by Tiana Laveen
“Since we will be neighbors, I thought we should get to know one another.” He flashed that damn smile again. She couldn’t help but glare at his teeth.
Yes. Very nice choppers…
She had a ‘thing’ for nice teeth.
“And, just for the record, I take offense to you using the tone you did with me a little while ago,” he said smoothly.
“Tone?” She gave him the ‘up and down’ stare paired with a, ‘mothafucka please’ and ‘bitch, I wish you would!’ all rolled into one neat, little package as she brusquely turned away. “I owe you nothing except a warning to get the hell away from me and I highly suggest you get back to your poorly ran stable…no doubt a bunch of damn inflated Malibu Barbies and hoodrats!” She shooed him away.
All he did was drop his head and laugh, look nonchalantly out into traffic, then back in her direction.
“The tone I’m referring to, Paris Raven, is the one you employed when you called me a pimp, as if you yourself are exempt from the title just because you’re a woman. That’s rather insincere, isn’t it?”
She kept a straight face and looked towards the street, angrily tapping her foot.
Art…if you don’t bring yo’ ass!!!
“Now, we have a situation. We can handle this like adults or turn it into some Wild Wild West shit.” His smile grew larger. “I’m not about territory lines, but I need to ensure that we have an understanding that you won’t interfere with my work, and I won’t interfere with yours. We sell the same product and we need to maintain a healthy competition. No underhandedness or dirty deeds… That means, no using your girls to talk to my girls, try to woo them or find out confidential information. I want no communication at all between them, do you understand me?”
Paris craned her neck in his direction as if she were the child from the Exorcist, spewed pea green soup sold separately. A short pause later, she started to cackle.
“You have absolutely been robbed of your brain, Casper, or lost your tiny piece of a mind. Call the police and report that motherfucker stolen! Let me tell you something, Mr. Smoke,” she squinted her eyes and pointed her finger at his face, determined to tear off a piece of his narrow ass and make him eat that shit for dinner. “I will not agree to such things. You and these funky ass lowlife pimps can speak of all this street cred bullshit and bump hands, chests, dicks and heads on it, but I absolutely refuse. I run my business how I see fit and I am successful at what I do, so I refuse to alter it for anyone, especially a man named Smoke who thinks he can come to me, as a black woman, and boss my ass around. In case you didn’t get the memo, we’re off the plantation now!”
He snickered, annoying her even further.
“I’ve been doing this longer than you, better than you, and will still be here when you fall off like an umbilical cord from an infant! I was here first. I have seniority, so remember that, Jack!” She tossed his way for good measure.
Giving her a stern look, he ran a slow hand down the inside of his suit jacket. He removed a cigarette, lit it casually, and placed it to his lips, narrowing his gaze at the sun as it played a mean glare in his downright mystifying eyes.
“That’s cute. Real cute.” A puff of smoke escaped the side of his mouth as he exhaled, rolling out the curls of smolder like a billowing carpet. “Funny thing, Paris, I may be only twenty-eight, but I pimp circles around most of these motherfuckers that have been in the game twenty years, including you. You’re not the worst, but you sure as hell aren’t the best, either. I don’t treat my whores disrespectfully, and there is nothing sadder than an uppity, snotty ex-whore suffering from penis envy. Your attitude proves why you never lasted as a bottom bitch,” he sneered. “You didn’t have the heart. Instead, you dream of having a dick not in you, but attached to you. You’re just a pretty, pretend lipstick lesbian, a damn counterfeit dyke with a dream of being a certified playa, aren’t you, Madam Paris?”
“Is that all you can come up with, snow man?” she mocked. “The whole,”—she put her fingers in quotes—“‘she must be a lesbian if she doesn’t want me and doesn’t bow down to what I say’? You mothafuckas need to take a course in creativity, because imagination and originality is seriously lacking for you and your kind.”
He burst out laughing, loosening up instead of becoming enraged. This exasperated her deeply.
“No creativity needed in this, Ms. Raven. I call it like I see it. I have no issues with lesbians; matter of fact, I love ’em, some of them are my best clients—but I do have issues with straight women who really don’t want to ride, but instead want to be the bull. Listen carefully to me next time, instead of trying to talk over a real man.”
“You really are—”
“I said pretend and counterfeit, that means fake since your comprehension seems to be lacking this afternoon. I can pull up a dictionary on my phone if you like. Anyway, enough of that. Stay in your goddamn lane or I will whip out my tow truck and put you in your fucking place.” He turned to walk away.
“I invented the highway, bitch! You can’t tell me how to drive! You stay in your damn lane, you piece of dog shit!” she called out, making a scene, wanting to ensure the bastard heard every word she delivered as he put distance between them, ignoring her threats. “And I’m not gay or pretending to be, not that it’s any of your business. Tell your mama to stay in her lane, dumb ass! Go back to Ohio and pick some corn or whatever the hell you all do there!”
“Corn? That’s Kansas, baby!” He guffawed loudly as he leisurely strolled away, throwing up his hand as if to wave goodbye.
“Bow down and fuck you!” She held up her middle finger like a torch, proud of it, as if she were Ms. Liberty herself, but he didn’t take the time to see her demonstration. Until…he simply stopped walking, although he kept his back turned.
“I bow down to no goddamn body, Ms. Raven. I’m scared of no mothafucker on this big, beautiful Earth.” His voice boomed, making her pause, making her pay attention. He spun around in her direction and extended his arm as though he were someone special, but kept up his backwards trek, walking away from her. “The only person I’m afraid of…is me. And you’d be smart to follow my example.”
She looked back towards the street, mad as hell at Art for placing her smack dab in the middle of this predicament. As soon as that damn limo pulled up, she’d be giving him a piece of her mind.
“Now remember, Ms. Raven, I tried to be civil…take you out and discuss the matter over dinner. We’re done talking though. You had your chance, now I’m just going to crush you. Have a nice day.” He turned away once again.
“I will, you son of a bitch!” Rage ran through her veins like a freight train powered by flames from hell. “If it wasn’t for your father, they would’ve bounced your ass out of here a long time ago!” she continued on.
Who the hell does he think he is?!
The man had threatened her, talked to her like she was some bitch! She was Paris Raven, damn it! How dare he laugh and walk away, act as if the sun and moon and everything in between rose and sat on his lily-white ass? She simply wouldn’t have it. She’d paid her dues and ran her brothel like a true businesswoman. She’d earned every ounce of respect and refused to be talked down to, around to, beside, below, above or beneath.
A few moments later, the commanding fucker was out of sight and Art pulled up, looking shamefaced and silly. He got out of the limousine and raced to her door, opening it just so.
“I apologize again for the delay, Paris.”
“Yeah, thanks to you a jackass tried to Deebo me!”
Looking rather confused, Art got back into the vehicle. After he got situated, the middle aged bald white man looked at her through the rear view mirror.
“Deebo?” he repeated.
“Yes. It means to bully or intimidate.” Her throat felt dry and her voice cracked. She tossed her crinkled cigarette aside and slid her hand into her clutch to retrieve a honey lemon lozenge and pop it in her mouth. “Apparently someone bought the apartme
nt building across the street from us. I had no idea it was even for sale. He must’ve swooped down like a hawk after spotting a damn mouse. Never mind that though. These bastards had better learn. I am not the one to be fucked with!” She slammed her purse down beside her, winded from the unnerving experience.
“Who was it? Someone I know?”
“Another pimp…” was all she offered, not wanting to honor him by even uttering his title.
“May I ask what his name is?”
She gritted her teeth and rolled her eyes.
“Just take me home, Art!” She bounced her arm on the door rest and closed her eyes as she lulled back in her seat, absolutely exhausted. There was so much to do, and so little time—and to make matters worse, she was attracted to a man that had her absolutely seething. She hated herself for being even more turned on by his cruelty but, in psychoanalyzing herself, she figured that was one of her pitfalls. She was damaged but…was he really at fault? She’d tried to knock out his ego with a one two punch, but the big bastard would not fall the fuck down.
…And he’s so damn sexy. Tall, willowy, Savannah Spanish moss tree looking ass! I hope his damn dick falls off!
*
SMOKE COULDN’T GET Paris off his damn mind…
The way the woman moved, just her natural motions tempted him like liquid candy, swirls of caramel bending to and fro, falling from the sky right into his awaiting mouth. She smelled sweet and delightful, almost delicate. She spoke with class and grit, all mixed into some wonderful cocktail he swallowed in one ravenous gulp. An elegant woman, hiding behind her expensive clothing and accessories, unwilling to unearth and reveal her inner freak… Oh, the fantasies he had of dominating her…
He liked every damn thing about her, even her nasty attitude. She had a real foul mouth on her, the kind that would cause some pimps to lose their damn cool, try to teach her a lesson. He knew it was all a cover-up. He’d done his research on the lady after finding out the truth of the situation, and he’d discovered a shitload of valuable information, enough to have an entire buffet at her expense. No, he wouldn’t do the unthinkable, attempt to turn her into a member of his stable, but truth be told, that wasn’t his objective anyway. He simply needed to make himself clear, and in his eyes, she was required to acknowledge and not dare cross the line he’d drawn in the sand. He didn’t give a shit if she’d been in the life three minutes or three hundred years, she needed to respect his authority. All that yin yang coming out of her twisted, crimson lip-stick covered mouth, the heinous insults, he’d heard it all before. It rolled off him like water on a duck.
How many white jokes and affronts must he be subjected to? He was the Slave Master, Snow, Ice, Redneck Willy, Mr. Charlie, Peckerwood, White Devil, The Man, Needle Dick, Bubba, Vanilla, Vanilla Ice, Son of ‘White Folks’ (a nationally known white pimp who helped pave the way for other Caucasian pimps) and more; notwithstanding, ‘honky-tonk’ and its derivatives were not excluded from the menu of racial epithets and insults. Paris had even added, ‘Casper’ to his collection. She was just one of many that didn’t appreciate his straightforward approach, but he saw the woman give a glimmer of a smile right before he showed her his back. He had to earn his way in with her. He knew it when he first laid eyes on her, found out what he needed to know from people more than willing to talk. Paris Raven was no new jack and no damn fool. She talked a lot, but had a notorious habit of backing that shit up.
The woman hadn’t been around the block; she’d been around the goddamn globe. Paris took being a Madam to a whole new level, and if her game had been a video game, her high score would never be achievable for any player, no matter how hard he or she tried. Because of her being a woman, she attracted a certain type of ho, and some of those hos were goldmines. How that woman had been able to run her stable in the manner she did, with no assistance, was simply amazing. He admired the shit out of her, and what really got him going was a fact he couldn’t deny—that he wanted to whisk her away and fuck the living daylights out of her.
She. Was. Beautiful.
Yeah, he wanted to talk to her about not stepping on each other’s toes, but his interest went way deeper than that. Everything she was and would become, he wanted to possess. Her entire package made his mouth water, turned him the hell on, from her intricate, diabolical mind to her expensive ass shoes that she’d almost took a tumble in. She was smart, that was a big plus. She could hold her own weight. Although she could get emotional like a woman, she didn’t back down and crumble under pressure, like a man. She was the type of woman he craved…
And Felicia had picked up something, though he’d refused to admit it to her. His bottom bitch had his number. She’d told him when this whole mess first began that he was acting odd, and that was the reason for her insecurities. He played it off, but knew damn well how correct she was. Now, even he could no longer deny the situation. Smoke was tired. Something was going on, and purchasing the apartment building was about him trying to spread his wings, keep himself intact, afloat, and get focused. The issue still nagged at him nevertheless. He was at the top of his game, the Life was lovin’ him hard, and yet, in the back of his mind, he was left unsatisfied. What would it take to make him grateful?! He had it all! Many pimps dreamed of achieving his success, yet, he looked the gift horse, his golden mare, in the mouth and pulled her ho card.
At his tender age of twenty-eight, the pimping couldn’t and wouldn’t stop, but he’d be damned if he was going to continue to be in semi-quasi relationships with women who didn’t love themselves, let alone their damn pimp. They thought they did, but at the end of the day, they simply worked for him. He continuously tried to keep the boundaries clear, but there was no locked gate when it came to a woman’s emotions, and affairs of the heart. He wanted his whores to be successful in all things that they set out to do. He made them do shit other hos weren’t doing, like take a financial management or business class, unheard of shit that caused other pimps to gasp in alarm and give him sideway glances and judgmental scrutiny. He was accused of messing up the game, told he’d encourage them to leave his ass, then they’d get to squawking and talk to other whores that didn’t even belong to him—spreading a damn epidemic. But once again, numbers talked. Their assumptions were dead wrong. Fact was, his women stayed around, long and strong until their bodies refused to allow them to continue. And when they’d fucked that last john, delivered their last damn blow job for a trick, they walked the fuck away from Smoke with their pockets lined and their heads high to make a new start of it.
No one could argue he was one of the best paid, had the most johns laid; dollars fell around him like a green confetti parade. Additionally, he managed to stay off the police radar. This was unheard of. It didn’t stop motherfuckers from trying to set him up. Matter of fact, it bred covetousness… He was constantly railroaded by failing, apprehensive pimps going into a jealous rage and attempting to drop a dime on him for the sheer fuck of it. But it didn’t work. He kept his ear to the street; his ladies would report back any rumor they heard before the bastard’s sentence was even complete, thus, he avoided the close calls. One close call, though, would constitute a pimping death sentence, and that was: if he ever in his life showed frailty. Never let your whores see you weak or needy. They only kept the faith if he had faith. They looked to him for guidance, for a way to understand the world, and he realized at that moment the extent of his hypocrisy with Felicia. She’d changed because he’d changed…
This issue kept popping up in his mind like corn kernels in a microwave popcorn bag. He didn’t want it, didn’t need or desire it even for a second. Oh…he wanted some pussy alright, but it wasn’t from his stable… He rarely even fucked them anymore, and that engendered high pitched, whiny protests. The shit was becoming sticky, out of control, gooey with emotions he didn’t own.
The whole mess didn’t happen because he’d gotten burnt out on sex—he loved sex, couldn’t do his job if he didn’t understand the drive in a man to run all over town
in search of the perfect poon. He’d been searching as well, only he was unaware of it until he saw her…
He’d been second-guessing himself since the first time he laid eyes on Paris Raven. After he found out the place across the street was a pussy palace, he felt like a damn fool. He needed to find out pronto who it belonged to, and come to some sort of agreement. When he realized it was the Madam herself, a woman he’d never seen but heard about due to her unique situation, he took it upon himself to observe her for an entire month. He watched her comings and goings, her mannerisms. He had to, for he was in undercover mode on how to approach this woman, how to make her bow the fuck down.
She’d come over to her apartment building at 6 a.m. and take a morning jog. In one hand, she’d have a half chewed dark red apple, tempting him like naked Eve in the Garden of Eden. It was the same morning snack each and every time. During her jog, she stopped to pet dogs along the way. And she had a thing for imported waters.
He also realized she was just as screwed up as him, so what the fuck did he have to lose?
He hadn’t felt excited about a woman since Cheryl, his high school sweetheart. Paris did something to him, ignited a spark he thought was long gone—cold, dead and bolted closed in an oversized vault with a code that was virtually impossible to break to get in or out. He prided himself on not feeling a damn thing, staying cool under pressure and never catching feelings for a whore or any woman for that matter. He didn’t think twice about beating a john damn near to death or following through on his threats. That was the nature of the job, and besides, it was nice on occasion to make someone the brunt of his pent up aggressions, have a taste of his wrath. He understood the pimp code, and he followed it…but this wanting to go out with a woman constituted a new bump in the golden paved road. He’d stuck to the cipher, but Paris was no regular whore. Her mind was wired differently, and she could be just as icy as him. Yet for some reason beyond his comprehension, his dick got hard off that fact…
