On the Run with Love (6 page)

Slug stood in his Aunt Elsie's living room silently. He didn't know what she and his mother, Caroline Ann, known to the family as Ann, would say. They both sat quietly. All you could hear was the ticking of the clock. He had told them all he knew, which wasn't much. All he knew was that they had started shooting and that he and Freddie had clapped back, a nigga dropped and a cop got hit, and now Freddie was on his way down South.

Elsie was no stranger to the streets. Freddie's absentee father was a high roller back in the early eighties: a Dominican player with long paper and a sweet dick. Elsie was young and naïve, got sucked in, ended up pregnant, and Freddie Sr. disappeared. She wouldn't acknowledge his desertion at first, even naming Freddie after him to let all them jealous bitches know who had borne his seed. But after a few months of seeing him everywhere and still being ignored, she finally got the message.

As Freddie grew up, she saw some of his father's womanizing traits in him and tried to beat them out of him, but to no avail. Elsie knew her son wasn't a murderer, just the victim of harsh circumstances.

“Well, one thing's for sure. You can't run forever,” she remarked.

“Naw, but he can run for now,” Slug replied.

“What does he want me to do?” Elsie asked, ready to troop out for her only child.

“He knows they'll be comin' around questioning,” Slug explained, “so he—”

“I know all that, Eric, believe me. I know how to handle police. I mean, what does he want me to do? Does he need any money? I ain't got much, but Lord knows he can get my last.”

Slug appreciated his aunt's devotion to her son. “Naw, Auntie, he'll be okay. I'll take care of baby boy,” he assured her.

“How?” Ann questioned. “Slug, he in enough trouble already to be messin' 'round wit' you.” Slug's mother was fully aware of her son's notorious reputation.

“Ma, I ain't mean it like that. I meant . . . get him a job or something,” he lied.

“A job? Boy, how you gonna get him a job and you ain't never worked a day in yo' life?” Ann inquired.

“Besides, with the police lookin' for him, ain't no way he can work a regular job,” Elsie added, shaking her head. “What is my baby gonna do? I should go see a lawyer.”

“Good idea, Elsie,” Ann commended her. “Try to work some good out of this. I mean, the way you explained it, Eric, it was self-defense.”

Their dispositions brightened considerably. Slug didn't have the heart to bring them back to reality. Freddie had shot a cop. There wasn't any self-defense for that.

“Yes, the Lord works in mysterious ways,” Ann said.

Slug turned to his mother. “Ma, I'm 'posed to meet Freddie in the Boro, and I don't want him down there too long without me. Just let me gather my things and I'll be ready.” He reached for his mother's arm.
I just hope Goldsboro will be ready for me and him
, was his current thought as he helped his mother stand to her feet.

Freddie and Simone emerged from the Piedmont Triad International Airport in Greensboro just as the sun had taken on an orange tint. They had both been in their own world, flying high above the real one. Simone thought about the decision she'd made. She didn't regret it because wherever Freddie was, she wanted to be. But she realized all she had sacrificed to do so. Because the car was in her name, she knew that if she got a job it would just be a matter of time before the police came looking for her. And even though she had nothing to do with the shootout, it would bring heat to Freddie. The same thing with school; this hurt the most. She only had a few months to go before she would have been a certified public accountant. Now, all of that was gone, at least for the time being.

Freddie spent the flight wondering what he would do once he reached Goldsboro. He had never worked a nine-to-five a day in his life, and he was willing to square up but he couldn't. Everything was being set up to involve him in some type of criminal enterprise. But Freddie wasn't a hustler; he was a player. All he knew was macking women; that was how he ate, how he paid bills, how he pampered Simone with everything, even the two-carat engagement ring. Still another reason to get rid of it. Simone never knew that the steak she ate, the clothes she wore, and the roof that sheltered her all came out of other women's pocketbooks. But now that he had committed himself to Simone, what would or could he do to support her?

Simone looked out over the airport parking lot and yawned. “Boo, I'm exhausted. Let's just get a room instead of going straight to Goldsboro, okay?”

Freddie looked at her and felt it was a good point. He needed to give Slug a chance to get there first. “Yeah, no doubt, ma. That's a good idea.” He placed his arm around her waist and led her to one of the waiting cabs.

“Welcome to Greensboro,” the cabbie drawled. “How was the flight?”

Freddie was a little taken aback by the man's Southern hospitality. In Jersey, you were lucky if a cabbie didn't say, “Where the fuck you goin'?”

“Uh, it was cool. Thanks for askin',” Freddie replied.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked as he pulled off.

“You know any motels you could suggest?” Freddie asked.

“Top of the line, nice, flea bitten, or damn near condemned?” The cabbie chuckled.

“Nice.”

“Comin' right up.”

The cabbie drove them to the Red Roof Inn on High Point Road. “This good enough? Real nice prices, real nice people.”

Simone giggled because he sounded like a commercial.

“Thanks, yo,” Freddie said, handing him a twenty. “Keep the change.”

The meter only read eight dollars and thirty cents. “Well, I thank ya kindly. Y'all enjoy your stay in Greensboro.”

Freddie and Simone climbed out of the cab with Freddie carrying the duffle bag. “Real nice prices, real nice people,” Freddie mocked, imitating a country accent.

Simone hit him. “Stop, Freddie, he was nice!” She giggled. “But that did sound like a commercial.”

They went in and Freddie copped a single room for three nights. Their room was on the second level. They entered the room and turned on the light because the sun had already set. The room was immaculate and had a peach bedspread, matching curtains, and off-white walls. It was a little stuffy because it had been a warm spring day in North Carolina, so Freddie turned on the air conditioner. He tossed the duffle bag onto the bed and Simone lay across it on her back. “Ohhh, that feels good.”

Freddie clicked on the TV and flipped through a few stations, caught the news, and left it there, just in case. “You hungry?” Freddie asked.

“A little. But for real for real, I just wanna take a bath and go to sleep,” she said, stretching her arms over her head.

“Well, I'm about to starve, yo.”

Simone was rummaging through the large duffle bag, pulling out clothes randomly. She had only managed to pack three sets of clothes for Freddie and four for herself, along with a few pairs of shoes, sneakers, and boots.

“Damn. I hope I packed some panties.” She giggled, still pulling stuff out. She found a few pair of Freddie's boxers and a couple of bras. She shrugged. “I guess I'll just have to get some tomorrow.”

“Dig, I'ma go get somethin' to eat,” Freddie informed her.

“Okay.”

Freddie left the room. Simone had just pulled off her sweatshirt when she noticed that the TV had a radio on it as well. She fiddled with the remote until she figured out how to turn off the TV and turn on the radio. She turned the digital dial until she heard Avant's “Read Your Mind” on 104.3.

Simone took off her low-rider jeans, panties, and bra before entering the bathroom completely naked. She opened up the taps and sat on the toilet seat to watch the tub fill with steaming water and bubbles from the complimentary bubble bath she'd poured in. When the tub was full and the bubble level to her liking, she put her hair up in a ponytail and tested the water with the tips of her toes.
Perfect.

Simone slid into the warm water like she would slide under a quilt on a cold and stormy winter night. She let the water cradle her, rocking her ever so gently whenever she moved around. She held up her left hand and looked at the light spot the ring had left on her chocolate complexion. She thought about calling her mother but didn't want to do it from the motel phone. She promised herself she'd call in the morning. What to say, she hadn't figured out yet. She couldn't picture herself saying, “Hey, Ma, me and Freddie on the run from the police. I'll try to stay in touch.”

She laughed to herself to keep from crying because the whole situation was madness. She lathered up and washed her body to the sounds of Sade, Maxwell, India Arie, and Mary J. before she got out to dry off. As she toweled her back, she heard one of her songs by Jaheim fill the air. She opened the door to go turn it up but found the room completely dark except for several flickering candles strategically placed around the room. Freddie was straddling the sole chair in the room backward, his chest against the back of it. Simone stopped in front of the light, right outside the bathroom, where the sink and a large mirror were.

“Stay right there, boo. Just let me look at you.”

Freddie's eyes devoured his woman from head to toe, from her silky Indian mane to her slanted brown eyes, sculpted cheekbones, African nose, and full, pouty lips. His eyes traveled along her slender neck, which curved into small feminine shoulders. The cool air from the AC made her pretty pink nipples stick out almost a full half inch. It was like she could feel his eyes kissing her all over, because as he looked lower, her heart rate increased, her breathing shortened, and her wetness began to lubricate her thighs.

Freddie continued his visual nibbling. As Keith Sweat began to sing, so did he, but in that melodic octave that always made Simone melt. Freddie began to chime the lyrics. He got up and walked over to her. He continued chanting the words to the popular '80s track as he took her hand in his and kissed it.

“Damn, you beautiful, Simone.” He gently turned her around to face her own reflection in the mirror. “See what I see,” he whispered, running a tantalizing finger down her spine, making her jump slightly and bite her trembling bottom lip. She watched and felt his hands cup both of her breasts, pulling and teasing her nipples as he sang softly in her ear. Each syllable pronounced sent chills throughout her entire body, moistening her inner thighs.

Simone squirmed. Her chest raised as she placed her hands on top of his. She gripped them tightly as he massaged her breasts. She relaxed her chocolate body against him.

Freddie kept eye contact with her through the mirror. He slid their hands down to her belly. She watched them go lower and lower. Her eyes took on a panther-like glow, letting Freddie know his sensuality had taken her as he'd intended it to. He continued with his serenade as he ran his finger along her pussy lips, inserting two up to the knuckle inside her.

She gasped.

“I . . . won't.”

Simone was so creamy she milked his fingers as Freddie licked along her spine. He used his free hand to slowly push her forward, bending her over the sink.

“Freddie, I want to feel you inside me soooooo bad,” she purred.

Freddie came out of his pants and slid inside her tightness, slowly, taking his time until he was all the way inside. “Look how beautiful love makes you look, boo. Look at what love looks like in your eyes,” Freddie urged, long dicking her into losing control.

Simone kept steady eye contact with herself, getting more and more turned on by the expressions on her face, as she watched her own ecstasy. Freddie gripped her around the waist and ground her hard, making her eyes roll up in the back of her head.

“Freddie, don't stop. Don't ever stop loving me, baby.”

“You're so beautiful to me, Simone. So beautiful,” Freddie replied. “Kiss yourself, ma.” Simone kissed her own reflection on the lips as if it were her long-lost twin.

“I'm beautiful,” she moaned, reaching back to pull Freddie to her as she felt the quiver in her stomach build into a rumble.

“Freddie, I can feel it. I can feel . . .”

Freddie knew his woman well enough to hold himself until he felt her walls flare and tighten, timing his release to match hers. The intensity of the moment damn near made Simone lose her mind.

“Freddie, I'll kill you. I'll kill . . . you,” she stuttered, too low for Freddie to hear. And he was too unconscious to care to understand.

It had been a week since Mannie's murder and Tay had already sent a message to the hustlers around the New Projects. He sent a team through to wet up the buildings of 116 in the back on Elmwood, 528, across from the infamous 524 building, in the front on Second Street, 532 in the middle, and 544 near the corner. Every day a different crew of shooters darted through the money-getting housing projects and lit the block up like Independence Day. No one was hit because no one was meant to be, but the message was loud and clear, too loud for Power to ignore.

Power was from building 528, but he repped his stomping grounds to the fullest. He and his manz and 'em controlled the front, after the feds had come through and swept the housing projects he was born and raised in. Before him, it was his sandbox homies, Malik, Cheddar, Pete and Doub who ran the two West Second Street buildings. They were legendary for their hustles, but his methods required force. He played the role of enforcer, and he played his role well. He had outlasted many of his contemporaries, who were either dead or doing fed bids, so dudes from his city respected his longevity, Tay included. But this wasn't about respect; it was about revenge, which was why Power decided to go see Tay before things really got out of hand.

He pulled up in his classic burgundy Jaguar XJR with a beige butter-soft leather interior. Power was beyond the need to floss. He didn't have oversized tires or spinning rims like the young cats. The Jag was still as it was off the showroom floor.

There was a little league baseball game being played in Silas Field Park. He decided this was a good place to have the meeting. He didn't believe Tay was that stupid or gung-ho that he'd do something dumb like talk slick and provoke or force Power's head, but still he came with his manz, Bash, who was also a known gunman in the town, as an extra precaution. They climbed the half-full stone bleachers and took a seat behind cheering parents and siblings. He looked around and spotted a young cat profiling along the wall.

“Yo,
akh
, lemme holla at you.”

The young boy recognized Power's face but didn't know his name. He just knew he had paper and pushed a sick Jag. He bopped over, trying to look cooler than he was.

“What up, OG?” the boy asked, addressing Power by the term reserved for elders.

Power pulled out a wad of money and peeled off a Benjamin. “Do me a favor, li'l bruh. Go tell Tay Power said holla at him, and tell him where I'm at, a'ight?”

The boy recognized the name instantly. In his mind, according to the streets, Power was one of the legends from the Queen City. Had it been anyone else, he woulda kept the hundred and dipped, but since Power was who he was, there was nothing to talk about.

“If I can find 'im,” the boy replied.

“Yeah, you can find 'im. Hurry up for me.”

The boy hurried off as the batter on the field got a hit that landed in left field, almost rolling to the fence. The crowd erupted with cheers.

“That's my baby!”

“Run, T, run!”

“Safe!” the umpire declared as the runner slid into third base.

Power laughed. “Good hit!” he yelled and clapped. He turned to Bashir. “You see this, beloved? You see these pretty black mamas cheering for their man-children? Everything we do, we do for this,” Power explained, gesturing with his hand. “Niggas forget that. They forget and lose focus. But this is why we do what we do.”

Bashir nodded knowingly.

Out of the corner of Power's hawk-like vision, he saw Tay enter the park, followed by the boy and another cat, looking like he didn't wanna talk. His ice grill stood out to Power above all. He glanced over at Bashir, who also now had a mean mug plastered across his face. It was apparent that he too noticed the facial expression of the dude who was with Tay.

“Bash, let me talk to Tay alone. But be on point. You know how these east end niggas can get,” he stated.

“Bruh, you sure?” Bashir did not like Power's plan one bit, but no matter the case, he had to respect it. Still, he wanted to be sure.

Power let out a light chuckle. “Yeah, I'm positive,” he said, patting the butt of his .40-cal. tucked under his Polo collared shirt as he took a quick look from left to right to see if anyone was paying him any mind.

“Say less.”

Bash stood up and descended the bleachers. When Tay saw Bashir coming down, he immediately understood. He tapped his hitter and gestured for him to do the same thing. Tay climbed the bleachers. Power extended his arm and greeted him with a handshake.

“Power. What the deal, my G?” Tay greeted him, a little out of breath. “How you livin'?”

Power chuckled and patted Tay's protruding belly. “Not as good as you, fam.”

Tay smiled as they sat down on the top row of the bleachers.

“Let me ask you something. You ever come out here and watch these games?” Power abruptly asked.

“For what?” Tay was visibly perplexed.

Inside, Power shook his head because Dante was a living example of the point he was making to Bash about losing focus. “You ever read Akbar's book
Death of the Game?
”

Baseball games, books; Tay didn't know what Power was getting at, but he wished he'd get to it. “Naw, P, I don't read much. Sorry,” Tay replied sarcastically.

Power detected the sarcasm in his voice. “I only asked because he said snitches killed the game. And the reason niggas snitch is because they lose focus. What we do, we don't make money just to make money. We make money to provide for our family, for our people, and if niggas was in the game for that, wouldn't be nothin' to snitch about or nobody to snitch on, because they'd know this is all we got.”

Dante's young, greedy mind couldn't grasp the totality of what Power was saying. All he knew was mo' money, mo' murder. “I feel you, P,” he said, but Power knew he didn't. “I feel you. It's about family.”

Power just let it go. “That's why I understood why you did what you did, and it's why I wanted to talk to you, face to face, on some real G shit.” He paused and shook his head before he continued. “My li'l homie Freddie, bruh, he not even about that life like that,” he admitted.

“You ain't gotta tell me that,” Tay spat. “I know the nigga marshmallow.” He took a jab at Freddie to see how Power would react.

“Soft or not,” Power began, “ya manz Cream forced his hand and he did what any cat would do in his shoes. He from the projects,
akhi
, so at minimum he seen some gangsta shit up close and personal,” Power ended, shooting a jab back himself, letting him know there was nothing soft about his hood or his homies. He may not have agreed with or condoned Freddie's methods or actions, but being a New Projects nigga, he didn't expect anything less.

“Yo, so what you tryin'a say?” Tay let out a gust of hot air in frustration. He was growing tired of the conversation. As far as he was concerned, first blood was drawn and he had no intentions until he spilled some of his own. The question was, whose blood?

Power picked up on the fact that although what he was saying made sense, Tay wasn't really feeling everything he was saying. He tried a different approach. “Yo, you got my word, none of my people got nothin' to do wit' it. Everybody want this shit to be dead. You know war and cash don't mix and motherfuckas tryin'a eat, feed their families. True, he a New Project head, born and raised; but he ain't no shooter or trapper. He a playboy. You know all the real ones, my dude. Tizz, Money, Chet, Pete and Squirm, Doma, Buie, Krush and 'em,” Power began to sound off, doing a quick roll call of his hood. “And you know my young boys who hug the block: Wheels, Nider, and my li'l folks from 116, Macho and 'em. Bottom line, dude ain't no hustler or no gangsta either. He a player.”

“So you sayin' your hood ain't claim him or ride for him? Well, who is? Where his mother rest?” Tay wanted to know. His blood began to slowly boil. “Fuck gonna be held accountable for my brother? I need some answers, if you expect me to keep shit to a bare minimum,” Tay pointed out.

Power knew Tay had totally missed his point. He looked him dead in the eye. “Nah, that's not what I'm sayin', bruh. What I'm sayin' is niggas choosing gettin' paper over catchin' frivolous bodies. But, as far as what you asked me, I don't know none of that. But even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. Point blank!”

Tay started to protest but Power continued.

“Now dig. I'm not gonna pretend to know how you feel 'cause I ain't never lost nobody as close to me as you have, but my word on everything, I'll do whatever I can to help you resolve this issue. Hell, if I could I'd murder the nigga myself and bring you the body. But we both know that's not gonna happen. So, I'm askin' you—no, I'm beggin' you—please don't bring that gangsta shit to me and mine no more, because I don't need that and neither do you, on some real G shit.” Power kept his tone steady, but Dante knew what he meant.

“My brother was my heart, P, and I'ma do whatever I gotta do so his death not in vain. But I respect the fact that you came to holla at me. I appreciate it.”

Die in vain?
Power thought.
No matter what you do
, akh,
you can't change the fact that he died in vain. Look what he died for.
Power sighed. He had tried, but he was sure he hadn't fully gotten through to Tay. He extended his hand. Tay gripped it firmly. “Anytime, bruh. Anytime. And do me a favor. Try 'n' make a game or two this summer. Trust me. It'll help you focus.”

Dante stood up. “I'll try, fam,” Tay replied nonchalantly.

But Power knew he wouldn't. He doubted he even heard him. He knew the only thing on Tay's mind right now was revenge, and it had Freddie's name written all over it.