Smoke and Mirrors (50 page)

“Or what?!” Royal turned his gun towards Smoke, aiming it at the man’s heart. Smoke stood over thirty feet away, but he could take him from that distance.

“I don’t shoot to miss.” Smoke cocked his weapon and stayed steady, his finger on the trigger and not a sign of fear in sight. Suddenly the front door swung open and there appeared Frank, the Italian bodyguard. Everyone knew who the hell Frank was, and he and Smoke were like fucking kin. The man held a gun tight in his grip, and he aimed it at Royal.

Without a second to think, Frank’s shot rang out, but he was far too late. Royal had already fired first, shooting Frank square in the chest. He could barely stomach the shit as the man fell to his damn knees, his moans filling the air as he tumbled forward, flat on his face. The block was getting hot, but he still had another bastard to contend with. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go!

Why didn’t the bitch just give me the goddamn money?!

Everything was falling apart!

More screams rang out from various areas, convoluting his mind. The police sirens grew louder, and Royal understood at that moment that he was completely in over his head. He heard a crowd storming towards him from inside the house, and turned back towards Smoke…but in all the commotion, the man had disappeared. Then, a ridiculously long shadow appeared beside him. He turned to his left, but this time, for
him
, it was too late, for the bullet pumped through his head, entered his skull, and his body gave up completely. He collapsed to the ground in a thud, his entire form shutting down.

Ohhh… my… God…

He could hear his own voice ringing out, echoing over and over, but it sounded as if everything happened in slow motion.

His eyes rolled around, and the screams grew much louder, then came a soft hush. The big pale beast stood over him, his gun hanging at his side, and a cold, ruthless face made of stone. The last thing he saw—his own reflection in those icy blue eyes, there to haunt him until he drew his final breath…

*

Smoke could hear
her screams while they roughly grabbed his wrists and handcuffed him, the silver restraints sparkling in the sunlight. They pushed him in the back of the police car, making a scene, making it so much worse. Paris had to be restrained by her girls and two security guards on the premises who’d called the police as a last resort. The police took forever, so according to Tasha’s sobby confessions, Frank tried to settle the matter once and for all. Smoke happened to be only two blocks away, taking care of an urgent matter regarding some banking transfers, and what was supposed to have taken less than an hour, had taken three. Paris had grown calmer as two weeks had passed since the incident, but something didn’t feel right to him. He could practically smell the son of a bitch coming.

Like tuning into an old radio, he got a sudden, strange feeling. When he arrived at the little Chinese restaurant down the street to pick up food for everyone, he called Paris to see if things were okay. She was in a joyful mood, a little silly actually; initially he felt at ease, but something was rubbing him the wrong way. It had been one of those perfect days. The johns caused no issues, the women weren’t asked to do anything out of their comfort zone, and everyone’s playbook was full to the max. He knew damn well Royal hadn’t forgotten about his blackmail scheme, and once the fucker realized Paris wasn’t giving him a damn thing, he no doubt would make a move. And he did. Oh yeah, he did…

The guy had been desperate. Royal only had two whores. One wasn’t worth a damn, and the other was lazy and not the least bit attractive. That fifty grand was probably already spent up on drugs, alcohol, partying, and a whole lot of dumb shit. Besides, the money wouldn’t bring back Frank, his freedom or Pussycat’s peace of mind. The only thing on their side, was Royal’s fear of him. One of Paris’ girls claimed she’d seen it in the man’s eyes, and she knew fear well…

That explained him threatening Paris to not say shit. Smoke figured out what could have spooked the creep. When Smoke first entered the scene, there was a skirmish at a local bar. He was sitting there amongst his folk, chugging down beers. Royal came in and started some shit with one of Smoke’s trusted associates, another well-known pimp named Smooth. Smoke had no clue what the issue was, and he no longer cared after Royal bucked up and knocked Smooth clean to the floor. Smoke jumped headfirst into the middle of the action and fists flew everywhere.

Apparently, he’d gotten the best of Royal in all the flurry, and the man had ended up in the hospital after suffering repeated blows all over his face and chest. Funny thing, Smoke didn’t recall beating the man that badly, but anyone who could mess with Smooth like that, a guy that didn’t start trouble with no damn body, had it coming. Regardless, he’d been arrested but soon, the charges were dropped. People were saying Royal was a simp, and no pimp that professed to be alpha, wanted that sort of title hung on his reputation. If you got a beat down, you simply did—pimp rule #462, don’t tell a cop shit. He’d forgotten all about that crazy incident so many years ago until he saw the motherfucker standing on his joint property, pointing a gun at his main man and shooting up the place. Matter of fact, before this ruckus, he didn’t even know Royal’s name was Royal, and that it was the same son of a bitch blackmailing his woman. Up until that point, Royal was simply a non-motherfucking-factor…

Smoke sat in the back of the police car, knowing in his heart this would be the end of the yellow brick, money-lined, pussy-laden road. He had caught a damn case, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He’d fallen in love, things had changed, and he’d grown tired. He supposed Dad had been onto to something; maybe that man knew all along that his son didn’t have the stamina to keep on keeping on in the life. Brent Sr. had claimed Smoke knew how to love, and that would be his damn downfall. If it hadn’t been for a pretty golden brown creature with dark, vibrant eyes, he’d have been just fine, but his ‘just fine’ sat at half a level above miserable. Feeling thankful for the joy she put in his life, he dared himself to look at his woman. Her long legs still kicking to and fro, her face shiny with tears and the veins and muscles in her neck stretched and popped, she seemed to have lost her goddamn mind.

“Noooooo! He didn’t do anything wrong!” she kept hollering, while the police repeatedly urged her to settle down. And then there was Frank. His body was placed on a gurney, limp and unmoving. He knew Frank like the back of his hand, he understood how and why the man acted the way he did. Frank was the motherfucking man. He was head of security and had knowledge of how to get things under control in seconds flat. The run down went as such: After they’d cleared the house of all evidence of sex trafficking, even got rid of the johns on the scene via the back door, the man called the police then set his sights on what was happening outside. Thanks to Frank’s diligence and thoroughness, Paris would never be put under the spotlight as far as why Royal was firing at her door in the first damn place. That was all Smoke could ask for—that his lover, his best friend, the woman he hoped to spend the rest of his life with, was safe, sound and secure.

After a while, the car pulled away from the curb, the blue and red lights spinning, making him dizzy. He kept his head somewhat down, but he could still hear her… She called out to him, over and over, and it ripped out his heart, made him want to bury his face in the palms of his hands and cry the hurt away.

“Smooooke! Smooookkkke!” she wailed.

Lowering his face a bit more, he allowed himself to feel it—one single tear formed in his eye, then fell down his face. He cried, not because he knew he was going to prison for Lord knew how long, but because he was leaving his baby behind. Alone. And she’d already been abandoned one time too many…

Pussycat, I’m so sorry…

*

Several months later…

Paris clutched her
cream and pale orange purse to her chest. Her vanilla suit with small pearl buttons was her attempt at trying to stay low key. Smoke had been in court three times, and things didn’t look good. She sat across from him in that prison, the thick glass cock-blocking, wedging itself between them. She hadn’t looked into her man’s eyes in so long, and when she finally laid eyes on him, she ached to break down and cry. He looked fine, especially considering the circumstances, but her soul knotted up all the same. She was astonished at how long his damn hair had grown, to well past his shoulders, and cloaked part of his face. She shuddered a bit, for he looked
exactly
like his father now.

“Smoke…” She grabbed a tissue, expecting to not get through the discussion with any semblance of composure. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m good, baby.” He nodded slowly, a sad little smile on his handsome face. “How are
you
?”

“It depends on when you ask me.” She chuckled lightly. He nodded in understanding.

“Are our girls okay?”

“Yes, everyone is fine, and
everyone
misses you.”

“Look, baby.” He took a deep breath and clasped his hands together, the orange jumpsuit on his body bunching a bit along the arms. “I need to get right to it. I’ve hired a new attorney, but because of that, he has to get acclimated with the case. The state wants to charge me with second-degree murder. The prosecutor is pushing that. It was self-defense, and that’s what I’m hoping and praying will be proven in a court of law. Unfortunately, because of my affiliations, I won’t be believed without a legal army around me. Now, here’s what I need you to do.”

“Yes, I’m listening, baby.” She clutched the phone a bit tighter.

“We’ve talked about it a couple of times, so far only fuzzy daydreams that neither of us had the guts to deal with, but we must do that now. Because despite all the shit that happened, baby, you made everything worth it. I’d serve a life sentence just to spend these eight months with you again. You’re everything to me, Pussycat.”

She smiled and swiped at her nose, fearing it may start running.

“I have some accounts that I told you about. When you get out of here, call Felicia and tell her I told you to contact her, so she knows it’s okay. I’m sure she has an idea what’s going on, so just tell her I need some help. I will send her a letter in advance, just stating for her to believe what you say, nothing more, nothing less, so she’ll know it’s on the up and up. I want you to get into those accounts and pay your girls and mine a little something, and send them on their way.”

Paris felt the blood drain from her face. “Smoke, what are you talking about?”

“You heard me, baby. I need you to start living your life. I’ve been in here thinking…” He hung his head for a moment. “You need to square up, just like we fantasized about. When you and I sat together in my car watching the planes fly by, I saw how you looked when we discussed leaving the life. In your eyes I saw the truth, no matter how we both tried to run from it at the time. I’ll never forget how you looked when you told me about your trip to the vineyard and garden in elementary school. That was the last time you were really free, the last time you were truly happy… I know you have plenty of money, but you’re burning through it, trying to get all of my affairs in order. This legal shit costs a hell of a lot of money and here I am starting fresh on my defense, which is only going to make it worse.”

“Smoke, I don’t understand. I mean—”

“No, baby. You understand me completely. What’s your dream?”

She hesitated, looked down at the pearls on her suit jacket then back into his eyes. “To own an upscale floral shop.”

“Exactly.
Now
is the time. You were never meant to be a ho, a Madam, none of that shit! You were never supposed to be used and abused, Paris. Nobody was, but it happened to us all the same. You’re like a prisoner of war, stuck in your own way. This is all you’ve known for so long, but it doesn’t look good on you, it doesn’t suit you. I
need
you…” He closed his eyes real tight, as if trying to muster strength, but only briefly. “I need you to follow your dreams, to set yourself free. So you get into those accounts, and you do
whatever
it is you need to do to part with the girls. Line their pockets with enough so they’ll be okay for a while. You get rid of that damn apartment building. Mine, too. Go home, to
your
house, and stay safe and comfortable. You think about me, and remember that I love you more than I love my own damn self. I’d die for you, Paris. You think about that when days get too hard.”