by Nikki Turner
“Don't say that unless it's official.”
“Cleezy, it is, and that's on everything I love. Cleezy, this is yo' pussy,” she said as she stepped up her game, poppin' that pussy like she was a Luke dancer.
“Oooohhh, you better mean it,” he said, thrusting in and out of her. Hearing the name Cleezy only made his dick harder. He was high off of who he was, that nigga, that shoot-'em-up bang-bang nigga who had the world at his feet. Hundreds of thousands stashed, keys of coke waiting to be moved, a hell of a team who would die for him, and he owned the hottest, wettest, juiciest pussy in town. Damn, life was good. Just the thought of everything had Cleezy's nut boiling inside of him like a volcano about to erupt.
“That's right. This is Cleezy's pussy. This is my pussy. Oh shit,” he moaned as he felt his cream running through his veins. He pulled out and let it shoot all over Paula's ass like it was a tsunami.
As the white thick cum oozed out of his big black stallion, Paula quickly fell to her knees, taking the sexual session to the highest level, completely throwing Cleezy off balance when she licked every ounce of the cum she could manage to lick off of his dick and swallowed like it was Kool-Aid.
Damn, damn, damn. That nigga C-Note ain't never got this kind of treatment from no broad, Cleezy thought. Now that shit I just had was some real gangsta loving. Here it is that nigga thought he had experienced some of the best sex any nigga could get. I can't figure out if it was her box or mouth that was the best. Now, that shit right there is deep.
When it was all said and done, Cleezy knew why Paula had acquired her nickname, Sweet Pussy Paula.
Paula had no idea who this man was: C-Note, Cleezy, whoever. But whoever she had just been with, whoever the outlaw was, had made her feel like she had never felt in her entire life. He was what she wanted, and she would sacrifice and do whatever she had to do to keep him in her stable. Being an old-school ho, she knew the power of the pussy. Paula was familiar with the fact that when a man gets a good piece of pussy he will say anything in the heat of the moment, but she hoped like hell and prayed like never before that everything he said in her bed was gospel.
Cleezy and Paula screwed until the sun came up. Then Paula got out of bed, showered, and went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Cleezy kicked back, looking like a king in her king-sized Victorian-style bed. As he flipped through the channels, he came across a news report showing the yellow tape outside of the club and the bouncer being taken away by the coroner. Hearing the reporter say, “The authorities have no leads on any suspects, nor have any witnesses come forward yet” was music to his ears.
He had indeed gotten away with murder, which made his dick hard all over again. It led him into the kitchen to put Paula on the dining room table to get the lovemaking started all over again.
CHAPTER 13
A Dream Come True
“No, it's no problem,” Mercy said into the phone. “I understand. Okay, I'll be ready day after tomorrow.” She hung up the phone and thought, Damn. Now what? She needed to get some work done on her car and wanted to replace her broken DVD player for her TV set, but she didn't have any money, and Hyena had just postponed her next run.
Maybe she could hang out with Chrissie for a couple of days, but she doubted it. Although Chrissie had a room at Mercy's apartment, Deonie's old room, she spent most of her time laid up in some paid man's house. Chrissie raked in the men from here to Anaheim. She had no dreams, aspirations, or goals. She had no oomph about herself or nothing, but the men seemed to love her anyway. Some days she would be sitting on a few grand and other days she would be as broke as an old floor-model television.
Mercy strode into Chrissie's room at the end of the hall and found her standing in front of her closet with an open suitcase on the bed.
“Where are you going?” Mercy asked.
“Girl, that fool I met last week wants to take me to Vegas to do some gambling, and I got about ten minutes to pack.”
Mercy sat down on the edge of the bed, disappointed.
Mercy never understood how Chrissie came across those men. She was like a magnet for men with money, men you would presume wouldn't be seen with a broad less than a Halle Berry look-alike. Chrissie was easy on the eyes, but she was no dime piece. She had an okay face, a creamy peanut butter complexion with a minor case of acne that her liquid foundation pretty much covered up, and a firm petite frame. She didn't even have an apple-bottom ass or big titties to fill in what she lacked in looks. The rich men Mercy had always seen on television, from rap stars with a fine-ass video ho on-screen and a model wife off-screen to Donald Trump with his exotic-looking wives, always had a trophy on their arm. Chrissie was no trophy—a plaque maybe, made out of nice cherrywood, at best. But a trophy, no way. Yet she still managed to snag NBA and NFL players, major big-time drug dealers, CEOs, young entrepreneurs with new money, and dirty old rich men with money two times as old as they were. Chrissie attracted all kinds of men with paper.
“Mercy, which one of these bags should I take? The Fendi or the Gucci. Never mind. I'll take both of them. Now, tell me, which one of these dresses I oughta take? I just got this one. Do you think it looks good on me?”
Chrissie held a slinky little slut-red dress up to her chin and glanced in the full-length mirror. Bitch had bags and clothes by Prada, Gucci, Fendi, Dior, and Chanel, just to name a few, all piled up in her closet. And it wasn't even her apartment. It was Mercy's.
“You know it looks good. Thank God you ain't never had to work for your clothes, girl. You wouldn't work in a pie shop if you was starving to death,” Mercy joked.
“Why work when I got a perfectly reliable, clean pussy, which makes certain I get all the desires of my heart?” Chrissie said.
Chrissie threw the dress into the suitcase and closed it shut. She then laced her feet with the best footwear that money could buy.
“Bye, girlfriend,” Chrissie said, and kissed her on the cheek. Then she tottered out of the room on her stiletto heels, dragging her rolling suitcase behind her. Mercy followed her to the front steps and watched as Chrissie got into her mint-green Thunder-bird convertible with customized plates that read HATE ME. Some NBA star she spent a week with in Maui paid for that.
Almost every female clique has someone like Chrissie. She's the one who's not the cutest in the bunch, but from the moment she steps into the club, every male in there tries to get at her. She just has this certain confidence that seems to consume any room she steps into. She walks up on the scene, acting as if she's looking like a million bucks. Her long straight hair, which she purchased from the Korean hair supply store, is never out of place. It's always sewn in, never glued in, and paid for by the flavor of the month. Her makeup is always applied to perfection, and she's usually sportin' the latest diamond earrings, two-carat total weight minimum, that damn near blind the men in the club. Dudes figure, if her swagger is that tough, then she must be a bad-ass bitch. And when guys step to her, she looks them up and down as if deciding whether or not they are good enough to even be saying “hi” to her.
Chrissie's parents had abandoned her, so she'd been placed in a foster home when she was nine. A few years later, Mercy met her in Chrissie's third foster home. From the very beginning, Mercy saw that Chrissie would much rather surround herself with the things that money can buy, rather than to have the money itself. As they got older and moved out on their own, Chrissie was proof that being a diva ain't got nothing to do with having money in the bank. Because even though she stayed in the company of men with money and more money, she, herself, had none. Chrissie was all about material possessions.
Mercy picked up a gold bracelet that Chrissie had dropped on her way out of the apartment and took it back into Chrissie's room. She looked around at all the stuff, strewn about the room as if a cyclone had hit, and thought that if Chrissie would sell some of those designer bags, jewelry, or televisions and stuff, then she would have a modest fortune going on. Mercy struggled and was the backbone of the two. Mercy kept t
he roof over their heads and made sure they had gas money and food in the fridge. Chrissie basically pitched in when she could. One thing for sure and two things for certain, when Chrissie had Mercy had. If Chrissie had a dollar, fifty cents was Mercy's, but if Mercy needed the whole dollar, it was hers. It wasn't no hateration, none of that, between the two of them. They both had made it through hell and nothing would ever come between them. Mercy was happy that Chrissie was having fun and getting what she wanted. She hoped that one day Chrissie would luck up and that one of the men would marry her.
Mercy thought about walking across the hall to Ms. Pat's house, but she saw her begging, junkie son over there and decided not to. Mercy plunked herself down on the leather living room sofa. She did not want to spend the night watching TV by herself, so she went through the phone book of her cell phone, looking to see if there was anybody she could call to kick it with, but there was no one. As bad as she wanted to call C-Note, she just couldn't bring herself to hit the send key. She was too embarrassed to call after witnessing him getting knocked out like Roy Jones, Jr. Then the way he snatched away from her like he had some ill feelings towards her just added to the reason she wouldn't, or couldn't, call.
Let me call that Herb dude, Mercy thought to herself. Let me see what he's talking about. She grabbed the phone and called up Herb.
“Yo,” Herb said, answering the phone.
“Hey, Herb, it's Mercy,” she said. “How are you?”
“Hey, Mercy,” he said, all happy. “I'm chillin'. How are you?”
“Everything is good,” she said as she picked up the remote, turned the television on, and started flipping through the channels. Why the fuck do I even pay cable? It ain't ever a daggone thing on here. I could come up with better stories than they got on this thing. My life is way more interesting than this shit.
“I didn't think you were going to call.”
“I told you I was, didn't I?”
“Yeah, you did.” He paused, then asked, “What you gettin' into?”
What was she getting into? She hadn't planned on getting into anything 'cept some more runs for Hyena, but now that old dream of hers, that dream of making something of herself, was surfacing in her mind.
“I'm just chillin', taking it easy,” she said, “but later on I'm going to probably go out to the Literary Boutique. There's this book I need to pick up.”
“What book you trying to get?” he asked.
“I want to get this book on how to write scripts and make movies.”
“Word?” he said, sounding very surprised.
“Yup,” she said, suddenly feeling excited.
“That's cool as shit. What made you decide that's what you wanted to do?” he said, trying to kick small talk, but at the same time sounding interested.
“Reading so many books and watching movies,” Mercy replied. She felt her pulse quicken as she began to talk about her aspirations and dreams. “Whenever I go to the movies and watch them, I always feel like I could have done so much better with the project. So, why not do it? Oprah said follow your passion, and I'm about to make it happen.”
“Look, let's do some lunch or something, and then maybe I can go to the bookstore with you.”
“Okay. That sounds cool. Where you want to meet?” she asked, glad to be getting out of the house.
Mercy and Herb agreed to meet at the bookstore. After realizing they had lost track of time in the bookstore, lunch had come and gone. They decided to have dinner and catch a movie. After the movie Mercy was even more amped about turning her dream to write, direct, and produce films into reality. The whole time over dinner, she talked Herb's ears off about how she was going to make this come true. She couldn't think about anything but how bad she wanted to kick down the door of the film industry.
“You know, maybe I will do a DVD first and hope that someone will see my work and then want to take me to the big screen,” Mercy said as they rode in the car.
“It's possible. Once your script is done, I know some people who could help you out.”
“Fo' real?” Mercy said with excitement.
“Yup.” He nodded, smiling at her. “And you know what?”
“What?” Mercy asked, focusing in on every word.
“I know you don't know me well, but I want you to know that I will support you in any way you need me to.” Herb looked over at Mercy and licked his lips. “You seem for real about your shit. You might be a good investment.”
“Oh, thank you so much!” Mercy said. She had never shared her dreams with anyone before. She might have mentioned it a time or two, but no one had really paid any mind to her seemingly far-fetched dreams.
“And I mean that shit, too.”
Mercy reached over and gave Herb a hug, damn near making him wreck the car. His words comforted her and gave her that extra push she needed. Herb seemed genuine. Not for one minute did Mercy question what he might want in return. When Herb pulled up in front of Mercy's house to drop her off and didn't even try to worm his way inside, Mercy was even more convinced of his sincerity.
For the next couple of days, until she had to make her run, Mercy read the scriptwriting books she had just bought and began working on her first script, which she titled, A Girl's Gotta Do What a Girl's Gotta Do.
Once she returned from her run, she poured her all into her script, sometimes not leaving the house for days, most of the time barely taking a shower and changing out of her pajamas. She even slacked up on handling her business with Hyena. She printed out copies of the script and sent it to Raheem and Nayshawn to get their opinions and to help them both get their minds off of the jail time.
Raheem called her right away. “Boo, this here is really good. I can practically see it in my head as I'm reading it. You keep on keepin' on.”
Nayshawn was just as encouraging.
Mercy would read excerpts to Chrissie when she was around, and Chrissie started planning the premiere party.
“Girl, we are gonna have famous rappers, and it'll be off the hook,” Chrissie told her. “And you and I are gonna stroll up in our furs. We'll have a red carpet and everything.”
Every day Herb would listen while she read her script to him either in person or on the phone. He seemed to be just as happy about her writing as she was. He encouraged her. Although it was obvious that Herb sold drugs, something about him made him seem so different from the other hustlers she had encountered.
CHAPTER 14
Everyone Is Suspect
After three months of working on her script, Mercy decided that she should take a course on script writing. She had been so caught up in her writing that her work wasn't consistent, which meant her cash flow wasn't either. She would have to figure out a way to pay for the class or get someone else to pay for it for her. She made a trip to the university to look into some screenwriting courses. Tution would be forty-five hundred dollars. She had been saving for it, but it was taking too long for her to get the full amount, so she filled out some financial aid papers. However, the school's intake person was not reassuring that she would get it.
Mercy was afraid that any day someone would produce a film similar to her idea and all of her hard work would be in vain. She wanted to perfect her game and get shit rolling now. As Mercy sat in front of her computer, she tried to figure out how she could cover her tuition for the courses plus keep a roof over her head. When Deonie left she never reported it to housing, so she was still on low income, paying next to no rent, but a sistah still had to live. She was too embarrassed to ask Hyena for an advance, because the reality was that she should have had enough money in her stash to be able to pay the forty-five hundred. How could she not? Hyena paid her a pretty penny for each run she made for him. It was just too bad that she had no control over it.
As Mercy sat on the round ottoman she had in the middle of her closet, she gazed over her designer shoe boxes, handbags, and clothes and began to sob. In her hands she held her latest bank statement. Her balance was seventeen doll
ars and eleven cents. After having to struggle and scrape for so long, once she'd gotten money, she had shopped as though she was ballin' out of control. Why shouldn't she treat herself? she'd thought. She had no man to surprise her with presents, so she'd showered herself with love. She'd spent like there was no tomorrow or if there was a tomorrow, she would have more work to bring in more money. In addition to wanting to treat herself to expensive clothes and jewelry, she'd wanted to be able to have something to show for it. Like most young people, Mercy hadn't thought about something to show for it being a nice fat savings account.
The reality set in that she had made many foolish decisions. She hadn't cut any corners, either. She did everything to pamper herself: manicures, pedicures, weekly facials, and hair fixed once, sometimes twice, a week. Clothes were always the best of the best. She rationalized her expenditures by telling herself, I am a little thick, and I have to make sure my shit is ten times flyer than a little Jane Fonda bitch who can get away with that cheap shit.
Although she was taking risks up and down the highway, she had the chance to take a bad situation and turn it around to something good. But now her pockets were on empty and she had no savings. All she had was some determination and her script, but from here on out, she knew that she wasn't splurging on anything. Her prime focus would be to make money to get her film out. She knew she would need some help, though.
Just then the phone rang. Mercy got up to answer it. She looked at the caller ID and saw that it was just the person she had been thinking of. It was as if she had thought him up.
“Hello,” Mercy said, clearing her throat, trying to pull herself together.
“Hey, lil' momma,” Herb said.
“Hey,” she said, sniffling a bit.
“What's wrong?” Herb said, concern in his voice.
“Nothing,” Mercy lied, putting her head down.
“Come on. Now you know you can tell me.”
