From the Streets to the Sheets (5 page)

Nodding, I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth as he pushed his weight on the back of my thighs, making my knees touch my shoulders.

“Watch,” he demanded.

“No,” I replied breathlessly. 12 knew I wanted to feel the experience, not see it. Fuckin’ one of my boys wasn’t right, but it was necessary—needed—after I’d had my ass blessed.

The body heat between my legs cooled when 12 removed his hands from my legs and his midsection from above mine.

“Gimme what I want, you’ll get what’chu want,” he said, crossing his arms.

I shook my head in disbelief. 12 was strong-arming me, and he knew it. We’d gone through this before, but he’d never pulled away. This time he was serious. And I was in desperate need of feeling his hardness penetrate my softness. So although my mind said no, my body told it to shut the fuck up.

“A’ight,” I gave in, knowing I’d regret it later.

Again his weight pressed against my flesh as he grabbed my ankles, spreading them as far apart as he could. Searching my eyes, he told me to put him inside my wetness—another thing he knew I didn’t do.

Cupping my hand around him, I swallowed my rules as I tried to wrap my fingers around his girth. Excitement veined throughout me when it proved impossible. His dick was just too big. But huge or not, I gently grabbed it, put the head onto my wetness, and tried to calm my pulsing coochie. Up and down. I rubbed his pole between my wet slit, teasing him and tantalizing myself. I needed my form of foreplay to relax—open up—so he could fit that chocolate monster inside me without damn near splitting me in two like the last time.

“I got it,” he said, releasing my right ankle from his grip, placed it on his left shoulder.

My breathing labored when I realized that he was putting me in the twist. Right ankle opposite shoulder. Left leg splayed toward the floor, as far as his arm extended. 12 had rotated my landing strip, and was going to work me in a sideways V. I damn near fainted at the thought.

In and out, he dipped the head of his thickness into me. My wetness voiced its yearning as it snapped, crackled, and popped with each tease. My pussy was talking to him, begging him for a taste as he continued sliding his head up and down my split.

“Fuck me . . . I want every inch.”

Biting down on his lip, he lightly pinched my clit, then softly kneaded it with his thumb and index finger. Euphoria moved through me, pushed me to the edge. But I refused to jump. No way was I going to cum without his dick riding me over the rainbow.

“Ya sure you want to do this, Sweets?” He slid a couple of inches in me. “Ya know the other reason I go by 12, right?” he asked, teasing and warning me. Baby had damn near a foot-long, but I had my own sweet weapon.

“Yeah,” I panted. “Same reason my name’s Sweets.”

Holding my lower lips open, 12 worked his way halfway in. Creaming myself, I couldn’t contain my excitement. That niggah had a way of hurting me so good. I wiggled, tensed, and met his thrust when he fit his long thickness inside me. Clawing at the chaise, his chest, anything I could get my hands on, I gripped. Had to bear down on something to keep myself from screaming as I felt my poom-poom stretch until it burned. His actions said he knew he was doing me in, and he was going to make me suffer. Pounding, he manhandled my pussy—beat it up—made me take all of him. And I came. Came. Then came some more, wetting my walls for him to slide and glide in my hotness before pulling out and erupting on my stomach.

Two minutes later, we were both panting. He was on the floor, I was still spread out on the chaise with gapped legs.

“Why you keep givin’ me the pussy, Sweets?”

I turned to him, shook my head. He was my boy, but he was fuckin’ up my flow. I wanted to bask in the moment, and he wanted to ask questions. Quiz me on a subject we’d agreed never to discuss.

“I’m saying, yo. You got Whisky. So why you keep breakin’ me off?”

It was my turn to bite my lip. 12 knew just like I did that Whisky wasn’t up for discussion. There was just some shit I didn’t talk about. My man was one of them.

“Come on, Sweets. It’s me,” he coaxed. “We go way back—you know you can trust a niggah. You trust me to fuck you and not tell . . .”

He had me.

“A’ight, you got me on that one.” I sat up, straightened myself out. “But you gotta give me your word—”

“Sweets, ya know my word is my bond. If it wasn’t, you’d a did a bid up north, not me. I ain’t know the first thang about launderin’ no damn money.”

I looked at 12 and bitched up. Tears welled in my eyes as I thought about him doing a dozen for me. Yeah, I could trust him.

“I gots love for Whisky. I do,” I assured 12 and myself at the same time. “He’s always buttered my bread, made sure I
felt
like I came first. But he does his own thang. He comes first in his world.”

“So, you fuckin’ me is your way of gettin’ back at him?”

I sat silent because I really didn’t know how to respond. On one hand it was true; banging 12 was just a needed fix after I punished those who crossed me. It was hard to get licked without gettin’ sticked. On the other side of it was loyalty. Whisky had put me down and taught me how to grind the game. And once upon a time, he’d fucked and sucked me ’til I couldn’t see straight. I stayed true to him until I found out that he’d been giving other hoes dick lashes
and
money
—my
paper I’d refused to share. I’d had to knock a couple of persistent ones off, but I’d calmed down. Promised not to body another bitch over my man. Until I caught him in the act.

“I need to know if you love that niggah.”

“Why, what up?” I asked, noticing the seriousness in 12’s eyes.

He cleared his throat, steepled his massive hands. “Ya know Quita, right? My wifey?”

I nodded even though it was a lie. I’d had no idea 12 had a girl, let alone a wifey.

“Well, she died—caught one up the ass. I found out Whisky dropped her.”

I flinched. 12 took it as a different kind of shock.

“Yeah, they was fuckin’ around. Her sister told me after the fact,
and
she’d dropped her off at one of Whisky’s cribs he’s got tucked away somewhere.”

Jumping up, I paced. Cum juice running all down my legs. “
Word?
Whisky was fuckin’ your girl? My Whisky?”

12 cracked his knuckles. “Nah, not just my girl—my baby’s mama.” He got up and walked over to me, grabbed me by the shoulders. “Look, Sweets. A niggah got a lotta love for ya, but I gots to handle it. You know this. So what’s up?”

Damn. He was asking me what I thought about him putting Whisky down for a dirt nap. All I could do was shake my head. Until he hit me with the rest.

“Either he clapped her, or had some grimy mu’fucka do it for him. Keila—Quita’s sister—told me that Whisky was going to take Quita away, move her up outta the hood so they could play house. She said Quita wasn’t wit it, had changed her mind. You know Whisky doesn’t entertain rejection.”

A new heat moved through me. Fire of violence and jealousy. I couldn’t believe that Whisky planned on bouncing on me for the next bitch. Not after all I’d done for him, the years I gave him. “Do what you gotta do,” I gave my permission, knowing that the trigger finger that blasted Quita’s back out was attached to my hand. But I rationalized it. Me and 12 had both been crossed. I’d done my part without his knowing. He’d finish it off. There were just certain things I didn’t talk about. I’d already gave him a pass by discussing Whisky. I didn’t see a need to give him two by telling on myself. Hell, I was a hustla, not a fool. No way I was going to be on the receiving end of my boy’s Desert Eagle.

This Weekend . . .

Whisky rested his head on my lap, giving me a look I’d never seen from him before. Looking deeply into his cognac eyes, I massaged his temples, kissed him deeply to make him feel like the man he’d no longer be after 12 dirt-napped him.

“What’s on ya mind, Daddy?”

“Thinkin’,” he said, and sat up. “You’d never cross me, Sweets.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. An order.

Blushing like the nineteen-year-old girl he’d once turned out, I agreed with him. He’d always needed loyalty confirmed for him, so I wasn’t sweatin’ it. “Got that right. And you’d never do me in, would you?”

“How you holdin’ down for money,” he asked, ignoring my question. “You straight?”

I stood, crossed my arms over the ice-blue silk robe covering my titties. “You know I am. I gets mine, Whisky. If nuthin’ else I stack chips. I sell cakes in the front of the bakery and make dough in the back.” I paused. “You ain’t answer what I asked you. You’d never do me in?”

Whisky laughed. “Don’t come at a playa like that. I put you on—you’d know if I took you off. Ain’t nuthin’ sweet about mines. Except you.” He kissed me. “What’chu think about letting Runner or somebody hold down Sweets Treats for you, and you and me bounce. I found a house you’ll like.”

It was my turn to giggle. Crack the hell up in his grill. Whisky had pegged me for a fool’s fool. He must’ve, thinking I’d relocate to the house he’d planned to tuck his side-bitch in. Had to be outta his rabbit-ass mind if he thought I’d let someone hold the reigns and run the show where
I
made dough, legally and illegally. “Give me a minute to think about it. It ain’t easy parting with ya cake,” I said, sure that 12 would cradle-to-the-grave him before I could say boo, yet I already missed him because he was my cake. And I hated to lose money.

                  •                  •                  •

My body ached from stress and the dick whipping 12 had put on me a couple of days ago. I sat at the bar going over my
real
books as music pumped through the speakers, and patrons buzzed around the back of the bakery. I was in the midst of it all, yet I really wasn’t there. I hadn’t been anywhere mentally since I’d found out Whisky had planned on trading me in for a new model.

Sucking my teeth, I added up how much I’d lose because of Whisky. Ten to twenty grand a month, depending on income. “Fuckin’ niggah,” I hissed, realizing how much losing him was gonna hurt me. He’d been the one who dished out the payouts to the po-po.

“Ya a’ight, sis?” Runner asked, his breath smelling like a garbage bag full of weed.

“Haze or Chronic?”

With a big Kool-Aid grin, he laughed. “Shit, maybe a lil’ of both. Want me to roll you a blunt to go with that tall-ass glass of yak? What, you guzzlin’ gallons now?”

“Nah. Just a little stressed. What’chu gettin’ into?” I asked, hoping he was on his way out. I didn’t want him playing me too close until 12 had knocked off Whisky.

“A chicken-head if she calls me on time. A hood-rat if the chicken don’t call first. Unless you need me.”

Laughing at the truth, I handed Runner the keys to my whip and a wad of cash. “Do yo thang.”

“Word? Money
and
the ride? Must be a niggah’s birthday.”

I gulped my yak. “It’s cool. 12 got me, he’ll make sure I—”

“Get to the crib safe,” 12 cut in from out of nowhere.

“Cool,” Runner said, then answered his celly. “I’ll check y’all later.” He pointed to his phone. “Chicky, chicky,” he mouthed, disappearing in the crowd.

“Sweets, I hate to do this to you. But there’s a problem.” 12 put his hand on my shoulder.

My legs were splayed in an M again, mounted on my desk as Poochie, a big bouncer of a brutha, stared at my naked and still swollen poom-poom. The phatness of it made his eyes dance in his head. Turning to 12, he got the same confirmation as Lil’ Lee did: It was cool to move forward.

“How you gonna push your shit up in my place? Ya knows the rules, Poochie. I don’t give a fuck how big your ass is. Three hundred and fifty pounds of muscle or not, can’t nobody flip weed in my spot. Now lick your way to forgiveness,” I said, then closed my eyes when I heard 12 cock his burner.

Poochie was all up on me in five seconds flat. Lids still closed, I shuddered at the thought of his tongue all in my groove when he spread my booty cheeks apart and fingered the rim of my ass. Heat consumed me again, and I moaned—a sign of weakness as far as I was concerned. I looked at 12 to see if he heard. He just nodded, and I closed my eyes again, cocking my legs open an inch wider as I felt Poochie near my domain.

He licked one thigh, then the other. “You want this, huh?” his deep voice asked, trailing his tongue toward my bottom.

“Just make nice, niggah,” I shuddered, enjoying the longness of his lasher.

Poochie gripped my thighs hard, and my eyes shot open. Bending over me, he had his dick in his hand. “I’m gonna give it to ya, a’ight.”

I tried to sit up, but he pushed me back so hard I thought I’d cave the desk in. He pinned me with the weight of one of his arms, but it felt like I was being held down by five niggahs. He was that strong. I looked for 12, but was greeted by the click of the door closing behind him. That niggah had left me. Straight up bounced while a sistah was naked and vulnerable.

I cried out when Poochie parted my pussy with calloused hands, but no one answered. The bakery had grown completely quiet of the voices normally blending in with the tunes. But now all I heard was the music. Loud. Blaring. Drowning out my calls for help.

“Can’t nobody help you, Sweets,” Poochie said, inserting the tip of his dick inside my tunnel. “No . . .” he plunged the rest of it in me “. . . fuckin’ body!”

Lying there helpless, I squirmed as he fucked me hard and fast, beating my already beaten and sore pussy, and prayed he was a two-minute niggah. And he was, I realized when he pulled out suddenly, then shot his cum into a Big Gulp cup I didn’t know he had.

The door opened, spiraling freedom through me. I knew I was saved.

“Finished?” 12 asked.

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘finished’?” I yelled. “Do you know what this niggah—”

“Yeah,” Poochie answered him, cutting me off. “Was some sweet pussy too. Just like you said.”

I’d been set up. “What?!”

12 grinned at me, then turned and looked behind him. “Forty, you next.” He turned back to me. “Funny how much a niggah can tell when a pistol’s in his mouth. Whisky dropped dime on you.” He closed the door after Forty walked in with his dick out.