by A'zayler
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Passion of the Streets
She’s everything he wants . . .
Nobody ever gave Jamil Rock anything—much less hope. To survive a rough home life and one bad break after another, he became his hood’s most successful drug dealer. With loyal friends at his back, Jamil coolly takes care of business and never thinks too far ahead—until Gia Ellis walks into his life. Suddenly, ruling the streets is nothing compared to the instant heat, and alluringly innocent aura, Jamil can’t resist . . .
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Excerpt from Head Games
Prologue
The Crewe
June 30
“Black women are easy, homies. Especially . . . the married ones.” Trymm—pronounced “trim”—the most influential of the crewe, valet-parked his black Mercedes GLS at The Cheesecake Bistro. “Where y’all at?”
Females stood in clusters outside waiting to dine at the bistro that had some of the best dishes and drinks. Some held flat, square pagers. A few guys sprinkled throughout the crowd stared back and forth at Trymm’s car, then at Trymm.
“Right behind ya, my brother.” Blitz drove up in his midnight-blue BMW Alpina B7, responding to the group on their conference call. “I’m telling y’all, black professional women are easier.” Handing the attendant his key, Blitz joined Trymm on the grimy sidewalk.
Standing on St. Charles Avenue, they watched two streetcars travel in opposite directions on the neutral ground paved with more dirt than patches of dried grass, more brown than green. Nawlins was a city that care forgot. True for local government and tourists in search of their wildest experience, but the crewe took pride in what they called home.
“Nope, under twenty-five. They’re the easiest.” Dallas backed his platinum Lexus LX into a space upfront, secured his gun in his side pocket, set the car alarm, and kept the keyless remote.
“Nah, D. The overweight ones. They give it up real quick.” Kohl opened the door to his bronze Bentley Bentayga, retrieved his ticket from the guy wearing a red vest.
Valet parking at the bistro was for customers only. Kohl handed the guy his usual $100 tip, to keep his mouth shut.
En route to their destination, the crew walked side by side. A group of four women smiled back and forth among the guys. One woman complimented, “Nice cars, fellas.”
A simple acknowledgment from Trymm as he held his wedding ring high, wiggling his finger. “Thanks, love,” and the guys continued their stroll.
“Hold up. Where’re y’all headed? Y’all not coming in here?” the woman inquired.
No one replied. Q and A with a female none of them were interested in was a waste of time.
“Women, women, and more women, my brothers.” Blitz rubbed his hands.
“And all of ’em passing out free pussy.” Trymm led the way across St. Mary Street.
A large oval sign, with THE TROLLEY STOP CAFÉ painted in bold green letters, was plastered under the flat roof, right above the door. OPEN 24/7 was displayed in caps on a white banner that stretched column-to-column, ten feet in front of the wooden green-painted wheelchair ramp. The red neon OPEN sign in the window was always lit. The twenty-two-year-old establishment, designed like a real city car—faded maroon framed windows gave the appearance diners were eating on the trolley—could easily be mistaken for being half a century old.
A staple in the community, the restaurant commanded a hefty crowd all day during Essence Festival weekend. Too many badass females to count, the line snaked around the island centered in the parking lot, extending to the sidewalk. The all-too-familiar two-hours-plus wait wasn’t for the crewe.
“Excuse us.” Trymm opened the door.
The humidity welcomed the morning sunshine as four of New Orleans’s finest eligible bachelors entered the standing-room-only café. At a glance, it was clear that beautiful, scantily dressed women outnumbered the men three to one.
“Glad you texted me, bro. Thanks for holding down the fort for us.” Trymm patted his eldest brother, Walter, on the back as Walter and his three friends stood. Trymm, Kohl, Blitz, and Dallas settled onto four of the six barstools at the counter.
Walter placed his hand on Trymm’s shoulder. “No problem. You know I got you.”
A gentleman in a crimson buttoned-down shirt had three top buttons undone. A gold cross lay flat on his furry patch of gray chest hairs. His matching colored shorts were meticulously creased. Standing erect, he confronted Walter. “Man, no disrespect, but we been waiting to be seated for over an hour.” He conspicuously clutched his Bible over his heart.
“None taken, but y’all gon’ hafta wait a little longer. Ya heard me.” Walter, a six-three, 250-pound former professional wrestler, wasn’t asking.
Trymm, Kohl, Blitz, and Dallas pushed their stools toward the counter. Stood facing the man. Dallas eased his hand into his pocket, gripped the handle of his gun. The crewe knew the dirty South could get filthy without notice. Dallas was always strapped.
“Bay-bay, y’all sure looking extra fine today! Sit.” Dana, the crewe’s usual waitress, wiped away the food particles on the forest-green top, slapped menus in front of the fellas. “I got y’all in a sec, Trymm.” Mixing orange juice and champagne into a plastic container, Dana stacked four red acrylic tumblers on her tray, then headed toward the main dining room.
The Trolley Stop Café had three areas—the bar was to the left upon entry; the street car section was to the right, up three stairs and another right; the interior was to the right up three steps, then left. Each square table was the same lacquer-coated cherry-wood. Forty tables, 166 seats. Not one chair was empty.
Walter redirected his attention to Trymm. “I’ll swing by and help Penny set up, but don’t be chillin’ all morning with these cats.” Walter scanned the eyes of Trymm’s friends. “Chasing pussy will leave you eating in the dark, gentlemen.” Walter positioned his wrist in front of Trymm’s face, pushed the start button on his stopwatch. “You’ve got two hours tops. See you at noon. Sharp. Not twelve-o-one.”
Trymm clenched his teeth, braced himself. Being the youngest among ten children had benefits, and drawbacks. No need to respond. Walter wasn’t asking, nor was he joking.
A wrestling competitor in high school and college, Walter, at the age of forty-five, had muscles solid as boulders. He bench-pressed three times his weight every morning before sunrise. “I have to make tracks to open my restaurant, and Penny can’t manage this incoming Essence Fest crowd by herself. Shit gon’ be busier tomorrow, so don’t even bring your black ass ova here.” He punched Trymm on the arm. Trymm leaned into Kohl, then sat up straight. “And don’t forget to give me your twenty-five hundred for Mom and Dad’s fiftieth anniversary party next month.”
Trymm dug into his pants, peeled off twenty-five C-notes, slapped them in his brother’s hand.
Walter stuffed the cash in his wallet. “Keep
flashing. One of these fools gon’ bust you upside the head and empty all your pockets. Your ass gon’ get got too, Blitz. Let that Rolex rest. Y’all too old to say none of you have a wife. Trymm, what you holding out for? Disrespecting the family’s last name and shit. Francine ain’t going nowhere. Get the ring or I’ma get it for you. You’re proposing at Mom and Dad’s event. An hour and fifty-eight, Trymm.” Walter followed his buddies out the door.
Trymm sat on the edge of his seat, planted one foot on the floor, the other on the bridge below, tightened his lips, looked at his crewe.
Blitz stared back at him. The watch was a family heirloom (from his grandfather) gifted to him by his father when he’d graduated from college. “What? You sour, nigga? At least you have a tribe of siblings. Wish big Walt was my brother for real. Being an only child is the worst. I still get blamed for shit I didn’t do.”
Sixteen years separated Trymm from Walter. Trymm was blessed to stand six inches taller than the brother who was like his second father. Disciplinarian was the role Walter assumed when they were kids. Mom, a housewife, and with their dad working sunrise to sunset each day of the week to make sure all of his kids had degrees and owned a business, Walter stepped up to help their mom, and he didn’t hesitate to beat an ass or two when he felt it was necessary.
“Squash the monologue, Blitz. Man, I’ve been tripping all morning off of how weak black women are. They hawking us right now. Bet we could fuck a dozen each. That, and the fact that we’re all about to hit dat big three-o this year. When we gon’ slow our roll?”
People heading to and from the restrooms walked sideways, squeezing their way between the back of the barstools and the customers lined along the wall. One more row of twelve diners and no one would have enough space to move.
Unfolding the Times-Picayune newspaper Walter had left behind, Trymm Dupree adjusted the crotch of his gray, white, and black camouflage cargo shorts, giving his seven flaccid inches space to stretch out.
He stroked his freshly shaved head, where three-carat-diamond studs lit up both of Trymm’s ears. Blackberry skin coated with coconut oil glistened on his flawlessly smooth face, thick lips, toned biceps, long athletic legs, all the way down to his pedicured feet, which rested in black leather open-toed sandals. Trymm scanned the front page of the metro section, slid the remainder one counter space over to Kohl.
“We should do some unforgettable shit!” Kohl peeled off the sport pages. “Let’s take a thirty-day trip, dip to the DR, Jamaica, Puerto Rico, St. Martin, the Bahamas. Wherever it’s hot, the chicks are freaks, and they won’t hesitate to suck all of our dicks for the price”—nodding upward, he gave the crewe a tight smile that barely showed his teeth—“of a po’boy.”
Blitz slapped Kohl on the nape of his neck. “The dime a dozen are in Brazil, nigga.”
“Well, Rio de Janeiro, Ipanema, then,” Kohl snapped back. “You ain’t Walter. I’ll take you down. You know what I meant.”
Standing at six-two, tipping the scale at 270 pounds, Kohl was an only child. Unlike the rest of his crewe, Kohl’s midsection was flabby and wide. From his hairline to his ankles, a stray bullet wouldn’t hit him in the ass. Kohl’s toasted-almond skin had red undertones from his Indian heritage. His jet-black hair was braided into a foot-long ponytail. Letting it down drew too much attention. Adopted son of a preacher man and a stay-at-home mom, Kohl wasn’t permitted to pierce or tattoo any parts of his temple. His gold polo, with a fleur-de-lis logo, black slacks, and lace-up, hard-sole shoes were the most casual he’d dress.
“Fuck all that flight hopping, so it won’t get back to Rev. and the First Lady. When I was stationed in Afghanistan, Dubai was my one-stop shop for all the pussy I wanted.” Dallas smiled, lifted his left brow. “I had women from all the places you mentioned”—he pointed at Kohl, then touched each finger as he continued—“and add Africa, Asia, Australia, Russia. They were all within a few blocks’ radius, and that’s not half the list. And, hear me out, paying for pussy over there is legit.”
Dallas didn’t have an incentive to return to the United States while he was enlisted in the military, so he vacationed abroad. With two half-brothers by his father, Hawk, they might as well all have been dead, Dallas’s combat buddies became his overseas family. The crewe was as close as he’d come to having brothers stateside. During deployment he’d gone eighteen months without seeing a woman he didn’t have to kill.
Their section was packed. Squeezing had turned into pushing and shoving. A few verbal confrontations erupted. The newest owner, son of the original founder, yelled, “I need everyone to clear this aisle. Now. If you do not have a space to stand against the wall, if you’re not going to the restroom, wait outside.” Maroon dude with the cross secured his position in front of the window. None of the crewe inched their seats closer to the counter.
Kohl, as usual, had to prove he knew a lil more about the subject at hand. “And they let you have babes waiting in your bed when you check into your hotel room.”
“Touché.” Dallas didn’t want to get into a pissing match with Kohl over the trivial when Dallas had more firsthand experiences than he could count. “It’s hypocritical. Kinda like how your folks know you own that strip club and hookah lounge, but they take your tithes under the table.”
The smallest of the crewe, five-ten, 180 pounds, 80 percent of Dallas’s left side of his body, from his chin down, was covered in tattoos. There was nothing to fight for after his mother drowned in their house during Katrina. The military trained him to kill the enemy. Problem now was determining who the real enemy was. Being raised in a Baptist church didn’t save his soul. Dallas harbored animosity for God. Post-traumatic stress disorder was God’s fault.
Blitz joined in. “All pussy taste different, but when I’m ready to bust a nut, smashing is the same. I don’t care where’s she’s from, long as she ain’t dumb. I’m gon’ get mine, if that bitch doesn’t get hers, that’s on her.” He snagged the front part of the paper leaving the classifieds for Dallas.
“Y’all see all the fine sistahs jam-packed up in here?” Kohl pointed out. “I’m not driving to the West Bank for a ‘bj,’ and that’s five minutes away, ya heard me.”
The ratio was now five females—high heels, hair flawless, makeup impeccable—to every guy as departing guests changed seats with new customers. Laughter and chatter drowned out the background music as men made new acquaintances with jovial women.
Trymm smirked at Kohl. “Second that, homey, but you keep leaving out your baby mama. The mere fact that she hasn’t gotten a penny of child support outta your ass in ten—”
Kohl sang aloud, “ ‘If she only had a brain—’ ”
“Or took it to the head,” Dallas tagged on.
Blitz remained silent. Stole away to his private fantasy of Kohl’s alleged baby’s mama. Ramona was a sexy motherfucker.
“My married sides crawl to me on their belly like reptiles.” Trymm had an hour and a half remaining. He glanced across the room.
Dana rushed from a table of four guys to a group of twelve women, scribbled orders, then disappeared into the kitchen. Dana was light-skinned; short, tapered blond hair framed her full face. Her wide hips and round ass shifted side-to-side as she reappeared, balancing four plates on a tray.
Kohl frowned. “Nigga, they have to. What they supposed to tell their husband? ‘Move over. Big-dick Willy coming through.’ ”
Blitz and Dallas laughed, nodding in agreement.
The boy, a fifth grader, was possibly Kohl’s son. At nineteen, Kohl wasn’t ready to become a father. Ten years later, nothing had changed.
Trymm twisted his lips to the side. “Don’t hate, homies.” “Whateva. It’s the Fourth of July weekend, which means it’s a Black Mizz America pageant for the next three. . . .” Blitz paused, eyeing an Amazon chocolate woman heading toward them. “Contestant number one, come through.”
Silence among the crewe ensued. Chatter from guests lined along the wall behind them, determined to grab
the next available seats at the bar, conspicuously lowered.
The crewe’s stares beamed like infrared lasers at the white halter dress that clung to the woman’s voluptuous breasts, highlighting her perky nipples. As she passed, the guys’ heads turned in unison, fixating on her curvaceous hips that seductively swayed like a gentle breeze kissing everything in its path. Her naked back blessed them with a gold lace thong peeping from underneath the white scoop that stopped right above her bodacious booty.
Trymm rotated his platinum band, showcasing the diamonds, wet his lips as he admired the wedding set the woman wore; then he gently grasped her hand. “Excuse me, goddess, you mind blessing me with your name?”
The crewe sat on the edge of their seats as the woman’s gaze lowered toward Trymm’s lap.
As she bat her lashes, her cheeks rose higher, and higher. “Kandy. Capital k, small y.”
Slowly releasing her soft, slender fingers, Trymm returned the smile. “Stay beautiful, Mrs. Kandy.”
Trailing the split wedged between her cheeks, Dallas’s dick began to swell.
The conversation was mute until Blitz cleared his throat. “She came here for this.” He slid his hand down his abs to his partial erection.
An even six feet, weighing 210 pounds, Blitz had a shadow-thin mustache and a neat, upside-down, triangular patch of hair, which was centered directly beneath the dimple in his naturally red bottom lip. The facial hair made him appear distinguished. His crystal-gray eyes pierced in an arrogant, confident way. When he was unsure of himself, he was the only one that knew it.
“You’re disillusioned, homey.” Trymm pulled up his left sleeve, flexed, then rubbed the horseshoe brand on his bicep. “You’d betta crunch that wallet if you want to eat,” he sang, “Kan-dy.”
Blitz lamented, “Every man isn’t cheap like you and Kohl, my brother.”
