Loving a Colombian Cartel Thug

by K'Aliyah Knight

  LOVING a Colombian Cartel THUG

  By K’Aliyah Knight

  Copyright © 2014 (Tricks With Motive) by K’Aliyah Knight

  Published by Shan Presents

  www.shanpresents.com

  All rights reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales or, is entirely coincidental.

  No portion of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without writer permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Acknowledgements…

  God, you prevail through all my obstacles. Dyslexia and the motivation to work through it. I’m nothing without You.

  Author Queen Brown, girl, where do I begin. I’m laughing just thinking about how you’re my ears when ish goes south.

  Miss Jae aka JBug and D– y’all mean more than words to me. Tasha Dunlap–your my favorite sister (my only sister lol) thank you for the motivation.

  Shan Presents–y’all ladies stay prospering.

  Lady Lissa for keeping my spirits up, Ray Ray aka Sygne T Monae, ShiaMata, Quiana B, Mzz Brown, I love y’all.

  All my fans that have been there since day one, I can’t name you all but I appreciate every convo, inbox, message, review… And to the new fans on their way.

  **Tricks with Motive Rerelease…

  Text Shan to 22828 to stay up to date with new releases, sneak peeks, contest, and more...

  Introduction:

  ROCKY

  I got a question… Have you ever had a nigga in your life that you knew you’d never forget? Fuck circumstance. Distance. All that shit. No matter if he had mad hoes, you knew you’d love him forever.

  The ill part about it? This nigga could do you dirty. Worse than any other. You dumb enough to keep sampling what he’s dishing, because sometimes, no every time, it’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever tasted. Now by the time your mind gets right, your heart is so far gone that you won’t leave him for shit. Matter fact, that nigga gotta push you away.

  Well, that’s my Lorenzo.

  Lemme tell you about Lorenzo Medina. To keep it one hundred, I’ve loved Renz from jump, since we were kids. So this ain’t no story about meeting a nigga and being punch drunk on the dope dick. Now the dick will make you delirious but it’s even more than that. He’s black and Colombian. Damn, that combo makes a chick sigh. Too damn fine. But too damn hard. He’s had my heart even before he sampled the cookies… Each time he enters my life, this dude just takes every bit of love I have to offer. Now, I’ve done a few things wrong. But he fucked up this hood love that should have been invincible.

  I don’t even know where to start because a nigga like Lorenzo just takes control of you–and trust me you want him to. He will be all up in your mind, body, soul. I guess I should just let the story start with him…

  Chapter 1

  LORENZO

  “I will body you real quick!” I say, lifting up my black thermal. I snatch the Glock from my waistband. Finger on the trigger, I point it at my sister’s pale, gray cheek as she saunters around on the curb, right outside of a strip club in Hoover, Illinois.

  We are Black and Colombian, but Blu doesn’t even have that caramel glow like the rest of us. Her silky hair is matted. The smell of burnt rubber from the tires of my Chevy truck go deep into my nostrils as I glare at her. This girl is so blazed out of her muthafuckin' mind, she doesn’t know I just ran up on her. She doesn’t know that my burner is fully loaded. Shit, she doesn’t know me.

  Fuck that, I’d die for mi familia. If my sister wanna kill herself by being a fucking crackhead, I’m the type of nigga that will pull the trigger for her.

  “Aye… baby,” In a spandex, mini skirt and greasy old bra, Blu finally notes me. She grips my large biceps and falls to her knees. “You fine as fuck. Lemme make you feel good. Don’t be looking so damn heated…”

  Those words have me on pause, wondering what my little sister has been up to. When she grabs my belt, tears sting my eyes. But I yank Blu up by the waist instead. It’s too muthafuckin’ easy. Gotta be 80 pounds, if that. While trying to remind this girl who the fuck I am, I open the passenger door to my truck and toss her bony ass inside. I’m off my game for a second as I stare at this junky. Barely old enough to drink. How the fuck she get lost to the streets like this? But damn, I already know the answer…

  One of the hoes, I think her name is Sugar Rush, comes outside. “Aye, Lorenzo, I keep telling her not to,” Sugar Rush mumbles, rubbing the back of her neck. She’s scared. Her eyes go to me and then to Blu. I’ve been having the streets looking for my sister for a cool minute. Anybody who does her harm is dead on the spot. I nod for the stripper to say her peace, with her scary ass.

  So, she tries not to stutter, “Man, it’s this dude that’s sitting in the cut. He got on a red suit. You can’t miss him… Blu Storm came in with him earlier.”

  I’m a second off of throwing a haymaker to this bitch mouth for calling my kid sister, Blu Storm. Get the fuck outta here with these damn stripper names. Her name is Blu Medina.

  “Watch my truck,” I tell her and start toward the door. The bouncer nods to me, looking like an albino Rick Ross.

  Soon as I step into the funky ass club, my gun goes off… BACA BACA…

  A minute later, I’m back out the club. Niggas and bitches run out. Sugar Rush leaps up from leaning against my just waxed Chevy, like she ain’t heard the gun go off. “Got em?” she asks.

  Ain’t even gon’ reply. Shit, she knows I got that nigga. I get in the driver’s seat, taking one look at my sister all passed out next to me. I strap her in and try not to feel emotions.

  As I mash out, I remember a few years ago when Blu wanted to be about that hustle. Ironically, our moms moved us from Colombia, tryna get us all away from the rest of our familia. Rita didn’t want us to be mixed in her pop’s type of drug trade. Her kid brother, Tio Santiago, eventually took over. When I graduated from high school I went back, only returning to start up shop a few years later. Shoulda never let Blu get involved. Damn, that shit has me heated as I drive down streets with crackheads shivering in the middle of the night. It’s getting ready to snow, but these muthafuckas are tweaking anyway.

  ~~~

  A few hours later, sunlight streams in through the living room windows of Rita’s condo. Moms jumps out of her skin when she exits her master bedroom, with a towel around her head and fuzzy robe on. She almost drops the photo album that she was just glancing through. “What are you doing in my house?”

  I stand and stretch from my position on the La-Z-Boy. I’ve been reclining there all night. I look over at Blu, half swallowed up by the couch and then at Moms, wondering why Rita can’t put two and two together.

  “You and that girl need to leave.” Rita points to Blu.

  Guess I won’t be asking for no eggs and chorizo, right? My voice is level; I’m tryin’ not to blow the fuck up. “Moms, Blu needs our help!”

  “The name is Rita. Besides, she’s got you. You went back to Colombia. You brought these drugs here. Don’t think I don’t know that you’ve been connected with that muthafucka Santiago! You killing your sister, so you take care of her,” Moms continues to harp about how I went back to our home, while holding the photo album close to her chest. We’d moved from Colombia when I was just eleven. Came to look for our black ass daddy, who had worked during vacation season at a resort on a tiny island. Moms had told everybody that we had left Colombia because of a storm, so she didn�
��t have to explain that she was the daughter of a Drug Lord. Now her younger brother Santiago is the head of the Mendoza De Dios Cartel.

  “Really tho? We’re fucking blood and that’s how you gon’ act? Your daughter needs help!” I stare at the woman that gave birth to me. Five-foot-five to my six-even, and got the same attitude, the same muthafuckin' stubbornness. Moms acts holy today, but I now she must've burned a bitch down back in her day before running away from our familia.

  Rita pats dry her silky, black hair as if she doesn't have a care in the world. Then her lips curve into a frown, “Help? Nah, you go help. You’re right, it looks like she needs it”

  I look up at the ceiling. Shit can’t get any worse than this until I see the top of a photo peeking out from the book in Rita’s her hands. I snatch it from her. My eyes burn a hole through this woman as the photo of Rockwell Townsend’s sexy face creases in my hands. “It’s like that, Moms?”

  “I only have three daughters,” She can’t even look at me. “So you and that girl need to leave, please.”

  While she tryna change the subject, I rip the photo of my ex to pieces. “How long you been friends with Rocky?”

  I snatch up the photo album. There’s more pictures of them at church and some other functions. All my younger sisters; fuck that, even Blu is in some of these photos. Like they are still family with Rockwell or something. “This is the reason why you can’t help Blu? Your daughter’s been replaced with Rocky!”

  “Hey!” My 18-year-old sister, Lakitha, comes running from her room, and picks up the photos from the floor. “Don’t be hating on Rockwell! That’s why Rocky–”

  “Shhhh!” Rita shouts. They’re tryna keep secrets. That shit hurts to my core. I remember, even before moms decided for us to leave Colombia, she had us living all poor and shit. America doesn’t even have shit on what I mean by poor, all because she had a problem with her padre. While she was working at a resort and always getting pregnant by a nigga, I went back to my Tio Santiago. Moms was working hours on top of hours for no pay. And I was doing dangerous shit for Santi, just to make sure my little sisters had all because moms was too headstrong to take her yellow ass back home.

  “Nah, state your mind, Lakitha,” I tell my sister. “What Rocky do?”

  Lakitha’s mouth clamps and she puts her hands on her chubby hips.

  I turn back to Rita and say, “We finna deal with Blu later. As a matter fact Moms, Blu is staying here. Your daughter esta aqui! I’ma deal with Rockwell.”

  “How?” Moms screeches.

  Before they can stop me, I’m out. I get back into my truck. I know Rockwell has moved from The H, so I head for the freeway.

  When we first came to Hoover, Moms had looked around for our deadbeat sperm donor for help. We were staying at this raggedy ass motel that smelled like piss, shit, and pussy. I wasn’t even twelve yet, but my tio had taught me the grind. And I mean run a muthafuckin' drug empire, but around The H, the gun trade was popping. This nigga, Marcel Townsend, wouldn’t put me on tho.

  One day while moms was out, after beating the shit out of a grown ass dude in the projects, I met up with Big Bo. Old-head had once been a father to me. Bo taught me everything I needed to know, and put me on Marcel’s grind. So, while Moms telling people we came from Colombia because a storm took out her whole family, I was learning how to run these guns.

  Then sometime later I met this girl. Man, I mean, this fly ass little breezy and I loved her from day one. Rockwell Townsend had on a Baby Phat romper with her long, light brown hair in two Pocahontas braids. Those damn hazel eyes had looked right through me because I worked for her uncle. Shit, she had me feeling irrelevant. I watched that fat ass while she sauntered up the project steps with a half smile on those thick, pink lips. Marcel held bags and bags of designer clothing for her. Shit, she even had that nigga looking bitch made because all she did was pop tags.

  Little mama had come back outside right after getting rid of Marcel. I meant to smash, but Rocky wasn’t that type. Little mama kept those legs on lock. Fucked around and became friends first. She was that naive type wanting peace and love while her uncle was a muthafuckin' arms dealer. She didn’t want me to be about that life. Shit, just like my moms. She was supposed to be the type of love a nigga would keep forever. That Colmbiano love.

  Then we turned 20 and ol’ girl acted brand-new. She’d gone to this fashion school in Chicago, shit changed. Marcel tried to get me bodied for nothing. But why hadn’t I dealt with Rockwell? Soon as I get in my car, my mind is reminiscing on how much I cared for Rocky when we were younger.

  Can still hear Rocky screaming, “I love you, Lorenzo…” while I was making that tight pussy mold to my dick. Out of all the times I’ve heard that line from a gang of hoes, I just knew this trick meant it. I was her first and only one.

  Time to tell Rockwell exactly what she can do. Stay the fuck away from my familia. It takes me all day. Haven’t seen her in years. After I moved back to Colombia, my Tio Santiago and I became tight. Since I had made connects while working the gun trade with Marcel, Santiago decided to front me to get that rock to Hoover. Being at the top of my game, I don’t even need to come to The H to get shit popping. I have so many goons on payroll that I can stay at one of my mansions in Miami or New York and just a word will get my crew active.

  While I’ve been out The H the past few years, I knew Rockwell had opened a high fashion store called Rock With It. This evening I finally step out the car and into her spot. The last customer is leaving and she’s standing in the window, turning the sign from open to closed.

  Like the past, Rockwell ain’t anything less than a fly girl. Hair done, in a light blond braid to the side of her shoulder. A silk dress stops at thick golden thighs, and the booty is bigger than I remember. Those sexy hazel eyes brighten when Rocky see’s me. She snatches the key out the lock and opens the door with a smile.

  Chapter 2

  ROCKWELL.

  It’s as if I can see again. A smile spreads across my full lips as I fling open the door. My mind is gone, so I run straight into his arms. I hug Lorenzo, and inhale. Damn, can’t even remember that I’m supposed to hate him right now. My brain only registers a familiar sexy, desirable cologne. Dark caramel skin. Black, wavy hair is still fresh to death with a fade. And I melt against his big, strong body. His buff arms are dipped in tats. I lick my lips, remembering every tattoo on his body. I wonder if he has any new ones since he’s wearing a damn black thermal that hugs to those ropy arms and jeans. Why does my head nestle against his chest so damn easily? My eyes almost close as the familiarity of it all transforms from a memory to comfortable reality.

  My. Nigga. Is. Home.

  Then I remember the day he squirted gasoline on my heart and tossed the match in my direction. I let him go. Try not to let the pain, the hurt, the hate–okay, maybe not hate. But something like it. I try just to be nonchalant. But the way my heart is set up, well, it’s to love this nigga. So my mind continues to remember that we were friends first. That he was my ears. He kept me safe for my uncle Marcel. Nah, not even for Marcel, but because we fell in love. It hurts so bad to smile, but I ask, “Hi, Lorenzo, how long have you been in town?”

  My lips tingle. I want to kiss him all over and throw lips straight to that dope dick. Damn his lips, they have taken so many safaris over my entire body. But, it finally becomes clear that he's not as excited to see me. The nigga got the nerve to look fine as fuck and mean as fuck at the same time. Like he wanna kill me. But why? Why he ain’t happy to see me? Shit, Lorenzo ruined us. The least he can do is get some act right.

  He glares right through me. “For reall, mommi. You wanna know how long a nigga been in town? What the fuck you doing with my fam–!”

  “Mommy!” My son runs in from the back of the store. He’s holding up his iPad, “It froze again.”

  My amber eyes widen, long hair damn near slapping in my face as I turn around. All my son was going to do was whine about his tablet freezing. All the
se damn games he keeps installing. But… oh shit!

  Lorenzo stops talking and looks over at my four-year-old son standing in the hallway toward the back.

  “What are you doing, Lorenzo?” I finally speak. What were those vibes I just felt from him? Hatred? Rage? Why is he angry? Actually, doesn’t matter, I run past flyy mannequins and tables of clothing to step in front of my child, but Lorenzo is too fast for me. Damn near a head taller than my 5 feet, and I got on Manolo stilettos, he grabs me by the waist and just sets me out of the way. He kneels down, takes the fitted cap from Junior’s wavy hair and they’re eye-level. It’s like looking in a mirror. Both of them have dark, golden skin. With Lorenzo being Colombian and Black, and my child being Black and… Italian. They both have dark eyes, long lashes, but my son’s are framed perfectly and it makes him even more adorable. Lorenzo’s long lashes just makes him human, after all, this nigga can mean mug you to death.

  “Maybe you should go.” I stand tall in heels, but six extra inches doesn’t help much. Besides, Lorenzo continues to glare through my child. If looks could kill, man… If he tries to hurt my baby, I’ma learn to fight today.

  “Hello, sir.” My child speaks in proper English.

  “The fuck! Who are you?” Lorenzo asks, his tensed lips barely moving.

  “Raphael Bell Junior.”

  Lorenzo’s eyes turn toward me; they’re dark and stormy. I’d be damned if there wasn't a bullet headed my way. “Bitch, is this my son!”

  “No.” I put my hands on my hips, as we argue in the tiny hallway. “You got me confused, Lorenzo, don’t ever call me out my name! You’ve been gone for a long time, so you may not have recalled. Anyway, I’m not some hoe off the street.”

  “Bitch, Marcel is dead,” he chuckles. “I used to be the youngblood assigned to keep you safe, but shit has changed.” Lorenzo checks me real quick, and then his attention is back to Junior. “Lil’ nigga, how old are you?”