by Meesha Mink
“P-please, baby. D-don’t.” Her eyes roll.
I love her. I hate her. I can’t live without her.
That’s the kind of stench you can’t wash off.
Quite suddenly, I release her and fall over onto the floor beside her. I hear her wheeze in a breath.
And then another.
And another. She starts choking on air while I close my eyes and shame washes over me and tears leak from the corners of my eyes. What the fuck did I do? How did I veer so far off track?
Zoey rolls toward me, her heart-wrenching sobs tear at my heart. “I-I’m so so-rry, baby,” she croaks, pressing her full lips against my face. “I’m so sorry.” Her wet face brushes against mine as I wrap my arms around her.
“It’s okay, baby. We’ll get through this. We always do.”
21
The Playa
Black people know they can do the dumbest shit sometimes.
I’m standing on Holloway Parkway down by the Circle K tryna sell these damn Pucci, Fuey Vuitoon, and Poach bags. That’s hard as hell to do when the first of the month gone already. These birds ain’t good for shit after the tenth. Just one fuckin’ bag sold all day. Humph. Just a bunch of bullshit.
I reach in the pocket of my jeans for a smoke and squint my eyes while I look over at some chick and five heads of children climbin’ out of a car down the street. I frown like “what the fuck” when the teenage boy walks back to the trunk to pull out those fake-ass flowers you find on cemetery plots and shit.
As I look around I see everybody out this motherfucker lookin’ at they ass while they puttin’ all that flower and shit by a tree.
“Damn, Lex good as hell to bring her kids after that shit Junior did to her.”
I turn my head and see two young birds strainin’ they head to look down the street too. “Yo, I got them designer bags straight from New York,” I tell them, holdin’ out my arms to show them the bags I’m holdin’ like I’m Lenny from Good Times.
“Naw, we good,” the high yella one with the freckles say.
I just shrug and ignore they broke asses while I peep the scene about half a block down the street. I heard about all that shit that went down last summer up in the Manor. Shit, who hadn’t heard about it. Two dead bodies. Some bitch trickin’ on the low gettin’ slashed in the face. Findin’ out my homeboy Junior was livin’ life foul as hell on the down low. Shit, Junior was straight wildin’ out fuckin’ dudes and chicks. Oh, I knew that nigga but I ain’t know his ass like that. Matter of fact, I try to not to think about that crazy shit and here’s these motherfuckers layin’ out flowers and shit where that white bitch shot his ass dead. Must be the anniversary or some shit.
Who would want to remember that? Man, black people know they got some shit with they ass sometimes.
I take another drag off my cigarette and squint my eyes as a silver Honda pulls up behind it. This fine-ass bitch with braids down her back and nails long enough to make you wonder how she wash her ass gets out to walk up to them. I ain’t gone lie. The sight of her ass in them tight jeans make me wanna fuck.
“There go WooWoo lesbo ass,” one of them birds say with plenty of attitude.
Lesbo? That makes me look at that ass long and hard, ’cause I want it even more.
“I can’t believe that bitch still goin’ to visit Has after that he/ she killed her fuckin’ husband,” the other bird puts in.
I’m eavesdroppin’ like a motherfucker. I missed that little bit of news floatin’ around Bentley Manor.
“Fuck a dildo. I need that live dick that pumps and gets warm when I make that bitch cum, ya heard me.”
“I don’t know. That fake-ass dick Has threw at that bitch that day was big as hell. I ain’t run cross no real dick to top that shit.”
Them birds laugh and I hear them slap hands.
I let out a circle of smoke and watch while Lexi and WooWoo and all them damn kids climb back into their cars and pull the fuck off. Now that’s some drama for your ass.
I check my cell phone. I been out here damn near all day and I ain’t sold but one bag? Man, I need to get the fuck from ’round this bitch. Ready to get out the heat, I snatch up my bags and head back to the Manor.
Man, I’m sick of fuckin’ strugglin’. It’s time for a fine nigga like me to do a Beyoncé and upgrade up out of Bentley Manor, Bankhead, and the hood, period. If I fuck around and get the right set in L.A. or New York a nigga like me ain’t workin’ no fuckin’ more. I didn’t get away with murder to be strugglin’ like a bitch.
As soon as I walk through the gates of Bentley Manor I see Delia sittin’ on somebody’s Caddy smokin’ a cigarette. She looks over at me and looks away. For the first time in a long damn time her ass don’t look like she high or feenin’ to get high. She still dressed bummy as hell in a faded black wifebeater and jeans that’s too big for her skinny ass.
I see Miz Cleo and Miz Osceola got they eye on me as I walk over to Delia. I don’t bother to wave to they nosy ass. Them old bitches don’t do shit but smack they bats in their hands whenever they see me. They better be glad I don’t go for silver pussy ’cause they ass need a good ass-whippin’ or a good dickin’ down.
“Whaddup, Delia,” I ask her, sitting my box of bags on the ground while I lean back against the car next to her.
“Leave me alone, Rhak, I got shit on my mind,” she tells me, her hand shakin’ and shit as she lift the cigarette to her mouth.
My eyes drop down to watch the way her lips press down on the tip. My dick comes to life. “I know how to get shit off your mind,” I tell her, tryin’ my damndest to give her the look. Not that a head like Delia had to be seduced and shit. All I need is two fuckin’ dollars. Eight quarters. Ten dimes. Forty nickels.
“I’m sick of livin’ like this,” she admits in this voice that is just a little bit louder than a damn whisper. When she do turn and look at me, there are tears in her eyes. Tears and torture.
Why the fuck she droppin’ all this heavy shit on me?
“Then carry your ass to rehab.” Attitude is in my voice. I ain’t got time for no fuckin’ sob stories.
She just kinda laughs and takes another long pull off her cigarette. “Too much fuckin’ memories I can’t run from. Too much withdrawals. Too much fuckin’ work. Shit, it’s easier to just get high.” She laughs again but I can tell she don’t think shit funny.
“You think I don’t know I fell off? I don’t know how I look? My grill fucked up. My body whack. My life ain’t shit. My family won’t fuck with me. I ain’t seen my kids in months. You think I wanna be a fuckin’ crackhead ’round here suckin’ stick sweaty-ass dicks and balls to get high? You think I wanna feel like less than a woman? You think I wanna be livin’ in an apartment with five other heads and shit?” Her voice shaky as hell as she sucks back the fuckin’ tears from fallin’. In the hood sometimes there ain’t no time for cryin’. Not when it’s all about survivin’.
I think of my momma and her own demons. I remember the way she used to cry before, during, and after she got drunk. “How you get on that shit?” I ask her.
Delia gets real silent as she looks off at some shit I can’t see. “People judge motherfuckers on drugs. Say we weak. We stupid. We ain’t shit. It’s a lot of motherfuckers running from they life. Running from they memories. Running from shit they can’t change. Not everybody handle shit the same way, you know. It’s hard gettin’ off this shit. I want to get high so bad right now. My body callin’ for it. Fuckin’ with me. You know?”
Okay, now this bitch depressin’ the fuck out of me.
“Sometimes I lay there and I want it so bad and I don’t want it at the same time. Back and forth. Fightin’, tryna leave that shit alone. It fucks with me so bad that sometimes I just wanna die.” She holds up her hands and wipes away the tears that fall like she tryna erase them motherfuckers.
“I can’t remember the last time I fucked some dude just because I wanted to.”
Okay, fuckin’. Now we back on familiar
territory and she ain’t touchin’ on shit inside of me that hit too close to home about my momma. Too close to home about Shaterica. Too close to home about all the other bitches I done run through. Fuck ’em.
“Where Polette?” she asks me.
I squint my eyes against the sun as a car drives by slow as hell, vibratin’ from the bass of his sound system. “Her and her sister went to visit they mother—”
“Fuck me.”
The rest of the words die down from my mouth. I look at her and I can see she serious and sober as hell. Humph. This bitch was just singing a sad song ’bout she tired of trickin’ and smokin’ dope. What the fuck ever. “I ain’t got no money,” I lie, even as I slide my hand inside my pocket and finger the forty dollars I made from sellin’ that powder blue Poach bag.
She drops the cigarette to the asphalt and then mashes it flat with the tip of her sandals. “I didn’t ask you for none.”
A free fuck? Shee-it. If her pussy is anywhere near as good as her head, then fuck the dumb shit. She wanna feel like a woman, then she got the right motherfucker for that job.
“I’m going up to the apartment. Wait ten minutes and come up behind me.” I bend down, grab my box, and stroll my ass across the lot into the buildin’. Even as I walk into the apartment I am countin’ in my head how many condoms I got. Listen, I love pussy but I ain’t tryna die for it. Findin’ out that Junior ran though the women in this motherfucker like it was his personal pussy playland got me nervous as a bitch, since his wife made it clear that his ass gave her AIDS.
Fuck that. Better safe than fuckin’ sorry.
“Yes…yes…yes!”
That all that Delia’s keep sayin’ over and over and over again as I work my hips to send my dick in and out of her pussy. Sometimes she says it all soft and low like a whisper. Sometimes she bitin’ her bottom lip and then screamin’ that shit to the rooftops. But that’s all she keep sayin’. Yes. Yes. Yes.
She spreads her legs wider in the center of Polette’s bed and I stop fuckin’ her to bend my head and look down into her face while my dick throb against her walls. Her tight and warm walls.
Her eyes are closed. Her back is curved off the bed. She squirmin’ like she can’t get enough of this dick.
Fuck it. Head or not. Delia is a pretty bitch and I like the way she fuck. This bitch got my heart racin’ and sweat drippin’ off my body.
She says it’s been a long time since she fucked somebody just because she wants to. Well, we got somethin’ in common, ’cause it’s been a minute since I fucked a bitch without gettin’ somethin’ out of it.
“Come on, Rhak,” she begs, her voice whinin’ and shit while she lift her hips up and then down to make her pussy pull on my thick dick. “Fuck…me.”
I look down in her eyes as she brings her hands up to massage her own nipples as she makes one of her eyebrows arch up like she darin’ me to tear that pussy up.
Humph.
I get on my knees, grab her skinny thighs, and put one of her legs on each of my shoulders. “You ready for this?” I ask her before I lick her ankles.
“Yes…yes…yes.”
Okay, she back to that shit again.
I drop my hands to her ass and squeeze them cheeks close, makin’ the pussy clamp down tighter on my dick. I give her three hard pumps. BAM! BAM! BAM!
She gasps.
I give her three more. BAM! BAM! BAM!
I feel her pussy get warmer. Wetter. A little looser.
I like it. I like it a lot.
Fast and deep I throw my hips, makin’ my dick tap the bottom of that pussy until it’s talkin’ to me. Tellin’ me how good my dick is with every smack of her juices. Tellin’ my dick is hard with each slap of my thighs against her ass. Tellin’ me to fuck it harder with each grunt from her lips.
I fuck her fast like a drum roll. Pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow!
She starts breathin’ like she tryna swallow air.
Pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow!
My sweat drips down onto her body while her eyes get big.
Pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow!
My heart beatin’ like a motherfucker. It’s beatin’ so loud I can’t hardly hear shit else while I look down at her and squeeze her titties so hard I think she gone tear ’em off.
Pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow!
I feel like I’m gone catch a cramp but I keep power-drivin’ that pussy. I can’t stop. I won’t stop.
She arches her back and grabs at her chest.
Pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow!
“Say my name,” I tell her, my face twisted from the nut I feel buildin’ up.
“Rhak. Rhak. Rhak.”
Humph. Two things I know I can do in life is deliver a good fuck and manipulate women.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
I look over my shoulder just as the bedroom door slams back against the wall and Polette is standing there. “You motherfucker, you!” she screams at the top of her lungs.
Delia grabs my ass and pushes me deeper inside her like she sayin’ to hell with Polette. “Yes, yes, yes,” she moans.
I realize I am still grindin’ my hips and slingin’ that dick to her. Something about it is freaky as shit and my dick gets harder even as I keep lookin’ over my shoulder at Polette.
Delia grunts all soft and shit.
Polette mouth drops wide open.
Even though I’m lookin’ at her I still don’t know how she got across that floor onto my back so fuckin’ fast.
I holler out as she wraps her arms around my neck and starts chokin’ the shit out of me. Delia reaches above me and starts deliverin’ blows to Polette’s head. It’s a hell of an ass-whippin’ sandwich.
But I’m still pumpin’ away in Delia. Pop-pop. Fuck it.
“What the fuck?”
Okay, that voice I don’t recognize.
“Get the fuck off me,” Polette screams.
She’s off my back and hands are takin’ her arms from around my damn throat. I feel her drag her nails into my back. I look down at Delia and her eyes are big as shit. “Who the fuck is they?” she says, startin’ to push me off her with more strength than I thought her little scrawny ass would have.
I feel someone’s hands grab my arms and pull me out the bed. For a second Delia’s body comes with me like we’re attached. I look over my shoulder and those same two detectives who questioned me are standin’ there. The black female is holdin’ Polette while the big white dude in brown slacks and a striped shirt drenched with sweat is standing by with his hand on his gun.
Now my dick shrivels right on up.
“That’s him. That’s Rhakmon. Lock his no-good ass up,” Polette is screamin’.
“If you don’t hold still I’m going to lock your ass up,” the black female cop tells her in this hard voice.
“Yo, what’s goin’ on?” I ask as the man puts cuffs on my wrist behind me.
I look left and Polette shoots spit at my face. She misses. Thank God, ’cause Polette breath can get funkier than a motherfucker.
I look right. Delia is standing in the corner holdin’ a sheet up to hide her naked body.
“What the fuck is goin’ on?” I ask while he hauls me to my feet with my pants and drawers down around my ankles with my dick swingin’ as much as it can while fear fucks me right on up. Hell yeah, I’m nervous as shit and lost like a motherfucker.
Man, what the fuck is goin’ on?
22
The Killer
I’ve lost my religion.
I’ve lost my way.
That ugly fuck Charlie off C-Block was right about me. I can’t dress it up or pass it off. There’s a stench on me that I’ll never be able to wash off. Killin’ my old childhood friend is now a new collection to my nightly nightmares and for a month now I’ve been tryin’ to bury it in the back of my mind.
I no longer pray.
I’ve stop preachin’ on the stre
et corners and I can’t even look at my old worn-out copy of the Holy Quran.
I was better off in the joint. Hell, I was better off in that damn Dumpster.
Zoey is pregnant.
After staring at the fifth positive pregnancy test, the shit is finally startin’ to sink in. I crouch forward over the bed with my head in my hands. “What the fuck are we goin’ to do?” I ask, not really expecting an answer.
“Maybe you can work for Kaseem,” Zoey suggests.
“One bust and they’ll throw away the key on my ass,” I tell her. Of course, neither one of us mentions that’s exactly what’s gonna happen if I’m ever tied to M. Dawg’s murder. But right now, the body hasn’t been discovered.
I glance over at her while she drops her head. The bruises on her face and neck are almost gone. To be safe, we stay clear from talkin’ about that whole night. It’s our own little trick at pretending that it never happened.
“What about that job Sweet offered you? Being a bouncer is a legitimate job.”
“You know why that’s out of the question.”
“Yeah, but you said yourself that he doesn’t know that you killed his brother.”
I shake my head. “C’mon. You know that would be pretty foul for me to take a job from him whether he knows or not.”
“We can’t eat pride,” she stresses.
My gaze hardened at the familiar words M. Dawg had spoke to me last month. I’m able to put a cap on my anger by turning away.
After a long silence, she tosses up her hands. “Okay. I’m out of suggestions. What do you want to do?”
“Rewind and put a condom on.”
She crosses her arms and stares me down. “Seriously.”
“How much would it cost if we—”
“I’m past my first trimester. It’s much too late for that.”
I push off the bed and start pacing the bedroom. “Then fuck it. I’ll have to find something.”
She bobs her head. “I have a job interview in an hour. Hopefully, I’ll get it.”
I push on a smile because I know that’s what she wants, but what I need is a good damn punching bag.
