by Zaire Crown
“What the fuck is y’all trifling bitches doin’ in my office?” Tuesday barked angrily.
The dancer, who called herself Passionfruit, grabbed her top and bolted out of the room covering her bare breasts. She was too embarrassed to speak or even look at Tuesday.
Baby Doll was nonchalant. She just casually sat up and reached for the pack of Newports that she had left on Tuesday’s desk. She tapped it against her palm, fished one out and lit it.
She leaned back on the sofa blowing out a trail of smoke. “Damn, TK, why you scare off my li’l thang-thang?”
Tuesday came inside and pulled the door shut. “Why is you and yo li’l thang-thang making it jump off in my office? Bitch, is you out yo rabbit-ass mind?”
She smiled as if she either didn’t truly appreciate or care how pissed Tuesday really was. “I was feeling some kinda way. I was just tryin’ to get me one real quick.”
Tuesday dropped her purse in a chair and stood over her. “Well, you shoulda took that bitch to a room or something. And I done told yo ass before I’m tryin’ to run a business here. This ain’t yo personal candy shop!”
Tuesday didn’t mind that most of the girls were bisexual because she sometimes went both ways; she also didn’t mind that some of them fucked with each other because even she occasionally picked out some new cutie that she wanted to taste; but the problem Tuesday had with Doll was that she was fucking everything at the club and all over the club. She’d been caught getting down in the dressing room, the stockroom, the restroom, and now in Tuesday’s office—which, considering her OCD, was a major violation. Baby Doll was knocking so many of the dancers that it was causing unnecessary drama at The Bounce. Jealousy had made a few girls actually come to blows over the short, hazel-eyed vixen, and one time gunplay was even involved.
“I told you to slow yo roll on fuckin’ with all my dancers up in here. It keep up too much shit!”
Baby Doll was still sitting on the couch naked with her legs open. “And what am I s’posed to do if a bitch choose me?”
“You gone pull a bitch up in my office and then top the shit off by playin’ me like it’s a joke!” Tuesday pointed a finger at her. “You betta be lucky I don’t whip yo li’l midget ass!”
Doll’s clothes were on the floor. Tuesday scooped them up into a ball and threw them at her. “Bitch, put on yo shit and get the fuck outta here!”
Doll untangled her outfit. “Bitch, stop actin like you ain’t never dipped off with none of these hoes.”
“That’s right, dipped off!” Tuesday said, stressing the two words with her hands. “This is where I get my bread. Bitch either respect my club or don’t bring yo ass up here!”
Tuesday watched with hands on her hips while Doll got dressed in a camisole top that she was wearing with some denim shorts. She slipped her feet into some ankle socks and a tiny pair of Air Force Ones most likely bought at a kids’ shoe store.
As Doll was leaving out the office, she muttered, “I wonder if being fake just natural or if it’s somethin’ that happen to a bitch when they get old.”
Tuesday spun around because even though she was talking to herself, the words were spoken loud enough for her to hear. “I got yo old right here, bitch! Whenever you think you ready to see this old fake bitch just run up. That go for you and yo girl Bree. All y’all gotta do is run up and I’ll smash both y’all bitches! My bad, all one and a half of y’all bitches!”
Doll didn’t respond. She just walked out her office never saying a word and never looking back.
Tuesday kept some air freshener in her desk drawer for when she smoked weed in the office. She walked throughout the room spraying until she no longer smelled their scent, doused the sofa, then flipped over the cushions.
Tuesday understood that the little pint-sized bitch had done this to make a statement because Baby Doll, as much as anyone, knew how she felt about her personal space. There once was a time when the girls followed her lead without question but lately Brianna was challenging her at every turn and Doll was starting to do the same. Yesterday Bree had all but accused her of stealing and now today this—there was an escalating level of disrespect that was going to culminate in somebody getting fucked up. This was just another reason why Tuesday knew this had to be their last lick since it was so obvious that it was time to break up the crew. When role players started demanding the ball from Kobe, there was definitely something wrong with the team chemistry.
Tuesday wasn’t so stupid as to think that Bree and Doll didn’t talk about her behind her back. One was too short and the other too bony to give her any trouble in a fight, but then again, who actually fought anymore in the Age of the Gun. If the two of them wanted to break camp and do their own thing, Tuesday would support that, even though she knew neither of them had the brains to do so. However, until this job was over, she intended to keep a close eye on both of them.
Tushie walked into her office just as Tuesday was putting the can away. She frowned because the flowery smell of potpourri was so strong that it was actually offensive.
“Gurl, what wuz you in hurr doin’ dat you need to cover it up wit a whole thang of air freshener?”
“It ain’t about what I was doin’!” She took two minutes to explain the confrontation she had just had with Baby Doll.
“Hell, naaaaw!” Tushie said with even more New Orleans in her voice than usual. “And you ain’t whup dat li’l bitch from one end of the room to tha otha?”
Tuesday laughed at her girl’s accent. “Haw, I gave her a pass this time.”
“You been givin’ out a lot of dem lately,” Tushie said as a warning. “A bitch might think you goin’ soft round hurr.”
“If a bitch think that, it’ll be a mistake!” Tuesday flashed her a serious glare even though she knew that Tushie was not referring to herself.
Tushie said, “I just came back from Aziz’s. I got those cases of Grey Goose and got ’em to throw in a few otha thangs.” Their liquor distributor was a young Arab who was raised in Hamtramck and had a thing for the sistas. Even though he was Muslim, he worshipped Tushie’s legendary body almost as much as he did Allah, which was why when it was time to restock their booze, Tuesday always sent her to handle that business. While tight-fitting denim might look good on her, that ass didn’t move quite like it did in lighter fabrics. So when Tuesday saw that Tushie was wearing stretch pants, she knew that a little flirting and some booty shaking had probably gotten her the order for next to nothing.
“And where wuz you at while I was over thurr getting felt up by bin Laden’s cousin?”
“I just got done tailing ol’ boy but something don’t seem right about him.” Tuesday took a minute to explain how she had followed Caine today and shared all the things that gave her doubts about him being heavy in the game.
“That don’t necessarily mean nuthin’,” said Tushie. “Maybe dat nigga just playin’ low-key. It’s a lot of niggas out thurr who got it but ain’t tryin’ to stunt. Tha smart ones know betta.”
“I understand that but it’s just hard for me to believe that a nigga who’s basically a kingpin would just be walking around out in public by himself and parking at some shit no bigger than what we grew up in. This nigga s’posed to roll like the president whenever he out and about: one hundred killers, thirty cars deep with him ducked off in the backseat of something bulletproof. Not whipping around in some plain-ass Audi that ain’t even got chrome rims.”
Tushie countered by saying, “But ain’t no nigga tryin’ ta stay unda the radar gone be able to roll like dat.”
She was right. Tuesday was surprised that her girl was actually peeping angles that she should’ve seen for herself. It all made sense when viewed in the light of Sebastian Caine’s reputation for being incognito.
She tapped her chin thoughtfully while considering all the myths she’d heard about him over the years. The most important one was that he never did business in person, always through a front man. His anonymity was essentially the key to hi
s power and was the primary reason he’d had such a long, lucrative run. It had earned him the moniker “The Invisible Man.” He couldn’t be snitched on, robbed, or assassinated if nobody knew who he really was.
Tuesday figured that a man so clever would also be smart enough not to draw attention to himself with some big luxurious mansion or even a flashy car, and he definitely wouldn’t need security since nobody knew his face to begin with. Maybe someone slick enough to keep their identity a secret in the dope game for over twenty years would pick the simplest disguise: A plain ’01 Audi-driving suburban father who watered his grass, paid his taxes, and took his daughter for ice cream after school. Tuesday began to smile to herself because the more she thought of it, the more she appreciated his genius.
But as she continued to think on Caine’s genius, the smile began to fade because she realized that it would be all the more difficult to seduce him. A nigga like this would peep a game-running bitch coming from a mile away. In the past her fat ass, green eyes, and pretty smile had been enough to draw marks in, but this was no ordinary mark. It would take more than just sex appeal; Tuesday decided that she was somehow going to have to earn his trust.
She propped her elbow on the desk and perched her chin atop her fist struggling to decide exactly how she was going to do that.
While Tushie parked herself into the chair in front of her, Tuesday shared all the revelations that had just come to her and asked for some input on a scheme to get close to him. Tushie agreed with her assessment of their mark but in terms of advice on how to get to him, she was just as dry.
“Gurl, you just gone have ta watch ’em fo the next coupla days and wait fo yo openin’.”
Tuesday made it back to her condo at about eight that evening, leaving Tushie, her co-owner, at The Bounce to oversee things. She was tired from the long day, but had a ritual for coming home that must be obeyed just like the one for leaving. She went room to room checking each light with three flicks and making certain that everything was still arranged according to her system.
Her stomach grumbled a reminder that she hadn’t eaten since she grabbed that burger from Checker’s earlier. She went into the kitchen, popped a ready-to-eat meal into the microwave, and sat quietly at the breakfast table picking over what Lean Cuisine had the audacity to call Chicken Alfredo.
Tuesday found it funny that so many girls at the club thought she lived some glamorous life filled with champagne parties when the truth was, most of her nights were spent exactly like this. While some people might find her existence lonely, or even a little pathetic, she was cool with it. Tuesday’s motto was: Being alone is only a problem when you don’t enjoy the company. She had been raised as a single child under a mother who was way more interested in each new boyfriend than in her. She only had a few cousins, and those who she hadn’t fallen out with over money or jealousy were uptight Christian squares who looked down on her for being a stripper. Because her mother moved so often when she was little (sometimes as many as three times a year), she never forged those lasting friendships that could weather the years and span into adulthood. Other than Tushie, none of the people she dealt with could be classified as friends: most were casual acquaintances like Ebony, who she was cool with but not too personal, while others were just business associates like Face. Since A.D. had been away, she’d had several brief flings with men who she was using strictly for dick, but she always had to break it off because without fail the nigga ended up catching feelings and tried to get possessive. Despite it all, though, Tuesday didn’t count the absence of any of these things as losses because she had herself and that had always been enough. She had no family, no friends, no man, but most important, she didn’t feel she needed any of these things to complete her. Tuesday sat there in her quiet condo, alone at her kitchen table taking in forkfuls of gummy pasta and rubbery processed chicken, telling herself how complete her life was, and making herself swallow that as well.
After dinner she spent two hours cleaning a condo that already looked sterile enough to perform surgery in. During this period she only had one minor OCD hiccup in which she spent fifteen straight minutes wiping at an imaginary spot on the glass of a three-hundred-gallon saltwater aquarium that decorated her living room.
Then, after being inspired by the sight of the tropical fish, she jumped on her computer and spent forty-five minutes at a travel website considering vacation spots to hit up if the lick was a success—she was torn between St. Maarten and Costa Rica. Then she spent another half hour on Black Planet live chatting with a thirtysomething SBM out of Atlanta who claimed to be partner in a brokerage firm but was in all likelihood probably an unemployed white guy in Montana who was closer to fifty.
After logging off her computer, she took a quick shower in a large glass booth with mint-green marble walls. She paid special attention to her feet since she had used them to pleasure Face’s pervy ass. She scrubbed so hard with the abrasive sponge that she was going to need another pedicure, because she was taking the plum toenail polish right off.
The gross part aside, she did enjoy having her toes sucked; plus, the sight of Doll getting served on the office sofa was a sad reminder that it had been a while since someone had fed on her. She had a couple of her own li’l thang-thangs on line who she could have had come lick the clit but right then there was no stud on deck, and what she really wanted was dick.
Tuesday was horny as hell. She felt hot and swollen between the legs. She looked down at her pretty Brazilian-waxed pussy and imagined A.D. on his knees tasting the juices. She would hold the back of his head while the water cascaded off her body and rained on the top of him, grinding into his face as his strong hands held the back of her thighs. He was the one man she knew whose tongue game was as sick as most bitches’ and once he made a nice fat one bubble up inside her, she would explode right onto his sexy lips.
Then when her legs were done shaking, she would turn around and offer him a full serving of what Dresden’s small unsatisfying dick had stolen just a sample of. He had groaned about how good her pussy was, but really, he had no idea; what he’d done was as impersonal as a gynecologist’s exam. He had never experienced how wet and wonderful Tuesday could truly be when she was with a nigga that she cared for and desired—like A.D. Again she imagined him rough-fucking her from behind just the way she liked it: thug-style; spanking her ass and telling her that the pussy was his. She could almost feel his hands tracing the curvature of her body from her small waist to her plump titties, his long, stiff dick plowing deep into her receptive hole as he groaned with pleasure, the sound of his pelvis slapping into her so hard that he sent shockwaves rolling through her butter-soft ass, making it bounce to his rhythm. And just when his frantic pace coupled with his ecstatic groans told her that he was close to a nut, she would turn around and reciprocate with some marvelous head until he busted in her mouth.
That was the one thing that separated Tuesday from chicks who went all the way dyke: to her there was no substitute for a sexy nigga attached to a big, hard, throbbing dick that could actually come—a bitch in a strap-on just couldn’t duplicate that for her. Girls were okay in that some of them were beautiful and most could really eat some pussy, but she just absolutely loved looking into her man’s eyes and seeing the pleasure that she was giving him up until that moment when she sucked him off and swallowed all that he had to offer.
Tuesday was leaned back against the shower wall, eyes closed, with a hand between her legs. She was teasing herself with her middle finger and honestly didn’t even know when she had started. She only knew when she would stop.
But she stopped sooner than she wanted to because the vibe was broken up by the sound of her doorbell. It startled her because it was such a hardly-heard sound; in fact she couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard it. She would be paged from the front desk via intercom if she had an outside guest and she was not friendly with any of her neighbors. The only people who would pop up at her door unannounced were building management a
nd even they wouldn’t come at this hour. The clock on her waterproof radio that hung in her shower confirmed it was after eleven p.m.
She was ready to dismiss the phantom sound as a fluke, someone at the wrong door, but when the bell rang again, she killed the water and stepped out the stall. She wrapped her wet body in a dry towel, then quickly padded into the bedroom for some clothes.
She slipped on a black-and-red silk peignoir with a Chinese pattern that came mid-thigh. She stepped into some fluffy bunny slippers that she was way too grown for but liked anyway. She didn’t bother to put on panties.
The bell rang again and this time it was accompanied by a knocking that sounded urgent. Forceful.
Tuesday grabbed the Heckler from her Louis bag and went to answer it. She approached slowly, warily, with the gun at her side. The safety was off.
Tuesday thought about screwing in the new silencer she just bought, then decided against it. If an intruder did try to barge inside her apartment, she would be justified in blowing his heart out of his back, but the police would be suspicious when none of her neighbors claimed to have heard the gunshots. While she wouldn’t do a day for the actual murder, the illegal sound suppresser might still get her five to ten years in federal prison.
The bell rang again. More knocking.
From the living room she crept down the short hallway that led to the front door. Tuesday didn’t know what type of wood it was, but it appeared to be of high quality. The door was thick, heavy, and wide as the ones in most medical centers that accommodate hospital beds.
Light from the hallway spilled in from the crack beneath it. There were only two shadows, representing one pair of feet.
She looked through the peephole and was presented a fisheye lens view of the gentleman from next door. He was an older nigga, Tuesday guessed early fifties, that she could tell had been really fine back in his day. His unit was to the left of hers, and although they’d passed each other a few times in the hall, they had exchanged no more than courteous smiles. She couldn’t imagine what the fuck he would be doing at her door at eleven thirty at night when in two years of being neighbors he’d never so much as come by to borrow sugar.
