by Meesha Mink
He turned and reached under the mattress of the top bunk bed and pulled out a Ziploc of weed. “Smoke it. Sell it. But don’t love it. Listen to me and you’ll be happier than a motherfucker. For real.”
Pee-Wee was accidentally shot and killed during a store robbery two years later, but by then me and Usher was selling weed like it was going out of style. Even when my parents moved to Alpharetta and I transferred to another school, I still made my way back to the hood.
During our hustling, I took the lead but we made that money together. We had each other’s back. We shopped like crazy, bought enough pussy and bitches to last a lifetime, and did whatever we wanted to do because the money was flowing that freely. Shit, it’s a whole lotta motherfuckers that smoke weed…in and out of the hood.
Pushing away my past, I walk down the hall filled with pictures of me and the rest of my family over the years. My ass couldn’t help but pause at my framed degree in the center of it all. I wonder how proud they would be if they knew how much weed I sold while I was in college. They thought I had a job on campus but my ass wasn’t trying to flip no damn burgers or no shit. That bullshit wouldn’ta paid for Ralph, Tommy, Calvin, or shit else.
I follow the sounds of family through the kitchen and out onto the deck. Like every other summer Friday night, my parents, my grandmother Grams, and a few family friends are lounging on the lit deck playing cards while everyone took turns tending to the smoking meat on the grill.
There’s a lot about me that my family don’t know. They think I work as an accounting clerk for a small law firm. They just met Quilla a few weeks ago and that’s because she stressed me the fuck out about it. I even hid that I was locked up in county for four months that time I got caught with a ounce of weed during one of them random traffic stops. To this day they thought I dipped to Virginia with some chick for a hot second.
If I keep it funky right now it’s lonely as hell keeping a big part of my damn life from my family, because we’re all so close. Still, I know if they ever find out I’m selling drugs they wouldn’t fuck with me at all. AT…ALL.
I’ll have to get this shit straight sooner than later.
8
The Killer
“What? You scared, Demarcus? Is that what the fuck you’re telling me?” Terrius Mitchell shouted; spittle flew from his mouth and all over my face.
“Naw, man. I ain’t say all that,” I answered, hoping my voice don’t crack like it usually did when I get nervous.
“Then what the fuck you sayin’?”
My eyes grew wide as I blink up at him. For fourteen I was a small muthafucka praying for a coupla growth spurts.
Terrius glanced around, looking for M. Dawg. “Did you bring this punk mutherfucka here tonight? What the fuck y’all doin’ wastin’ my time?”
“Nah. Nah. He’s cool, man. He’s down with The Disciples.”
Terrius’s lips twitched and his nose flared as if he smelled something foul. “He sure in the hell don’t look cool to me.”
“Trust me.” M. Dawg glanced at me, silently begging me to pull my shit together. “He is.”
“Yeah. Yeah. I’m cool,” I said, licking my lips and straightening my pencil thin shoulders.
Fire blazed in Terrius’s eyes. “Then you know what you gotta do.” He pressed the gun in my hand.
I looked down at it, thinking the shit was heavier than I’ve ever imagined. I licked my lips again and asked, “Who?”
“I don’t give a fuck,” he spat. “Pick somebody. Prove to me your ass is ready to be a man.”
I don’t know why but my eyes began to burn like hell.
“Is this little piece of shit gonna start crying on me?” Terrius roared.
The menacing group surrounding him snickered and pushed me around.
“His punk ass ain’t gonna do shit,” Zeke, the biggest mutherfucka in the group snapped. “I say we stomp his ass and teach him a lesson about wastin’ our time.” He turned his attention to M. Dawg. “Him and this pipsqueak muthafucka.”
M. Dawg’s eyes grew wide.
“I’ma do it,” I said, my voice finally cracking.
More laughter. More shoving.
Though my hand tightened on the gun, it didn’t stop trembling.
Terrius smiled down at me, his breath hot against my face, and I’m more convinced than ever that I’m looking into the face of the devil.
“Better not disappoint me, Demarcus.”
Right now my options are kill or be killed. I have pestered and worked my way into the inner sanctum of The Disciples and now that I’m here there’s no turning back—that’s abundantly clear. At that moment, I couldn’t remember why I wanted to be a member of one of the most feared underground gangs in Atlanta. What made me think I was tough enough—bad enough—to wear their black-and-white colors?
Hell. On any given night you could find me curled up under my bed crying from another beatdown I’d suffered from my foster mother. She would beat me with whatever was handy. From switches to extension cords, I had so many welts on my body I looked ten pounds heavier.
At home I couldn’t defend myself, but tonight I was about to kill some random muthafucka. What the hell was I thinking?
My gaze drifted to the circle of tall and undeniably dangerous-lookin’ brothers and I felt the urge to be a part of a real family hit me again. If I showed these niggas I was down, then the sky was the limit.
The next thing I knew M. Dawg and I were shoved into the back of a black Cutlass, cruising the streets for my initiation victim. I had no idea at that time that not every member in the gang had to kill someone to get in. I found out much later that they had given me the task because they seriously thought that I would back down and run home with my tail tucked between my legs.
It was a full moon that night. I can’t tell you how long we cruised around. Every time a potential vic was pointed out I would say, “He’s not the one.”
After a while, tempers flared in the car. The Disciples were more convinced than ever that I was just wasting their muthafuckin’ time.
Hell, even my nigga M. Dawg was beginning to turn on me and frankly I wanted to go home, curl back under my bed.
Then I saw him.
He was strolling up Martin Luther King Boulevard in jeans, white T, and a jean jacket.
“All right!” One of the gang members clapped his hands, I think it was Zeke. “What about this muthafucka right here?”
The car slowed but my heart sped up while the gun grew heavier. I had ran out of excuses. The boy was alone, strolling like he had all the time in the world to get to wherever the hell he was going.
The heat in the car was incredible. Sweat had broken out across my forehead and was now dripping into my eyes. I even clung to the sudden thought that there was a good chance I would miss him. Shit. I ain’t never shot a gun before. What were the chances?
Suddenly, a calm settled over me. There’s no better way to describe it. I wasn’t shakin’ anymore and the gun felt as if it was merely an extension of myself. I lifted my extended arm out the window, aimed, and then pulled the trigger. Two quick shots; the gun’s kickback didn’t faze me.
The first bullet slammed into the kid’s shoulder, spun him around to face the car. The second hit him dead in his chest, lifting him off the ground. The whole thing played out in slow motion. To this day I can’t quite read the expression on Kadrian’s face. Sometimes I think it was shock and others, a welcomed acceptance. When his body slammed onto the concrete, it felt as if the very earth cracked open and a few more demons from hell escaped their fiery prison.
“Aw shit! Aw shit!” someone shouted in raucous laughter. “This nigga did it.”
Tires squealed and the car rocketed off into the night.
I bolt up in bed, my eyes wide and bugged-out while they try to adjust to the bedroom’s dim lighting. I can’t see shit and the only sounds I hear is my own labored breathing, my wild beating heart. It takes a few seconds but I soon make out the outline of
the dressing room mirror and then finally the footboard.
Zoey’s apartment.
I close my eyes and plop back down on the bed’s pillows. Bentley Manor. I can’t believe I’m back up in this shitty apartment complex, trapped and cornered by my past.
Zoey rolls toward me, sliding her hand up my chest and placing her head in the crook of my arm. She’s been a bit clingy since I moved in. Of course, I’ve been wearing that pussy out, too. I’ve hit it in every room in this small-ass apartment and even tried out some freaky shit I’ve been dreamin’ about since lockdown.
Zoey was down for it all, draining me so dry sometimes that I could hardly move.
Yeah, when things are good—it’s good. But when we fight…shit gets crazy.
We both get crazy.
But I get dangerous.
I push the ugly fight we had ten years ago to the back of my mind and try to gently extract her from my arms.
It’s too hot to cuddle.
I suck in a deep breath and hold off despair a little while longer. I toss the thin sheet off my body—this damn bedroom is hot as a damn oven. I need something to drink. I sit up once again and then roll up out of bed and grab my black boxers from off the floor. After I slide them on, I make my first pit stop in the hall bathroom. I pull up the toilet seat and take a long piss.
When I’m done, I flush and move over to the sink, wash my hands, lean forward, and throw some water on my face as well. Almost instantly I feel my body’s temperature cool.
I reach for one of the folded towels from the back of the toilet. After I pat my face dry, I look up into the mirror and stare at a face that looks as if it’s been chipped out of granite. I study my even brown skin and hard jawline and wonder if I look like my parents.
My eyes fall to the tattooed teardrops beneath my right eye. I’m going to need makeup to cover that up when I go out on job interviews. It’s a good thing that the other tats across my body are easier to hide. The huge spiderweb on my shoulder is a popular prison tat letting brothers know I served hard time. The ones spread across my chest was a constant reminder of a life I wanted to forget.
A black Glock complete with a smoking tip was etched across my heart; underneath it the letters T.D. signified my gang affiliation. But the one in the center, the one that gave me the most heartache, spelled out as bold as you please the kind of man I used to be: KILLER.
Disgusted, I turn off the bathroom light and stroll to the kitchen. Unlike the other apartments up in Bentley Manor, Zoey keeps her shit tight and clean. By that I mean there are less rats and roaches. Still all the appliances are old and the pipes knocked whenever you turned on the water.
But shit, it’s a place to stay.
After downing several glasses of water, I find myself in the living room on my knees praying to Allah for more strength and courage to face the demons still swirling in Bentley Manor.
The prayers don’t come easy. Behind my closed eyelids I keep seeing dead faces—all of them by my hand.
No rest or peace for the wicked. It suddenly seems like my prayers are fallin’ on deaf ears. It’s enough to bring tears to my eyes.
“Demarcus?” Zoey’s soft husky voice floats out to me a second before her hand lands on my shoulder. “Baby, how long have you been out here?”
Still on my knees I glance up at her, her appearance seeming almost angelic. I pull her close, lock my arms around her waist while I bury my face against her soft belly. The musky scent of our previous lovemaking drifts across my nose and I’m instantly hard.
“Let’s go back to bed,” she whispers.
I shake my head and rub my hands all over her thick booty. I don’t want to go back to sleep. I don’t want to go back and remember. I rather bury myself into the one good thing I have in my life.
My baby, Zoey.
“Stay out here with me,” I say, pulling up her nightgown and trailing kisses across her belly and then the springy curls between her legs. I feel her tremble so I move my hands to slide between her thick thighs. They open up for me immediately and I slip my tongue in between her thick lips and savor her body’s sweetness.
I moan. No one can convince me that she wasn’t dipped in Godiva chocolate.
“Lay down on the floor.”
She obeys without question. I hike her legs over my shoulder and I sink my tongue in as far as it will go and begin lapping her up.
Her sighs are like music to my ears.
She squirms and rotates her pussy against my face.
“You like that, baby?” I ask, sliding a finger into her ass and then going back to town on her hard center.
Her entire body quivers and I mop up every drop of juice when her first orgasm hits. Still, I keep going, lost in her taste.
“Please, baby. Please,” she begs. “Fuck me! Fuck me now, Demarcus!”
She doesn’t have to ask twice. I climb up her body and squeeze my thick shaft into her as gently as I can. I’m a nice nine inches but I’m thick as hell and in the past I had been known to send quite a few ladies to their doctor’s office.
Zoey places her hand against my chest, silently urging me to hold up a few seconds while her body tries to adjust.
I try to be patient, but she feels so good right now. Her vaginal walls have clamped on to me like a velvet fist and my toes are curling and every breath she takes caresses my cock.
She grinds her hips and as I stroke her body to make squishing and sucking sounds.
Oh God. Oh God. This is heaven.
Oh yeah. I’m about to tear this shit up.
Small slices of moonlight slither through the venetian blinds and allow me to watch her bountiful breasts bounce and jiggle beneath me. My mouth dries out since we’re now working up a black sweat and I lean forward and suck her fat titties.
Every part of her body tastes and feels so damn good.
“DE-MAR-CUS, Oh!”
With her body clenching tighter and tighter, I forget to pull out and we cum at the same time; my body empties everything it has into her.
“I love you, baby.” I mumble, pulling her close. I’m never going to fuck this shit up again.
Never.
9
The Playa
“Whaddup, Rhak.”
I look out the open window of the car and give a head nod to some fool hollerin’ at me. The cracked leather of the seat sticks to my legs and arms as I hop my ass out the car. This July heat makes me sweat like a damn slave. The air is busted and without Shaterica’s ass to fix it, I’m ridin’ hot as a motherfucker. Sometimes it feels like the motherfuckin’ devil is sittin’ on the dashboard laughin’ at my ass.
As always the courtyard of Bentley Manor is packed. You never know just how many motherfuckers stay in a complex ’til it gets hot, especially after the sun went down and it cooled off a little bit. Two or three bodies are either leaning or sitting on just about every parked car. A shit-load of badass kids is either ballin’ or playin’ jump rope or some shit. Windows are open and some are lucky enough to be filled with box fans or small air conditioners.
I’m gettin’ my box out of the trunk when I see them old bitches wavin’ me over to them. I want to flip them nosy birds the bird, but I ain’t stupid. I really ain’t supposed to even be here with Shaterica in jail and me still living in her shit. I felt lucky as hell ain’t nobody told the managers her ass been locked up for a month or they would evict her and then my ass would be on the street. Fuck the dumb shit. I gots to make me some damn money and these wannabe bitches ’round here gone eat up these fake-ass designer handbags I got in this box. For thirty bucks they could pretend they ass rockin’ Gucci, Coach, and good ole Louis like them rich bitches.
With the box under my arm, I close the trunk and stroll over to them just as fine as I please in my new white T and Dickie shorts.
“How is Shaterica, Rhakmon?” The light one, Miz Osceola, asks as soon I stroll up to them. Her eyes all squinted the fuck up and looking at me like she ready to whup my ass.
I’m young but I ain’t fuckin’ dumb. I look all sad and shit. “I went to see her yesterday and she holdin’ up pretty good. I’m workin’ hard to get her a better lawyer than a public defender, you know?” Truth? I ain’t been nowhere near that motherfucker since I dropped her the fuck off. On top of that when detectives came around Bentley Manor askin’ people questions about Shaterica they questioned me too, but fuck that, I pretended like I ain’t know shit about that bitch. Don’t know her and don’t want to know her. Oh, a playa like me ain’t tryna get linked back to that shit.
Miz Cleo sucks her damn false-ass teeth. “Working? That would mean bein’ up on somebody job and not ridin’ around in that girl’s car all day, ain’t it?”
Miz Osceola nods her head as she leans forward in her chair to rest her fleshy arm on the tip of one of them damn bats they always got wit ’em.
See? Couple of nosy bitches.
Man, what the fuck ever. “I’ll tell her y’all asked about her,” I tell them before I turn away.
“You do that,” one of them called behind me.
All them bullets flyin’ around this motherfucker sometimes and ain’t one manage to catch they ass while they sittin’ there all the fuckin’ time?
Shit, I got other shit on my mind…like money, money, and more money. I’m missing Shaterica’s check like a motherfucker. I already took all the money she had out of her checking account—a debit card and a pin code is a damn good thing, especially since I had her purse.
As I head up the walkway and into the buildin’, I see Delia up to her normal bullshit in the center of them young fuckers dealin’ dope. I ain’t got time for that shit. There’s too many other ways to hustle and make money. Fuck always runnin’ from the cops and crackheads naggin’ you all day for a bump. Man, shit on that.
The door of the building slams behind me as I jog up the steps to the second floor. I ain’t even got time to notice the faint scent of piss creepin’ up from the corners. At the top of the stairs, I see a couple of hot-ass kids pressed up on each other in the corner. They so busy kissing and finger fuckin’ that they ass don’t even see me. The girl can’t be no more than twelve with her legs spread open wide while the boy tryin’ his hardest to grind all up against her.
