Dear Summer (11 page)

couldn’t be talking about him.

She stood from the sofa and walked toward him. She put her arms around him and laid her head on his chest.
His heart was pulsating. He hugged her. His body was so warm she could stay in his arms forever. She had just met him though, and she’d never felt like this about someone so quickly.
When she released him he put his boxers back on; then the jeans, the Jordans, and finally the T-shirt. He noticed she was still looking at him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Are you coming back?”
“What about your boyfriend?”
“Let me worry about that.”
He looked at his watch then back at her. She was smiling. The look on her face said,
Stay here and fuck my brains out
. He wanted to do just that, but he had business to tend to—important business.
“Baby I will be back tomorrow, I promise.”
She put her arms around him again. He kissed her forehead.

*****

 

“What the fuck do you mean he got away?” Q said to Mario, the tallest of the three goons.

Mario was a tall nigga with a bucked gold tooth and a bald head. “I don’t know how he got away. I mean, I didn’t shoot. I was driving.”

Q stepped up to Mario and grabbed his white shirt, ripping it, then pushed the man backward. “Motherfucker. You were driving the car. You are the very reason the nigga got away. You should have caught him!”

Mario turned to Puff, a short man with braids and bubble lips. He was the shooter.
Puff trembled and fumbled trying to light a cigarette. “I’ma get him, Q. Don’t worry.”
Q backhanded Puff and the cigarette flew from his hand. Puff then rushed Q. Country brandished a chrome Taurus 9mm and cocked the hammer. “Motherfuckers. Don’t even try it.”
Puff stopped in his tracks. Q smacked him again and again, then he took the gun from Country and bashed Puff’s head. Blood oozed from his forehead. Q then picked up some dirt from the ground and smeared it on the open sore. “Motherfucker, I will kill yo bitch ass.”
Puff held his head, attempting to walk away, but Q then kicked him as hard as he could in the side of the ribs. “I paid y’all bitch asses three grand to take this man out, and you mean to tell me he’s still walking around here?”
Corey, the third man, a biracial with a ponytail and the smartest of the three, said, “Don’t worry, Q. We gonna take him out.”
Q grimaced. “If you don’t take him out, I’ma get my money back and then I’ma have somebody fuck y’all bitch-asses up.”
Corey pulled out three stacks of $100 bills and showed them to Q. “I still got the money. I am not spending it until the job is done.”
Puff still held his head, staring at Q, but he was afraid to say anything. It wasn’t fair that he got pistol whipped and had to accept it. Mario got the balls to ask Q a question that he’d been wanting to ask ever since they had agreed to take the job. “Who did big boy rat on?”
“None of your fuckin’ business.”
Q wasn’t about to tell these idiots anything. The less they knew, the better.
Corey looked at Mario. “Why do you wanna know that anyway?”
Country said, “Yeah, nigga. Mind your fuckin’ business.”
Mario had wanted to ask something else but was afraid he would be the next to get the Taurus 9mm against his bald head. That was not a good thought to him.
The goons got into the SUV and drove off.

*****

J.C.’s phone rang. He started not to answer it, thinking it was a bill collector again, but he recognized the number. Shantell.
He answered. “Hello.”
“Daddy, have you forgotten you were supposed to help me with rent today?”
J.C. hadn’t forgotten. The truth was he didn’t have the money. He had gone through all of what he had gotten from the bank. He didn’t know how he would pay his mortgage.
“Daddy? Did you hear me?”
“Stop calling me Daddy. That shit makes me feel older than I already feel.”
“Sorry, honey bun,” she said.
J.C. stood and walked over to his dresser drawer to look for money. There were two $20 bills and a five and three ones. Not enough to pay Shantell’s $1,100 rent—nowhere near that amount. And it was damn sure not enough to pay his $1,400 mortgage. “I will have the money tomorrow.”
“But today is the fifth, honey.”
“I don’t have it yet.”
“I have a surprise for you. I’m wearing that hot pink skirt and that lip gloss that you like so much.”
J.C.’s dick rose a little. Thinking about Shantell’s lips around his dick made him excited; made him want to see her. He thought about her lying across his bed in a pink thong. He wanted to see her, but he didn’t have the money that he knew she wanted. He uttered, “Damn.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I was just wondering when can I see you?”
“I just told you that I was wearing your favorite outfit, Daddy, and that lip gloss. And you know that I know how to work my tongue ring.”
“Come over in an hour,” he said.
“Your house?”
“Yeah.”
“What about your son?”
“Don’t worry about him. He’s not coming over.”
“I will be there soon, Daddy.”
He hated the word
Daddy,
though he was old enough to be her granddaddy and technically, he was her sugar daddy. Maybe that’s why he hated the word so much.

Chapter 20
J.C.

climbed into the attic moving old shoes and boxes out of his way as he looked around in the dark. Where the hell is the safe, chest, shoebox, or whatever the money is in, he thought. He stumbled upon some photo albums. He opened them—a picture of Tommy, him, and Tommy’s mother Natalie at the lake when Tommy was in the first grade. J.C. remembered that day well. He had bought Tommy his first fishing pole. Tommy had been a happy kid ever since he was a baby. He was easygoing. Although J.C. wasn’t his biological father, he’d been around since Tommy was a few months old. Tommy was his son.

He quickly closed the photo album. He didn’t want to think about his deceased wife. He didn’t want to think of her looking down on him. She had always despised drugs. He moved a suitcase out of his way and threw a box of coats down from the attic. Where the fuck is the money?

He knew Tommy had money there, but he didn’t know how much. He would take a few thousand then replace it. He had a watch he could sell and make at least five grand. That would easily cover money that he would take.

Underneath two bags of shoes, he found a Nike shoebox with bundles of cash in it. He figured it had to be at least $150,000. Tommy always had a knack for making that money. J.C. took $4,000 from the stash.
*****

When J.C. opened the door, Shantell didn’t have the dress on that she’d promised, but she was looking phenomenal. Her jeans gripped her ass and thighs, and her heels were at least five inches. J.C. imagined himself fucking her while she wore nothing but the heels.

She licked her lips. The pink lip gloss was fresh and he had gotten a glimpse of her tongue ring.
“What happened to the dress?”
She laughed and moved closer with her hair flowing and the smell of Escada’s Sunset Heat perfume lingering in the air. He knew that smell. It was what she always wore for him when she tried to get money from him. It drove him wild. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her lips. He remembered where his money had gone so fast, and tonight it would be $200 for head and $900 for Shantell’s rent.
Damn
, he cursed himself. But he couldn’t resist.
“I can’t wear that every time, Daddy.” She was now face to face with him. “Don’t you think I’m sexy?”
Her hands slid down J.C’s shirt to rub his belly.
He sat down on the sofa. His hand was now on her ass, and he began rubbing it.
Her ass cheeks were perfectly round, like two small basketballs. He slid his hands into the back of her jeans, trying to find her thong.
She whispered, “I ain’t got no panties on.”
Shantell dropped to her knees, unbuttoned his pants and then unzipped them. His dick was out, still limp though, until she rubbed it on her lip gloss and put his balls in her mouth.
“Yeah,” he said, looking up at the ceiling. Sure this was going to cost him, but the scent of the Sunset Heat smelled so damn good.

*****

 

They met at the car wash. Scooter’s Escalade looked a lot different than before. It was sitting on 26-inch rims. When he

 

Dear Summer

pulled up, he was playing Jay-Z’s “Blueprint” album. Scooter jumped out the Escalade leaving it running; pulled out his Newports and gave one to Ditty. “Tommy, what’s on your mind?” Scooter asked.

“Problems.”
“I’m the problem solver,” Scooter said, blowing smoke rings. “Some niggas tried to kill me a few days ago.”
“What?” Scooter said.
Tommy was silent. Jay-Z and Eminem traded verses on

“Renegade” in the background.
“Who tried to kill you?”
“Niggas. I really don’t know.”
Ditty puffed his cigarette. “We think it’s a nigga named Q, from

Wilmore.”
“I know that faggot-ass nigga. He supposedly getting money…
hustling motherfucker, right?”
“Yeah,” Tommy said.
Scooter turned his ignition off. The music faded. His face was
now very serious.
“Tommy, you don’t fuck with nobody. Why these niggas want
to fuck with you?”
It didn’t make sense. Tommy was very likable. Never crossed
anybody. Not a bad ass at all.
“He think I set his boy up.”
Scooter raised his eyebrow. “But you don’t hustle…I mean…
sell dope, do you?”
“Hell no.”
“Then how the fuck did you set his man up?” Scooter puffed
his cigarette then flicked it to the pavement.
“He saying I sold his boy a car and the police busted him. Basically saying that I told the police to look out for the car.” “Bullshit,” Scooter said. “Any motherfucker that knows you
know you ain’t do no shit like that.”
“Exactly,” Ditty said.
Scooter looked directly into Tommy’s eyes. “So, how ya wanna handle it?”
“I say find out where that nigga’s mama live and send some
shots through her house,” Ditty said.
“Naw…we have to be smart,” Tommy said.
“What do you have in mind?” Scooter asked.
Tommy didn’t respond immediately. Q needed to be taught
a lesson, but Tommy didn’t want to go back to prison. Pratt was
watching.
“Do you have a trigger man?”
“Hell yeah. The best.”
“I want to find out who shot at me. Follow them, and they will
take us to where Q lays his head. I really don’t want to get into
shooting in nobody’s mama’s house.”
Putting an innocent person in harm’s way was just not the
right way to do things.
“I got the perfect trigger man—one-man operation. He will find
out who done this to you, Tommy.”
“Who is it?”
“My nigga, J-Black, from North Charlotte.”
“J-J-J- Black?” Tommy said.
“Yeah. What? You know him?”
“Kind of.”
J-Black had robbed Tommy several years ago, and though
he knew about it, he didn’t give J-Black up when the feds had
busted him.
“Did he rob you before?” Scooter asked.
“Yeah,” Tommy said. But what he didn’t say was J-Black had
robbed him three times. Even tied his ex-girlfriend up and fucked
her in front of Tommy. J-Black had also killed one of Tommy’s
best friends, Twin.
“Don’t worry. I got him. I can handle him. As long as he’s getting
paid, everything will be okay,” Scooter said. He pulled another
Newport from the pack.
“Give me one of those,” Tommy said.
“But you don’t smoke.”
“I know,” Tommy said, then grabbed a lighter from Ditty.

Chapter 21
T

 

onya was making another daiquiri—her third. After pouring it into the wine glass, she was walking back into

Summer’s living room when Summer said, “I fucked Q.” Tonya almost spilled her drink. “You did what?”
“Q. You remember Q, the guy I met at the martini bar.” Tonya sat on the sofa smiling and sipped her drink. “I didn’t

know y’all were kicking it.”

They really weren’t kicking it technically. They had gone out a couple of times. She had called him and he had call her and written her a letter, but they weren’t kicking it. Summer didn’t know how to define their relationship.

“We’re not.”

“What happened?” Tonya asked, wanting to know all the details.
Summer blushed but didn’t say anything.
“Was he big?”
Summer didn’t know how to answer that one. Didn’t really want to answer that one. She knew from past experiences that if a man could fuck good, some women would make it their business to fuck your man.
“Come on Summer, what happened?” Tonya asked, leaning forward.
“He took me out.”
Smiling, then swallowing another sip from her glass, Tonya asked, “Where did y’all go?”
“Fuel Pizza.”
“Wait a minute. A nigga buys you pizza and you give him the goods?”
Summer frowned. Everything was always about money with Tonya; always about what you could get out of a man.
Tonya laughed. “Girl, please tell me you didn’t give that ass up for a meat lover’s pizza.”
“No, we fucked because I wanted to fuck.”
“But what can Q offer?”
“I don’t know what he can offer, or what he will offer, but I like him.”
“What about Tommy?”
“Tommy has a live-in.”
“But you like him.”
Summer didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to think about Tommy. Though Tommy had a live-in, Summer loved him and would never want to hurt him.
“So you say Q has a big dick?”
“I didn’t say that,” Summer said.
“His dick is small?”
“No.”
“Can he fuck?”
Summer blushed again, but not wanting to say how Q wore her pussy out, she said, “He’s good.”
“You like him don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
Tonya put her glass down. “But what about Tommy?”

*****

Mark Pratt walked into Special Agent-in-Charge Doug Sanders’ office carrying Tommy Dupree’s folder.
Sanders was in his swivel chair on the phone. When he was done with his conversation he motioned for Pratt to take a seat. “What’s on your mind?”
“Tommy Dupree.”
Sanders frowned. Dupree’s name did not ring a bell.
“I took him down a few years ago for Ecstasy.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. He got five years.”
“Cooperated?”
“No, not really. Just gave information about an agent that slept with him.”
“Oh yeah. I remember this one.”
“Yeah, I think he’s doing dirt again.”
“What?”
“Yeah.”
“What you think he’s doing?” Sanders’ eyes were curious. He spun in the swivel chair with a blue ballpoint pen in his mouth.
“I don’t know.”
“What makes you think he’s doing dirt?”
“The state busted a guy with nine ounces.”
“He ratted on Dupree, huh?”
“No. He thinks Dupree ratted on him.”
“This is better than ‘The Wire’,” Sanders said.
“Yeah. I know.”
“But you were saying that he thinks Dupree ratted on him?”
“Yeah.”
“Why does he think that?”
“I don’t know.”
“So what’s up with Dupree nowadays?”
“Counseling kids…trying to act like he’s straight, but I know better.” Mark opened the folder and looked at Tommy’s picture.
“Why do you think he’s doing something wrong?”
“Followed him one day.”
“And?”
“Observed what looked like a drug exchange between him and two white boys.”
“White kids?”
Sanders said it as if he wasn’t white himself. Had told Pratt before he was Irish and not white. He was only white when it mattered.
“Yeah. They gave him an Escalade and he’d given them a bag of money.”
Sanders flicked the pen. “Are you sure it was a drug deal?”
“No.”
“Pratt, I want you to leave this alone. We have other shit to worry about.”
“Leave it alone? I’m not understanding?”
“Just leave it alone.”
Pratt stood and was about to walk out the office when he turned to Sanders. “Do you want me to leave it alone because I think his connect is white?”