Hustlin' Divas (2 page)

“I hear you talking, but…”

“But what? You don't believe me?”

“I'm saying it don't matter. I ain't in the game, either, but it don't mean that I ain't caught up in the politics of the situation. My sister is Python's main chick. Do you know who he is?”

“I heard the name around. I've only been back in Memphis a couple of weeks.”

“Well, he's the head nigga of the Black Gangster Disciples. That means he's your brother's number-one enemy. Those niggas been beefing since my ass was in grade school.”

Profit paused, and then in the next second shrugged it off. “That shit ain't got nothin' to do with us.”

“You can't be that naïve,” I said with my heart twisting in my chest. I was really feeling this nigga, too.

Despite Profit's reassurances, there were flickers of concern about the situation in his face. But being a true stand-up nigga, he didn't like being told that he couldn't have something…or someone. That was the day we hatched the idea of us seeing each other on the serious down low. The only other person who knew the deal was Essence, and she had my back like a muthafucka.

 

Now, because of one slipup, our shit is wide open. When LeShelle finds out, the blowback is going to be nothing nice.

D
atwon Jackson is standing in the center of Momma Peaches's cramped house, sweating like a runaway slave. Fear is a scent every Gangster Disciple killer thrives on, and we are all eyeballing Datwon's trembling ass while he takes his sweet time stacking money in front of our leader—and my man—Python.

I smirk at the weak-ass nigga. I know what the fuck is about to go down, and I can't wait for my man to deal with the weakest link in our organization. Had it been me, I would've toe-tagged his ass a long time ago. But he's Python's blood—who knows how he's going to handle this situation.

“Somebody shoot this dumb mutherfucka,” Python hisses after taking one glance at the money stacked on the table and knowing that the shit is short.

An arsenal of handguns is lifted and aimed at Datwon.

I smile as I stand behind Python, ready for the shit to go the fuck off—which always happens when you get a bunch of niggas together.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, mutherfuckas. Whoa.” Datwon's eyes bug out as he jacks up his hands. “Python, how you going to kill me? We're cousins, man!”

“Nigga, you're like my fifth cousin twice removed and shit. Ain't nobody going to be crying foul over that bullshit,” Python sneers. His big, bulky, chocolate frame is littered with tats of pythons, teardrops, names of fallen street soldiers, and, more importantly, a big six-pointed star representing the Black Gangster Disciples. Python isn't just a member of the violent gang; in Memphis he is the head nigga in charge. Everybody in South Memphis knows my nigga don't fuck around when it comes to his money, drugs, territory, and women—in that order.

The seriousness of the situation hits Datwon like a ton of bricks. The young nigga's face twists like he smells something nasty while his eyes manage to squeeze out a few tears.

That shit only angers Python even more. “Nigga, is you about to start crying and shit?”

The surrounding brothers snicker and cheese. It takes everything I have not to start instigating shit by yelling,
Put a cap in his ass.
This was a family situation. Everybody needs to fall back and let Python handle his.

Python snatches off his shades and rakes his black gaze up and down his cousin. Despite his hard-earned muscles, Python has a face only a mother can love. But the brother has presence, power, and mad respect. “If you going to be big, bad, and bold and steal from a nigga, then man up.” He hammers a fist hard against his own chest. “Pump that shit out and meet Lucifer like a fuckin' soldier.”

“I'm trying,” Datwon cries. “But, Python, I didn't—”

Before Datwon can finish the sentence, Python snatches his burner from the hip of his jeans and straight shoots his cousin in the foot.

“Aaagh!” Datwon hits the warped and dusty hardwood floor with a quickness.

Everyone jumps back and watches the family drama unfold like it was some shit on cable.

I smack a hand over my mouth to prevent myself from laughing out loud.

Python scratches at his scruffy face with the side of his gun as he walks over to his cousin and squats down.

Datwon grabs his bleeding foot and carries on with the theatrics. “C'mon, Python. You know I got a lil man and shit I gotta take care of. I'm planning on marrying his momma next week at the courthouse. Please don't kill me. I don't know why the shit is short. I'll get whatever is missing back to you. I promise. I promise. Just don't kill me.”

“Nigga, quit all that hollering. You're embarrassing yourself—and me.”

To Datwon's credit, he does attempt to quiet down, but then he starts snotting up.

“Lookie here,
cuz.
I'm going to be brutally honest with your ass. I don't think this is the business for you. You sloppy with your shit. Word is you bumping your gums to anybody who'll stand still long enough, and now you got Momma Peaches on my ass twenty-four/seven. A nigga like me don't need the extra stress. You feel me?”

Datwon whimpers.

“Now, I'm going to cut your ass a break, and in return I want you to keep your punk ass out of my face. If not…the next bullet”—he places the gun against Datwon's chest—“is going to hit where it counts. We clear?”

Datwon meets his cousin's black stare to see what most niggas usually saw: death.

“We clear?” Python presses.

“Clear.” Datwon swallows the knot clogging his throat and damn near chokes to death.

Python nods and stands. “One of y'all niggas take this punk muthafucka to get fixed up. And the rest of y'all get this shit cleaned up. Momma Peaches is going to be here any minute, and she's going to be pissed if she sees blood and shit.”

Niggas get busy as Python dumps his cash into a Hefty bag and then sweeps the shit over his shoulder.

I have to admit I'm turned on, watching my man do his thing. Nobody comes harder or keeps it more real than my thuggish boo. Every nigga up in this joint knows that shit—just as they know that it takes the baddest chick in the 901 to handle his ass. And there's no doubt about it; I'm that chick with the tightest pussy, the meanest head game, and the quickest trigger finger.

From the moment I'd laid eyes on Python, I wanted to be the Bonnie to his Clyde. Real talk there's something dangerous and sexy as hell about his ugliness. I ain't the only one who feels that way. My nigga has five different seeds running around by five different bitches; all of them just as ugly as they daddy.

But none of that shit fazes me. Those little niggas were all on the scene before I claimed the throne as head bitch of the Queen Gs—the female gang that keeps the Disciples, or what most around here called
6 poppin'
: Sexed up and stress free.

I have only one true responsibility in life: looking out for my sixteen-year-old sister, Ta'Shara. We came up in the foster system. Nobody seems to know shit about what happened to our parents. Guess we're supposed to believe that we just sprouted out from under a rock or some shit. So for most of our lives, we moved from one home to another, watching people collect checks for taking us in. Shit changed when my booty rounded and my titties sat up. Suddenly I had to endure a few foster daddies and uncles who liked to play with my pussy and stuff my mouth with a different kind of lollipop in the middle of the night.

None of those muthafuckas paid attention to my tears or gave a shit that I'd gone to bed with my asshole bleeding. In fact, no one gave a shit until I saw one of them seriously eyeballing my little sister. I finally took action by slicing up one of those child-molesting muthafuckas while his ass was sleeping. Then suddenly
I
was the crazy one and had to be locked up in a group home.

For two years, I was separated from my sister. The hardest part was always wondering how Ta'Shara was or what she was doing. Would some doped-up muthafucka put her through the same hell I went through? Those couple of years was when I realized that I had seriously fucked up and had failed my sister.

How could I do my job looking after her from a damn group home?

However, that was where I had gotten my education in street politics. Drugs and boosted loot floated in and out of that group home like it was a fucking flea market. Despite all the heavy shit I could get my hands on, my drug of choice was weed—purple haze, to be exact. That shit made everything better: food, sex—just fucking life.

I first heard about the Queen Gs while lying in bed at that place. This dyke bitch, Sameka, just straight raped this chick Lovey with some metal dildo because she thought the girl jacked one of her chains. Nobody helped the girl because no one liked her big-boned ass. The next day, Sameka found her chain and realized the shit wasn't missing after all. When someone suggested she apologize to Lovey, Sameka smirked and claimed the bitch enjoyed the shit.

And she must've, because to this day, Lovey is still Sameka's main bitch. But back then, seeing the power that Sameka wielded was mind-blowing to me. Bitches jumped when Sameka said jump, and they jacked who she said needed to be jacked.

The only thing was, I didn't know how to go about asking to join the Queen Gs. At first, I worried that I would have to let that mean bitch rape or beat my ass. Turned out, I had great reason to worry because that was exactly what happened. Four chicks held me down and took turns beating my ass. Shit. I had to stay in bed for damn near two weeks after that shit, but it was a small price to pay for the kind of world that opened up to me after that.

Next thing I knew, I was flying high, boosting shit from Hickory Ridge Mall for Momma Peaches's network and jacking cars headed out to the Tunica casinos. It wasn't great money, but it was enough to make sure I kept decent clothes on my back and something other than chicken in my belly.

When I finally left the group home and was placed with my sister at the Douglases in midtown, I felt like I'd been sent to another planet. The biggest change was in Ta'Shara. She thought she was good and grown and didn't have to listen to me anymore.

Where I had been hard and jaded, Ta'Shara believed her shit didn't stink, with her straight As and being a star on the track team. What really hurt was Ta'Shara thinking that I was crazy whenever I tried teaching her slow ass about how to navigate through the politics of the streets.

Ta'Shara just acted like she was above it all, not recognizing that it was my status that kept her safe—not only from the other Queen Gs but also from the Flowers and the Crippettes. But that was cool with me, seeing how my sister might actually have a chance of escaping Memphis's rat hole and actually making something of herself. If that happened, then maybe—just maybe—it would make some of the bullshit I've gone through worth it.

When I was rising up the ranks, I was a good foot solider, but I wanted more and set my sights higher. In order to do that, I needed to do something that would catch the HNIC's attention. That meant locking down Python, a nigga who got his name for all the damn snakes he has slithering around his house. Python's kryptonite is pussy—the tighter the better. He especially likes girls who have a different look. Ever since I can remember, people have told me I look like Chilli from TLC. Who knows, maybe I really had Indian in my family.

At sixteen, I got a fake ID so I could strip at Python's club, the Pink Monkey. From the moment I stepped out on the floor, I made sure I put niggas in a trance: winding my hips and popping my oil-slick booty like my damn life depended on it. But the Benjamins didn't start raining until I showed that I could swallow a big, long banana whole. That night, Python gave the order to bring me to his office….

 

I was so excited. At the time, this was nothing more than a power move, if all went right. Of course, there was no guarantee that Python wouldn't just fuck me and then put me back out in the stable, so somehow I had to make that first meeting memorable.

When I stepped into his office, it was smoky as hell. My weedology degree told me that Python was puffing on some blueberry AK-47. I was high before I even got to the center of the room. Up until that moment, I'd seen Python around the way, but never close enough to actually get a good look at him. But standing there in that room, staring into that face, I knew my life would never be the same.

I must've stood there forever while he inspected me in my string thong and white flower pasties. While he looked at me, I kept an eye on the red and silver corn snakes that swirled around his meaty arms and hands.

I knew then what I had to do. None of the girls liked Python's snakes, and to be honest, I wasn't too keen about them either. But on that day, I pushed all that bullshit to the back of my head and walked over to his chair unbidden.

“Can I play with your snake?” I asked in a schoolgirl voice that caused the side of his lip to curl. I'd never seen a smile that made someone even uglier, but for some reason the shit turned me on so hard that my pussy started swelling right before his eyes.

Python stretched out one hand and allowed one of his friends to slither up the center of my belly and then up between my breasts.

I smiled and locked gazes with Python, letting him know that I wasn't scared of a damn thing.

His lips spread wide as if recognizing that he'd finally found his ride-or-die chick. When he licked his fat lips, I saw that the nigga had had his tongue surgically forked to look like that of a snake. I couldn't wait to feel that shit smacking my clit. No doubt, he knew how to work it.

The corn snake slid up over one shoulder and then looped around my neck. Still I didn't flinch. Python stood up, yanked down his baggy jeans, and showed me a cock that was long, veiny, and black as coal—all except the head. The head was more milk chocolate and looked like an overbaked muffin top. As he stared at me, precum started to drip from the tip.

“You got a pretty pussy,” he said flatly. “But I want some ass.”

That shit threw a monkey wrench in my plans. I was already wondering how I was going to stuff that fat head into my pussy, but my ass? Suddenly I remembered all those nights when I'd gone to bed crying, bleeding in my panties. I seriously didn't think I could do it.

But this was a chance of a lifetime. Becoming Python's girl meant no more menial carjacking and drug-muling shit.

“Whatever you want, Daddy,” I said, wiggling my ass as if I couldn't wait for him to split me wide open. And that was just what the fuck he did—rammed into me raw and fucked me with no remorse.

If I'm proud of anything, it was of my ability to not shed a single tear. Instead, I should have won an Oscar for all the panting and moaning I did. Lucky for me, he had a quick nut that night and blasted off all over my back.

“You a good little soldier, Ma,” he praised. But seconds later, I was shown the door.