Loving a Colombian Cartel Thug 3

by K'Aliyah Knight

  “You miss Rocky, so just let it go,” Popeye adds.

  For a moment, I can’t even talk shit. I wonder, deep in my heart missing my childhood friend. “How you figure, Popeye?”

  “I read people. You wanna know what else I've read?”

  “Bet’,” I reply with a roll of my neck.

  Popeye gives me this look that sends a rainforest drizzling within my thong. He smiles and that one dimple that has bitches pulling out their fangs in a hundred miles radius makes me want to do whatever this nigga wants when I’m not about that life… Doing what a nigga says and all.

  “Yeah, right. So I can’t read you, then,” he says in this sexy voice. “Anyway, your brah wants his lady back and I see that nigga is ready to get some act right. Can I get you to do your nigga a favor?”

  “What?” I roll my eyes as Popeye supplies me with those addictive tender kisses.

  “Stay out of their lane. When they're ready to work shit out, like they've done a thousand times since twelve, they will.

  “Why you so wise?” I fold my arms.

  He slowly pulls them apart and wraps his big strong arms around me. “Just one more favor,” Popeye says between kissing and biting on my neck.

  “Mmmmm, I'm all ears,” I murmur, pussy instantly ready to get active. My mouth is watering too.

  Popeye grips my ass. His eyes mentally fuck me on the spot, so I know that the therapy this nigga was tryna do is done. The way my husband stares at me got my lips quivering as I wait for him to tell me what he wants me to do.

  Popeye bites down on that sexy bottom lip with his top row of ultra-white teeth, making my pussy milk. Then he says, “Show your nigga some love...”

  I bite the inside corner of my own lip so as not to take over and give my nigga all the control. Finding my voice, I reply, “Well now, that right there, that's not a problem.”

  Popeye again plants his big hands on the countertop on each side of my thick hips, as if locking me into place. “Blu… Dammmnnn ma… You’re everything a dude could ever want.”

  He proceeds to tongue me down. I inhale just how fine he smells. He slaps my ass and I jump up around his waist. Popeye sits me down on the bathroom counter. He busts the button of my jeans.

  “Nigga!” I screech, and then decide not to complain about these being my favorite pair. Before I can even stop myself from talking shit, Popeye’s tongue is all down my throat and I’m moaning once more. He pulls down my jeans and thong without even taking his lips from my mouth. Yeah, this muthafucka wants to make sure I stay quiet. My eyes get a full view of his dick before the pipe slams inside my soaking wet kitty. Using my hips as leverage, he beats at it until I’m hummmmmming.

  I can’t even give a damn that my head keeps banging on the medicine cabinet mirror as I scream, “Harder, harder!”

  He’s abusing the pussy. I’m finna be walking bow legged, as he digs into my tummy. “Shit damn, Popeye!” My fingers dig deep into his thick biceps, bracing myself for the pain and pleasure. Popeye notices the back of my head getting beat by the mirror just as much as he’s boxing my insides. He pauses.

  “Nigga!”

  Not wanting to hear my mouth again, he’s back at it. This dude is about to give me a concussion. But I’m just grinning as my head bangs and my slick-wet walls take this dick.

  ~~~

  After sex in the bathroom, I cross my fingers that Rita hadn’t already left for the "outing." That damn Popeye fucked up my timeframe. And I really am walking bowleg while hurrying around the other side of the pool. I stalk past the sliding glass doors that lead to the kitchen. It's quiet as my pace slows down. Too damn quiet.

  I burst through the front door.

  Now that there are goons galore, I shout at one with his AK-47 on deck. “Aye, you, how long ago did my mom leave?”

  “Two minutes or so,” the thug replies.

  I nod my head. “Keys,” I tell one and he tosses a pair over. Then I mumble to myself while hating on my husband, “Lemme see if I can catch up with them from a distance.”

  Lorenzo

  Aye brah...

  Aye bro, bro...

  The texts from Blu keep coming in, back to back to back. The first time my sister texted me was an hour ago. Blu couldn't want nothing just saying, “Aye brah.” So I continued one of the most important conversations of my ever-growing career. Now after the umpteenth time, I excuse myself from the meeting that I'm engaged in with ICE officials.

  “Just one minute,” I tell the two crooked officers and stand up. “Mi hermanita,” I let them know. In Colombia, it’s disrespectful to cease a meeting. This meeting is money. Time is money. But familia is always first.

  I step around the large conference room table. We were just working a plan to get pound over pound of that pure white girl to the states next month since the new shipping schedules in Miami, San Pedro and the rest; even East Coast check. And the West Coast gets the same love as the north and south too.

  In the hallway outside the room, I call back this crazy girl. “Man, Blu, the fuck yo’ ass want?”

  “Hmmm, get your mind right, Lorenzo. Check yourself and ya tone, big brah. I'm getting ready to send you a video.”

  Instead of asking why the fuck she didn't just send the video already, I shrug. There ain’t enough time in this world for me to get into a power-struggle with my kid sister over some simple shit. I sigh, “A’ight, Blu.”

  She chuckles. “I'm sure you'll be calling me back very soon to ask where the fuck I am!”

  Blu hangs up in my face. Now, I’m chuckling at her psychotic ass. Less than twenty seconds later, a texted video steams on my eye phone. The laughter in my throat dies…

  Rockwell in HD. Fuck that 3D. Life. True form. My bitch is alive and well. It takes a second for me to be overjoyed that nothing has truly happened to her. Then I’m glaring at my muthafucking moms. My muthafucking kids. All their asses from a distance and Phillip Junior too. I can tell Blu is incognito since there has to be a wall close by that she’s hiding behind because I get a partial view. Mi familia is big chilling at what must be the zoo or another amusement park. They're eating hot dogs and enjoying a sunny day.

  I smile. My damn sis. Blu and her attitude having ass always looks out for me. So I call her right back.

  No.

  Muthafucking.

  Response.

  Even though Blu has an attitude now, I'm fucking elated. The smile on my face doesn't waver as I step back into the room to continue the stressful convo. I haven't fucked no bitches since my girl has been gone. The only thing on my mind is Rocky. Shit, I barely came to conduct this meeting, since I’ve been physically searching for her ass myself. I miss my wife so bad it's a wonder I'm surviving right now.

  Too bad Popeye is out the game again. Since the Feds let us go, he ain't tryna be about that grind. He's the only dude I trust to finish this meeting. I push through knowing that Blu will give me Rocky’s location by the time I get home from Los Angeles tomorrow....

  Rockwell

  The day off with my children was the highlight ever since I left Lorenzo. Then Blu showed up as we were leaving the Zoo. She wouldn’t look my way, wouldn’t say shit to me. I’m guessing the day that I gave birth to my nameless child; Blu forced herself to get over herself. Since she didn’t want to hear anything that I had to say, but tried to force me to come home, I told her off. And then Mama Rita took over. Treating me like the child she has done for most of my life. In reality? I never noticed how much Rita has stuck up for me, or inserted herself into that mommy roll.

  I sigh for a second while sitting on my living room floor. I miss my mom, but I do appreciate Rita. She told Blu off. I had to stay with the kids longer than I had anticipated because the altercation had the twins crying hysterically on the way to the car. And Lorenzo Junior? My ever-growing boy was pissed off at me again. He’s just like Blu. He’s got that Colombiano blood and mentality. I’ve failed him for leaving his father.

  I try to get Lorenzo Jun
ior off my mind because it breaks my heart. And even more than break my heart? My son makes me think of my husband. I have failed our vows. And I have lost a best friend, forever.

  I shake my head in order to rid myself of thoughts of them. Now I look down at the sketches that I’m working on while leaning against the wall. It must be meditation day because all I can do is hate myself and think.

  I first thought I was making a big mistake while working on my latest designs. That dude Nino dressed as if he was made from money. He had a driver and unlike a cartel thug, didn't roll through the restaurant with a different car each time. My initial impression of him being flashy while always leaving big tips disappeared as I sat Indian style in my tiny apartment, working on designs late into the night. I slept here on the floor, crying myself to sleep for my child. Now, it’s early morning. A few hours of sleep and my brain still ain’t on chill.

  I look over at the front door. My cheap dresser is keeping me safe again and I chuckle my ass off and sip on some wine from Jimenez Casa. At the restaurant we don't reseal, even with the cheap shit. I opened this bottle for one of our customers a few days ago. The liquid is flat as hell, but it will do.

  ~~~

  While standing at my tiny closet that doesn’t even have a third of the number of items as my old house, I turn on my cell phone. It’s been off since the meeting with my family yesterday. The sun is beginning to set and cast a glow into the bedroom as my phone powers up.

  As suspected, there are calls and calls from Chuey. But surprising Lorenzo has called me none stop too. I know that every time Lorenzo calls me, it eats him up to not know where the fuck I am. That shit probably hurts just to press the call button. His commanding ass probably can’t even wrap his brain around not knowing where his “property” is. He usually calls me once in the morning and once at night tho. Blu must’ve told him about the Zoo, so I guess there’s no surprise there. Why does he even believe I will answer? We spoke that one time. Not even sure why I answered him then. Maybe a piece of me just wanted my ex-best friend not to worry—not to say the muthafucka is worried. He’s more angry than worried.

  Answer Lorenzo? Never!

  I chuck the phone onto the bed, and continue sifting through the few ensembles I own. As I push past pantsuit after pantsuit, I tell myself that this is not a date.

  My cellphone makes a muffled buzz while on my unmade bed. There’s no time to rationalize because I reach over to grab it. My heart falls. Lorenzo has been calling me non-stop since the Zoo fiasco, but it’s Chuey. Shit, I’ve should already know,. Since Chuey woke up, he has called on the top of the hour, every hour to check on me. I’m not answering that dude either.

  My convo with Mayté roams through my mind, as does the image of Lorenzo beating the shit out of him. It’s safer for Chuey if he leaves me the fuck alone…

  As the soles of my feet turn back around, I eye a canary yellow pantsuit that is second hand. Most of these clothing are second-hand from Perez’s Cleaners. Since people don’t pick up their shit, be it that they can’t afford to or what not, I’ve scored a few passible items. This one is nice enough to wear to dinner. This is not a date…

  Nino

  There’s a live band. One bad bitch working those hips and singing Americanized, Colombian songstress Shakira’s hits as if she’s a big fan or thinks we’re in tourist town. Though we’re far from the richest neighborhoods, Patrona Lounge is all decked out with low couches; cigarette smoke masks the scuffed coffee tables that are scattered around. The room is black; even the waitresses have on clingy matching black dresses.

  My cornrows are freshly done, alligator shoes shiny, navy blue suit on point, and since I’ve been rich, I’ve been wearing that cologne that has all the bitches complimenting.

  My Zendaya steps into the Patrona Lounge as if she owns the place. Even tho the girl had decided that we would meet instead of me picking her up, I try to tell myself to take it slow. The yellow pantsuit she has on is supposed to help from drawing attention but muthafuckas is on Zennie tough as she passes by the laid back chairs, bright eyes on me.

  Damn, I gotta keep my fucking cool and remember that this bitch is not yet mine. Her. Name. Is. Rocky. Her. Name. Is. Rocky. I keep telling myself as dudes lick their lips and their fuck faces are glued to that ass. That reminds me, Andres hasn't yet fully looked up Rocky. I wanna get to know the dude that she's married too. That's a situation that's gonna have to be fixed before she can truly become my Zennie.

  One muthafucka in particular steps up to her, right before she can reach the couch I’ve claimed. I stand up since it's a tight squeeze, but I can't hear what he's saying in her ear over the music. She gives the typical Zendaya look as if the Colombiano doesn't have shit for her. Nah, he ain't on her level. And I don't have to fuck around and accidentally show my ass since Rocky is keeping it pushing. The dude hurries up and plops his embarrassed ass back down onto the couch he was sitting on. Good, Rocky just saved his life.

  I go in for a kiss, like I've seen many rich muthafuckas do in resort town. But Rocky quickly sits. Those hazel eyes sparkle at me, letting me know she could read my intentions. Damn, so no kiss then?

  “Zennie...” I sit down, wanting to grip this bitch by the back of her neck and fuck her face. Then my Zendaya transforms back into Rocky, and she’s looking at me funny.

  “Zennie?” Rocky asks slowly. She bites her lip for a second just as intuitive as my Zendaya. If we keep it up, there’s nothing in this world that can save Rocky from really becoming my girl. She asks, “You keep saying that. Is it Spanish?”

  The waitress comes over to offer us drinks. She turns to place an order. I don’t feel like telling nobody about my bitch anyway. Never have…

  “Just a Sprite for me.” Rocky smiles.

  “Another cranberry and vodka,” I nod.

  Rocky brings the subject back to Zendaya. “So who or what is a Zennie? C’mon Nino, I want to learn the lingo.”

  “Zennie...” I say again. “Damn, it's gotten so easy to say her name out loud.”

  “What happened to her?”

  Am I really telling this bitch about the woman that I love? I pick up the little bit of alcohol already in my glass, and take it to the head. This ain’t even enough to get a dude a good buzz. That’s the thing about these places. These muthafucking inland owners want to have nice establishments, but unlike in the coast, they’re asses forget to buy the good shit. Cheap ass vodka ain’t gonna do anything but give me a headache. After I finish my drink, the waitress returns. I down my drink before she can even hand Rocky her Sprite.

  “Another,” I tell the lady and lean my head back on the headrest.

  “She was someone special?” Rocky’s smooth, sexy ass tone weaves through the vocals of the wannabe Shakira, that has taken it all the way back to ‘Hips Don’t Lie’ as if all these Spanish muthafuckas can understand the words.

  I lean up and pull the pack of cigarettes from the inside of my navy-blue suit jacket. While I’m grabbing out one, I tell her, “Yeah, like I said. I haven't mentioned Zennie in years, then I saw you.”

  “Oh...”

  “Zendaya was the…b… the girl I loved way, way back.”

  “What happened to her? If you don't mind, look.” Rocky shakes her head, then sounds apologetic, “My bad, I'm sorry. I haven't talked to anybody in a while. I see my kids every few weeks so no real convos. You don’t have to tell me anything that you don’t want to. We are here for business, right?”

  Man, I guess I’m here for business. Back in the day, Zendaya had to eat. So sometimes my bitch had to be about the business anyway. But ultimately my goal is to own this bitch. For now, I begin to tell her about Zendaya. The good parts. Her School. Us grinding—just enough to let Rocky know we had to survive, but without the violent shit.

  Just speaking about Zendaya gives a dude life. I mean, besides Andres knowing her, I only had my mom. She passed about a year before Zendaya, leaving me all alone. So I tell Rocky how she was there after my
mom passed. How sometimes we made it to tourist town—but nothing on how that muthafucka wouldn’t let us in because I didn’t have on a suit jacket. Shit, that dude is one of the reasons I stay laced in a three-piece suit. I tell her about the food Zendaya used to cook. She was a beast in the kitchen. Nothing about Zendaya’s bitch ass parents. I sho wasn't going to scare Rocky with talk of the fucking Mendoza De Dios Cartel and how that bitch Santi was my girl’s demise.

  After we finished, Rocky told me a little about her designer education. She wouldn’t mention her kids again, so I guess the bitch slipped up there. Trying to get a dude to tell her about Zendaya, she had mentioned not having nobody to talk to but her kids on occasion. I continue to listen, all the while realizing Andres needs to hurry the fuck up. I don’t give a fuck about this bitch having kids anyway, so I’m fine if that topic is left untouched. I only want her. Rocky starts to tell me about her fashion store that got burnt down.

  She smiles, with a shrug, “I had a crazy ex. My husband… he makes me think that I might be attracted to crazies.”

  I match her smile. Rocky isn’t telling me the muthafucka’s name either. Just like my Zendaya in the past when it came to seeing her parents, this bitch is keeping shit from me too.

  “So enough about the creepers, Nino. Damn, I don't think I had it bad as you, even in the states,” she says. When Rocky touches my shoulder, my dick instantly stands at attention. She adds, “You know what, it’s been a while since I’ve been in love with that young hood love. Must have been life just to have Zennie to roll through the punches with you tho.”