by J-Blunt
“Yeah. I feel the same way, but I can’t prove it, and I need some type of proof before I bring it to this nigga. I can’t come at him half-cocked. Plus, Grind Squad is still out there. I can’t put nothin’ past them.”
“So, what you gon’ do ?”
“The only thing I can do.”
“And that is?”
Born Ready looked up from the chessboard and smiled at his big, beautiful woman. “Don’t worry, baby. I’m two steps ahead of er’body. It’s all gon’ work out in time.”
Sasha smiled and licked her lips. “I like when you be mysterious. That shit be makin’ me wanna do shit to you.”
“Don’t let me get in the way of you gettin’ what you want.”
Sasha got up and stood in front of Born Ready doing a sexy shimmy-dance. The way too small bathrobe came off, revealing her curvy, full-figured body, breasts as big as watermelons, a slight pudge on her stomach, wide hips, and thick thighs. She continued dancing for Born Ready before sitting on his lap and giving him a lap dance.
After a few minutes of grinding, she spun around and began undressing him. When he was naked, she knelt between his legs and took his dick in her mouth. She made love to it, kissing, licking, and sucking him.
Sasha’s lips was exactly what Born Ready needed to clear his mind of death and murder. A few minutes later he erupted in her mouth. Sasha stared up at him as she swallowed every drop.
When she seen he was still hard, she stood up, spun around, and grabbed her ankles. Born Ready stood behind her, digging his stick into her sugary walls. He whaled away at her pussy from the back. When she got tired of standing and holding her ankles, she bent over the couch. Born Ready got behind her and continued to assault her pussy. Sasha went wild from the pounding her man was putting down. A few minutes later Born Ready’s body locked.
***
B-Real loved his red Maybach like he had created it with his own hands. White leather seats, an infotainment screen and controller, curtains in the windows, climate-controlled seats, and enough room to fold a nigga up on the floor like Buck Wild had done to Ken-Ken.
“The streets is ours, dawg. Profits is up. My pockets is up. My whip game is up. I feel like life is some good-ass pussy, and I’m fuckin’ the shit out that bitch!” B-Real laughed, slapping the dashboard.
Born Ready sat in the passenger seat wearing a sly grin. “Life is about winnin’, mane. If you ain’t winnin’, you ain’t livin’.”
“Oh, Pop. I just got that paperwork back on the Batmobile. And I got you and yo’ bitches other driver’s license. Names clean. No records. Y’all good as new, my nigga,” B-Real said, going in the console and giving Pop Somethin’ all the information.
“Quinton Rose? Rodney Rollins? Cris Livingston?” Pop questioned. “You coulda gave me at least one name that sounded Jamaican or African to fit my look.”
“Chill, Q. You good,” Born Ready laughed. “All Qs ain’t pretty boys. I did a bid with a nigga name Q that was savage. Animal, brah. Niggas didn’t want none.”
“I ain’t trippin’ on that. My name ring enough bells. Plus, this what we needed to plant our roots in a new spot. I think I’m ‘bout ready to move on.”
Pop Somethin’s admission that he wanted to leave Atlanta sucked all the air out of the car like a vacuum. “You wanna leave?” B-Real asked, looking at Pop through the rearview mirror like he was crazy. “The streets is ours. We fuckin’ up big bags. Grind Squad outta the way. The takeover is real. We ‘bout to be millionaires. And you wanna walk away?”
“Pop, I thought we talked about this,” Born Ready said. “Five more months to get a mil. Talk to me, my nigga. Why now?”
“The bodies pilin’ up. I think it’s only a matter of time before the feds get in it because of those fags gettin’ knocked off. They gon’ look into who Marks an’ ‘em was fuckin’ wit’. I don’t wanna be in town when that happens. Plus, Grind Squad ain’t gone. They layin’ low. You know it too, Born Ready. You too smart to be fooled by they fall back. Don’t nobody walk away from they bag, especially if you had to fight to get it.”
The Maybach grew quiet as Pop’s words marinated. “You America’s nightmare, Pop,” Born Ready chuckled. “Smart, instinctive, war ready. Yeah, I thought about D.D. gettin’ away and shuttin’ they shit down. No way I would walk away without fightin’ over my shit. I know he gon’ hit back, and ain’t nothin’ we can do but wait. They off the grid. Gotta see his next move and then react. And that’s why I need you wit’ me, Pop. I need you wit’ me when we make the counter move.”
“If I didn’t think the feds was gon’ get involved, I would stay. Atlanta been good to me, but I’m the kinda nigga that move on vibes, how I feel, and what my gut tell me. And it’s time for me to go.”
“We got a team, Pop. We got soldiers. If you wanna get security like the president, just say it,” B-Real said.
“You missin’ what we talkin’ ‘bout,” Born Ready cut in. “This ain’t about security. He thinkin’ ‘bout liberty. Freedom.”
The Maybach grew quiet again.
“Lemme ask you niggas somethin’,” Born Ready spoke up. “I spoke to Marks the night he died, and he told me some shit that fucked me up. He was lookin’ into who killed–”
Breaking glass and projectiles slamming into the luxury car cut off the conversation, and they flinched and ducked for cover. A dark-colored SUV had pulled along the driver’s side of the Maybach. People hung out of the front and rear passenger windows, firing automatic weapons. B-Real’s body jerked as 9mm bullets tore into him.
Instead of trying to hide, Pop Somethin’ pulled the door lever and dove from the Maybach. The luxury car traveled at twenty-five miles an hour. After a few rolls, Pop Somethin’ stood, the 50-caliber Desert Eagle jumping into his hand like a magnet was in his palm. The Maybach crashed as the Dodge Durango sped away. Pop Somethin’ emptied the Desert Eagle clip at the fleeing truck. After reloading, he ran to the Maybach to check on the S.O.D. leaders. B-Real was slumped against the steering wheel, blood leaking from his body. Born Ready lay on the floor of the passenger seat, curled in a ball.
“Born Ready, you good?” Pop called.
The last living S.O.D. leader moved slowly. “Yeah.” When he got up, he looked at B-Real. “Damn. They fucked him up. That was Grind Squad. You know what this mean, right?”
Chapter 19
Seeing Shanice’s face on the phone screen sent a flash of excitement through Queenie’s body. They hadn’t talked since she left Atlanta. There was so much to talk about.
“Hey,” Queenie said evenly, keeping her feelings in check.
“Hey,” Shanice responded, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you before I left. I just wanted to call and let you know it wasn’t like that. For everything to happen how it did, I was pissed when he came at me like that.”
“I understood, Shanice. Trust me. Nothin’ worked out the way we expected. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about C-Note, but that was for you and Pop to work out. I didn’t want to get in that. That was a family situation.”
“I know. I probably would’ve done the same thing if I was in your shoes.”
The pause in the conversation was noticeable, like both women were waiting for the other to make the next move. Queenie spoke up. “How you been? I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout you a lot.”
Shanice’s voice became a whisper again. “I lost the baby.”
The news stunned Queenie. “What? When? You okay?”
“As soon as I left the house, while I was in the airport. I stayed in Atlanta for a week at the hospital.”
“Why didn’t you call me? I would’ve come.”
“Because I was mad at him. I still am. He took everything from me. How can you hurt somebody you supposed to love like that? He took my baby and my man. I hate him. I hope he has bad luck for the rest of his life.”
“Shanice, don’t say that, girl. You don’t mean it. You just hurtin’.”
“I am hurt
. And I mean every word. He took my family. I wish I could hurt him myself. I want him to know how I feel.”
“Damn, Shanice. I’m sorry for everything. I ain’t gon’ even say I know how you feel, ‘cause I don’t, but as a woman and somebody who cares about you, I feel yo’ pain. And if I can do anything to help you, just let me know. I got you.”
“Can you be my friend again?” Shanice asked timidly.
“I’ma always be that. I told you I’ll always be here.”
“You the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. Not talking to you was torture. I’m so lonely in Fort Worth. I’m thinking of moving back to Houston to be around family. The only reason I moved here was for Nitty.”
“That might not be a bad idea. It might do you good to be around loved ones, especially after everything you been through. You need some TLC. Have you told anyone what happened?”
“Yeah. I talked to my mom and cousin. I told them I lost the baby and C-Note died. I didn’t tell them he did it. Momma want me to come help her out. After all them people died in the house, she moved. We grew up in that house, so it was hard to leave.”
“Damn. I’m sorry to hear that. We about to move, too. Atlanta is heatin’ up.”
Shanice laughed. “That’s what my cousin do. Everywhere he go, he set it on fire. You really wanna live like that?”
“Yeah. For now. I wish you could’ve stayed with us. I miss you so much.”
“I don’t even want to think about that. I just want you. If you ever get tired of the drama, you can always come home.”
The front door opening interrupted their conversation. Pop Somethin’ and Born Ready walked in wearing serious looks. “Let me call you back,” Queenie said, ending the call. “You good, baby? What happened?”
“Grind Squad hit back. B-Real dead.”
Queenie’s face turned as serious as Pop’s, murder in her eyes. “Where them niggas at? What you want me to do?”
“We gotta put our feelers out and see what we catch. I need you and Princess to hit them clubs and see what niggas sayin’. We gotta find a way to get to these niggas.”
“What niggas?” Princess asked, walking into the living room.
“Grind Squad,” Queenie answered. “They hit Pop an’ ‘em and killed B-Real. We gotta get out there and see what niggas is sayin’. Somebody know somethin’. We gotta find out who.”
“I like her,” Born Ready said, eyeing Queenie.
“Shouldn’t we just leave, Pop?” Princess asked. “We talked about this the other night. Let’s leave wit’ what we got so we won’t leave wit’ nothin’.”
“It’s bigger than that. This ain’t no cartel. These niggas took a shot at me. I wanna shoot back, show these niggas the G on my gangsta bigger than all theirs.”
“C’mon, Pop. This ain’t about gettin’ a lick back. We gotta be smart, baby. Right now we got more than we came with. Let’s just go,” Princess pleaded.
“You doin’ exactly what you s’posed to, baby. And you right. We should leave. And we will. But not right now. I wanna hit these niggas hard before we leave. Show these niggas how real killas move.”
***
The action at Kitty’s was stagnant. Ever since Grind Squad left town, the money slowed. Now that S.O.D. was on high alert, the strippers were lucky to make a hundred dollars a night. A few regulars with nine-to-fives and small-time hustlers were spread out in the club. Tips were hard to get when the big dogs didn’t come out, so Queenie and Princess sat at the bar, nursing watery drinks. Watching. Waiting. Lurking.
Three days had passed since the hit. S.O.D. was off the street. Everybody had feelers out, trying to get a piece of information that would give them an edge.
A boisterous laugh at the door got the twins’ attention. The owner of the laugh wasn’t well known in Atlanta, but no one could tell him that. In Ranell’s mind, he was bigger than all the stars in Atlanta. He went from bred in the slums to partying with ballers. He was living the life every nigga in the hood wanted, so he rocked that shit on his sleeves like a Gucci G. He was tall and broad with dark brown skin and bright eyes that only seen show lights. He had shoulder-length dreads, a face clean shaven except for a pencil-thin mustache. Designer brands covered him from jacket to shoes. The two niggas with him looked plain standing next to a light that shined as bright as Ranell’s.
“Yeah, hos! Turn up! Grind Squad in the muthafuckin’ buildin’!”
Queenie and Princess looked to each other at the same time, eyes wide like they were Megabucks winners. The twins watched the crew of three move through the almost empty club like they were twenty deep. They went directly to the bar, standing a few feet from the sisters.
“Lemme get three bottles of Vanilla CÎROC and two bottles of Aces,” Ranell ordered, pulling a knot of cash as big as the Bible from his pocket.
One of the ordinary niggas next to Ranell noticed the sisters. “Damn! Y’all twins?” he asked, ogling them like they were magical creatures.
Princess’s eyes got smaller than a snake’s as she chose her prey. “Grind Squad in the buildin’, huh? ‘Bout time some niggas wit’ clout showed up. Got all these funny-lookin’, broke niggas in here trynna catch a date wit’ a work check.”
“I get mo’ money in six months than what’s in them niggas’ safe. I’m Ranell. Y’all come fuck wit’ us tonight. These my niggas, Trey-Five-Seven and Varen.”
The twins showered Ranell with attention, lap dances, and body rubs. An hour later he was sandwiched between them. Queenie rubbed his chest. Princess’s hand was on his thigh. “So, where y’all niggas been at? Had bitches strugglin’ to buy a new bag. I heard Grind Squad was done after Sid got killed.”
Encouraged by the liquor and sexy atmosphere created by the seducers, Ranell’s mouth became a waterfall. “Nah, we ain’t lettin’ that bitch-ass shit fold us. D.D. and the rest us niggas too strong to fold up. We ain’t just in Atlanta. We all over. Philly. New York. Chicago. Detroit. We finna flood this bitch and take over. S.O.D. local. They ain’t got enough manpower to face us.”
“Damn, daddy! I didn’t know y’all was nationwide,” Queenie said, her eyes wide in amazement. “I know once y’all press, y’all gon’ take over. I ain’t no gold digger, but I don’t wanna fuck no broke niggas. Me and my sister can be by yo’ side when y’all take over.”
Princess grabbed his earlobe between her lips and bit down lightly. “And we the kinda sisters that kiss each other when ain’t nobody lookin’.”
Ranell’s eyes got wide as a full moon. “Put ch’all numba in my phone. Matter fact, I need to see this kissin’ before I close my eyes. If y’all ain’t got no rules or curfews, come fuck wit’ me. My Aviator outside.”
“What about yo’ niggas?” Princess asked.
“Them niggas came together. I’m solo-dolo. Got enough room for a party in my Lincoln truck.
***
The Batmobile carved through the Atlanta streets like a predator seeking prey. Zero to 62 miles an hour in 3.6 seconds and steering that made Pop’s hands feel like they were part of the car. Nothing on the road seemed powerful enough to stand in the machine’s path. Violence emanated from the twin turbo-charged V-8 engine when it pulled to a stop behind the black Lincoln Aviator waiting at the red light. The light turned green as action in the truck began.
At the next stop light, the Lambo doors lifted and the killas stepped out. Pop opened the passenger door. Queenie held a gun on Ranell. The look on his face reflected the deep pile of dog shit he’d stepped in. Pop leaned in to kiss Queenie. “Good shit, baby. Y’all go to the Batmobile. We got it from here.”
“See if he jack for y’all how he was jackin’ for us. Grind Squad bigger than we think, baby. S.O.D. is the little brother.”
When Queenie got out of the truck, Pop took her place. Born Ready replaced Princess in the back seat. Neither goon showed a weapon, but Ranell still felt threatened. Pop looked like a boogey man in the passenger seat, muscles bulging from the snug black t-shirt. Th
e beard and dreads hid most of his face, so Ranell wasn’t sure what he looked like.
“Drive, nigga!” Born Ready barked after the light changed.
“Uh, wh-where we goin’?” Ranell stuttered.
“Take us to D.D. We got a message for him.”
“I-I d-don’t know where he at.”
Pop Somethin’ pulled a six-inch switchblade from his pocket.
“Lie to me again, Ranell, and he gon’ fuck you up.” Born Ready warned. “Take us to yo’ boss.”
“I-I’m for real. I. Ah!”
Pop’s hand was a blur. Before Ranell knew he was stabbed, Pop Somethin’s hand was already resting at his side again. Ranell kept a hand on his ribs, trying to stop the blood.
“You a hard-headed-ass nigga, ain’t chu?” Born Ready taunted. “Yo’ life on the line, kid. Who it gon’ be? You or some nigga you work for?”
“I ain’t plugged all the way in. I’m just. Ah!” Ranell grabbed his chest after the knife left his pectoral.
“You see he gettin’ higher wit’ that steel thang. Say somethin’, nigga. Save yo’self.”
“All I know is where his brother’s at. D.D. still in Chicago.”
“There you go, Ranell. Betta save yo’ ass, boy. Tell me ‘bout this brotha while you drive over there.”
The house wasn’t a house, but a small four-unit apartment building that had been converted into a mini-mansion. Queenie and Princess climbed from the Lambo like they were trying to catch a date in heels, leggings, and spaghetti tops. After ringing the bell, the door was opened. A short, dark-skinned nigga with gold-rimmed glasses answered. When he seen the women, he took a step back to check them out. “What up wit’ ch’all? Who y’all here for?”
Princess spoke up. “Ranell told us to meet him over here. He here yet?”
“Ranell?” he questioned. Then a light went on in his mind. “Oh, yeah. Ranell. Yeah, yeah. He did call and say y’all was comin’. Damn, y’all bad. Come in. We in the back. Who is y’all? I’m Lib.”
