by Meesha Mink
“Like I said, you missed your appointment. That’s a parole violation.”
“Fuck! Don’t do this shit to me. I’ve been busting my ass looking for a job. I just got my days mixed up.”
She stops dialing.
“C’mon. Cut me some slack.”
“I’m not in the slack-cutting business, Mr. Jones. Your circumstances are no different than the other parolees I have to keep tabs on. We have rules for a reason. Rules that everyone has to abide by.”
I sense that she’s wavering. “I know…and I’m sorry.” Just please hang up the phone.
For an odd moment I see a spark of interest light her eyes when her gaze flickers across my body, but then disappears just as quickly, and the hard-nosed parole officer routine comes back in full force. Before I know it, I’m saying something I only halfway mean.
“Look, there’s gotta be something I can do to convince you to give me another chance.”
Harding’s heavy brows climb to the center of her forehead. I’ve piqued her interest. For a long while our gazes lock.
Finally, she hangs up the phone and moves over to the door, closes and locks it. “I think I might be…persuaded to cut you a little slack.”
Harding moves close to me and places a hand against my shoulder. “But my generosity deserves something in return.”
The air in the room thickens and there’s no point in me pretending not to know what she’s talking about. The only question is whether I’m willing to pay her price.
She’s waiting for some type of answer and it seems like forever for me to decide.
“Of course, if you want to go back to jail…” She returns to her desk and picks up the phone.
“No!” I bark and then soften it with a smile. “I mean, I’ll be more than willing to thank you for your…generosity.”
Harding hangs up; a wide smile stretches across her face. “I hoped you’d say that.”
She produces the keys for the handcuffs and then removes them from my wrists. “Unbutton my blouse,” she commands.
I hesitate.
“Well?”
Feeling another layer of my manhood being stripped from me, I force on a smile and do as I’m ordered.
Harding has an oddly shaped body where she has more gut than she has butt. I’m not turned on in the slightest. This is definitely one of those times where a man has to do what a man has to do—especially if he wants to keep his freedom. That’s the reasoning I use as I set Harding on the edge of her desk and work the thick head of my cock into her fat pussy.
13
The Dealer
He’s my son. Not Paco Taco, that motherfucker she was fucking, but mine. There is no denying this Maury Povich reveal moment as I read the results again. I’ve read this paper must be a hundred damn times since I got it in the mail today. I’ve been sitting on pins and needles the last two weeks waiting to find out if I had a baby with a junkie.
My parents gonna flip the fuck out.
Quilla ass is playing it cool and shit but I know she praying that the baby—Dashon—isn’t mine.
Candy. Humph. I got her tricking ass holed up at Bentley Manor while I have the baby—my baby—with me. I’ve had him with me since that day in front of Circle K. This bitch didn’t have no problem at all when I told her I was taking him. Matter of fact she had the nerve to tell me “Good, because I done had my turn for the last three months.”
And me. What the fuck do I feel? That first day she dropped that load on me I was just numb as hell. But each day and night I kept him, washed him, fed him, and just held him. I fell for that little nigga. I’m glad that he’s mine but eighteen years of dealing with Candy is a hard pill to fucking swallow.
I shift my eyes to the rearview mirror and look at him sitting in his car seat in the backseat. He’s sleeping. My son. My seed. My legacy.
I got to do what the fuck I got to do.
I hop out of the SUV and open the back door to unlatch the car seat and pick up the carrier holding the baby. As I close the door with my hip, I make sure to put on my alarm. A nigga wasn’t even trying to get got. Bentley Manor could be gutter as hell sometimes.
Did I think somebody would actually fuck with my ride especially with a gazillion people hanging out front? No. Am I taking any chances? Hell to the naw. Sometimes in the hood, people lived by “see and don’t see”—especially when it comes to anything involving the police.
I’m glad as hell to walk into the stairwell and get out that August heat. Just them few steps from my truck to the building got sweat dripping down my back. When it’s damn near a hundred degrees like today I leave the jewelry home. It’s too hot for all that shit. If I was bulked up like 50 Cent my ass would come out of this wifebeater. That’s just how hot it is.
I cover my son’s face lightly with his blanket to keep him from inhaling in the scent of piss and the leftover scent of sweaty bodies. Even though I enjoy the hood, I never understand people using their hallways and the sides of their buildings for a damned toilet. I know it ain’t everyone but even one motherfucker shitting on the wall is plenty.
I had Candy set up in this apartment I keep in Bentley Manor. Olive, this legit lady that I trust like crazy, has the apartment in her name. She only shows up when necessary to keep the apartment managers in the dark.
As I walk up the hall, I hear music thumping against the walls. “What the fuck going on in here?”
I put my key in the lock, but before I can turn the key the door opens and two young bucks walk out the apartment. They couldn’t be no more than fourteen or fifteen.
I sit the baby’s carrier down and grab one by the arm. “What the fuck was y’all doing in there?” I ask him, my face filled with anger.
They look at each other and I can see they nervous as shit. “We ain’t the only ones,” one of them says, his diamond earring so big and cloudy that it got to be fake.
“Hold up one sec.” I pat them both down real quick to make sure they don’t got shit of mine in their pockets before I push them the fuck on their way.
I grab up the baby carrier, pulling back his baby cover to check on him real quick. He smiles up at me and my fucking heart tugs like he has a string tied around it. Not sure what the fuck is going on in the apartment, I turn and knock on the scratched metal door of the apartment across the hall.
“Who?” a female yells through the door.
“This Kaseem.”
I hear about ten fucking locks get undone and then the door swings open. “Whaddup, Lola. Your man home?”
She gives me a look that reminds me she don’t play. Lola is a bad bitch. Her skin is dark as midnight without a bump in sight and her body is all about her flat stomach and ghetto ass. With her looks and that ass niggas is always trying to get at her, but she loyal as fuck to her man. I mean to the point of cussing a motherfucker out for even thinking she would fuck around on her man.
“I wanted you to watch my son while I see what the fuck going on over there.” I nod my head back across the hall.
Lola looks over my shoulder and then rolls her eyes. “That’s trick central. That’s what the fuck goin’ on. So please know when you see that dotted up eye on that trick that I had to check your bitch for trying to step to my man. You better let her know I don’t play.”
Oh shit. And Lola wasn’t lying. I seen her beat a grown-ass man one time. She had that fool begging her to leave him the fuck be.
She took the carrier from me. “I ain’t know you had a son, Kas,” she says.
“Shit, neither did I.”
“Well, I got him, so go handle your business.”
She turns and I ain’t gone lie that my eyes dipped right to that ass. Them gray sweatpants she got on isn’t doing shit for hiding that up and down bounce. Okay, I know I said I got enough pussy to last me, but the fact that that ass look like it do and that she keep that pussy on lock the way that she do, make me want to nut all over her ass even more.
As soon as the door swings close, I
turn and cross the hall to walk into my apartment.
The black-on-black decorated living room is empty, but as soon as I step to the hall I see three more teenage boys standing outside the bedroom door. One of these looks about twelve or thirteen. They eyes get big as shit seeing me and it don’t take nothing but a hand motion for them to scramble out of there.
I open the bedroom door and one teenage is feeding his dick into Candy’s mouth while another older guy is steadily pumping away in her pussy doggy-style on the edge of the bed.
Shit, I ain’t mad she fucking niggas or even that she letting these young bucks run a train on her. Her crackhead ass is dead wrong to be handling her little pussy business on my thousand-dollar sheets. “Get the fuck out,” I tell them, sounding aggravated as hell.
The old man jumps off her ass so quick that he trips over his pants and falls on his back with his Viagra hard-on pointing to the damn ceiling. I rush over and grab him up by the neck being sure to not let his wet dick touch my threads as I toss him headfirst into the hall.
While the fellas get the fuck out Candy just wipes spit and cum from her mouth while she lays back on the middle of the bed looking like a skeleton spray-painted brown.
I gave her somewhere to stay. Babysat before I even knew the baby was mine. Offered her rehab—which she refused. Gave her money. Food. Clothes. Everything but the dope she needed. Guess the bitch found her own way to make it happen. It’s time to bring this circus to an end.
“You been smoking?”
“Not yet.”
“Cover up.”
Candy smiles and then spreads her legs showing me the hairiest pussy I ever seen in my life. “Wanna ride for old times’ sake?”
“Naw, I’m good.” Please. I wouldn’t fuck Candy with a dildo.
I reach for the papers from the back pocket of my Tommy plaid shorts and fling them at her. “The results came back and the baby is mine.”
She looks smug and shit. “I told you that.”
“Those are papers giving me custody of our son. Sign them and then pack your shit because you outta here.”
She rolls over onto her stomach and reaches for a pack of Newports on the nightstand. Her poor little ass looks sunken in as she lights a cigarette. “Where my money?” she asks.
I reach in my front pocket for a wad of money rolled together and held with a rubber band.
“Throw in a cookie and I’m out.” A cookie is the flat and round weight of crack. She looks me dead in the eye when she says it, too. I just want her gone. This bitch is selling my son to me for dope and money and she hasn’t once called to check on him or even ask me as I stand here how he doing.
She gots to go.
“Deal.”
“What’s wrong, Daddy? You don’t like?”
I look up at Suga standing in front of me in nothing but a pair of heels, a thong, and a smile. She trying her best to get me focused but my mind is somewhere else.
As soon as I dropped Candy’s no-good, scandalous ass to the train station—without even asking her where the fuck she going—I headed straight out to the country where me and Usher rented a three-bedroom brick house in Olive’s name. We call it the Trick Set. Not too many people know about the house. They might have heard about it but they don’t know where it is. Quilla was completely clueless about the Trick Set. Shee-it. It’s at this spot that we did all our dirt. Cut up drugs. Stash weight. Trick. Party. Crash. Whateva.
Right now a lot of our upper level crew is just chilling, watching TV, playing video games, smoking, and drinking. Usher is in one of the three bedrooms with some chick named Viesha that he met at Visions last week.
Earlier tonight I planned to chill with Quilla at her town house but when I called her she was at the mall with her cousins. Of course she was first on my list, but when I have some free time to spend with someone, I always go to my second string. Right now the twins were giving Quilla a run for my money. Fuck it. I was down for twice the pussy and twice the fun so I gave them a call to meet me here. Suga was home and Spyce was out, so now Suga is out here with me.
Even though we were still alone in the master bedroom my mind was on my son. I paid Lola a bill to watch him for me, but really my ass is ready to kiss Suga good night and jet. I’m sick of the smell of weed and liquor coming through the closed door. Sick of the company. Sick of the game. The hustle. I’m not even in the mood to fuck no more. She’s swinging her big titties against my face and my dick ain’t jumped to life yet.
I reach behind her to slap her ass. “I got a lot on my mind. Do me a favor and head back home.”
She squats down in front of me until her pussy looks like a fist in her thong. When she starts working her hip in a slow grind she uses her hands to lift up her titties to tease her own hard nipples with her tongue. “I ain’t gone lie, Daddy. I want that dick and bad, too,” she tells me, her accent a mix of hood and Down South charm—sexy as fuck. “You ain’t got to do shit, Daddy, but let me take care of that dick. Watch.”
My heart and my mind tell me I’m ready to go, but my dick stands at attention and now it’s ready to get wet.
“I don’t have much time,” I tell her as I raise my hips and work my vintage Gucci jeans down.
Suga laughs as she stands up. She lets her tits go free and they bounce and jiggle as they land back against her chest. With a wicked-ass smile, this sexy bitch pulls her thong to the side before she climbs on my lap. “You know damn well this pussy right here don’t need much time to make that dick do what it do. Do it?”
“Hell, naw.” I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the back of the chair as she slides down on my dick and starts a slow grind that doesn’t stop until I am gripping her hips and fucking back as I cum like there is no tomorrow.
Hours later, I look down at my son lying asleep in my arms as I stand at the bay windows of my apartment. Everything is different now. Everything.
I’m tired.
Not sleepy tired, but fed up. Ready for something new. Tired of the lies. The double life. The secrets. The life.
I ease him onto my bare shoulder and I’m glad I left the Set, picked him up, and came home. Just me and my son. It isn’t about just me anymore. It can’t be.
I press a kiss to his cheek before I look out at the Atlanta night skyline. My city. My streets. My hell.
Things have to change.
14
The Playa
Ain’t nothing worse than bein’ broke except bein’ broke without a way to get my hands on more money. I don’t know why I’m standin’ here lookin’ in this empty-ass fridge. Ain’t shit I can make happen with the dried crust of some shit I spilled weeks ago and an empty cereal box.
“Man, this ’bout a bunch of bullshit.” I slam the door so hard that the little-ass fridge leans with it and rocks with it.
Two months since Shaterica’s ass copped to that murder for me. I’m behind on the fifty dollars a month rent. I can’t drive the car ’cause I ain’t even had no gas money. Shit, over three dollars a gallon? My ass ain’t drivin’ no damn where. I’m feenin’ for a fucking cigarette and a blunt in this bitch and if I didn’t get somethin’ in my stomach soon this motherfucker gonna collapse.
I’d have some loot if that tricky bitch Shay didn’t run off with the money I made off them fake-ass purses. I woke up one morning with my dick and my pockets drained. If I see that little bitch again I’m gonna choke her ass the fuck out. Period.
On top of that my other bitches tryna act brand new on a nigga. Fuck ’em. All I need is a new set but I got to get my head back in the game. That murder fuckin’ wit my ass big-time. Sometimes I wake up at night all sweaty and shit after dreamin’ ’bout the night I killed that fool. I can’t let that shit get at me. I took care of keepin’ my ass out of jail. It’s all over. I just got to get my head back in the game.
I see a mouse shoot across the floor and into a small hole in the corner of the kitchen. His ass gots to be goin’ to get somethin’ to eat ’cause there
ain’t even a crumb up in this bitch.
I walk my ass out the kitchen on top of the dirty clothes and papers on the floor. I grab a wifebeater that used to be white and slide it on as I head down the hall. I don’t stop ’til I leave that junky-ass apartment behind. As soon as that metal door slams behind me I freeze, scared that Polette stalkin’-ass ’bout to flash me again.
She probably drunk as hell. Good ’cause I ain’t in the mood for her shit.
It’s about twelve and already the hall is filled with the sounds of music and TVs blaring, kids laughing or crying. It ain’t never quiet around this place. Never. Somebody’s ass is always awake and makin’ some kinda noise. Thank God August is almost over so these badass kids can get they sickenin’ asses back in school.
As soon as I jog down the stairs and outside the building, Miz Cleo and Miz Osceola walk up to me. I step to the left to walk past they ass. Jane Pittman and Harriet Tubman step to the left and block me. I step to the right. Here they go with the same damn thing.
“Something in the milk ain’t clean, Cleo,” Miz Osceola says as she leans on her bat like it’s a cane.
Miz Cleo shakes her hand to make the ice cubes in her jelly jar of ice water rattle. “It sure ain’t.”
“People ’round here best remember that what’s done in the dark always come to the light. Ain’t that right, Cleo?”
She takes a deep sip of her water and smacks her lips before she answers. “Sure is.”
Do they know about Shay? What the fuck is they gettin’ at?
“Are y’all talkin’ to me?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
Miz Osceola sticks her bat under her arm. For a second I think she ’bout to hit me. I don’t put shit past these old birds.
“I ain’t got but one word for you…karma.” She looks me up and down like shit on a new pair of shoes.
“It’s a bitch,” Miz Cleo adds the fuck on as she rattles that ice again.
“Yo, man, what the fuck ever.” I push right between them and keep on steppin’ from the nosy asses. One of these days somebody gonna make them mind they damn business. Them birds thought they owned Bentley Manor and had they hands and they noses in every fuckin’ thing that went down in this bitch.
