Q rolled Red over onto her back and spread her legs. Diligently, he began to move his head downward to suck her clit. With his forefinger and thumb, he penetrated her a bit and then slurped her clit until it became harder and harder. Even as she neared climax, Red refused to allow the pleasure to cloud her mind. No matter how good it felt, she couldn’t dare allow some bomb-ass head to interfere with her plan. With the money she was about to gas Q for, Red knew that another climax like the one she was about to have was just a vibrator away.
Without a doubt, Red knew that with a baby on the way, Q would try to wife her. However, she didn’t want to be his wifey. She wanted to be his beneficiary and that was just what she planned to be. She wanted to have her cake and be able to eat it, too.
“Don’t stop! Yeah, suck it right there, daddy,” Red said, moaning. She grabbed the back of his head to make certain he didn’t move. In many respects Red was like a man; wasn’t nothing like getting that clit licked. Shit, Red understood men and why they always wanted their dicks sucked. The fact was, that shit felt good.
“Ooh . . . oh . . . um,” Red groaned, pulling Q’s head deeper into her legs as she exploded. Q emerged with cum dripping down his cheeks, his goatee filled with the slimy remnants of what shot from between her thighs.
Q rose to his feet, wearing a pleased look because he’d satisfied Red. He kissed her and, without wasting time, forcefully penetrated her pussy. The way he humped like a dog in heat, Red realized that eating the na-na was a turn-on for a man as well as for a woman. And the fact that she screamed his name made the beast in Q’s sex game come out. Q fucked Red like he wanted to tear her a brand-new pussy.
After a simultaneous climax, the two collapsed into a panting, sweating heap. When her breathing slowed down and her heart stopped trotting, Red noticed that the air smelled like boodussy. She crept over to the window and opened it to air out the room. Next, she led Q to the shower, where the afterplay continued.
• • •
Spent, Q and Red lay intertwined in each other’s arms all afternoon, thinking of baby names and making plans.
“QJ. I like that one if it’s a boy,” Q suggested.
“QJ?” Red asked, circling her finger on his chest.
“Yeah, Quentin Junior, or Q Junior.”
Red didn’t give a damn if the baby was named Duck Sauce. “Oh, yeah that is nice. QJ.” She nodded.
“Or if it’s a girl, we could name her after my mother, Patricia,” Q continued.
“Oh, your mom. That would be nice,” Red said. “Don’t you think it’s kind of early to be discussing names, though? I mean, I’m only about four weeks pregnant.” She figured that would give her a few months before she was supposed to start showing.
Q shook his head. “Names are hard, you know. They stay with the child forever. Yeah, I want something my child will be proud of.”
“Yep,” Red agreed. “Whatever you want, Daddy, you got it.”
“You just take care of yourself. Stop that bullshit, Red. Seriously, I want a healthy baby. No more blunts. No more clubs, and no more muthafuckin’ trickin’. I swear, Red, I catch you at a club, it’s over. And if I catch you on that shit, then we gon’ have problems.”
Nigga knock you up, he think he own you. “True dat, baby, I hear you.” Red kissed him on the chin.
Q put his plan down with promises and assurances. He even added an apology for his skepticism. “Yo, Red. Baby, I’m sorry for doubting you. You know how it is. Women out here doing some foul shit for that cheddar, you know?” Red listened in silence and Q even saw the feistiness leave her demeanor. “I’m not wit’ bitches baby hustling. I’m gon’ work with you, though,” Q promised as he rubbed her shoulder. “You ain’t gon’ go through this alone.”
• • •
Q placed a phone call from his cell to his boy Ezekial and told him to deliver a package to the hotel. When the package arrived, Q gave Red detailed instructions. “Don’t open this bag until I leave. You’ll know that I’m ’bout it,” he said, then kissed Red on her forehead.
“Okay, Daddy,” Red replied.
Once Q left the suite and she heard the hotel door latch click, Red opened the package and removed a Crown Royal bag. Inside the bag was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen. There were three big knots of folded and rubber-banded $100 bills. Popping the first two bands loose, Red spread the money all over the bed, licking her thumb as she began to count.
When she got to $20,000 and had one more band to go, Red stopped counting. It didn’t even matter. She was hoping for ten grand and Q had already doubled her expectations.
Crime paid, but being “pregnant” paid better when you had skills. Satisfied with herself, Red quickly rubbed her hands together in an up and down motion. Overall, she hadn’t done bad for herself today. First, she had gotten a physical orgasm, and now she had reached a mental climax and that was the best of all. Power was Red’s motivation.
• • •
Many thoughts flooded Q’s mind as he walked through the lobby, trying to get out of what he thought was a bad dream. As he headed toward the exit, his best friend, Ezekial, who was waiting for him in the bar, ran after him. Ezekial was short and kinda stubby. He was that guy that was round about the middle, clean shaven with a bald head. Because Zeke had caught a cab, it was easy for the two men to jump into Q’s black Range Rover. Q turned the disc changer to his favorite, #5; the sounds of 50 Cent filled the car. Q drove down I-75 and moved into traffic before starting light conversation. Zeke could tell something was on his mind, so he tried to lighten the mood. Zeke’s voice came through with his favorite saying: “Every day is payday.”
“What’s up, Zeke?” Q asked.
“You got it, what’s good, Q. I didn’t think you was ever gon’ come downstairs. Was that pussy or business?” Ezekial asked.
“Nothin’, man, thanks for coming through,” Q responded.
A couple minutes later, Q took a deep breath, sighed and asked, “Do you remember that honey name Red?”
“Yeah, who could forget that scandalous bitch!” Zeke said, cracking the window.
“I was upstairs with her and man, she pregnant.”
“You ain’t fallen for that bullshit, nigga? Tell me it ain’t so?”
“Yeah, I thought the same thing, but I made her take a pregnancy test and well, it turned pink.”
“Pink! Nigga, fuck that schemin’ bitch. I told you not to fuck with her. No you didn’t run up in that hot-ass pussy raw?”
“Man, you know how it goes.”
“I told you about that bitch and the time when I fucked her in the hotel room, I woke up clipped of about five thousand. Damn pickpocket,” Zeke fussed, squirming in his seat. “Red swore on everything she loved that she was innocent. Then you turn around and bareback her and get caught out there.”
“Man, I can’t even remember fuckin’ her like that. That’s why I wanted a pregnancy test. What could I do but find out? Next I want a paternity test.”
“If you want me to make you feel better, you can forget it. That’s what the fuck you get,” Zeke said, moving his nine millimeter from his uncomfortable backside to his lap.
“Don’t do me like that, dog. I don’t even know what I’m gon’ do.”
“So you asking me for advice?” Zeke paused, then continued. “’Cause if I was you—I would get ghost on that whore in a minute. Tell her to lose your fuckin’ phone number.”
“Nah, you right. I can say fuck her, but I can’t go out like the average stereotype. I can’t turn my back on my seed. That’s about me and my character. But what I will do is make her have a paternity. I need to be sure the baby is mine.”
The two came off exit 71, East Grand Boulevard, in silence.
CHAPTER 2
The Letter
Two and a half weeks later . . .
Red,
I hope this scribe finds you in the best of health and spirits. I’m writing you to find out what in the hell is going on. I called
the house and I heard you answer, but you didn’t accept my phone call. It’s been over three months since your last visit.
At mail call, I don’t get any letters, nothing. A nigga threw bricks at the penitentiary to take care of you and this is how you gonna do me? You just gonna turn your back on me and walk away like I wasn’t nothin’ to you? I moved you out of the projects. I took damn good care of yo’ ass.
Dre said he saw you riding around, flossing in my ride wit’ another nigga. When I see you, I’m gonna kick your muthafuckin’ ass. You a foul-ass, trifling, cutthroat, ungrateful whore.
These walls can’t hold me forever and when I hit them bricks, my size 12 is going straight up your ass. Bitch!! See me when they free me!
Bacon
Two-and-a-half weeks after pulling her scheme on Q, Red couldn’t believe that Bacon’s muthafuckin’ ass would have the audacity to write her some bullshit letter. Red was trying to hustle her way and here this nigga was trying to get emotional and bold on her ass.
She tossed the letter next to the stack of hundred-dollar bills that sat on the glass Pavori end table, which probably cost more than the average person’s entire living room set. She had seen it in a magazine at the spot where she got her massages and facials. She knew that nobody’s crib would be rockin’ anything like it, so she just had to have it. She had to have it so bad that she had it shipped all the way from Italy.
“Fuck dat mark-ass nigga,” Red said, huffing. In one smooth move, she took a pull from a blunt, let the smoke rush out the corner of her mouth, then passed it to her girlfriend Terry. Red was a realist. This was the real world and she needed cash given to her on a daily basis. Bacon’s money was yesterday’s money. After all, a fly bitch like Red never looked back. Old money was old news.
Red leaned over and picked up the bottle of orange OPI nail polish and started to polish her toes. “I don’t know what done crawled up in his ass. He must have dropped the soap again.” The girls burst out laughing. Their cackles floated throughout the house and echoed off the twenty-foot ceilings. When their raucous laughs subsided, Red’s tone turned serious. “It’s getting harder and harder to eat off of these niggas. Muthafuckas keep going to jail. Dumb asses can’t stay free. Don’t these niggas know that a rest, dress and impress type bitch like me needs a sponsor?” Though Red held a decent-paying job at one of the city’s most prestigious real estate firms, she had no intention of working hard for the rest of her life.
“Girl, you ig’nant,” Terry said as she finished off the blunt. She stood up from the butter-soft, cream-colored leather sectional sofa and stomped the butt out in the ashtray. She stumbled over to the full wet bar and helped herself to a glass of Rémy on the rocks.
“No, really. If I hadda saved a G for every money-getting, club-hanging, trick nigga that I met, then I would be rich. But now, if I had a G for every nigga asking me, ‘You gon’ ride wit’ me? Do this time with me?’” Red wiggled her toenails to dry them. “Nigga, please.”
“Girl, ain’t that the truth? My phone damn near got turned off due to collect calls from niggas in jail.” Terry lit up another blunt and blew smoke rings over Red’s head.
“Girl, they should know by now that I ain’t about to do it!” Red said, reaching for the blunt.
“Nope,” Terry chimed in.
“I mean, Bacon done went and got himself a life sentence damn near, talking that ‘are you gon’ wait?’ shit. Seems like all the niggas from da block on lock. Big Daddy from 120th called me C-O-L-L-E-C-T and I said ‘Hell no’ in the phone as loud as I could. ’Cause before he even thought about asking, he already knew the answer: I ain’t about to do it! Shit, I need to get that on a T-shirt so when we meet these law-breakin’ niggas, they know from the gate . . .”
“I ain’t about to do it!” both girls screamed in unison, laughing.
“I was that bitch on the side, the ride or die chick, the out-of-town babe and often the freak of the week,” Red explained. “But shit, what the hell is fair exchange gon’ do for me? Not a damned thing! Hell, a bitch gotta eat, too.”
Terry nodded. Red didn’t expect her to argue the point. It didn’t matter what Red said, Terry was going to grin and agree.
“I mean, wasn’t I a victim? Bacon was my main source of income.” Red didn’t wait for an answer. Instead she sashayed over to the bar, her stilettos clicking on the hardwood floor, and plopped three ice cubes into her glass before pouring herself a drink. Terry knew that when Red was on a rampage, it was best to just sit back and chill the fuck out.
“Terry, with all my sponsors in prison, what in the hell am I supposed to do?” Exasperated, Red continued to ask questions. “Can you believe this muthafucka talkin’ all that rah-rah shit?” Red paused for Terry to answer.
“Hell, yeah, I can believe it,” Terry said right on cue. “What did you think Bacon was gon’ say when he found out how you was out here livin’?”
“I ain’t tryna hear that shit. Bitch, you crazy,” Red chuckled softly.
“No, bitch, you da one crazy. He ain’t get life, you know. That nigga coming home one day, in case you forgot.” Terry plopped back down on the couch and waved the letter in the air as if it was a red flag intended to cause a bull to come charging any minute.
“Why muthafuckas want you to be in jail with them? Help them do they time and shit! I didn’t help them do the crime.”
“But you helped them spend the dime,” Terry replied. She looked at Red, then fanned her hand around the room, indicating Red’s lavish lifestyle.
Red wasn’t studdin’ Terry’s comments. She applied her last coat of polish, tightly closed the bottle and blew on her toes. Terry was like all the rest of her so-called friends. They wanted to be her and have the money, power and respect. Bitches were always looking at her sideways.
“How much time he got left anyway?” Terry asked.
Red twisted her mouth to the side and clucked her tongue. “Muthafucka got twenty years before he sees the parole board. He done did six months on a twenty piece, talking about ‘when I get home.’ Don’t think so. Just because he a prisoner of the feds, don’t make me a hostage of love.” She rolled her eyes. “Talking about kicking my ass when he get out. Yeah, right.” Red tossed her ponytail and scrunched her face into a scowl. “If he can lift his old-ass leg when he get out.”
“Oooh, you wrong for that,” Terry cautioned.
“Get me a glass of orange juice,” Red ordered Terry, who immediately filled the request.
“Damn! Bacon got twenty years?” Terry heaved a sigh as she walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “That’s like forever. No wonder you sittin’ around like a Teflon Diva, never scared and shit. He ain’t gon’ be kickin’ yo’ ass doing twenty years. I know dat nigga’s mind is all fucked up.”
“Yeah. I’m sure it is.” Red flashed a devilish grin. “Hand me that notepad in the kitchen by the phone. Bring me the pen, too.”
“Damn, bitch,” Terry said, huffing. “Do I look like Florence the maid?” She walked back over to the couch with the pad, the pen and the glass of orange juice.
Ignoring Terry’s joke, Red’s expression changed. She was thinking about something and her face put Terry on edge. “Why you lookin’ all serious?” Terry appeared frightened for a moment, and then put on her tough face. “Girl, you know I was just playing.” She handed Red her drink and took a seat across from her.
“Good.” Red took the pad and pen from Terry’s hands.
“What are you ’bout to write?” Terry inquired as she sipped on her drink.
“I’m going to write that nigga back. When I get finished with him, he gon’ be on suicide watch.” Red shot off an evil grin; Terry shook her head in awe.
“Don’t do that, Red.” Terry sounded frightened, reaching out as if she was going to grab the pen out of Red’s hand. “Girl, just ignore him.”
“No, fuck dat,” Red snapped, hating the fact that Terry was trying to piss on her parade. She held onto her pen, a resolute
look on her face. “Remember all the times he played me and I sucked that shit up ’cause he was P-A-I-D?”
Terry stared at Red like she didn’t remember anything.
“Girl, look, don’t even feel sorry for his ass. Do you remember the time I had the apartment on East Jefferson Avenue? The Shoreline East apartment?”
Terry rolled her eyes up in her head like she was going through a mental file cabinet.
“When I lived downtown?” Red’s patience was running out and she was almost shouting. Her arms were flailing in the air with frustration. “Whatever. If you can’t remember, then I do. Girl, this nigga was so tight with his money that he made me beg for every dime, and when I wasn’t beggin’, trust and believe, he made me fuck for the buck. Well, the lights got turned off and I kept calling this nigga, telling him I needed the light bill money.
“Honey, listen. He stayed out of town playing his game, until they turned off the lights. A bitch was in the dark with candles and shit. Bacon came home like wasn’t nothing new. I kept asking him, nicely, of course, if he noticed anything. Like the fact it was dark in the house. And he then replied, ‘Suck my dick by candlelight and I got you.’
“Girl, I was so heated, I sucked that nigga’s dick by candlelight and all sorts of other shit for the promise of bill cash. He came through, but that was the low point in my trick days. Trust and believe. I vowed that I would be caught dead before I let another nigga have that much power over me—doing for me what I can’t do for myself.
“Girl, it is ridiculous! So I ain’t even tryna hear you take up for this so-called helpless muthafucka. He getting what his hand called for.” Red held the pen and pad firmly in her hands. “It’s my turn to floss on his ass. How about that?”
As Red started writing, Terry shrugged. Fuck it. What did she care if Red pissed that nigga off? If that bitch didn’t know that niggas with Bacon’s status could reach out and touch someone even from behind bars, then that was her own stupidity.
The Dirty Red Series Page 2
