Blood, Sweat and Payback Read online

  “I ain’t nevah scared,” Michelle rapped as she counted the money.

  “How much?”

  “I ain’t finish. I ain’t nevah scared,” Michelle continued to rap.

  Courtney sucked her teeth when she realized Michelle was just being funny. “Bitch, stop playin’.”

  Michelle laughed. They were tighter than wolf pussy.

  “Like twenty-three, twenty-four grand.”

  “What about the jewels?”

  “Jewels? Man, between these cheap-ass black diamonds, and these fuckin’ chips, we’ll be lucky to get fifteen stacks for all of it.”

  Courtney was vexed. “We coulda stayed in Newark for that. Goddamn!”

  “I know, right?”

  “These short-ass niggas out here, man. Where all the real ballas, yo?” Courtney vented.

  “Wit’ long dicks and long money!” Michelle chimed in.

  “Exactly!” Courtney agreed.

  “We need a fuckin’ . . . heist, yo. Word up.”

  Several moments later, Michelle’s phone rang with a text. She looked at it, frowning up. “Yo, who the fuck is Shan? And why is she texting me at five in the morning?”

  “Shan?” Courtney echoed. “Dude or chick?”

  “Oh snap! Shan! Remember ol’ girl from Detroit that we met in Vegas? At the Mayweather fight.”

  “Hmph, Mayweather,” Michelle remarked. “Now that nigga! We need to be doin’ some serious fuckin’ with his fine and very rich ass. He would be more than a heist.”

  “You remember?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember. Ol’ girl was kinda cool.”

  “And you know them bitches from there, real slick and they ’bout that gwap.”

  “No doubt,” Michelle agreed, “and the way she was slingin’ that paper, I know she could turn us on! Her text say she just moved to New York and she just had a baby. Aww! Look at her. Baby girl cute, too!”

  “New baby, new city, new life . . . shit, I smell a lick up in this mix,” Courtney snickered.

  “You already know!” Michelle chimed in, texting Shan back.

  • • •

  Even though Sharia wasn’t really into anal sex, she was so gone off Fat Rich’s dick that in the heat of passion, he was able to slide it straight in her ass, making her pussy quiver and come with a quickness.

  “Oh fuck, Rich, take it out!” she squealed, but it was a curious type of pain that made her beg for more.

  “You know you like it,” he grunted, spreading her ass cheeks so he could watch his dick disappear between her juicy, round, phat ass cheeks.

  “Y-yesss,” she melted as the pain went away and turned into pure unadulterated pleasure.

  She began to throw it back, timidly at first, but when he reached around and started playing with her clit, the sensation drove her wild, and she started to take the ass fucking like porn star Janet Jacme.

  “Oh shit, daddy, my ass feel so good just like my pussy,” she purred as he pounded away on her back door until it smacked wet like her pussy.

  “Tell daddy who his nasty bitch is,” he demanded, pulling her hair.

  “I am! I’m your nasty bitch, daddy! Oooooh, put it back in my pussy. I’m about to explode!” Sharia performed like a seasoned pro.

  Fat Rich slid out of her ass and back up in her pussy without missing a stroke. Her pussy was now super wet. Just the feel of her tight, hot wetness sent him over the edge a stroke before Sharia followed him.

  The two of them lay spent until he got up to go take a shower.

  Sharia watched him disappear inside the hotel bathroom. Fat Rich was a gettin-money-ass nigga, but he was also a new member of The Consortium. That fact alone made up for his overweight ass and average dick game. Sharia was simply in search of another sponsor, and Fat Rich fit the bill.

  Her phone rang. She looked. It was him. She always took his calls.

  “If you wanted to listen, you’re too late,” Sharia joked.

  “Did he beat it up like me?”

  “Nobody beats it like you, daddy,” she cooed, wishing he was there right then.

  He chuckled. “I know that’s right. You hear about ol’ boy Silk?”

  “Yeah, somebody did him dirty. You think it was—”

  “Naw, but whoever it was, they did us a favor. He could’ve been Briggen’s legs on the street, and we gotta make sure that nigga stay crippled. We almost there. You got Demetria?”

  “She good. I got her layin’ low.”

  “Make sure she stay that way,” he warned. “And find out about some cat named Mo’Betta.”

  She lowered her voice hearing the shower turn off. “I gotta go.”

  “Remember, keep that dumb bitch low.”

  “I got you, nigga.” She hung up.

  Fat Rich came out, still wet with a towel around his shoulders. “So what you tell ’em? You with your girlfriend? At the mall?” He chuckled.

  “No, I told him I’m suckin’ the next nigga,” she shot back sarcastically.

  “And what he say?” Fat Rich asked, playing along.

  “Get yo’ money up front.”

  Fat Rich laughed. “I know that’s right. I like you, li’l mama. You real as fuck. Real talk, I ain’t tryin’ to wife you, but you break me off a li’l sumthin’, I break you off a li’l sumthin’. You feel me?”

  “I’m cool wit’ that.”

  “That’s what it is then.”

  Later as she drove off, she couldn’t help but laugh at her own frustration. The nigga broke her off a little something all right, in both ways. But her main man needed to hurry up with his plan, because she was tired of tricking with ballers.

  • • •

  The minute Big Choppa entered the visiting room, Dark knew the old man was living on borrowed time. There was no longer anything big about the old man besides his ego and his rep. He had shrunken in weight and shriveled in height so much that the wheelchair he sat in seemed to swallow him. The inmate pushing him brought him to the table. Choppa’s eyes had never left Dark’s from the moment he spotted them from across the visitation room. So by the time they actually spoke, their eyes had already had a long, heated conversation.

  “So I hear tell you think you gonna marry my daughter,” Choppa began, skipping the small talk, handshakes, and hello kisses.

  “I—Daddy. He is—” Crystal started, but Choppa raised his hand to silence her.

  “A man don’t need a woman to speak for him. You a man, ain’t you?”

  “One hundred percent,” Dark countered, not feeling the way Choppa was testing his gangsta.

  “Then, goddammit, answer the question!”

  “I have every intention of doing so. I love your daughter so—”

  Choppa laughed. “Love my daughter? Youngin’, please. You don’t even know my daughter. What’s her favorite color? When’s her birthday? And where’d that scar on her right leg come from?”

  “Daddy, none of those—”

  This time it was Dark who raised his hand, but when he spoke, he looked at her.

  “Purple’s her favorite color, or fuchsia, to be exact. Her birthday is in seven months and eleven days, and the scar . . . we never discussed it, but I guarantee she wouldn’t have got it if I had been there,” he answered smoothly.

  If he didn’t already have her heart, she would’ve given it to him on the spot.

  Choppa could see from the look on Crystal’s puppy dog, I’m-in-love face, his tactics had backfired. He had to admit, the boy had more game than he gave him credit for. Disappointment was written all over his face.

  “Nigga, you may be nickel slick, but you a dollar short wit’ me. You ain’t nothin’ but a two-bit hustler tryna come up off the love of a good woman from the right family. That’s the type of shit you burn in hell fo’, and nigga, I’ll burn in hell befo’ you marry her!” Choppa grumbled.

  Crystal couldn’t contain herself any longer. She kept her voice low, but her tone was unmistakable. “Daddy, you will not control my life! We l
ove each other, and we’re getting married, and ain’t a goddamn thing you can do about it!”

  Choppa could tell she was adamant about it, because she looked just like her mother when she put her foot down. For a moment his heart ached, missing her, but the rage quickly engulfed the sensation.

  “Crystal, I swear fo’ God and fo’ mo’ white folk, if you so much as set foot in that church with the intention of givin’ this nigga your hand, you play your hand with me! I’ll strip you of that connect and toss it to hell fo’ I see him with it!” Choppa’s voice turned deep.

  Crystal laughed. “Really, Daddy? Really? You think I care about your precious connect? I don’t give a damn about that! We’ll survive, and we will thrive, so you can keep your goddamn connect!”

  Dark thought, Hold up, bitch. You goin’ too goddamn far, but he held his tongue.

  Crystal wasn’t looking at Dark, but Choppa was and he could see it in Dark’s eyes. He smiled at the irony. You got the goose, but the bitch ain’t golden! “Well, in that case, congratulations.” Choppa looked over his shoulder and got the attention of his inmate attendant. “Nigga, come on here.”

  Before he was wheeled away, he said, “Baby girl, I love you. Never forget that. But you about to make one of the biggest mistakes in your life, and I just can’t be a part of that.”

  With tears in her eyes and a catch in her throat, she replied, “I love you, Daddy, but I love Jerome too.”

  Choppa nodded grimly. He knew once a woman’s heart was committed, the situation would have to play itself out. Once more he eyed Dark who had a smirk on his face, and Choppa accepted the silent challenge.

  “Get me outta here,” he told his attendant, who wheeled him away from more than the table. Choppa was wheeled away from his baby.

  As Dark and Crystal rode away from the Memphis FCI, both were locked in their own thoughts hypnotized by the sound of the windshield wipers sliding back and forth. Dark knew he had to move carefully, but there was no way in hell he was going to get married if she was out of a connect.

  “Listen, Crystal, I hate seeing you caught up like this. I know that’s your father and all—”

  “Baby, he’ll always be my father, but I choose you. Therefore, the rest is irrelevant,” she replied.

  “Naw, I’m just sayin’, this shit could get . . . ugly. I know your father. You know your father. He ain’t gonna just lie down and roll over if he feel a way about shit, you know that,” Dark said, choosing his words carefully. He hadn’t expected Big Choppa to be so stubborn but was glad that he was. He just made it easier for him to make his next move.

  Crystal looked over at him. “What do you mean, Jerome?”

  He glanced at her as he handled the steering wheel. “Your father’s a very powerful man with long arms. And I damn sure ain’t the type to let a nigga move on me. I don’t give a fuck who it is,” he emphasized, putting his cards on the table.

  Crystal glanced out of the window. Torn. She knew Dark was right, but Choppa was her father. Still, there was no mistaking the situation. Somebody would be the winner. Somebody would have to die.

  “Jerome, that’s my father. But . . . I trust you. I have to if you’re about to be my husband, and I stand behind you.”

  “So what you want me to do?”

  She looked him dead in his eyes, and replied, “Let the cards fall where they may, baby. Play the hand you’ve been dealt. I will arrange for you to meet the connect.”

  That was all the confirmation Dark needed. Love was a powerful force, but his dick was even more powerful. It took everything in him to contain his composure. He wanted to pump the air with his fist.

  • • •

  “Yo, Brig, I know you heard about Silk.”

  “Yeah . . . I heard.”

  “I tried to get at the nigga for you, yo,” Mo’Betta said as he drove along Nine Mile Road.

  Briggen pinched his nose as he kept one eye open for the police. He was crouched in his cell on a cell. “Yeah, fam’, Keeta told me. Good look.”

  “That’s nothin’! I know you a good nigga’, you just in a bad situation. But what up, doe? Tell me what you need. Say the word and it’s done. Keeta said ol’ boy owed you some bread, but I feel like it’s more to it than that. Not tryin’ to pry or nothin’, but I’m here, nigga. One hundred,” Mo’Betta vowed.

  Briggen contemplated the situation. It was like all day he could hear the loud tick . . . tock of the clock ticking loud in his ear. Time was running out. He never wanted to move out of desperation, but it was now or never, and he knew he had to make a move.

  “Peep game. Go cop a TracFone and hit me back from that ASAP,” Briggen instructed.

  “I got you, dawg,” Mo’Betta answered. He hung up, charged. He was down for whatever because he knew if Briggen got out, his come up was in stone.

  Mo’Betta was so caught up he didn’t recognize he was being followed. When he stopped at the Chinese spot on Six Mile, she stopped too. When he went in, she was right behind him. And when he ordered beef and broccoli, three egg rolls, and a bottled water, she remarked, “Hmmmm, I like a man with an appetite.”

  He turned and liked what he saw. A brown-skinned bombshell that reminded him of Kerry Washington with her pouty lips and aggressive stance. A bombshell that he wouldn’t mind fucking.

  “Sheeeit . . . dependin’ on the dish, I might lick the plate,” he replied, looking her up and down, taking in her thick hips and thighs. “Can I get a name?”

  She stood with her hand on her hip, making sure his eyes drank her all in.

  “Shayla,” she lied, not wanting to say Sharia.

  Mo’Betta licked his lips. “Shay-Shay,” he joked.

  “Uh-uh.” She wagged her finger back and forth. “Only my Daddy calls me Shay-Shay.”

  “I could be your Daddy,” Mo’Betta flirted.

  “Yeah, well, you gonna spoil me, Daddy?”

  “Then you must be a good girl, then, huh?”

  “Even when I’m bad.”

  They both laughed.

  “Eleven nine-nine,” the Chinese lady cackled, holding his order. “Eleven nine-nine you pay.”

  Mo’Betta pulled out his money and then looked at Sharia. “Anything you want, ma, is on me,” he offered.

  “Save that thought, playa.” She winked and giggled.

  After exchanging numbers, he continued on his mission. He went to Walmart and copped the TracFone and some minutes, then sent Briggen a text. A few minutes later, Briggen called back.

  “Yo, Br—”

  “No names,” Briggen cut him short. “I’ma text you the problem, but not the solution. I already talked to our people, feel me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, yeah, our people.”

  “She gonna school you to the situation. You handle this li’l bruh, and you’ll be a made man with me,” Briggen assured him.

  “That’s a bet.”

  “Hit me after you got the whole picture.”

  They hung up. Briggen texted him one word to the TracFone:

  Demetria

  Chapter Four

  They finally made their move, and despite his attentiveness, they had almost caught Nick slipping. Nick felt a little more relaxed in Detroit than he did in New York. He was always on point driving around New York, and he always lost his tail who was sloppy, almost laughable, so it was easy to detect and even easier to evade. He always slipped them before arriving at Shan’s spot or his spot. But he wasn’t aware of their presence in Detroit, which almost cost him his life.

  Lesson number one: gangstas don’t use drive-thru. Why? Because you’re boxed in and a sitting duck for a hit, and Nick violated that rule. He had been shooting moves all day and ended up on the East Side of Detroit on an empty stomach. Not really having the time to sit down and eat a meal, he stopped at McDonald’s on Gratiot sat trying to decide whether to use the drive-thru or go inside. He felt safer in his car, plus the line was short.

  Nick
was driving a rented Lincoln MKZ. Two cars were ahead of him and one car behind him. An old gray Taurus hooptie pulled into the parking lot while he placed his order. By the time he looked up, the Taurus was in his blind spot, idling . . . waiting.

  The Taurus lurched forward. The sound of the sudden acceleration caught Nick’s attention, and he saw the blur from his peripheral. They skidded up and opened fire with semiautomatic AR-15s.

  “Goddamn!” Nick bellowed as he ducked and was sprayed with shattered glass. He yanked out his .40 caliber from his waistband and let off several shots blindly, only trying to buy time as he stomped on the gas and rammed the car in front of him. Wasting no time, he yanked the steering wheel hard right and peeled out of the tight space before the Taurus tried to ram him and keep him pinned in. Through the sounds of metal on metal, sparks flying and filling the air, Nick managed to pull free. The Taurus was dead on his ass.

  He tried to hop the curb in hopes of merging into traffic, but an oncoming SUV sideswiped his rear-passenger side, bending it until the rear left tire was totally flattened.

  Recognizing their opportunity, the shooters in the backseat hopped out and moved in, but Nick dived across the seat and crawled out the passenger door. When he hopped up to return fire, he used the jet black Lincoln as cover, but the two shooters were in the open. He let off two shots. Both hit the shooter closest to him, once in the chest and the second in the neck. Blood squirted and he dropped, lifeless. The second shooter dived behind the Taurus seconds before Nick sent a barrage of bullets his way.

  Nick ducked, his gun empty, but lucky for him the sound of approaching sirens signaled the end of round one. The Taurus hopped the curb and sped off in one direction while Nick sprinted away from the scene in the other.

  He said fuck all his appointments and headed straight back to New York. This chick named Debra rented the car for him, so she would have to deal with that drama. He promised himself that he was going to pull that tail and find out who the fuck it was and who sent them. And then cut that tail right off—literally. His instincts said it was Mr. G, but he couldn’t be sure. The media did report that they were partners. They had collaborated on a few deals, including conspiring to squeeze The Consortium from both ends, but they were still competition. But now that Nick had been indicted, was Mr. G trying to clip the loose ends?