Boss Divas (19 page)

This damn city is going to hell fast and dragging my ass down right along with it.

Forty-three muthafuckin' dead bodies. I can't even wrap my head around this shit right now. I haven't even been captain a full week and now I have a damn massacre on my hands.

Black folks have gone crazy.

The white folks have gone crazy.

What in the hell is going on?

“Here you go,” Fowler says, coming up from behind me and handing me a cup of coffee. “You look like you could use this.”

“Only if you spiked it with a little sumpthin' sumpthin',” I say accepting the cup.

“I would if I could, but word is that the chief is coming down.”

“Of course she is. Why miss an opportunity to put her other foot into my ass and then drag me in front of the cameras?” I glance up to where the Royal Knights' windows are supposed to be to see a train of news vans and reporters clicking and filming away.
It's going to be another one of those days.

Huffing out a long sigh, I chug half a cup of coffee in one gulp. Since I'm operating on less than two hours of sleep, I'll likely need a caffeine IV drip before the end of the day.

“Well, I guess you can look on the bright side,” Fowler says in between his own sips of coffee. “At least there are bodies to match up to the blood everywhere. Last night, the department responded to reports of gunfire out at the Rivergate Industries parking lot only to find a hell of a lot of blood stains and spent cartridges—but no bodies. Whatever the hell went on, the shooters were kind enough to clean up after themselves.”

“Humph. No bodies equals no homicides, which equals no paperwork, which equals nothing to jack up my sky-high murder rate even higher. You need to learn to stop looking a gift horse in the mouth, Fowler.”

“
Your
murder rate?” He chuckles. “Look at you. You're already talking like a seasoned captain.”

“Do me a favor and start acting like a detective and find me some clues to who's behind this bloodshed so I can limit the number of times I look like Boo Boo the Fool on the evening news. Can you do that?”

He busts a smile and gives me a two-finger salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

Watching his wise-cracking-ass march off, I chug down the rest of my coffee. After I spend another ten minutes supervising detectives and the forensic team, a commotion stirs up outside and the herd of reporters swarms around the chief.

“Chief Brown! Chief Brown! Chief Brown,” they chant in unison before competing to outshout individual questions at her.

“I have no comment at this time,” the chief keeps repeating while trying to push her way behind the crime scene tape. Once she's inside the bullet-riddled motor club, she snatches off her cheap sunglasses and zeroes in on me like there's a hidden tracking device on my ass.

“Hawkins,” she barks, and then goes on the march.

In my sleep-deprived head, I envision myself turning into the Road Runner, giving her ass a few
beep-beeps,
and then jetting out of here.

“This is the last damn thing the department needs right now.”

“Do you hear me, Captain Hawkins?” Brown snaps.

“Yes, ma'am. We're all on top of it.”

“I don't need you to just be on top of it. I need results—on
something
! The mayor is riding my ass so hard my hemorrhoids got fuckin' hemorrhoids, you understand me?”

“Yes, Chief.”
Talk about a visual that I could've done without.

She sucks up a sharp breath and then glances around. “Now. Do we have
any
idea what the hell went on out here?”

I take in a deep breath, prepared to deliver the bad news, when Fowler's shout cuts me off. “WE GOT A LIVE ONE HERE!”

Everyone's heads whip around to a back door. Chief Brown and I race to the sound of Fowler's voice like a pair of competing Olympians. By the time we reach the entryway, Fowler has a white woman scooped into his arms and is carrying her up the stairs. She's wearing a tiny jean skirt and a bikini top and is covered in blood except for the tears running from her powder-blue eyes.

“Oh God, please tell me that she saw who did this,” Chief Brown prays openly.

At the woman's nod, I'm flooded with relief as well and wait for her to speak with bated breath.

“They were niggers.”

T
he pungent scent of strawberries and pussy assaults my senses the second I creep into the basement of a two-story brick home a few blocks off Orange Mound. I follow the unmistakable sighs and moans of women mounting toward climax. My senses heighten; I concentrate on keeping my movements graceful and silent.

As I ease my way from the basement to the main floor, the sex mewing grows louder along with the steady pounding of skin against skin. Despite this shit clearly being two bitches getting it on, my clit thumps along with their nasty rhythm.

I slide my Browning from its sheath.

Brika and Shacardi are in the middle of the living room, lost in their own world. Shacardi is on her hands and knees, her head snatched back by the bondage leash that Brika is fisting while drilling a strap-on dildo into her thick, ghetto booty.

“You fuckin' love this shit, don't you?” Brika asks.

“YEEESSSSS! Oh, fuck! I'm about to come.”

Brika grips her shit tighter. “Then come on,
puta
!”

For a bitch, I'm quite impressed with Brika's stroke game. She's working that cock like she was born with it. I admit that for a second, I'm torn on whether to let these bitches catch this last nut before I send them straight to hell or not.

In the end, I wait. Hell, even I can show mercy.

The harder Brika goes in, the redder Shacardi's caramel-colored ass gets. This girl is squirting so hard, pearls of pussy juice are rolling down her inner thighs.

“AHHHHHHHHHHH,” Shacardi screams, trembling like a leaf.

That was it.
In a one-two motion, I grab Brika by the back of the head and swipe the Browning hard across her throat. Bone and muscle melt away like butter. Blood sprays across Shacardi's back.

Brika releases the grip on Shacardi's leash to claw at her own throat.

“Wh—what the fuck?” Shacardi's fresh nut is crushed as she whips a look over her shoulder.

I toss Shacardi a smile and a wink before she scrambles off Brika's fake dick and races across the floor like a squirrelly rat, trying to get away. In case she's going for a weapon, I stroll behind her bloody and baby-oiled ass before reaching down and grabbing hold of her leash.

“And where in the fuck do you think you're going?” I ask, yanking her back.

Choking, Shacardi does the same clawing at her throat.

I yank harder, flipping her onto her back.

“No! No! No!” She goes into a kicking fit, where her legs fly in every direction.

Unluckily for her, she'd allowed her lover to put those in chains as well. I easily gain control of that shit by reaching for the iron bar that had been discarded on the sofa and snapping it onto the chains.

“There. That's better.” I give her another wink and then glance back over my shoulder at Brika. The dead bitch is now face down in a pool of her own blood. “Shit. I didn't really get a chance to have any fun with your friend.” I turn my attention back to Shacardi. “I guess that means it's all up to you to entertain me.”

“Please. Please,” she begs. “It wasn't me. I had nothing to do with what happened to your brother. I swear.”

“Oh. Well.” I pretend to think that shit over. “I guess that means that I fucked up here, huh?”

Tears flow down her face.

“Only . . . the security cameras in Da Club got some bitch that
looks
like you all up in the mix. Not to mention when I had a little chat with that nigga Crunk, he spit your name before I laid a blade on him.”

She whimpers.

“That's some shit, ain't it?” I squat down next to her and run the tip of my bloody knife along the side of her face. “You gotta be pissed about a mix-up like this—an innocent bitch like you—at the top of
my
shit list?” My anger transforms my sneering face into stone. “You must think I'm stupid. Don't you, bitch?”

“N-no.”

“Yes, you do. Let me tell you, the second y'all killed my brother, you should've put the gun inside your mouths. Now I'm gonna do this shit nice and slow.”

“Please. Please,” she begs. “I don't want to die. Please.”

“Shhh.” I press my finger against her lips. “Save your energy. You're gonna need it.” I slide the blade over her chin, down her throat and circle around her titties. “Tell you what? Since you like ridin' so much, why don't we see how you can handle these ten-inches, huh?”

Her eyes nearly pop out of her head.

“I bet a hot box like yours can handle this shit.” I bring the blade down the center of her belly and then shave a few pubic hairs before positioning the weapon at her open pussy.

“Scream for me,” I order and then jam the knife hilt-deep.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

This shit is sweet music to my ears.

T
he streets are blazing with the news of Fat Ace's miraculous rise from the dead. First Python and
now
this nigga? Where the fuck do they make they asses at—and can somebody sell whatever zombie shit they smoking so I don't have to worry about Lucifer's terminator-ass stalking me?

My world is spinning out of control. The set ain't whispering no more. They're open with their disrespect. Hell. Even my girls are tripping. It's Saturday and we usually hit the hair and nail salons. I've done called, texted, tweeted, and Facebooked for their asses to call me, and I ain't heard from none of them. I knew this shit would happen after Jaqorya's body was found at Tony's Gym sliced the fuck up. There's no need to guess who the hell did the shit. But we're stronger together than apart. I'm trying to get that shit to sink in, but Lucifer got everybody shook.

“Fuck them bitches!” I toss my phone aside and then give my hand back to the nosey Korean bitch doing my nails.

“Your friends no come?” Her short, square-shaped ass asks after staring in my face.

“You tell me since you're all up in my business,” I snap.

She gives me a nasty look, and then turns toward her friend and spits that fast-funky Korean shit.

“English, goddamnit.”

Their eyes snap up.

“You bitches rude as fuck,” I say, not in the mood to put up with more disrespect from these no-label broads.

This bitch wanna say something, but she knows who my ass is and how my set gets down. Wisely, she sticks a cork in it and gets back on her job.

Simmering in my chair, I glance around and catch a few eyeballs darting away. It's no joke how quick niggas change up out here.

Nails done, I toss a few bills on the counter and roll out. I need some fucking shop-therapy so I head out to Wolfchase Mall for shoes, bags—whatever else that'll make me feel like a boss bitch again. Fuck Lucifer. I ain't running scared.

A knot of cash later, my feelings are on the mend and my mind is scrolling through some options to get my ass back on the come-up—with my man and my set. A nigga ain't shit out here without a street family. I'm going to need more than this platinum ring on my finger to cement my place with the Grape Street Crips. Not only do I need to put in some work, it needs to be some shit that removes all doubt of where my loyalties lie.

Crip up or grip up.

I mean that shit. I need to flip the spin on my dropping that grimy Vice Lord Bishop into something positive. If I were a dude and I caught that nigga slipping like that, my name would be ringing out in the street as the next king. Who gives a fuck whether we got the numbers to take on both the Gangster Disciples and the Vice Lords? The point is to prove that we ain't never scared to shake shit up.

If I can take that bitch out, it would really put me on. That shit floats around in my mind for a while. When I roll back over to Orange Mound, niggas' sour looks cause some old feelings to rise to the surface and I don't know what to do about it.

At the crib, I climb out of my sleek silver Range Rover with my arms loaded down with shopping bags and stroll through the front door and set everything on the dining room table, then head on back to my bedroom to change before getting started on dinner. When I approach the bedroom door, I hear voices—and one of them is definitely a female.
What the fuck?

Creeping forward, I discover the door is cracked open. I lean in close and peek inside. My mouth and heart drop at the sight of Trigger straddling my husband in the middle of our bed.

“Face it, Lynch. You're going to have to cut her loose. The soldiers are bugging and talking fat shit. It's a matter of time before someone rise up and challenges your authority.”

“I brought you back here for some pussy—not a lecture,” Lynch says irritably.

Trigger rolls her hips, but she ain't finished spitting in his ear. “Look, I know that she's your baby momma and you got feelings, but your responsibilities to the Crips come first. You don't want this set turning into one of those undisciplined, riffraff gangs all in for self. We're better than that shit and, once upon a time, we knew better than to turn on both the GD and VL. We can't handle them tag-teaming our asses. We might as well all march out to the cemetery and pick out our own plots.”

Lynch slaps her on the ass. “Get off. My fuckin' dick ain't feeling this shit no more.”

Trigger climbs off, but then eases up behind Lynch when he sits up on the edge of the bed, to give him a shoulder rub. “I'm not trying to upset you, but something gotta be done—before Lucifer relieves me of
my
head.”

“Calm down. I got you. I put word out in the street that I wanted a meeting with Fat Ace.”

I'm stunned.

“You did? When? How? Have you heard back from him?” Trigger asks, wide-eyed and filled with hope.

“As soon as I heard that his ass had returned from the dead,” Lynch says. “I got a meeting with him in an hour.”

“Shit. For real? And you're just now telling me?”

Hell. He didn't tell my ass either.
I grit my teeth and continue to listen in on their conversation.

Lynch continues, “Maybe now that the big man is back in charge we can reason with him. A full-fledged war ain't gonna do nobody any good but fuck up everybody's Benjamins.”

“You think he'll agree to back off? What about Lucifer? Surely, she ain't gonna charge our murking her brother to the game.”

Lynch shrugs. “I don't know what's gonna happen, but right now this is the only card we got. I say we pay back that bullshit money y'all jacked from their trap houses and the poker game
plus
interest and see what he says. Fuck. It's money over everything out here. You know that shit.”

“Yeah,” she says, thinking. “I just hope it works.”

“If not, I say you girls pack your shit up and we just gotta figure out a place to stash you until the heat dies down. It's either that or figure out a way to take Lucifer out.”

“That's like trying to take out the President of the United States.”

“Look. I'm keeping it real with you. This is what the fuck we got to work with.”

“It's okay, baby,” Trigger coos, peppering kisses across his face. “I know that you're trying. I appreciate that.”

Lynch turns to her and they share a deep, soulful kiss during which he leans forward and dips his fingers in between her legs to play with her pussy.

She purrs against his lips before saying, “You know when we broke up back in the day, I thought you plucked this bitch out of the gutter as a way to get back at me. I never thought you'd be crazy enough to pump her full of babies and then marry her ass.”

Lynch grunts. “If I remember correctly, you said no when I asked your ass.”

Trigger stops rubbing and then wraps her arms around him. “I wasn't ready.”

“You mean that you made a mistake,” he corrects.

She shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Nah. Nah. I wanna hear you say it.” He turns around and then pulls her into his lap. Laughing like a fucking teenager, Trigger plays coy for a minute.

“Admit it,” Lynch keeps saying, tickling her sides.

“All right. All right. I admit it.” She stops giggling to become breathless. “I made a mistake. I should have said yes.”

Hurt, I slap a hand over my mouth and then back away from the door.
This is not happening. This is not happening.

But it is happening. I allowed this bitch in my bed and all along these two had a history together—and probably have been laughing at me behind my fucking back. My hand moves to the Glock that I have strapped at the small of back, but then I don't remove it. I can't. If I go in there shooting and take them out, what the fuck will I have left? Fuck. Where would I even go?

Then again . . . it would be so fucking easy to bust in there with bullets flying.

I'm all in my feelings. Drowning as things start clicking in my head.

A sob gets stuck in my throat and I choke on that muthafucka. Shit. I stare at the cracked door for another full minute, before quietly retreating with my damn tail and pride tucked between my legs. Needing a drink, I go to the bar in the living room. I find the bottle of Henney, bypass looking for a glass, and guzzle the shit straight from the bottle until my anger fades. Even then, my stomach twists into knots. I need to talk this over with my other girls before I body muthafuckas up in here.

I grab my Glock and purse and then storm out of the house, jump back into my Range Rover, and then ride out, tipsy as hell.

Three blocks over, I whip up into Shacardi's drive and spot Brika's car. The two have been besties since high school. I'll let them not answering my calls slide, but they better open the front door.

I bolt out of the car—but when my fist hits the front door, I'm stunned that it bangs open. Instantly, I'm sober.

“Hello?”

No answer.

My hand goes for the Glock before I step inside. “Yo. Are y'all bitches up in here?”

“Hello?” I inch past the foyer when a metallic stench singes my noses. The hairs on the back of my head stand as I move toward the living room. My breath leaves me as I stand in the middle of a slaughterhouse that looks eerily like the chop job at Crunk's Ink.

“Oh my God.”

Blood paints the ceiling and floor while Shacardi and Brika's heads spin from the ceiling fan. On the walls, the Vice Lords' five-pointed star and the letter L are painted with blood.

“Lucifer.”