What's Really Hood! Read online

  Payback with Ya Life

  Thug Lovin’

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Wahida Clark

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Grand Central Publishing

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  www.twitter.com/grandcentralpub

  First eBook Edition: May 2010

  Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Grand Central Publishing name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  ISBN: 978-0-446-56986-6

  CONTENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  BLACK IS BLUE

  THE “P” IS FREE…

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  THE LAST LAUGH

  ALL FOR NOTHING

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  EPILOGUE

  MAKIN’ ENDZ MEET

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  READING GROUP GUIDE

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  A Preview of THE GOLDEN HUSTLA

  BLACK IS BLUE

  BY VICTOR L. MARTIN

  Raleigh, North Carolina

  Present time

  Desiree Eason was young, black and sexy and far from being a follower of the norm. You know the stereotype of a black woman: sexually wild, two or more kids by different men, a boyfriend that’s locked up, willing to open her legs for a man based on his flashy whip. Nah, Desiree was above and beyond that. Her looks were conservative but easily sexy. She was a petite size five, standing flat-footed at five-two with clear mocha skin. Her brownish hair, which she usually kept in a simple ponytail, hung past her delicate shoulders. Her light hazel eyes were inviting and between them sat her cute pert nose. Her lips were thin and sexy and stayed coated with the lightest touch of lip gloss. Her measurements were 34B-23-34. Desiree was a certified legal assistant for Shaw, Barnes and Rivers Attorneys at Law. Not bad for a twenty-three-year-old single-by-choice black female. At the moment she was headed back to her office with her laptop in one hand and her Donald J Pliner bag slung across her left shoulder while chatting on her Audiovox picture flip phone. Just as she reached for the doorknob while shouldering her cell phone to her ear, a rude comment easily gained her attention.

  “Damn, she got a nice ass.”

  Desiree promptly told her roommate to hold on for a second. “Excuse me!” she said as she turned around, eyeing the four black men lounging in the waiting area of the cozy law office. The comment was rude, but in truth… the truth was told. Desiree was filling out her clingy tweed Calvin Klein pants mighty nicely. In truth, she had a lovely ass!

  She eyed each one of the waiting clients and dared one to speak up. Sucking her teeth, she turned on the heels of her Via Spigas, then went into her office. She wasn’t upset over the comment, she was just tired of seeing black men in trouble. She hated the senseless gang violence, black men killing each other over a red or blue cloth, and she saw no end to it. Entering her office, she kicked the door shut behind her, flicked the lights on, then headed toward her desk. Kicking her heels off after placing her laptop on her desk, she resumed her conversation.

  “Where were we?” Desiree said as she placed her stocking-clad feet up on her desk. She wiggled her pedicured toes while relaxing back into the leather contoured chair.

  “What was that all about?” her roommate, Jelena, asked.

  “Some dude making a remark about my butt!”

  “So,” Jelena teased, “what do you expect? You prancing around with that tight booty.”

  “Jelena.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Shut it up,” Desiree said, crossing her ankles. “Anyway, like I was saying… I’m tired of seeing my people going through this system.”

  “I take it that the case didn’t go well today.”

  “No, it didn’t. They gave Jamal a life sentence.” Desiree’s voice was filled with pain.

  “He did commit a crime,” Jelena pointed out. “He’s the one that did the drive-by in Durham, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And then shot the police station up in Raleigh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well… he can’t be allowed to walk free, can he?”

  “I’m not saying he should,” Desiree responded. “It’s… I just wish there was another way to curb this big problem.”

  “There is a way, Desiree.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “It’s called common sense. Ain’t nobody forcing us black people to kill each other. Just because I’m a college grad doesn’t mean I don’t see the problem. And plus we both know that the system is—” A knock at Desiree’s door forced her to cut Jelena off.

  “Go ahead and take care of your business because my minutes on this phone is already over my budget limit so I’ll holla at ya.”

  “Okay, bye, girl,” Desiree said, removing her feet from her desk as she rolled back from it. Pushing the END button, then flipping her Audiovox closed, she laid it on the desk, then went to answer the door.

  “May I help you?” she asked in her professional voice as she looked up to the man standing before her looking like Michael Vick, sporting a nappy mini afro and chewing on a toothpick. He wore a cream-colored G-Unit leather jacket with matching jeans and a pair of white Air Force 1s. He looked into her hazel eyes, smiled, then looked down at her sexy feet. Desiree rolled her eyes as she realized she had forgotten to slip on her heels.

  “Mr. Shaw told me to give you my info and stuff,” he said, grinning around the toothpick.

  “Come in,” she said, nodding at the chair in front of her desk.

  As she walked around her desk she heard him mumble something under his breath.

  “Excuse me?” she asked, sliding her feet back into her Via Spigas.

  He continued to grin as he took a seat. “Anybody ever tell you that you favor Christina Milian?”

  She ignored his comment as well as his smile. “I think we have more important matters to tend to other than my looks, Mr.…?”

  “Polo… I mean Tyrone,” he said, removing the frayed toothpick from his mouth.

  “What’s your full name?” she asked, with her slender fingers poised over the wireless keyboard to her computer.

  “Tyrone Leon Bell, also known as Polo.”

  “Need a trash can for that?” she asked without looking at him. She was referring to his toothpick as she typed his name in.

  “Nah, I’m good,” he replied, checking out her ring finger to see if shorty was married. Nope. Damn, she’s fine as fuck.

  Desiree was strictly professional as she took all his info. He was hiring Mr. Shaw in the hopes that he could keep him out of prison for a gun charge.

  “Do you have any pending charges?” she asked, removing her eyes from the flat computer screen.

  “Nah. But I’m on probation.”

  “For what?”
>
  “Drug charge.”

  Once she had typed in the info she asked him about his current charge.

  “Po-po found a gun on me.”

  “I take it that you don’t have a permit?”

  “Hell naw, shawty…” He started to laugh but paused at the stern look on her still-sexy face. “I mean… um…”

  “It’s Ms. Eason,” she said sternly. “Not shawty.”

  “My bad,” he said, holding his hands up. Her take-no-shit mind-set was off the hook. I wonder if she’s the same in the bedroom? I can only dream because she might not fuck wit such a thug nigga as myself.

  “And your reason for having a gun?”

  “I live in Durham,” he answered matter-of-factly. “Shit, it’s like a fuckin’ war zone…” he continued.

  “Is that what you expect the judge to hear?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Yo… that’s how it is, sh—I mean, Ms. Eason.”

  “So,” she said, crossing her arms. “If the judge gives you some time, and say that’s how it is… then what?”

  Polo looked briefly into her eyes, then off over her shoulder at the wall behind her. Glancing at one of the photos on the wall, he gained the knowledge that she had finished college at Bowie State University.

  Clearing her throat to regain his attention, she repeated her question. Polo shrugged his shoulders, then tried to look into her eyes. He could only hold his gaze for a few seconds before he again broke the eye contact. Damn, shawty placing me outta my damn element. She must not know who I is. Dat nigga Polo dat fuck slow and stack dough. He started grinning at his silly thoughts.

  “Is something funny, Mr. Bell?”

  Polo gathered himself as he erased his grin. “Nah… I was just thinking about something, that’s all.” I’d eat dat ass fo’ breakfast… word up! he continued in his thoughts.

  “How old would you happen to be, Mr. Bell?” she asked, uncrossing her arms to type in the info.

  “I’ll be twenty-one next week,” he replied.

  The rest of their conversation went on as it had started. Strictly professionally. When it came to the point of the payment, Polo pulled out his fist-size roll of colored bills. Fifteen hundred dollars were counted out, then placed on her immaculate desk.

  “Do you think the case could be put off a few months?” he asked.

  “You can talk to Mr. Shaw about that next week. But by looking at his caseload… the answer will nine times out of ten be yes.”

  “Good,” he said, placing his frayed toothpick back into his mouth. Feeling cocky, he asked her if she had a man. That was a wrong move.

  “Be sure to call Mr. Shaw next week,” she said, ignoring his question about her personal life. She showed him the door with a forced fake smile. Polo kept his smooth composure as he came to his feet. As she turned to open the door for him, he stole another glance at her heart-shaped ass.

  Whoever hitting dat is a lucky-ass nigga! he thought to himself as he exited her office.

  Once Polo made it outside in the chilly November weather he zipped up his G-Unit leather jacket, then pimped down the crowded sidewalk. He started grinning as he neared his glossy candy-colored Duke-blue Dodge Charger perched on a set of twenty-two-inch deep-dish DUB Shoreline rims. Sitting on the hood was his buck-wild cousin Tink, smoking a Newport.

  “Get the fuck off my hood!” Polo said, pulling out his keys.

  “Fuck you!” Tink replied, sliding from the glossy hood. Polo paused to check for any dents as Tink thumped his burning Newport toward the gutter. None were found.

  “Whut dey say?” Tink said, sliding his long twisted dreads from his face. “You goin’ back to prison or not?” He laughed.

  Polo waved Tink off as he keyed the remote to raise the Lambo doors in the air. Once inside, Tink held up his numb hands near the vent, waiting for the heat to blast. Conversation inside the Dodge Charger was pointless. Reason being, the eight square KICKER subwoofers shook Polo’s whip with Three 6 Mafia’s “Stay Fly.” As Polo checked over his shoulder before pulling out, Tink reached into his waistband and pulled out a black .380 that he laid in his lap. With nothing on his mind he rapped along with the music.

  “I gotta stay fly, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, till I die!” The system was hitting so hard that he couldn’t even hear his own voice. Polo sped through the busy traffic as he unsuccessfully tried to push Desiree from his mind. It was something special about shawty. To Polo, she was the type of chick… wait, she was the type of woman to grace the cover of Essence. Deep in his mind he knew that she was not feeling him and his thug persona.

  Leaving downtown Raleigh he wheeled his Dodge Charger toward Tink’s baby mama’s crib in Washington Terrace Projects. Tink’s ears were still ringing as he stepped out of Polo’s Dodge Charger. His baggy black Vokal jeans and white hoodie were his thuggish attire for the day. His .380 was now in his front pocket for easy access in case any drama popped off. He waited for Polo on the dirty sidewalk before heading in to check on his BM (baby mama).

  “Ain’t that Lil’ Rick over there shooting craps?” Polo asked, walking up to Tink. Tink glanced at the group of hustlers in the tight game of craps. Tink nodded his head, as he easily recognized Lil’ Rick’s lanky six-two frame clad in baggy black jeans with a matching black hoodie.

  “Yeah, dat’s him, whut up?” Tink asked.

  “Ain’t nothin’. I just need to holla a’im later.”

  Tink shrugged his shoulders, then walked toward his BM’s crib while holding up his sagging jeans. Polo followed, glancing back once at his tough-looking Dodge Charger.

  Tink entered Trina’s cozy crib to find her busy in the kitchen.

  “Close the door!” she yelled over her shoulder while flipping over some pork chops. “My heat going out!” she added.

  Trina wasn’t your average project chick, not that she was hood. Trina was the same age as Tink, eighteen. Sadly, her parents had kicked her out when she became pregnant. She wasn’t put on the streets, but her parents pulled a few strings to get her name on the waiting list and quickly into her own apartment. Their reason was firm and simple. If she was grown enough to have sex and get pregnant, then she was grown enough to live on her own. Luckily, Tink had been there for her and his baby boy since day one. His only flaw in her eyes was that he sold drugs. Trina stood at five-four and didn’t favor anyone famous. She was just cute and a bit sassy when the mood would strike her. Tink came up from behind her, cupping her round butt and softly nuzzling the side of her neck.

  She giggled. “Stop, Tink, ’fore I burn myself with this hot grease.”

  “Whut else you got cookin’, ma?” he asked, stepping back so she could move freely at the stove.

  “Hmm… macaroni and cheese, butter rolls and some potato pie… and yes, some cherry Kool-Aid that our son made.” As soon as she spoke about their two-year-old son he came running into the kitchen, wrapping his arms around Tink’s legs. As the three had a family moment in the kitchen, Polo was slumped on the beige sofa rubbing his temples. Trina yelled from the kitchen, asking if he was staying to eat. He answered yes as he chewed unconsciously on his toothpick out of habit. Polo was tired of being “dat nigga.” He knew his luck wouldn’t last long in the drug game. His hustle was strictly weed and he was content with it. He had a fly whip on twenty-twos with Lamborghini-style doors but he was far from, as they say, baller status. He had been harshly reminded at a car show in Greensboro when the author/entrepreneur Jaeyel Imes pulled up in an artic silver Porche Carrera GT. Polo was ready for a change. This gun charge was bullshit!

  “I’ma get a job,” Polo said to Tink as he entered the living room with his son, Cameron, on his back.

  “A job!” Tink lowered his son to the floor, then sat next to his cousin. “Oh.” He smiled, rubbing his hands together. “You gotta lick set up? Who you got in mind?”

  Polo frowned, sucking his teeth. “I’m dead-ass, nigga! I’ma get a real job… legal.”

  “Why the change of heart?�
�� Tink asked. He then told Cameron to go put his shoes on. Cameron skipped away while singing 50 Cent’s “Window Shopper.”

  “Reason one.” Polo held up his index finger. “Ain’t tryna go back to prison for a muhfuckin’ thang. I think I can beat this case. And if I do, I’m done with this street shit.”

  Tink could tell by the tone of his cousin’s voice that he was dead-ass. “Where you gonna get a good job at?”

  Polo shrugged his shoulders. “Shit, I’ll work at Burger King before I risk my freedom again. I got a few grand in the stash and I’ma throw in the towel before I slip up.”

  Tink started grinning. “Let me find out you think dem alphabet boys got you under surveillance,” he joked.

  “Nah, I don’t rate that. That’s for that lame-ass nigga Kaseem and his team of yes-men,” Polo stated sourly.

  Tink was in a different situation from Polo. Tink had a family to feed while Polo’s main concern was paying off his new whip. Tink sold weed for Polo on the side and also did his thing selling that hard. Nothing major, though, he only sold pieces on the block. If Polo stopped the weed, then Tink knew he would be in a bind. Maybe he could hook up with that jackmaster Lil’ Rick and stick up some niggas that’s already on.

  “So what’s up?” Polo asked, breaking Tink’s train of thought. Tink shrugged his shoulders just as his son came skipping up the hall.

  “Food’s ready, y’all!” Trina yelled from the kitchen.

  Polo removed his G-Unit leather jacket, then followed Tink toward the kitchen, but both were turned around when Trina ordered them both to go wash their hands. It was clear that Trina was running thangs and Tink could care less because it was all love.

  Later, around 3:45 p.m., Polo was leaving Trina’s crib with Cameron to take him to spend the night with Trina’s parents in Selma.

  “Turn it up, Uncle Polo, please!” Cameron squealed as Polo shook his head, smiling. He loved Cameron like crazy.

  “Aiight, but not too loud this time.” Polo adjusted the volume with the controls, then filled the Dodge Charger with Common’s “Testify.”

  At the same time, Desiree was in her office working on her laptop while talking to Jelena. Jelena’s high-pitched voice filled her office as it flowed from the landline speakerphone.