Sex in the Hood Saga (9 page)

Duke swept Victoria away from them so quickly, it felt like she was floating. His big, strong arms curved around the back of her waist so quickly and powerfully that he lifted her up and out, away from those freaks.

Her brain was like an out-of-control radio, spinning past dozens of ear-splitting stations.
People hate Daddy. Now they hate me. Can't go anywhere public with Duke. Arouses racist hatred in strangers. Makes people think I'm bad. But I like him. He protects me. And I've never felt so comfortable with a guy . . . like when I move he moves . . . when I think he feels . . . when he breathes I melt. We're connected on another level.

And the way he was looking down at her right now as they walked past the scowling maitre d', Victoria shivered with a sense of
us against the world.

And she loved it.

“There they are!” that crazy-ass white lady from inside the restaurant screamed as Duke and Duchess stepped to the valet stand facing the water.

That old geezer and his cow were leading the cops straight their way. Duke kept his usual stance, cool as a cat.

“Are you all right, ma'am?” the young black cop asked Duchess.

“We were both fine,” Duke said with his TV voice, “until this gentleman confused us with somebody else.”

“This is Tyrell Jackson,” Duchess said with a strong business voice. She looked up at Duke. “Don't you recognize him from all the media coverage? He's like the talk of the NBA right now. The hottest draft pick since Shaq.”

Duke raised his chin a little as four pairs of eyes rolled up and down him, along with a dozen others waiting for their cars at the valet. All of their eyes were going from glaring to staring, from mad to glad, in a Motor City minute as Duchess worked the magic Duke knew she had in her.

The white cop shook his head, smiling as he said, “Jump shot Jackson! From the University of Texas. Forward.”

The other cop, who had a smile as goofy as Beamer's, added, “Congratulations on your contract that could run a small country!”

“Thank you. Give me your info an' I'll get you into the suite for the celebrity charity game tomorrow,” Duke said. “We got everybody from the mayor to Motown stars comin' out to support a good cause.”

“It's gonna be hot,” Duchess said, smiling. “I work for my school newspaper, and I was interviewing Mr. Jackson over dinner, about the game. It's raising money for kids with cancer because Mr. Jackson's nephew—”

“We've already got tickets!” the angry white man, who was happy now, interrupted. “Our grandson has the same lymphoma. Bless you, sir.” The man shook Duke's hand.

The old white witch put her hand on Duchess' shoulder. “I'm sorry, dear. I apologize for both of us. You're the spitting image of a young lady we knew in a very bad situation. We thought—”

“That's okay,” Duchess said with a big smile. “It happens all the time. I just have one of those faces.” Duke knew the sound of his car coming without turning around.

“Becky,” Duke said, as he opened her door. “We still gotta run out to the Palace for the pictures.”

“Oh, your car,” she said with that happy white girl cadence. She waved as she stretched her long giraffe legs onto the seat. “Nice meeting all of you.”

“We'll be lookin' for those passes,” the white officer said, handing over their business cards.

“I'll hook you up tonight,” Duke said as he got in the car.

“Keep up the good work,” the angry white man said as Duke drove away to the blasting beat of the Bang Squad.

“Oh my God,” Duchess said, laying her head back and looking up at the lights on the Ambassador Bridge. It looked like a sparkling necklace draping over the river between Detroit and Canada. “That was hilarious and horrible all at once.”

“You talkin' about life,” Duke replied.

“Whoah,” Duchess said, leaning toward him over the center console. The heat of her body made the hairs on his arm raise up. “That feeling of being wrongly accused,” Duchess said in a way like she was about to cry. It made Duke hurt inside. “Is that how my dad felt?” she asked. “Like no matter what you say to explain the truth, it's pointless because your accusers are already so convinced that you're bad.”

“Soun' like you describin' a whole lotta brothas I know in the joint right now. But baby girl, you get a Oscar fo' that performance. They ate it up!”

“What a relief,” Duchess said as he blew back past the restaurant with the deep blue river flowing to their right. “Love how you just played along. I didn't even have to tell you.”

She got quiet, like she was realizing what she was about to say.

We so natural, no words required.

She answered with a fresh windful of pussy perfume. The smell of her sex was so strong, it was like a sweet cloud, like when Gramma in Alabama used to crack the oven door open to check on her famous sweet potato pies. Everybody in the room would be sniffing and smiling because they knew if it smelled that good cooking, it was going to taste like a big, juicy slice of heaven.

Duchess was quiet as they passed all the abandoned warehouses on the left, the huge silos at a cement company where a tanker docked on the water, and Chene Park, the outdoor theater on the river with pretty grass, a pond, and a curvy white tent for a roof. She lay back, closed her eyes, and didn't open them until he pulled up to Astoria Bakery in Greektown, a crowded, block-long strip of bustling restaurants, bakeries, and a casino.

“There's too many people,” she said, glaring at the packed sidewalk where street artists were sketching pictures and people were standing around eating ice cream. “I'm not getting out. I don't want anyone to recognize me or bother us like at the restaurant.”

“Come wit' me. I know you like ice cream,” he said, opening her door and guiding her past a sidewalk musician who was blowing a saxophone. They entered through the glass-and-wood door, past the mouthwatering display of chocolate-covered strawberries, the Greek honey-nut baklava pastry, and ridiculously gooey cookies.

“Oh my God, it smells so good in here,” Duchess said, inhaling the heavy-sweet scent of waffle cones cooking.

Duke's fingertips brushed the small of her back. She responded with a fresh breeze of pussy perfume rising up to his nose. Damn, her cunt smelled ten times sweeter than any waffle cone.

He was sure that nobody around them could smell her. No, their senses weren't tuned to pussy scents or sense. They probably just picked up on that lemony-flowery white girl scent coming from her hair—hair that he couldn't wait to twist up in his fingers while fucking her doggie style. It
would
happen. Soon. First he had to strip away the stiff white layers and unleash the wild black beauty within. She was horny as hell, and her animal instincts were trying to claw out anyway.

An' I'm gon' let 'em run free.
He felt like God, taking white clay and molding it into the perfect black Eve. He inhaled. Her heavy-sweet sex smell made Timbo surge with red-hot blood.

“Every flavor looks good, but I already know what I want,” Duke said as they stood in front of the ice cream counter. She was beside him, ogling the pink Michigan cherry, brown Mackinac Island fudge and his favorite, the blue-yellow-pink swirl of Superman. Duke opened his mouth to ask her what she wanted, but no words came out.

Damn. What's her name?
In his mind he'd been thinking of her as Duchess so much, he couldn't remember the name her parents gave her.

“Baby girl, tell me yo' flava,” he said, licking her up with his eyes. He could feel the girl behind the counter pitching hardball attitude at them with her eyes, her snarled-up lips and her head cocked to one side.

“I don't usually eat ice cream,” Duchess said. “I'm like a chocolate addict. One bite and I totally lose control.”

Miss Attitude cut her off. “Den you ain't gotta be havin' no chocolate.” The girl cut her eyes at Duke then slammed her scooper in the vanilla. “Yeah, honey, you betta leave da chocolate fo' dose o' us who can han'le it.” She raked her eyes all up and down Duke.

He stared back hard and said, “My baby girl want a double scoop o' that Godiva dark chocolate fudge decadence.” Duke pointed to the label in front of a tub of the flavor that Beamer ate almost every damn day. “Make it extra big. Mandingo size.”

The attendant sucked her teeth and mumbled to herself as she dragged the scoop through the glistening dark chocolate ice cream. She filled a waffle cone then handed it to Duchess.

“Now fo' me, a triple scoop o' Superman.” Duke didn't look at the chick behind the counter. He locked his gaze on Duchess' tongue, which was coming out slowly, wrapping around that huge tower of black. Her candy-pink tongue licked up the side of the dark chocolate. She closed her eyes like it was the best thing she had ever tasted. So far. She'd have the same look when she slurped up on his dick for the first time, and an even more lustful look after he fucked her good and she truly knew the powers of Timbo.

Duke smiled, imagining how someday he would lay her on the kitchen counter at his crib, fill up her pussy with ice cream then hold his mouth open at her pussy lips and let it melt out.

Duke took his cone, tossed a ten at Miss Attitude and led Duchess back to the car. They sat in the convertible, in a no parking zone, watching the crowded sidewalks and flow of cars on Monroe Street. Greek music played from overhead speakers, mixing with rap from niggas on cruise with their females, and white folks walking up and down the street, their bellies full of lamb and that
opal
cheese they set on fire and let sizzle before they sloshed it up on some bread.

Duke tucked a napkin into his collar so no pink, blue or yellow Superman ice cream could drip and stain his white linen.

Damn, Duchess looked gorgeous, sitting right next to him where she was destined to stay. His pulse was pounding.

“Baby girl, why you look so scared?”

“I think I have a chocolate addiction. It makes me feel totally out of control. I mean the first drop on my tongue, it sets off this crazy, runaway train of thoughts, like I wish I could eat chocolate constantly. I wish I could taste this—” She took a lick, closed her eyes and said, “Mmmm . . . every second of every day.”

“My boy Beamer always eatin' chocolate.”

“It shows.”

Duke laughed. “See, you ain't scared. Half my crew be scared to say a damn thing 'bout Beamer 'cause he my boy.”

“He's fat. That shows no control. Disregard for the consequences of your actions. Just like teen pregnancy. Emphysema in smokers. Wrinkles in girls who lay in the sun, like my friend Tiffany. She's only eighteen, but years of frying herself, sunbathing—”

“Don't wanna be black, but tryin' ta look as black as they can,” Duke said.

“I tan easy and I get dark in a heartbeat. It looks beautiful, but I usually only do it on our boat in the summer.” She moaned. “Used to.”

“Baby girl, I got a yacht that'll make you feel right at home,” he said, licking his Superman scoops like they were the little man in her boat getting swept over by a giant tongue wave.

She stared blankly at the street with a look in her eyes like her mind was far, far away.

“Seriously, baby girl, you got all the right instincts. You know its death to show fear, 'cause now you know you gon' get eaten alive in'a hood an' in'a fancy white world you used to. You need protection. From me.”

“No, I don't.” Her neck jerked ever so slightly in a way she wasn't even aware of. Her silver-blue eyes flashed with defiance.

He smiled.
I seee sista-girl inside tryin'a break outta white girl bondage already.

“You do need protection. Already proved it tonight, twice. Pit bulls, ghetto hoes, the media, the cops, and angry white men. An' the brothas. Walk down Babylon Street an' e'ry thug gon' try an' stick you on they dick an' roas' you like a marshmallow.”

“Do you have to say it like that?”

“By the look in yo' eye, you hear ma point loud an' clear.” His motor hummed loudly. “Ma brotha Knight always say, ‘Show, don't tell.' Now I showed you what I do. Serve an' protect.”

She licked fiercely, looking down on the ice cream. The way her thick black eyelashes constrasted against her milky skin looked sexy as hell. She shifted her feet and something made a crinkle noise. It was the four-day-old newspaper Beamer had been reading earlier. About her. She snatched it up.

“Are you like, a stalker? You planned to meet me!” she accused. “I mean, why would Henry call you when I—” She turned as gray as the newspaper.

“Listen, baby girl, you got balls. Wit' five-oh no less! Balls as big and black as mine.”

“You are so crass.” She crossed one arm over her ripe titties. “Can you say, ‘Victoria, you speak with such confidence and courage. I'm impressed with how you think on your feet to resolve problems with finesse.'”

“Naw, I can say, ‘We the D-town new dream team,'” Duke said. “The Duke an' Duchess dream team.”

“I was thinking I'm actually in a nightmare. But if this is a dream team, then what, exactly, is our game?” She took a big lick, like it would sweeten her situation.

“Manifest Destiny fo' my company, Babylon. All my turf in Detroit, we call it Babylon, named after the street we on an' the ancient Arabian city known for the wildest shit in history. Crazy gold, the sexiest goddesses . . .” He let his eyes lick all over this chick who had to be finer than any bitch in the real Babylonia. “An' straight-up ridiculous wild abandon.”

“And wickedness and sexual obsessiveness,” Duchess added in a way that was sassy but innocent. “So, what do you sell at Babylon?”

Duke tossed his head back and let a deep laugh boom up and out. “We sell what e'ry body want, any kinda way. Its always a fresh supply, e'ry flava, e'ry style, for e'ry taste. Ain't nothin' like Babylon anywhere, an' you gon' love it.”

“What do you sell?”

“Pleasure and protection,” he said. “We mostly do parties and patrols. Now, we rollin' west an' east. An' Knight, he got two mo' weeks.”

“Of what? Two more weeks of school?”

“He in the pen, framed for somethin' he didn't do. He finally comin' home, so we got a tight deadline. I gotta make a whole lotta shit happen, 'cause by time you meet Knight, you an' me gon' be flexin' from Cali to da Bronx. An' we gon' have my boys wit' da Bang Squad at his comin' home party.”