Street Divas Page 8

  Mason throws his hands up and shrugs off my touch. “I want every one of those muthafuckas dead. You hear me? Every. One.” He’s panting so hard he looks like he’s getting ready to pass out.

  I bob my head, but we still have one more thing left to discuss. The big black elephant in the SUV. But Mason can be stubborn, and he damn sure doesn’t like asking for or accepting help. “You need to see a doctor,” I toss out. “You look like shit.”

  “What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” He sucks in a deep breath.

  “But a hard head makes a soft ass,” I remind him.

  “It’s gonna take a whole lot more than this shit to take me out.”

  “Let me see what type of damage we’re dealing with.”

  “Willow—”

  “And you got one more fuckin’ time to call me by that damn name and then we are going to have a fuckin’ problem.”

  Our eyes lock and I know him well enough to recognize pain.

  “You still think that you can beat my ass, don’t you?” he asks.

  “Don’t front. You know I can take you down anytime, anyplace,” I tell him.

  He laughs, but the shit sounds painful. After a minute, his laughter dies out and he sits there thinking for a long while. “I fucked up,” he says. “I really fucked up tonight.”

  Whatever the hell he’s talking about, I know this shit ain’t easy for him to admit. “Is that right?”

  Another long silence and then, “Yeah.”

  I don’t like the way his breathing sounds. It’s too choppy, and sweat is still pouring down his face. What had he said earlier? Bitch has been fucking someone on the sidelines? Was he talking about his precious Officer Melanie Johnson?

  “So who was the other dude?”

  A muscle twitches along his temple. “That reptile wannabe muthafucka.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “You knew that shit?”

  “They dated back in high school, Mason. She confirmed that shit to you not too long ago. She said it was over—you chose to believe that bullshit. I didn’t.”

  “You never really liked that bitch, did you?”

  That was an understatement. “Like father, like daughter,” I tell him.

  Mason rolls his eyes.

  “I know that . . . but—”

  “Like I said, when it comes to pussy—”

  “You made your point,” he growls, looking like he’s on the brink of another spasm. “Squash it.”

  Of course I don’t. “Was Python there when you went over there?” I press.

  “He busted in on us.” Mason coughs. “Nigga started blasting while my dick was still swinging in the muthafuckin’ air.” He coughs again and then chugs in a deep breath. “Bitch started begging for her life and admitted that the baby she’s carrying is his.”

  “Muthafuck! What kind of soap-opera bullshit are you involved in?”

  “None. I blew a hole in that ass.”

  I blink. “You killed her?”

  “Don’t know. Her ass was still breathing when I jumped out the window in my fuckin’ birthday suit.” Mason’s cough sounds like he’s trying to hack up a lung. When he stops, blood trickles from the corner of his mouth.

  I panic. “That’s it!” I pop open my door and hop out of the car. “Yo!” I holler to the guys posted outside the ER. “Y’all niggas come over here and help me.”

  “Willow—”

  “Time-out with that ‘Willow’ shit. You need to see a doctor.”

  Mason shakes his head and tries to talk again, but I take full control of the situation. I rush around the vehicle, and when I open Mason’s door, he spills out.

  I barely catch him before he hits the concrete.

  It takes six niggas to help get him back into the SUV, and by that time Mason’s entire T-shirt is soaked through with blood. I can’t take him into this hospital. Not if he possibly killed a cop tonight. There’s only one place I can take him.

  “Don’t you fuckin’ die on me,” I say, struggling to get the upper half of his body back into the car while tears burn the backs of my eyes. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare.”

  Shelter

  11

  Momma Peaches

  It’s official. My ass is no damn good. But to tell the truth, after six decades of being on God’s green earth, I’m okay with that. I am what I am, and if people don’t like that shit, they can lick the crack of my ass. That’s right. Not all of us senior citizens try to act like we’re angels, crying and hollering in somebody’s church five times a week and hoping that’s enough to get God to forget about all the hell we done raised back in the day. Nah. I don’t believe in faking the funk like that. I’ve done my dirt and haven’t tried to wash it off. I’ve also made some mistakes, terrible mistakes, but the way I see shit, that’s the only way you’re gonna learn.

  I’ve also been hardheaded about a lot of shit, too. And that usually revolved around men. I’ve had them all—young, middle-aged, or old—because I’ve kept my body tight and right. And that’s all most niggas want—that and a hot plate every now and again.

  I suck in a deep breath and then try to decide whether I want to satisfy my craving for a plate of flapjacks or stay right where I am. After all, the mattress is comfortable, the sheets are soft, and Cedric’s thick-ass dick is hard as a brick and nestled nicely in my pussy.

  Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have fucked my parole officer, but everybody must play the fool sometimes. Yeah, maybe I’ve played it more times than most, but last night I couldn’t help myself. Once I made the connection that Cedric is the son of my first love, Manny, I had to have him. Shit. Looking into the face of Manny’s mini-me while I was nuttin’ up was fuckin’ sweeter than anything I could’ve ever imagined. It was almost like I was sixteen again.

  Cedric doesn’t eat pussy like his daddy, but he sure as hell can fuck like him. Who would’ve guessed that knowing how to sling dick could be in someone’s DNA? I chuckle at my scientific discovery, but when I hear my stomach rumble, I know that it’s time to un-ass the bed. However, the moment I peel back the top sheet, Cedric stirs.

  “Where you going?”

  Fuck. I get a little wetter hearing his deep bass up against my ear. “To the kitchen.”

  He chuckles. “Pancakes?”

  “We call them flapjacks around here. What? You don’t want any?”

  “Now, what man have you ever known to turn down a hot plate first thing in the morning?”

  Cedric pulls me back by the shoulder so that I’m lying flat against the bed. He stays lying on his side but props his head up on his folded arm. “But I thought that we should talk first.”

  I roll my eyes and pray that I don’t have another one of those sensitive niggas who always wants to talk about feelings and what every fuck means in our relationship. Shit. I just went through that bullshit with my last lover, Arzell. He got hot because he wanted to marry me when everybody and they momma knows that my ass is already married. Yeah, my nigga, Isaac, might be behind bars, but fuck, whose man isn’t nowadays?

  “What do you want to talk about?” I ask flatly, and hope he picks up on my little attitude and drops the subject.

  Cedric frowns. “What the hell do you think I want to talk about?”

  This time I’m more dramatic when I huff out a long, frustrated breath.

  “Oh. Damn. It’s like that, huh?” He shakes his head and then rolls out of bed. “Forget it. A brothah can take a hint.”

  Shit. This is the type of shit I want to avoid. “Wait.” I grab him by the wrist and pull back. “I didn’t mean it like that,” I lie. “I’m just a grouch before breakfast.”

  His sexy green eyes narrow and then scan my ass like a human lie detector. “Yeah. Whatever.” He jerks his wrist back. “Squash it. I’ll put in for you to be transferred to another PO first thing Monday morning.”

  Alarmed, I sit straight up. “Why?”

  Cedric laughs as he climbs out of bed. “Oh, now you want to talk?�
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  I steal a second so that my gaze can rape his fine, redbone ass. Mmm-mmm. Just like his daddy. “C’mon now. I didn’t think that you were going to say no ridiculous shit like you didn’t want to be my parole officer no more.”

  He snatches his clothes off the floor. “Under the circumstances—”

  “Oh God, don’t tell me that you’re one of those brothahs who does everything by the book.”

  He chuckles. “All right. I won’t tell you.”

  “Well, don’t that beat all? The last Boy Scout.” I reach over to the nightstand and pull open the top drawer. A few seconds later, I’m lighting my morning joint.

  Cedric shakes his head. “You’re just going to smoke that shit right in front of me?”

  I smile and shrug. “It’s your fault. I always smoke when I get some good dick.”

  His smile stretches wider. “I could have you arrested.”

  Holding the blunt in the corner of my lips, I press my wrists together and then offer them up to him. “You can slap those Coco Chanels on me any time you feel ready, Daddy.”

  I love the way the light catches his eyes while we flirt. “Oh? Is that right?” He pulls out a pair of handcuffs from the back of his rumpled jeans pocket and then walks over to me. Did I write a check that my ass can’t cash? We’re still smiling at each other when he snaps each silver bracelet closed around my wrist.

  “They’re kind of tight.”

  “They’re supposed to be.” He removes the blunt from my mouth and then casually plops it between his own lips for a long toke, but then he snatches it out and starts choking. “Holy shit. What the fuck is in this?”

  Tossing my head back, I can’t help but laugh. “That’s some bad shit,” I brag. “Special blend from one of the girls who used to hang around here. I had her hook me up with a whole box full not too long before she passed.”

  “This shit didn’t kill her, did it?”

  I laugh. “Nah. It had something more to do with someone emptying a whole clip of bullets into her pussy.”

  “Fuck,” he says. “Are you for real?”

  I shrug, letting him know that it is what it is. “You live by the streets, you die by the streets . . .”

  “Is that what you do?” he asks, cocking up a brow.

  I only give him half a smile this time. “I’m different.”

  Disappointed, Cedric shakes his head. “Everyone out here thinks that they’re different. They hustle and gangbang, thinking that they’ll be able to jump out of the movie just before the part where Tony Montana is pumped full of holes.”

  “True.” I bob my head. “But look who you’re talking to, baby. I look damn good, but I ain’t exactly a kitten. I’m an old alley cat, and I learned a long time ago that these streets don’t love me. I’m a survivor, through and through.”

  “Is that right?” Cedric takes another long toke. His eyes are already starting to look glassy.

  “You might want to take it easy on that, Boy Scout. It has a way of knocking you on your ass.”

  “All this shit is doing is getting my dick harder.” Smiling, he places it back into my mouth so I can take another hit.

  “Well in that case”—I blow a stream of smoke straight into his face—“let’s get you as hard as possible.”

  Cedric snubs out the blunt, grabs my bound wrists, and jams them high over my head until I’m pressed into the mattress. With him hovering above me, I can testify that he is indeed as hard as steel. When he slides that fat cock into my wet pussy again, I swear to God my mind goes straight to the moon. It doesn’t make no sense for no dick to be this goddamn good.

  “Awww, shit,” Cedric pants, rotating his hips and hitting my G-spot. “You got some good-ass pussy.”

  The sweet, heady funk that our two bodies generate is as intoxicating as the blunt we just smoked. I don’t even fucking mind that this young brothah is banging my head against the headboard. All that matters is this nut I feel forming in the very tips of my toes and rolling up my good leg. It never matters to these niggas that I lost half of my left leg years ago. Though I have had some niggas say that it helps them get easier access to this pussy I’m dishing out to a few chosen ones.

  “OH GOD!” My nut courses up my thighs and gains momentum as it heads toward my clit. I lock up my pussy muscles, and Cedric’s mouth drops into a perfect circle.

  “Yeah. That’s it, baby. Yo shit it so fuckin’ tight.”

  Damn right it is. I stay up on my muthafuckin’ Kegels. A nigga can forgive a lot of things, but never a funky or busted-out pussy.

  Cedric hunches his back and keeps churning this sticky honey like his life depends on my ass coming. Somewhere along the way, I sink my nails into his big, smooth back and rake them all the way up to his fuckin’ shoulders.

  “Awwww shhhhhhheit,” he hisses, but his wonderful hips don’t stop.

  At long last that nut reaches the tip of my clit and explodes like a nuclear bomb over Afghanistan. I don’t mean to scream and shout, but I do both of those muthafuckas at the same damn time. “Aww, shit, you muthafucka.”

  Cedric isn’t far behind my ass, especially when I pluck my nails out of his shoulders and then start caressing his muscled ass cheeks. When I think he’s ready, I slip my finger straight into that tight ass. Instantly, he roars and pops his dick out of my drenched pussy and shoots his hot, gooey white bullets across my flat stomach like an AK-47.

  To show how much I appreciate our morning workout, I reach down and slide my fingers across the pretty mess he’s made, and then bring them up to my mouth so that I can have a taste. “Mmmmm.”

  Cedric laughs. “You’re a nasty freak.”

  “Are you bragging or complaining?”

  “Since I’m the one fuckin’ you, I’m most definitely bragging.”

  We lie in bed for about another hour. I even get another go at his mad head game and practically drown his ass in pussy juice before we actually take off the handcuffs and climb out of bed. I hit the shower first and then head toward the kitchen, stopping briefly in the living room to turn on the television. A few minutes later, I hear someone sneaking up behind me.

  “Go on and sit down, baby,” I say. “Momma Peaches is going to fix you up some of her famous flapjacks.”

  “Flapjacks?” Arzell thunders. “What, you got another nigga up in here?”

  I jump and turn around so fast that it’s a wonder my prosthetic leg don’t fuckin’ pop off. Sure enough, there’s Arzell’s tall ass glaring at me like I owe his ass money. This is exactly what I get for fuckin’ around with my best friend’s twenty-three-year-old grandbaby. Once you pussy-whip them, they become emotional hotheads.

  “Arzell, what the fuck you doing in here?” I bark.

  “Nah, bitch. The question is what the fuck are you doing in here?” Arzell looks straight crazy, like he ain’t shaved or washed since he rolled up out of this muthafucka with his ass up on his shoulders.

  “First of all, I ain’t no nigga’s bitch. And second of all, I suggest you get that bass outcha voice when you’re talking to me.”

  “I’ll fuckin’ settle this shit.” He jerks away from the kitchen door and snatches out his signature .50-caliber magnum from his sagging jeans and starts toward the bedroom.

  “Arzell, no!” I rush after him, but this young nigga’s long legs have him halfway down the hall before I can even catch up with him. “Stop, boy! Stop!” I grab him by the arm and start bopping him on the back of the head. “Take that foolishness up out of here.”

  “FUCK, NIGGA, WHERE YOU AT?” Arzell shouts, shrugging off my flailing arms like he’s fending off flies. Why the fuck I didn’t grab my muthafuckin’ skillet, I don’t know. Niggas listen when cast iron whacks they heads.

  “Move, Peaches!” Arzell barks, knocking me into a wall and kicking open my bedroom door.

  I stumble and fall just as my door bangs opens so hard that the top hinge breaks off.

  “Muthafucka!” Arzell shouts, pointing that long-ass barre
l straight at a wide-eyed Cedric who has one foot in and one foot out of his blue jeans.

  Arzell fires.

  “Shit.” Cedric ducks and then charges forward like a fucking linebacker. His shoulder rams into Arzell’s chest, propelling his ass backward. When he hits the same wall I’m lying down against, I swear I hear a couple of ribs snap in his chest.

  I scramble away as Cedric slams a fist across Arzell’s glass jaw. He drops the gun and it knocks me in the head. “Y’all, niggas need to stop playing.”

  Cedric, clearly pissed off for having my young buck shooting at him, sends another punch dead in Arzell’s mouth. Blood splatters everywhere—on me, on the walls, and on Cedric’s ramming fist.

  “All right, enough!” I pull at Cedric. “Leave the boy alone. He’s had enough!” I tug on one of Cedric’s meaty arms, and I think he’s starting to ease up a bit when from the corner of my eye I see Arzell’s right hand retrieve the magnum.

  “ARZELL, NO!”

  This muthafucka starts shooting. I ain’t quite sure what the fuck happened. I must’ve blacked out because the next thing I know, I’m pulling my face off the floor and Cedric is stomping the shit out of Arzell.

  “YOU FUCKIN’ TRYNA KILL ME, LIL PUNK?”

  Kick!

  Kick!

  Stomp!

  Stomp!

  Arzell curls into a fetal position and takes his much-deserved ass-kicking like a child.

  I try to move but can’t. I look down and I see my prosthetic leg splintered to hell and back. “MUTHAFUCKA!” I pick up my shit, stare at it, and then start whupping up Arzell’s head with it myself. “Nigga, you done fuck up my damn leg. You know how much one of these damn things cost?”

  I hear my front door burst open, and my house fills up with Gangster Disciples and Queen Gs ready to start blasting.

  “Momma Peaches, you all right?” McGriff shouts. “What’s going on up in here?”

  Cedric’s hands fly up into the air in surrender at the sight of my nephew, Python’s right-hand man, storming in with his gun cocked and swinging between Arzell and Cedric.