Graveyard Love

by T. C. Littles

  “Yeah, that’s right, wifey,” Spade hummed. “Hold it right there and don’t move.” He firmly grabbed my head and held it still. All the sweat, funk, and stale come of another bitch’s pussy was far up my nose, along with his scratchy pubic hair. The disgustingness of it all had me ready to gag. “Ah, yup; slurp it up and take every drop.” A split second later, I felt Spade’s hot come sliding down my throat.

  Urargh! Urargh!

  His come mixed with my slob and the McDonald’s we’d just eaten rushed up and was now in puke form all over the bed and on his stomach.

  “What the hell,” Spade leaped up yelling. “I oughta make you lick all this shit back up.”

  “I’m sorry, babe. That Mickey D’s must not have been any good.” I tried playing it off while making my way into the bathroom. “Let me grab a rag to clean you up.” My words were slurred. I was light-headed and dizzy. Whatever was going on with my body was taking over.

  Before I could get the warm, soapy washcloth and spare towels to the bed to wipe him down, Spade was pushing me back into the bathroom and over the toilet. “You’re about to take this dick the right way.”

  Bent over gripping the toilet seat, I was taking every inch of him deep in my gut, though I felt queasy like I was about to pass out. Since I knew Spade was relentless when it came to coming, I swallowed several times and fought back the urge to ruin his moment. Needing the moment to be fulfilling for him but quickly over for me, I twerked my ass with each thrust—a move I knew he couldn’t resist. “Give it to me, daddy.” I juiced his ego up with the intention of rushing him along.

  Spade gripped my hips forcing me to arch my back. Slowly, he stroked me a few times while kissing me gently on the neck. Without warning, but much welcoming, he plunged into my wetness slowly. My pussy was making sounds to the dick-thrashing it was getting whipped with. No matter how much I loved to hate Spade—the long stroke Spade’s been putting down on me the last five weeks has been leaving me with rubbery legs.

  “Aaah, you—feel—so—fu-c—” before I could finish my sentence, the pleasurable feeling turned into pure pain. My body tensed up, so I tried repositioning myself, but he was digging in me too aggressively and hard. Spade wasn’t coming up for air; yet, I was starting to lose all of mine. I tried scooting away from him but was snatched back and held down hungrily.

  “Take tha dick, wifey; quit running.” He and I got down rough, so in his mind, he was just sexing me right. “This pussy feels extra wet and sloppy tonight.”

  I bit down on my lip and fought back the woozy feeling that was starting to become too overwhelming. This secret pregnancy and my raging hormones, of course, had me sick off the dick. Why couldn’t it just be a change of foods like for most women? It’s like everything surrounding my life was cursed to be the absolute worst.

  “The more ‘pleasing” Spade thought he was doing for me, the more I was continuously swallowing and taking plenty of small breaths. Whoever said “mind over matter” is smart as hell. The beatings I’d taken for not “behaving” were on my mind, so none of the spazing out my body was doing mattered. Holding my shit together was essential if I didn’t want Spade to nut up in a bad way. When his speed and stroke increased, I prayed to God he was nearing the finale. And he was. A second later, I felt his creamy nut shoot up inside of me.

  “Aaah, aaah, damn, you feel good,” he murmured.

  Releasing an exasperated breath when he pulled out, I hurried to lift the toilet seat lid, then vomited everything I’d been holding in. “I swear I’m never eating a Big Mac again.” I rested my head on the side of the toilet.

  “Ugh, that’s gross as hell.” Spade sounded disgusted. “I’m about to take a shower and bounce. I ain’t got time to be catching whatever cooties yo’ ass got.”

  “Please don’t leave me. You know how I get when I’m sick,” I begged, using reverse psychology.

  “I’ll slide back through with some chicken noodle soup or some shit like that, but nothing more. It’s money out in the streets, so me and Rocko are about to be out.”

  Spade stayed spinning me. For the first few weeks of us being married, you couldn’t pry him away from my good loving and attention. All of my desires were catered to, even though we were cramped up in this small space. He had me living on cloud nine because the Spencer Johnson I’d given my heart to from back in the day was showing face. Unbelievable as it may seem, he’d given me a million reasons to forget what was going on outside of these motel walls. When the newness of being married died off, so did my occupancy in a dream world.

  When Spade first began making up excuses to roll out with Rocko, I chalked it up to him going stir-crazy. But when the outings turned into overnight stays, I knew he was back slipping to the D and into that trick Tiff. A woman’s intuition was a bad thang—especially when it was accompanied by a seeking hand. I stayed going through his phone and pockets finding receipts from Detroit businesses. When I found a used Magnum condom with no come stuffed inside of his denim jeans pocket, it was all the proof I needed to know he was officially back to his old ways. It was cool, though. I’d been mentally preparing myself for the downfall anyhow. Spade could be my guest to run up out of here. The more time he strayed, the more time I prayed. Wife or not, it was essential to find my road to peace.

  After hurling all of my insides out, then brushing my teeth, I made my way to the bed, then prepared for a nightcap session. Lighting a blunt to soothe the oncoming nauseating feeling that was creeping back up, I didn’t feel bad for drugging my unborn child since I wasn’t keeping it anyway. I was a sinner living in the imagined life of a saint.

  “A’ight, Jakia, don’t wait up. And don’t forget to keep your antsy ass still along with the rest of my rules,” he cautioned, then slammed the door.

  He and Rocko couldn’t have been out of the parking lot before I was reading scriptures about forgiveness. My soul needed healing in the worst way.

  Spade

  I stepped foot out of the stale-smelling room we’d been taking refuge in for five weeks knowing exactly how Jakia felt. We were staying in one of the grittiest motels between Toledo and Detroit. Located in Monroe, a downriver city, all they required was cold hard cash in order to check in. It might’ve been a 1-star dump, but the “don’t ask—don’t tell” policy accommodated us better than any 5-star hotel could have.

  Some occupants were truck drivers, some were homeless heads or prostitutes passing through, but we were paying heavy for silence and solidarity. As soon as things died down with the pending case of Robert Taylor, though, we’d be up and out here—back in the D for good.

  12

  Rocko

  “Hey, man, watch your left and right. I got you covered from the back,” Spade spoke over my shoulder.

  Boom! Boom! Pop-Pop!

  Kicking in the door, then landing my first two bullets into the first house soldier that greeted me, I stepped over his jerking body as blood poured from his chest. “I’m passing out bullets to any buster that wanna try me.”

  It was too simple to go that smoothly. But either way, Spade and I had taken over the house I’d been watching for weeks. Just as they ran their establishment on the outside—sloppy and out in the open—is exactly how the inside operated. What was bad for them was gravy for us. The few naked girls that were packaging baggies scattered in fear, while the dudes sat pissed and grim faced.

  “You pussy-ass, faggot-ass, no-hustle-having-ass niggas! I can’t stand thieves. If you wanna put in work chomping this crack and making this cash like a real boss, get at me the right way. Unmask yo’self, you clowns,” the biggest talking moneyman made himself known.

  “All that talking ain’t got you nothing but a front-row seat to yo’ funeral.”

  Pop-Pop!

  Two quick ones to the center of his head, ole boy fell to the ground. Then, like dominoes, the boys that held his back down threw their hands up surrendering to my gangster. An eerie silence fell over the house as their leader took his last breat
h on account of his last words.

  “I don’t think I’ma have to make the speech on shutting the fuck up and doing as you’re told. Right?” I walked over his body while waving my pistol around the room. As the last three boys and two girls in the room agreed to conform, I moved through the rest of the house checking for hidden workers. Putting a chair up to the basement door so I wouldn’t have to waste time running up and down the steps, within seconds, I was back in the main room snatching gold chains and jewels clean from off their necks.

  “Yeah, we want all that product, partna! Dump everything you chopping up back in that ziplock bag, then, hand it over.” Spade held his gun to the dome of a random hustler’s head. The worker was shaking and shivering while trying to follow Spade’s demands.

  “And move fast, muthafuckas. As you’ve seen, we ain’t against leaving no bodies behind.” Pacing through the house like a madman with two pistols drawn, I wasn’t worried about none of these flashy-ass Negroes whipping out with any heat.

  “Light that blunt up, li’l nigga,” Spade taunted one of the workers by flicking the freshly wrapped cigarillo from behind his ear.

  The boy lit it up quickly, then passed it to Spade. When the boy smirked after Spade took a long hit, I knew some shit was in the game.

  “Aye, li’l homie, what’s off in this ’rello?” Spade held his pistol toward the boy’s chest. “Why in the fuck are my lips tingling?”

  My assumption was right. Cuzzo should’ve known not to trust a cat from the other side. He was slipping on another tip, so I had to keep it cool and keep my eyes on the crowd.

  “Me and the dude yo’ boy blazed dead do 151s. It’s called Christmas cookies,” the young boy proudly responded. “Ain’t nobody around here blowing on normal blunts,” the kid smirked, proud of being slightly strung out. “That’s why our spot jumps triple over every spot around this hood!”

  Whap!

  A third young and black body was left jerking on the floor. Spade might’ve cracked his cranium with the handle of his pistol for the boy slipping him, but he was also still puffing on the cigarillo like he hadn’t heard it was laced with crack. The fuck, man! What is this nigga really up to? I see he has graduated from just popping a few pills. Not wanting to put him on blast and seem divided as a team, I shook off what I was seeing, then went into my own zone. There was still a major robbery to pull off, and as always, the only person I could count on to hold shit down successfully was me.

  “The rest of y’all—strip. I want them Jays, those Rock Revival jeans, and that Gucci belt,” I pointed out the clothes I wanted that the street solders were dressed in.

  Ninety seconds later, I had every pocket of each hustler in here turned inside out with their gear inside of a laundry bag. Spade and I carried two bags each out of the house—full of product, guns, money, and the clothes off their backs. The only things left inside were dead men and fellas with wounded egos. Once I hit the final step off the porch, I trucked it over to the rental van and tossed the bags into the back. Whether or not they were armed, the house stayed cranking, so we had to go.

  “Yeah, man! This right here is the only way to live life.” Spade jumped in the van singing his words loudly. “You popped them niggas like it wasn’t nothing,” he imitated how I was shooting, then fell back into the seat as I floored the gas pedal. A blind man could see that Spade was floating. He must’ve been on more than those few hits of that 151. Taking a quick look at his face, I saw the white residue underneath his nose. No doubt, my cousin snuck a sniff, fa’sho.

  “Calm yo’ hyper ass down, man. I can’t think straight.”

  Shaking in his seat, he damn near sat on his hands to keep from moving around so much. “Swing by Tiff’s crib so we can stash this come-up, dude.” He wiped the small sweat beads from his face. “Damn, it’s hotter than a muthafucka! Turn on the air. We got that fire up in here!”

  Spade was spazing out jumping from one subject to the next, and there wasn’t shit I could do but roll out with his plan. Since new blood was on my hands, I needed a little downtime to chill out, smoke, and get my mind right before going back to Monroe. Just today, I’d dropped two bodies more, and ole boy’s corpse from the hotel probably wasn’t even in the soil yet. I tried to shake the uneasy feeling since we’d cleared the crime scene without getting popped. However, a man of the streets can always sense when death’s lurking around the corner.

  Officer Brickman

  “There have been multiple shots fired and several calls coming in from neighbors for what’s suspected to be a drug house in the 48223 District. Is there a squad car available to respond?”

  My heart raced to the beat of fighting crime. Flipping on my siren, I prepared to answer back to the dispatcher but was sidetracked by my ringing phone.

  “Hey, Cap, let me call you back so I can answer this call-in about a shoot-out in Brightmoor,” I picked up, prepared to hang right back up.

  “Scratch that call, Brickman, and let another officer get it. I need you back at the precinct now,” he demanded.

  “But, sir—” I tried speaking but was cut off. I wasn’t ready to come out of the field. Locking up deserving criminals was thirst I loved to quench.

  “But, sir, my ass,” he mocked me. “What I told you was an order, so hurry up, Brickman! Your job is on the line,” my boss hollered into the phone, then hung up.

  The captain was getting on my last damn nerve putting the weight of this case on my shoulders. I’d been working on it tirelessly but coming up with zero leads. Robert Taylor wasn’t the only one who couldn’t be touched in the flesh; his assistant was up in smoke too. This made me feel like she was the number one suspect in this murder—not that pretty prop them two thugs put in place. I’ve been doing police work for over twenty years and wasn’t ready to slack for this case. But with funds trapped in a funnel for this mayoral campaign, amongst other twisted problems within the city of Detroit, I’m sure I was about to get fucked out of another case.

  * * *

  “You made perfect time, Brickman. Come in and shut the damn door. What progress have you made on the Taylor case?” My captain was a jerk that didn’t value or honor real police work.

  “No change from the last report, sir. The picture floating around in the media hasn’t gotten any hot hits, and the few prints in the room were from previous guests and housekeepers. The fingerprints and bodily fluid samples found on Mr. Taylor have come back with zero hits from the system. Whoever our perp is—is a first-time offender.”

  “Well, that’s nice.” The captain was definitely unconcerned. “Make a thorough report of everything you and your team have found. The mayor called while you were out and put his foot even further down on my neck. He’s sending over his right-hand man this afternoon to get briefed on the details to take over—so you know what that means.”

  “Bullshit, Cap! I’m tired of that crooked-ass political party. If it ain’t one roundabout act to keep the city ill-informed, it’s another.” The city of Detroit was much worse than the murder capital of the world; it’s a melting pot for organizational conspiracy. They weren’t reporting real crimes. Unfortunately for the tax-paying citizens—and even those that struggled in the slums—the real news was cleaned up and reported how the Republic saw fit. The D was undergoing a takeover and for a major crime to go unsolved on such a hot main attraction was a cold sore on the city’s surface. “I became a cop to fight crime and find the bad guys and not a damn thing else. I’m tired of being their fuckin’ political puppet!”

  “That’s enough, Officer. You’re way out of line. Now, you’ve got your orders—write that damn report, and if you want your job tomorrow, tame that spitfire attitude you’ve got going on. Don’t nobody around here, especially the mayor of Detroit, owe you shit, Brickman. You better perform like a dancing dog if they call down the order.” Staring at each other with anger in their eyes, he continued trying to break Brickman down. “And the last time I checked, you don’t assign cases. I do. If you want
a real tip on how to do police work and keep a redneck like me off your neck, solve your case in less than five weeks. Now, leave my office quick—just as you came—and get to work!” He waved his hand, dismissing me, then looked back at his computer screen, probably at some sadistic porn.

  The more mayoral terms I got to witness from working inside of DPD precincts, the more corruption I became a part of. “Whatever you say, boss,” I sarcastically spat. “I’ll be at my desk if you need to bark out any additional bullshit orders.”

  13

  Spade

  Rocko swerved up in Tiff’s driveway, and before we made it to her side door, she’d swung it open, holding it wide for us to enter. I kissed her on the lips as I walked through with the bags headed toward the basement. Tiff remained at my beck and call and always on time, even when she hated me. She’d been blowing up my text with every vile message her ghetto-girl mind could muster up over the last few weeks. Nonetheless, here she was, ready to hold me down.

  “A’ight, dude, I’m about to blaze up and watch TV until you get done with ole girl. Do me a favor and waste that ‘rock energy’ on her pussy so I don’t have to deal with all that on the road.” He let me know, not so slyly, he’d peeped my secret indulgence.

  I gave him a play of acceptance and agreement, then snorted a pinkie-nail full of coke from the secret stash in my pocket before joining Tiff in her room. Truth was, I liked the rush it gave me. One hit of the Christmas Cookie blunt at the house had me hooked. So much so that I’d sniffed a bit, plus snuck a bit for me to sprinkle my blunts with later. This was a new addiction, a far better thrill than pills.