by Cash
He had rented a storage unit early that morning after leaving the motel, stashed the money and cocaine there, and went home. He had left the Ford Explorer parked at the crib and was now in his black 2002 Corvette ‘vert; top down, T.I.’s “Urban Legend” thumpin’ loud; rims spinning when he braked and put the whip in park.
Q was .38 hot over Lamar’s sudden disappearing act. Lamar had promised earlier in the week to pay his debt. “I gotcha, pimpin’”, but as of yet the lil’ scrawny ass nigga hadn’t paid Q a dime. That’s why I hate dealing with Corlette’s people; there’s always some bullshit in the game when I fuck wit’ this hoe’s grimy ass fam! If Lamar ain’t got my bread when I catch up wit’ him, I’ma make his ass a mafuckin’ statistic! Q vented as he pulled up to a trap house where Lamar, sometimes pushed work.
The niggaz outside said they hadn’t seen Lamar in more than a week. Sensing that they were lying, Q pushed on. He stopped a few blocks away and paid a smoker to go back to the trap house and see if Lamar was inside.
Twenty minutes later the smoker still hadn’t returned. Had Q not been so pissed already he would’ve laughed at himself for having paid a crackhead bitch before she’d completed an errand. Having dealt with crack fiends many times, he knew that the only thing a smoker could be counted on to do was smoke dope and fuck up. Q couldn’t believe he had allowed a crackhead bitch to play him. Just when he was about to drive off, the smoker returned to his car. He shook his head at the sight of her size 8 squeezed into a pair of coochie cutter shorts that would’ve been too small even if she were a size 5. The bitch looked real stank.
“Lamar wasn’t in there, baby,” the smoker lied, pressing her musty ass titties all up in Q’s face as she leaned inside his whip. Lamar had broke her off a nice size piece of crack to go back and tell Q that he wasn’t inside. So, the slick bitch got paid from both ends. Q was too heated to peep game. As he pulled off he was fuming. Lamar’s bitch ass gon’ make me dead him!
He had told Lamar before fronting him the eighteen ounces, “Look, shawdy—I really don’t fuck wit’ you like this. You already owe me from the last time I fucked wit’ you.”
“Damn, Big Dog,” Lamar popped, “I don’t owe you but a stack. You wipe ya ass with that.” Tryna stroke Q’s ego.
“Fuck all dat. I still wants mine,” Q had stressed.
“I’ma get you yours, Big Pimp,” promised Lamar. “Shid, my nigga, if you hit me off with eighteen of them guys, a nigga will have room to pay you and get his swerve on. Last time you fucked with me, you only gave me fo’ and a baby. I ain’t have room to do my thing.”
Lamar had been fast-talking, dick riding—the whole nine, anything to convince Q to front him the work. Q should’ve known from past experiences that if you allowed a nigga to short you money once, and didn’t tap that head, he’d try you up a second time. Corlette, who was Q’s little Keyshia Cole-looking shawdy on the side, had warned him not to fuck with her lil’ cousin. Lamar was a good hustla, to be only sixteen years old but the boy loved to floss, gamble, and trick off even more than he liked to grind.
By the time Q drove over to Thomasville Heights and pulled up in front of Corlette’s apartment his mouth was a tight line. Corlette’s fam was testing his get down.
“I warned you not to front Lamar no work,” Corlette said sitting on Q’s lap on her living room couch.
Q would deny it, but he still faulted her. It seemed that Corlette had been nothing, but bad luck and an additional expense ever since he started hittin’ that. What had begun as just a fuck thing had somehow turned into her about to become his baby mama. Last week she had found out that she was eight weeks pregnant. Q was catching hell hiding it from Persia because Corlette was constantly blowing up his phone. Now that she was carrying his seed she was off the meat rack.
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Dealing with Corlette was problem enough but, Corlette’s begging ass mama was forever hittin’ him up for a grip. Shawdy’s whole fam was becoming one big ass burden. When Q first started hittin’ it, Corlette had served a purpose beyond giving him good pussy. He would stash work at her spot and occasionally have her to drop off a little weight to certain clientele. That was graveyard dead now. Corlette had gotten pulled over in the Kia Sportage that Q had copped for her and the po-po found four and a half ounces of crack in her possession. Now she was out on bond awaiting trial or an agreeable plea deal after being arrested and charged with drug trafficking. So now she had to play the sideline.
Corlette did bring something else to the table in addition to her being a rider and having the body of a video vixen; she could be trusted to keep the coochie on lock when Q wasn’t around. Corlette knew about Q’s wifey and played her position behind her. The one thing that Q didn’t like about the way she dealt with the situation, though, was that Corlette seemed to always be trying to make sure that he did as much for her as he did for Persia. Trying to take care of Corlette, her thirsty ass mama, and keep high maintenance Persia happy was the main reason Q’s bank never matched his shine.
While Q was pondering his situation, Corlette was fumbling with the zipper of his Rocawear jeans, nibbling on his neck.
“Chill, shawdy. I’m not in the mood for that shit; it’s too mafuckin’ hot. Plus, I got a lot on my mind.” He removed her hands from his crotch.
“You’re not ever in the mood lately! I bet you don’t be telling that bitch, Persia, that you’re not in the mood.”
“Shawdy, miss me with the drama!” Q pushed her off his lap, got up, and zipped his jeans back up. “Tell ya lil’ bitch ass cousin he better handle his business before I make him a front-page story,” he said walking out of the apartment and slamming the screen door behind him.
Corlette snatched the screen door open and yelled, “Nigga, while you acting like you don’t have no time for a bitch, you need to know your dick is not the only one that can slide up in my shit. Trust!”
Walking to his whip Q heard that fly shit Corlette hurled at him, but he wasn’t stressing; he knew that Corlette was frontin’. Shawdy had mad love for him and would not violate like that. Besides, he had bigger worries on his mind than worrying about her giving another nigga some pussy.
Q’s cell phone rang as he pulled off promising himself that he would hit Corlette up later and make up with her.
“Sup?” he answered the call.
“Khalil is on the line,” said Persia dryly.
“What it do, bruh?” asked Q, brightening up. He was always happy to hear from his fam.
“I’m good. What about you?”
“Tryna get at this money out here and keep the haters off me.”
“I heard that,” replied Khalil. Then a pregnant silence told him that Q didn’t really want to chop it up with Persia listening in on their conversation. “You want me to hit you up later?” asked Khalil.
“Yeah, I’ll be at the crib in an hour.”
“Aight.”
“Oh, I’ma shoot you a coupla stacks while I’m out in traffic today,” said Q.
“Shawdy, I touch down in sixty-two days and a wake-up, what I need with two stacks up in here? I got plenty commissary already and my account is still on swole with that last grip you sent me. Just put those two stacks up so I’ll have ‘em on deck when I come home,” suggested Khalil.
“Fuck dat, I’ma gone shoot it to you anyway. Don’t worry about when you touch down. . . I gotcha.”
“Oh, you got it poppin’ like that?”
“You better know it,” boasted Q.
When Khalil’s fifteen minutes were up and the prison phone automatically ended the call, Persia cleared the line then clicked back over to Q.
“I thought your pockets wasn’t right? Lying ass nigga! How are you gon’ send Khalil two-fuckin-thousand dollars in muthafuckin’ prison and cry broke when I ask for something?”
“Like I told you before, the bid Khalil is doing was supposed to be mine; he took the charge for me. So shut the fuck up,” he shot back then hung up on her ass.
An hour later Q pulled up in front of his condo. Fazio and two Mexicans rockin’ bald- heads were waiting for him.
Chapter Five
Khalil Jones!” Officer Wells called out in the dorm, reading the name of the inmates the letter was addressed to. It was mail call time, the only time of day a brutha on locks looked forward to other than visitation and his release day.
Khalil didn’t go down to the big floor area where Officer Wells stood passing out mail; he wanted her to have to deliver his mail to his cell on the second range. From the doorway of his cell he eyed Rayne appreciatively. Her toned down beauty and athletic body couldn’t hide behind her quiet demeanor or up under the ill-fitting uniform, and the ever-present windbreaker she wore tied around her waist to cover her shapely ass so as not to entice the inmates. He knew that she was a dime waiting to be shined up by the right man. “Rayne, we’re gonna brighten up each other’s lives,” he whispered under his breath.
Her mother named her “Rayne” because twenty-three years ago, when she was born, it had been pouring down outside. Rayne’s mother, at least, had been thoughtful enough to use some creativity with the spelling of her name. Rayne thanked her for that. None of the inmates besides Khalil knew her first name. Khalil knew it because she and him had a little sumpthin’ sumpthin’ going on.
Autry State Prison, in Pelham, Georgia, where Khalil was serving his bid, employed both male and female correction officers. With there being numerous young female C.O.’s working at the all-male prison, it made it possible for a nigga to still get his dick wet, even though he was locked up. Of course, relationships between inmates and staff were prohibited. It was only natural that more than a few female C.O.’s were attracted to certain inmates. Autry wasn’t the type of violent prison often depicted in Hollywood movies. Being that it was prison, violence could occur at any moment, but it was basically a laid back atmosphere.
What made it difficult for an inmate to get at a female C.O., even when she was choosing him, was the many haters and snitches that were always hovering around with camcorder-like eyes and repeat-it-all tongues. They were quick to drop a kite to the administration, on the DL, busting’ out the prohibited affair. Then there were the “jackets”; mafuckers who crept around tryna sweat the female C.O.’s, and masturbate when she turned her head. A few freak C.O.’s liked to see the dick.
Finally, there was the male C.O.’s. They were mostly lames acting tough behind a uniform and a badge. These bitch niggaz were forever blocking a playa’s come up on a broad.
Most of the women that worked at Autry State Prison were bad body country hos from Pelham and other areas close by. Naïve wowen who were ripe for a slick nigga’s game.
Khalil had gotten his fuck on with a counselor named Miss Chambers shortly after being sent to Autry. But she wasn’t coming off of no guap, and Khalil wasn’t about to keep on dicking the bitch for free. Even though he was locked up, the game didn’t stop; it remained pimp or die.
After Counselor Chambers left to work at another prison Khalil couldn’t seem to bag another dime. Anyway, he felt, most of the shawdies in uniform and badge were fat, out of shape, country ass rats who tried to act like they were all that because niggaz stayed drooling over them. Khalil knew that if he was to see those same nothing-ass chicks on the turf, he wouldn’t give those jump offs a second glance. So he didn’t drool over ‘em now.
Officer Rayne Wells was a bit of a different story, though. Shawdy had a smooth pecan tan complexion and a scrumptious body! She reminded Khalil of that chick, Free, the ex-host of BET’s “106 and Park”. Unlike many of the female correction officers at Autry, she always came to work in a crisp uniform, her hairstyle tight, nails manicured and polished, and lips glossed. She had a runway model’s walk, and the perfume she wore made a nigga long to hold her in his arms.
C.O. Wells wasn’t a flirt or a tease, though. Her femininity was all natural. She was good people; who would hold a conversation with an inmate as long as he didn’t try to get too personal or come out his mouth to her sideways. If an inmate stepped to her with some dumb shit, or exposed his dick to her, she’d cut him short and would never hold a conversation with him again.
Otherwise, Rayne had some compassion for a brotha’s situation; just not to the point that it made her gullible to game. She could feel a nigga but she wasn’t trying to hook up with no inmate. Khalil Jones was different story.
Khalil’s lame ass celly was out of the cell when Officer Wells brought Khalil his mail.
“What’s up, Baby Love?” said Khalil in a whisper as he accepted three letters from her.
“Hi, Khalil.” She, too, kept her voice low, mindful of big-earred snitches. When other inmates or officers were around she addressed Khalil as Inmate Jones.
“You plan on sleeping all day?” she asked in her sweet, sing-song voice. She hadn’t seen Khalil outside his cell since she came on shift at 2 p.m. Her inexpensive watch now read 4:30.
“I was dreaming about you,” Khalil said, licking his lips.
“I thought you told me you keep it real? That sounds like a game to me.”
“Everything I say sounds like game to you,” countered Khalil. “That’s because you’re game-scared, shawdy. But a nigga ain’t always blowing smoke up ya ass; sometimes I speak from the heart.”
“If you would always speak from the heart I wouldn’t have to figure out when you’re lying,” replied Rayne reproachfully.
“I never lie, Baby Love,—not unless the truth will get me convicted or killed.”
“If I had a nickel for every time a man has told a woman that same lie, I’d be rich,”
“You think I’m like them other niggaz?” Khalil feigned a look of hurt, but Rayne wasn’t falling for it.
“Are you?” she asked, looking him in the eyes.
Before Khalil could verbalize a response, she pushed on, leaving only the scent of her perfume behind.
Khalil watched Rayne as she walked out of his cell. He really wanted to bag shawdy and move her to ATL once his bid was over. She had a quiet style and beauty about her that made him desire her like he had never desired a chic before.
Khalil had cut into Rayne three months ago. He kept himself well-groomed, with a temp fade, light mustache, and naturally thick eyebrows. A thrice-a-week workout kept his six-one, one-hundred-ninety pound frame in delectable condition. He did all that he could to make the prison uniform and brogans* look like Armani on him—he kept his shit creased up. Even on lock Khalil’s swag remained magnetic.
More than a few female C.O.’s whispered, “That’s a fine ass nigga” when Khalil passed by them. Which had been exactly what Rayne was thinking the first day Khalil stepped to her. They didn’t talk too often during the three-day cycles that she worked the dorm he was housed in. Instead, they communicated through letters that Khalil sent to the P.O. Box she had gotten specifically for that purpose. Khalil would address his letters to “Free” or “Baby Love”, pen names he used for Rayne in order to keep their communication secret. When she wrote him back she would use either pen name as the sender’s.
Lying back on his bunk, Khalil saw that one of the three letters was from his brotha Q; one was from “Baby Love”, and the third was from Dana, Khalil’s ex. He tore up Dana’s letter and flushed it down the commode in his cell. Shawdy had gotten saved since Khalil had been away. Now she was trying to turn him into a Christian. Khalil wasn’t feeling that; he would put the original Eve on the ho stroll and mack Mary had he lived in biblical times.
“Fuck Dana,” Khalil said as he sat back down on his bunk and tore open the letter from Baby Love.
Dear Khalil,
I was just thinking about some of the things you said to me in your last letter. You’re making a bunch of promises that you might find hard to keep when you’re released in 58 days (Yes, I’m keeping count). Khalil, I have strong feelings for you that I’m not sure I understand myself. Oh, I understand that I’m attracted to you physically, and that your charisma
intoxicates me at times. But what I don’t understand is why I do feel that I’d be willing to do almost anything for you!
That is what scares me. I don’t like feeling that I can be manipulated by anyone. There are too many stories of good-girl-falls-in-love-with-bad boy that have tragic endings. I’m afraid that might become my fate if we hook up once you’re released. Yet, I’m willing to take a chance.
I’m not saying I don’t trust you. What I don’t trust is those streets that are so much a part of you. Will I be able to pull you from those streets and the fast life? Or will you pull me off into that world? The answer is unknown, and that is what frightens me.
As to the question of whether or not I’ll move to Atlanta to be with you—well, that depends on a lot of things. I’ll tell you this much, though: I don’t want to move up there and get caught up in the fast lane. I’m just a simple country girl. Is that what you really want?
Your Baby Love
Khalil returned the perfumed letter back inside its envelope and spent a few minutes replaying Rayne’s written words. A noise caused Khalil to suddenly look up. Drayton, his celly, came into the cell clutching his ever-present Bible. Khalil had nothing against religion, but niggaz who used religion as a crutch to help them through their bid irritated the fuck out of him. Drayton was that type of fake Christian.
Khalil didn’t even acknowledge his celly’s entrance. In fact, he hardly ever chopped it up with the lame. As long as Drayton gave him his space, Khalil didn’t trip. Continuing to ignore Drayton, Khalil tore open the letter from Q and began reading it.
Whud up, bruh?
Shawdy, in 2 mo’ months you’ll be back out here on the streets. I can’t wait ‘til you touch down, fam. These hos out here are lost; waiting for a mackadocious nigga like you to come lead ‘em. For real, pimp, when you touch down we gon’ rape the game from all angles. You wit’ the hos, B-Man wit’ that steel, and me, ya baby bruh, wit’ da work.
