The man bogarted his way through the crowd until he pulled right up on the beauty that was tantalizing Qwess and Hulk. He saw her and followed her gaze right up to Qwess. Qwess returned the man’s stare with a smirk, and the giant saluted him. Qwess snubbed the salute and turned his back to that crowd. Waiting for him in his area was a tall man with a nose so big he resembled an eagle.
Hulk tensed up and stood in front of Qwess.
The tall man raised his palms in surrender. “Calm down, big guy. I come in peace.”
Qwess peeked his head around Hulk. “Well, you better speak fast then. State your name and your business.”
The man smiled. “Qwess, I can assure you no one in this building means you any harm. This is Gumball—we’re all wealthy!”
The man had a point. Qwess relaxed a bit. “You got a point there.”
“Sure I do! I’m Liam Cohen; I always make the right point. Sit down, let’s have a drink and talk some business.”
Qwess obliged the man. They sat down and popped a couple bottles of Krug Rosé champagne. Meanwhile, Hulk stood guard over Qwess’s shoulder.
“So, I hear you’re quite the car collector,” Liam noted. “That’s your Zonda outside, and I hear you have a Huayra on order too. Then, of course your cherished LaFerrari, and fleet of Lambos.”
Qwess nodded. “My Huayra is actually done. I couldn’t get it shipped here in time for the rally,” he corrected, referring to the new model by Pagani, of which only a hundred were made. The car was valued at over $2 million.
Liam chuckled and kicked his right leg over his left knee. “Impressive indeed. A man that has it all.”
Qwess took a swig of his champagne and shrugged. “Eh, I do all right.”
Liam chuckled. “This guy,” he said to no one in particular. “Well, let’s toast to success!”
The men clanged their glasses, and Qwess spoke next. “So, Liam, you say your name is? You seem to know so much about me, but I don’t know you at all.”
“And that’s normally how I prefer to keep things. I like to stay behind the scenes and let the guys like you peacock and hog the spotlight. I don’t like to come out much, unless I need to.”
“I can relate.”
“Yeah, I know. You like to stay in the shadows yourself these days. A lot has been going on in your life. Lots of tragedy and misfortune.”
As Liam spoke Qwess was beginning to see this wasn’t just a casual visit among Gumballers. Liam seemed to have come over with intent. With all that Qwess had been going through lately, he had yet to discern if Liam was friend or foe.
“Again, Liam, you seem to know so much about me. Why don’t you tell me who you are?”
Liam sighed and waved his hand dismissively as if his identity was not of importance. “I used to be a very big figure in the entertainment industry.”
“Used to be?” Qwess fished his mental Rolodex for a name. He knew of all the major players in the entertainment industry, and this man’s name was foreign to him. “I don’t recall hearing your name in my circles, and I’ve done it all. Music, film, books.”
“Well, someone like you wouldn’t know of someone like me—no disrespect intended.”
“Ahhh, you definitely sound like you turning on Disrespect Street to me,” Qwess pointed out.
“Not intentional, my friend. I can assure you.”
“Okay . . .” Qwess spread his hands, waiting for him to go on. “I’m listening.”
“So, I’m in the entertainment industry, on the distribution and delivery side. Well, I was a partner in the largest music distribution network in the world, but the climate of the music world is changing, so recently I cashed out.”
“You cashed out?”
“Yeah, I sold my stake in the company.”
Qwess nodded and stroked his chin. At his level, when people managed to get close to him, they always had a ploy or an idea to separate him from his money.
“Why on earth would you do that?” Qwess asked.
“Because I’m a visionary. I see things before others do, and sometimes that forces you to be the only man in the room. You understand that, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, I do, but let’s stop talking in riddles. I thought you said you wanted to talk business. I’m actually on vacation, but I obliged you because you seem to be an interesting man. But my patience is getting short.”
Liam sighed heavily. “Fair enough. I’ll get right to it.”
“Good.”
“Qwess, simply put, trouble is coming your way. The Linda Swansen incident? It’s not going anywhere.”
Upon hearing Linda Swansen’s name, Qwess perked up. Linda Swansen was a music executive who had hired someone to kill him in retaliation for him enacting “Crew Business” to finagle his vice president’s wife out of a bad contract.
“People in high places have blackballed you. Everyone in the industry has deemed you persona non grata. They have all joined forces to break you.”
Qwess was amused. With the money he and his wife had amassed, combined with the fortune King Reece had left behind, he was alllllll the way up.
Liam knew that smirk all too well. “I know you’re a very wealthy man, but there is more than one meaning to ‘breaking a man.’ Business is not about money; it’s about relationships. Money is just the reward.”
“Touché.”
“Fortunately for you, I have burned some profitable relationships, and I’m ready to forge new ones.”
“Well, I’m sure you’re not an altruist, so what does this have to do with me?”
“Qwess, if you are willing to embrace technology, I can make you the first hip-hop billionaire.”
Qwess smiled. “Now you’re talking my language.”
Chapter 2
Fayetteville, North Carolina
The man slid through the door of the lounge off Bragg Boulevard with his chest poked out and looked up at the moon. He was a bit tipsy from the alcohol he consumed, but he was absolutely drunk off power.
The man looped his arm around the tall Latina to his left and motioned for the big man in front of him to lead the way to the Toyota Tundra sitting tall on a customized lift kit. As he followed his escort he stumped his pointy, ostrich-skinned boot on the pavement. The blunder elicited a giggle from the beauty under his arm.
They made it to the truck, and the man helped the lady get into the back. Excited about diving between the hot young woman’s thighs, he turned to rush to the passenger side of the truck so they could leave.
He never saw the black-on-black Durango truck creeping up alongside him.
The passenger side window of the Durango eased down, and a long, silenced barrel extended out past the tinted window.
“Psst, yo, my man . . .” someone whispered.
The man turned around just in time to see the barrel of the automatic weapon light up. A split second later bullets flipped from the AK-47 and ripped into his upper torso. His body slammed against the door of the truck, pinning his bodyguard inside. More shots lifted him up in the air before his body crumpled to the pavement on the driver’s side of the Tundra. As he lay on the ground shaking and convulsing, four men poured from the Durango and surrounded the Tundra. In unison, they opened fire with silenced automatic weapons, killing the beautiful woman inside. The bodyguard attempted to even things up, but before he could palm the pistol underneath his arm, two bullets slammed into his forehead and exited out the back of his skull, leaving golf ball–sized holes.
The shooters scanned the area for more enemies and smiled when they saw that they had eliminated all opps. They stood guard on each side of the Tundra while the front passenger door of the Durango slowly opened.
Bone stepped from the Durango and stood tall over the Latino man writhing in pain on the pavement. Bone aimed the AK-47 at the man’s head.
“Ole badass, Chabo. You really thought we wouldn’t catch up with yo’ ass?” Bone taunted. “It took us a while, but I swore to god that I wouldn’t rest until you do.”
It was true. Bone had vowed to King Reece to track down his killers. Although he had learned that Chabo and Gil had fired the fatal shots that eventually took King Reece out, Gil had been confirmed dead at the scene of the crime inside the bunker that day.
Chabo, however, had managed to escape death. He survived a chest shot at point-blank range inflicted by King Reece. Instead of laying low, he had worn his wound like a badge of honor and turned all the way up. His superstitious comrades believed that he had been protected by Santa Muerte (the patron saint of death) that day, and surviving an attack by the infamous King Reece had elevated him to don status. He quickly used the new reputation to pad his riches, traveling in and out of the States building a new team on both sides of the border. Little did he know that half of the Black criminal world was looking for him. King Reece was beloved and respected by all. The irony of the streets’ code of honor was that if a Black gang had killed King Reece, it would have been tragic, but not deemed disrespectful. The fact that a Mexican gang had murdered him was like a smack in the face to every hustler in the hood. So hustlers from state to state were more than eager to collect the bounty placed on Chabo’s head by the Crescent Crew. It had taken nearly two years, but now Chabo’s luck had run out.
Bone kicked Chabo in the ass with his heavy Timberland boot. “Turn yo’ punk ass over, motherfucker!”
Chabo clutched one of his wounds in his chest and grunted, “¡Mierda! ¿Quién eres tú?”
Bone smiled, pleased that he understood Chabo. In his quest to track Chabo down, he had even learned a little bit of Spanish.
“I’m your death angel, nigga! The last fucking thing you will see in this life,” Bone snarled. Suddenly, something around Chabo’s neck caught Bone’s eye. “Wait, hold up, I know that’s not what I think it is?”
Bone leaned down and gripped the medallion hanging on the end of the necklace around Chabo’s neck. He inspected it and, sure enough, it was a gold-and-diamond emblem of the coat of arms for the Crescent Crew. However, a crude slash of red rubies was etched over the middle of the medallion. The implication was clear and full of disrespect.
Bone was livid!
“You disrespectful wetback motherfucker!!!” Bone roared. He crashed his boot into Chabo’s head and chest repeatedly. That’s when he felt the bulletproof vest Chabo wore. “Oh, you a slick-ass, huh? Bet a few of them rounds from that chopper still lit that ass up, though.”
Bone kicked Chabo in his mouth, and blood poured onto the pavement. He smiled a sinister smile. “You know what? I actually prefer it this way. You gonna pay for what you did, motherfucker. Aye, pop that hatch in the back,” Bone called out to one of his shooters. “Once again, it’s on!”
Chapter 3
Miami, Florida
The first time Flame laid eyes on Sasha Beaufont he knew she was going to be his. He just didn’t know that getting her would cost so much.
The first time he actually met her was down in Miami for the SoBe Fashion Show. He was scheduled to perform his new ballad with Saigon. Yes, ballad! Flame was about to drop an R&B album.
He had done the rap game to death and needed something else to challenge him. No one could have guessed that singing would be his new thang. Nevertheless, here he was about to explode on some thugged-out R&B shit!
So far, the industry had embraced his new foray, so he was given carte blanche while in Miami. Even though his net worth was estimated to be around $10 million, the sponsors of the show still provided everything free. His suite at the Delano, exotic transportation, food, liquor, drugs . . . name it and he had it laid at his feet in spades. This was the next level of the game—superstar status. Li’l Joey had come a long way from shooting craps on Bunce Road.
Flame hadn’t rolled with a large entourage since back in the day when his homies had accompanied him to Myrtle Beach for Bike Week. They had run a train on some white girls and caught a statutory rape charge for their heroics. The incident had nearly cost Flame his freedom and his career. He learned from that day about the importance of having the right circle around him. For the Miami trip, he was only rolling with his personal assistant, Freeman, his bodyguard and best friend, 8-Ball, and one of the models he had personally selected to debut his fall clothing collection. Her name was Anetral and she was bad as fuck! Six feet even, smooth caramel skin, cheeks sharp enough to cut diamonds, and long, wavy hair like a black Rapunzel, the chick was baaaad.
For Flame, the only bad thing about her was she was vegetarian, as in no meat, as in carpet-muncher. Other words: pure lesbian.
Flame’s crew was checking into the hotel when a big, chromed-out SUV rolled up, obstructing his view from where he sat in the back of a white Rolls-Royce Ghost. 8-Ball reached for his piece just in case some funny shit was about to go down, but the arrival was harmless. Two big black dudes popped out the back of the SUV and guided a black Bentley limo into an illegal parking space right in front of the hotel. Behind the Bentley was another truck identical to the first one. When the vehicles drifted to a stop, Kim Rawls, Monica Wilson, and Sasha Beaufont slid from the back of the car looking like the supergroup they were.
Collectively, they were known as the chart-topping girl group Kismet, the heir apparent to DC. Kismet had been killing the game for the past two years and weren’t showing any signs of slowing down, and they were just as fine as they were talented.
As their hired muscle hustled them inside the hotel, the women strutted right past Flame’s open window. Perfumed tits and ass soothed his nostrils as Kim and Monica breezed past in short shorts and thin tank tops. He watched as Sasha lingered behind them a bit. As the lead singer and undisputed star of the group, she possessed a little more clout than the other members. It showed in her confident stride and high fashion that she knew she was the shit. Where the others wore sandals, Sasha rocked silver stiletto heels. Her jean shorts were even fitting a little tighter, showcasing that famous banging body. Flame’s eyes zoomed right between Sasha’s legs where her fat camel toe was poking out.
Flame shook his head and called out her name just as she walked past his open window. “Sasha!” Sasha whirled around and looked right into his A/X sunglasses. Flame lowered his shades, licked his lips like LL, and said, “Wassup, gurl.”
She squinted her light brown eyes to get a closer look at him while her security mugged him like he had done something wrong, like he was a commoner, like he wasn’t a star himself.
Recognition flashed in Sasha’s eyes and she spoke—sang really. “Heeey, Flame.”
Flame smiled when Sasha cooed his name. It felt like it belonged on her lips. Like it was natural. Like he was the only man that existed in her world.
Then just like that, she was gone, disappearing inside the hotel, leaving him with the smell of her scent and the vision of her perfectly round ass popping out the bottom of those jean shorts.
He made up his mind right then that he was going to fuck Sasha Beaufont.
* * *
Later that night, Flame tore shit up on stage, ripping through his extensive catalog of rap hits while models prowled the catwalk around him showcasing dark denim and fur jean suits from his fall collection. A few buff, bald-headed cats with that I’ll-take-something or I-just-got-outta-jail-for-taking-something look modeled the pieces for the fellas, while Anetral featured fits for the ladies.
When the time came for Flame to debut his new R&B single, all the lights in the house dropped completely. Seconds later, the spotlight shone on him standing in the middle of the catwalk, head down, shirtless, exposing the huge “Fayettenam” tattoo that stretched the entire length of his upper back. A long iced-out A. B. P. chain dangled all the way down past his ripped abdomen to where his hands held the mic over his erection.
The house full of ladies went berserk!
Flame loved this shit! Performing was like sex for him, their praise the ultimate orgasm. It was as if he was having sex with every lady in the crowd simultaneously, and just as always happened when he was perform
ing, tremors slithered through his body, and that feeling consumed him.
The deep-bass beat (produced by Qwess) thumped from the speakers as Anetral came out in a red chain-mail shorts jumper with a plunging neckline and no sleeves. Her beautiful hair was hidden beneath the hood. Like a panther, she stalked the stage in black leather stiletto boots that caressed her thighs. A red satin flame snaked from her knee down to the heel of the boots. Anetral seduced the audience with her sexy sashay until she reached Flame, still standing center stage with his head bowed as if he was in prayer.
Anetral embraced Flame from behind. He spread his arms wide and tilted his head back like he was being crucified. The crowd snapped to silence and gave Flame their full attention. It was moments like this he lived for. These were the highlights of his stardom. Not the foreign cars, the exotic trips, or high five-figure concert bookings. It was this, touching the people, that gave Flame purpose.
Flame gripped the gold mic and belted out the first single from his new album, an up-tempo R&B cut about getting freaky any place the feeling inspired him to. It was pretty much similar content from his rap hits, but he was singing it this time—and singing it well. His song was a mixture of Too Short and Jodeci, but his performance was all vintage Flame.
By the time he sang the last line about sliding his tongue through the crack of a woman’s ass, three chicks in the front row threw their wet panties on the stage. One pair hit Flame right in the face while he was singing. He calmly moved the mic aside and took a good whiff of the panties. Then he held them high in the air for everyone to see and slid his tongue all inside the seat of the panties, tasting her juices that she’d left for him.
The crowd went insane!
Dirty Music Page 2
