by Mz. Robinson
“I’m good. What’s the problem?” Real asked, still standing staring the man down.
“Oh, there’s no problem, my friend. I just came to deliver a very important message from Mr. Rossi,” the young Italian said as he stood and walked over to Real.
“Rossi? What’s the message?” Real asked, confused. He didn’t recognize the name.
The Italian man got up close on Real and whispered, “Mr. Rossi says you work for him or you don’t work at all. He knows you are making his competition, the Moretti family, very rich, which is also making Moretti’s stronghold on the cartel a lot stronger. Mr. Rossi can’t touch Mr. Moretti at this time, but he can touch you. So, what’ll it be?” the young Italian asked with a sly smile.
Real placed his arm around the man’s shoulder and said firmly, “Tell your boss Mr. Rossi that I said to go fuck himself and that I don’t sit well with threats. Now, you and your boys get the fuck up out of my establishment!” Real said, smiling as he exited the VIP section, motioning for Max and Constance to follow.
“What up, cuz?” Max asked as they entered Real’s back office.
“Everything’s good. Just some rich, arrogant Italians trying to invest in the club, which is totally out of the question,” Real told Max as Constance stood by, picking up on the lie.
“Oh, okay, cuz. I got everything under control. I will call you tomorrow with an update on thangs,” Max said, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
Constance rolled her eyes.
“A’ight, cool,” Real said, turning to walk out the office.
“Under control my ass!” Constance uttered as she followed Real out of the back office.
As Real walked across the floor, he noticed the Italians exiting. The tall, lanky one looked in his direction and smiled. Real smiled back.
A few minutes later, Real and Constance were turning out of the G-Spot onto Peachtree Street.
Picking up on Real’s different mood, Constance spoke softly. “What’s going on, baby?” she asked, sensing his uneasiness.
“Some spic trying to make demands. Had the nerve to send me a message that if I don’t work for him, I don’t work at all. Can you believe that? Ain’t that some shit? He must don’t know who the fuck Real is!” Real shouted, getting madder and madder as he thought about the threat from the man in the silky suit.
“Who sent the message?” Constance inquired, trying to see if she recognized the name as one of her wealthy real estate clients. She had sold several high-end homes to Italian drug lords.
“Rossi!” Real spat.
“Hmm. Never heard that name before. So what’s next?’ Constance asked.
“I’m going to call old man Moretti to see what the deal is. If he don’t fix it, I will!” Real snapped.
“He’ll straighten it out,” Constance said, hoping he would—but even if he didn’t, she was going to ride with Real to the very end, no matter what.
“Look, baby, I really ain’t in the mood right now for the play. I really need to make some calls,” Real said, knowing that she would understand.
“Okay. Me neither,” Constance agreed.
Turning around, Real took the Lambo to speeds it had never reached before on the way back home.
Chapter 3
“Bitch nigga, you better have my eighty grand by the end of the week, or else my people here will be back, and the next time they leave, you won’t be fuckin’ breathin’!” Cash shouted as his two goons pistol whipped the young dealer.
Cash was Real’s good friend and lieutenant. Real had met Cash back in the day on Godby Road. Cash was the true definition of a young hustler. He would stay in the trap all day every day. Seeing the hustle young Cash had and how solid he was made Real take him under his wing. Years later, Cash became very wealthy, all because of Real.
As well as they worked together, Cash was the direct opposite of Real. He was tall, lanky, bald headed, and very unattractive. Known in circles for his pistol play, Cash wouldn’t hesitate to unload his clip. At the ripe old age of twenty-four, Cash was considered a legend around town. While Real dealt with the Morettis, Cash and his goons dealt with the streets. Cash knew his position and played it well, with no regrets.
Just as he gave the word for his goons to release the dealer, Cash’s cell phone rang. “What up, bro?” he answered when he saw Real’s number on the screen.
“I need you to come out to the house ASAP,” Real told him firmly.
“Damn, bro, can’t it wait until tomorrow? I got Jesse and B-Low riding with me anyway. You know I can’t bring them out to your spot,” Cash said, watching B-Low and Jesse laughing as the young dealer run off.
“Look, man, drop them two niggas off and get out here! This is important!” Real snapped and hung up his office phone.
Cash could tell by Real’s actions that it was a serious matter, so he hurriedly dropped B-Low and Jesse off and navigated his brand new burgundy 600 SEL Mercedes Benz through the night traffic to Real’s house.
A half hour later, Cash was pulling up in front of Real’s million-dollar home. Cash was lost for words every time he went out to Real’s place. The six-bedroom home sat on ten acres of well-manicured land. Behind the home sat an Olympic-sized swimming pool, full basketball court, tennis court, and guest house. Adjacent to that was a custom-built garage that housed Real’s lime green Lamborghini Murcialago LP460, snow white Rolls–Royce drop-head Coupe, and black on black Range Rover Sport. Next to Real’s expensive collection were Constance’s lavender Bentley GTC, bright cherry red H-2, and midnight blue Ferrari 360 Spider that she barely drove.
Cash stepped out of his Benz into the cold night air.
Ding! Ding!
A few seconds after ringing the bell, Constance appeared at the door. “Hey, Cash,” she said. “Come on in. Real’s down in his office.” She stepped aside, letting Cash in.
“What’s up, sis? You good?” Cash asked as he entered.
“Just fine. Just see what’s up with Real,” she told him as she closed the door behind them.
“All the time,” Cash replied as he hurried through the house to Real’s home office.
On the way to Real’s office, Cash thought back on the times when Real had stayed in a humble two-bedroom condo out in College Park. Now, his crib had marble floors, two full kitchens, an elevator, three fire places, and a bad ass home theatre. Man, my boy’s come a long way, Cash thought to himself. “What’s up, bro?’ Cash asked as he entered Real’s office.
“A lil’ problem from the cartel,” Real answered, rearing back into his oversized leather desk chair.
“What kind of problem?” Cash sat down in the oversized office chair positioned in front of the desk.
“A couple Italians came down to the club tonight with a message from a Mr. Rossi. This Rossi says I work for him or don’t work at all.”
“Work for him or don’t work at all!” Cash spat.
“Yeah. He got to be playing!” Real fired back.
“Who the fuck this wetback think he is? He don’t run shit!” Cash yelled as he jumped out of the office chair and started pacing the floor.
“I just put in a call to my connect, the Morettis. If they don’t handle this Rossi fool, I’ll do it my damn self,” Real said sincerely.
“Bro, just get me this spic’s location, and I’ll eliminate all of this tough guy talk! Fuck them slick heads!” Cash shouted as he continued to pace the room.
“I’m going to see what the Morettis do first. There may be no need for us to bother. What’s the word on the street?” Real asked, changing the subject.
“Everythang moving lovely. I had to chastise a lil’ nigga this morning about an overdue debt, but all in all, everything moving like clockwork,” Cash said as he sat back down in the office chair.
“Well, you know I got a shipment coming in this week, and it’s mandatory that it go quicker than the last. Oh, by the way… I hear Deuce and them on the west side are putting down real heavy. What’s up
with that?” Real inquired.
“Yeah, word is they got a new Colombian connect out of Miami. My crew and I were just discussing that yesterday. We are working on eliminating that problem before the end of the week,” Cash assured Real.
“A’ight. We don’t need to be sitting on this shit no longer than a week,” Real said firmly.
“I got you. I’m getting with my niggas tomorrow to handle that west side problem, and also I’ll connect with my folks in New York and L.A. with some good numbers to make that shit disappear.”
“A’ight. And about that west side problem, let them niggas on payroll handle it. Don’t get your hands dirty. They expendable, and you ain’t,” Real said firmly, knowing all too well how Cash liked to get his hands dirty.
“I’m just calling the shots, bro. Let me know if you need me to handle that slick back,” Cash said as he stood to leave.
“Get at me tomorrow.”
“Fo sho,” Cash replied as he exited.
En route home, Cash picked up his cell phone and called B-Low, not realizing that a black crown Victoria driven by a federal DEA agent followed close behind.
Stay tuned for the sequel…Coming 2012
Lights Out
Real Takes the City by Storm
Enjoy an excerpt from
George Sherman Hudson’s novel
“Skylar, this is Brian, my fiancé,” Lynn said with pride, linking her arms with Brian’s.
“Hello, Brian. I’m Skylar. Nice to meet you,” Skylar greeted, checking Brian out from head to toe.
“Nice to meet you, too, Skylar,” he replied, noticing how the girl was giving him the once-over.
“Baby, can y’all go to the store and get some more paper plates and cups? We got more family than I realized,” Lynn’s Aunt Grace asked them while flipping the meat on the grill.
“We got you, Auntie,” Lynn answered. She turned to her fiancé and asked, “Brian, can you handle that for me? I got to help Mama season the rest of the meat and set up the tables.”
“No problem, baby,” he said as he walked over and put his hand on the small of her back. “Wait, I take that back. There is one problem.”
“What’s that, baby?” Lynn asked.
“I have no idea where the store is. You got me down here in the middle of the swamplands!” Brian joked.
“I’ll show you, cuz-in-law,” Skylar volunteered.
“Thanks, cuz!” Lynn said as she walked off, heading to the table full of meat marinating in a tasty blend of spices as it waited for its turn on the grill.
Brian couldn’t help watching as Skylar threw her hips from side to side as they headed to the car.
“Nice ride,” she said as he adjusted her miniskirt in the soft leather seat of his BMW 760.
“Thanks,” Brian responded, looking down at her exposed thighs and purposely letting his eyes meet hers with a longer than casual glance. They both smiled at each other.
Brian left Skylar in the car as he went in the store to get the party supplies. When he returned to his car, he noticed she had pulled her skirt up so far that he could tell she wasn’t wearing any panties. He took in the sight of her neatly shaved pubic hair.
“You like what you see?” she asked softly as she lifted her skirt even further so he could get a good look.
Brian was at a loss for words and stood silent and dumbfounded.
“Well, do you?” she moaned as she leaned over and kissed him and rubbed the lump growing between his legs.
Before he knew it, they were climbing into the back seat. Comfortably hidden behind the dark tint of the BMW windows, they sexed each other up until the back seat was wet with their body fluids, one last moan signaling their mutual release.
After filling Skylar with his juices, a feeling of guilt and regret came over Brian. He could only think of Lynn and what would happen if she were to ever find out. “Damn,” he said, “we shouldn’t have done that.” He regretfully buttoned up his pants in a hurry and climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Why not? I really enjoyed it.” Skylar smiled and climbed back into the front passenger’s seat and pulled down the visor mirror to fix her mussed hair.
“Look here, Skylar, this has got to stay between me and you, right?” Brian insisted with authority pouring from his voice.
“Yeah, yeah, our little secret, boo—just between you and me,” Skylar said sincerely as she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
Coming Soon
Relocating to Miami, Silk looked to retire and stay far away from the street life she’d grown accustomed to. After living the high-life and carelessly spending the money from her past licks, she had to resort back to the only thing she knew…murder and robbery.
This time she’ll play the game differently. Silk built a team of females to pull off her deadly plots. Tiah, Lexi and Kya—they possess all the qualities she needed. Tiah is sexy and knows exactly how to use her charisma to lure in the next vic; Lexi is street smart and real clever when it comes to the game; and Kya is a real killer who doesn’t hesitate when it comes to pulling the trigger.
Silk and her team began their missions to get paid. Everything is going smooth until their paths cross Sherm. Out of prison for over a year now, Sherm is the go-to man in many cities but when his connect is killed, his right-hand man set up a meeting with a new connect. After this meeting, Sherm will never be the same. Not one to accept a loss, Sherm set out to get his money and find the person responsible.
Now it’s robbery, murder, deceit and revenge coming full steam. Will Silk, the real Gangsta Girl, survive this mayhem or will Sherm, the man who taught her the game, be the one to take her down?
Sa’id Salaam
Trap House is an unflinching account of the goings on of an Atlanta drug den and the lives of those who frequent it. Its cast of characters include the Notorious P.I.G., the proprietor of the house, who uses his power to satisfy his licentious fetishes. Of his customers, there’s Wanda, an exotic dancer who loathes P.I.G., but only tolerates him because he has the best dope in town. Wanda’s boyfriend Mike is the owner of an upscale strip club, as well as a full time pimp.
Tiffany and Marcus are the teenage couple who began frequenting the Trap House after snorting a few lines at a party. Can their love for each other withstand the demands of their fledging addiction, or will it tear them apart?
P.I.G.’s wife Blast, doorman Earl and a host of other colorful characters round out the inhabitants of the Trap House.
Trap House is the bastard child of real life and the author’s vivid imagination. Its author, Sa’id Salaam, paints a graphic portrait of the inner-workings of an under-world. He takes you so close you can almost hear the sizzle of the cocaine as it’s smoked—almost smell the putrid aroma of crack as it’s exhaled. Yet for all the grit and grime, Trap House has the audacity to be a love story. Through the sordid sex and brutality is an underlying tale of redemption and self empowerment. Trap House drives home the reality that everyone is a slave to something.
Who’s your master?
Enjoy an excerpt from Sa’id Salaam
“You can ride with me since Mike got some business,” Wanda announced.
Once in the car, Wanda handed Tiffany a small white pill. “Here, girl. This’ll make you feel sexy,” she said as Tiffany plucked it from her hand.
“What is it?” Tiffany asked after washing it down with her soda.
“X. Yo lil ass gon’ be rolling good in a minute,” Wanda chuckled. Wanda pulled over a few blocks before the club, and they shared a quick blast.
Mike was holding court out front as the women pulled up. After parking, they went around to meet him. Wanda felt a swell of anger as Mike greeted Tiffany before greeting her.
“Lil Ms. Thang ready to hit the stage,” Wanda announced dryly.
“So nuff!” Mike gushed enthusiastically. “Make sure y’all call me. I don’t want to miss this.”
Tiffany was a nervous wreck as she waited for her turn onstage. She downe
d shot after shot of Alizé, attempting to settle down. The X she had taken earlier was now shooting waves of electric sexual energy through her body with every heartbeat. Remembering the loaded straight shooter Wanda had left in the ashtray, Tiffany slipped out for a quick blast. The effects of all the drugs coursing through her system were almost overwhelming.
Just as she slinked back into the club, her name was announced as next up. After a quick once-over in the dressing room mirror, Tiffany floated to the stage. She was so high her feet barely touched the floor.
A stir of commotion rang around the club when the regulars realized that Tiffany, now known as “China Doll,” was dancing. Over the months, she had turned all of them down for dances, drinks, and dates, so her being onstage was a big deal.
The DJ threw on the latest D-lite song, and Tiffany began moving to the beat.
Wanda squeezed her way to the front to watch and coach her protégé.
Mike, too, had come down from his office perch to watch from the side of the stage.
The DJ announced that $200 would get China Doll out of the sexy boy shorts she was wearing. No sooner than the words left his mouth, hundreds of dollars were stretched toward her.
Wanda motioned for Tiffany to go around and collected the outstretched bills. Naively, Tiffany took the first bills in her hand until Wanda caught her attention. She lifted her leg and snapped her garter belt, reminding Tiffany to let the patrons place their money there.
Tiffany danced over to a twenty-dollar bill and dipped low enough for its previous owner to put it in her garter. The man’s hand rubbed against her crotch, causing her knees to buckle slightly as a wave of electric sexual energy pulsed through her body again.
It seemed that every customer managed to brush against her crotch as they filled her garter belt. By the time she removed the boy shorts, they were soaking wet.
