Brooklyn Bombshells--Part 2

by Erica Hilton

  Chanel walked into the modernly decorated restaurant with clear acrylic barstools and black metal tables near Columbia and spotted Mecca already there, seated at the table looking despondent. Her head was lowered and her attention was on her cell phone. Finally, she looked up and spotted Chanel coming her way. She managed to smile and stood up to greet Chanel with a friendly hug.

  “I’m glad you came,” said Mecca.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m doing fine,” Mecca replied.

  Chanel knew it was a lie. She could see it all over her friend’s face, the pain and heartbreak that Pyro had put her through with the Sheree business. Chanel knew she would have felt the same way if Mateo had put her through something like that.

  “Well, I’m here for you, Mecca. Let’s talk.”

  The two sat at the table opposite each other. They ordered Shirley Temples and some appetizers.

  “So, how are you holding up?” asked Chanel.

  “I’m okay, Chanel, for real. You don’t have to keep asking me the same thing in a different way. I’m going to always be okay,” Mecca replied faintly. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  Chanel didn’t believe her. Her words were saying that she was okay while her eyes were manifesting something completely different. Their drinks came, along with their appetizers. They ate, drank, laughed a little, and talked. But after putting up a strong exterior, Mecca unexpectedly started to cry her eyes out at the table.

  “How could he do this to me, Chanel?” she cried out. “I loved him.”

  “I know you did, Mecca.”

  “He’s out there having sex with his baby mama and then comes and makes all these promises to me. Ohmygod, I’m so stupid,” she said with a tinge of defeat and embarrassment.

  “Mecca, don’t stress yourself over this. We’re women and it happens to everyone. Don’t you remember? You told me that once when I was tripping about Mateo.”

  With her tear-stained eyes, Mecca looked at her friend. “But you know what hurts me the most, Chanel? It’s that Pyro hasn’t called me since the shit happened. And I’m embarrassed. I miss him. But I should have listened to you when you told me that he was a player.”

  Chanel, seeing her friend in deep pain, sighed and said to her, “Listen, I know for a fact that Pyro misses you and that he really likes you. If you want him, then you need to fight for him. And I also know that those other women don’t mean anything to him. Just give it time, Mecca. I know Pyro. He’ll come around.”

  Chanel took her friend’s hands into hers and held them firmly in her grasp, while she fixed her eyes on Mecca. “Look, you’re the best thing to happen to him. You’re a good woman, Mecca. I know it and he knows it, and he’s been searching for someone like you for a long time. And if he can’t see that then he’s a fool and you’re too good for him.”

  Chanel didn’t believe this for one second. In her eyes, Pyro was a womanizer and undoubtedly had moved on to the next one. But she had to say something comforting, seeing how distraught her friend was. It was all she could do other than kicking Mecca while she was already down.

  Mecca managed to smile at her friend’s encouraging words. She was grateful for a friend like Chanel. She sighed with some relief and the two friends stood up and hugged each other warmly. After her talk with Chanel, Mecca felt a thousand times better.

  Chapter Twenty

  Charlie steered her flashy car into the Washington Heights alleyway at dusk, traveled a few feet farther from the public street, and brought the vehicle to a stop. She climbed out of her Benz looking like the boss bitch she had become, wearing a pair of red bottoms, stylish jeans that hugged her juicy booty and curvy figure, and a pricey shearling coat. Being in a sketchy place such as a back alleyway would have been intimidating for anyone—man or woman, but Charlie carried a look of certainty that no one was going to fuck with her. And she had her reasons to believe so.

  Charlie was balling out of control. Immediately, her name started to ring out throughout the New York City hoods. She was moving one to three kilos a week, netting her cut of $3,500 a ki. In one month she had stacked over $25,000. It was a healthy profit for her, but she yearned to make so much more. If the NYPD kept supplying her with the drugs, then she would become a millionaire in no time. She was making more money with cops than she ever had with criminals, including God.

  Charlie’s name had become synonymous with quality kilos of cocaine. She moved like a shark in the cold waters, hungry and looking for money to devour. She began to rub shoulders with big ballers and shot callers in the tri-state area and beyond. Dealers couldn’t wait to make the exchange with Red Charlie, the Brooklyn Bombshell. It was her name in the streets, and the name carried weight. Charlie would come through with her mind on money—always counting the cash before relinquishing the product. She was a bold and daring bitch, willing to walk into any apartment, dark alley, or warehouse with kilos of cocaine on her.

  Carrying two kilos in a leather tote, Charlie knocked on the rusty steel door that was nestled among the other shady looking entrances in the back alleyway. She remained alert with her concealed .380 and 9mm, both guns already cocked back with the safety off.

  The rusty door opened up and a burly giant of a man appeared standing a hulking six-six. He glared at Charlie and her petite and curvy stature. She glared up at him and asked, “Where Mission at?”

  His hard stare stayed fixed on her longer than the comfortable gaze, but Charlie didn’t falter. In fact, hers matched his. He stepped back from the threshold, allowing Charlie into the building, and then hollered, “Yo Mission, Charlie here.”

  Charlie coolly walked inside, but remained cautious.

  Mission met her out in the open with a smile. “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie, what’s poppin’?” he asked gleefully. “I know you got that for me.”

  “You know I do, Mission.”

  “Always on point. I fuckin’ love it,” he replied.

  Mission was an ambitious hustler who had come a long way from his days as a two-bit thug from Harlem. He had graduated from moving ounces and pounds to moving kilos in less than a year. He was thin, light-skinned, and motivated, and he was fortunate to have Charlie as his connect.

  While the two talked, Charlie’s cell phone chimed. She checked the text message and a bright smile lit up her face. It was a smile that caught Mission’s attention.

  “Damn, ma, I thought I was the only one that had ya attention at the moment. A nigga got you cheesing like that?” he asked.

  “It’s business,” she replied.

  “Business, huh? Yeah, I know that kind of business, and I don’t mind that kind of business myself,” he replied, looking her up and down. He wouldn’t mind something more with the kilos he was buying, but he knew not to push up.

  “Listen, I didn’t come here to flirt. Let’s wrap this up.”

  “Let’s . . .” his voice trailed off.

  Mission placed the cash on the table in front of Charlie. She started to count it right away.

  “Damn, Charlie, this like our sixth transaction together and you still don’t trust me?”

  She shot a cold look at him. “I don’t trust anyone.”

  She continued counting, not letting his remark distract her. Mission’s hulking goon stood guard by the doorway, remaining silent and being the muscle that he was paid to be. When she confirmed it was all there, Charlie handed over the product. Mission was all smiles.

  “Ya shit do really good out here on these streets,” he said.

  “I know,” Charlie replied cockily.

  She pivoted and left the building and got back into her Benz, but not before securing the cash inside the trunk. She picked up her phone and reread the text message she had received earlier. It brought another smile to her face. The message came from a drug dealer from Atlanta named KB.

  Hey baby girl, I’m back
in New York. I wanna see you . . . business and pleasure.

  Something about KB made Charlie want to connect with him in more ways than re-ups. KB was making serious money by copping several kilos on a regular basis from her—doing business up and down the east coast. He didn’t flirt with her or show any sexual interest in Charlie at first, and if he did want to fuck her, he did a good job of hiding it. KB was a ruggedly handsome nigga, standing six feet tall with a lean and chiseled body, a narrow face, and intense eyes.

  Charlie found him very attractive. He was country, from the backwoods of Georgia. He was born in the Deep South with dirt roads, trailer parks, and outhouses for bathrooms. When he talked, his southern accent was thick, and Charlie found it enticing. The stories he told her were interesting, and he was a go-getter—a nigga who earned his respect from the south to the north. Despite growing up underprivileged and coming from one of the poorest areas in Georgia, KB was intelligent, educated, and a natural-born hustler. He had pulled himself up from his bootstraps and made a nice life for himself.

  ***

  “Mmmmm . . . Oh shit, fuck me, KB . . . I love that dick,” Charlie purred as KB slammed his hard dick into her.

  The two were taking full advantage of the hotel room KB had booked for two days. With KB, Charlie found herself in full freak mode. His dick was big and thick, and his stamina was almost unnatural. He had a perfect rhythm inside of her, pounding her pussy and getting her juices flowing. He grabbed her hips and held her still while he thrust into her, emitting a cry of ecstasy from Charlie.

  Earlier, he ate her out until she came in his mouth. She was his sexy minx and KB wanted to please every inch of her. He had wrapped one hand around her neck, dragged her forward, and slammed his mouth down on hers as they were fucking in the missionary position. Now as they explored the doggystyle position, Charlie gripped the headboard and felt her pussy being desecrated in a good way.

  Her cell phone chimed. She glanced at the caller ID and saw that it was Ahbou trying to contact her. Of course, she ignored him. This was much more important.

  “Who that calling ya?” KB asked her, fucking her silly.

  “Ooooh shit . . . nobody important, baby,” she said.

  KB spun her around and pushed her against the bed forcefully, making her take every inch of his big dick. It didn’t take long for KB to make her come again. Her legs quivered uncontrollably and she released an ecstatic holler that echoed off the walls of the room.

  Lingering on a post-coital moment, KB removed himself from the bed and went to pour himself a glass of champagne. Charlie joined him. Together, they downed champagne while naked. Charlie was business first, play later. KB had bought several kilos of cocaine from her earlier at a reasonable price, and then it was back to his hotel room for playtime.

  “I want ya to come wit’ me to de Bahamas,” he mentioned.

  Charlie was taken aback. “The Bahamas?”

  “Why not? Let’s just get away.”

  Once again, Charlie’s cell phone rang. It was Ahbou calling her again. Like before, she ignored it. In fact, she turned her cell phone off completely. She wanted to spend some quality time with KB without any interruptions. His mention of taking her to the Bahamas was interesting. She barely left the city, and now he was talking about taking her out the country. But there was one problem. She didn’t have a passport.

  KB moved intimately closer to Charlie and took her into his arms. The way he held her and stared at her, it was like nothing she had felt before—not even from God. To KB, Charlie was sophisticated, which was a stretch to anyone’s imagination. He wanted to be with her.

  “Ay, ya don’t need to think ’bout it. We finna do big things together, Charlie, if ya let me,” he said.

  She was smitten by him.

  “Big things, huh?”

  He smiled.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A trip to the Bahamas was heavily on Charlie’s mind as she and her frenemy Wanda walked through the front door of her apartment. Claire was seated in the living room with a stack of books in her face when the interruption happened. Right away, the peace and quiet she was experiencing came to a rude halt. Claire gave her sister a dry and halfhearted hello, which instantly put Charlie in a sour mood.

  Claire glared at Wanda. She never liked the girl. Wanda wasn’t a fan of Claire either, so neither one spoke.

  Charlie, not caring what her sister was doing before her arrival, decided to turn on the stereo and blast some rap music. She then smirked at her little sister and said, “Oh, I’m sorry. Are we bothering you?”

  Claire frowned. Not only was her sister inconsiderate, she was dangerous too. Claire didn’t like what Charlie was into. She had found the cocaine and seen the bundles of money, and she hated the dirty cops coming and going from their apartment as if they owned the place. It all made her extremely uncomfortable.

  To make the situation worse, the same project bitches who had turned their backs on Charlie were now regularly visiting and sitting in their living room drinking their liquor and eating the food Claire helped pay for. Claire strongly felt that these bitches were users and just being nosy, but Charlie wanted to show off and boast about the finer things she had in life and talk shit. Charlie was living her best life, but what was the point if nobody knew?

  Claire felt Charlie was living foul and reckless, and she wanted out. It was the reason she was studying so fervently. Claire wanted to graduate, start a career, and leave her dysfunctional family behind.

  “Look at this bitch. Why she still pretending to study when all she gonna do is cheat on her next test?” Charlie mocked.

  The insult cut Claire deeply. It was a part of her life that she wanted to forget. She couldn’t believe what she heard. But Charlie had said it, and Wanda was laughing too hard at it.

  “I mean, what do my little sister think she is, an A-student or sumthin’?” Charlie continued to crack on her sister.

  Wanda continued to laugh, adding insult to injury.

  Claire wasn’t going out like that. She responded, “And who are you? A washed up, ho-ass gangster?”

  That remark coming from Claire was shocking. Wanda laughed just as hard at that as she had Charlie’s joke.

  “Oh, so you tryin’ to call me a ho?”

  “If the shoe fits . . .” Claire replied.

  Claire was giving it back just as good as she took it. But she hated the tension and she hated living with Charlie. There wasn’t anywhere for her to go for privacy because she slept in the living room and it was where Charlie entertained herself and her guests.

  Charlie laughed and shot back, “You forget to take your medication, wit’ ya crazy ass?”

  Claire was fed up with bickering back and forth with Charlie. She got up from the couch and marched into the bathroom for two reasons—for some privacy and to make a phone call.

  Claire planted herself on the toilet and pulled out her cell phone. It was a call she didn’t want to make, but she decided to swallow her pride and reach out anyway. She dialed Bacardi’s number and felt nervousness swimming around in her belly.

  The phone rang and Claire waited with bottomless apprehension. Finally, her mother answered.

  “Who this?” Bacardi barked into the phone.

  “Bacardi, it’s me, Claire.”

  “Why the fuck are you calling?”

  “I just—I just wanna come back home. Please. I don’t wanna stay here with Charlie anymore,” she pleaded.

  “Oh, so the grass ain’t greener, huh?” Bacardi responded with contempt in her voice.

  Claire was in tears as she spoke to her mother. “No. I wanna come back home. I don’t wanna live with Charlie anymore. She’s too much.”

  “Bitch, you should have thought about that when you put your hands on me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry ain’t enough, and
hell no, Claire. You made your choice to side wit’ that bitch, now fuckin’ deal wit’ it.”

  “But Mama—”

  “Don’t fuckin’ Mama me now, Claire. It’s too fuckin’ late. And not after you kept that secret from me on what Charlie did to Chanel. You must be out ya mind to think you have the right to come an’ move back in wit’ me!” Bacardi ranted.

  “I’m sorry!”

  “Fuck your apology. I don’t fuckin’ accept it!” she spat. “And besides, both y’all fuckin’ rooms are already rented out and I’m gettin’ good money for them. Don’t call me no fuckin’ more!”

  Bacardi hung up on her.

  Claire sat there crushed. She felt stuck now. Her mother was a ruthless and unforgiving bitch. Her tears continued to fall. It felt like the walls were collapsing in on her. She was out of choices, and she would have to deal with Charlie’s bullshit until something better came along. But she didn’t foresee anything better coming along. It felt like she was living in hell on earth.

  ***

  The past two days felt like paradise for Claire. Charlie hadn’t been home, and Claire was able to read, study, and relax. Her sister had up and disappeared out of the blue without saying a word to her.

  Claire wasn’t complaining. She needed the solitude. It was therapeutic for her. For once, it felt like she lived alone, and she was loving it. But that feeling would soon become short-lived.

  On the third day of Charlie’s sudden absence, Claire heard a heavy knock at the door. It ricocheted through the apartment and disturbed Claire from her reading. Whoever it was seemed very impatient.

  Claire got up from her chair and went to see who it was. She looked through the peephole and recognized the person knocking. It was Ahbou.

  “Charlie’s not here,” she said to him through the door.

  “Where is she, then?” he asked with irritation.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think you do!”

  “You need to leave, Ahbou.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until I know where Charlie is,” he replied.