshot wound. He couldn’t believe it. He looked at his son wide-eyed and uttered the words, “You shot me.”
Dina screamed. “What have you done?”
“I didn’t have a choice,” Papa John said. “I didn’t have a choice!”
Darryl suddenly became weak. He stumbled and buckled on his side. He was still alive. Papa John was able to lift himself to his feet. He still held onto the smoking gun. He too was in awe at what he’d don
e. Not only had he shot a cop—he had shot his own father.
“Shit!” Papa John uttered.
It had just . . . happened.
“Ohmygod!” Dina shouted. She ran to her fiancé’s aid. She fell to her knees and scooped Darryl into her arms. Her tears started to fall from her eyes. Instantly, she put the blame on herself.
“I’m sorry! Baby, I’m so sorry!” she hollered.
“Call 911,” he shouted.
Dina turned to Papa John with eyes filled with tears and screamed madly, “Get out! Get the fuck out!”
Papa John saw one way out—to run away. She didn’t want him there. She didn’t want his help. He eyed his father that was crippled to the floor from his injury and there was empathy in his expression. He looked at Dina holding onto her fiancé feverishly and crying hysterically, fearing she might lose him.
He took off running from the house with Darryl’s gun still in his hands. He arrowed into the SUV like bull’s-eye, started the vehicle, and sped away, not knowing if his father would live or die. But he knew one thing for sure—his affair with Dina had ended. There was no way he would be able to see her again. He hadn’t planned for any of this to happen—to fall in love with Dina or to hurt his pops. It just all came out of nowhere, like a shot to the head.
Papa John drove far away from Whitestone, Queens. He cried. He felt fear and worry. Would Dina rat him out to the police? He didn’t know what to expect. He didn’t know—if his pops did live, would he come gunning for his own son?
Right now, the only thing on his mind was his own well-being. He drove north, toward New Rochelle. He continued to wipe the tears away, feeling like they would never end.
29
Rodney, one of Panamanian Pete’s trusted soldiers, put the pipe to his lips and inhaled a good portion of the crack cocaine. The high hit him as soon as the smoke filled his lungs. He leaned back, feeling his whole body buzzing in pure sensual stimulation. He needed another hit. He kissed the pipe again, and this hit felt even better than the last.
He sat shirtless on his bed in his one-bedroom Brooklyn apartment. Beside him were a few loaded guns and ten thousand dollars in cash. He needed the money. But sudden guilt riddled Rodney. He had not only sold his soul a long time ago, but he’d betrayed the hand that was feeding him. He gave them up for his addiction. They somehow knew to come to him, and he wasn’t difficult to persuade.
The drugs had changed him. No one knew about his crack addiction except for his partner in crime, G-Dep. G-Dep knew about his demons, but Rodney trusted the man with his sickness.
He took another hit, and his eyes narrowed. Soon, his high started to fade. It was one bad thing about crack—the pleasure didn’t last long. After blowing out the smoke, he floated for about a minute on cloud nine and then came crashing back down to his reality.
For the moment, he was a functioning addict. He had been a killer for Panamanian Pete for many years. He did the man’s dirty work—found himself waist deep in murders, addiction, and disease—being HIV-positive was his other big secret. His life had been hell on earth since the day he was born. He had been abandoned by his mother, beaten by his father, raped by his uncles, and was a child scorned since he could walk.
He finished off an eight ball of crack in a few short hours and was ready for more. Rodney preferred to smoke himself to death. The guilt inside him was strong. He couldn’t live with what he had done clear-headedly. He had to escape somehow, some way, and running face-first into his addiction was the only way for him.
He gave them up—just like that. They knew when and how to come at him. After years of loyalty, how was it so easy?
***
G-Dep kissed his side-bitch goodbye passionately in the apartment doorway. It had been another night of rough and crazy sex between them. He groped her tits for fun, hugged her thick and naked body, and made his exit from her Bronx apartment. He rambled down the stairway with a .9mm tucked into his waistband, concealed by his T-shirt and a jacket that he zipped up.
Pleasure was over, and now it was time for business. He had to meet with Rodney, and together they would meet with Panamanian Pete at The Bottom’s Up for another job he had for them. By the sound of Pete’s voice on the phone, this job seemed really important.
G-Dep stepped onto the sidewalk and stopped for a moment to light a cigarette. He inhaled the smoke and moved toward the burgundy Beamer parked across the two-way street. Traffic moved back and forth, and it being a summer night, the Bronx looked like a minor block party. Residents lingered outside in front of their buildings, in the parks, and on their steps, and leaned against parked cars drinking liquor and beer. The young females, dressed for the warm weather, were gossiping and flirting with the fellows. It was a typical Bronx night. G-Dep walked past it all casually, and though it was Blood gang territory, they knew not to fuck with him. His status ran deeper than the concrete. His reputation preceded him.
He removed his car keys from his jacket and pressed the alarm to deactivate it. He slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. He removed the .9mm from his waist for comfort while driving and hid it underneath his seat. He glanced in his mirrors and put the vehicle into drive. The windows were down because it was another warm night in the hood. With his seat leaned back, he attempted to pull out of the parking spot. Then suddenly they came out of nowhere—three shooters with their arms outstretched toward the Beamer with pistols at the end. They took aim for G-Dep and opened fire.
Pop! Pop! Pop . . . Pop!
Boom! Boom! Boom!
G-Dep found himself under fire; bullets slammed into him. He jerked from the shots but managed to hammer his foot against the gas pedal and desperately attempted to flee the shooters. The car sped off wildly into the street and raced down the block, but G-Dep suddenly passed out from his wounds and his Beamer violently slammed into three parked cars and flipped over. The impact was loud, and the gunfire had sent people flying in fear in every direction.
The shooters ran toward the accident where G-Dep was pinned inside the car and unconscious. They fired more bullets into his body, making sure he was dead. It was overkill.
A minivan pulled up, and the shooters hurried into it. The van took off, leaving behind a gruesome murder. When the smoke cleared, G-Dep was dead, riddled with bullets, his body twisted and bloody in the wreckage.
***
Panamanian Pete smoked his cigar and tilted himself back in the leather chair. The closed office door slightly muffled the music from the strip club. He liberated the cigar smoke from his mouth and closed his eyes. His legs were spread and he could feel the wetness of her mouth engulfing him.
Passion was positioned between his legs, hunched forward, his dick in her mouth. He looked down at the mass of black hair planted in his lap and played in it. He moaned. Her suction and salivating mouth continued to carry him nearer to an orgasm. She cupped his balls and licked his dick so good, that Pete felt he would deflate from pleasure.
“Damn, Passion, you know how to work a nigga good—oh shit, keep doing that,” Pete said.
Her head rapidly bobbed up and down in his lap, his thick dick cramped in her mouth. She tried to suck his dick dry. She moaned and jerked him off, her saliva becoming a lubricant.
“Right there! Fuck yeah, you about to make me come!” he announced excitedly.
While enjoying her oral pleasure, Pete’s cell phone rang against his desk. He was too excited from his near-orgasm to care who was calling him at the moment. The only thing that mattered right now was busting a nut.
Passion continued to work her sugary magic on him. She was ready to feel his release into her mouth. She sucked the height of his lust, taking him to the point of no return, with his flood rushing to escape. After a few more hard licks and soft sucks, Pete freed his semen into her mouth and like the freak she was, she swallowed every last bit of it. She wiped her mouth and lifted herself from he
r knees. Panamanian Pete sat spent for a moment, exhaling with satisfaction. He picked himself up from the chair and fixed his clothes.
Passion smiled. He didn’t smile back. It was back to business. He had a club to run, drugs to move, people to kill, and money to make.
“You can let yourself out now,” he said to her.
She knew the deal. She was only there for his sexual needs. After he came, she became another face, another employee of his. Passion collected herself and left the room. It was back to work.
Pete finally picked up his cell phone and checked to see what call he’d missed. The number was new to him. He shrugged it off.
“Where are these idiots?” he asked, referring to Rodney and G-Dep.
He didn’t know yet. G-Dep’s death had happened only an hour ago. He dialed Rodney’s phone first, but there was no answer. Next, he called G-Dep with the same results. Not getting in contact with his most ruthless killers frustrated Panamanian Pete. A drink was needed. He walked out his office and signaled one of his female bartenders, and she rushed over.
“Bring a bottle of Cîroc to my office,” he said.
She nodded. The boss came first.
Pete scanned his club and everything was normal and live. Two strippers were on the stage dancing butt-naked to Rihanna’s “Pour it Up!” Money was being tossed their way, the bar was busy, the music was loud, and the females worked the customers with lap dances. G-strings were decorated with dollar bills folded lengthwise tucked in around the sides, and his security was tight and watching it all.
Pete turned and went back into his office. He lit another cigar and once again tried to dial his two killers again. Nothing. He got their voicemail.
A knock on his door came—it was the bartender. She entered his office with a bottle of Cîroc and a champagne glass and placed it on his desk. He thanked her and she walked out. Pete poured himself a glass and gulped the clear liquor. He sat back and seethed with anger at not being able to reach Rodney or G-Dep.