Boss Divas (30 page)

Mason moans and rolls away from our tight cocoon, and I miss his warmth immediately. “I betcha it's your mom again,” he sighs.

I groan. “Shit.” I don't want to deal with her right now. I can't go through another crying session on how much she misses Uncle Skeet's crooked ass. I don't give a fuck how much of a bad daughter that makes me.

“Maybe you should go over and see about her,” Mason suggests. “I mean—if she's still having a hard time.”

“You preaching? How about you? Your momma has been tryna get you to talk for a solid week. When are you going to talk to her?”

“I know,” he mumbles. “But I know what she wants to talk about and I ain't interested in hearing it.”

I wait, but Mason changes the subject. “I know you couldn't stand Uncle Skeet, but I gotta say that I miss the old G. Without him keeping the Gangster Disciples in check, our fuckin' workload has tripled.”

“Especially since your brother survived that crash, too.”
Shit.
I can't believe I said that.

Mason's good eye narrows as his jaw hardens. “What the fuck did you say?”

Fuck it. It's out now.
I hit this shit head-on. “Look, Mason. I know the family secret, okay? Dribbles stole you from your
real
mom.”

“That's not true!” His face purples as he leaps from the bed. “She
saved
me from my biological piece of shit.” He paces around. “Did she tell you that Smokestack pulled me out of an oven? A goddamn oven! If the bitch was a
little
higher that day she might've even turned the muthafucka on,” he rages. “Blood or no blood. I don't owe those muthafuckas nothing. I don't know them and I'm not interested in getting to know them.”

The shootout at the Rivergate Industrial Park swarms to my mind. The way Python hollered for Mason was with raw emotion. “Look. It's none of my business—”

“You're right. It's none of your business,” he snaps.

My look tells him to check his tone.

“Sorry,” he growls and resumes pacing. “But you don't know how angry I am even thinking about that shit.”

“And you feel
nothing
now that you know that your real mom, Alice, is dead?”

“You goddamn right!”

“Liar.”

His face twists, but I can read him better than anybody.

“You'll never get a chance to ask for her side of the story—and there's always three sides. Yours, theirs, and the truth. The way I see it, your biological mom had to feel some kind of way about how shit went down. Alice kidnapped her own sister and tortured her for months, thinking that she had something to do with
your
disappearance. Then she massacred Uncle Skeet and his wife and then snatched Dribbles on her way out.
That
doesn't sound like a mom that didn't love you—that didn't want you.”

Mason's pacing slows while emotions race across his burned and disfigured face.

“You made up your mind about how shit went down for a long time and now you're refusing to consider that your version of events might not be true.”

Before Mason has a chance to answer, his cell phone goes off.

“I bet
you
it's Dribbles,” I tell him.

Mason walks over to the nightstand and reads the name on the screen. His shoulders collapse with dread.

“Talk to her,” I urge. “You need to get to the bottom of this or it's always going to fuck with you.”

“What am I going to say if she insists that I meet that
woman?”

“You mean your aunt?”

He flinches, but then nods.

“I can't believe I'm about to say this, but maybe you should. For closure. We ain't got to tell nobody about it. Go and speak your mind.”

Mason sighs and picks up his phone.

“I'll give you some privacy.” I climb out of bed and reach for my robe. “I'll go down and make you some breakfast.”

“Yeah?” His lips curl. “You cooking for me now?”

“This
one
time,” I joke.

Mason stops me when I reach the bedroom door. “Babe?”

“Yeah?” I look up.

He hesitates for a moment and then says, “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” I head out of the bedroom and then down the stairs. In the living room, Profit is sprawled on my couch. I tighten the belt on my robe as I note the many bullet keloids across his shirtless chest. As I walk past him, he pops up, startled.

“Morning,” I greet.

When he sees me, his initial confusion clears and he grunts in reply.

Whatever.
With Mason's ring on my finger, I'm not about to let Profit's constantly pissy attitude ruin my day.

“What time is it?” he asks.

“Do I look like a clock to you?” I say and keep it moving.

Profit's weighty gaze follows me.

Once I get the coffee brewing, Profit pops up at the kitchen door. “You mind if I make myself a cup?”

I shrug. “Help yourself.”

He moves into the kitchen, takes his time searching and slamming the cabinet doors.

Before I know it, he's in my way, bumping and backing into me while I try to get this pancake batter going.

“Second cabinet next to the sink,” I snap.

Profit cuts me a sharp look.

“That's it.” I plop my batter onto the counter. Before my tirade gets started, Mason races into the kitchen.

“Willow, I got to run out,” he says and then looks to his brother. “Morning, bro.” He gives him a brief one-shoulder hug and then smacks him on the back. “Did she show you?”

Profit frowns and then glances back to me. “Show me what?”

Mason's chest swells proudly as he tells me, “Show him the ring.”

Still chomping on my anger, I hesitate, but then finally hold up my hand to flash Profit my ring.

Something flashes across Profit's face, but it's too quick for me to identify.

“Congratulations,” he says, without warmth.

“Now you know that you're gonna be my best man, right?” Mason gives him another hard whack on the back.

“Sure, man. You know I got you,” Profit responds, finally trying to fake an emotion.

“Good. Good.” Mason returns his attention to me. “I'm gonna have to take a rain check on breakfast. I'm gonna head out and go see Dribbles about . . . that thing we discussed upstairs.”

“Really?” I ask, surprised. “Good. You want me to go with you?”

“Nah. Nah. This is something I need to go on and get out of the way.”

Profit frowns. “Is something wrong?”

Mason waves him off. “Nah. Everything is cool.” He walks over to me, pulls me into his arms for a playful kiss. “No banging today. I want you to start to take it easy.” He rubs my belly. “You feel me?”

For once I'm going to bask in his protectiveness—even though we both know that I'm not the kind of chick who's gonna sit on the sidelines.

He gives my ass a firm squeeze and then hurries out of the house.

After the front door slams, Profit resumes glaring at me.

“What?” I bark, jamming my hands on my hips.

“Did I say something?”

“Know what? You need to roll up out of here and go back to your own crib. The party is over by now. Get your chick to make your ass some coffee. I'm not in the mood to put up with your moody ass. Get out!” I storm out of the kitchen to escort him out of my house.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Profit asks, stalking behind me.

“Ain't shit wrong with me.” I grab his shirt from off the couch and toss it over my shoulder at him without breaking my stride. “I'm tired of the bullshit. Clearly, you got a problem with me—and as far as I'm concerned you can roll that shit up and smoke it. I ain't got no more time for it.”

“Who said that I had a problem with you?”

Incredulous, I spin around and confront him. “You've got to be shitting me, right? You have done nothing but give me attitude for months. I don't know what the hell I did to you, but I don't give a shit anymore. If memory serves me correct, I was the one that got your ass to the hospital after your girlfriend's sister used your chest for target practice. I'm the one that hunted and carved up the niggas that held you down while you took that ass beating. I'm the one that called
you
up and took you on that drive-by to get at that chick—and
still
I get nothing but attitude.What the fuck is your problem?”

For five seconds, Profit glares at me and then, without warning, snatches me into his arms and kisses me.

T
he house is a wreck, but at least the last few Flowers have finally stumbled out of the house. I haven't slept a wink. I'm wired and pacing back and forth waiting for Profit. I've lost count of how many times I've paged and texted him—so on top of freaking out about my own homicide situation, I'm worried whether things are cool with him.

“C'mon, Profit. Where are you?” I pace around the house with my heart in my throat and my nerves twisted in knots. Every other minute those three gunshots sound off in my head.
POW! POW! POW!

A bullet to the chest.

A bullet to the throat.

A bullet to the head.

“Fuck!” I slap a hand around my mouth and then race off to the bathroom, where I dry heave until my stomach cramps and I'm begging God for mercy—but why should he care? Why would he listen? I'm a murderer—and I'm going to hell, or most certainly jail.

“This can't be happening to me. This can't be my life.” I lay my head on the toilet bowl and dissolve into tears. “Profit where are you?”

My head springs up. “Profit?”

No answer, but someone is walking around in the house. I climb off the floor and scamper back to the front. Mack and Romil are in the kitchen, trying to figure out how to work the coffeemaker. “What are you two still doing here?”

“What does it look like?” Mack asks, scooping out coffee grounds for the filter.

“Nah. I mean. I thought that everybody had already left.”

“Well, clearly you didn't check the backyard. And don't ask me how we got out there, but I woke up in y'all hammock.” She yawns without covering her mouth.

“Oh.” I look toward the front door, wishing Profit would return already.

“You want coffee?” she asks.

“No. I'm good.” I grab my cell phone from off the sofa and check for missed messages. “Where in the fuck is he?”

Romil props her head up to reveal her bloodshot eyes. “Problem?”

I wince. “You look like hell.”

“Clearly, you didn't look in the mirror while you were in the bathroom,” she sasses back. “You don't look so hot yourself.”

While the coffee brews, Mack shuffles to the table and plops down next to her girl. “So when are you going to tell us what in the hell happened with you and Dime last night?”

My heart jumps into my throat. “Happened? What do you mean? Nothing happened.”

They share matching frowns.

“Yeah. That was convincing,” Mack deadpans and then crosses her arms to wait me out.

“Something had to happen,” Romil eggs on. “Four of you left and only two returned—”

“And without beer,” Mack added.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” I glance back at my phone.
C'mon, Profit.

“Humph. If you're looking for your man, he crashed at Lucifer's last night.”

“What? How do you know that?”

Mack shrugs. “He came back home last night while you were supposedly at the liquor store and told me to tell you that was where he was going to be.”

“Then why didn't you tell me?”

Another shrug. “Forgot.”

Relieved, I bolt for the door and race to Lucifer's house two doors down, but just when I lift my hand to knock, a scene through the window catches my attention.

It's Profit and Lucifer . . . kissing.

“B
ack again?” Pastor Hayes asks, joining me at the front pew.

“The revival isn't until later tonight.”

“I know. I, uh, guess I just needed some more prayer. I hope you don't mind.”

A smile blooms across his face. “Not at all. All are welcomed here.”

I nod and then wait for him to leave, but he lingers, grinning. “I have to tell you, Peaches. It really warms my heart to see that the Lord has brought you here. I know you've been out in the street game for a long time and I've heard about your family troubles in the news.” He reaches for my hand. “I want you to know that God brought you through all that for a reason. It's good that you're opening your heart now. It's never too late.”

“Thanks. I needed to hear that, Rowlin—I mean, Pastor.”

“Rowlin,” he corrects, patting my hand.

We sit through a warm silence and then he finally stands.

“I'll leave you to your prayers,” he says. “I do need to make a trip out to the hospital to pray for a few of our members, but you can stay as long as you need to.”

“Thank you.” I watch him walk off and then suck in a deep breath. This meeting may go better than I'd expected. I chose to meet Mason here because it was the only neutral place I could think of.That, of course, is only if Dribbles is able to fulfill her promise. I still don't know what I'm going to say or what I'm going to do when he walks through that door.

I don't know. Maybe I should pray about this. Quickly, I fold my hands together and bow my head. “Dear Lord, I know me and you'd come to an understanding and I'm down here struggling and doing the best I can. I said that I was never going to ask you for another thing if you got me out that basement, but I'm going to need you to forgive me because I'm going to have to go back on that promise.” I tighten my prayer hands together. “It's too late for Alice to reunite with her sons, but if Dribbles and I—and of course, you—can pull this off and reunite Terrell and Mason, maybe it can be the first step in healing and bringing some peace to this family.

“Lord, I've been in the game a long time and you've seen me do my dirt, but I'm trying to change my ways. If I could just take Mason into my arms and welcome him back.
The Carvers
are his flesh and blood. He belongs with
us
. This time we're going to do right by him. I just ask that you open his heart and mind so that he will give us a chance. I pray these things in Jesus's name. Amen.”

I open my eyes and turn with my heart leaping, only for my hope to dash at the sight of Josephine's big ass blocking the church's door. “What the hell are you doing here?”

She stops clapping and settles one hand on her hip. “
I
am where I'm supposed to be,” she snaps. “This is
my
church. You're trespassing on my shit now with your fake-ass holy-roller routine. Nobody is buying that ‘
I'm saved'
shit. Not after all the hell you done raised, the niggas you done fucked, and my
grandson
you done killed.” Josie lifts a gun.

The hackles rise on the back of my neck. I stand and inch out into the aisle. “So what do you think that you came here to do, Josie? Huh? What—you a gangster bitch now?”

Her smile flickers. “I came to finish what Alice promised me she'd do when Arzell and I helped her escape that hospital: send your ass straight back to hell.”

I drop like a stone against the church's blood-red carpet. Oxygen disappears and I choke on my own tongue. However, I remain alert, even if I can't call or scream out.

Josie's big ass shakes the floor as she runs out of the building. I can smell and taste my own blood—but there's no pain. In fact, I'm numb—all over—and weak. I need to rest my eyes—just for a minute. I'll get up later and go after that bitch. Yeah. That's it. I'll get her later.

I close my eyes, but then hear a door open somewhere and the floor shakes again, before a deep, roaring voice booms, “WHAT THE HELL?”

“Peaches,” Dribbles's unmistakable voice shouts.

I open my eyes again to a pair of black Timberlands rushing toward me. In the next second, I'm being turned over and my upper body lifted into a pair of strong arms.

“She's been shot,” an authoritative baritone says.

“Should you be moving her?” Dribbles asks.

“We got to get her to a hospital.”

My vision blurs and I squint at the faces staring down at me. The man holding me is big, and his face is badly burned. I reach out to touch him, but end up painting him with my blood. “Mason, is that you?”

He hesitates and then comes clean. “Yeah. It's me.”

Finally. He's here.
Joy puts me on a high that I've never been on before. I can only hope that it's reflected in my face, but I know that I'm crying because he becomes all blurry again.

“I don't understand,” Dribbles say in a near panic.

“What happened?” Mason asks me.

“Can you tell me who did this?” he asks again.

Hell. I thought I spoke out loud, but maybe I didn't. Damn. I need some water and why is it so cold in here?

I hear the doors again and I roll my head to the left and immediately recognize the two men entering:
Terrell and Diesel.

“Oh shit,” Mason says. “Yo, man. This ain't what it looks like!” He lowers me back onto floor. When he stands, he's completely covered in my blood.

“WHAT IN THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO MY AUNT?” Python roars, but instead of waiting for an answer, he goes for his gun.

Mason goes for his.

In the next second, the Power of Prayer Baptist Church is filled with the sounds of gunfire.