by Jade Jones
Charlie nodded his head as he listened. He had heard the same exact lines on more than one occasion. Men truly believed their women would stick by their sides once they were locked up but the game usually changed up eventually.
“What about you?” Omar asked. “You got any family on the outs?”
“My nineteen year old daughter, Tamara” Charlie said. And for the first time Omar saw him crack a slight smile. “She is all the family I got and all the family I need. I live and breathe every day for that girl, man.”
“She sounds like she’s really special,” Omar said.
“She is,” Charlie agreed. “Worth spending my entire life in this mothafucka for.”
Omar looked over at Charlie in confusion.
Charlie sighed and looked over toward the guards. “About eight years ago me and Tamara’s mother got divorced.” He chuckled. “Truthfully, I was a piece of shit and I knew it was only a matter of time before Renee got fed up with me. I was a stone cold alcoholic. Would drink and gamble all the rent and bill money away.” He shook his head. “Anyway to make a long story short, she kicked my black ass to the curb and found a new man no less than a month after signing the divorce papers. Supposedly, he took care of her…did all the shit I couldn’t do, as she would say.” Charlie’s voice took on a bitter tone. “The day my daughter came to me and told me the mothafucka touched her…I guess…I just lost it, man.” He blinked his tears away. “Stabbed the son of a bitch thirty-seven times,” he admitted. “He stopped breathing after the eighth.”
“Damn,” Omar whispered.
“Needless to say they didn’t think twice about locking my ass up for life.” He managed a weak smile.
“Does your daughter come to vis—”
Omar’s sentence was instantly cut short when a basketball suddenly struck him in his upper back. Stumbling forward a few feet from the impact, he had to catch himself before he tripped and fell.
Turning around slowly, he looked into the eyes of at a tall, muscular white guy with a dragon tattoo on his face. He was known in the prison as Serpent.
His fists were clenched and his intense gaze bore a hole into Omar. “Aye, boy!” his voice was deep and raspy. “Pass me that ball!”
Omar looked over at the basketball laying a few feet away from him. His gaze then connected with Charlie’s.
He nodded his head. “Be assertive,” he told Omar. It was apparent that Charlie had witnessed situations similar to this one too many times.
Omar looked at the basketball once again then back at Serpent, who was obviously welcoming an altercation. “You want the ball,” Omar said. “Get it your damn self.”
Serpent chuckled although it was apparent that he was slightly irritated. “That was the wrong answer, nigga!” he yelled.
A few of the black prisoners on the basketball court stopped playing their game and slowly made their way over towards the confrontation. A cocky guy with cornrows stepped forward in an attempt to defend Omar, but Charlie quickly put his arm in front his chest, stopping him in his tracks. In this particular setting, you had to be able to defend yourself if need be.
Serpent cracked his neck bones and knuckles and slowly made his way towards Omar. Omar’s heart beat rapidly but still, he stood his ground. After all, what was left of his manhood was all he had left.
Standing toe to toe with Omar, Serpent stared down into his eyes. The entire courtyard stopped what they were doing and approached the altercation. Everyone was anxious to see the action unfold, including the correction officers who continued to stand their ground and watch from afar. They absolutely loved to see the newbies get broken in, and oftentimes they even bet on prison fights as a means of entertainment.
“I’m supposed to be intimidated by you, mothafucka?” Omar asked, not once breaking the intense stare they had locked on each other. Growing up in the hood, Omar had fought plenty of guys to protect himself, some twice the size of the chiseled white man standing before him.
Serpent smiled, showing off a mouthful of rotten teeth from years of chewing tobacco. Suddenly, he slammed his wide forehead into the bridge of Omar’s nose, crushing the bone instantly. Omar stumbled backwards and grabbed his broken nose. His tear ducts stung from the powerful blow and it was the worst pain he had ever felt in his entire life. Blood instantly leaked from his nose and seeped into his mouth.
Serpent quickly rushed Omar and delivered a gut-wrenching punch into his lower abdomen.
Omar groaned in pain from the blow and a couple black prisoners stepped up like they wanted to help Omar out, but Charlie however, stopped them.
“Let him fight,” Charlie yelled. “Let him fight his own battle!”
A group of “billies” as they were referred to gathered around the fight and cheered their fellow gang member on.
Omar was getting his ass kicked mercilessly and he knew it. If he didn’t defend himself now, he knew the vicious beatings would never cease. He would never get any respect and he knew the inmates would never stop trying him.
Serpent was twice his size and it was obvious that he had the upper hand in the fist fight. Before Omar was able to throw a punch, Serpent’s fist connected with his jaw. Omar stumbled backwards a few feet before falling to the concrete.
A few of the correction officers huddled together and prepared to place their bet, which of course was on Serpent.
Omar struggled to stand to his feet before spitting out a mouthful of blood onto the concrete. Serpent didn’t give him a chance to recuperate before he quickly wrapped his large hands around Omar’s throat and snatched him off the ground. His feet dangled in midair at least two inches off the ground as Serpent proceeded to strangle the hell out of Omar.
EXCERPT FROM “SCHEMIN’”
Nikita Brown trained her polished, black semi-automatic pistol towards the guard lying face down on the dirty tiled floor of Key Bank. She wore a pair of gray sweatpants and a black hooded sweatshirt that was two sizes too big for her petite frame. The hood was pulled over her head and shielding her eyes was a pair of black, cheap rectangular sunglasses. Tearing her gaze away from the lone security guard for half a second, she glanced at the digital watch on her wrist that had been timed accordingly.
“One minute!” she yelled.
DeAndre McCall was dressed in a black warm up suit with a fitted cap pulled low over his shoulder length dreadlocks. “Hurry up! Don’t do any dumb shit tryin’ to be a hero,” he warned the teller.
With trembling fingers, the young brown-skinned teller forked over all the money from her drawer. Tears slipped from her eyes as fear shook her senses. She wasn’t even supposed to be working today. She had picked up her best friend’s shift since her friend was suffering a hangover from the previous night of partying. Maybe Chante James wouldn’t be as terrified as she was had she not been the only teller being robbed.
The Key Bank located on 140th and Kinsman Avenue only kept one teller and one security guard during every shift. Knocking over the corner bank in the hood was like taking candy from a baby. The robbery was damn near effortless.
“Big bills first! Come on now! Let’s go Chante!” Dre ordered, eyeing the teller’s nametag.
“That’s time!” Nikki yelled.
Chante barely had enough time to stuff the band of singles into the gray gym bag Dre had tossed her, before he snatched it and darted towards the exit.
Nikki’s index finger rested on the trigger of the pistol. “Stay on the ground,” she told the security guard. “Don’t you dare fuckin’ move!” Satisfied that the guard wouldn’t move from his position, she turned on her heel and sprinted towards the doors.
Hassan Bashir was stationed right outside in Dre’s 2004 black Monte Carlo assuring a clean and quick getaway.
The three friends had been knocking over small banks and convenience stores since high school. In the beginning they were doing such crimes as a desperate means to earn money.
Truthfully, they were too lazy to work and at the youthful ages of
twenty-two and twenty-three, Nikki and Dre already had one felony under their belt for a robbery they had been convicted of two years ago. Their punishment may have very well been a slap on the wrist since they were each sentenced to a mere year in federal prison.
Eventually the trio began enjoying the rush of being able to do it and get away with their crimes. The money they earned from the petty robberies was not much, but it afforded them the ability to pay bills and live comfortably—even though they all shacked up together in a single family home located in the hood off 116th and Benham.
Dre tore through the exit door and Nikki was right on his heels as she bolted after him—
Boom!
Nikki felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her as she slammed face first into the door. The impact of the gun shot to her back was so powerful that she uncontrollably stumbled through the exit door and crashed onto the pavement.
Pedestrians instantly stopped in their tracks at the sound of the single gunshot. Several people stationed at the bus stop across the street pointed in Nikki’s direction as she lay motionlessly on the ground.
Blood leaked from an open wound that had formed above her eyebrow from where she had hit the pavement. She could taste blood in her mouth from when she had accidentally bitten down on her tongue.
Nikki ran her tongue along the top and bottom row of teeth to ensure that she had not lost any. That should have been the last thing on her mind since she had just been shot, but it was. Her ears rang from the sound of the loud gunshot and for a minute she could not hear anything. Seconds felt like hours as she lay on the ground.
Suddenly, Nikki watched as Dre’s Retro VII Air Jordans approached her. In one swift movement, he lifted her off the ground and carried her towards the Monte Carlo parked several feet away. Her ability to hear had quickly returned and the faint sound of sirens were approaching.
Dre quickly but carefully placed Nikki in the backseat and climbed in. A crowd of onlookers pointed in the car’s direction and Dre knew he would probably be forced with the tough task of getting rid of his beloved Monte Carlo.
Hassan bore a look of irritation and concern as he glimpsed at the side view mirror. The security guard from Key Bank stood outside in front of the bank with his gun hanging loosely by his side.
“What the fuck happened?!” Hassan yelled, rapidly pulling off and burning rubber in the process. “Is Nikki okay?! What happened?!”
“Man, she’s fine, aight!” Dre responded in irritation. His main focus was making sure neither of them got caught.
Nikki tried to sit up in the backseat but her body was growing sorer by the second.
“Here let me help you,” Dre said in a soothing voice. No matter how crazy a situation ever got, he never resorted to panicking. He figured that you lost focus whenever you began to panic and for that he always remained cool, calm and collected.
Dre assisted Nikki in removing the baggy sweatshirt. Underneath was a police style bulletproof vest.
“You’re good,” Dre breathed a sigh of a relief. “You’re alright, baby. You did good,” he said pulling her towards him. His warm, moist tongue slid into her mouth as they indulged in a passion-filled kiss. “You took that bullet like a mothafuckin’ G,” he joked.
Nikki flashed an innocent smile. “I did?” she asked. “Doesn’t feel like I did.”
On countless occasions, Dre had taken Nikki to the open field, teaching her how to shoot and even preparing her for taking a bullet. Of course the experience was totally different when she took an expected bullet from Dre’s gun. The outcome was all but pleasant but at least she had an idea of how it felt to be shot.
“You good Nikki?” Hassan asked again, wanting to hear it from her instead of her boyfriend.
Nikki sat up in the back seat. “I’m good Hassan.”
Hassan nodded his head in satisfaction and floored the pedal. Luckily they weren’t being pursued but the sooner they got home, the better.
***
Dre sat shirtless at the wooden kitchen table. Full sleeves and upper chest tattoos adorned his caramel colored skin. Spelled across four digits on each hand with a single letter was the words THUG LIFE. A single star was tattooed beside his left eye.
He stood at six feet two inches tall and weighed a solid two hundred and twenty pounds. Sifting through his weed, removing the stems and seeds, he didn’t notice when Hassan entered the small kitchen.
“Aye bruh? Can I holla at you real quick?” Hassan took a seat across from his friend. He looked a lot less intimidating than Dre. He stood at five foot eleven inches and was rather slim in frame. His skin tone and short curly hair hinted his mixed heritage—his mother was African American and his father was Arabic.
Dre moved his dreadlocks from blocking his view as he looked up. “What’s good?” he asked.
“Man, I just got done dividing the money up,” he informed Dre. “We each got less than a seventeen hundred dollar cut.”
“That sounds about right,” Dre said nonchalantly as he continued to break the weed down.
Hassan grimaced. “You do realize we just risked our fuckin’ lives for five thousand dollars?”
Dre didn’t look up when he responded, “Don’t we risk our lives every time we do this shit?”
Hassan didn’t miss a beat. “Fa’ sho’, but Nikki ain’t ever been shot.” Hassan silently chastised himself for specifically saying her name. Instead he meant to say ‘neither of them had ever been shot’. He wasn’t thinking clearly, but then again he never was when thinking about Nikita.
Her safety had been put in jeopardy for a measly five grand and Dre didn’t seem the least bit concerned. Instead he was happy with the fact that they had gotten away with another successful robbery. Hell, he was probably sitting here planning out their next scheme.
Dre finally looked up to meet his best friend’s intense gaze. “My nigga, we take risks every minute we step through the doors. You already know how this shit works—”
“Yeah, but it was for five grand,” Hassan argued. Truthfully his quarrel wasn’t with the sum of money they had earned. It was about Nikki being hurt.
“I said we should’ve hit up the safe, but what did you say?” Dre asked. “You said that’d be too big of a risk and that it’d take up too much time.”
“Dre, it ain’t about the fuckin’ money,” Hassan argued. “It’s about Nik—”
“Aye, man, let me worry about my woman and you just worry about yaself. You feel me?”
Hassan was slightly taken back by Dre’s reaction. As a matter of fact, he was borderline offended. Standing to his feet, his expression showed his obvious frustration, but Dre was too busy picking the seeds out of his weed to notice.
“Aight then,” Hassan said in a defeated tone. Without another word, he exited the kitchen.
***
Hassan approached Nikki and Dre’s bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. Peering into the bedroom, he quietly watched as Nikki struggled to remove the police style bullet proof vest. Her face was contorted in pain as she sat on the edge of the bed.
Damn, she was so fucking beautiful to Hassan. Always had been since the first time he laid eyes upon her seven years ago. Shamefully, he was too afraid to speak up for what he wanted and by the time he finally did gather up enough courage, Dre had beaten him to the task.
Standing outside her bedroom door, he admired Nikki from a distance. She was flawless as far as her physical attributes. Standing at a mere five foot two and one hundred thirty-five pounds, her curvaceous figure had just the right amount of “assets.” Her butterscotch colored skin was smooth and blemish free.
Nikki’s eyes were her most attractive feature in Hassan’s opinion. She had these sexy slanted hazel eyes that always seemed to unintentionally flirt with Hassan whenever she looked at him.
Snapping himself from his own provocative thoughts, he softly rapped on her bedroom door. Nikki quickly looked up noticing Hassan standing in her doorway.
“You alright? Y
ou need help?” he asked in a concerned tone.
Before Nikki could fix her mouth up to decline his offer, Hassan was already assisting her with the damn near impossible task of removing the bullet proof vest. She wore a fitted white beater underneath, and when then the vest was finally off, Hassan was met with an unsightly purplish bruise on her upper back from where she had been shot.
“I got it from here, Hassan,” Nikki spoke up.
Hassan was practically in a trance as he eyed her soft flesh. He was lightweight tempted to kiss the ugly bruise on her back. He would’ve gladly taken the bullet in her place. The last thing he wanted was for her to ever get hurt.
“Hassan, I said I got it from here,” Nikki repeated in a stern tone, snapping Hassan back to reality.
There was an uncomfortable silence between the two, before Hassan finally responded. Standing to his feet, he said, “My bad about what happened. I told Dre you should’ve dr—”
“Hassan,” Nikki cut him off. “I’m fine,” she smiled. “Really.”
Also by the Author:
My Brother’s Keeper
Nobody’s Perfect Angel
Femme Fatale: Passion Comes with a Price
Love’s Triangle
No Good Spouses
Ghetto Pocahontas
Schemin’
Still Schemin’
Ghetto Pocahontas
Ebony and Ivory
Tales from da 216
About the Author:
A little bit about me, I am fairly new to the world of self-publishing. However, I have been writing short stories and poetry since I was in elementary school. I write urban fiction as well as romance, but I try to dabble in every type of genre. I like to try my hand at writing different things to expand my creativity. I currently live in Cleveland, Ohio. I have no children, and when I'm not writing or networking, I'm usually scrolling through Netflix (lol). If you have any questions for me or would like to get to know me better, please don't hesitate to ask. I definitely look forward to making new friends as well as gaining new readers.
