Games Women Play

by Zaire Crown

  Tushie was horny, working a strong buzz, and wasn’t about to let his ass play Mr. Nice Guy. She blocked him at the door and before he knew what was happening, she began to undo his pants then fell to her knees.

  He pushed her hands away from his zipper. “Naw, baby, chill. You ain’t gotta do that!”

  He helped her back up and she stood there with her arms folded defensively. “Whut’s wrong wit choo? I know you ain’t gay, so whut, you ain’t feeling me or sumthin’?”

  He touched her chin. “Naw, girl, you know better than that. I’m just not in a rush to go that way wit you.”

  “Why not?” she asked, sounding offended.

  He laughed at her. He pulled her into his arms and Tushie’s Hershey chocolate frame almost melted against him. The way his trimmed goatee framed those big sexy lips, his soft brown eyes with the long lashes, his deep, spiraling 360 waves all had her gone. It had only been two weeks but she was feeling this guy in a way she hadn’t felt anybody in a long time. The only thing was that he was either missing her signals or just not interested in her sexually, which was a problem she never had with niggas in the past.

  “Tanisha, you know I’m feelin’ you!” Tushie liked that he called her by her real name, which was something few people did. Even to those in her family she had been “Tushie” since she was twelve years old, when puberty came and hit her harder than a Mack truck.

  “Den why you actin’ like you don’t?” she asked, looking up at him solemnly. “I mean you don’t neva try ta touch me or nuthin’. I undastand you tryin’ ta be a gentleman but it’s a such thang as being too much of a gentleman.”

  He lightly pecked her lips before he explained: “Comin’ in I told myself I wanted to take my time with you. I know you used to dance and I know most niggas who come at you only wanting one thing.”

  Tushie blinked but didn’t respond, because what he said was common knowledge.

  “I didn’t want you to look at me like the rest of them niggas!” he continued. “I didn’t want it to be like I was just using you so I wanted us to connect on a deeper level first. Baby, I only care about what’s on the inside and I’d be here right now if you was only ninety pounds and flat as an ironing board. You’d still be a dime to me.”

  She would too. Her body got so much attention that it was easy to overlook that Tushie had a really pretty face with sleepy cat’s eyes and juicy pink lips. Plus not a lot of girls could pull off being that dark and still be fine like her.

  Tushie was touched by the sentiment but explained to him that someone she truly cared for could never use her in that way. With some homespun southern wisdom she made him understand that she, like all women, wanted a man to respect her mentally but not to the extent that he ignored her physically. Even with all the negative attention she sometimes got, Tushie actually liked her body and wanted her man to appreciate it too.

  “I’m glad you feelin’ tha inside, baby, but tha outside need love too.” She kissed him, then grabbed his hands and slid them down to her ass. “Ain’t choo feelin’ dat?”

  As he rubbed the ridiculous round donk and squeezed its softness, she felt the proof that he was swelling between his legs. So when she led him away from the front door and back toward her bedroom, he followed like a dog on a leash.

  After he got down to his boxers, Tushie made him watch as she performed a little striptease. Tushie loved performing for her man because, as good as she looked clothed, she looked better undressed. She enjoyed seeing the look on a nigga’s face as he marveled at her cartoonlike physique.

  Her dark skin was flawless without a single blemish, scar, mole, or stretch mark, and the truly amazing part was that as thick as she was, her body still looked fit. As rare as it was to find a girl with her dimensions, it was rarer still to find one who was still toned. Chicks who were as thick as Tushie were usually on the downward slide toward being fat, but she broke the mold. The thirty-two-inch difference between her hips and her tiny waist complemented her shape. She had a flat stomach with visible ab muscles and her enormous thighs were not lumpy from cellulite but smooth and soft as baby fat. She took off her top then shimmied out of her Applebottoms while De’Lano wondered how she was ever able to get them on.

  She stood before him modeling a red bra and thong set, then turned around so he could see that the ass was the same: no cottage cheese, no dents, not even a tattoo; just plump and round as two basketballs. It looked really firm but her slightest movements sent it quaking like a mountain of Jell-O. She hypnotized him by making it bounce to a silent rhythm.

  When he couldn’t take any more, he snatched her into bed and pulled off her Victoria’s Secret. Tushie had perky up-thrust breasts with nipples that reminded him of Tootsie Roll candies and a waxed tight-looking pussy with lips that were thick like the ones on her face. De’Lano got the head he refused at the door and Tushie got her clit and ass licked from the back just the way she liked it.

  A little later De’Lano was hammering her from behind and the clapping sound produced by her booty smacking up against him was almost loud enough to drown out her moans. Tushie was loving the dick and had practically painted his condom white because most niggas couldn’t handle her backshot for longer than a few minutes. He had her hanging off the edge of the bed, facedown with her ass up, and had been killing her in that position for more than an hour.

  The fact that he had stamina was like a pass of her final test. This nigga was official. She could now introduce him to Tuesday.

  De’Lano gripped her slender waist and watched as he sent oceanic shock waves rippling through her stupendous ass with a satisfied but slightly sinister smirk on his face.

  The big country bitch had gone for all that weak inner connection shit just like he was told she would. He had been plotting for this moment since he followed her into the supermarket that day and fronted like he bumped into her by accident.

  This was deeper than just getting the pussy, though; she was falling for him, which meant that their plan was moving on schedule.

  She came for the sixth time. “Oh, De’Lano!”

  Tushie had her eyes closed, panting in ecstasy, with no idea that she was calling out a fake name.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tuesday made it home from her date around eleven and briefly indulged her compulsion to clean. By twelve she was indulging a different one in her bed, taking some personal time with another one of her toys, thinking of some imaginary lover who kept switching back and forth between A.D. and Marcus. By one she was snoring lightly, deep in a post-orgasmic sleep and probably would’ve stayed that way the entire night, but woke up at two thirty feeling like her bladder was about to burst from all the pop she drank at Chuck E. Cheese.

  After going to pee, Tuesday was slipping back into bed when she was suddenly hit by the eerie feeling that something was wrong. It was a nameless fear without form or focus.

  Her first thought was an intruder, so she immediately went for her gun. The Heckler she kept in her purse all day got transferred to the nightstand drawer right next to the bed every night. She withdrew it, switched off the safety, and tucked it at her side.

  Although the night pressed at all her windows, there was enough artificial light coming in from the hallway to keep her bedroom from being pitch dark. Only the farthest corners lay in shadows.

  She scanned around and noticed there was a six-foot silhouette standing in one of them and was just about to shoot when she realized that it was only the big stuffed giraffe Marcus had won for her playing Hot Shots. It was a new decoration and she hadn’t got used to it being there yet.

  She gasped in relief. Her heart was beating like a wild animal seeking to escape the prison of her rib cage.

  Tuesday checked every room and closet in her condo for a burglar, letting the pistol lead the way. No one was hiding anywhere and the door had no signs of a breach.

  She couldn’t help but check the refrigerator and cupboards a few times. Everything was shelved just as it should be.
>
  The condo was secure.

  The eerie feeling remained.

  It wasn’t until she checked her cell that Tuesday realized the possible cause for her fear. Her eyes couldn’t believe when the screen read: twenty-seven missed calls.

  Somebody was dead. Tuesday could already guess that much because death was the only emergency that could trigger that many repeated calls at this time of night.

  The rest was simply finding out who, how, and why.

  Her caller ID showed the club’s number listed in the majority, with Jaye’s cell sprinkled in a few times.

  The first one came from the club and went to voice mail at 1:38 a.m. When she checked the message, she heard Ebony the bartender speaking in an urgent whisper: “Boss Lady, you need to get down here right now. As soon as you hear this, just get out here. Don’t even bother callin’ back!”

  At 1:41 there was a message from Jaye. “TK, some shit just went down. Some fucked-up shit! I don’t care where you at or what you doing, hit me as soon as you can. Or better yet, just get to the club.” This second one really disturbed her because Tuesday never heard the lighthearted joker sound so panicked.

  Ebony was on her voice mail three more times and after that they just blew up her phone calling every minute or two. All of the messages were on the same tip: Get to the club now!!

  The fact that they were too afraid to give any details over the phone only supported Tuesday’s suspicion. She was about to find out that somebody she knew, and probably cared about, was dead.

  But who?

  Because there was no traffic at three in the morning and the CTS-V was built for speed, the twenty minutes it usually took her to get from home to work was shaved to ten.

  When she pulled into the lot, she saw that every business in the strip mall was closed, as they should be, including The Bounce House. The sign was off and the only four cars in the lot were parked in front of the club.

  Ebony owned a Honda Civic, but an earlier model than the one she was renting. Brianna’s bumblebee Camaro was parked next to it. DelRay’s raggedy-ass ’87 Monte Carlo with the sagging bumper was in its usual spot. Tuesday slotted her Caddy between him and Jaye’s charcoal Chrysler, rounding out the quintet.

  Tushie’s vehicle was noticeably absent. When Tuesday didn’t see her big H2 or the ’81 Cutlass on twenty-sixes she pulled out from time to time, nausea caused the fluids in her stomach to roll like a stormy sea. “Please don’t let it be Tush,” she mumbled to herself.

  She stepped inside and something about the club made her uneasy. The stage lights were off and the house lights were dimmed. Drinks were still on the tables and the chairs were left in a way that suggested the customers had cleared out in a rush.

  Yet the club being in disarray wasn’t what bothered Tuesday. There was an ominous vibe that she couldn’t identify or shake. She hadn’t been afraid walking in The Bounce since that first night when she was sixteen, but what she felt at the moment was different in complexion because it was mortal fear, and not just a shy girl nervous about showing her body to strangers.

  Ebony was seated at the bar with her face dropped into her hands and DelRay was standing over her. The bouncer was the first one to notice Tuesday.

  As he approached, she could tell by the look in his eyes that it was bad. He had a fat, almost rubbery face capable of making some comical expressions he typically used to make her smile, but one would’ve never guessed it at the time. The woeful expression he wore seemed as permanent as if it had been chiseled onto a granite statue.

  “What the fuck is up?” Tuesday asked, whispering with no idea why she was doing it.

  DelRay didn’t answer, he just turned and walked away while motioning with his head that she should follow.

  He led her down the hall on the far side of the stage that served the dancers’ changing room. It was a space twice the size of Tuesday’s office that featured a makeup table, a couple of wardrobe racks strewn with skimpy stripper gear, and a large cardboard box full of wigs and accessories. Half a dozen wall lockers were there for the girls to keep their personal clothes in and there was an adjoining half bath with a shower in case they wanted to clean themselves up after their set. There was also an old sofa and a card table because on slow nights, more than a few of them used poker to pass the time and supplement their income.

  When Tuesday came through the door, the stench sickened her even before the sight of the blood. The smell of shit fouled the air.

  The body was lying to the right of the door. The bloody pattern that streaked the floor suggested that it had been dragged there from the hall. It was covered from head to toe with a bunch of crimson-stained towels and aprons from behind the bar.

  “Who the fuck is it?” The only thing offering some relief was that Tuesday could tell from the size and shape of the body that it wasn’t Tushie. It was obviously a man and a rather large one at that—small in comparison to the bouncer, but bigger than average.

  DelRay reached down and pulled away the bloody towel that covered his face. Tuesday shuddered when she saw Tank staring up at her—their last mark who they took the loss on. His fat, greasy face was spattered with blood. His chapped lips were parted, although he could no longer draw breath.

  By far the most gruesome part was that he was now a Cyclops. One huge eye was fixed on Tuesday while the other seemed to have been blown out of his head. The socket that had once contained his right eyeball was filled with milky pus and a bloody mass of scar tissue. Apparently the last thing he learned was that his Tiny Angel was really a Little Devil and unnamed fluids drained from the wound to make it look as if he were still weeping even in death.

  “It’s even worse on the other side,” DelRay said in a hushed tone. “She pushed that nigga noodles right out tha back of his head!”

  “What the fuck happened up in here?” Tuesday was speaking just as low as him and now understood why they were whispering. From the moment she walked in, she sensed a funereal atmosphere and as a species most of us had an abiding respect for the dead deeply rooted in our subconscious. We often chose to be discreet in their presence as if a loud, offensive sound would disturb their slumber and animate the corpses.

  She repeated her question: “What happened?”

  DelRay explained that because he was on the door he didn’t see the actual shooting, but from what he saw for himself and the parts he got from talking to Ebony and a couple of the dancers who witnessed it, he was able to piece together the following story:

  The fat, bug-eyed nigga came in the club about one looking for some chick named Simone. Apparently he saw Baby Doll and mistook her for this chick because he started following her around harassing her. She tried to get away from him but after he followed her into the restroom, Doll had tried to hide from him backstage in the changing room. She locked the door but Bug Eyes followed her back there and tried to force his way inside. That’s when the shooting happened.

  Tuesday was trying to figure out how this could’ve happened while at the same time deciding what to do next, but couldn’t think clearly. She was disturbed by the body, and while towels had been put down to sop up most of the blood, there was still a lot, along with brain matter, sprayed on the walls and floor. This caused her OCD to flare up in a way that the kids at Chuck E. Cheese or the disarrayed furniture couldn’t cause. Tuesday felt a tightness in her chest and it became difficult to breathe. Death had caused Tank to release his bowels; the stink of blood and shit suddenly seemed amplified, making Tuesday want to vomit.

  She fled back into the hallway and leaned against the wall gasping for air like a swimmer only seconds away from drowning. She buckled down on all fours. Her body was wracked with a fit of dry heaves but she was able to keep her food down.

  Big DelRay helped Tuesday to her feet. “You all right?”

  She nodded. “So she just popped the nigga?” Tuesday asked, confused. “Did he have a heater?”

  He threw up his hands. “Nobody saw one and I didn’t find on
e either.”

  “We couldn’t reach you or Tush so I just kinda quarterbacked the whole thing,” he explained. “I shut down the club, sent the girls home, and pulled him in here. I didn’t call the hook, TK, because I didn’t know if that was the right thing to do.”

  DelRay had peeped enough to know that Tuesday and the girls were off into some criminal shit but he didn’t exactly know what it was—he figured it was none of his business and was smart enough never to ask. Because he didn’t know what she was into, he couldn’t be sure if drugs, guns, or anything else illegal might be stored at The Bounce. Tuesday understood that he was only trying to protect her and her business.

  DelRay looked at her with wide, solemn eyes that asked if he did the right thing by not reporting it. She gave a subtle nod and pat on the arm to indicate that he did.

  This was fucked up but worse would be if they found themselves in the middle of a police investigation. They might start digging and learn what the girls had been doing and what they were planning next. Too much money was at stake; they couldn’t afford to have the heat on them.

  “Where the fuck is Doll at?” she asked with gray eyes. “I’m ’bout to choke tha life out that little bitch for doing this bullshit!”

  “The girls in yo office but I think you should know it wasn’t Doll who shot him.” He closed the door to trap in the smell. He pulled a pack of Doublemint from his pocket and popped a stick in his mouth after Tuesday refused one.

  “Bree the one who pulled the trigger.”

  When Tuesday burst through the door of her office, she didn’t say a word to anybody. She looked over Jaye and Doll, immediately zeroed in on Brianna and attacked.

  Before the girl knew what was happening, she was snatched off the couch by a handful of weave that Tuesday had twisted around one fist, and with the other she was smacked back and forth across the face. Each slap sounded like a firecracker and sent Brianna’s head whipping from left to right like she was watching a long volley in a tennis match.