Street Divas Page 7

  “Ta’Shara is not a Queen G.”

  “She is by blood. You know that shit. Don’t play crazy.”

  I do know it, and I haven’t wasted another moment’s breath trying to convince Ta’Shara of the dangers of her and Profit going public. Hell, even her sister had stepped to her and told her ass point-blank to end the shit. But my girl has been dick-crazy. The more you tell her not to do something, the more determined she is to stay with the muthafucka.

  “That dead nigga we saw being chalked earlier,” Drey continues. “Your girl’s missing nigga and her ass looking like that tells me that some street politics has caught up with they asses and it was done by our people. Why else was she on this side of town? Huh?”

  Everything this corner hustler is saying is making perfect sense.

  “Check her ass.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Check her ass and see if she’s been branded.” He hits a switch, and the interior light comes on.

  I hesitate for a moment but then roll Ta’Shara over to confirm what we both already know. Sure enough, on her ass are the dirty, bleeding initials GD. My stomach stops churning and starts knotting at the sickening sight. Only one name floats to the top of my head. “LeShelle.”

  Drey nods. “Damn. Maybe you are a little smarter than you look.”

  “Shut the fuck up and drive,” I snap, blinking back a few tears.

  “Fuck. Don’t get mad at me. I ain’t had shit to do with this. But you think I’m going to be able to convince the po-po of that shit? They’ll take one look at her ass and these tats on my neck and then haul my ass downtown. You, too, Lil Queen G. We’ll either have to take the heat or snitch. How the fuck you think that’s going to go down?”

  Now I feel sick.

  Drey shakes his head again. “We’ll drop her ass outside the ER, and then we roll the fuck out. Cool?”

  Torn, I glance down at Ta’Shara’s face. T is my best friend. I’ve had her back for a long time now, but . . . shit. This puts me in a bad situation—a life-or-death situation.

  “MUTHAFUCK!” Drey leans forward to get a good look at his reflection in the rearview mirror. “Look at what that bitch did to my face!”

  “Calm down!”

  “Calm down? Fuck that. You need to clean that bitch’s fingernails. Shit. I watch CSI. They can pull my DNA off some shit like that.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Look around back there and find something to clean her nails. I ain’t taking the rap for no goddamn body.”

  “Drey—”

  “I FUCKIN’ MEAN IT!” He jerks the steering wheel to pull over to the side of the road.

  “All right. All right. I’ll do it. Just fuckin’ drive.” I glance around the floor of the backseat and find a screwdriver. It’s better than nothing. Satisfied, Drey continues driving while I try to dig the skin and blood from beneath Ta’Shara’s fingernails. However, the act feels like a betrayal, and I feel a rush of tears threatening to flood my eyes. “Why didn’t you fuckin’ listen to me,” I mumble low, shaking my head. I don’t even want to think about what probably happened to Profit. No doubt the brothah is dead, but how he went out was probably brutal as hell.

  Goddamn these fuckin’ streets. I swipe my tears, but deep down I know that nothin’ is ever going to change out here. If anything, it’ll only get worse. Profit’s death will only set off a vicious chain reaction. I hate to admit it, but Drey is right. The last thing we want is to be implicated directly in this shit. It would be like painting a target on the center of our foreheads for the Vice Lords.

  “What the fuck is this shit?” Drey asks. He hits the dashboard, and the interior lights go out.

  “What?” I glance up as he rolls into the hospital’s parking lot.

  “Those niggas right there . . . and over there . . . and there.”

  Sure enough, posted outside the emergency room are at least seven different groups of niggas, all flaggin’ gold and black.

  “It looks like a muthafuckin’ Vice Lord convention out at this muthafucka.” Drey huffs out a long breath. “SHIT! I knew my ass should have left you two bitches back there. I must have a neon sign over my head that says ‘stupid muthafucka.’ ”

  “Shut the fuck up!” I pop him on the back of the head while I peek out the situation. “Something has gone down.”

  “Duh! You fuckin’ think?” This time he rolls his eyes so hard it’s amazing the shit doesn’t get stuck in the back of his head. “I’m getting the hell out of here.”

  “Wait! What—”

  “We can’t drop her off here. I’m willing to bet on my nanna’s life that this shit here has a lot to do with your girl’s missing man. All these muthafuckas gotta know that he took her ass to the prom. They catch us with her, they going to put two and two together and come up with six. Ya feel me?”

  “Goddamn. This is some fucked-up shit.” I’m starting to panic, too. The realness of this situation is hitting home like a muthafucka.

  Beside me, Ta’Shara groans.

  “Aw, fuck! If that bitch wakes up screaming, I’m personally going to put a bullet in her head.”

  I pop Drey again. “You ain’t going to do shit.”

  “Fuck. I’ll cap her ass before they cap me. Believe that shit.”

  “Whatever, nigga.”

  “Bet. You better makes sure her ass stays quiet back there.”

  Drey loops around, and his busted-ass shit catches a few niggas’ attention.

  My heart leaps into my throat. I have no idea what we’ll do if any of these muthafuckas decide to follow this smoking bucket of bolts. “Hurry,” I urge, pushing his shoulder.

  “I ain’t going to speed through this muthafucka. They’ll know that something is up.”

  A tall figure, dressed in all black but stacked with feminine curves, emerges from the emergency room and strolls across the parking lot toward a black SUV.

  “Hey, I know that chick.”

  “Good for you,” Drey mumbles.

  I search my memory Rolodex, and it flies back to nine months ago, when Ta’Shara and I were down at this very hospital because Profit had gotten into some shoot-out with the police. When we went up to his room, that bitch there was standing outside his door along with a bunch of other Vice Lords like a string of personal bodyguards. Ta’Shara told me her name later on. What is it? “Lucifer,” I whisper.

  Drey’s eyes bug. “Who? Her?”

  I nod. “You know her?”

  “Yeah. Fuck this shit.” Drey slams his foot on the accelerator and peels out of the hospital like a bat out of hell.

  “Hey!” I grip the backseat so that I don’t fall back against my girl. “I thought you didn’t want to draw attention?”

  “I also don’t wanna die tonight, so you need to shut the fuck up! You done got my ass into some bullshit. That’s all I know. The sooner I get y’all out my damn car, the better.”

  “Well, then let’s try another hospital.”

  “Fuck that! I ain’t risking that shit no more.”

  “We had a deal!”

  “And I drove y’all ass out here. It ain’t my fault the place is crawling with cockroaches. Who to say they ain’t got niggas at all the hospitals looking for that bitch?”

  “Shit.”

  “Exactly. Shit.” He shakes his head. “I say we just find some woods and dump her ass.”

  “Fuck naw. That shit ain’t going to happen.” And I mean that shit. I may be spooked, but I ain’t going to punk my girl out like that. “We’ll take her to her house.”

  “What? And tell her peoples what?”

  I’m shaking my head and making shit up as I go along. “Nothing. We’ll do a drop-and-roll there. Put her on the doorstep, ring the doorbell, and haul ass.”

  “What if we get caught? We’ll be right back at square one.”

  “We won’t,” I insist, but I don’t have any fuckin’ idea if that’s true of not. All I know is that it’s the best I can do for her ri
ght now. Fuck.

  Fifteen minutes later, our asses roll into picturesque midtown. We loop around the Douglas’ neighborhood a few times to make sure there aren’t any roaming niggas hanging out to catch what the fuck we are about to do. In this blue-collar neighborhood, niggas are locked up and snug as a bug at this time of night. It’s a mystery why Ta’Shara fucked with a nigga tied to the streets in the first place. The way I saw the shit, she was set. After growing up in foster care and being bounced around from one foster house to another, she’d landed a loving couple who was doing everything they could to steer her down the right path. A year ago, Ta’Shara was talking about college and getting the hell out of Memphis. What a difference a man makes.

  “Is it this one?” Drey points to the two-level beige and gray stone craft bungalow.

  “Yeah.”

  “Shit. It’s nice out here,” he comments, looking around.

  “C’mon. Let’s hurry up and do this.” I tense up again. I can’t believe that I’m about to do this shit.

  Drey hops out of the car and opens the back door. When he pulls Ta’Shara out of the backseat, he almost bangs her head against the door frame.

  “Hey, watch it,” I snap, crawling out behind him.

  “You stay in the car. The faster we do this shit the better.”

  I want to argue, but I know that he’s right. “Make sure that you ring the door bell,” I remind him.

  Again, he rolls his eyes and then jogs up toward the door with Ta’Shara cradled in his arms.

  I watch him like a hawk while he sets Ta’Shara down on the porch bench. He hesitates a moment but then rings the doorbell and takes off. He’s halfway across the yard when the house lights click on.

  “Hurry, hurry,” I mumble under my breath. For a moment, I’m really fearful that he will be caught and ID’d for this shit.

  But Drey is nimble as fuck as he jumps and slides across the hood of the car to get to the other side. “We’re out of this bitch,” he hisses, shifting the car into drive.

  My eyes remain glued to the front door. When it opens, Drey jams his foot on the accelerator. Ta’Shara’s foster mother, Tracee, opens the door and we’re able to hear her scream, “REGGIE!” above the squeal of Drey’s tires as we rocket into the night. I close my eyes against the gush of wind rushing through the open window, but it does nothing to brush away my shame. “I’m so sorry, Ta’Shara. I hope that you will forgive me.”

  10

  Lucifer

  Strolling across the dark hospital parking lot, I’m suddenly hit with the smell of burning oil. To my right, I catch sight of a rusted-out Buick Electra and twist my nose up in disgust. Some niggas really will ride around in any damn thing nowadays. Then something strange happens. A chick in the backseat points at me, and the driver’s eyes get so fucking big that he looks like a goddamn cartoon. Do I know these niggas?

  I stop at the curb and watch the car make an awkward U-turn. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I cast a look at a couple of my flagged brothahs standing guard outside the ER, ready to shut down any potential drive-by bullshit like we had to deal with the last time.

  “Yo! Go peep that shit out,” I yell.

  Like real soldiers, they take off to follow those shady-looking muthafuckas.

  Satisfied, I resume my stroll toward Mason’s SUV and hop into the passenger’s side, but before I can launch my interrogation about where his ass has been for the past hour, I notice blood seeping through his white T-shirt. “What the fuck?!”

  Mason groans as he tries to shift his massive frame around in his seat. “Don’t worry about it. It’s a scratch.”

  “A scratch?” I reach over the dashboard and turn on the interior light. I get in only one quick glance before Mason shuts it back off. “Damn. Chill out, Willow! I said it’s just a fuckin’ scratch. Tell me what’s going on in there with my brother. Is he going to make it?”

  For a few seconds I draw a damn blank, because I want to get to the bottom of what else went down tonight while I was getting my clit sucked at a goddamn club. At my hesitation, Mason’s head jerks toward me.

  “Is he . . . ?” His voice croaks.

  “Nah.” I snap out of it. “At least they haven’t come out and told us one way or the other just yet. But . . .” I struggle on whether to reach for his hand. I’m not exactly known for my softer side. It’s hard for me—has been for a long time. “Profit took a lot of bullets. Whoever did this shit tried to turn him into Swiss cheese. For real. But you have my word that we’re going to find these muthafuckas and return the favor, and we’re going to make sure that their asses ain’t still breathing when we’re through.”

  “What the fuck happened?” Mason growls. “Last I heard he was taking his lil girlfriend to the prom. Did a gang fight break out or some shit?”

  “Not at the school, but a few of our young guns who go to Morris High filled me in on a few things I didn’t know about. Not that it’s my job to keep up with the drama that goes on in the high schools.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Profit. Apparently, he and his girl, Ta’Shara, have been pissing a whole lot of people off—blatantly flaunting their relationship.”

  Mason’s brows dip. “Okay. What’s the big deal? They were all hugged at his initiation party, too.”

  “Profit has never talked to you about Ta’Shara’s people?”

  Mason pauses. “All I know is that he’s crazy about the girl.” He thinks about it some more. “She’s crazy about him, too. At least as far as I could tell.”

  I bob my head because that’s the same impression I had, too.

  “The last time we were up at this hospital,” Mason continues, “Profit did get defensive when I tried to ask his girl a few questions. What the fuck were they hiding?”

  “An awful lot,” I tell him flatly.

  “Are we going to sit here and play twenty questions while I bleed all over the place, or are you going to spit it out?” he snaps.

  “I thought you said that it was a scratch? Let me see.” I reach for the light again only to have Mason knock my hands away.

  “Goddamn it, Willow! I’m not in the mood for this shit right now.” He winces and grips the steering wheel. “I’m trying to handle one crisis at a goddamn time.”

  I watch uncomfortably while his arm muscles bulge to the point that I see veins popping out. Clearly he’s in pain, but he’s not going to admit it. Mason’s pride is a monster. A minute later, whatever spasm that hit him subsides, but he’s panting and sweating like he just finished running a marathon. He needs a doctor.

  “The prom . . .” he reminds me, pulling out his flag from his back pocket and mopping his head with it. “Finish telling me what happened.”

  Sucking in a frustrated breath, I spill what I know. “Ta’Shara is a Queen G—by blood. Nobody knows if she’s taken the oath personally but—”

  “Who’s her people? Anyone we know?”

  “Oh, we know her all right. Ta’Shara’s sister is Python’s wifey, LeShelle. Head Queen G herself.”

  Mason snatches off his ever-present Louis Vuitton shades so that his one brown eye and one milky eye can level on me and see if I’m serious. But I’ve always been a hard read. “Please tell me that you’re fucking bullshitting me.”

  “I don’t bullshit—you know that.”

  “That mutha—” Mason bites down on his bottom lip and shakes his head. “Why the hell would Profit keep something like that from me?”

  “You really have to ask? What would you have done had you known?”

  “Tell him to dump the bitch!”

  “Exactly—but since when do you Lewis men listen to reason when it comes to pussy?”

  “Fuck!” Mason rolls eyes. “He invited that bitch out to my crib. For all we know, her ass was sent there to spy on our asses. You know how hot the streets have been this past year. Those pussy muthafuckas have been dropping our people like flies.” He pauses for a moment. “Come to think of i
t, her ass showed here that night just before the Gangster Disciples came blasting up the damn hospital. Remember that? She crept in and surprise, surprise, guess who was waiting for our asses downstairs ready to light our asses up?”

  I nod, but then toss out, “Or . . . Profit and Ta’Shara really do like each other and didn’t want people telling them who they can and can’t be with.”

  Mason cocks his head at me. “What? You’re a muthafuckin’ romantic now? You going to try and tell me that you grew a heart when I wasn’t fucking lookin’?”

  That jab hurt.

  “In case you forgot,” Mason sneers, “Romeo and Juliet died at the end of that fucked-up story.”

  “Doesn’t change the fact that they still loved each other.”

  Mason rolls his eyes as he turns his head away. “Love . . . it’s all bullshit. Trust me. I got a fucking reminder of that shit tonight.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Just don’t talk to me about that love bullshit. One bitch is as good as the next. Smiling bitches lie to your face and then creep around and be squashing your enemy behind your back. FUCK!” He punches the steering wheel and the horn blares, breaking the night’s silence.

  “Where’s the bitch?” Mason asks.

  I frown, confused as to which bitch we’re talking about.

  Mason’s large head rolls toward me again, and I swear to God I can see anger simmering off his body in waves. “The girl,” he spits. “Where the fuck is the girl?”

  Blinking, I’m surprised that the obvious question hasn’t even crossed my mind. I’ve been so focused on Profit and Mason that . . . “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” he repeats, nodding his head for a few beats. “You don’t fuckin’ know?” he explodes, and then unleashes a fierce torrent of punches against the steering wheel. “Aaaarrrrgggh!”

  Stunned, I lean back and watch while each solid punch causes the horn to blare in protest. I understand his frustrations, my own emotions are all over the place. But after a full minute, I worry. “Mason, please. Calm down.” Awkwardly, I reach out and place my hand against his shoulder. “We’re going to handle this shit. Trust me. Those fake gangstas are going to pay for this shit. You got my word on that!”