by N'Tyse
Chyna rescued Fantasy when nobody else would. She snatched her out of a rugged lifestyle and introduced her to a better one. One that paid real money and offered benefits. Chyna pulled up in a Jaguar one late Wednesday evening and asked Fantasy if she wanted to turn that chump change she was making into fivethousand-dollar paydays. Being the loyal ho she was, up until then, she only gave enough info to qualify herself as a player in Chyna’s league, fearing that if it got back to her pimp, she’d be rotting by morning.
The very next day, her pimp was dismissing her cold. Chyna told Fantasy she had paid Big Benz off to clear her debt with him. So that meant she was free to walk and serve under Chyna’s reign.
Fantasy found out that very same night that Benz was found dead in his green Cadillac with half his brains blown out. Some said it was a dispute between him and a few rough necks in the hood while others believed one of his hos did him in. Fantasy didn’t care because all that mattered was that the motherfucka was history and he would no longer be abusing her. She never questioned if Chyna had any association to his murder. She was just happy to be free. But while she was free from Benz, Fantasy had no idea she had walked into something potentially more dangerous. It would only take her a few short weeks to figure out that Chyna wasn’t just another young ruthless hood legend, but also the niece of a drug lord with a notorious vendetta.
After proving her dedication to Chyna, it wasn’t long before Fantasy was being crowned wifey. That title established her and made her a superior above the rest. Every woman in the house knew automatically who had permanent keeps. And Fantasy played her position so well that the girls flocked to her when they were too afraid to go to Chyna if they didn’t make their minimums, which was nothing short of a grand.
Fantasy’s relationship with the girls was solid. She took care of them, coached them and made them believe she was on their side in order to keep everything in Chyna’s eyesight. She earned their respect only because she gave them the game that they couldn’t get anywhere else for free. She kept them fly so they were always dipped in the latest designer fashions from head to heel. And every now and then, they’d all get together and go out for extravagant dinner parties so the girls would feel like one big happy family. And of course, Fantasy played favorites. But she still tried her best to keep them all under her nose because when it came down to Chyna’s money, there wasn’t a bitch in the world worth dying for.
Fantasy headed for the downstairs bedroom where she and Chyna slept, but not before warning the girls of the destruction yet to come. Her thickness moved with her graciously across the second floor of the mansion as she tightly held the money bag with all the cash the strollers pulled in from their Friday night regulars.
“Chyna on her way! If you ain’t got dates tonight, you better go walk the stroll, ’cause if you know like I know,” she paused, “it’s about to be some shit up in here!” she announced. She passed the four rooms closest to the stairwell, peeking inside every last one of them. “I’ll see y’all bitches in the morning,” she hollered to the remaining few that chose to sit around in their rooms, polishing their toenails and gossiping about the crazy run-ins that night.
Making her way back to the room that Ty, Peaches, and Illusion all occupied, “Oh and Ty,” she said matter of factly, “Chyna said shut the hell up and quit whining ’cause ya got your ass whooped,” she teased, showing hardly any sympathy. Truth be told, she couldn’t stand Ty or the ground her flat-footed ass walked on. Because Ty was the youngest in the house, barely eighteen, she felt like she had to prove something to everybody. Fantasy made it a point to let Ty learn the hard way. All the women in the house paid their dues and earned their stay under Chyna’s roof. If Ty wanted to walk around like she couldn’t be touched, parading and carrying on like her pussy was golden because she was still young and tight, then Fantasy would let her believe that shit. By the time Chyna was done with her, she’d be begging for somebody to pull out a needle and thread to sew her stuff back together.
Ty was left to nurse her cuts and bruises alone. She yelled obscenities at the mirror while she wiped away the crusted and dripping blood that trickled down her face and neck. Even her swollen top lip was split wide open. She pulled the handheld mirror closer. Her right eye was nearly closed shut. She tried to open it, but the pain was so excruciating that she gave up. This shit ain’t over, Illusion. You just wait and see.
Calling the room again, Chyna wondered who Sand could have been on the other line with this late. There was still no answer after several tries and it was beginning to piss her off. She tossed the cell in the passenger seat, spinning a full u-turn back to where her and Sand had been laying low for the past couple of months. While Chyna had eyes on the streets, in the clubs, and back at the house, no one was watching Sand. That was a separate issue she chose to handle personally.
The day Chyna walked in on her mother’s dead body was the day a part of her also died. Someone had taken away the only person who ever meant anything to her. It was that day that she sold her soul to the devil. Chyna had turned into someone else that day. She became this heartless person who didn’t care about anyone but herself. As she got older, she terminated anyone that stood in her way of getting what she wanted. Just like her mother, money was her motivator. But unlike her mother, she’d be damned if she sold her own pussy to get it, not when there were always so many others ready and willing to do it.
Chyna’s mother worked the tricks like she worked her hair when she needed it just right. That bounce or that curl had to be perfect, not a strand out of place. She would freshen up, slip into something provocatively sexy, throw on a Marvin Gaye album, light a few sweet-scented candles, and then wait for the doorbell to their two-bedroom duplex to ring. She and Chyna had lived in the unit for years, ever since the rent man who’d leased out the place offered her discounted rent on account of it being in one of the worst crime-ridden neighborhoods in South Dallas. He was never really able to rent or sell the property for that reason alone. So when her mother came along and offered him a deal he couldn’t refuse, he handed her the keys, accepting her deposit and first month’s rent in the form of sexual favors until she could establish herself a source of income.
Chyna’s mother made sure her daughter was fast asleep before letting her sugar daddies inside. There was no way in hell her baby girl would ever know, if she could help it, how her mother earned a living. How she paid their bills was grown folks’ business. But sooner than later, Chyna became inquisitive about her mother’s male friends, as well as the nickname she’d heard them call her in the middle of the night. And sometimes it didn’t matter where they were, grocery store, church or school function, they’d stop her mother and whisper just enough to get her to squealing and carrying on, then they’d wind up at their house later that night, in her mother’s bed. Chyna could hear everything through those cheap walls, more than her mother ever knew.
Chyna’s friends teased her constantly at school, cracking jokes about how her mama was the sidewalk of everybody’s neighborhood. At first the jokes made no sense, and then they became clear once she sat down and pulled it together for herself. Her mother was a whore! She was selling herself for money and everybody knew it except for Chyna. But all that ho’ing and putting in overtime came to a tragic end the day Chyna got home from school and found her mother’s bedroom door wide open, and her mother’s naked body sprawled across the bed with a black garbage bag covering her face. It was the first time she’d seen her mother helpless without an ounce of fight in her.
After her mother’s death, fifteen-year-old Chyna fled, refusing to be taken into the legal system. As the streets called, she greeted them with a handshake. They took care of her, introducing her to a newer reality. The one her mother tried to keep hidden from her.
Shortly after spending what felt like a lifetime on the run, Chyna began asking folks in the hood if they knew anyone by the name of D’Troy. As luck would have it, D’Troy was an established household name on the s
treets. Everybody who fucked around knew who he was or knew someone who did. D’Troy was her mother’s only sibling and the eldest of the two. Chyna heard her mother mention him a few times but never enough to indicate that they were close at any point. Regardless of the relationship he had with her mother, Chyna knew D’Troy was the only person she could turn to because he was the only real family she had left.
Her mother hardly ever went around her own brother and after moving in with him, Chyna believed she knew why. People in his hood referred to him as Killer-D, the ice-cream man. The women who walked the street corners knew him as their pimp.
Her mother and D’Troy were from two different worlds but still apples under the same hopeless tree. It was rumored that D’Troy made millions of dollars operating out of a single story apartment selling crack-cocaine, weed, and hookers. But Chyna couldn’t tell he was at millionaire status by the looks of the dump where he lived. Spice 1 pumped out gutter rap lyrics through the worn out, makeshift speakers hanging on the living room walls by nails and wire hangers. Baby bottles topped off with a concoction of cold syrup and codeine, crushed beer cans, empty baby food jars, baking soda, razor blades, scales, foil and freezer bags cluttered just the tabletops of D’Troy’s operation, right next to bowls of weed and empty cereal boxes that stored most of the working supplies. Base heads would beat at the door all times of night, hoping to score some dope or establish themselves a layaway plan. The few workers D’Troy did have grinding for him would also come by a countless number of times to re-up on product or make a drop. They’d come in empty handed and leave with a loaded box of Lucky Charms, Cheerios, or Frosted Flakes, holding enough work to last them a week. And the women D’Troy permitted to enter his domain, rolled through it like a Soul Train line—dropping payment, scoring, and sometimes doing both. It was a trap—a trap to make money and a trap to lose it if the wrong person stepped foot inside.
It wasn’t long before D’Troy was getting word from one of his insiders that his name was dropped in a routine drug bust as being the supplier. He knew then his entire operation was at stake. Chyna, his confidant, became the only woman he ever allowed to eat, sleep, and shit on his dime. She watched him run his enterprise for three years, learning every aspect of it from the supply and demand of the dirty snow to the prostitution ring he clandestinely led with more customers than the Million Man March. D’Troy knew that if Chyna was her mother’s daughter, he wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. He trusted her to manage and oversee all his dealings just as if they were her own. He had taken his niece under his wing when she needed him, and now it was time for her to take him under hers.
Just days from Chyna turning eighteen, D’Troy immediately transferred all local and offshore bank accounts, business ties and commercial real estate he owned or partnered with, into her name. He even turned over the deeds to both houses he purchased only a year prior. And before the Feds could come kicking in his door, D’Troy called up Albery Johnson, the lawyer he’d been paying in advance for well over six years to prepare him for the day he got knocked. Little did D’Troy know, Albery was not only a dirty lawyer that specialized in shady business, but he was also a sellout. When Albery found out all the charges D’Troy was facing, he knew he could have gotten him off on a lighter sentence, a sentence other than life. But instead of paying people off, he sold the case, putting D’Troy in the mouths of the wolves that wanted him off the streets—forever.
While Albery believed he was walking away scot-free, he had no idea D’Troy had inherited a business partner along the way. What he also didn’t know was that the day he sold the Donald Troy Wilson case, his life, just like his defendant’s, had been traded. Albery had a rope hanging over his head so thick, and Chyna, on the other end, was itching to pull it.
Turning into the Super 8 parking lot, Chyna decided to try the room again. This time the phone rang without being redirected back to the operator. On the third ring, Sand picked up.
“Yeah,” she answered dryly, already knowing who the call was coming from without having to read the caller ID display.
“So, you’re awake?”
“Tsk. Well, it ain’t like I’m getting much sleep lately,” she answered sarcastically.
Sand’s sour attitude didn’t surprise Chyna at all. She held the phone as close to her ears as it could go. She listened for any other voices in the background. All she could hear faintly was the television. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Well, why don’t you come on down? We’re staying at the house tonight,” she informed Sand.
“I thought we were chillin’ here for a minute.”
“That situation has been handled. I got the all-clear on that earlier today,” Chyna interrupted, referring to the detective who had been following them around. That was all Sand needed to know. “In the meantime, I have an issue back at the house I need to deal with. I’m waiting out in the car, so make it quick.” She didn’t allow time for Sand to reply, only pressed the end button. Chyna could feel herself losing control and she didn’t like that shit. It seemed everyone needed a reminder of who she was, and she wanted Sand to be there to witness it, just in case the thought of pulling a fast one ever crossed her mind.
Chyna adjusted her rearview mirror. She caught a glimpse of herself. She was strikingly beautiful, just like her mother had been. Her smooth ginger-baked complexion, lightly blushed cheek bones, and jet black slanted eyes, earned her compliments from both men and women who assumed she was biracial. Her curled lashes were so long and naturally defined that she never needed mascara or any makeup to enhance her beauty because she looked perfectly fine without it. Her mother would always joke and say, “You’re mama’s lil Black-Chinese porcelain doll.”
Chyna rubbed her temples. Her shiny lips, noticeably plump. From top to bottom she had sexy written all over her. She was not the average five foot eleven and a half woman. She rocked a coke bottle figure with enough breasts and ass to lend generations to come. She even wondered herself sometimes how she managed to be so blessed with a body that most women would kill for and every man desired.
She studied herself in the mirror. It was time to put her game face back on. She relaxed her thoughts, reassuring herself that she was in control. This was her court. She called the shots. And it was about time motherfuckas recognized that.
Ta … ta … ta … Sand tapped on the window. Chyna had the engine still running and her worn out wipers were singing a tune of their own. She unlocked the passenger door.
“Shit, it’s cold out here,” Sand complained as she flopped down in the seat of Chyna’s vanilla-pearl Lexus, tossing her bag of clothes behind her.
Chyna ignored her comment. There was other shit running through her mind. She stared straight ahead, the car still in park. “Who were you on the phone with?” She squinted her eyes, observing the different vehicles that pulled in and out of the motel’s parking lot.
Sand blew into her hands and rubbed them together in an attempt to get warm. “I don’t know what you talkin’ about,” she said.
Chyna tilted her head sideways. She stared deeply at Sand, studied her for the right answer, a better answer other than the one she was getting. Her danger-filled eyes warned Sand that she wasn’t in the mood for games. “I called. The line to the room was busy.” She stopped, raised her brow some. “So you might wanna tell me who you were on the phone with.” There was a hesitating moment of nothing. “My customer’s profiles are strictly confidential and I believe we’ve already had this conversation,” Chyna reiterated to Sand. She already knew that Sand hadn’t compromised her client’s profiles, but she threw the fish out there anyways. She wanted to know if Sand had spoken to one individual in particular and that’s all she cared about at the moment.
Sand finally said something. “I was just checking in on some things. You know, making sure Sabrina and Angel made it to the spot okay.”
Chyna suppressed her laugh. She could smell bullshit, taste bullshit, and hear bullshit, so Sand was pushing her luck. Fant
asy was in charge of all the check-ins, and the last time she checked, Sabrina and Peaches were the ones working the call because Angel had a special request ticket with another private client in Las Vegas. By now, she was laid up in the Bellagio, escorting a highly favored city councilman to his own pre-Christmas party. Chyna’s teeth slid over her bottom lip. “Humph. Really? So I guess everything was fine?”
Sand’s eyes were locked on Chyna’s. “Yeah, everything straight. They made it.” The menacing stare Chyna gave Sand was intimidating but Sand knew underneath her clothing, was still a pussy, and because of that, she wasn’t threatened, at least not now. She sucked the pizza sauce off her teeth. “You asked me to handle business and that’s what I’m tryna do. I’m handling it so I can be done with this. Get back to doing me,” she stated.
Chyna admired Sand’s wit and bravery for trying to play her the way she felt that she might have been doing. She found the entire performance amusing, but worthless. Chyna returned her attention back to the road then roughly shoved the stick into drive. “By the way, when’s the last time you spoke to your girlfriend, Rene?” she asked snidely, getting down to the real question at hand.
Chyna glanced over her shoulder at her passenger. She was handsome and the color she wore complimented her best. A solid red polo sweater, starched black jeans, black high-top Air Force One’s, and a red baseball cap with a bold black S, embroidered in the center. Her biracial genes giving her a smooth sandy-red complexion that won over plenty of hot chicks. Women would practically throw themselves at Sand. Gay, straight, bisexual, young and old. It didn’t matter. They would serve their pussy on a silver platter and feed it to her with chopsticks, if they could. Sand was suave, that much Chyna would admit. Even more now with her hair cut low and faded, bringing out the tomboi in her stud appeal. The long braids she once had were all gone. But in conjunction with her fine looks and boyish swagger, it was obvious Sand needed a recap of whose ship she’d sailed in on.
