That’s what made me tell my father no and beg him to leave me with her. My mom had known my father had warrants and she’d threatened to call the cops if he left with me. He had warrants for murder, too. So I’d come from a long line of killers and my mother turned me into one. She grabbed my hand and wiped my tears away as those thoughts berated me. I turned to look at Frank and still his eyes held no emotion.
She knew about him, but he had no idea about her. My demons had finally caught up with me and two of them were standing in the room with me.
DIRTY GIRLS
by Erick S. Gray
Prologue
Samson sat at the edge of his bed and stared strongly at the uniform hanging up on his closet door. It wasn’t the fantasy job that he dreamed of, or was looking for, but it was a job. He sighed heavily. He wasn’t too pleased about taking the job, but it was still work—much-needed employment in his predicament. Samson felt cemented to the bed. He didn’t want to get up. He didn’t want to don the dark blue attire and babysit a bunch of high school kids. He was an ex-marine. He did two tours in Iraq and was the best in the military—he was a soldier—infantry division. He was a sergeant. He was well skilled with guns—M16 assault rifles, the M2 Browning .50 Caliber Machine Gun, or the Mk 19 Grenade Launcher. If it fired and was lethal, Samson knew how to operate it. Samson knew how to protect himself. He had been into many firefights, or gun battles, and survived them all unscratched. He was the gladiator of his time. But, unfortunately, fate had a different plan for him.
After spending five years in the service, he found himself becoming a civilian again—back in Queens and living under his mother’s roof. He survived an IED attack on the outskirts of Baghdad. It tore into the right side of the Hummer he was riding in—it ripped apart the vehicle like it was paper thin and left a crater in its wake. Samson was riding in the back, behind the driver. They were on a routine mission; it was a military convoy—the explosion came suddenly, and caught his platoon off-guard. There was a deafening explosion. The front passenger, Corporal Smith, was killed instantly from the blast. He was from Austin, Texas and had a family. The explosion tore half of him apart. Staff Sergeant Gibson was severely injured. He was seated next to Samson, and sitting behind Smith. The IED took out his right eye and left hand.
The day before, a suicide bomber blew himself up in a nearby market place, maiming and killing scores of nearby civilians. Samson was rushed to and treated at a nearby hospital. He had lost his hearing in his right ear for a few days and was in shock from the sudden explosion. The military felt that he was no longer fit for active duty or another tour, so he was given a medical discharge. That one incident, that one IED, changed his life—altered his career path. Samson loved serving in the Marines. He had dreamed about it since he was a kid. Now, he felt he had nothing but a job, having become a school safety officer at his old high school—August Martin High School in Jamaica Queens. The NYPD rejected him because they felt he had emotional issues, a temper, and his investigation decided for them that he was unfit to become a cop. So, unfortunately, the only uniform that Samson was fit to wear didn’t carry a gun, or didn’t put his life in danger. It was a safer gig—boring, so he thought.
It was early in the morning; the house was quiet. Samson looked at the time on the dresser. It was almost six in the morning. He was used to rising early—before dawn. It had been the routine in the service—always up before the sun. The sun was gradually peeking through the closed blinds in the bedroom, indicating morning was coming. Samson sat in his boxers. He was shirtless. His strapping physique was a marvel to those who happened to see him without a shirt. He was ripped with chiseled features that wrapped around his smooth dark skin like the night in the sky. He sported a low Caesar haircut like he always did in the military. He had dark brown eyes, was clean shaven, and was tall, and strikingly handsome. He was eye candy for the ladies.
Samson continued to sit and stare at the uniform. It had been six months since his discharge from the service. His mother was happy to see her son home. She felt Iraq was no place for her son to live. But she hated to see his heartache—the pain of being ripped away from something he loved, and knowing the love he had for joining the service.
There were a few gentle knocks at the door. Samson turned his head slightly and said, “Come in.”
The door opened leisurely. Ms. Jones peeked her head inside the bedroom and caught a glimpse of her son sitting at the foot of the bed in his underwear. He looked like a statue in the dimmed room.
“Baby, are you okay?” Ms. Jones asked softly, moving farther into the bedroom.
“I’m good, Ma. Just sitting here thinking, that’s all,” Samson replied, his eyes focused back on the uniform that he had to wear for work in a few hours.
“You hungry?”
“I’ll just have some coffee.”
“Baby, you need to eat something. You can’t go to work on an empty stomach on your first day,” his mother said.
Samson was used to going through days on an empty stomach; there were times when staying alive was more important than eating. He was used to it. But his mother was adamant.
“I’m going to fix you some grits and eggs; it used to be your favorite.”
Samson was nonchalant. He nodded.
“You nervous about work?” she asked.
“I don’t know ... it’s different, Ma. How do I go from being around soldiers and killers to a damn high school?” he complained. His face cringed with just the thought of his new job.
“Baby, it’s something at least. It’s work. But, just thank God that you found work, and thank Sister Mary for bringing you the application. God knows you needed to finally do something, instead of moping around this house thinking about yesteryear.”
“Marines won’t take me back, NYPD won’t hire me ... Five years in the service, training and learning, advancing. . . for what? To babysit some damn kids at a high school. One bad road, one false judgment, and this becomes my life,” Samson stated despondently.
“You’re alive, Samson ... that’s what counts. You came back home to me in one piece. You came home, baby, and that’s what matters right now. I feel for some of the mothers whose sons came back home in a box, or not in one piece. Every day I worried about you over there in that war ... a senseless war that our president sent our children over there to be slaughtered in. Our men and women do not belong in that country, they belong over here with their families,” she proclaimed strongly.
“Somebody gotta fight that war, Ma ... defend our country,” he protested.
“Well, just not you then,” she replied.
The room fell silent, mother and son in their own thoughts for a short moment. Ms. Jones broke the silence by saying, “I’ll be downstairs making you breakfast. Just keep your faith in God and take it one day at a time and you’ll be okay, baby. You came home to something, a family that loves you, a job and a warm home, so thank your blessing and don’t take it for granted.”
Ms. Jones walked out of the bedroom and closed the door behind her.
Samson stood up after his mother’s exit and reached for the school safety uniform, snatching it from the hanger. He tossed it on the bed and began getting dressed slowly. It was the closest thing to law enforcement for him.
Chapter 1
Baby straddled her thick, juicy thighs around J. Rock’s strapping frame, and the two were lost into each other’s sexual perfection as she fucked him hard and fast. She felt his thick erection thrust into her like a vigorous drill, causing her body to vibrate and light up with pleasure from eight inches of experience. J. Rock was hardcore and played rough in the bedroom. He could be brutal in the bedroom. It was the way Baby liked it—rough and nasty. He would squeeze and smack her ass until it turned red. He would suck and bite on her nipples until it made Baby cringe. He would fuck her like he had complete authority over her pussy. And it was his alpha persona and notorious street reputation that Baby was attracted to.
Baby leaned f
orward and pressed her hands against J. Rocks’ chest, with her nails digging into his flesh. She squirmed on top of J. Rock’s hardcore physique; her legs came up and wrapped around him with her pussy dripping with excitement. He opened her pussy up wide like a doorway, causing Baby to pant in his ear and feeling a great heat rush through her as J. Rock forced himself deep inside of her.
“Ooooh, shit, fuck me, muthafucka ... Ooooh, just like that ... Damn it, just like that, my nigga!” she cooed.
“Ooh yeah, work that pussy, bitch. Oh shit ... ooh, yeah,” J. Rock moaned, staring up at Baby riding him like a race jockey with his hands against her bouncing tits.
They rattled the bed and Baby’s nipples were hard as stones. J. Rock quickly switched Baby over and positioned her doggie style. He situated himself behind the young beauty. He gripped her soft figure from the back and admired her luscious backside and nice curves.
Baby was a phenomenal young woman. She was a goddess to many men, with long hair that was black as night, so black that it seemed to glow with the darkness. Her face was sculpted, as if it were chiseled out of marble, and Baby’s eyes were set deep under perfectly shaped eyebrows. Her smooth caramel skin, full lips, ample breasts, and succulent, thick, and curvy figure made her the epitome of a bad bitch. She was wanted and envied by so many of her peers.
But Baby was, most times, nothing nice to play with. Her attitude was fierce; her tongue was sharp and her persona was brutal. She was a hood bitch, temperamental, and was known to easily cut a bitch or nigga with the razor or blade she carried on her person. Baby came out of the Baisley Projects off of Guy R. Brewer Boulevard, and she ran with a bunch of reckless girls who called themselves the Pussy Packin’ Pound—the Triple P girls for short. They were a fifteen-deep female crew throughout their projects and were into everything including shoplifting, prostitution, drugs, fighting, and even murder if it came down to it. Baby sat high on the throne of the crew. She was well respected and loved by her homegirls. She clearly made it be known that she was not the bitch to fuck with.
It was Baby’s eighteenth birthday, and she wanted to start out her day with some good dick before school. J. Rock was what she needed. He was her high for the moment. The way J. Rock would snake his dick inside of her, cup her tits, take control over her pussy, and massage her clit would cause Baby to become lost in a rapturous haze of mind-numbing orgasms that never seemed to end. She could recall almost losing consciousness a few times.
Baby gripped the bedroom banister firmly, trying to keep herself steady and prevent herself from tumbling off the bed as J. Rock had her legs spread, fucking her from the back vigorously. He was an animal. He palmed Baby’s slim neck, pushed her face into the pillow, spread her ass cheeks wider, and thrust inside of Baby like an explosive discharge.
“Oh shit, I’m comin’ ... Ooooh, I’m comin’ for you, baby,” Baby cried out.
“That’s right ... come bitch, come on that dick,” replied J. Rock with sweat dripping from his brow. “Ooh, back that sweet pussy up on a nigga!”
Baby twisted and turned. She howled in the bedroom and was about to reach the point of no return. J. Rock ravaged her pussy from behind, and it didn’t take long until Baby reached her climax and exploded. Her mind spiraled into a touch of bliss as the strong orgasm rocked her into screams of more.
J. Rock soon came. Both parties looked spent. He pulled out of Baby’s loving hole, and she collapsed on her side, looking exhausted. His big dick had invaded deep into her pussy and it instantly found her G spot.
“You good, Baby?” J. Rock asked.
“Shit, happy birthday to me,” she replied with a delightful smile. Her body was glistening in sweat and her legs wobbly from the experience.
J. Rock didn’t have time to relax after his nut; he stepped off the bed and began getting dressed, pulling up his jeans and donning his shirt. He looked at the time; it was almost 7:00 A.M.
“What time you gotta be in school?” he asked Baby.
“Whenever I get there. I ain’t rushin’ to get to that bitch. Shit, it’s my fuckin’ birthday, I need to stay home,” Baby replied.
“A’ight, well, I need you to do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Drop this package off for me,” said J. Rock.
Baby sighed. “Where?”
“What the fuck you sighing for, Baby? Didn’t you just enjoy yourself, right?”
Baby nodded.
“A’ight then ... I’ll hit you wit’ fifty, just take this package to Mingles, that’s all. I ain’t got the time to see that nigga now,” J. Rock said.
“A’ight, boo.”
“Cool.”
Baby stared at J. Rock as he continued to get dressed. He stood over six feet tall with an inviting, chiseled physique and long, twisting braids that reached down to his wide back. His dark skin went well with his ink-black eyes. J. Rock completed getting dressed. He then opened one of his drawers, removed a small, wrapped package, and tossed it over to Baby as she lay on the bed.
“Hurry that shit over there, Baby. Don’t have this nigga waiting forever,” J. Rock said.
“I got you, boo.”
J. Rock then reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. He peeled off a crisp C-note and handed it to Baby, saying, “That’s a li’l somethin’ extra for you to do it fast and right.”
Baby smiled. She took the money without any complaints. J. Rock tucked his 9 mm into his waistband, concealed it with a jacket, and, before he made his exit, he said to Baby, “Yo, when you leave my shit, make sure my crib is locked up tight ... you hear me, Baby?”
“J, you know this isn’t nothin’ new to me. I got you,” Baby assured him.
“A’ight, just hurry up and leave.”
J. Rock exited his place, leaving Baby sprawled out across his bed buck naked and satisfied. She loved spending time inside J. Rock’s lavish apartment. It was a far better place and an escape from her place. The large plasma TV, high-end stereo system, the opulent leather furniture—including the queen-sized bed that she just got fucked on—the dope money and guns lying around, a few pictures of notorious rappers like B.I.G., Tupac, Scarface, and Goodfellas hanging on the walls—it was a gangster’s paradise.
Baby lingered in bed for a few moments, savoring the aftermath of the sexual episode that was so fresh like rain in a desert. She could still feel her pussy throbbing. She didn’t want to get up, but she knew that she couldn’t spend her whole birthday cooped up in J. Rock’s apartment. It was time to have fun. It was time to enjoy her eighteenth birthday. She was now legally an adult.
Baby got out of bed and put on her tight jean shorts, along with a tight shirt that highlighted her nice tits, and a pair of white Nikes. She let her hair flow down to her back and rocked her gleaming jewelry that was stolen from a few stores on Jamaica Avenue. She stared at herself in the bedroom mirror and smiled.
“Damn, I’m that bitch,” she boasted to herself.
Baby felt she was pure perfection. She turned to look at her backside, and it was the perfect bubble for niggas to admire and drool over when she went passing by. Baby loved the attention, and loved knowing that niggas were thirsty to get inside of her panties. It was a thrill for her, but they could only look and couldn’t touch. Only the privileged got to touch and then some.
Baby picked up her black book bag and stuffed J. Rock’s package deep inside her bag. She slung it over her shoulder and left his apartment. She was ready to start her day. She stepped out of the building and footed it down Foch Boulevard toward Mingles’s pad across the park. It was a ten-minute walk. Mingles was a hustler like J. Rock, moving product for the boss—hustling marijuana and crack out of his basement apartment off of 119th Road. It was on her way to school, so it was easy for her to carry out J. Rock’s favor. Baby was far from worried about being caught with drugs or guns on her. She had been doing it for so long that it was an everyday thing for her. It came easy to her, like walking.
She arrived at Mingles
’s apartment and walked into a room full of wolves and thugs. Mingles was a chubby, high-yellow hustler with a nappy ’fro and bad hygiene. He had nasty habits and a nasty place to match. It was always dirty, stinking, and packed with niggas from the block. The hood thought of Mingles’s place as looking like some type of refugee camp for lost thugs. He was sloppy with himself and his business. She hated going to see Mingles because she always felt that if she stayed in his place too long, then she would leave with some kind of stench, or nasty critter attached to her, and not knowing when the police might come to raid his place. He was reckless and careless. It was the last thing Baby wanted to get caught up in on her birthday.
“Baby, what’s poppin’ ... ? You got somethin’ for ya daddy?” Mingles greeted her with a smile. He had an afro pick pushed into his nappy ’fro, and was shirtless, exposing the funk and scars across his skin.
“I just came to drop this off for you. It’s from J. Rock,” she said, tossing Mingles the package she pulled from out of her book bag.
The room was crowded with niggas lingering around, smoking, playing Xbox, counting money, or packaging drugs. Everything and everyone was exposed, and there were too many unfamiliar faces to Baby. The minute she walked into the crib, all eyes were on her. She saw the lust in their eyes and felt their hunger to fuck her. But Baby stood with a deadpan stare and was focused on her business with Mingles.
“Damn, that’s what’s up. J. Rock always come through for a nigga,” said Mingles.
“You good?” she asked.
“Yeah, we always good.”
Girls From da Hood 7 Page 17
