by K'wan
“What’re you trying to say?” Billy asked.
“I ain’t trying to say nothing. Just you need to come down and holla at me,” he said, closing her hand around the card, as if it would blow away.
“I’ll try.” She nodded.
“You’ll do more than try,” he said, backing up and turning to rejoin his sister. “See about me, Billy,” he called over his shoulder.
Billy watched Marcus walk away and melt back into the crowd by the grill. For the rest of the night he smoked and mingled with the partygoers, never bothering to glance back in Billy’s direction. Something in her moved when Marcus spoke, something that hadn’t moved in a while. Glancing at the slightly crumpled business card in her damp palm, Billy decided that she’d give some serious thought to Marcus’s offer.
* * *
Paul sat in the basement of Marlene’s house, perched in front of an easel. Marlene had converted the basement into a makeshift studio where he could come and work when he was there. There were canvases and poster boards of all shapes and sizes at his disposal. Her thoughtfulness was just one of the many reasons why he was sure she was the one. Chicks in the hood weren’t built like his boo.
When he had first planted himself there, hours prior, it had been a blank, white canvas. Now it was host to blunt angles and vivid colors. Painting was something that always helped to sooth his nerves during tense times and Marlene definitely had him tense. She just couldn’t see why Paul was so reluctant to move in with her. He knew she meant well, and would gladly share all that she had with him, but that’s not how he wanted it. He had promised himself a long time ago that he would never have to lean on a woman.
When Paul was locked up, he had no choice but to depend on the kindness of others to help him get by. Larry would send him a letter or a few dollars every so often, but he knew that the man had his own life to live. The person whom he had expected to hold him down didn’t measure up.
When he had gone away, he and Rhonda were somewhat serious about their relationship. Though they didn’t have any kids together then, he had held her and her children down until the day they put him behind the wall. Rhonda would come up to visit sometimes or send him the occasional kite, but as far as keeping it gangsta, she had no idea what the phrase meant. Instead, Paul utilized his skills to get the things he needed. He did tattoos for those who wanted them and made holiday cards for inmates and COs. It wasn’t as lucrative within the prison as drugs or prostitution, but it beat the hell out of starving. Ever since then, he vowed to do for himself.
Dipping his index and middle finger first into a jar of orange paint, then a yellow one, Paul traced an arc over the top of the canvas. The effect was that of the noonday sun across the New York City skyline. Since he was a child, painting with his fingers had always been one of his favorite methods. The feeling of the paint in different stages did something to him, which was translated to the canvas. It was as if making direct contact with the paint made him more intimate with it. The finger paintings were some of Paul’s best abstract work.
As he continued to work on the painting, the floorboards behind him creaked. Marlene came up behind him and placed her arms around his back. He could feel her small breasts pressing against his bare back, and it sent shivers up his spine. She began kissing him on the neck and made her way down to the small of his back. Turning around on his stool, he pressed his cheek against Marlene’s stomach, careful not to get the paint on her. She took his wrist in hers and raised his hands. She used his still-wet fingers to trace colorful lines around her nipples. Paul swallowed, watching her face contort with ecstasy.
Marlene placed a leg on either side of him and began to straddle his thigh. Even through the denim, he could feel the heat pulsing from her. As delicately as he could, he kissed her on the lips. Marlene immediately swallowed his tongue and part of his bottom lip. Her passion was like a vacuum threatening to suck the life from Paul’s very lungs. He wanted to be inside of her so bad that his penis scraped against the fabric of his jeans.
Paul tried to get up to wash his hands, but she pushed him to the ground roughly. Ripping away the buttons on the nightshirt she was wearing, Marlene stood above him, ass naked. As she descended on him, he tried to direct her while undoing his belt. Again she pushed him away, letting him know who was in control. Marlene slid her wet pussy up his chest and brought it to rest on his chin. Paul darted his tongue across her clit, sending shock waves through her. With a thrust, his mouth was embedded in her pussy. Paul slurped at it like a man dying of thirst. He wasn’t the biggest fan of pussy eating, but he didn’t mind going down on Marlene. Her pussy always smelled fresh and clean, even on the wake-up.
Paul’s paint-stained hands gripped her ass as she gyrated her hips. The motion made little colorful swirls on her skin. After the appetizer, Marlene slid down for the main course. When he entered her, it was like a five-alarm fire. She pumped slowly at first, getting the feel for his hardness, and gradually built up speed. Soon Marlene was bouncing up and down on Paul, becoming more turned on as he made faces beneath her.
Feeling himself about to cum, Paul flipped her over on her stomach and penetrated her from behind. Her pussy was so wet that it made a sloshing sound every time he pumped. In the heat of the moment he tried to grab her hair, but she moved her head out of reach. She had paid too much money getting her ’do right to have him getting paint in it. They went at it for just under an hour, exchanging control every so often. Marlene was lying on her side with one leg propped on his shoulder when he finally exploded inside her. When it was over, they lay on the floor in a spooning position, listening to the sound of each other’s breathing.
Damn, I love this bitch, he thought to himself.
8
The sky was a sickly pink when Reese finally crossed Seventh Avenue en route to the projects. Yoshi had a slide, so she dipped off before everyone else. Billy never came back to the block, so Rhonda and Reese had to walk home. During the walk, Reese tried to call Teddy about twenty times. Of the twenty calls, she left fifteen very nasty messages. Billy had told her what she saw in the park and Rhonda was not happy about it. First he embarrasses her in front of her friends by talking to the young slut, then his punk-ass wife tried to blind her. Somebody’s ass was gonna be grass.
When they got to 135th and Lenox, Rhonda headed east while Reese went west. It was just a short walk between their two homes. Just about everyone had gone home, save for a few hustlers trying to make their quota before the end of their shift. Reese spoke to a few cats, but didn’t stop to hold a conversation. When she got to 133rd, she decided to stop at the corner store and get a blunt. They had blazed theirs and everybody else’s trees all night, but Reese managed to hold on to a few buds that she was going to take to the face. As she was standing at the window waiting for her purchases, the notorious red Hummer pulled to a stop on the corner. Reese’s heart skipped a beat when the back door opened and someone stepped out.
The young man was in his early twenties, rocking a white do-rag beneath a fitted Cincinnati Reds cap. His pants hung slightly off his ass and were cuffed over a pair of black-and-red Jordans. He walked over to Reese and just stared at her without speaking.
“Can I help you?” she asked, fingering the box cutter in her purse.
“Sorry, miss, I ain’t mean to scare you,” the kid said, backing up a step. “My man in the ride would like to know if he could get a minute of your time?”
“What, his legs broke? Tell that nigga if he wanna holla, get his ass out the car.” Even as Reese said the words she couldn’t believe her luck. There was only one nigga in Harlem who had that custom red Hummer. She just hoped that it was actually Don B. that wanted to holla and not one of his flunkies. The kid walked back to the Hummer and said something to one of the passengers in the back. After receiving a reply, he stepped back to allow the back door to open. Standing on the corner of 133rd and Seventh, looking like a rock star, was Don B. himself.
Don B. was a typical Harlem
nigga. Fitted cap, a white thermal shirt, and a fresh pair of burgundy Gore-Tex boots. The only difference was, his neck and arms looked like Christmas tinsel. The diamonds on his chain were nothing compared to the ones in the piece. The B hung crooked from the chain, and stopped at his belly button. The stones in his ears were so big that they made her wonder how his lobes supported them without ripping. As Don B. approached her, she could feel her mouth go completely dry.
“‘Sup, shorty,” he said in a raspy voice.
Reese’s brain said “speak,” but her mouth said nothing. She finally gathered her wits enough to reply, “Nothing.”
“So, I’m saying though…” Reese didn’t hear much after that. The next thing she knew, she was in the back of Don B.’s hummer, on her way to only God-knows-where.
* * *
About forty minutes later, Reese was sitting in the penthouse suite of the Marriott in Times Square. She was hoping that it would be just her and Don B., but unfortunately there were a whole slew of people running about. Don B. led her to a small love seat in the far corner of the room, where bottles of champagne were already lined up. A few quick words from the kid in the Cincinnati hat, whose name was Jay, and the people that had been occupying the seat cleared out.
Don B. filled all their glasses and instructed Jay to roll a blunt. As they sat there sipping, Don B. began to touch Reese playfully. Normally, she wouldn’t have really been for a nigga touching on her in front of his boys, but this was Don B., so he was allowed special privileges. She allowed his hands to roam over her ass and thighs, but drew the line when he tried to grip her pussy.
A girl who looked like it was taking all of her concentration to stand up straight shambled over to the area where they were sitting. She was balancing a silver dish, with a mound of white powder atop it. Reese began to get a sinking feeling in her gut when the girl placed the platter in the center of the table.
Jay pulled a ten-dollar bill from his pocket and folded it like a shovel. He scooped some of the powder onto the bill and snorted it off the tip. Using both nostrils, he cleaned the bill and pinched the bridge of his nose. Reese could tell by the way his eyes were watering that it was some grade-A shit.
The bill came around to Don B., and he eagerly accepted it. Scooping up nearly twice as much as Jay, he shoveled a scoop into each nostril. Don B. made a piglike snorting sound as he sniffed up the powder. His eyes suddenly went glassy as a dumb smile appeared on his face. He slid the tray over to Reese and handed her the bill.
She looked at it, dumbfounded. Getting bent wasn’t the issue with Reese. Her and her girls smoked and drank every day and even dropped a little acid or E from time to time, but coke was way out of her league. She knew a lot of people dabbled with the white lady to get their buzz on, but had never imagined herself doing it. She had heard too many horror stories about people trying it once and becoming hooked. Another habit was the last thing she needed.
“What’s the problem?” Don B. asked, looking like he couldn’t understand her reluctance.
“I’ve never done it before,” Reese admitted.
“Oh, we got us a virgin, huh?” Jay smirked. “Go ahead, baby, its just a little sniff. It ain’t like you’re doing crack.”
Reese looked from Jay, to the plate, to Don B. He was looking at her, waiting for a response, while she weighed her options. Apparently, this was Don B.’s thing, and if you wanted to stop with the big dogs, you had to roll with the punches. She thought about refusing, but the look on his face suggested that he would be very disappointed. When his eyes began to wander to the other scantily clad girls in the room, she knew she was losing ground.
“Real bitches do real things,” Jay said, nudging the plate closer to her.
Reese took a deep breath and figured, what the hell. “You only live once,” she said, taking the bill. She scooped just over a fingernail full of the cocaine on the bill and stared at it. Feeling the heat on her from the others assembled at the table, she inhaled the snow. She immediately broke into a sneezing fit.
The cocaine felt like gunpowder in her nostrils. When the sneezing had passed, there was a dripping sensation in the back of her throat. She tried to clear it, but that only made it worse. The back of her tongue felt like she had a half-dissolved aspirin sitting on it. To make matters worse, her head started spinning at a hundred miles a minute.
Reese tried to stand, but her legs almost gave out on her. Before she could crash back to the couch, Don B. caught her by the arm. The faces around the room were distorted like something out of The Twilight Zone. Then as the dizziness passed, she began to feel good all over. The cocaine was like someone had wired a battery to her ass. For the first time she realized that there was music playing. The sounds of Don B.’s latest, unreleased single came through the speakers, causing everyone to get to their feet.
The girl who had brought the cocaine out was dancing in the middle of the floor. She dropped into a half split and began popping her ass to the bass of the song. Someone pushed Reese from behind and the next thing she knew, she was standing in the middle of the floor with the girl. The coked-out girl grabbed Reese by the hand and made her slap her ass, while the men in the room cheered. Don B. started grinding on Reese from behind, shoveling more coke into her nose. She tried to turn her head, but lacked the coordination to dodge his hand. Something about the whole setup didn’t feel right, but she was having too much fun to process it.
Don B. ran his finger along Reese’s lip and slipped it into her mouth. The way she was sucking on his finger, he hoped to God that she sucked dick just as good. As the song played on, Reese began to feel more and more alive. The room grew extremely hot, causing her to sweat. Don B. handed her a glass of champagne, which she thirstily downed. She was so zonked that she never noticed the unusual debris floating in it.
By the third song, Reese felt like her heart was going to shoot from her chest. Trying to catch her breath, she leaned against the wall for support. Don B. placed a gentle hand on her back, then guided her into the plush bedroom. He gave his man Jay a wink over his shoulder and stepped through the door behind her. Before the door was even fully closed, he was on her.
Reese let Don B. run his hands all over her, snatching off articles of clothing as he went along. Reese’s whole body felt like it was on fire. Everywhere Don B.’s hand touched her felt like he left a warm print. She didn’t know if it was the cocaine or the wine, but she was ready to let it all hang out.
Once Don B. had her completely stripped, he tossed her on the bed. Reese, still feeling the effects of the drugs, ran her hands up and down her body. Her skin felt like silk as she stroked her breasts with one hand and her clit with the other. Don B. smiled greedily as he anticipated what her insides would feel like.
When he mounted her, he didn’t even bother to take his clothes all the way off. He kicked off his boots and stepped one leg out of his jeans. Reese looked at the throbbing hulk that was Don B.’s penis and found that she had trouble arranging her thoughts. One side of her brain screamed for him to get inside her and beat the pussy, but the other side of her brain told her to slow her roll. Without giving her time to decide, he penetrated her raw.
Don B.’s dick felt like a stone pillar when he entered her. Reese screamed like a wild woman, drawing cheers from the next room. Every time Don B. pumped, it felt like he expanded a little more. Crawling off his dick, Reese took him into her mouth. She sucked on him like a ten-cent Blow Pop, dripping saliva from the shaft of his dick. Don B. fucked her forward and sideways, with her screaming for more the whole time.
He flipped her over on her stomach and began savagely pounding her. She felt him explode inside her, then cum drip down her leg. When he pulled out, she tried to turn around, but he held her down and told her to hold that pose. Reese fingered herself and waited for Don B. to reenter her. When he did, there was something that felt different. The length was there, but the width wasn’t. Even the hands that gripped her sides didn’t feel as big. She finally manage
d to pull her face from the pillow and turn around. To her suprise, it was Jay, not Don B., who was hitting it.
She tried to squirm away, but he was latched onto her thoroughly. She knew what was going down was wrong, but the fire in her body only intensified. Every stroke brought her to new levels of pleasure. After Jay bust in her, another man came to replace him. At that point, it didn’t even matter who was inside her. All that mattered was the fire.
9
Rhonda sat on her sofa, watching BET and sipping a wine cooler. “Slap Ya Self,” the new video of the song from Don B.’s group Bad Blood, was playing on her forty-inch television. When Don B. got his company up and running, he immediately started snatching up the hungriest young niggaz in the hood and taking them under his wing. They all had aspirations of becoming stars, but so far Bad Blood had shown the most potential.
The group was composed of five young men, each representing a different borough. Lah and Jynx were from Queens and Staten Island, respectively. They were just two pretty boys that Don B. put down with the group for marketing purposes. They had all the young girls in the hood going crazy over them. The heart of the group was True, Lex, and Pain.
Lex was the gold-toothed Brooklyn kid with the extra-hard bop. Before joining the group, he made his bread stealing. He fashioned himself a modern-day cowboy by carjacking and robbing subway trains. Lex would wait until the train went through a long tunnel, like the one running from 110th and Central Park North to Ninety-sixth Street, and hit as many cars as he could before dashing off to another station. He knew Pain from high school and occasionally made trips to Harlem.
Pain was from the Bronx, the Gun Hill projects to be more specific. He had been in and out of detention centers and jails since he was thirteen. When he wasn’t out trying to extort dealers, you could find him in the boxing gym, destroying heavy bags or opponents. Pain’s name fit him to a T, because that was all he ever caused or gave out, pain. One Christmas when his mother was asked by a relative what she wanted, she replied, “For my son to receive a lengthy jail sentence so this evil will be removed from my house.”
