Boss Divas (25 page)

“L
ord Jesus, what am I gonna do with another baby?”

The question spins around in my mind like a damn tornado. It's brought me down to the Power of Prayer Baptist Church. Frankly, I'm a little nervous to stroll in here. As I walk toward the door, I keep glancing up at the sky, waiting for a bolt of lightning to strike my ass down for even thinking about stepping into the Lord's house.

Not only did I surprise myself by getting up at the booty-ass crack of dawn to get my first praise on, I shocked the shit out of all these pastel-wearing good Christians, too. The old biddies, with their tight lips and ginormous hats, are all clutching their pearls and fluttering their fans as if the devil has paid them a visit.

I even spot Josie's wide-as-a-brick-building ass huddled up with Pastor Rowlin Hayes. One would mistake her for the First Lady of the church, she so hugged up on him. I don't know who told her ass that yellow was her color, but they must've had cataracts 'cause the old trick looks like Big Bird after guzzling down six cases of Crisco. But at least her wig is on straight and her taco-meat edges are hidden.

I'm rocking an old throwback color: white. I want to show these bitches that I'm as pure as the fresh, driven snow in the Lord. My curves may be a smaller since my abduction, but the body is still banging. Ms. Anna down at Fabdivas Hair Salon has hooked my shit up so that my split ends are gone, the gray is back to a 1B except for a small strip in my feathered bangs, and the face is beat with MAC's new winter line. If I rolled up in a club right now, I'd snatch every bitch's boyfriend and send them back home as men.

But that would be the old me.

Pastor Hayes extracts himself from Josie's tight clutch to walk over and welcome me. Josie's wrinkled face twists off and hits the pavement.

“Maybelline Carver,” he exclaims, smiling. “Is it really you or are my old eyes deceiving me?”

“Hello, Ol' Ruff Dog. It's good to see you again.” He takes my hand and brushes a welcoming kiss against my right cheek.

At the mention of his old street name, he looks up and then around. “Aww. C'mon. You know better than that. It's
Pastor
Hayes now—or Rowlin.”

“Okay, Pastor. But I know what I know.” Like a certain drive-by that took the Vice Lords' Dough Man out of the game back in the day. He and his crew did the hit right in front of the old G's daughter. Now
she
is the meanest bitch terrorizing the streets.

“ ‘When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child.When I became a man, I gave up childish ways.' First Corinthians three-eleven.” His eyes twinkle. “Something tells me that the same is happening for you.”

My spine stiffens. But he's right. He's
not
the same boy I used to know. There's not a trace of his past haunting his eyes or weighing down his shoulders. This is a man who is at peace with himself.

And bless my poor soul, I'm jealous.

“Welcome,” he says. “I hope that you'll consider us to be your permanent church home.” He kisses my other cheek and then strolls off to the next cluster of women who are tittering and batting their eyes.

I give the pastor another look. Ruff Dog aged pretty damn good. He's no longer the skinny and scrappy young buck who was so desperate to get on and prove himself to the “homies.” His six-foot-two frame has filled out with the right ratio of muscles. His skin is as smooth as milk chocolate and his neatly groomed beard actually works for him.

“Don't even think about it,” Josie hisses from behind me.

I turn to meet this bitch's narrowed gaze head-on. “You again.”

She ignores my comment. “He is
waaay
too good for you.”

“First of all, there's no such thing. Second, don't step to me like I won't chin-check your ass right here for the whole world.”

“Humph. That's what I thought. This whole Christian thing is an act.”

“Bitch, please.” I wave her off. “I'd rather beat your ass and then ask for forgiveness than to pray daily for restraint. Now get out of my face with your bullshit. You're mad that you can't get a man unless you fall and sit on his ass—ain't nobody interested in mountain climbing every time they want to get a nut.”

Josie's hands clinch at her sides.

I laugh in her face. “Girl, bye. You ain't about to do nothing.” With that, I stroll off without a backwards glance. Looking around, I'll admit it's a nice church. It's larger than it looks from the outside: stained-glass windows, a ten-foot cross on a stone wall, mahogany pews, and ruby-red carpeting. A ninety-year-old usher hands me a program and then escorts me at a snail's pace to the front.

I still catch a lot of weird stares and hear the buzzing all around me, but I'm determined to ignore these bitches' foolishness. The men are a lot friendlier. From them, I get nods and smiling dentures—even a few winks. Poor Deacon James got smacked over the back of his head when his wife caught him grinning.

Chuckling, I suspect that church might be more fun than I thought. As service time draws near, the pews fill up. The choir kicks things off. The place sounds and feels like we're in the middle of a gospel concert. Cleo Blackmon steps forward and performs a solo.

At her song's powerful crescendo, there are tears rolling down her face. It comes to my memory that the girl lost her younger sister not too long ago. The pain of that loss is so evident on her face and in her voice that she has brought everyone to tears. I've heard on the streets that she is pursuing a music career, but I have never personally heard her sing before. The girl is a powerhouse—a ball of talent that makes me wonder how come she hasn't made it out of the hood yet.

“Amen. Amen,” everyone praises as Cleo takes her place back with the rest of the choir.

The deacons breeze through the devotion and then Pastor Hayes takes his place at the lectern.

“Today, the Lord has laid it on my heart to read from Psalms eighty-two, three to four: ‘Defend the poor and fatherless; do justice to the afflicted and needy. Rescue the weak and needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked.' ”

Christopher races to the front of my mind again.

Pastor Hayes flips through his Bible again. “Daniel four, twenty to twenty-two.”

I try to keep up with the pages, but I have no idea where one book is to the next. I end up closing my new Bible and just sitting back and listening. I need a word from the man upstairs—
any
word. I'm tired and, God help me, I'm starting to feel my age seep into my bones. Raise another child? Do I even have it in me?
But Christopher has nowhere else to go
.

When Pastor calls those in need of prayer to meet him down at the altar, I spring up and rush to the front of the line.

“Just tell me what to do, Lord.” My braided hands are weaved so tight that my knuckles turn white. If I'm honest with myself, I'll have to admit that I didn't do such a good job with Terrell. His ascendance to being Memphis's most wanted isn't exactly bumper sticker worthy.

I like the thought of that—a lot.

Pastor Hayes hallelujahs his way down the line of pitiful souls. A few before me get slapped on the forehead with oil and they pop up and take off running through the aisle before falling the fuck out. I'm more than a little freaked and wonder if it's too late for my ass to sneak back to my seat.

The pastor stops in front of me, and I can feel every eye in the place staring.

“The Lord sent us a special guest today. We should all thank Him for helping Sister Maybelline find her way here. We welcome you and pray that this will be the beginning of your spiritual journey.”

A few flat “
amens
” chorus after his words.

The pastor looks me in the eyes, and for the first time in my life, I feel as if he sees me—through the bullshit, the regrets and mistakes—past the hard shell, the street smarts, the gutter instincts, and the legions of men that have been in and out of my bed.

“Sister Maybelline, the Lord is telling me that he hears your prayers and he wants you to know that all your toils have not been in vain. He knows your heart and that you are more than equipped to handle the new challenges ahead of you. You have a charge to keep—as we all do as steward of the Lord. Does this make sense to you?”

I nod as tears spill over my eyes.

He reaches for the oil. “Sister Maybelline, by the authority of the Lord Jesus Christ, I lay my hands upon your head, seal and confirm the anointing, and hereby pronounce a blessing upon your life, that your new charge is a blessing given by the Father, son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.” His palm slaps my forehead and a bright light knocks me back.

When I come to, people are helping me back to my seat.

Embarrassed, I pull it together, but there's no doubt that my shoulders, my heart, and my burdens are considerably lighter. I know what I have to do now. I have to bring Christopher home.

For the rest of the service, I clap and sing along with the rest of the congregation. As I leave the church, the pastor hollers out for me again.

“Sister Maybelline, I sure hope that you enjoyed the service this morning,” he says, grinning.

“I sure did,” I assure him.

“Does that mean that we'll see you again?”

“You just might.”

“Glad to hear it.” He pats me on my hand and then drifts off to talk to the other church members.

I turn away, but before I can take another step, I feel someone burning a hole into the side of my head. When I look to the right, my gaze crashes into Josie's big yellow ass. “I can't do nothing with that bitch,” I mumble under my breath.

I remain in a good mood for the rest of the ride home, but shit quickly falls apart when I spot the white woman sitting on my porch. “Dribbles.”

T
upelo

Lynch is safe. I'm thankful for that shit, but I'm going out of my muthafuckin' mind stashed out here in East Bumble-Fuck Egypt. Ain't shit to do but sit and wait, but I'm not sure what the hell I'm waiting for. It can't possibly be for Lucifer to calm the fuck down and forget this damn vendetta shit—'cause that's never gonna happen.

The shit is fuckin' with me. I haven't been able to sleep since I walked into Shacardi's crib and saw her and Brika's heads spinning around like party favors. If Lynch were any kind of man, he would have handled this shit by now—but
nooo
. I had to lock down the weakest nigga in the game. Instead of fighting, Lynch stashes me and Trigger out here—until further notice.

I'm biding my time and biting my tongue. These two sneaky muthafuckas still don't know I got their fucking number. I'll play that card when the time is right.

Meanwhile, Trigger ain't said more than a couple of sentences since we got here. You'd think that I were sneaking around and fucking
her
husband. Clearly she's still pissed and blames me for this situation, but I ain't got time to be dealing with this bitch lost in her feelings.

This morning, I'm up before the sunrise. I can't shut my mind off in thinking of ways to get outta this mess, but all roads lead to one conclusion: kill Lucifer. How in the fuck am I going to get close enough to touch that bitch?

To make shit worse, I'm missing my babies. Lynch refuses to bring them out here and I know that his momma is talking mad shit in his ear and dancing on the ceiling now that my ass is out of the house. It's crazy how everything has flipped in such a short time. A month ago, the world was at my feet.

Now it's gone.

Again.

I want it back.
If I can't be boss, then I'd rather not even be in the game.

A few hours later, the sun catches up with me and I shuffle out to the kitchen. Trigger is already there, pouring a bowl of cereal.

“Morning.”

Trigger cuts me a “drop dead, bitch” look.

I cross my arms and square my shoulders. “Problem?”

“Oh. I gotta problem, all right: you.” Trigger jerks toward me with her hands on her hips. “How about you,
for once,
shut the fuck up?”

I rake my gaze over this bitch. “Hold the fuck up. Who are you tryna check?”

“I'm looking at you, ain't I?”

“You fuckin' raggedy-ass ho!” I chest-bump this bum-bitch. “You don't want to start shit with me today. Please trust and believe.”

“Why? Whatchu gonna do?” She bumps me back.

“Bitch!” I shove her, wishing I had my gat on me.

“I hate the day I ever met your ass,” Trigger sneers. “Your fake-flagging ass has wrecked our set like a nuclear bomb.
I
was the one to convince the girls to give you a chance.
I
got them mixed up in your bullshit, and now they're all fuckin' dead.”

“I don't remember holding a gun to your head and I certainly don't remember your ass fucking Bishop in that backroom like a twenty-dollar trick-ho as being part of the plan either. You do remember that it was
you
who texted the go signal? You could've squashed that hit at any fuckin' time. Don't lay all this shit on me. That hit wasn't your first rodeo ride. You know bodies can drop on any given hit. So fuck you, you self-righteous, chinky-bitch!” I sock her in the mouth, catching her off guard.

Blood explodes from her nose and mouth.

Trigger springs and screams like a banshee as she launches forward and fills both fists with my hair.

“Aaaagh!” My hands go wild while she struggles to snatch my ass bald-headed. I get two good grips of her hair as well and yank her shit with all my might. We spin around into the living room and then flip over the back of the sofa and crash onto the glass coffee table. Still, even among a bed of glass, neither of us releases our hold.

Pain pierces every inch of my body as glass stabs and digs, but I hang on to this bitch with my life. Losing this fight is not a fuckin' option. Plugs of Trigger's hair come loose in my hand.

“You fuckin', bitch!” Trigger renews her efforts, and when a clump of my shit is snatched out, I punch this heifer again.

Her jaw shatters as her head rocks to the left. My satisfaction over my small victory only lasts for a few seconds until Trigger delivers a right hook that sends me flying. I hit an end table and knock over a lamp that misses bashing my head by a single inch.

Trigger kicks me in the gut. My breath rushes from my lungs, which then have a hard time filling back up.

“You crabby-ass bitch! Nobody wants you,” Trigger hisses, rearing her foot back to deliver another blow.

I roll over and catch her foot in midair, and then twist that shit so hard that it knocks her on her ass. I launch to pin her ass down, but the bitch is fast. She rolls toward an old fireplace. I chase after her, grab one of the iron pokers, and swing that muthafucka like Tiger Woods's ex-wife until it whacks Trigger's head.

The bitch drops—and then a large pool of blood seeps out of the side of her head.

“Oh shit!” I drop the poker. “What the fuck did I just do?”