Boss Divas (4 page)

“L
ucifer.”

A shiver races down my spine and then I get the feeling that if I say the bitch's name out loud three times, hell will spit her up to slaughter the rest of us standing here in Crunk's Ink tattoo shop. I take another look around at the carnage inside. It's hard to process it all, especially with Crunk's head still spinning from the ceiling fan with his dick shoved into his mouth. Even more troubling are the names written in blood on the walls.

Brika. Shacardi. Jaqorya. Trigger. Shariffa.

Next to them a five-pointed star and single letter L.

“I told you that we fucked up,” Trigger hisses in my right ear.

I turn towards her green half-moon eyes ready to spit fire, but at the last second I bite my tongue and push past her. I don't have time for her BlacAsian ass.

Trigger grabs my wrist to snatch me back.

“Don't walk away from me,” she growls. Red heat splotches her delicate brown skin. “What the fuck are we going to do?”

I glance down at her hand on my wrist. When she refuses to remove it, I wrench it back and then do a quick scan of the mob of Grape Street Crips and Crippettes hovering near the shop's door before planting my face in front of hers. “You need to calm your twitchy ass down.”

Trigger stands her ground. “How in the fuck am I going to calm down with that sick bitch out there somewhere ready to do this same shit to us? It was
your
idea to make that hit on Da Club. We should have kept our asses on our own fuckin' color line.”

“Oh. Your ass tryna rewrite history now? You bitches were all down for jacking the Vice Lords. Shit wouldn't have gone south on the hit if you hadn't smashed that nigga Bishop. After he got his dick wet, his pride was on the line when he realized you set his ass up—and by the way, you're welcome for me saving your life. If I hadn't blasted a hole in that nigga's dome, he would've pumped you full of lead.”

Trigger laughs. “Yeah. Thanks. Now all I have to do is sit back and wait for his murdering ass sister to come play chop-a-bitch with me.” Her green gaze rakes me with disgust before she marches off.

I glare at her back even though I know she's right. Lucifer is the last bitch that anyone wants to fuck with—no matter what colors you're flagging. Her name puts fear in the heart of many niggas everywhere and her wet work is legendary. Given the number of body parts lying around this shop, Crunk learned that shit the hard way.

Turning, I work my way back to the front door. Brika, Shacardi, Jaqorya, and Trigger are huddled together, whispering and casting angry glares my way.
I swear, I can't stand gossiping bitches.

I wasn't always a Crippette. Years ago I was the head bitch in charge of the Queen Gs. Python's old lady—before I got my panties twisted fucking around with a Crip thug by the name of King Loc. The shit seemed fair since Python was always too busy spreading his seed with every bitch that could stand still. But all these trifling niggas out here got double standards. Bitches aren't allowed to creep. For a long time, I kept my shit on the down low, but then I got too cocky and too slick and Python busted my ass. He rolled up on King Loc and unloaded a shitload of bullets. After that, he torched the car. The muthafucka made me watch and then turned his wrath on me.

I blacked out on the first punch. When I woke, I was laid up in the hospital and sucking on a tube, wishing that he'd killed me. I'd been stripped of my power and of the only family that I'd ever known.

The biggest insult was seeing Python waste no time replacing my ass with LeShelle. A bitch he pulled off the pole from his club, the Pink Monkey. A fucking bitch he married, if the rumors in the streets are true.

Despite it being five years and him nearly killing my ass, him marrying that bitch is fucking with me. I held that muthafucka down for
years
. I put up with all his baby-momma bullshit and the nigga never once said shit about marriage.

That's because he always had his nose shoved up Melanie Johnson's ass—that is, until he killed her
.

Regardless, Python's
wife
has quite a rep. She's a mean, nasty bitch who don't take any shit from anybody. Hell, she even had her own sister raped and put in the crazy house for disrespecting the color lines. After watching her make moves, a lot of bitches have turned up on their game. Now Queen Gs, Flowers, and Crippettes put in more work than the average foot soldier.

For me, starting over in a new set wasn't easy—far from it. I was a castoff. Nobody trusted my ass. I suffered through a lot of fucked-up shit but still climbed my ass up the ranks. I did what I had to do to survive. My big break came when I got in on a bank robbery and deflated a security guard's gut when he tested my ass. It was a quick score and it changed my life.

Lynch, the chief enforcer, peeped me out and loved that I kept my shit tight with my fitness. He caught my eye, too. His gangsta was undeniable and his ass was fine as fuck: six feet, Hershey's-bar brown and built like a quarterback. One look and I was determined to make his ass mine.

Two years later, I birthed his twin boys and took his last name. My transformation was complete. I was back on top, this time as the head bitch of the Grape Street Crips—but am I ready to go up against Lucifer?

“Lock it down,” Lynch shouts. “Clean this shit up and make sure that you don't leave a fuckin' toenail behind.”

Niggas pull down shades and lock the doors. The cops won't be investigating this homicide—not with our names painted in blood on the walls. That shit would just lead them to our front door. Ain't nobody got time for that shit. This is a personal matter and it's going to stay that way.

Trigger and the girls remain hugged up in a corner. The second I make it over to their small huddle, the bitches break off their convo in midsentence.

“Oh. It's like that now?” I grind my back teeth together.

Instead of answering, their gazes dart among themselves.

These punk bitches here.
“Fine. If you guys think that you're better off tryna fight Lucifer on your own, have at it.” I toss two deuces and give these hos my back.

“Wait,” Brika barks before I storm off.

Lynch looks up from his huddle of soldiers. He gives me a look, asking whether everything is cool with us.

Nodding, I let him know that I got this shit under control.

The girls surround me.

“Look, Shariffa,” Jaqorya starts. “We don't mean no disrespect. We're a little freaked out. You understand that shit, right?”

I refuse to answer her ass.

They sneak looks at each other before Trigger gets to the point. “Look. You got a fuckin' plan or what? If not, then I say we bounce our asses south of the border for a little while. We wait for this shit to blow over.”

“Blow over? What? You think that bitch is going to forget that we killed her brother? Does your dumb ass also believe in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, too?”

Trigger glares like she wants to smack the shit out of me.

“Then what's the plan?” Brika asks. “I'm down for whatever as long as we get the shit poppin' soon. I ain't that bitch that likes sittin' around and waitin'. I say if that bitch wants to go at it then we bring the heat straight to her. I ain't scared of no bitch that pisses sittin' down, you feel me?”

“I agree,” I say. “We get to the bitch before she comes at us.”

“And how in the fuck are we going to do that?” Trigger asks.

I have no fuckin' idea.
“Leave that shit to me,” I say.

The girls' gazes shift around.

“What say you, Shacardi?” Trigger nudges her.

All eyes shift to her and her honey-blond pixie haircut. Most niggas sleep on her because she's petite and looks like she wouldn't harm a fly. It's how she beat a murder charge a few years back.

“We don't have a choice,” she says. “It's her or us, right?”

We nod.

“Then it's settled,” Jaqorya says.

Lynch joins our circle. “Y'all working or what?”

We peel apart to start scrubbing the place down. Lynch grabs my wrists. “I told you this shit was going to happen,” he hisses. “You can never leave shit alone.”

“I—”

“You better call my momma and tell her not to bring the boys until late tomorrow. We're going to be here all night.” He storms off, not waiting to hear my bullshit.

Aw, shit.
He's going to be hot for a while. He didn't want the set to get on the Vice Lords' radar—and now I've dragged our asses right into the center of that muthafucka.

I pat my pockets and then remember I left my phone out in the car. Bolting to the door, I unlock it and rush outside. I don't realize how bad the stench was inside the tattoo shop until I suck in the night's air. After I scramble to get my cell phone out of our Range Rover, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

I pop back out of vehicle and scan the area. I don't see shit, but I feel someone's eyes.

It's Lucifer. It's her. I know it.
My gaze keeps darting around—until it lands on a black Escalade quite a distance down the road. I have to squint to make it out, but it's her. I know it.

“Shariffa!” Lynch snaps.

I jump.

“What's taking you so long?”

“I'm comin', I'm comin'.” I head back into the shop, but before I close the door I twist to check for the Escalade again.

It's gone.

S
ilent as the grave, I'm nestled quietly in the back of the Escalade with my bloody Browning hunter's knife in my lap. These muthafuckas killed Bishop and now they have me to deal with. I watch Shariffa exit the tattoo shop while an ice floe circulates in my veins.

Not personally, but back in the day, she flagged for Gangster Disciples—another one of Python's ex-flames. There's so many, I don't know how the fuck he keeps up with them. Yet, I am surprised that Lynch would wife another nigga's leftovers—especially from another gang. That kind of shit don't happen every day—if ever.Whatever the bitch is putting down in the bedroom must be strong enough for muthafuckas to overlook rules and violations.

Not me.

Tombstone looks up into the rearview mirror. “What do you want to do?”

Stone-faced, I contemplate the question. I can tell him to hit the accelerator and power down the windows. We can take care of this old-school style, but that would be too easy. I'd rather get my hands wet. Slice her ass open and listen to her scream and beg for her miserable life . . .

Shariffa looks up and spots us.

My hands drift from the bloody Browning to the TEC-9 lying at my side.
It would be soooo fuckin' easy . . .

“Lucifer?” Tombstone nudges me. “You want to do this?”

Lynch steps out of the tattoo shop and startles his wife.

The spell is broken.

I exhale a long breath and pull my hand back from the gun. “Let's get out of here. I'll take care of her later.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” Without hitting the headlights, Tombstone makes a U-turn from the curb and rolls back out the way we came. During the ride back to Ruby Cove, the Vice Lords' stronghold, the bloodlust in my heart grows.
Patience.
The word repeats like a mantra in my head.
I gotta have patience.

Rolling through the streets of Murder City, my mind trips down memory lane. Big hits, large scores, tons of body bags; Bishop, Mason, and I have been a part of it all most of our lives.

Losing Bishop so soon after Mason's death is fucking with me in ways that I'm not ready to deal with yet. Ask any muthafucka and they'll tell you that I'm not the emotional type. My brother was the emotional one. Boo-hooing every time someone close to him dropped. Don't get me wrong, he was a strong soldier, but he was never ruthless. It wasn't in him.

But it's in me.

Exhaustion has settled into my bones by the time Tombstone coasts onto Ruby Cove. Like cocaine, murder has a way of taking you on an incredible high, but then it smashes your face into concrete, knocking you out. The way I feel now, I could sleep for a week—but no way that shit is going to go down. I have too much on my plate. As the de facto leader of the Vice Lords, I know that before the sun comes up I'm gonna have to deal with more street politics.

I have to reassure our drug connects that business will go on as usual, build on our crew's relationship with our new gun runners, the Angels of Mercy biker club. Not to mention, I also have to hunt down Python and his crazy bitch, deal with Cousin Skeet, and plot how I'm going to take out Shariffa and the rest of her crew. Eventually, I'll have to go head-to-head with Lynch's shady ass, but fuck it. It's me against the world.

“Lucifer?” Tombstone cuts into my plotting thoughts.

“Yeah?”

He shrugs. “We're here.”

I look up and see that we're parked in my driveway. Hell, I hadn't noticed that we'd arrived. Still, I don't reach for the door. Instead, I look at my crib like it's just a stack of bricks. Who the fuck likes an empty house?

Tombstone shuts off the engine and sits patiently behind the wheel. After a while, the silence gets to him. “I know it's not any of my business—”

“Then shut the fuck up.”

He snaps his mouth shut.

I'm not interested in his two cents. My issues are
my
issues. People need to stay in their lane.

The peace shattered, I sheath my bloody knife, climb out of the vehicle, and trek up to my front door.

“Is it done?” My mother's voice floats out of the darkness the moment I walk through the door. She doesn't even flinch at the sight of my bloody clothes. “Is it done?” she asks again, pushing up from a chair. Back in the day, Lucille Washington was what the neighborhood called a brick house. My dad used to tell me stories about how niggas would line up for blocks tryna get her to notice them. Her once-fit frame is now ringed with love handles. Her legendary breasts have collapsed under the weight of gravity. Still, there's a beauty about her that will never go away.

Momma's hands remain clamped tight at her sides. Her eyes are bloodshot—probably from hours of crying.

“I got one of them—and the names of the others. It's just a matter of time,” I tell her.

She thrusts up her trembling chin and nods. “Good.” She doesn't seem to know what to say next. A long, awkward silence lapses before she creeps forward.

“You're such a good daughter,” she says, throwing her arms around me.

My breath catches and unexpected tears burn the backs of my eyes. It's the praise that I've been waiting for all my life, but I didn't know it. Slowly, I lift my arms and wrap them around her thin frame and squeeze.

Like a number of women, I have mommy issues. My main grievance is how fast she jumped into Cousin Skeet's bed so soon after my father was gunned down in our front yard. Being a daddy's girl, I can't forgive her for it. Cousin Skeet isn't blood, but he's family through gang affiliation—only those clowns down at the police department don't know that their celebrated super cop, Captain Melvin Johnson, is deep into the game. He looked real official on paper, him and his dutiful wife, Victoria. His shady ass is an O.G. through and through, and my momma loves Cousin Skeet's dirty drawers. Right now, we're still grieving over Bishop and I'm gonna have to put all that shit aside.

Our connection feels odd, but good at the same time.

“Maybe you should go and tell your brother tomorrow,” she says.

I'm confused for a moment and then understand that she wants me to visit his grave. “I will.”

She nods and then shuffles out of the house toward her place a few doors down.

My exhaustion deepens as I make my way up the stairs. In the bathroom, I strip out of my bloody clothes and shove them into a bag. Once I'm in the shower, the water is near scorching, but I accept the pelting punishment readily.

My head is caught up on too many woulda, coulda, and shouldas. The ground has been snatched from up under me and I feel like I'm falling. I don't like the feeling. I'm not even sure if I want to be the leader of the Vice Lords anymore. What's the point? I only got into the game because of my brother and Mason—and now they're gone.

Gliding my soapy hands over my body, I strain to recapture that magical feeling that Mason set off so easily. Desperately, I struggle to recall the heat of his mouth against my neck, the smoothness of his dick pressed against my ass and the nasty way he whispered in my ear. I brush my fingers across my breasts and squeeze my eyes tighter, but my memory and imagination fail to transport me. Sadness as wide as the ocean engulfs my soul while an ache that will never be satisfied throbs between my legs.

My hands drift to the sound mound of my pregnant belly. Pretty soon, I'm not going to be able to hide the truth—then what?

More challenges to the throne?

When the shower cools, I shut it off before I turn into a human pickle. After wrapping a towel around myself, I gather the bag of bloody clothes to take downstairs. There's a metal barrel out in the backyard. I'll toss them in and start a small fire. I might even grab a beer and watch the flickering flames destroy the evidence.

When I'm halfway down the stairs, a noise catches my ear and I freeze.

Silence.

But it's
too
damn quiet. In this life, it pays to be paranoid.

Someone is in the house.

The staircase is pitch dark and I don't have a weapon. I creep down the rest of the staircase, scanning the room slowly. I don't see anyone, but I feel the weight of someone's stare.

There's a burner in the table next to the bar—if I can just get to it. At last, I detect someone, and I drop the bag and dash for the table.

The second my hand closes around the gun, a voice cracks like a whip, “Willow, wait! It's me.”

I freeze.

It can't be.
Slowly, I turn around as a familiar physique steps in front of slices of moonlight from the venetian blinds.

Shocked, I try to take in the ugly black-and-red burns covering half of a bulbous face. My gut churns as I lock gazes with the man's eyes, one brown and one milky-white. My heart explodes with joy. “Oh my God. Mason!”