Boss Divas (20 page)

“H
old up,” I order Tombstone from the backseat of the Escalade. I roll down the window and tilt my shades when a silver Range Rover whips around the corner and zooms up into the driveway.
Shariffa.
A smile spreads across my face at the sight of this bitch hopping out of the car and rushing up to the door.

We wait.

A minute later, Shariffa races back out of the house, scared as shit.

“You want to follow her?” Tombstone asks while we watch this messy chick stumble back to her car and peel out, nearly taking out the mailbox.

“Nah. I want to save that bitch for last.” Crunk confessed with his dying breath that Shariffa had been the head bitch in charge on that hit on Da Club. I'm going to have fun stalking and torturing her. “Let's go,” I say, powering up the window.

Right about now, Mason should be meeting with Shariffa's nigga, Lynch. Ever since the buzz of Mason's return hit the streets, this nigga sent every bird that he could find to Ruby Cove, talking that fat shit that he wants to arrange some kind of peace talk.

Ain't happening.
He should've been about the business of putting his bitch in check long before now. I'm going straight biblical in these streets. An eye for an eye. A life for a life—or in this case,
six
lives for my brother.

At J.D. Lewis & Sons Funeral Home, I enter through the back door. The soldiers posted outside nod and then step aside. I move through the prep room and the sub-zero freezer to the large storage room filled with coffins and embalming fluids.

“Glad to see that you could finally make it,” Mason says, looking up from the room's crowded table.

Our soldiers, Monk, Droopy, Spider, and Profit, turn their eyes toward me. Spotting the wooden crates stacked behind him, I surmise our coke shipment arrived with no problems.

“You don't have anything to say?” Mason presses as I pull out one of the metal chairs from the table and drop down.

“What would you like for me to say?”

His brows bunch together as if to ask,
Are you shitting me right now?
“Y'all niggas step out for a few minutes.”

Everyone hops up and files out. When we're finally alone, the tension in the warehouse is like a bundle of dynamite burning on both ends.

“You wanna tell me what's up—or am I supposed to play another round of ‘Read My Fucking Mind'?”

“Everything is cool,” I lie.

“C'mon, Willow. It's me you're talking to. Remember? I know you better than you know yourself.”

“Ha!”

His face twists up. “What—”

“Mason,” Profit calls out, poking his head back into the room. “He's here.”

I jump to my feet, relieved for the interruption.

“This isn't over,” Mason warns me before returning his attention to his brother. “Send him in.”

Lynch struts in with an attitude and a three-man entourage. They're trying to play it cool, but I smell their fear and catch a few nervous twitches as they near our table. I move to stand behind Mason, who doesn't even bother to stand or acknowledge them in any way.

“Fat Ace, my man. For once, the rumors are true. It's good to see you back on the throne.”

Silence.

Lynch stops before the table and remove his shades. “I appreciate you taking this meeting. I know that you didn't have to do that.”

Silence.

He tosses a few glances at his wingmen and then clears his throat. “I want to talk to you about a truce.”

Silence.

Lynch re-doubles his efforts. “Look, some people in my crew stepped way over the line. Shit went down that shouldn't have. I admit that—and it's up to me to try to make it right between the Grape Street Crips and the Vice Lords. We're not interested in engaging in an all-out war with you.” He takes a moment to look directly at me. “Tell me. What's it gonna take to make peace?”

After another long silence, Mason draws a deep breath and then passes the torch. “Lucifer, he's all yours.”

I flash Lynch a sinister smile, withdraw the .45 tucked at my back, and shoot this muthafucka in his leg.

“Owwww. What the fuck?!” Lynch drops to the floor like a stone. His boys jump back with their hands in the air. They had no other choice since our crew relieved them of their weapons before they were escorted back here.

I lower my weapon and then take my time walking from behind Mason. “I have to hand it to you,” I growl. “You got a lot of fucking nerves showing your face here.” My hand itches for my Browning. “Fuck your peace offering. I have no use for you or your kindergarten crew.” I lift my gun again and aim at his head.

“Hey, hey. Whoa. Whoa. Don't shoot! This is supposed to be a truce, remember?” He holds up his hands and cowers behind them.

“Maybe my memory ain't so good,” I say.

Pearls of sweat roll from his hairline. He shifts his attention to Fat Ace. “I thought we had an understanding?”

Mason gives him a careless shrug. “Your bitch mowed down her brother
and
my best friend. You show up here to offer us . . . what in exchange? Drugs? Guns? Money?” Mason rocks with laughter. “Nigga, we ain't starving. We're feasting. There's not a goddamn thing you got we want.”

“Not exactly,” I contradict Mason, my aim steady on this Kool-Aid gangsta. “I want your wife
and
your bottom bitch, Trigger—more specifically—I want their heads separated from their necks.”

Lynch's face turns to stone as he lowers his hands and attempts to put more bass in his voice. “That's not going to happen.”

“Oh. It's going to happen—one way or the other.”

Seeing the seriousness in my face, Lynch stands on his injured leg and faces Fat Ace again. “I'm tryna make a deal here. We're talking about the mother of my children!”

Mason shrugs. “Lucifer's offer sounds reasonable to me. A life for a life. Rules of the street—or we can go for a whole blackout. That shit is up to you. You got two kids, right? What are they? Four? Five?”

I sneer. “It would be a shame for them to be the end of your bloodline.”

Mason nods. “I know if it were me, there wouldn't be
anything
I wouldn't do to save my kids—my flesh and blood.”

My gaze slices over to Mason just as I feel a kick in my abdomen.
Shit.

“What the fuck?” Lynch roars, incredulous “You're threatening my
whole
fam like that—to my face?”

Fat Ace's charred face crinkles with a menacing grin as he spreads out his hand in generosity. “Abso-fuckin-lutely.” In a snap, his features turn hard again. “Those bitches crossed a very bright line. Let me guess, they thought my ass fell off and, since Lucifer was battling the Gangster Disciples full-time, they thought the set was weak and they could go for the crown. Tell me I'm wrong.”

I grind my jaw when Mason spits that
weak
shit again. This is the third time he's alluded that somehow my ass wasn't up for the job.

Lynch bumps his gums, but words fail his ass.

“What's the big deal?” I ask, shifting back into character and walking up to him until we're an inch apart. “It's not like she's a
real
Crip. Her flag changes colors depending on the nigga that's between her legs—there's a lot of bitches like that floating around.” I cut another look to Mason.

He frowns, catching my meaning about him and that dead bitch Melanie.

“That's the deal.” I return my attention to Lynch. “The only deal. Those last two bitches for Bishop.”

“The last two?” Lynch asks, blinking.

I smile. “I've been very busy today.”

Lynch puffs up his large chest. I know that he's not going to tuck his balls back for no bitch, including me. In fact, I'm counting on it. Our eyes lock. “You'll have to go through me,” he threatens.

My smile spreads as wide as The Joker's. “Oh, goodie, goodie.”

C
lub Diesel looks like it's gonna be the shit. Set in an ideal location in the heart of Beale Street, the multi-level club has décor that's a combination of class, funk, hip-hop, and techno. There are numerous cocktail bars throughout the club as well as numerous dance floors. The owner has clearly dropped a mint into the place. Everything screams money.

“Don't be nervous,” Kalief reminds me for the millionth time while the band sets up for sound check. Frankly, he's the one who looks nervous.

“I'm good.”

“Good. We really got to knock this audition out of the park. I mean
really
nail it 'cause we need to make this money bad.”

I frown. “Why? What's the problem?”

“Uh? Oh. Nothing. I'm just saying.” He shrugs.

“You're not saying much of anything. Don't tell me that your ass has been—”

“Whoa. Shhh. Shhh.” Kalief looks around to make sure that no one is listening to our conversation. “Will you calm down? You're letting your imagination get the best of you again. Ain't nobody been doing nothing. I'm just saying that we gotta pay the band and catch up on our studio bill. That's all.”

“How much is the job paying?”

Kalief's left eye twitches. “Don't know yet. Everything is still negotiable.”

“Uh-huh.” I roll my eyes and tell myself that it's not worth getting into a fight. I'm tired of arguing. He steps up and tries to get me to look into his lying eyes. The thing is, he thinks that when he makes eye contact, he looks earnest.

He doesn't.

“You trust me, don't you?”

“Kalief, go on with that. You've forgotten who you're talking to and I got to get ready.”

Of course, he won't let it go. He always takes it as a personal insult when he can't convince me that his lies are honest. “I'm serious,” he says, looping his arms around my hips and dragging me closer. “C'mon, baby. You know that I got your back. Everything I do is for you—for us. Just have a little faith in me.”

I wish that were true. I'm so broken inside with so much bullshit that I can't even fake this shit no more.

“C'mon. Give me that smile,” he presses.

“Kalief.” I look around and see the band in position, tinkering with their instruments and waiting. “They're ready.”

“I'm not moving until you give me that smile,” he insists.

I cut him with a look, but he keeps grinning like a fool until those damn dimples hit my weak spot and melt my resolve. I smile.

“There it is.” He grins and kisses the tip of my nose.

“All right now. G'on.” I squirm and push out of his arms. I'm already hating myself for giving in—again.

“A'ight. I'm going.” He smacks my ass and then shuffles off the stage. “She's ready, y'all. Let's get this show on the road.”

Jase, my keyboardist, shouts, “ One ... two . . . three!”

The band plays the opening of Sade's “Soldier of Love.” I close my eyes, block out the world, and let the music take over.

Instantly I'm connected to the music and lyrics. The song reflects every bit of my love for Kalief, even though in my heart of hearts, I know that this love is doomed. As the music's tempo accelerates, I open my eyes and find Kalief's steady gaze on me while he sits in a U-shaped leather booth with four other men. I wish, like countless times before, that he truly heard what I was trying to say to him.

It's a lot to hope for.

A man leans over and whispers something into Kalief's ear. He smiles and then gives me the thumbs-up. Two minutes later, we end the song and I step away from the microphone with tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat.

“Thanks, guys,” Kalief tells the band as he practically leaps onto the stage, clapping.

“Baaaabeeee,” he coos, arms outstretched. “You did it. I knew you would.”

Nodding, I fold my arms. “How much?”

He ignores the question and my body language and pulls me into his arms for a sloppy kiss between my chin and cheek. “I knew that they'd love you. We got the opening-night gig! Who's your daddy now?”

I glance back out to the table. The four men whom Kalief was huddled with have climbed out of the booth and are walking away. “Which one of them is Diesel?”

“Uh, he couldn't make it today.”

“What? But I thought you said—”

“He had some pressing matters to attend to, but his man Beast said—”

“Beast? What the fuck kind of name is that?”

“What difference does it make? The man has the authority to green-light the entertainment for opening night and you're
it
, baby.”

“And the money? What's the pay?”

“Let me worry about all of that. Okay?”

“But I thought you said that this Diesel had all these music connections?”

“He does—and don't worry. He will be at the club opening night. And when he sees you, you're gonna knock his socks off.”

“Uh-huh. I don't know why I keep listening to this bullshit.”

“No bullshit. Trust me. Everything is going to be
perfect.
”