by Lena Scott
She could feel Omar’s teeth against her tender lips and overly sensitive clit. Finest had worked her muff over, and it hadn’t had much time to recover. She’d sat in the bath for nearly an hour, but nigga had worked his shit. She could only hope Finest hadn’t stretched anything outta shape down there.
After Omar tasted every mole, every hole down there, he would usually have her dance naked to only the rhythm in her head, while he beat his monkey. Sometimes, she would give him a special treat and bend over in front of him, wiggling her hips while looking at him from between her thighs. Once or twice, he creamed right then and there, pulling on his dick so hard, she swore it would come off his body.
Sometimes she would dance, squatting low with her legs wide open, as if she was gonna take a piss. Omar loved that and would dive on the floor underneath her and have her sit on his face, while she swayed her hips back and forth, bouncing up and down on his waiting tongue.
That’s gonna be a workout, she thought now, thinking that this might be one of those times, while she dropped it right in front of him like it was on fire.
Omar grinned at her. He just moved back from her and sat on the sofa jacking off.
After one or two more of her sexy dips and gyrations, she showed off some new moves she’d been working on.
Omar wanted her to climb up on him so he could eat her out and jack off out while he pinched and squeezed her butt.
Surprisingly enough she had a mild orgasm, but that was because Finest was on her mind. Damn, that Finest could eat some pussy, she thought, fighting with all her might not to call out his name, while Omar slurped and goggled at her lower mouth.
Finest had been a mistake, one she didn’t want to think about anymore, not if she wanted to stay out of the ghetto. She had no money, and here it was the eighth of the month and she’d not figured out any other way to get money for Sinclair.
And now she couldn’t even sell what was left of Omar’s blow. She’d snorted most of it, and had big plans to snort all of it. No money, no blow, nothing. That’s what Tanqueray got for fooling with a freak, flag-flying, wannabe drug dealer/bootlegger like Dub Dub. Now she had to figure out how to get some money. Sinclair was counting on her to handle the business at home.
Ohhhh shit! Tanqueray’s mind was brought back from wandering when Omar hit a couple of tender spots with his teeth.
With her cooing and purring right on time, Omar must have believed she was having a good earthquaking orgasm and gave her butt one good slap, as if proud of his performance. He liked to smack her during “intercourse.” Sometimes he got too rough and would slap her face and leave a mark. Pulling off her lower lips, he looked pretty smug.
Tanqueray looked down and noticed his limp dick. He was done. He’d apparently come all by himself, as was common for him.
He pulled on his sweatpants and went in the kitchen. He wiped his mouth with a paper towel and had a shot of bourbon. “So I want you ready at seven,” he finally said in a cool tone. “My client expects us at the party on time.”
“What!” Tanqueray exploded. She pulled her jeans back on, thinking he might have changed his mind about the whole thing—hoping he had.
“You think you got all the shit fo’ free? Bitch, you owe me, and you about to start paying. Yo’ pussy might be golden, but it ain’t gold.”
Within an instant, Omar dispelled any ideas she had about him being an idiot. He was a sly one, and she had just gotten caught in a trap of her own making.
“You think I don’t know you been snortin’ my blow? You don’t think I know you try to sell some?”
“What?”
“You must not know who I am. After all this time, you must not know. Baby, I own the streets, the Palemos, the West End, all the way to Lompoc. Hell, I run the show!” Omar threw back his drink. “And, girl, I will beat your ass if you ever think you can stiff me again. I’d beat it now, but you about to attend a party that’s gonna bring me some money.”
After a long silence, Omar must have realized her resistance. “I’m going with you! You just have to be nice with the white man and, you know, touch him, laugh at his stupid-ass jokes and—”
“Omar, no.” Tanqueray stomped into the bedroom and flopped on the bed.
Omar followed her and turned her around. “Girl, did you not hear me? I own you.”
“You don’t own shit!”
Omar let loose a backhand across Tanqueray’s mouth. He smacked his lips. “I didn’t want to do that. Dammit! Lemme see if you’re bleeding.”
Tanqueray shook her head, but he pulled her hair, forcing her to look up at him. She wasn’t bloody but felt her lips swelling just a bit.
He smiled and kissed her, big and sloppy. He pulled back from the kiss and grinned, wickedly. “Girl, you fine as they come. Got my dick hard again. Shit!”
Tanqueray could tell he wanted sex, and she knew this time he was gonna be rough. He’d tasted a little violence and was getting off on it. Ripping the halter-top from her body, he took one of breasts in his mouth and sucked like a hungry pig, making similar noises.
She was hoping to reason with him. “Omar . . .”
He raised a hand to quiet her. Then he pulled her from her jeans and mounted her, without the customary foreplay or any violence. His crooked member entered her without delay, and within a moment or two, he jerked to a finish, coming inside her, which wasn’t the norm for him. Tanqueray was surprised he’d actually done her like a normal man.
Omar tucked his member into his sweatpants and headed into the walk-in closet.
Stretching her neck to be nosy, she saw the Neiman Marcus box coming from the closet. Curiosity had the better of her now.
“Well, I guess I’ll need to get nasty Shantel in this dress.”
“Wait, Omar.”
“Look at you.” Omar grinned. “You can take a girl out of the ghetto, but then again, did I?”
Tanqueray slid off the silk sheets naked and ran over to the box he’d sat on the large wing chair. She couldn’t keep the giggle from her voice. “Shut the hell up and let me see what’s in the box.”
Tanqueray slowly lowered her arms after the silky red dress fell along her curves. Omar did have good taste, despite his rotten ways. She couldn’t help but be excited to have such an expensive garment on her body. Stroking the fabric, she nearly had an orgasm. Delayed, but what the hell.
“I bought you this special for tonight,” Omar said in her ear. He dropped the small black box to the thick carpet and draped the gold chain over her head from behind.
Gasping, she clawed at the jewels. “Omar, this is da bomb. I can’t believe you are doing all this. I thought you were mad at me.”
Moving in front of her, he held her small waist and kissed her cheek. “How could I stay mad at my girl? Now, girl, you gonna act right tonight?”
“Act right?”
“Yeah, you know, get there and make nice with my client.” Omar grinned.
Tanqueray moved him out of the way enough to see her mirrored reflection. She nodded.
“Good, because this could be our big break, baby, your chance to make it out the ghetto.”
“I don’t live in the ghetto. I live here with you.” Tanqueray smoothed the dress.
“Yeah, well . . .” Omar played with the sparse facial hair on his top lip.
“What does that mean?”
About that time the doorbell rang. Guilt ran across Omar’s face. He pulled Tanqueray by the hand into the living room, but she pulled against him slightly, wanting to know what he meant by his last comment.
Right before reaching the door, Omar stopped and handed her a shoebox. She hadn’t noticed when he’d brought it in earlier, since she was too busy ignoring him. Opening it, Tanqueray opened it and noticed the red slingback Versace’s, last season’s. What the hell! “Omar, what did you mean by that?” she asked, holding his shoulder, slipping her feet into her footwear.
“Nothing, baby. Come on now, you gotta go.” He opened the door.
“Yes, and no. No bags,” Omar answered, sounding bougie and fake.
“Omar, what the hell! I thought this was a party. Aren’t you going?”
“No,” he answered quickly, shoving her matching purse at her and all but pushing her out the door.
Stumbling slightly, Tanqueray looked out to the limo parked in front of the condominium. The tinted back window slowly lowered. The man was white. Of that, she was certain. Rich, she was almost sure. The man nodded slightly and rolled up the window.
The driver then turned to Omar and handed him a small black envelope.
“What’s that?” Tanqueray looked at the fancy black driver. She thought of Omar’s secretive phone conversations. She’d just assumed then that he was handling his pimp business. Oh my God, he was, and those calls involved me! “Omar, what’s going—”
The door slammed.
“Come on, Miss Shantel. Mr. Sinclair is waiting for you.”
“What? Nigga, my name is Tanqueray, and you must be crazy if you think I’m getting in that car. I’m no ho.”
“Whatever. Let’s go.”
The driver took Tanqueray by the arm, but she jerked and pulled, and kicked him in the shin.
“Look, bitch!” he growled in a low voice.
Tanqueray had to assume he wasn’t nothing but a hood figga, all dressed up like another of the white man’s purchases.
“Don’t get yourself beat down in front of your neighbors.”
“Oh no, I won’t. It won’t be me that’s beat up tonight, my nigga.”
“Omar!” The driver looked hatefully at Tanqueray. The door did not open. “Look, my boss paid a small fortune for your services, and Omar promised to deliver. So come on!”
“My services? Omar!” She screamed, pounding like crazy on the door. “Omar, don’t do this!”
The driver pulled at her arm. Suddenly, the horn of the limo sounded, and the driver stopped struggling with her and rushed out to the window.
Tanqueray watched him flailing his arms, apparently explaining the misunderstanding. And, yes, it was a misunderstanding. Whatever deal Omar had made with this man that cost him an envelope of money was sho’ nuff a misunderstanding. It might have paid Omar’s way out of the pimp life, but it was going to cost Tanqueray a trip down “Ho Road,” and she wasn’t planning to go there, not on these terms anyway.
Not that any woman really plans to be a ho. It just sort of happens, Tanqueray figured, but even then, it should happen for a reason of her own making. A woman should only ho for money that’s lining her own pocket. The days of the pimp were fading, and sistas were doing it for themselves, right?
Tanqueray tipped off the steps in the tall stiletto heels and crept across the driveway and around the side of the condo where the trash receptacles were. It led to an alley, where she planned to make her escape.
“Hey!” the driver called, chasing after her.
Tanqueray tripped and fell over the trash cans. She kicked at him, only to have him grab her foot. One of the expensive shoes came off, and unexpectedly, he hit her with it.
“Fucker!” she screamed, aiming straight for his crotch. When he groaned in pain and fell back against another receptacle, she yelled, “You fight like a girl!” climbing to her feet and taking off again.
After a couple of corners, Tanqueray noticed the limo. “He’s still chasing me? Dammmmn!” Tanqueray hiked up the dress, pulled off the other shoe, and moved up her pace. She’d run track in school and still was very agile and athletic in her build. She was one of the fastest girls in her school, and living in the P had only kept her that way, due to her development of sticky fingers. She used to boost from the corner store, filling in the gaps whenever Mama ran short.
“Tomboy this,” she said, laughing out at the people who often bad-mouthed her for not being girlie like Unique. Today those people would be impressed that she still had the speed, without sneakers.
Babies don’t make a woman, she thought now, as she tore down the steps of the closest BART station, clearing the fare bar and sliding onto the first open train. I’m all the damn woman I need to be.
The paying patrons eyed her wickedly, only to receive her middle finger as she moved through the train. She peered out the windows looking for “the Oreo in the penguin suit” chasing her. Never had she made a getaway so clean without BART police catching her. Somebody was on her side tonight.
After a few stops she landed in the Palemos and stepped off the train, still holding the shoe, her hair all over her head, and the dress pretty much ruined. The emotional fight-or-flight response was over. She’d had a moment to calm down. Buckling her lip, Tanqueray refused to cry at her predicament and headed toward Mama’s house.
Turning the corner onto the street she grew up on, the evening air gave off a familiar scent—fire. Somebody must be starting the barbecue early, she reasoned, continuing on her way.
Suddenly the sight hit her belly like a fist from hell. “Where is my mama’s house?” she screamed, facing the burnt heap that was once her home. She could only think she was imagining things. Her head was already pounding, having had the driver beating on it with her own shoe.
“It was a drive-by fo’ yo’ ass!” a neighbor called out in answer to her bellow.
“Drive-by?” Tanqueray’s voice hit an unnatural pitch as she looked over the damage.
“Yeah. But, you know, just shootin’ it up woulda been sufficient,” Mr. Montgomery went on, packing the rest of his things in his truck. His house too was boarded up on one side.
Was he moving or gathering up stuff? Who knew? What had happened on this street?
“Hope ya kept up yo’ premiums ’cuz the insurance company gon’ be out here come Monday aksin’ a lot of questions. And if anythang fishy is going on”—He sliced his hand under his chin—“you can forget having yo’ house rebuilt. White man done already been out there looking, the landlord I reckon.”
“Where’s Sinclair? My God!” Tanqueray was suddenly hit with a reality that terrified her. Her little sister left in her care was nowhere to be found. Maybe, she was dead.
Tanqueray’s mind was soaring now with the crazy thought. She tried to tear open the raggedy, mangled, melted fence. Giving up, she stepped over it, where it was broken down by the firemen.
“She ain’t in that heap, crazy girl. She’s at yo’ otha sista’s. They was just coming up when everything went”—he threw up his hands—“Boom!”
Tanqueray moved her hair out of her face, and the neighbor apparently saw her bruises. “What happena you?”
Dropping her bangs, she again buckled her lips. She wanted to cry out, “Omar tried to sell me off like a slave tonight,” but couldn’t. She couldn’t believe it herself actually. He’d never done anything like that before. Today, their relationship changed. Today she became a prostitute, or at least Omar had given her the job, with him taking on the title of pimp. All she could think about was that nigga in the penguin suit. When he caught her in the alley, he’d taken off her expensive shoe and started hitting her in the face with it, as if pistol-whipping her. No shit. No chaser.
Right now, still wearing the one shoe, she felt like a freaky Cinderella. She only regretted that she didn’t take the time to find the matching pair. They were Versace. But I ain’t never going back, she thought to herself running the craziness through her mind. Omar must be out of his mind!
“Yeah, umm, so, anyway, Mr. Montgomery, I’ma head over to my sister’s place.” Tanqueray pointed in the direction of the West End with the shoe, which she still had in her hand.
Turning to walk away, she heard Mr. Montgomery call out, “You still looking good though, girl, even when you tore up. Umph, umph, umph! Just like yo’ mama!”
Why did everyone always compare her to her mother at times like this? It seemed like, when she was the most broke down, p
eople reminded her of how much like her mother she was. Turning back to comment on his observation, she was hit again with what was once her mother’s dream—to own that house. Tanqueray couldn’t accept what she saw, or better yet, what she didn’t see. With the yellow caution strips wrapped around what was left of the foundation, surely everyone had already picked the bones dry, so there was no need to even stomp around looking for anything until she’d spoken with Unique. Besides, it was too dark to see anything.
Tanqueray’s eyes burned as if she’d bitten into a hot link and got a spray of pepper sauce. Picking up her pace, she headed quickly toward the bus stop before the last bus driver of the night finished up his break and headed out to the West End.
As she approached the head of the block nearing the bus stop, she could feel the presence of a slow-moving vehicle approaching from behind. Slowly, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the limo. “Oh my God, it’s the john from hell,” she said out loud. She had no more strength to run. She had nothing left inside but hurt.
The driver stepped out. He was angry-looking but relieved to see her. Maybe his job was on the line. Who knew?
He opened the back door and let the man out. He wasn’t bad-looking for an older man. Most white men she’d seen hadn’t held up as well as he had. But, then again, he was rich as sin. His suit was Baroni, if she saw the cut right.
“Please don’t run,” he said, his voice soft and gentle-sounding.
Tanqueray moved her bangs out of her face with the shoe. Yep, a broke-ass Cinderella, that was her, all right.
The white man must have noticed and motioned to the driver, who quickly retrieved the match.
Tanqueray snatched it from his hand but didn’t put them on, not knowing if she would have to make a break for it or not. The driver glared at her, saying nothing, and she returned the animosity.
The white man then outstretched his hand. “Please don’t run,” he said. “You’re a vision and, I believe, a dream come true.”
Tanqueray looked around. By this time, Mr. Montgomery had driven off, and the street was quiet. She looked up the block at the bus stop. She had no money to even get on. She was hoping to maybe flirt her way onto the bus and earn a trip to the West End. At this time of day, most dudes were finishing up and didn’t care about exact change.
