The phone rang, and Quinn picked up.
“It’s me. I got this nervous bitch,” he said.
“A’ight.”
Mills took a seat at the edge of the bed. He removed a cigarette from a pack of Newport he found on the dresser, lit it, and took a much-needed drag. As he smoked, he looked down at the body. Blood started to pool around it, leaving a crimson stain on the cream flooring.
He said to her, “That dick was gettin’ good, right? I saw y’all.”
The woman looked sickened and befuddled.
“You might as well get comfortable, ’cuz you gonna be here for a moment.”
Chapter 20
Cartier and Quinn strutted into Wall Nightclub on Collins Avenue like a pair of luscious twin divas, wearing the same outfits — slinky thin-strapped minidresses with criss-cross, low-cut backs, Cartier in red and Quinn in black. They instantly caught the attention of everyone in the place as they made their way toward the bar for drinks to Drake’s “Crew Love.”
The ladies were on a mission. They had seventy-two hours left. It was do or die, take no prisoners. Cartier was in a zone and thoroughly focused, detached from the partying in the club. Quinn was the same way. The patrons were like live wires in the retro cool club with the long black bar, its many VIP areas, and a large classic gold couch in the middle of the club. The ladies ordered two Long Island Iced Teas and began observing their surroundings. The ballers were in the house in swarms. The VIP areas were all taken, with niggas bejeweled in platinum and big-face watches, looking like trendsetters and popping bottles like it was New Year’s Eve.
Dolled up and looking glamorous, Quinn and Cartier were pure eye candy. The bitches were hating, and niggas gawked at them from head to toe, thirsty to grasp their attention.
“Love, can I buy you a drink?” one man offered.
“Damn! Y’all lookin’ too fuckin’ sexy,” another slim hood said.
“Yo, beautiful, let me get this dance with you.”
“Damn, I see heaven is missing two of its angels,” another joked.
The catcalls came from every direction, but Quinn and Cartier weren’t interested. They had an agenda and little time to pull it off. The men coming at them weren’t worth their time.
“We can buy our own drinks,” Quinn spat back at one annoying young dude who didn’t look like he had two pennies to rub together.
“You can’t afford us, so fuck off!” Cartier chimed.
“Damn! It’s like that? Why y’all stink bitches actin’ so fuckin’ stuck-up?”
Cartier shot a murderous look at him. She wasn’t in any mood for games or ignorance. The little nigga was barking up the wrong tree. He caught the hint right away and stepped off, his pride crushed.
Cartier took a sip from her drink and observed the VIP areas. There they were, the ballers, the shot-callers, all occupying the VIP booths with their icy jewels and cocky attitudes, surrounded by their entourage and groupies. It was the ladies’ mission to attract their attention. And they knew how to.
“Let’s do this,” Quinn said with a smile.
Quinn strutted away, moving through the crowd and toward the dance floor like a fall breeze. Cartier followed behind her. The dance floor was flooded with patrons grinding and moving to J Rand’s “Up Against the Wall,” its raunchy lyrics pouring out from the speakers.
Quinn started moving to the beat of the song, and once she stepped onto the dance floor, she went in, gyrating and winding her hips to the beat, showing natural rhythm in her stilettos. She slowly touched herself, leisurely moving her manicured hands across her figure, from her thighs up to her breasts. It was like she was selling sex to everyone. She moved like she was alone in her bedroom, closing her eyes and forgetting she was surrounded by people. She didn’t care who was watching as she twisted and turned with her slick, mesmerizing moves.
Cartier followed suit. It was her turn to show and shake what her mama gave her. She dropped down to the floor eagle-style and bounced back up, her sexy attire revealing flesh and thighs. Her salacious moves caused niggas to stop and watch like they were in the strip clubs. Cartier started to bounce her ass up and down, and then she positioned her hand beneath her minidress and touched herself, enticing those who were watching.
Continuing her dirty-dancing routine, she moved closer to Quinn and pulled her juicy backside against her pelvis, and the two became entwined like vines wrapped around each other in heated rhythm, gyrating against each other seductively. There was touching and feeling and seductive looks.
Face to face, bumping and grinding passionately, they looked over at one of the ballers seated in the VIP area and smiled heavily. Cartier had her eyes on one particular baller, Domea, who sat among his goons in the secluded area. The table in front of him cluttered with bottles of Moët, rosé, Cristal, and Patrón Platinum. He was flanked by a young caramel brunette in a tight white dress, but his eyes were fixed on the sexy interaction between Quinn and Cartier.
Cartier noticed him watching from the corner of her eye. She had him hook, line, and sinker. He rose up from his seated position and stared at them, forgetting about the young bitch up under him. Cartier turned the heat up. With her dress riding up her thighs, she thrust herself into Quinn and ran her hands across Quinn’s breasts, while Quinn continued to gyrate her backside into her.
The DJ even shouted them out. “Yo, yo, yo, yo! The ladies in the red and black matching dresses, y’all gonna end up gettin’ this club shut down if y’all keep dancing like that!” he hollered through the mic. “But fuck it! Get us shut down tonight! I’m lovin’ what I’m seein’ down there!”
Quinn and Cartier smiled.
Domea was looking fresh in his Hall white shirt under a black tanner vest, and sporting denim, a dark washed driver hat, and a Bentley watch gleaming around his wrist.
Quinn and Cartier smiled at him, and he smiled right back. He was lost in their spicy performance, fading out everything and everyone around him. It was coming soon, they knew it. It was the same cliché with these balling muthafuckas.
Domea called one of his cronies over and whispered something in his ear. The man nodded and stepped away.
Cartier and Quinn had to be nonchalant. For the moment, it was about them on the dance floor, until the moment came when it wasn’t about them. As the girls danced, looking like horny young temptresses, and teasing so many wide-eyed men around them, a tall, lean figure in a silk button-down and black fedora pushed his way through the crowd, headed in their direction.
He walked up to Cartier and shouted into her ear, wrestling with the blaring music. “Hello. My name is Russell, and I have someone that yearns for a moment of your time. He thinks you are gorgeous and wants the both of you to accompany him in the VIP area.” His English was proper, and his attire said money.
Nonchalantly, Cartier asked, “Who?”
He pointed in Domea’s direction. Domea raised the bottle of Moët in his hand and nodded at the lovely ladies.
“He’s cute. But tell your friend we don’t come cheap.”
Russell chuckled. “We don’t do cheap, mama. We only fuck with top-of-the-line brands.”
The ladies chuckled, going along with the plan, flirting and playing hard-to-get, but not too hard. They soon agreed to join Domea in his circle of luxury.
Following behind Russell, Quinn and Cartier were going into phase two of their plan. They strutted behind the towering, well-dressed figure in their stilettos and received endless hate from other bitches watching.
Domea stood and greeted the ladies once they were in his domain. “Ladies, what’s happening, what’s happening?” He shook both ladies’ hands. “Y’all put on one hell of a performance. I felt I owed y’all something.”
Quinn chuckled. “We just came out to have some fun.”
“And fun it is.” Domea eyed Quinn up and down with a wayward smile. “We all came out to have some fun. Let’s definitely have some fun.” He then looked at Cartier in the same manner. His lust f
or them was evident.
Quinn and Cartier continued to act like two airhead bitches, with their flirtatious smiles and bubbly chuckling.
“Where y’all from?” Domea asked.
“Miami,” Quinn answered.
Cartier told him, “Philly.”
“Philly, huh? Long way from home.”
“I know. But I love Miami.”
“Yeah, there’s a lot to love out here — the city, the beaches, the money, and me.”
“I see that.” Cartier smiled.
“Y’all have a seat. Get comfortable. The ‘Doublemint Twins’ are in the building. I like. I definitely like.”
Cartier and Quinn quickly flanked Domea on the soft velvet seats.
The young brunette he’d been with earlier promptly caught an attitude with both ladies as she was forced to move from her position. She sucked her teeth and scowled at them. “Bitches!”
Quinn frowned at her, but it wasn’t about her, it was about sticking to the plan.
Domea put a glass filled with rosé in both ladies’ hands and encouraged them to drink up. Flanked by Quinn and Cartier, he felt like a king. He placed his hand on their smooth, exposed thighs and began fondling them.
“Yeah, we definitely are partying tonight,” he said pompously, giving both ladies his attention.
Quinn and Cartier weren’t trying to get tipsy or drunk, so they watched their alcohol consumption. Besides, they were moderate drinkers.
But the one thing they couldn’t control at the moment was Domea’s hands. He was all over them, showing them who was the boss. His hands moved between Cartier’s short dress and Quinn’s plump backside. They allowed the groping to continue, but inside, Cartier wanted to break his fucking arm.
Two in the morning and many drinks later, Domea and his crew exited the club in high spirits. He had his arms around Quinn and Cartier like a pimp as he walked toward the silver Benz G-Class SUV with the driver waiting. The trio climbed into the backseat, where Domea expected the party to continue, getting into some freaky shit. He had plans to fuck both ladies while sniffing cocaine off their breasts. They were too sexy to fuck sober.
His goons jumped into a black Escalade and followed behind.
Domea became an octopus in the backseat. The girls laughed along with Domea as the SUV made its way to the nearest main road. His eyes lit up like stars with so much flesh showing in his presence.
“Take y’all panties off,” he said with a mischievous grin.
“Ummm, so it’s that kind of party?” Quinn asked.
“Yes, it is.”
They had to play along until the time came, so they tolerated Domea’s kisses on their necks, breasts, and thighs.
His hand traveled up Cartier’s dress, where he pushed his fingers into her shaved pussy. She cringed for a moment but allowed his slim fingers to roll around inside of her. He rubbed her clit gently and said, “I can’t wait for this.”
“I can’t either,” Cartier replied with a counterfeit smile.
Quinn wasn’t immune to Domea’s wandering hands and shameless mannerisms. His hand slid underneath her dress too, fingering her pretty pussy. He leaned forward, cupping her tits, and placed his mouth onto her chocolate nipples and sucked them like they were lemon drops.
She cooed, “Ay, papi.”
The Benz SUV traveled north on the way to a more affluent section of the city as the party was getting started in the backseat. Domea was eager to get between one of the ladies’ smooth, thick legs and start fucking. His pants were unzipped, and his hard-on was showing. He grabbed for Cartier again. He wanted to fuck her first.
But just then, his cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and saw it was his wife calling. He raised himself up from being pressed against Cartier to answer his phone. “Excuse me, ladies,” he said. “I need to take this.”
Cartier and Quinn already knew the deal. It was game time.
“Hey, baby,” he said.
The voice on the other end said, “I got ya bitch, and if you do anything stupid, I’ll tear her apart piece by piece — I promise you that.”
“What? Who the fuck is this?”
“Domea, help me!” his wife cried out of the blue. “Help me!”
“Felicia! Felicia!” Domea hollered.
The caller said, “Don’t fuck wit’ us!”
Suddenly Domea’s mood changed.
Before Domea could say anything else, Cartier had her hand in her purse and pulled out the snub-nosed .38 revolver and pressed it against his temple. “You flinch, you die,” she said through clenched teeth.
“What the fuck!”
The driver, becoming nervous, started to swerve between lanes.
Cartier said, “Tell your driver to relax. There’s no need to get nervous.”
“Tommy, relax,” Domea said calmly. “We gonna be all right.”
The driver nodded.
Quinn told him, “Now this is the plan — we go to your home, you open up the safe, and we leave wit’ a sizeable donation.”
“So y’all bitches is fuckin’ robbin’ me?”
“It’s been a long time coming. You have lots of cash available, and it’s time to share the wealth.”
“Fuck you!”
“No! Fuck you!” Cartier spat back, “And unless you want ya wife dead, then I suggest you do what the fuck ya told. And I tell you right now, before she’s murdered, I got a big daddy-long-dick muthafucka that’s gonna rape her like it ain’t shit.”
Domea seemed ready to cooperate.
“First, we need you to make another phone call,” Quinn said.
Domea picked up his phone and dialed Russell, his right-hand man, who was following them in the Escalade, unaware of what was happening. As Domea dialed the number, Quinn shoved the gun into his crotch. It was a stern warning to shut his mouth and follow procedure.
The phone rang, and Russell picked up. “Yeah. What’s up?”
“Russell, y’all niggas fall back. I’m good.”
“You sure?
“Yeah, these bitches are fuckin’ freaky. I’ll call you later if I need anything.”
“A’ight.”
The Benz SUV came to a stop at a red light. Then the Escalade came to a stop right next to it at the same red light.
Cartier put her face into Domea’s lap, pretending she was giving him a blowjob.
Quinn twisted the revolver into his groin, causing him to cringe. “Don’t fuck wit’ us,” she said. “You be cool now, ay.”
The passenger window to the Escalade came rolling down, and Russell gazed into the dimly lit backseat suspiciously.
Quinn became that bubbly, chuckling bimbo again. Her dress was in disarray, and she rubbed her hands on Domea like she was ready to get nasty.
Russell looked Domea in the eyes. “You sure you okay, boss?” he asked.
Cartier popped her head up from Domea’s lap. “Hey, boys,” she said, all smiles.
As Quinn smiled at Russell, she continued to twist and turn the snub-nosed barrel into Domea’s groin.
“Yeah, I said I’m fuckin’ okay,” Domea hollered. “Just leave us.”
Russell nodded.
When the light changed to green, the Escalade went in a different direction. Quinn and Cartier were relieved, but they weren’t out the hot water yet. The man continued to drive. He was nervous, but he wasn’t trying to be a hero.
“I swear, y’all fuckin’ bitches —”
Cartier smashed the revolver against Domea’s face, drawing blood. “Shut the fuck up!” she shouted. The hit was personal, some slight revenge for his groping and touching throughout the night.
“Ah shit! You broke my fuckin’ nose, bitch!” he screamed, clutching his face.
Cartier hit him again. She wanted to show him who was in control.
The driver remained calm and continued driving. The last thing he wanted was a gunshot to the back of his head. He steadied his eyes on the road and kept under the speed limit.
The
Benz SUV rolled up to an ultimate retreat bay front treasure nestled among a forest of swaying palm trees. The lavish residence was outlined by exquisite gardens and a koi pond. It was a sophisticated home with impeccable style.
“Fuck me!” Cartier said in awe.
They knew Domea was rich, but they didn’t think he was this filthy rich. Cartier instructed the driver to move closer to the front door. They were in enemy territory, and there was no telling what kind of surprises was waiting for them.
With the gun pressed to the back of his head, they instructed Domea to slowly step out the vehicle. The driver stepped out also. Cautiously, the ladies pushed the men into the home.
“Who’s home?” Cartier asked.
“No one.”
Cartier pressed the gun to the back of his head angrily. “You better not be lying to us.”
“I’m not fuckin’ lyin’. We’re alone.”
The ladies took in the lavish home with its two-story rotunda illuminating cupola, vaulted ceiling, security doors, and private terrace. The place also had a wine cellar, theater, and a Tensui water purifier for the entire house.
Domea led the ladies to his safe, which was located in the walk-in closet in the master bedroom. He removed some clothes, pushed a button, and the wall to the closet slid back, revealing bundles of money and jewelry.
“Bingo!” Cartier grinned.
Domea was forced down on his knees, the snub-nosed still pressed to the back of his head.
Cartier started to empty out the safe. She threw everything into a bag they found in the house. They planned on leaving him dry.
“Y’all bitches satisfied? ’Cuz I guarantee y’all won’t live long enough to spend a fuckin’ dime.”
Cartier said, “Yeah? Well, fuck you too!”
Pop!
She put a bullet into the back of Domea’s head, and he tumbled over. She grinned as she stood over the body with the smoking gun.
The gunfire didn’t distract Cartier from continuing to rummage through everything in the bedroom. They had planned on murdering him anyway. Cartier just did the deed a little too soon.
The driver walked into the walk-in closet. “Don’t forget about my cut — I’m the one that put y’all on to him and that bitch.”
Cartier Cartel, Part 3 Page 14
