King Divas (17 page)

 

 

“I
knew I couldn't trust that bitch,” I fume, glancing at my watch every other minute. “You give people an inch and they want to take a fucking mile. Now those kiddie bangers got me out here looking like Boo Boo the Fool.

But I ain't got muthafuckin' time to be chasing bitches all over Memphis like a human GPS. I clench my teeth as I hear the invisible ticking of the clock. Diesel is going to make his move any day now—probably after we bury Momma Peaches.

It works to my advantage that King Isaac has planted new seeds of doubt in Python's mind about his shady-ass cousin. If we get into a situation where it's my word against Diesel's over the Yolanda hit, my word will carry more weight if there are no snitches and no new baby with Python's fucking DNA breathing.

My blood pressure rises. If given a choice I'd take the dead baby over revenge with those Flowers. Python will never believe the word of some crumpled-up Flowers anyway.
The baby. I just want the baby.

An hour passes. Two hours.

Avonte and her girls Myeisha and Erika, who are also trusted Queen Gs, keep blowing up my phone almost to the point where I start entertaining the idea of putting a bullet in their skulls.

Goddamn it.
I stomp my way out of the park and meet up with my girls.

They all sense that I'm in a foul mood and don't say jack shit to me. The whole ride back to West Memphis, I plot my next move, knowing that it needs to be swift.

“Avonte, I need you to do some investigating for me.”

She looks up at me in the rearview mirror. “Sure. Whatcha need?”

“Does your little sister have a Morris High School yearbook ?”

“What year?”

I shrug. “Last year.”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Good. Bring it to me tomorrow. I need to flush Ms. Qiana out of hiding. The best way to do that is to reach out and touch those two bitches she rolls with.”

Avonte nods. “Sure thing.”

I'm fairly certain that I can identify the two girls that were with Qiana the first night we met. Once I know who they are, I can damn well find them.
Time to show these tricks why no one fucks me over.

“O
h shit,” Mack swears, but remains rooted by my side.

Profit's rage has transformed his face. Visible veins are pulsing out of his neck and the side of his face. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“Calm the fuck down. You're causing a scene,” I tell him.

His arm snakes out so fast to snatch me up that it's a blur. “Come on. We're leaving.”

He manages to drag me a couple of feet before I buck. “I'm not ready to go!”

“I didn't ask you what you were ready to do,” he snarls, pulling me again. “We're going home.”

“Let go!” I jerk harder, but when he doesn't let go, Beast steps up.

“Is there a problem?” He towers at least two inches over Profit and sports more muscle.

“This ain't got shit to do with you, bruh. You need to back the fuck up,” Profit tells him, clearly not ready to take any shit.

“The lady says that she's not ready to go.” Beast nods to someone off in the distance.

“Fuck off!” Profit throws the first punch and then all hell breaks loose.

“Profit! Stop it!” I attempt to jump in between the two, who are throwing powerful blows, but brothers that ain't got shit to do with what's going down start popping caps.

Screams go up and people scatter out of the way. Everything spins around me like a Ferris wheel. Minutes later a bloody and pissed Profit is dragging me out to the damn car.

“Are you fucking happy?” he barks, slamming the door and then rushing around the car as the sound of police sirens fills the night.

Once Profit jumps behind the wheel, I light into him. “Don't blame this shit on me. Nobody asked your ass to go barging in there and acting like a goddamn fool.”

He jams on the accelerator. “You like to play games now. Is that it?” he shouts. “I got niggas coming at me left and right talking about how you and your girls are all up in the club. My own muthafuckin' family punking my ass about how I can't control my ol' lady. And tonight, muthafuckas hitting me on my cell telling me how you fucking some nigga on the dance floor.”

“That's bullshit,” I shout back. “I can't control what the hell comes out your gossiping bitches' mouths.”

“T, I saw the damn nigga all up on you with my own damn eyes.”

“You didn't see shit!” I whip my head around and stare out the window like a petulant child.

“Is that how the fuck you're rolling now?”

“What, a bitch can't go dancing?”

He works his jaw. “I swear to God, I feel like bouncing your ass out that goddamn window.”

“You ain't going to do shit.” I rock back in my seat and cross my arms.

His head whips in my direction. “Who the fuck
are
you?”

I roll my eyes and pretend like I don't know what he means, but he's not going to let it go.

“Really. I need to know. Because I've been operating under the illusion that you just needed some time to work out your anger about the whole Lucifer situation and
then
we were going to work out our issues.”

“
Our
issues?” I ask. “I didn't stab you in the back.”

“I've apologized for that shit. How long are you going to hang that shit over my head?”

“As long as I fucking feel like it! I'm not anybody's goddamn consolation prize.”

“So what you saying? Huh? You want to squash this shit and go our separate ways?”

It's my turn to grind my back teeth instead of spitting out some shit that I can't take back. In my head, I'm flooded with memories. How we met. How I lost my virginity. How he used to sneak into my bedroom at the Douglases'. Prom. We used to be so good together, but shit has gone downhill for a long damn time now. When do you throw in the towel? When is enough enough?

Despite my ass trying to stay strong, my eyes fill with tears.

“You want out?” he asks again.

I don't know what the hell I want.
The rest of the ride to the crib is quiet and uncomfortable.

Profit suddenly leans over to get a better look at me. “What the fuck is that?” He wipes a trace of white powder from my nose.

Defensive, I smack his hand away. “Don't touch me, you goddamn cheater.” Once I throw one punch, I can't stop.

With one arm, he tries to block me the best he can. The car fishtails in and out of the lane.

“Goddamn it! Stop it!” He pushes me one good time and I go flying back to hit the back of my head on the passenger-side window—hard.

“Fuck!” The shit hurts. I grab my head, but my ears won't stop ringing. Tears flow, fast and heavy.

Profit's voice softens. “Are you all right?”

“Go to hell.” For the rest of the ride, I remain huddled in my seat, crying as quietly as I can.

“Why are you doing this to us?” he asks.

I sniff and wipe my eyes. “There is no us.”

He nods. “You're damn right.”

“A
hundred and seventy-eight
thousand
dollars?” I reel. How in the fuck does Kalief owe Diesel that kind of money? The shit doesn't make any kind of sense. And why is it up to me to pay his fucking debts? A point that I keep telling his ass, but he keeps blowing up my damn phone.

I can't believe that he's seriously trying to pimp my ass out. Sure. There are other Queen Gs who get tossed around from nigga to nigga for shady-ass shit, but that ain't never been us. I'm not a damn moll and I ain't a broke-down thot twerking in the VIP room like they used to do over at the Pink Monkey.

Niggas have taken this whole
ride or die
too muthafucking literally. For years, I took pride in not being one of these hardcore chicks. I'm a Queen G mainly because of family history and my address. Niggas can't survive out here without having to rep
somebody's
flag. That doesn't mean that my ass is squeaky clean, but I've never done anything that would land me in our modern-day concrete plantation.

And I'm not going to be stuck at my grandma's crib for the rest of my life either. I'm gonna roll up out of this bitch with or without Kalief's help. I figured that he would take the hint when I refused to return to Club Diesel, but that move infuriated him. The boy started blowing up the business phone at my fast food job while I was working a double. The shit got so bad that the manager wrote my ass up.

Kalief got my ass on the phone then—and I ripped him a new fucking asshole. Don't mess with me and my paper, even if the shit is barely above minimum wage.

Today is my first day off in two weeks and I'm enjoying this shit, despite the screaming kids running throughout this bitch. I run a bubble bath and turn off my phone. Two hours later when I turn the muthafucka back on, I have sixty-seven fucking missed calls. Sixty-seven. Where the fuck niggas do that shit at?

I glance over to my bedroom door to see my brother, Kobe, standing at the doorway. “What?”

He holds up his phone. “Will you
please
call your nigga Kalief back? Bruh is whining like a bitch all over my voice mail.”

I sigh.

“I mean it, Cleo. This shit is getting damn ridiculous.What the fuck did y'all fall out about now?”

“We broke up.”

“Again? Don't y'all do that shit every other week?”

I roll my eyes, hoping he'll get the hint to back off.

“What happened this time?”

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

On cue, Kobe's phone rings. He glances at the ID screen and huffs out a long breath. “This nigga here.” He shakes his head. “What do you want me to do?”

“Ignore his ass.”

“I've tried that shit, but I can't have a decent convo with bae without this nigga beeping in every other minute. You need to handle your fucking business and get this muthafucka off my phone.” His phone stops ringing and mine blows the fuck up.

“
Talk
to him,” Kobe shouts, mean-mugging me like I did something to his ass.

“Fine.” I swipe my finger across my screen and answer the call. “What is it, Kalief?”

“Why the hell ain't you been answering my calls?” he snaps.

“'Cause I already know what the fuck you're going to say—and I ain't interested. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Damn, girl. What's the big fucking deal? It's one date. It ain't like I'm asking you to sleep with the nigga.”

“Does that shit even sound right to you?” I challenge him. “One date to wipe out a hundred and seventy-eight thousand dollar debt?”

“He likes you.”

“I don't
like
him. And listen to you. I'm supposed to be your fucking girl, not your fucking ho. Are you putting any thought into how this shit makes me feel?”

“Cleo. Cleo. You're blowing this shit way out of proportion. Just think of this shit like it's a business dinner.”

“Kalief—”

“Hear me out. We ain't talking about a regular bitch-ass nigga in the industry. We're talking about a
made
nigga. His ass say jump and niggas start bouncing. Nobody asks how fucking high—or any of that shit. I
promise
you Diesel can get you on. Period. Do you know how many bitches would kill to be in your position?”

“Yeah. The same bitches who are always trading pussy for studio time—or for whack-ass beats. Nobody is ever going to take my ass seriously if I have to fuck every nigga in the industry. We've both seen this damn movie before. I'd rather keep rolling goddamn burritos for the rest of my life than have to owe Diesel Carver for a muthafuckin' thing. If you were a
real
manager, you'd keep this damn nigga off my ass instead of trying to sell it. If you were any kind of
boyfriend
you would've throat-punched that muthafucka for even suggesting some wild-ass indecent proposal.

“But
nooooo.
You're too busy gambling and throwing money up your goddamn nose, thinking that I'm going to pay the fucking tab. Well, you can miss me with all that shit.”

“Oh. Oh. So now I ain't been out here busting my ass, tryna get you on?”

“That's exactly what I'm saying. It's time for me to cut my damn losses and toss your ass deuces. You ain't shit. You ain't never been shit. And you ain't never going to
be
shit.”

“That's cold. After all we've been through? I thought you were my
ride or die.
”

“Fuck you. You wanna pay off your damn monies?
You
fuck his ass.”

“I done told you that it's just dinner.”

“C'mon, Kalief,” I say, stomping my foot. “Either you're stupid as hell or you think that I am.”

Seeing that he isn't getting anywhere with me with a lie, he changes it up. “All right. I ain't shit. Happy?”

Silence.

“You have no idea how much it hurts me to have to ask you to do this shit. The truth of the matter, Cleo, is that I fucked up. I ain't got the money to pay this nigga back. And it's well-known that brothas that come up short with his ass turn up missing. Is that what the fuck you want? You can't giggle over a damn lobster dinner to save my ass?”

“Why didn't you think about all that shit when you borrowed the money or smoked his shit?”

“I did think about that shit, but c'mon. You know I got a damn problem. You don't think that I don't try to beat this shit every muthafuckin' day? I hate that I still got this monkey on my back. And I hate that I have to ask the one person I love most in this world to do this for me. But I'm not asking anymore. I'm begging. Either you do this or I'm dead.” He breaks down.

I pull the phone away from my ear and shake my head. This can't be my life.

“Cleo, please. I promise if you do this, I won't ask you to do another thing for me. Please. One dinner.”

I grit my teeth while angry tears sting my eyes.

“Please, baby. Please.”

“I'll go to rehab. I'll get into whatever program you want. I'll get clean. I swear.”

I slam my eyes shut and try to hang on to my resolve—but listening to Kalief starts tearing me up inside. “All right. One date.”