Boss Divas (10 page)

I
t's been all over the news for two days. Python's momma—who, for some damn reason, I thought was long dead—escaped a mental hospital and went all Freddy Krueger on everybody. I don't know what the hell is going on. Suddenly, Python has family members coming out of the woodwork.

Python has calmed down, but he's still not thinking clearly. He still wants some grand family reunion. I don't know what the fuck I'm going to do about him. I've worked too hard to get where I am to lose this shit now, but I swear to God I can feel it all slipping through my fingers like the hot water in this shower. What trips me out is that Python is acting like he doesn't care. I ain't never had to ride his ass to fight for the throne before. Hell, I don't understand him
at all
anymore—and I married his ass.

There has to be a way for us to get back on the same page. I need for him to get his head back into the game before he hands control of the Gangster Disciples to some pussy-ass fuck nigga from the A. Sheeeiit. I lower my head under the shower spray and wait for the hot water to do something about the tension coiling my muscles. The only thing that happens is the fuckin' water turns ice cold on me.

Some fuckin' honeymoon this shit has turned out to be.

The bathroom door jumps around on its hinges.

“C'mon, Shelle. We gotta roll,” Python barks.

Annoyed, I huff out a breath and shut off the water. But while rushing to dry off, my gaze snags on my reflection in the mirror. Fuck. I lean in squinting. Same petite frame, same sick curves, yet still at certain angles, I don't look like myself.

This is what happens when you sell your soul for a crown—or a man.
My gaze sweeps across the dozens of keloids spread across my chest. Stab wounds courtesy of my lil sis—same for my chewed-up right earlobe, but at least I can hide it with my hair. “Bitch.” As I touch each wound, I can't help but feel pride. I underestimated her. If shit had gone down differently and I could've taken Ta'Shara under my wing—made her a real
boss
bitch with the Queen Gs. She has heart and an underlying ruthlessness inside of her that's dying to get out.

“Fuck, girl. Let's go!”

“All right. All right! I'm comin'. Shit.” Rolling my eyes, I turn from the mirror and rush to get dressed. Black jeans, white tee—I pull my wet hair into a low ponytail and then jet out of the bathroom to strap up with two burners.

“It's about time,” Python grumbles, eyeballing me like I'm the reason his ass is in a bad mood.

I'm not biting today. I'm tired of dealing with his confused ass. “I'm ready.”

Python's face twists, but he pumps his brakes on fuckin' with me as we head out the door. The first thing I see when I step out is June Bug and Kane jacking my Crown Vic on a tow truck.

“Yo, yo. What the fuck are they doin'?” I take off after them. “Yo, hey! Put my shit down.”

Python grabs me and pulls me back. “They're doing what the fuck I told them, to get rid of the car that was splashed all over the news in front of that fire project you were involved in last night.” Our eyes lock. “Sloppy.”

He's baiting me, but again I let the shit slide.

A sweet silver GL Class Mercedes rolls up to us—I have to step back and admire the ride.

“Now this shit is what I'm talkin' about.”

“You like it?”

“Hell yeah. I fucks with this.”

Python's face softens as he opens the back door. I hop inside, feeling for the first time since I married his ass like the queen he promised I'd be. I sink into the soft, white leather seats and glance up at the dashboard, which looks like a slick-ass spaceship. Hell. It still has that fresh brand new car smell.

“Please, please tell me this shit is my wedding gift,” I tell Python.

“Humph.” He looks around, unimpressed. “Too fuckin' flashy.”

I know he means that shit. Memphis street niggas don't bling. Shit brings way too much attention from the local and the federal agents. Since most country niggas don't pull W-2s, the last thing you want to do is roll around in a seventy-thousand-dollar car with the cops pulling you over every five minutes as a suspected thief. But a bitch like me could definitely get used to this.

My pissy-ass mood is long forgotten during the forty-minute ride back to Memphis. Python slides on his reflective shades and sinks back in his seat as if the dark-tinted windows aren't enough to shield him from possible prying eyes. When we reach the heart of downtown, I finally ask, “Where the fuck are we going?

“Sit tight.”

I roll my eyes and wait out the ride. A few minutes later, the driver rolls us around the back of Club Diesel and stops. “This it?”

“Apparently.”

The driver hops out and opens our door so we can make our exit. We enter the back of the club and are led toward a narrow hallway and a set of steep stairs. Off in the distance, I can hear the club's morning crew busting their asses to get the club ready.

I don't know what the fuck is going on and it's clear that Python isn't in the mood for twenty fuckin' questions so I shut my mouth and play follow-the-leader. At the top of the stairs there's a landing and an option to enter two different doors. Our escort takes us to the one on the far right, where he gives two quick knocks and waits for the barked order, “Come in!”

The fact that I even recognize this slick muthafucka's voice is a sign that shit is too much of a problem. Gritting my teeth, I enter an office so immaculate and sick I look upside Python's head.
How in the hell is he rolling like this?
My eyes sweep around the office while I choke back my jealousy.

Meanwhile, Python and Diesel do a one-shoulder hug.

“You like what you see, ma?” Diesel asks, grinning at me.

Those sexy-ass dimples send a tingle up my spine and my clit churns up a good batch of honey. “It's a'ight.” I downplay my reaction, but Diesel gives me the impression that he reads right through me.

“Well. I do what I can. Got a good deal on the place.” He glances at Python. “Better watch out, cuz. Your chick is hard to impress.”

Python's dark gaze shifts to me. “I'm not interested in impressing her as much as I am in taming her off-the-hook ass.”

Diesel laughs. “I know what you mean. Bitches nowadays ain't got no home training.”

I buck. “Excuse you?”

Python chuckles. “I know what you mean, cuz. This one has never worked a stove in her life. Thank God the pussy is good though.”

“Damn, niggas. I'm standing right here!”

“So what can I do for you, cuz?” Diesel asks Python, changing the subject “
Mi casa es su casa.
”

“Momma Peaches is alive.”

Diesel's smile melts off his face. “What?”

“There's been a change in plans.”

“Whoa. Whoa. Roll that shit back. What's this about Aunt Peaches?” Genuine concern washes over Diesel's face.

“She turned up at the hospital last night. I'm tryna find out what the fuck is going on. The news is blasting her and my mom's name all over the place.”

“Aunt Alice?” Diesel blinks. “I thought she was locked up at the cra—I mean, the mental hospital?”

“So did I. Apparently she broke out—and get this: she killed Captain Johnson.”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“I know. At least that is one small silver lining. I don't have to worry about his bloodhound ass tracking me anymore. But this shit about my mom murking him and his wife and kidnapping Aunt Peaches—and then Aunt Peaches killing her—it's just crazy. I was wondering if I can hit you up for a favor and see if you can ride over to Baptist Memorial. Represent and hold her down. Also let her know what's up and that we're gonna arrange something so that we can hook up after she's released.”

“Done and done.” Diesel and Python exchange daps and shoulder bumps again. “Don't even worry about it. I got you.”

Python cast a look my way. “Yeah. That early retirement plan we discussed?”

Diesel's brows dip. “Yeah?”

“I'm gonna pump the breaks on that shit for a little while.”

Diesel shifts around on his feet while his eyes darken to a stormy green, but somehow he keeps a smile on his face. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Python looks over at me. “My ol' lady and I decided we're gonna ride this shit out until the world blows. NahwhatImean?”

Diesel nods, but it looks like he's chewing a mouthful of nails.

I slap on the biggest smile I make, thrilled to have snatched the throne from under him before he sat his country ass down.

“That don't mean that there isn't a place for you at the table,” Python tells him.

“Look, cuz,” Diesel says, smiling. “I'm here for you. Whatever you need, I got you.”

“Good. I'm gone need some niggas I can trust. You feel me? I lost a lot of good soldiers in the past year. If I'm gonna rebuild this shit, I'ma do it right. You got the extra muscle to whip my crew into shape so we can take it to the Vice Lords and lock our shit back down.”

“Done.”

Python nods. “After you roll over to check on Momma Peaches, I'ma need you and a few boys to find someone for me.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. A bitch that goes by the name Lucifer.”

T
he Angels of Mercy are not my favorite muthafuckas in the world—but they serve a purpose: to keep my soldiers armed through our two wars spreading throughout the streets. For decades, Cousin Skeet filled that role, and when Mason was presumed dead, I went around his shady ass and established a new connect. It's clear that these rednecks can't stand my black ass, but like every area of my in life, cash moves everything around me. When I informed Mason about the relationship, he wasn't happy. But now with Cousin Skeet gone, the connect is more important than ever.

We load up two SUVs. Me and Mason in one, and Profit and Tombstone in the other. The second I climb into the passenger seat, I'm reminded of the last time I rode shotgun with him—and how it ended in disaster.

“You're sure that these muthafuckas are cool?” Mason asks.

“We'll never be invited to their family barbecue if that's what you're asking. But as long as our money stays green, our transactions will always be as smooth as butter.”

Mason grunts his doubts while keeping his eyes on the road. He's in a strange mood today—all business. I spent the morning updating him on the set's business activities. I kept waiting to see if he was proud, but instead he appeared to be annoyed. Maybe I ran shit a little too well. I get it. No one likes the idea that life goes on without them.

I look at him, but the words get stuck in my throat. I love him—and I believe he loves me—but I need to get some resolution about Melanie. I don't like the possibility of being the rebound chick. We fall into a weird silence during the rest of the ride to the Royal Knights motorcycle club. The large wooden shack is located off the beaten path and nestled in the middle of no-damn-where.

When we pull into the gravel lot before a sea of Harley-Davidsons, Mason mumbles under his breath, “I can't believe that I'm about to deal with this Aryan Nation bullshit.”

“They're not Aryans—just racist hicks,” I correct him.

“Same fuckin' thing.” He shuts off the engine and stares up at the large wood shack. “I don't have a good feeling about this shit.”

“Money over everything.” I open my door, but Mason grabs my arm before I hop out. “Are you telling me that you actually trust these fools?”

“Don't be ridiculous. I don't trust no damn body.” I turn and hop out of the vehicle. Mason's gaze remains trained on me as I head toward the front door. Loud metal rock blares out of the Royal Knights, giving me an instant headache.

Mason climbs out of the SUV and signals for Profit and Tombstone to follow suit. This shit is on me and, truthfully, it can go sideways real quick. We gather on the wooden plank before the door and give each that look that says,
Prepare for anything.

I take the lead. “Let's get this shit over with.” I push open the door and in two seconds everything grinds to a stop.

Hundreds of leather-clad bikers with a wide variety of facial hair and beer bellies glare at us with a combination of rage and shock.

“Y'all lost?” Even though the word
nigger
wasn't said, it hangs like a noose in the middle of the room.

“Nope. We're just making ourselves at home.” I push up a half smile and stroll into the place as if I own it. I've been in here several times, but not with a three-man entourage—and certainly not with someone as large as Mason, Tombstone, or even Profit. The sight of three virile men tends to itch these Confederate boys' trigger fingers.

Ignoring their outrage, we make a beeline through the place to the back door, where I knock and wait. Behind us, bikers turn away from their pool games with their cue sticks still in hand, and some climb off their bar stools and abandon their longneck beer bottles to follow us.

“I don't think your new friends like us,” Mason jokes.

I remain calm as my hand drifts to my gat—in case we
do
have to shoot our way out of here.

Finally, the locks disengage and the back door swings open and Stony, a middle-aged mountain boy who looks like his moniker, pops out his salt-and-pepper head and grins at us. “Ah! If it isn't the devil herself,” he shouts. “You're early. I thought you people were always on CP time?” He tilts down his shades and scans my entourage. He stops at Mason. “And
you
must be the new boss man.” He makes another sweep of him. “You're a big,
ugly
buck.”

Mason's patience thins. “You good ol' boys want to do business or talk shit?”

The muscles twitch around Stony's eyes, but he still flashes us his butter-colored teeth.

I sweat this shit for a second because if Stony closes this door in our faces we'll definitely have to shoot our way out of this muthafucka.

“LET THEM IN,” a voice booms behind Stony.

Disappointed, Stony grumbles as he pushes up his shades and then steps back from the door to let us enter.

Mason's not happy, but he strolls into the back office first, ready to meet whatever the fuck is waiting for us on the other side.

I fall in line behind him into a dark room filled with thick, pungent cigar smoke. Six burly white men clad in leather coats and dark shades sit in a semicircle behind a long wooden table.

We stop in front of them and engage in a staring contest. It's difficult not to feel uncomfortable. The whole setup has an auction-block feel to it.

“So we finally meet the big man,” thunders Thor Steele, the leader of this Memphis charter. He shoves a fat cigar into his mouth and then gestures for Mason to take the only empty chair.

“Let me be one of the first to welcome you back from the dead,” Thor says. “Very impressive.”

“What can I say? I'm an impressive muthafucka.”

The six-man panel exchange looks, but I can't read what they are thinking. Relationships in this business are built on trust, and if these men can't get along we'll have to go back on the open market for another arms dealer.

“Your old lady over there has been a very good customer. I have to admit that we were all surprised when she came to us a couple of months ago. I always thought you
blacks
had your own supplier in the city.”

Silence.

“We took her business, even though she goes through a lot of trouble to hide she has a nice ass and good rack.Worked out like a dream. Payments and deliveries go down without a hitch. We like that. Our supplier likes that. As long as
you people
keep your hood drama from
darkening
our door, I don't see why we can't continue to do business.”

Mason doesn't respond. Instead he stares at them until
they
start squirming in their chairs. “No deal.” He stands. “But it was nice meeting
you boys
. Good day.” He heads toward the door.

We follow.

“Whoa. Whoa. What's the rush? I thought you guys came here to make a deal?”

“I don't deal with racist muthafuckas who disrespect me and
my lady
—especially when we came here in the spirit of friendship. It's only because my momma raised me with manners that I'm not jumping across that table and ramming my fist down your throats and ripping out your spinal cords.”

Big Bubba, sitting next to Thor, unwinds his pink, meaty arms, but I doubt that he can get his fat ass out of that chair fast enough without a crane. The other four men climb to their feet while cracking their knuckles.

Fuck.
Looks like we might have to fight our way out of here after all.

For a solid minute, Thor allows the tension to build. Then unexpectedly, he cracks open a smile and fills the room with a big belly laugh. His boys look at him as if he's lost his mind before adding their spatter of awkward chuckles.

We don't relax for shit. In the South, there is nothing more dangerous than a crazy cracker.

“You know what?” Thor says. “I like you.”

“I can't say the feeling is mutual,” Mason says.

Thor laughs again and then turns to his boys. “All right. Everybody sit down. Let's see if we can start over and handle some business.”

The good ol' boys return to their seats.

Thor gestures Mason back to the chair. “My apologies if I have offended you and your ol' lady. You have my word that it won't happen again. Please. Have a seat.”

Mason tosses me a look to evaluate what I thought. Hell. I just want this shit to be over.After I give him a nod, he returns to the chair, the chip on his shoulder larger than ever.

Thor ignores this. “All right then, Mr. Fat Ace. Let's play
Let's Make a Deal
.”