by 50 Cent
Dear Readers,
I still remember the first time I read Donald Goines. The godfather of street lit, he was the first to write books about characters I could identify with. To some, the stories may have been aggressive, overly stylized, and even dangerous. But there was an honesty there—a realness. I made a vow that if I wrote a book or got into the publishing game, I would try the same one-two punch—that of a Daddy Cool or Black Gangster.
Last year my memoirs, From Pieces to Weight, marked the beginning. Now, I’m rounding up some of the top writers, same way I rounded up some of the top rappers in the game, to form G-Unit and take this series to the top of the literary world. The stories in the G-Unit series are the kinds of dramas me and my crew have been dealing with our whole lives: death, deceit, double-crosses, ultimate loyalty, and total betrayal. It’s about our life on the streets, and no one knows it better than us. Not to mention, when it comes to delivering authentic gritty urban stories of the high and low life, our audience expects the best.
That’s what we’re going to deliver, starting with Nikki Turner, bestselling author of Hustler’s Wife and The Glamorous Life; Noire, bestselling author of G-Spot and Thug-A-Licious; and finally K. Elliott, author of Street Fame.
You know I don’t do anything halfway, and we’re going to take this street lit thing to a whole other level. Are you ready?
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by G-Unit Books, Inc.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-4895-9
ISBN-10: 1-4165-4895-5
POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com
DEDICATION
To all the Baby Brothers who are out there navigating the urban jungles of Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan, Staten Island, and the Bronx: Don’t let the mean streets strangle you. Stay on the success grind and keep doin’ the damn thang.
—Noire
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Father, thank you. Missy, Nisaa, Man, Jay, Tyrone, Angie, Aretha, and my girl Melissa Shaw from the Bronx, thanks for your loyalty and your love. 50 Cent, thanks for this opportunity and for your confidence in my skills. G-Unit Books is gonna kill ’em left and right! To Reem Raw and N.J.S. Entertainment, your gully beats and hot lyrics keep the ink flowing over my paper and the stories flowing from my soul. To my readers and fans, thanks for all the love and the calls and letters of support and concern. You shower it on me every day, and I’m giving it right back to you with each book I write. Check me out at www.myspace.com/asknoire and get ready to ride with me to the next level!
Stay Black,
Noire
BABY BROTHER
CHAPTER 1
Prisoner number 837R2006
Height, six feet, one inch
Face front.
(flash)
Turn to your left.
(flash)
Now to your right.
(flash)
“Good morning, New York! It’s time to get the hell outta bed! Right about now you’re waking up with my girl Jonesy! Sure we hired her because she’s pretty…but then after talking to her I realized she also has a great rap! Wake up on Hot 97! Let’s get ta grinding on this hot, sunny morning in the Big Apple!”
The early morning sun baked the run-down five-story tenement from the direction of Queens. On the second floor, thin red curtains swayed in the light breeze, and the B20 to Spring Creek groaned toward Linden Boulevard, traces of its exhaust fumes wafting through the open window.
Inside the bedroom, Baby Brother plunged into his wet yummy, bumping bone and scraping walls. “Yeahhhh,” he groaned, getting his mash on. He took a deep breath, then grunted and arched his back, pounding his pipe.
Beneath him, Sari moaned and panted. Her dark hair curled around her face and fanned over the pillow. Her juices smelled like Fruity Pebbles and it was just about breakfast time.
“Right there, mami?” Veins bulging, Baby Brother demanded, flinging sweat. “Is that where you like it, baby? Right there?”
She tossed her head no, but still squealed in pleasure as he grabbed her toned thighs, spreading them apart in a wide V. His fingers were hot on her caramel-colored skin. She pulled him deeper into her, then whispered something nasty in Spanish as the headboard slammed against the wall and Miss Jonesy talked shit in the background.
“Cool,” he said, withdrawing until only the head was left inside. It pulsed and throbbed in the rim of her tight opening as he extended his arms and balanced himself on the palms of his hands. “If the dick ain’t good to ya then I might as well take it out.”
She squeezed her legs tight. “No!”
He laughed. “Then let me hear you say this dick is good!”
“Shh!” She stopped rolling her ass and frowned. “Why you gotta say ‘dick’ so loud like that?! Tony might hear you!”
Baby Brother laughed again. “Fuck Tony.”
Sari giggled and slapped his arm. Working her hips into a hard grind, she pulled him deeply into her soft gushy, then wrapped her long legs around his back as her teeth found his nipple. She swirled her wet tongue around his bud and sucked gently, her lips pressed firmly against the hard muscle of his chest.
Baby Brother clenched his jaw and shuddered. “Aaah, baby. Damn. Shit. Slow down. Goddamn. Slow down, mami! Damn you throwing some good-ass stuff around, girl.”
It was sticky and hot inside her box and he didn’t wanna move. He forced himself to pull out of her, then slid down her body, sighing. He paused to lick her stiff, light brown nipple, then continued south, lapping sweat from the crevice of her belly button before pressing his face deeply into her wet spot.
“Yummy…” He smacked between licks. Her juice was like honey. Sweet and thick, and he wished he could put his whole head up inside her.
Sari gasped. Her muscles went rigid as he made waves of pleasure flow from her center. She held tight to his head and opened her mouth. A Spanish pleasure tirade exploded from her lips and filled the whole room. “Aaah, baby! Yeah, just like that. Right there, just like that.” Then moments later, “Oooweee, too deep! No, harder. Yeah. Just like that!” And then finally, “Oooh. Damn. Yeah. Damn! Why you gotta leave me, huh, Zabu? Why you gotta go? I love you, Z. You know that, don’t you?”
Baby Brother moaned, spurting the last of himself into her warmth. He rolled onto his side and pulled her into his dark arms. He gazed into her flashing eyes, and despite the way their bodies had just battled, he saw the deep pain that was lurking there.
He kissed her damp curls and squeezed her closer. “I gotta go, girl. That’s what’s real. This ghetto’s gonna kill me if I don’t. But I’m coming back for you, Sari. That’s truth, baby. That’s truth.”
Baby Brother got up. He used a bunch of Wet Wipes to clean himself, then kissed Sari again and got dressed. It was time to go. Priest was waiting for him back at the crib and they had moves to make.
“I’ma get up with you later, cool? I’ll be waiting downstairs around six. Have your fine ass ready too, ’cause the West Indian Day Parade draws niggahs from all over Brooklyn and there won’t be noplace to park near Eastern Parkway.”
He grinned at Sari, then walked over to t
he half-open window and raised it all the way up. He glanced down at the sparkling whip parked below, in the exact same condition he had left it in the night before. While Sari’s eyes were on him he pretended like he was climbing out the window and onto the raggedy fire escape, but then turned around real fast and walked over to the door instead. He heard her shocked intake of breath as he reached for the knob.
“Z! What the hell you doing?” She jumped up, her eyes flashing with alarm. He liked it when she got all hyped. Her nature was a perfect indicator of her ethnic mix. Black and Hispanic. She was a down chick and had a temper on her too. “Don’t open that damn door! You gotta go out the window!” She snatched the sheet off the bed and tried to wrap it around her nakedness. “Man, Tony’s home! You can’t let him see you leaving outta my room!”
Baby Brother grinned and walked out, closing the door on her high-pitched protests. Fuck all that window action. He was leaving out the door today.
His light brown eyes danced and his skin looked chocolaty smooth against the red-and-white Rocawear shirt he wore. He hiked up his jeans until they settled over his Air Force Ones just the right way, then headed down the short hall toward the front door.
Passing the kitchen, he stuck his head inside then slammed his hand against the side of the refrigerator as hard as he could. A cracking sound exploded in the air, startling the handsome Puerto Rican killer sitting at the table. Out of nowhere, a small silver gat appeared in the man’s hand.
“Damn, Tony! What? You gone shoot me or something?”
Tony stared at him with a snarl and set the gun down on the chair between his thighs. Even in the heat his voice came out feeling like ice.
“Yo, muthafucka. What the fuck is you doin’ in my crib?”
Baby Brother checked out Sari’s half brother. Her father had been black, and while she was brown and curly-haired, Tony was a pale Hispanic with dark, piercing eyes. He’d been sitting alone in the kitchen smoking a dutchey and counting a large stack of chips. His jet-black hair was shower-wet, his bare chest stained with tattoos and bulging with jailhouse muscle. A large bag half-filled with white powder sat on the table in front of him, and another much smaller bag rested on a triple-beam scale.
“Damn. Whatever happened to ‘good morning,’ son?”
Tony pushed the stack of money aside and reached into his back pocket. The glint of his knife caught Baby Brother’s eye.
“Yo. You been up in my joint all night?” His voice was deadly. “Back there witcha dick up in my little sister?” He twirled his knife. The tip of his blunt glared red, and his cold eyes never left Baby Brother’s face. “You must be a bad motherfucker then, huh?”
Baby Brother laughed and held up his hands. “Chill, amigo. I ain’t the enemy, son. Shit, after three years I’m just about family. Plus, I’m about to be outtie in a minute. No disrespect to your crib or nothing. I just wanted to spend some time with Sari. You know, treat her right before I leave, man.”
Tony stopped twirling the knife. Baby Brother knew how sharp that blade was. Tony was almost as legendary as the Monster had been on the knife tip. Both of them had plenty of carved-up victims walking the streets of Brooklyn.
“That’s right, I forgot. You graduated. Now you runnin’ off to college to be some kinda fuckin’ professor or something.” He laughed coldly. “That’s real stupid, yo. You need to claim you some territory and be a real man now, homey. You can fuck my little sister in my crib, then come stand in my kitchen where I can smell your nuts? Yeah, you a fuckin’ man. But real men pay dues, amigo! Leave that college business for the herbs out in Canarsie and get yourself a grind. Business is good on this side of the bridge. Tell ya pretty-ass brothers you coming to work for me now.”
“Fool, what I look like? You can kill all that shit. I got plans. I ain’t slinging rock for nobody. Not for you, not for that stupid niggah Borne, and not for my brothers neither.”
Tony laughed. “Okay, okay, I tell you what! I’m a nice mothafucker. Those fuckin’ twins can come work for me too, cool? You can be my runner and your brothers can be my capos. You can hold my balls, while they take turns suckin’ my dick!” He laughed louder this time, sweeping half the bills off the table and to the floor as he gripped his knife in his fist and glared.
Baby Brother watched him for a moment, then walked toward the door shaking his head. Tony had been tryna get at him for years, but it was cool. He was the oldest boy in the Santos’s family, and Sari was the youngest and only girl. It was only right that he would look out for his little sister the same way the six older Davis brothers came to the table for him.
Baby Brother and Sari had been rolling together since he was in the tenth grade and she was in the ninth. They were on opposite sides of a family rivalry. The Davis twins, Farad and Finesse, controlled the rock and the powder flowing in and out of Brownsville and were well-known for their savage brutality. The Santos clan ran the streets of East New York, with Tony at the helm. He was ruthless and crazy. A cutter. Like the Monster. A loose missile just itching to launch. There was no love lost between the two families, but they tolerated each other. Mainly on account of business, and partly because of Baby Brother and Sari.
Baby Brother walked down the hall and went through the stairwell door. The hot smell of stale urine and beer rushed out at him. He maneuvered around a couple of winos and crackheads who were sitting on the stairs trying to come down off their all-night highs.
“Whassup, Felix. Big Porter. How you doin’ this morning, Mrs. Woodson?”
The woman he addressed beamed at him. She was Jelly’s moms, a dude he knew from way back in the day. They’d boxed together at the BBC gym, but Jelly had gone into the Marine Corps two years ago, and it wasn’t long after that that the streets had claimed his mother.
“Baby Brother!” the woman exclaimed. She pulled her bra strap up on her shoulder and tried to smooth her hair. “You almost ready to leave us, huh?” She nudged the crackhead sitting next to her. “This boy right here is something else. He used to be Jelly’s best friend, you know. He was the only kid who ever whupped my Jelly in the ring too. Now he’s going off to college to learn how to be an astronaut! Ain’t that right, Baby Brother?”
He smiled down at her. Her hair was raggedy and her teeth looked like rotten little worms, but Baby Brother showed her much respect.
“Nah, Mrs. Woodson. I’m gonna be a surgeon. I’m majoring in premed.” The odors assaulting him were excruciatingly foul, but he withstood them. He stood there and carried on a conversation with Mrs. Woodson the same way he used to when his boy Jelly had still been around. He talked to her the way he used to talk to her back when she was still a loudmouthed, heavyset, dark-skinned woman holding her family down in a cool apartment off of New Lots Avenue and pushing a decent whip. As cracked-out as Mrs. Woodson was now, and as dreadful as she smelled, Baby Brother treated her the same way he would’ve wanted somebody to treat his own mother if he’d had one.
“Boy, you got a future ahead of you,” Jelly’s moms told him. “A real future. Wherever you goin’ to school, hurr’up and get there. This place ain’t for boys like you. Don’t let it crush you like it done crushed me.”
Baby Brother stepped out of the building and into the hazy sunshine. He inhaled the morning air and gazed at the candy-red 2007 drop-top Mercedes parked at the curb. The whip was just like he’d left it and he wasn’t surprised. Everybody in Central Brooklyn knew Farad’s wheels when they saw them, and only a fool with a death wish would have laid a finger on the paint.
“Baby Brother!”
His name rang out from a doorway across the street.
“You tell that niggah Farad his g-ride ain’t as tight as mine!”
Baby Brother grinned and lifted his chin at the skinny brother standing on the stoop. It was Bip, one of Farad’s ex-partners. A guy who had grown up with the Davis brothers in Brownsville, but who slummed around in East New York now. Bip had been banned from Brownsville on the direct word of Farad. He’d been a
llowed to keep his life because they’d been dawgs damn near from the cradle. But even that wouldn’t stop Farad from having him murked if he got caught crossing over into The Ville.
“That’s truth, Bip. I’ma let him know that shit too.”
“Yeah. Let him know I been up watching his whip all night, yo. Tell him he owe me! If it wasn’t for me some base-head prolly woulda ran off with his spinners.”
Baby Brother unlocked the car and climbed behind the wheel. It was a quality ride, paid for with cash dollars. Farad had it detailed every three days, and it smelled factory-fresh at all times. He settled into the seat, then slid the key in the ignition and listened to the engine purr.
He drove down the streets of East New York with the top down, driving aimlessly and absorbing the hood vibe. N.J.S. beats blared from the speakers as Reem Raw killed a hot track with illa East Coast lyrics. He rode up Shepherd, crossed Linden Boulevard, and headed toward New Lots. It was early, but niggahs was already out on the hot streets scheming on their next hustle.
Baby Brother nodded at a few familiar faces as he cruised down the block. He stopped at a light on the corner of Hegeman Avenue. A couple of gangsta-looking niggahs with larceny in their eyes grilled him as they walked by. Baby Brother was up on them. He knew what they were thinking and hoped they were smart enough to think again. He was a hard niggah, and good with his hands. He’d come up on the streets and in the gym, trained by his brothers to get in close and handle his.
But with two days left in New York he wasn’t trying to get into nothing hot except some more of Sari’s yummy. He pumped the volume even higher and decided to let Farad’s whip speak loud and clear to anybody who might wanna get smoked.
On the way home he thought a lot about college and about Sari too. Leaving her was gonna be hard, but he knew it would pay off in the end. A degree from Stanford came with certain guarantees, and although he was gonna miss his brothers around, he was grateful for the opportunity to escape the urban jungle. It’s what their mother would have wanted. Their father too.
