Get Even: A Michelle Angelique Urban Action Adventure Thriller Series Book #2 (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Assassin)

by Lori Jean Grace

  She took a couple of deep, calming breaths. “You’re lucky Nikky let me come alone. If Nikky was here, you’d already be dead for what you did to her little sister.”

  “I know.”

  “We caught Blondell and Dontrice.”

  “Are they dead?”

  “No, but they’re gone for good. Either one of them comes back to the hood, they’ll be dead.”

  “What about me?”

  Michelle ignored her question. “What was your business with Ascia?”

  Sugar’s eyes darted.

  “Yeah, I know about Ascia, and I know you and D’andre were working with him. His man, the one watching you two, was killed along with D’andre and the others. Now I want the details about your dealings with that piece of shit.”

  “Who’s Ascia?”

  Michelle pulled out the chair at the other end of the table, sat down and, with her arms propped comfortably, aimed her gun at Sugar. “You’ve been telling lies and cheating people for so long, you don’t know when the truth is smarter than a lie. Trust me, this is one of those times. If you want to make it out of this room alive, you best understand you have one chance and this is it. I can let you live or not; either way, I can deal with it. Do you believe that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s get a few things straight before we try again. You are finished in the hood. You’re out. If I ever hear about you being in Anglewatts or anywhere in L.A., I’ll kill you. Come back for five minutes for any reason, and you die. I’ll hunt you down, find you, and kill you. And if you lie to me again this morning, I’ll kill you.”

  Sugar shook her head. “I won’t lie.”

  “No matter what happens here today, if Nikky gets a chance, she will kill you. Now, Sugar, that’s a lot of dead. It’s also a big‑ass country with room for a lot of living somewhere else. So, how about it? What was your business with Ascia?”

  “He wanted D’andre to take over for Jackson. Said he had some professional women from Europe he could send out to me. I was to partner with him on running the hos.”

  “What about these women?” Michelle asked. “Where would they come from, and why would they want to work for you?”

  “Russia, I think. Yeah, he said they were from Russia. Said they were pros but didn’t say why they’d want—”

  Michelle’s phone vibrated in her pocket, and she held her hand up to stop Sugar from talking. “Hang on.” Keeping her gun aimed at Sugar, Michelle stood and answered her phone, “Sup?” then listened for a moment. “Oh, no . . . Damn, damn, damn—goddammit! Okay, okay, I’ll take care of things on this end.”

  Sugar’s hands eased back a couple of inches, just far enough for her shoulders to lower slightly, elbows resting on the table. Her hands had stopped trembling. Michelle had seen others relax in this same way when they thought they’d live through a bad situation.

  Michelle shoved her phone back into her pocket, then cupped the butt of her gun with her left hand in a two‑handed hold and looked Sugar in the eye. “Lil Taye died.”

  Sugar bolted upright in her chair. “Oh, shit,” she said, voice barely audible.

  Puhffiitt! Puhffiitt!

  Puhffiitt!

  Michelle looked down at Sugar sprawled across the floor. Her empty, dead eyes stared up into nothing.

  Best to leave the gun since it was untraceable back to her anyway. Michelle had always worn gloves when cleaning, loading, and handling it, so it was spotless inside and out. She dropped it next to Sugar’s body.

  Then she stood perfectly still, eyes closed, breathing as slow as she could force herself to do—breathe in, hold for a count of seven, then breathe out. With a huge effort and practiced discipline, Michelle focused on each breath and nothing else, for almost two minutes. When her pounding heart had slowed to something close to normal, she opened her eyes, pulled out her phone, and called Deja. “I’m on my way home.”

  Twenty‑Seven: Changes

  MICHELLE, DEJA, AND a couple of middle‑aged women from the church had finished washing and drying the dishes. The kitchen was clean, along with the rest of the front of the house, and dirty paper plates, plastic cups, and disposable flatware filled several large black bags. The fridge was full of covered plates and casserole bowls; some leftovers from the after‑funeral meal, some brought frozen for the days to come.

  Lil Taye had been well‑loved, her funeral large and emotional. Nearly the whole high school student body and many teachers had attended, plus family members drove or flew in from all over the country and the church parishioners all came to show their respects and support to Mrs. Harris.

  “Will one of you ladies stay the night?” one of the women asked.

  “No,” Michelle replied. “We’ll stay late, but not all night. Nikky will be here with her mom. I think it’s best to let them have some time together without anyone else around.”

  Still in her funeral clothes, but with her shoes and panty‑hose off, Nikky walked quietly into the living room, eyes red and swollen.

  “How’s your mom?” the older woman asked.

  “She’s asleep. I gave her a pill. She’ll be down all night.”

  “Call us if either of you need anything.”

  Nikky hugged the woman. “I will. Thank you for helping clean up.”

  The other woman gave Nikky a hug, then stepped back and, still holding her hands, said, “I’m so sorry, child.”

  “Thanks.”

  The two women left, closing the door behind them.

  “Deja, get some glasses and ice, if there is any,” Nikky said. “Michelle, get the Courvoisier. Let’s go sit in the back.”

  The previous home owners added the covered patio, which now held cheap, white plastic lawn chairs, a matching table, and two mismatched chaise lounges. Earlier, the smokers in the afternoon set of visitors had congregated out in the backyard. They’d since left, but the evidence of their presence remained. Michelle threw away coke and beer cans, and emptied several overflowing ashtrays.

  The three friends settled in at the table.

  Nikky took a long pull off of her Courvoisier, then leaned forward with her elbows on the table. “I think I know why you did it. I want to appreciate it, but I’m also pissed.”

  “I understand,” Michelle said.

  “It’s just one more thing about this whole mess that’s completely fucked up.”

  Deja picked up her drink and moved over to the lounge with the thickest pad; not out of ear‑shot, but far enough away to be out of the conversation.

  “So I don’t know if I should thank you, or be mad at you,” Nikky said.

  “Both, I think,” Michelle said.

  “Both?”

  “Yeah, both. You have every right to be pissed since it was your revenge to take out Sugar and that’s been stolen away from you. I won’t try to rationalize it by saying some stupid shit about me being there when you weren’t. Those things are only logistics and they can always be worked around.

  “No, I did it on purpose, which took away your chance for closure. Like when I took out Jackson. That was the end. Even though he wasn’t there when they killed Michael, he’d ordered it. It was my vengeance, and I’m sorry I took away your chance to get even with Sugar.”

  “If you understand—hell, Michelle, you even went through the same exact thing!—then why did you do it? I mean, I think I know why, but you didn’t let me make that choice. It’s your taking away my choice that makes me the maddest.”

  Michelle put her glass down with a small clink, then sat up straight and looked directly into Nikky’s eyes. “I know, and I really am sorry you’re mad. I’ll just have to live with it. It hurts me to have you mad at me, and especially on something so important. I did it because the option was worse. If I didn’t act, right then, you would have chosen to take her out.”

  Nikky rubbed her eyelids with the fingertips of both hands, then kept her palms cupped over her face and eyes as she tal
ked. “Probably—no, that’s not true.” She pulled her hands down. “There is no ‘probably’ to it. I would have hunted her down and killed her like the bitch dog she was. She set up Jerome to hurt my baby sister, so she’s every bit as responsible for her death as he was.”

  “Then you know I had to do it.”

  “No, I don’t know that. I don’t know that at all! How can you say that?”

  While Michelle sipped her drink, she scrutinized the backyard. More weeds than grass, and it needed mowing. The cheap patio furniture and peeling paint at the back of the house were all‑too familiar. She’d spent many days here growing up. Now, today, sitting here after they’d buried Taye, it all looked older, shabbier, with less hope than ever before.

  “I had to choose. Either take away your choice, or let you do something that would haunt you the rest of your life.”

  “You don’t know that,” Nikky said.

  “Yes, I do. In your heart, you know it, too. You shot Jerome in the heat of the battle. He was strapped, didn’t have a chance in hell; still, he had a gun and went for it. I know you. Can you honestly tell me the sight of him with a hole in his face, the hole your own bullet made, doesn’t stay with you?”

  “I’d do it again if I could.”

  “Yes, you would. Any of us would. Even your mom. But that doesn’t answer my question. Does the memory of killing him bother you?”

  “Fuck you, Michelle. Yes, it bothers me.”

  “I’m sorry for pushing, but it has to be said.”

  “It bothers me, okay? So what? He deserved it.”

  “Oh, Nikky, I had to protect you. Killing Jerome and killing Sugar were the same thing because they both earned it. But, they were also very, very different. I know what it is to kill in a fight, and how, way deep down, it’s completely different to look an unarmed person in the eyes when they know you’re going to kill them. When you pull the trigger, it takes some of your soul. I couldn’t let you kill in cold blood and still call myself your friend.”

  Nikky twisted sideways, pulled up a second chair, and put her feet up into it. She slowly turned her drink, making a ring pattern on the tabletop with the water from the condensation.

  Michelle waited.

  “You may be right, but I’m still mad.”

  Michelle reached over, rested her hand on Nikky’s arm. “You deserve to be.”

  “Where does that leave us?” Nikky asked.

  “We’ll work through it. Right now, I’m going to leave.” Michelle caught Deja’s eye. “Can you stay a little longer?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Deja said.

  *

  Michelle waited two days before calling Deja and Nikky to ask to meet them. Nikky surprised her by suggesting they meet at her mother’s house for lunch.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, Michelle asked, “How’s your mom?”

  The morning sun had passed overhead, taking with it the light that streamed in through the small window high over the sink. Although, sunlight from the dining room usually brightened the kitchen, today, the front drapes were closed, which cast the dining room into a shadowy dimness. The kitchen’s ambiance hovered between lighting not low enough to need the overhead turned on, yet not quite sufficient, either.

  “She’s not good,” Nikky replied, leaning against the sink. “She’s at church talking with the minister and his wife. They’re trying to talk her into joining a grief counseling group that meets at the church every week.”

  “Will she do it?” Deja asked.

  Nikky shrugged. “I don’t know. So, what’s everyone drinking?” she asked. “We have Pepsi, A&W, and tea. Help yourself.”

  Michelle recognized the offer of A&W as a small peace offering. It’d take a while for Nikky to get comfortable with the situation; it always did. And like always, she’d work through it and come around. Whereas Deja lived from one emotional moment to the next, Nikky simmered slowly to a resolution.

  This was the biggest problem their friendship had faced since their junior year when Deja gave Steve Cathcart a blow job when Nikky had the hots for him. Back then it’d been a big deal. Lessons were learned, and their friendship, built upon a solid foundation, survived it. Michelle was confident they’d get through this, as well.

  Michelle cut on the overhead light, and rummaged through the refrigerator, pulling out leftovers.

  A few minutes later, a heated casserole, some macaroni and cheese, and greens sat on the same kitchen table they’d sat at not too long ago. Once again, everything was familiar and yet completely different.

  “So, what’s up?” Nikky asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about an unexpected result to all of this craziness,” Michelle said. “With D’andre and Sugar gone, all of Sugar’s girls have their shit in the wind, without any leadership or direction. Most importantly—well, to them, anyway—they don’t have any protection.”

  “Uh‑huh. They’re in a tough spot right now. What do you think will happen with them?”

  “If nobody good steps in, somebody bad will step in. Probably Jimmy from over on Western. He’s real bad news, with the way he beats his women all the time. Either him or one of the girls’ asswipe boyfriends will try; some stupid jerk who doesn’t know dick about business will think he’s all that. Just because his woman’s a street girl, he’ll think he knows how to run a stable. They’ll run game on him, then he’ll slap them around and take their money. A month later, some real pimp will move in, shoot his dumb ass, and take it all away. Through it all, the women get the shit end of the stick.”

  “Sugar didn’t much care about her girls,” Deja said, “but she didn’t treat them bad, either. She had D’andre backing her play, so the wannabe pimps stayed out of the mix.”

  “Right. D’andre didn’t give a shit about Sugar’s girls,” Nikky added, “but everyone knew he’d take your ass out if you messed with Sugar.”

  “Here’s the thing.” Michelle leaned in. “I’d like to get out of the business I’m in. This deal with Sugar has been tougher than I expected.”

  Nikky tilted her head slightly, arching an eyebrow.

  “It’s all on me,” Michelle said. “That has nothing to do with you.”

  Nikky nodded.

  “I don’t have any work skills, but I need a change. Doing anything with drugs is totally out. Drugs started the whole problem back when Michael was killed. Trevon can keep the drugs, the money, and the misery that comes with it.”

  “Drugs are nothing but trouble,” Deja said. “I don’t do drugs, and I won’t mess with dealing.”

  “I’m thinking, the three of us could take over the street girls,” Michelle said.

  “Like, be pimps?” Deja asked.

  “More like madams, but essentially, yes,” Michelle replied.

  “You do remember it’s illegal, right?” Nikky asked.

  “I do,” Michelle said. “It’s also a hell of a lot more visible than what I’ve been doing. None of us have any convictions with the police, which is pretty amazing, considering most of our friends, and especially our boyfriends growing up. This could, probably would, change that.”

  Nikky mixed her food with her fork. “Michelle, you and me have been real lucky. We killed those guys, and you got the bastards who murdered Michael. It looks like it’s all over so we can completely walk away free and clear.”

  Deja held up a finger, made a show of swallowing, then wiped her mouth. “You’re right, I’m the only one who was ever really arrested, and I got off on that. But it’s not like we’ve been ‘Miss Goody two shoes,’ either. We just haven’t been caught, is all. It’s not like we’re talking about robbing folks.”

  “You got that right,” Nikky said. “Selling a little pussy is basically what we give away for free. It’s the law, but it shouldn’t be—not really.”

  “How much money?” Deja asked.

  “What do you mean, how much money?” Michelle asked.

  “Ho
w much money can we earn?”

  “Depends on how we do it,” Michelle said. “I’d want to treat the girls right. Give them more than Sugar and D’andre did. I also think we could expand. For sure we could do a better job at the business end. You know, customer service and stuff. Those things would cause the money to be slower at the start, but in time, we could make a lot.”

  “Yeah? How much is a lot?” Deja asked.

  “I figured Sugar and D’andre pulled in at least ten K a month.”

  “You mean with their girls and drugs,” Nikky said.

  “Just the girls. But, that’s only a guess based on the cost of a hooker, how many johns each girl might do on average, you know, that sort of thing. I’m pretty sure Sugar was bringing in over one hundred‑twenty grand a year on her own.”

  “You’re shitting me!” Nikky said. “Sugar made over a hundred grand selling pussy, and I’m making less than thirty, busting my ass managing a bunch of lops who fight me on every little, teensy, tiny, itty‑bitty fucking thing I want them to do. That’s not fair! Not at all!”

  “Yeah, but she got all of it,” Deja said. “You’re talking about three of us. That only means about forty thousand a year each. Me and Nikky make less, but you already make more than that with your regular day job. Why would you even want to do this?”

  “The way I see it,” Michelle said, “Sugar was just about the worst businessperson, ever. She treated the girls like they were nothing to her. I’ll bet they were stealing from her, and why not? She didn’t do anything to make things better. I’m sure if we work on it, we could easily triple her income, just in the first year.”

  “Net or gross?” Nikky asked.

  “Net. In the first year each of us should be able to earn at least a hundred grand.”

  Deja got up to clear the table. “What about after the first year?”

  “Well, that would depend on a lot of things, but there’s no reason, after everything’s in place, for it not to be a million dollar business.”