Natural Born Liar: The Misadventures of Mink LaRue

by Noire

  Also by Noire

  Maneater

  (with Mary B. Morrison)

  Lifestyles of the Rich and Shameless

  (with Kiki Swinson)

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  NATURAL BORN

  Liar

  NOIRE

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by Noire

  Title Page

  Acknowledgments

  WARNING!

  CHAPTER 1 - The Rip-Off

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  Discussion Questions

  Up Next - Sexy Little Liar

  Copyright Page

  This urban erotic tale is dedicated to my friends and family who watch my back, protect me from the noise, and allow me to do this thang in my own unique way every single day.

  And to all the Mink LaRues out there who are enjoying a few crazy misadventures of their own, I lubya!

  Acknowledgments

  As usual, all props go to the Father above for blessing me with originality and creativity. Thanks to Missy, Black, Nisaa, Man, Jay, Reem, Ree, and my entire team for all you do behind the scenes to help make me a success. Big ups to my UETBC fam, and all my loyal readers and friends for hopping on the urban erotic train every time it pulls into the station.

  Muahhhh!

  Noire

  WARNING!

  This here ain’t no romance

  It’s an urban erotic tale

  A gwap is up for grabs

  And Mink is gunnin’ for that mail!

  A missing kid was on a carton

  Real cute and rich and smiling,

  Mink looked into the mirror

  And straight pictured herself styling!

  She hopped a flight with Bunni

  So they could gank on her fake fam,

  They bust up in da mansion

  Tryna cop a hunnerd grand!

  Mink took a DNA test

  Just to prove her story true,

  But the boss man peeped her hustle

  Even from the ICU

  So this here ain’t no romance

  Y’all gold diggers know how we do!

  Hop aboard this urban train

  With con-mami Mink LaRue!

  CHAPTER 1

  The Rip-Off

  Pussy sold for pennies on the dollar on Friday nights in Harlem, and if you were looking for a couple of hot whirly-whirlies, then Club Wood was damn sure the place to be. Located on a busy corner off 125th Street, Wood stayed packed out with coochie-sniffin’ niggas who were deep on the prowl, and some of the baddest bitches in the city of New York stripped, danced, and hosted private fuck-fests in the club’s back rooms.

  I had twirled around the strip poles earlier in the day, but I was taking the night off so I could collect some dough from a mark that me and my best friends, Peaches and Bunni, had recently ganked.

  We’d schemed up a plan to lure a switch-hittin’ old head into a motel room, then we snapped a bunch of shots of him sporting a sexy red bra and taking some real thick pipe up his ass.

  Dude was a high-profile principal at a private boys’ school and he didn’t want no trouble. He didn’t want no publicity neither, and in less than five minutes he had agreed to give up twenty g’s to stop a picture of his hairy balls from being posted to his teenaged daughter’s Facebook page.

  The lick had gone down perfectly, and I was chillin’ at the bar sipping slut juice and congratulating myself for a job well done when outta nowhere I caught a funny vibe.

  Something wasn’t right.

  I got the feeling I was being watched. I had a bag full of blackmail dough slung over my shoulder, and something in my gut told me to get the fuck up outta Dodge.

  I slid down from the barstool and broke for the door, but Hova’s latest banga came on, and every pole freak in the house broke out in a mass stanky stroll. The strippers jumped down from the stage and hit the floor rolling hard, booties twerkin’, hips grindin’, stroking their pussies and sending a wave of horny niggas rushing down the aisles straight toward me.

  WHO GON’ STOP ME? WHO GON’ STOP ME, HUH?

  I crashed into about thirty sweaty niggas as I pushed through the crowd and tried to fight my way outside. I was shaking fools offa me left and right as their horny asses pulled me in all directions and tried to feel me up. A few of my regular customers offered to get me toasted, some wanted me to slide over in the corner so we could smoke some yay, and even more begged me to go in the back room and hit ’em with my patented-move, double-hump lap dance.

  Somehow I made it past them, and I was this close to getting my ass outta there when a strong hand clamped down on my shoulder and a deep voice boomed, “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  I almost shit. I didn’t know if I should turn around swinging or make another break for the door, but I knew I was busted. The twenty racks I had just hustled from that principal felt like a ton of bricks weighing down my bag. This was supposed to be an easy little gank, and I couldn’t believe that greasy old dick-rider had called the cops on me!

  Getting arrested was gonna cause some real big problems for me. I was already on probation for writing bad checks, and a thousand lies flew through my head as I thought about the bus ride to Rikers I was about to take.

  “I said, excuse me, ma’am,” the deep voice boomed behind me again, “but is your name Nicki Minaj?”

  I spun around so fast my pink-and-blond Chinese bangs swished across my forehead. I eyeballed the hand that was still gripping my shoulder. It sported a five-thousand-dollar platinum Versace ring on the pinkie finger, and I’d seen that fourteen-thousand-dollar Rolex Prince Cellini on sale at a jewelry store on Broadway.

  “Oh! My bad.” Dude busted a grin as he checked me out. I was styling pussy-pink from the top of my Glama-Glo wig all the way down to my toenails, and it was real obvious that he was feeling my flow. “You look just like Mizz Minaj from the back, but you’re even finer than she is in the face.”

  I stunted on him. I was a con-mami, a pole dancer, and under the right circumstances I could be a big-ass thief. A chick like me had ninety-nine hustles but a rap star wasn’t one of ’em.

  I breathed a sigh of relief as I checked him out right back. Dude was handling his. He had pretty brown skin and real white teeth.
His dome was freshly-lined and he stood at least six-five.

  My eyes rolled over his gear as I added up his digits. Chocolate-brown Polo shirt, baggy jeans, Cool Grey Jordans. Uh-huh. He was thuggin’ it and I was lovin’ it. Papa was stackin’ some real mean paper and he wasn’t shy about flossin’ it. I could almost see the fat money knots swelling up in his pockets and the hard piece of wood that was starting to rock up in his drawers too.

  “I’m serious.” He grinned again and hit me with his dimples. “I didn’t mean no disrespect, shawty. You just look so damn fly, so damn ... New York. For real. My bad.”

  His mistake was understandable because my shit was put together super-tight. I was rocking Fendi from my diamond-trimmed pink shades down to my tight pink miniskirt. My jewelry was pink mother-of-pearls from Tiffany’s, and my pink-polished toenails looked nice and suckable in my peep-toe heels.

  “No problem.” I grinned and played it sexy-classy. “Men take me for Nicki Minaj all the time.”

  “Hell, yeah, with that kinda body I bet the fuck they do,” he growled. His voice was full of mad appreciation as he introduced himself. “My name is Dajuan,” he said. “Dajuan Latrell Sullivan. What’s yours?”

  “They call me Tasha,” I lied, sliding my shades off so he could peep my hazel eyes. “Tasha Pierce.”

  “Look, I don’t mean to come at you, Tasha, but I’m just visiting here tonight. Me and my brother own a club in Philly and we’re thinking about opening up a joint around here pretty soon too. You look like you know this city. Can I buy you a drink so we can kick it for a while?”

  A businessman? A club owner? I was definitely down for that!

  “Nah, I don’t think so,” I fronted. “I don’t drink with strange dudes. For all I know you could be the Harlem River Strangler.”

  He laughed and pulled out a business card. “I’m a balla, not a killer,” he said, passing it to me. “That’s real talk. Look, I ain’t tryna push up on you, I just want some good conversation, that’s all. I ain’t askin’ you for no lap dance or nothing like that. I got a nice little spot over in the VIP joint, and we can have a few drinks together and then I’ll have my driver drop you off anywhere you wanna go. You feelin’ that?”

  “Your driver?” I played him off, but I had never been the type to turn my back on a knockin’ opportunity.

  He looked through the glass doors and pointed toward the corner where a shiny black limo was parked right at the curb. An old white man was sitting behind the wheel, and when Dajuan waved at him the old man smiled and waved back.

  I glanced down at his business card. The lights in the club were pretty dim, but I could tell it was made of thick, cream-colored card stock with heavy gold trim. The initials D.L.S. were scripted and embossed in large red letters, and a bunch of other words were printed on it real small.

  That right there did it. I felt a rush coming on. God, I loved this fuckin’ hustle! Hoodwinking niggas felt as good as the first hit on a crack pipe, and I had to stop myself from squealing with excitement. This Philly fool was gwapped out. Swimming in cream! Did I wanna sit in his VIP booth and have a drink with him? Did a wino piss on the stairs?

  I shook my head again. I was wide open but I still had a role to play.

  “Nah, I can’t. I got other plans for tonight.”

  I was praying he’d push up on me just one more time, ’cause I could tell his deep-ass pockets were dying to get tricked out.

  “So that’s how y’all treat company around here? A Philly nigga can’t get no Big Apple love?”

  My bag was already full of dough, but a hustlin’ chick like me was always good for one more con. I did the math in my head as I let Dajuan hold me by my waist and lead me back through the crowd. I was in debt with some real dangerous cats for some real crazy cash, and this was gonna be a great opportunity to get my weight up. Between his watch and his ring alone I could probably rack up at least ten grand at the pawnshop around the corner.

  I switched my plump apple ass toward the VIP booth while Dajuan walked behind me watching it move. He seemed like an all right cat, but he was on the young side too. He was fine, but he didn’t look like no genius. I was planning on getting his horny ass naked and doing a quick little dip and zip. Peaches and Bunni were expecting me to show up at the crib soon, and I figured I could lure Dajuan into the hotel next door and get the whole bizz over and done with in less than an hour.

  I slid into the VIP booth just a’ crackin’ up inside. Somebody’s mama shoulda warned him about pickin’ up strangers ’cause this was about to be a mismatch. But what the hell ever! Niggas these days were just beggin’ to get got, and even with a pocketbook full of cash I could always find time to roll an unsuspecting mark with nothing but pussy on his brain!

  CHAPTER 2

  We sat in the VIP booth sipping on tall glasses of Red Devil that Dajuan had ordered for us. The Friday-nite special at Woods was always a fifty percent off club-wide affair. That meant half off for lap dances, hand-jobs, and mixed drinks too. The VIP area was crowded and noisy, and I was steady schemin’ on Dajuan’s jewelry as we drank and flirted back and forth and talked sexy shit.

  I was a girly-girl from head to toe. I sat there looking like a strawberry milkshake with a nipple on the top. My frame was banging. My titties was puffed up and bulging outta the top of my jacket, and my body gave off that fuck-a-licious scent that men picked up on right away.

  Dajuan was no exception. I had him wide open and right where I wanted him. He could hardly keep his eyes on my face because they were so busy rolling all over my body and peeling off my clothes.

  I threw my femininity down hard on his ass. I crossed my legs and struck a dainty pose on the stool and ran my tongue over my straw as I sipped my syrupy-sweet mixed drink. I didn’t give a damn how fine this nigga was, my focus was strictly on getting next to his shine, and while there was a whole lotta hot, horny lust in his eyes, there were nothing but mad dollar signs in mine.

  Dajuan was telling me all about the club he owned in Philly and how Club Wood was all good, but if he opened a joint in the city he would do his set up a whole lot different. He went all into where he would place his stage, his bar, and post up his security. He told me how many chicks would be grindin’ on his poles at one time, how much he would charge for drinks, and all that kinda bullshit. I could tell he was young and optimistic so I let him blab, but all that mess he was talking sounded like a pipe dream to me.

  Blah-blah-blah. His sexy eyes moved like pinballs as he ran his mouth non-stop. Bing! Bing! Bing! They ricocheted off my banana-colored curves as he damn-near drooled over my nipples as they poked through my top. Ten minutes later Dajuan ordered us another round of drinks and his wack-ass convo had moved on from his future titty-bar to some of the hot record executives he was down with.

  My ears perked up when I heard that, and I opened my mouth to ask him who he fucked with, but instead a huge yawn came out. I blinked my eyes real fast. Dajuan’s lips were steady moving, but now I could barely follow him. That Red Devil shit had me buzzin’ and feeling kinda tipsy. I felt like I was losing focus and slidin’ off my game.

  “So what do you do?” Dajuan asked me. “I mean, you’re fine as hell, Tasha Fierce. Sexy as fuck. I’m not tryna be slick with it or nothing, but if I had to guess what you did for a living I’d say you were probably a high-powered model. I mean, look at you. You could be some kind of fashion designer.”

  I laughed real loud. This nigga just didn’t know! Ms. Mink LaRue told lies for a living, and I was damn good at it too.

  “Yeah okay, whatever!” I said. “I mean, I thought about becoming a model at one time, but I got way too much ass to squeeze into them tiny little clothes so I changed my mind.”

  “Yeah, you holding it down back there, baby.” He was straight-up impressed. “I mean you sittin’ on at least ten pounds of ass in each cheek right there. But”—his voice dipped real low and all of a sudden my mouth started watering and this nigga looked sexy as hell—“I
can also picture you being a hot star in the adult sex industry. You know, one of those amazing big-booty chicks you see on the cover of joints like King magazine and XXL. I’m just saying ... and no, I ain’t no agent or nothing like that, but you just have that type of body, that’s all. I mean it as a compliment.”

  Wasn’t no need in checking him. I knew I had a prime package and I wasn’t offended in the least. Dajuan was right on point with all that. I had taken my share of ass-shots over the years, and if the money was right and XXL or one of them type of mags came calling I would toot it up for the cameras over and over again.

  “But for real though, you prolly should try to get an agent,” Dajuan suggested. “You’re just so amazingly sexy. A chick like you would be a breakout in the film business. I know Nicki got the rap game on lock, but can you act?”

  Could I act? I laughed so damn hard I almost threw myself off the freakin’ barstool. My head was spinning and I knew for sure I was slippin’ now, but I couldn’t help myself. All of a sudden I felt real hot and free. Like I wanted to take my jacket off and let my titties get some air. I was turned the fuck on too, like I had guzzled a whole gallon of slut juice.