The House that Hustle Built, Part 1

by Nisa Santiago

  Fifteen

  Two weeks into their slump, Cash and Pearla were living like bums, struggling and scraping, a day here, a night there. Pearla hated every minute of it, and was determined to rise up from her setback. They’d first stayed at Petey Jay’s place for a few days, then Darrell’s, then Manny’s, and a night or two at Roark’s, who had to sneak them into her parents’ already cramped place.

  Now, they were shacking up at Jamie’s place. Since her mother was always working all the time and never home, Jamie’s place was the most peaceful and relaxing. She didn’t mind having Pearla and Cash over. She adored the company, and Pearla was her best friend in need.

  Pearla felt ambivalent about the situation, feeling grateful yet humiliated. Bitches looked up to her, but now she had to depend on her friends to give her a place to sleep. Swallowing her pride, she reminded herself that it was only temporary. The one good thing that came from staying at Jamie’s was that she had some time to think, since Jamie was an only child and practically lived alone, with her mother constantly working odd hours.

  Cash was in and out, so basically it would be just them two, talking, plotting, and getting the wheels turning on every scheme they had brewing. Some nights, it felt like a sleepover with stories and laughter—two young girls sitting in their pajamas drinking Cîroc, smoking weed, and reminiscing about the good old times. And then there were some nights when Pearla felt like a prisoner of war—Jamie’s place, her rules.

  Cash and Pearla slept on the couch, while Jamie had her bedroom. On their second night there, Pearla was fast asleep. Cash had just come in right after midnight from another night of thieving cars. Pearla had been really stressed and out of it lately and didn’t feel like fucking, especially in random homes and random beds. However, after two weeks with no pussy, Cash’s hormones were raging.

  While Cash took his position on the couch next to Pearla, Jamie, going into the kitchen for a late-night snack, so happened to walk into the living room skimpily dressed in her panties and bra. Cash’s eyes were wide open as he took notice of her shapely figure.

  Jamie threw a flirtatious smile his way, and that’s all it took to get Cash excited. She walked by slowly, parading her figure in front of him, sashaying down the hallway, her phat ass looking tempting. Before she disappeared into her bedroom, she turned around and gave him the perfect invite into her room.

  Cash took a deep breath. He was super hard and yearning to fuck. Pearla was asleep, and she was a heavy sleeper. He quietly slid off the couch and made his way down the hallway toward Jamie’s bedroom wearing just his boxers. Her door was ajar. He slowly pushed it open, and there she was, lying across her bed like she was posing for some exotic magazine.

  She smiled at him. Cash smiled back. His dick had gotten so hard, it started to show through his boxers. He’d wanted her since seeing her at the block party.

  “Shut the door,” she said softly.

  He did. He then stepped into her well-decorated bedroom. It was easy to tell she was well-off, from the bed, to the dresser, to the clothes, and the amenities. But he didn’t come in her room to admire the décor, he came for some pussy.

  He climbed onto her bed with a look that said he wanted her so badly. He scooped her up in his arms and kissed her passionately. She was soft and so warm. He could feel his dick growing by just being against her.

  They began to lick and suck each other in all sorts of sensual places. Cash took the time to give pleasure to her nipples. He sucked on them with delight and then fingered her pussy and toyed with her clit.

  Jamie bit her lower lip, stifling a moan, uttering guttural sounds. Cash was rock-hard and her pussy was soaking wet.

  She wanted Cash to fuck her mouth with his big dick. She wanted to taste him. “I wanna suck your dick,” she said.

  She pushed Cash off of her, and he landed on his back, his legs spread, his nine and half-inch dick standing erect like a flagpole.

  Jamie didn’t waste any time. She opened her mouth and wrapped her full lips around his dick like a blanket, making him coo. She loved sucking dick while her pussy was wet and throbbing. Jamie sucked him like a vacuum, pulling him in with her sensuous lips. Her mouth was like hot velvet, consuming every inch of him, deep-throating him in sensual delight. He was leaking pre-come and horny for more. Jamie was giving him the sloppiest, wettest blowjob he’d ever gotten.

  He grunted and moaned, “Oh shit! Damn! Ooooh, that feels so fuckin’ good! Shit!”

  The sloppy, wet blowjob almost caused Cash to get loud. He forgot Pearla was sleeping in the other room. Jamie stopped sucking him off. She placed her index finger to her lips. “Sssshhh.” Wanting to feel him inside of her, she spread her legs.

  On his knees, Cash positioned himself between her legs and took precise aim. He lined up the head of his dick with her wet slit and rubbed it up and down. The heat was intense.

  Then he shoved himself inside of her in one full stroke, straight raw dog—no condom.

  Jamie shuddered from the penetration, wrapping herself and her legs around him as he fucked her. He felt her juices literally run down his dick. She was like a faucet, pouring out sweet honey and purring like a kitten while the dick thrust in and out of her.

  The bed shook, and every so often, they had to remind themselves to quiet down and fuck silently.

  Her body contorted and twisted with each stroke slammed inside of her. “Fuck me! Ooooh, fuck me!” she whispered.

  He began pounding her. Being in some new pussy was a refreshing feeling. He was ready to spill his creamy, white seed inside of her.

  Cash worked his dick inside her pussy like he’d created it. He fucked her slowly, deliberately, and hard, hitting the right spots, making her legs quiver. He was deep in her pussy, making it feel like his dick was rooted inside her stomach. The wet, frothy juices on his dick told him she was loving every second of it.

  The pounding became more intense. He was driving Jamie crazy, giving her a string of orgasms. The more she came, the harder he fucked her. She wanted to scream out, but she too had to restrain her loud, primal cries of ecstasy, knowing her best friend was sleeping in the living room.

  When Cash came inside of her, it felt like he had opened the floodgates. His semen poured out like water from a broken dam.

  After it was all over, he went into the bathroom, quickly washed up, and reunited with Pearla on the couch like nothing happened.

  The next night, they repeated the same thing, fucking each other’s brains out.

  And the following night after that, the same thing, sucking and fucking each other while Pearla lay sleeping on the living room couch without a clue that her best friend and her boyfriend had started an affair right under her nose.

  ***

  Pearla had to sit outside her mother’s home daily and wait for the mailman to come. She was relying on her insurance check, since she desperately needed the money. If Poochie got to it first, there was no telling what she might do with it. She was certain that Poochie wasn’t about to call her and let her know about any mail that came for her. With Pearla moving around so much, she didn’t have a forwarding address.

  She would intercept the mailman before he showed up at her mother’s door and ask for the mail to her mother’s address. Knowing Pearla’s face, the mailman had no problem giving her the mail.

  This went on for days, until Bingo! The insurance check from the claim she put in a while back finally came. The scam Perez had implemented had come through. The check was for $14,000.

  With the check in hand, Pearla needed to think. She wasn’t about to lose this pile of cash too. She was ready to invest it and make more money. If she and Cash were going to make it, they had to cut out the middleman, meaning Perez. Yes, he had come up with the insurance scheme and implemented it, but it was her car and she was taking all of the risk.

  Ironically, the day before her check came, Per
ez had repaired her car, and she was back on the road again.

  ***

  When Cash heard of Pearla’s plan to rip off Perez, he said, “You wanna do what?”

  “Why do we have to give him half?” she asked.

  “Because he’s Perez, and you don’t fuck wit’ his money.”

  Pearla didn’t care about his name or reputation. She hardly knew the man. He was no one to her. She was about her money and coming up by any means necessary, and if she had to step on a few people to rise, then so be it.

  “I’m not afraid of him, Cash. Perez means nothing to me. It’s my fourteen grand, and I’m keeping it. If he was so smart, then he wouldn’t be so stupid to fully trust you or me,” she proclaimed.

  Cash continued to protest her decision, pleading with her to honor their deal, but Pearla wasn’t changing her mind. If Perez had a problem with it, then she would threaten to turn him in.

  ***

  “That’s your bitch, and you supposed to have her under control,” Perez shouted heatedly when Cash relayed the news to him. “I want my share of the money.”

  Cash promised Perez he was going to work things out, but there was no guarantee.

  Not only did Pearla fuck Perez out of his money, but Cash also lost his connections. Her decision to cheat Perez out of his half also fucked him out of his partnership and dealings with Perez. When it came to stolen cars, Perez was the go-to man, but now that Pearla had burned that bridge down to the ground, it was no longer an option for him.

  ***

  “You know, you fucked us . . . you fucked me,” Cash complained to Pearla.

  Pearla looked at him with a blank stare. “You’re better than Perez, baby. You don’t need him. Can’t you see he was only using you? Now that you’re no longer under his wing, this will give you the opportunity to go out and start your own shit.”

  Then she added, “The cars he has you stealing are worth peanuts, Cash. You need to stop stealing low-end cars and walking away with seven, eight hundred a pop, because you got a crew to divide it between. It’s not worth the risk, baby. You need to be stealing luxury vehicles that are sold and shipped overseas. I did my homework, baby. You can get forty to fifty grand for a Range Rover or Benz.”

  Cash was listening. It sounded sweet. He definitely wanted to stunt harder and become the man, but he didn’t have a clue where to start.

  Sixteen

  One Month Later

  Pearla walked around the spacious, empty three-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment in Brooklyn Heights, her high heels click-clacking against the parquet flooring. The living room had a soaring 18-foot ceiling, wood floors, and high-efficiency interior and exterior LED lighting. She was exploring the apartment alone, falling in love with the residence as she moved through every square inch of the place.

  The tree-lined streets of the neighborhood and the mix of architectural styles, including beautiful historic Greek Revival and Gothic Revival homes as well as Italianate brownstones, made it the perfect location for her. The schools were top-notch, the restaurants were exceptional, and the shopping appealed to the most discerning of tastes. And it was away from the hood.

  The realtor, a middle-aged Caucasian woman with long, bushy red hair and clad in a dark pinstriped pantsuit, was about to show her the kitchen.

  Pearla followed the realtor into the kitchen as she said, “The kitchen is decorated with Electrolux kitchen appliances, and honed Calacatta Tucci Marble countertops, solid American walnut kitchen cabinets, and a locally sourced eight-bottle under-counter wine storage.”

  Pearla wanted to move in right away. “How much?” she asked.

  “It’s thirty-five hundred a month.”

  “I’ll take it,” replied Pearla with assurance in her voice.

  “Of course, we’re going to need run a background check, along with a credit check, proof of employment and whatnot.”

  Pearla didn’t have time for all of that. She wanted to move in right away. It felt like the woman was trying to scare her off, so she had to let the bitch know she could afford the place.

  She reached into her purse and pulled out ten stacks. “Here,” she said to the pompous bitch. “I said I’ll take it, and there’s no need for all of that. Now, is there going to be a fuckin’ problem? Because I can take my money somewhere else.”

  The woman was stunned and wide-eyed at the bulk of cash she held in her hand. She responded in a more meek tone, “Um, I guess I can make it work. There shouldn’t be a problem at all.”

  “I thought so.”

  As the realtor was making phone calls and drawing up the paperwork, Pearla walked toward the windows, admiring the picturesque view of the neighborhood. She was excited about the apartment but knew that it would only be temporary. Pearla had bigger plans. She wanted ownership. She heard someone say own your masters, meaning she wasn’t going to be a slave to any landlord. Thirty-five hundred a month was a mortgage payment, and Pearla was about the hustle, not getting hustled. She and Cash would purchase their own home and invest in their future, the American dream.

  It’d been a really busy month with no time for sleep or play, but grinding and making power moves that got a few people upset in her world. Just then, her cell phone rang. She reached into her purse and saw it was Chica calling. She released a deep sigh, reluctant to answer the call, but she did anyway.

  The first thing she heard from Chica was, “You cunt-ass, muthafuckin’ bitch! Who the fuck do you think you are!”

  “Is there a problem, Chica?” Pearla asked.

  “Yes, there is a muthafuckin’ problem, bitch!” Chica said heatedly. “You are my fuckin’ problem! How fuckin’ dare you go behind my back and take from me what I fuckin’ brought you into?”

  Pearla had completely cut Chica out of the marriage hustle they’d supposedly started together, and she had her reasons. She was the one recruiting the girls and coaxing them to give up their single life for a profit. Chica had the blueprint, but Pearla was the builder, the actual architect of the scheme. Business was booming because of her, not Chica. Pearla figured out that if she found gorgeous, broke girls, the men would pay top dollar to marry them, with the hope of it turning into a real marriage.

  In fact, she was borderline running an escort service. The busted project-chicks she was used to dealing with were a thing of the past. She now had a small stable of beautiful, young women eager to make top dollar. She was now charging $15,000 a marriage. She would keep ten and give the girls five. On top of that, she charged $2,000 an hour if you wanted some time with one of her girls. Pearla was the brains, so why should Chica be given a cut?

  It didn’t take long for her to phase out her former partner. When Chica found out, she was furious.

  “Bitch, when I fuckin’ see you again—”

  “If you see me again,” Pearla interrupted with her smug tone.

  “You fucked with the wrong muthafuckin’ bitch, Pearla. I swear this ain’t over. I brought you into this game. I fuckin’ made you, and I’ll fuckin’ destroy you, bitch!”

  Pearla didn’t have time for her idle threats. She simply said into her cell phone, “Bitch, see me when you see me. In the meantime, I’m getting rich.”

  She hung up with Chica cursing and ranting on the phone.

  The realtor walked over with a confused look and asked, “Is everything okay?”

  “Fabulous, darling,” Pearla replied with a grin.

  ***

  Cash got out the gypsy cab in Brighton Beach, a shore side neighborhood in southern Brooklyn, known as Little Russia. The area was known for its high population of Russian-speaking immigrants and as a summer destination for city residents due to its Atlantic beaches and its proximity to Coney Island amusement park.

  It was a scorching day. Old men played backgammon in Second Street Park. The beaches were crowded, and the area was swamped with touris
ts and residents. Cash climbed out of the cab sweating like a slave in the cotton field. The cab didn’t have air conditioning, and it was a long ride from his hood to Brighton Beach.

  He had a meeting with a Russian named Adrian. Adrian was an up-and-coming mobster with ties to former KGB members. Cash was trying to make new connections, while separating himself from Perez and everyone else. Pearla had convinced him to go out on his own and make it happen, and he thought he was ready.

  He got word about Adrian from a friend of a friend. The two had never met, but they’d both heard about each other’s reputation, though vaguely. Cash was instructed to meet with Adrian at the Bratva Bar in Brighton Beach at 2 p.m., and he was a half-hour early.

  Cash arrived at the Russian-owned Bratva Bar, which was located underneath the subway tracks. It was a quaint-looking place, nestled among other Russian businesses on the city block. He took a deep breath and walked inside. The place was dim and not crowded with customers. It was still early. The handful of patrons inside the place was enjoying their flavored tobacco from a communal hookah placed on each table.

  Cash, being the only African-American inside the place, had everyone’s attention. He looked around, searching for Adrian, even though he had no idea what the man looked like. It could have been anyone.

  “You lost?” an employer asked.

  “I’m lookin’ for Adrian,” he said loudly.

  Another man removed himself from the hookah table, stared at Cash and said, “Come.”

  Cash followed the tall, long-limbed Russian into a back room. Before entering, the man said into the room, “We have company.”

  The room Cash was escorted into had three bearded men seated around a round table, drinking vodka and eating smoked fish. They were speaking Russian. They had all the ingredients for shady, dangerous mob muthafuckas.

  Cash swallowed hard. He was nervous, but he refused to show it. He stood tall and remained calm.

  A voice from the corner said, “You must be Cash.”