Hustlin' Divas (15 page)

T
he police had been sweating Profit for months. But after a while, they had to fall back to their regularly scheduled program. He still had a court date for the illegal firearm, but he and his people seem to think that he'll be able to beat that charge. He had contradicted my story to the police by taking full responsibility for the weapon. The witness in the hospital lobby stuck to his story that Profit was actually a hero that night and saved his life, so that's a good thing in his favor. The main solid Profit is doing is not ratting to the cops where he got the gun. The muthafucka is clearly hot, since the serial number is filed off, but the ballistic reports couldn't place it at that shooting in Orange Mound.

Essence been sweating bullets and blowing up my phone every chance she gets. I understand. The last thing E wants to explain to the Gangster Disciples and the Queen Gs is how and why Fat Ace's little brother got hold her shit and mowed down members of their own set. I keep telling her to be cool, but the bitch is like a little Chihuahua and wrecking my nerves.

Profit will never do her dirty, and on that she's just going to have to trust me.

Meanwhile, the streets are still hot, and Fat Ace is still a wanted man with the Gangster Disciples. Niggas are now speculating that Fat Ace has nine lives, since he survived the five slugs he took at the hospital. The Vice Lords are resourceful if nothing else. Fat Ace's right-hand chick, Lucifer, pulled some real gangsta shit and saved Ace's life.

What makes me nervous is that Profit sounds more and more like he wants to finally clique up with the Vice Lords. Shit. I think he's done it already and is just looking for the best way to let me in on the program. It ain't like I don't understand. There's no such thing as a free agent in the street game. Everybody needs someone to watch they back. And when you have family as powerful as Fat Ace, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what's coming.

I just want him to lie to me just a little longer.

Profit glances up at me. “I love you.”

My head springs up from the library book propped open on the table in front of me, and I stop playing footsie with him under the table. “Shhh.” I glance around and giggle. “Someone might hear you.”

“Like I give a fuck.” His sexy lips stretch across his face as he leans forward and braids our hands together. For the last two months, I've been grounded. The Douglases have only allowed me to go to school, track, and the public library. Embarrassingly enough, Tracee drives me there and picks me up, ensuring that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. I ain't going to lie. The trust bond between me and the Douglases has seriously been severed, and I'm afraid that it will never be repaired. But I'm going to try, minding my p's and q's, like Profit likes to say—except that I do sneak him into my room and make love to him late at night. I can't help it. I love him. And I will always love him. I've never been more sure about anything in my entire life.

“Besides,” Profit continues with our conversation. “The fact that you got me up in this muthafucka with all these bullshit books should tell everyone just how pussy-whipped I am.”

“Pussy-whipped?” I arch a brow at him. “Most niggas wouldn't admit that shit.” I laugh.

“No other nigga has what I have.” He rubs his leg against mine. “And they never will.” Profit levels me with a look that says he means business.

“You just keep on loving me the way you do and you'll never have anything to worry about,” I sass.

He rocks his chin upward. “C'mere, you.”

Self-conscious, I glance around the busy library, even though it's highly unlikely anyone we know is roaming around—that's why it's such an idyllic place to meet. At school, the tension between the various gangs has gotten worse, to the point the school board has voted to have security guards with metal-detector wands stationed at the doors.

Nobody snitched about the bloody fight between me and Qiana. I was spared having to see that nosy bitch again, because she never returned to school. Still, the hood vine buzzed. Nobody knew how to take or handle me and Profit officially coming out as a couple, so everybody fell back and watched from the sidelines.

“I'm waiting,” Profit says.

Hands still locked together, I stand from my chair, lean over the table, and plant a fat kiss against his soft lips. We moan at the same time.

“Mmm. You taste like strawberry Bubble Yum,” Profit says, pulling me back a bit but sucking on my bottom lip. “My favorite.” Suddenly he releases my hands, hooks his arm around my waist, and pulls me across the table.

I squeal, causing everyone in the library to turn with their fingers pressed against their lips, shushing us.

Profit shoots them his middle finger while I giggle until he successfully pulls me into his lap and I almost piss in my pants. “Your shoulder!”

“My shoulder is fine. Just stiff,” he says. “Now, you said you had something that you wanted to ask me,” he says, snuggling my neck. “What is it?”

My heart flutters as I take a deep breath. “Well…”

“Well, what?” He lifts his head. “Are you blushing?”

“No.”

Profit laughs. “Yes, you are.” He smacks me on the ass. “What is it? Spit it out.”

I twirl a lock of hair around my finger as if I'm shy all of a sudden. “Well, you know that the, um, prom is coming up?”

Profit's brows shoot up. “The prom?” He rolls his eyes. “Sheeiit.”

“Yeah. I know it's silly but…” I draw a deep breath. “Well, you know…” I shrug and avoid his twinkling eyes.

“You're right. It
is
silly.” He laughs.

I stop twirling my hair and drop my head in disappointment.

“
But
,” he continues. “if my baby really wants to go, then…I guess I can turn this hustler into a G—for one night.”

I perk up. “Really? You mean it?”

“Look at you.” He grins. “You really want to do this?”

“It would be nice to get all dressed up,” I say. “I'll be off punishment by then.”

“What happened about not wanting everyone to know about us?”

“C'mon. Everybody already knows so…why not?”

Profit eyes me curiously. “Look. I'm cool with it…but what about your sister?”

My smile fades and my back stiffens. By no means have I forgotten my last talk, or rather lecture, with my older sister. How could I? I'm still pissed about it. “It's time I remind my sister that she doesn't run my life. I do what I want to do.” I wrap my arms around Profit's neck. “And I date who I want to date.”

And I mean that shit. I've had enough of LeShelle's bullshit. It's my life, and I'll live and love the way I see fit.

Profit's sexy smile widens. “I think you made that shit clear when you sliced Qiana's ass up,” he jokes. “I'm beginning to think that underneath that honor-roll, good-girl persona beats the heart of a real gangsta bitch.”

I take that as a compliment. “You think so?” I kiss the tip of his nose.

“Absolutely. Now we just need to come up with a street name for you and you'll be good to go. Something like, um, Lady Blade or Killa Blade—because ain't nobody going to forget that crazy shit you did to Qiana's face anytime soon.”

“Shit. You're the muthafucka who taught me that shit.”

“A teacher is as good as his student.” He pimps his collar.

“Whatever, nigga.” I roll my eyes and attempt to climb out of his lap.

“Wait. Wait.” He keeps me locked in place. “So we're really gonna do this?” he checks. “I'm going to get a penguin suit and you're going to get all girlied up?”

“That's the plan.” I almost can't believe I'm saying this shit myself.

“Limo? Corsage? Officially meeting your foster parents instead of listening to them from underneath your bed?”

“Yep.”

Profit coughs and clears his throat. “And, uh, what about what normally happens afterward?” His lips kick upward.

Grinning, I remove my arms from around his neck and fold them beneath my breasts. “What? We're already—”

“Not in a fancy hotel,” he cuts me off. “Not that I'm knocking your twin-size bed—it's kinky and all—but a tall brotha like myself could use a little more room.”

“So you propose…?”

“The Peabody Hotel.” He shrugs. “Might as well do it up right.”

I pretend to think about his proposition for a hot second. “All right. Deal.”

Profit nods. “Guess that means our asses is heading to the prom. Just wait until niggas hear about this.”

“Y
our old ass should be ashamed of yourself,” Josie yells as she storms into my house without knocking. “Where he at?” Her head whips around. “Arzell!”

I sit a platter of flapjacks down on the table and then settle my hands on my hips. “Will you stop all that hollering up in here? What's your problem?”

Josie swishes her wide hips over to the table. Time has not been all that kind to her face and body. Her once Pam Grier–like brick-house figure now looks like a brick wall, complete with elephant legs and doughy feet spilling out of orthopedic shoes. Her once-idolized long hair has lost the war against chemical perms and harsh dyes to the point her edges are as bald as a baby's bottom while the rest is a thin, gray, natural mess.

“My problem,” Josie says, getting all up in my face, “is my coming home from visiting my daughter out in California and hearing that you got your old-ass pussy all up on my grandson. What the fuck is wrong with you? You ain't supposed to do no shit like that.”

I cut my eyes. “Girl, please. That nigga may be young, but he's good and grown. And I ain't heard no complaints, especially when he's tongue-boxing my clit. That's for damn sure.” I laugh, shake my ass, and then return to the kitchen to get some syrup.

“This is a muthafuckin' joke to you, ain't it?” Josie follows me, huffing and wheezing the whole way. “That some foul shit, Peaches. You used to change that boy's diapers!”

“Chile, stop. Don't be tryna turn this into something it ain't. Like I said, the boy is grown and he can leave any damn time he gets ready. Until then, I'm going to ride your grandson's dick, because it keeps my back straight and my arthritis at bay.”

On cue, Arzell shuffles up, naked, from the back of the house with a wide, goofy smile on his face and his fat sausage dick swinging in the air. “Hmmm. Something smells good,” he declares, clapping his hands together. When he rounds the corner to the kitchen, he stops dead in his tracks. “Grandma, what are doing here?”

Josie gasps and clutches a hand over her heart. “Lawd, have mercy!”

I snicker. “Now you see why I fucks with him, don't you?”

“Go! Put! Some! Clothes! On!” Josie stomps her foot.

“Yes, ma'am.” Stunned and embarrassed, Arzell turns and rushes out of the kitchen.

“Breakfast will be ready when you come out,” I add, and cock my head to the side as I watch his firm ass muscles flex as he hurries out. “Sweet Jesus. You got some good genes running in your family. You hungry, girl?” I grab the syrup and butter and waltz back out to the table.

“I'm not playing with you, Peaches.” Josie marches behind me again. “You've crossed a line. This shit ain't cool.”

I set everything on the table and then retrieve my cigar box, where I keep the rolled weed that Baby Thug had hooked me up with. The shit is off the fuckin' chain. “For real, Josie? You're working my nerves. As many of my niggas you done fucked back in the day, you might as well charge Junior back there to the game.”

“W-what?”

“Don't act all fuckin' tongue-tied now and spare me the shocked bullshit.” I light my fat blunt and take a hard tug before blowing the smoke directly in Josie's face. “Now, if I made you think my ass was stupid all those years when you were creeping behind me and fucking all my leftovers, then my bad. But for real, most of that shit never bothered me. There are too many bitches going to war over these niggas, who are just going to dick us over anyway.”

Josie blinks at me. “But he's my
grandson
.”

“All that's important is that he ain't
my
grandson.” I take a second toke and then pass the blunt over.

“Why can't you fuck somebody your own age? Shit. You got Rufus milling outside your door like a lost cat. Why don't you fuck him?”

“You fuck him. Why ride a colt when I can rock a stallion? Here.” I thrust the blunt at her again.

Josie glances down as if she's thinking about refusing my peace offering. “You know I done stopped smokin' that shit.”

“Girl, I ain't offering it again, and you know you need this shit to help you with your glaucoma or whatever else you got going on. Stop being so high and mighty just because you hollering in somebody's church nowadays.”

Josie hesitates another second and then snatches the blunt from my hand and sucks on the muthafucka so long that I'm convinced she's trying to inhale the whole thing in one toke. I think about telling her that the shit is laced with some secret, potent shit, but I decide against it. Considering how old girl rolled up in my place trying to throw her weight around, she's getting just what's coming to her.

“Damn,” Josie croaks, passing the blunt back and holding the smoke in her lungs. “What the fuck?”

“Some good shit, huh?”

Josie wobbles on her feet. “Fuck. I need to sit down.”

I hide my smile but direct old girl back over to the table. “I'll grab you a plate.” I disappear into the kitchen, and when I return, I get a good chuckle out of seeing Josie's round head lull around her shoulders like a bottle top.

“What the hell is in that shit?”

“Don't know. Baby Thug didn't tell me,” I say. “All I know is that the shit is good.” I reach over to the platter of flapjacks and fork a few onto her plate.

Josie shakes her head.

“What?” I ask.

“You'll never change.” She grabs a couple flapjacks herself. “You always eat this shit after sex.” Josie giggles and then catches herself. “That shit ain't funny.”

“Then why the fuck are you laughing?” I know my girl is fucked up. I am, too. Despite all this bullshit, she's still one of my best friends.

“For the record, I wasn't
always
running up after your leftovers.” Josie shrugs. “It just happened the one time.”

“Yeah. But it was with my husband…”

 

Black Gangster Disciple Isaac Goodson was a mean muthafucka by way of Chicago. The minute he rolled into Memphis, supercop Melvin Johnson had him well within his sights and tried to take his ass down on the regular. But Isaac kept his shit tight and was always two steps ahead. The migration of national gangs was changing the game fast. Crack may have been destroying families and lives, but it was also fattening niggas' pockets like nothing anyone had ever seen in the projects. Isaac not only had mad connections that kept his niggas caked up, but the nigga also must have had an inside man in the military with the amount and types of guns he got his hands on.

When niggas saw how much weight Isaac was pushing and how he invested in the community, they all started looking up to him. Recruitment into the Black Disciples exploded. Everybody got educated into the Folks Nation quick, fast, and in a hurry. Isaac was all things to all his people. He kept niggas' pockets fat and stepped into the role as a father figure to a bunch of little niggas who never knew they daddies. And the women…sheeit. They lost they goddamn minds.

Isaac was thuggish fine: over six feet tall, bald headed with thick-ass muscles bulging on every part of his body and rumored to be rocking a Mandingo dick that put bitches to sleep. The minute I spotted his ass in his newly opened auto shop, my ass fell in love. Some real deep shit, too—like it was with Manny. Isaac talked big and did big things. He could outdrink a sailor and outsmoke a chimney, but he didn't personally fuck with the hard shit he was slinging to the weak and the trifling. He kept it hood with his mind on his money and his money on his mind twenty-four/seven.

Who the fuck wouldn't find that shit sexy as hell? And the feeling was mutual. When I waltzed through the door of that shop, he took one long look at me, smacked those fat, juicy lips of his together, and said, “I'm gonna marry you.”

I was used to niggas talking shit, but for some reason I believed that muthafucka said what he meant and meant what he said. Isaac came at the right time, since I was stuck raising Terrell after Alice up and disappeared and Nana Maybelle had passed on. Terrell needed a father figure, and as far as I could tell, there was no better candidate than Isaac. Two days after we first laid eyes on each other, Isaac moved into my small place off Utah Avenue. A week later, we were married down at the courthouse. I had lost Nana's big crib due to back taxes, and I told myself that the move was just temporary until I stacked my money up—words to die by.

Terrell was used to niggas coming and going at my place, but he had never seen one of them move in and stay. He didn't like Isaac at first, didn't like having to share me all the time, and he didn't understand why he always had to do what this nigga was telling him to do.

Isaac was patient with the boy, always talking to him and trying to teach him shit. The biggest lesson came one day when four-year-old Terrell was out playing in the yard. All of a sudden, he was screaming his fool head off.

I was scared shitless and raced out of the house. Isaac, too, hustled from somewhere in the neighborhood when he heard the screams. However, when we found out what Terrell was screaming about, we were both pissed and relieved.

“Damn, lil man,” Isaac said, approaching. “It ain't nothing but a snake.”

Shocked, Terrell just stood there trembling as he watched the brown snake coil around a scrawny neighborhood cat and begin choking the shit out of it.

I moved forward to comfort my nephew, but Isaac stopped me. He approached a trembling Terrell and squatted down next to him.

“What you're seeing there, lil man, is a beautiful thing. It's nature. All species feed off one another in order to survive. Some are just more open and straight to the point with their shit. A man should always respect another's hustle.” He draped an arm around Terrell's tiny shoulders. “A real man learns to embrace and conquer his fears—whatever they may be. You understand?”

Terrell chanced a look over at Isaac and then slowly nodded.

“Good.” He stood up and removed his gun from his waist. “What do you say we have a little something different for dinner tonight?” He smiled and then shot the snake.

Terrell jumped.

Isaac patted him on the back. “Remember: all species feed off one another—one way or another.”

I smiled. I was convinced more than ever that I had made the right decision marrying Isaac.

Six months later, I was still in love with Isaac's gangsta ass, but the nigga definitely had a problem with keeping his big dick in just one pussy. Every time I confronted him on it, he would just respond with, “C'mon, Peach. You know those bitches don't mean shit to me.”

“So why do you keep fuckin' with them?”

“That's just it. I fucks with them.” He'd wrap an arm around my waist. “But I make looove to you, Momma.” Then he'd suck on my bottom lip, brush his big cock against my pussy, and I would forgive and forget—until the next time. Out of all the women my man fucked, the one who hurt the most was Josie. True, she was going through a difficult time, she'd lost her husband in a fatal car accident, and she'd gotten hooked on crack shortly after. A lot of broke niggas who had been dying to fuck her since waaay back in the day now lined up to get they salads tossed or anything else they wanted for the low, low price of twenty dollars.

So why did Isaac want to dig Josie out when every muthafucka on the block was doing it? I could never get a straight answer on that shit, so I always suspected that Isaac's feelings were something deeper than just a casual fuck. The shit hurt, but I wasn't going to give up on my man over the shit—not yet anyway.

Around the same time I was fighting to keep my marriage together, I received a call from Alice. The girl had dodged a bullet after the botched robbery a few years back, because she convinced the police that she was just a customer who got caught up in the crosshairs. The police bought that shit because the security cameras in the place didn't work. Shortly after, with her crack addiction in full effect, Alice dropped Terrell off for me to babysit and never came back. Now she was calling and pleading for me and Terrell to come see her in the hospital.

The answer should have been a “hell no,” but that old guilt landed hard on my shoulders again—or it never completely went away. The fact that my sister was fucked up in the head was my fault no matter how many times I tried to convince myself otherwise. So I loaded Terrell into the car and drove out to the hospital. It turned out that Alice's great emergency was that she had had another baby—a small wrinkly little thing who clearly had healthy lungs if nothing else.

“Heeey.” Alice lifted a lazy smile when we walked into the room and then struggled to sit up. She looked like shit warmed over, and it was no surprise that Terrell took to hiding behind my prosthetic leg. “Wow. He's so big now.” Alice cheesed, cocking her head and trying to get a good look at her oldest son.

“Yeah. Children have the tendency to grow,” I said sarcastically, and approached the small bed that my newest nephew wiggled and wailed from.

“Hey, Terrell. You want to come over here and say hello to Mommy?” Alice held open her painfully thin arms and pleaded silently with her watery brown eyes. She looked like she weighed about ninety pounds, and her matted hair clearly hadn't seen a brush, let alone some shampoo and water, in quite some time.

I glanced down and tried to push him forward. When he tried to push back, I bent down and whispered, “Remember what Isaac told you about fear?”

Terrell blinked and then glanced over at his mom.

“Go ahead. Go on.” I gave him another gentle push, and he finally unrooted his legs and walked over to the hospital bed.