The Hood Life

by Meesha Mink

  “Yes, Rhakmon. Do that shit, boy. Do it!”

  And just because Big Butt Belinda asked me so damn nicely, I did do it. I used my hands to press her thick brick-house legs high into the air until her sweet ass spread before me like a buffet as I worked my dick inside her walls. To the left, to the right, back to the left and back to the right. With each stroke she quivered until her ass and thighs wiggled and jiggled in a thousand different directions. The tight heat of her walls made my dick harder. Well, there was never a good reason to let a hard dick go to waste so I worked my back until my sweat had both us of wet from head to toe. She did enough hollering and squirming to let me know she appreciated the extra effort.

  Loving to hear a bitch beg for this dick I jerk my hips back pulling it out of her wetness with a swoosh.

  And like clockwork…

  “No, Daddy, no,” she whined, biting her bottom lip in frustration as she jerked her hips upward to try and capture my thick dick with her pussy lips.

  I look down into her face—a face I just saw for the first time three hours ago at Cascade, the local skating rink. As I leaned down to suck her tongue and kissed her I demanded, “Say please.”

  “Please, Daddy, please.”

  I swooped right back on in to pop that coochie some more. Humph, I walked into Cascade to do some freestyle skating with my homeboys and rolled out with this good pussy bitch. It was a damn good Sunday night.

  “What the fuck?!!”

  My heart stopped at the sound of some nigga’s voice from behind me. I stopped stroking and my heart stopped beating. This crazy bitch pushing me off and out of her with this scared-ass look on her face really made me sweat bullets.

  My dick went limp as a bitch.

  I jumped to my feet and turned around just in time to catch a nasty left hook to my chin. “Damn,” I swore, wincing and working my jaw as I bent low and barreled toward that fool. I sent him flying back against the wall.

  “Oh shit,” Big Butt Belinda swore before she let out a high-pitched scream that made me want to slap her silly.

  He bent over my body and delivered hard-ass blows to my back as I put some serious work to his side. Shit crashed from the walls onto the floor as we scuffled and fought like two pit bulls. It was winner take all in that motherfucker.

  When another of his hooks sent me stumbling back I shook it off and rushed back toward him to lift his ass like a little bitch. Belinda let out another high-pitched scream when I flung that fool in the corner with a big-ass THUD. He slumped down to the floor like a puppet.

  ’Bout sick of this shit, I turned and charged over to lift the edge of the bed where I had slid my nine. I grabbed it and the upper hand. That cold steel felt good in my hand. It felt like power. Control. Fuck the dumb shit.

  I pointed the gun at his chest as he struggled to his feet. “Sit down, bitch,” I told him coldly, sounding like I felt the power and enjoyed the control. Truth? I was scared as hell. I know better than to pull a gun unless I was ready to use it. Was I ready to kill this nigga? Nah, her pussy wasn’t that serious.

  I looked in his eyes and even though he couldn’t see it I was just as scared as he looked. For some reason his fear made me a little cockier. Bolder.

  “Come here, Betty—”

  “Belinda,” she corrected me with attitude from her spot on the bed.

  “What…the…fuck…ever,” I told her with my eyes still locked on this nigga. Who was he? Her man? Her overprotective brother? Her pimp? What the fuck?

  At this point it didn’t even matter.

  “Bitch, get the fuck over here,” I barked, feeling that power and control again.

  She came into my line of vision with that dingy flowered sheet still wrapped around that banging-ass body that drew my attention as she skated circles around me. Bee to honey, baby, bee to honey. “Drop the sheet,” I told her with as much steel in my voice as I held in my hand.

  I didn’t have to look at her to know she hesitated. Pretty sure she didn’t have to look at me to know I wasn’t playing either. “Now,” I told her.

  Even as I felt the breeze and heard the rustle of the sheet falling to the floor I didn’t take my eyes off of homeboy. I wanted to humiliate him. I wanted to punish him for putting his hands on me.

  “Suck my dick,” I ordered her, keeping my gun steady on him.

  I could tell he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. Not once. Not even when I felt her trembling body squat down to take my dick in her mouth…

  That was a crazy fucking night. I guess it didn’t help a damn thing that I knocked his ass upside the head with the gun after she swallowed the last of my cum like her ass was hungry.

  As I look up into his face I had a feeling this night is going to be even crazier. Even under the dark of night I can see this Negro want some of me. “Well, motherfucker, if you want some come and get some. Fuck that.”

  That fool races around the car and reaches in to start swinging. The pain is wicked crazy and I take a chance to look up just in time to see him hit me across the forehead with a small pipe. I close my fingers around my piece sitting under my seat and I sit up straight to push my weight against the door. It hits his ass hard as hell, knocking him back from my ride just long enough for me to raise my gun and fire.

  His body jerks as each bullet tears into his body.

  POW!

  POW!

  POW!

  He falls backward onto the cold and hard street. My heart pounds like a motherfucker. I shot that motherfucker. Oh shit. Oh shit. What the fuck.

  Shaterica brought me this nine from a pawnshop last Christmas. It didn’t take me long to talk her into it. I carried the gun but I never shot this motherfucker. Never. I ain’t no killer. I ain’t no banger. I sell knockoff Gucci bags and shit like that. Women are my specialty. Not this shit. Not death.

  I feel sick as hell.

  Is he dead?

  Did I kill him?

  Oh shit.

  I look up and down the empty street. If anybody had been lurking outside in this heat, gunshots had a way of makin’ motherfuckers scatter.

  I hop out my car and stand over his body. His blood is already pooling the street. My eyes get big as shit when he sits up and tries to get to his feet. What the fuck?

  Like on auto pilot I raise the gun and fire again.

  POW!

  The bullet enters his head, sending his body back down onto the bloody street.

  I got to get the fuck outta here. I race back into my car and squeal away. My eyes look at his body in the sideview mirror.

  I killed that nigga. I killed that nigga. Oh shit. I couldn’t remember his name. I couldn’t even remember his name and I killed him. I killed somebody. I killed Reggie…no…Ricky…no…no…it’s Red. That nigga’s name is—was—Red. He was Big Butt Belinda’s man and we been beefin’ ever since that crazy-ass night.

  I have to grip the steering wheel tighter ’cause my palms are sweating like crazy. My heart feels like it’s gonna bust out my chest. I wouldn’t be surprised if I didn’t shit up my damn self ’cause for sure I got the bubble guts.

  What if somebody called the police when they heard the shots? What if somebody was lookin’ out the window and saw me or the car? What the fuck am I gonna do? I can’t go to jail. I ain’t going to jail. Fuck that.

  That nigga hit me first. He walked up to my ride with a damn pipe and I just defended myself. Uhn-uhn. I ain’t stupid. That shit ain’t even gone to work for a black man in Georgia. A black man in Georgia carrying a gun registered to his girl. Shit.

  As I tear up the streets with my wheels I keep hearing the shots in my head. Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow!

  One gun. Four bullets. One dead man.

  Jail. Punk motherfuckers looking for any hole to fuck. Becoming somebody’s bitch. The death penalty.

  I feel even sicker.

  I glance down at the gun lying on the leather passenger seat. Think, Rhak. Think.

  I need a plan.

  I need help
.

  I need to get the fuck out of this shit by any means fucking necessary.

  4

  The Pimp

  “I got something better than money,” Momma says, removing a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her robe and lighting up.

  I laugh. “Ain’t shit better than money,” I say and head toward the kitchen to peep out the refrigerator. I know she tends to forget to eat.

  “One of your old tricks came by to see me today,” she singsongs like an American Idol reject.

  “I don’t have time to play ‘Guess the Ho,’ Momma,” I say, popping open the fridge. The only thing staring back at me is a bright-ass lightbulb and a yellow box of Arm and Hammer. My shoulders deflate. This shit is getting real old.

  “I’ve been meaning to go to the grocery store,” she says, trying to cut off my speech before I get started. The thing is I know she makes plenty of money to have food up in this motherfucker. I just pray her ass isn’t sucking on that glass dick again. Trust when I say it’s a miracle when someone kicks the pipe once; I doubt she’ll have the strength to do it again.

  But ever since this disease…

  I slam the door and turn on her, but at the last second I decide to save my breath. “Fuck it. Just write me a list. I’ll hire someone to take care of this shit.”

  A lopsided grin spreads across her face. “You still have a soft spot for your momma, don’t you?”

  She walks up to me and cups the sides of my face like she used to do whenever I brought home my report card loaded with As. Don’t get it twisted. I’m a smart nigga—always have been.

  Instead of answering, I lean forward and plant a kiss on the center of her forehead. “Don’t get too sentimental. I’m taking it out of your cut.”

  She laughs.

  Truth be told, I’m the only child who comes and sees about her. My fast-ass sisters act like they forgot the way to Bentley Manor. They’re too busy letting rappers slide credit cards down the crack of their asses to see about their own damn momma.

  “When I get you this food, don’t let me hear that you’ve been selling it out on the streets like Smokey’s crazy ass used to do.”

  “Smokey was a damn junkie. I ain’t no damn junkie,” Momma spats, sucking on a cancer stick. Her denial was about as thick as the cloud of smoke floating around her.

  I shake my head thinking about Bentley Manor’s old numero uno crackhead who used to walk the streets selling his own kids’ toys and God knows what else just to get a hit. It’s a damn shame. I remember the days when Smokey was a star athlete and shit. He thought he was going to roll up out of here on hoop dreams. But reality is a motherfucker when you ain’t got a plan B. I ain’t a bit surprised he blew his damn brains out. Hell, if I still lived in Bentley Manor I probably would’ve done the same thing myself.

  This place has a way of weighing down on a person. It creeps into your bones and settles into your soul. Hell, a lot of these motherfuckers look like the walking dead to me. That includes those two old bitches, sitting out on their stoop gossiping about people’s business.

  Fuck them. They’re just two miserable bitches because they’re trapped in this hellhole. At least I got out.

  I take a good look around; a lot of times I wonder how the fuck my momma raised five kids in this cramped motherfucker. That’s the beauty of a single mom; they often make a way out of no way. At least when my pussy empire took off, I was able to lace the place up with top of the line furniture and high-tech gadgets. Her place looked like bullshit on the outside but it was blinged the fuck out. It was the least I could do, since she fucked up the house I’d bought her a few years back. She’d turned the motherfucker into a damn crackhouse and the Home Owners Association ran her out of the neighborhood. Goes to show that sometimes you can take a ho out of the hood, but you can’t take the hood out of the ho.

  Momma tried to live with me and Renee, but they mix about as well as oil and water and before I knew it Momma ran back to Bentley Manor, determined to keep her independence.

  I glance at my watch, wanting to speed this shit along before the walls start to cave in on me. “C’mon. I got to head down to the club and handle some business.”

  “I told you, sweet. I got something better than money.”

  “Momma, what kind of crazy shit are you talking about now?”

  “One of your old tricks dropped off a package for you.”

  I already don’t like the sound of that bullshit. I step back and lean on my pimp stick in preparation for whatever bad news she’s about to slap on me. “What trick and what sort of package?”

  One side of Momma’s lips quirk up—another indication I ain’t gonna like what she was about to unload.

  “Corrine, get out here!”

  I frown. “Who the fuck is Corrine?”

  I hear a door open down the short hallway and look up to see who momma had in the apartment while she was servicing a john. I swear nothing stops my momma’s flow. Once I forced her into retirement and she just started fucking everything for free and said when you find a job you enjoy then it doesn’t feel like work.

  Hell, what can I say to that?

  Momma’s package finally stepped into the living room.

  The last thing I expected was to see some fresh-face Cosby kid look-alike who looked like she’d spent the last hour looking for a lost puppy.

  I know Momma isn’t trying to outpimp a pimp. “She’s a bit young to be working for me, don’t you think?” I walk over to the girl and checked her out. My guess is she’s fourteen knocking on fifteen with long skinny legs, narrow hips and a chest that was still MIA. “Who on earth trusted you to babysit someone?” I ask, laughing.

  “Some trick named Chocolate Angel.”

  The name is like a punch in the gut. Images of the most luscious pole rider I’ve ever known bubble to the front of my brain that I almost get a hard-on in front of my own damn momma.

  “I take it you remember her?”

  I clear my throat and eyeball the kid again. This time, I take in the soft, full mouth, the almost straight nose, and cinnamon-colored eyes. The girl has my eyes. “Oh, shit.”

  The girl folds her arms as she takes her time checking me out.

  “And I take it that you finally see the family resemblance?” Momma says.

  “She’s not…”

  “Chocolate Angel says she is. Had a birth certificate and everything.” She reached into the front of her robe and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

  Hell, I don’t even want to look at it and, frankly, I don’t need to. Instead, we just continue to stare each other down. Let me tell you, I’m more than impressed that mini-me meets my gaze as bold as you please. This let me know that her whole innocent look meant one thing: Trouble.

  “Renee is going to hit the roof.”

  Momma cackles. “You got that shit right.”

  All plans to run by the club were tossed aside. I had a much bigger problem on my hands: telling my wife that we now have a teenage daughter to raise.

  A fucking daughter.

  Now how in the hell is a pimp supposed to raise a damn girl? Chocolate Angel, or rather Tracy, was wrong for this shit right here.

  I lean forward and glance around Destiny to steal another peek at my own flesh and blood, marveling over a miracle, because about thirteen years back I had a little cut and snip to prevent this very thing. Hell, Renee couldn’t have any kids and she knew my ass was a fuckaholic. So to prevent my ass from slipping up and getting another bitch pregnant, we agreed I’d get fixed and put to rest her wild ideas that I would eventually leave her ass to play house with some trick.

  Now here I come bringing home a fifteen-year-old daughter.

  Shit is definitely about to hit the fan now.

  Destiny slides a hand into my lap, just a reassuring caress, I’m sure, until her long hands roam toward my crotch.

  “Not now, baby,” I mutter, easing back in my seat. My temples are already banging like a drum.

  �
��Whateva,” Destiny mumbles, rolling her eyes.

  Corrine shifts in her seat so she can get a better look at Destiny, who’s sitting between us.

  “So are you a man or what?” she asks, her face twisting in disgust. Her voice is a bit high—almost Rosie Perez–like.

  Destiny puts on her best smile and says, “I guess I’m a ‘or what’,” she answers. “You got a problem with that, Little Miss Sunshine?”

  Corrine’s eyes shift to mine. “So what? You two faggots or some shit like that?”

  Whatever goodwill I had toward this stranger/ child just went the fuck out the window.

  “Who the fuck is she calling a faggot?” Destiny swivels her neck toward me. “Daughter or not. You better check this bitch before I wreck this bitch.”

  One warning glare from me and Destiny shuts that shit down, but her anger radiates throughout the car like a son of a bitch. I return my attention to Corrine and she again looks unfazed by coming within a hairsbreadth of getting her ass whupped by an angry trannie more than twice her size.

  Impressive and disturbing.

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Corrine,” I say in my most patient voice. “Blood you might be, but it doesn’t mean your ass can’t sleep on the street.” I hit her with another leveled gaze so she can see I mean that shit. “Right now kicking you to the curb is an option I’m warming up to.”

  For the first time uncertainty creeps into her eyes.

  “Watch your mouth and save your ass,” I say, and return my attention to the passing scenery outside my window. I already know I’m not down for this fatherhood shit.

  My new crib is this fly-as-fuck mansion out in Alpharetta—one of the many affluent suburbs of Atlanta. It used to belong to Junior’s NFL superstar cousin, Tyrik Jefferson—that is, until his ass was arrested for killing his pregnant girlfriend about a year back. His loss is my motherfuckin’ gain.

  After the Bentley rolls to a stop and I wait for Anderson to come and open my door I’m thinking of all the things I can say to jump off this conversation with Renee. Nothing comes to mind to buffer this storm I’m about to go through so I might as well get this motherfucker over with.