King Divas (26 page)

“B
ed rest,” Dr. Modi says, plopping down behind his desk and lacing his fingers together.

“But the baby is okay?” Mason and I ask at the same time, looking at him with eager eyes.

He hesitates. “At the moment the baby is fine. You'll—”

Mason cuts him off. “What the fuck do you mean
at the moment
?”

The doctor clears his throat. “It looks like you may have placenta previa.”

My heart leaps out of my chest. “What the fuck is that?”

“It means that your placenta is lying unusually low in your uterus and it is either next to or covering your pelvis. Seeing that you've entered your last trimester, there is a good chance that we're going to have to deliver you early by cesarean—but we're not going to do that unless and until it's absolutely necessary. We want to keep him in the womb as long as we possibly can.”

He's talking calmly, but it's not doing a damn thing to calm me the fuck down.

“Does that mean that there is going to be something wrong with my son?” Mason asks, sounding alarmed.

“No. Nothing is definitive, but I must stress to you how important it is for you to take it easy.”

“Oh. You don't have to worry about that, Doc,” Mason says, taking over again. “I'm gonna make sure that she follows orders.”

Any other time, I'd probably dig in and fight back. I've never liked taking orders, but there might be something wrong with my child. I spread my hands across my round belly and at that same moment, the baby kicks.

I gasp.

Mason jumps in alarm. “What is it?”

“He kicked.”

“No shit?” Mason's lips stretch wide as he leans over in his chair and stretches out his hand to feel for himself.

We wait, but the baby isn't responding to his touch. Mason's excitement nosedives.

“I felt it.” Mason lights up. We laugh and stare at each other while something wonderful courses between us. This is the moment when we've finally become a real family.

“Promise to take it easy?” he asks.

“I promise.”

P
regnant. I'd heard the rumors but I didn't believe it until I saw for myself. I hardly recognize the swollen woman waddling out of a Memphis obstetrics office. I've had a devil of a time trying to locate and tag this bitch. She doesn't look so intimidating now. If I play my cards right I can use her handicap to my advantage.

I'm not proud of it, but I'll use whatever advantage I can get when it comes to dealing with this bitch. There's no way that I can get my old life back, so I don't see why the hell she should have hers. After I take care of Lucifer, I'll have to pack up and leave this city forever. Soon I'll snatch my kids back from Lynch's mother and we'll head out west to Texas, or maybe even California.

A black SUV pulls up to the curb and Lucifer and Fat Ace quickly hop into the backseat. When it peels away, I shift my ride into drive and follow two cars behind. I've hatched at least a thousand different plans on how I can get at Lucifer. So far every one of them has had one flaw or another. I have to face the fact that there's no perfect plan. Hell, there's barely a decent one. I just need time and opportunity—and right now, I have plenty of time.

I
t's been years since I've cried. I don't know if I even remember how. I keep playing the scene at Momma Peaches's funeral over and over in my mind. The shit happened so fast—I should've been better prepared. I should've been on alert.

“We think you need to take some time off,” Chief Brown says. Her usually stony expression is a soft mask of compassion. “You're suffering from an incredible loss right now. You need to take this time for yourself. And take all the time that you need. We understand.”

“I think.... maybe it's better if I keep busy—keep working,” I tell her.

Chief Brown clasps her hands and then casts a look over at the deputy mayor. “I'm sure that you
think
you feel that way, but you need to grieve properly.”

I frown. “There's a
proper
grieving process?” I push back.

“It's been settled,” she counters, her hard countenance slowly returning. “Lieutenant Fowler will take over your duties for the short time that you're gone. Just make sure you turn over all the files and charts that you're working on.”

I seethe in my seat. “How long am I supposed to be grieving?”

“I wish that you wouldn't view it as if it's some sort of punishment. We're only trying to help you.”

Sure you are.
“How long?”

“I don't know. Six to twelve weeks? It depends on when the department's psychologist gives you the okay.”

“I have to see a psychologist now?”

Her thinning patience shows.

“Fine. Whatever.” I stand to leave, knowing that she hates when anyone else ends a meeting before being dismissed.

“Your gun and your badge.”

“Am I on administrative leave or am I being fired?” I ask.

“Standard procedure,” she says.

Grinding my jaw, I unholster my weapon and set it and my badge on her desk.

The chief stands and takes my whole identity and shoves it into her top drawer. “This really is for the best.”

“Sure it is.” I turn and walk out of the office.

Fowler wastes no time catching up to me as I march back to my office—or what
used
to be my office. “How did it go?”

I keep walking.

“Hawkins?”

“How the hell do you think it went?”

“You're on leave?”

“Yep. And congratulations. You're the new acting captain of the department now.”

“Really? You're blaming me for this?”

“Yes—no.” I shake out my troubled thoughts. “I don't know. Fuck it. I'm grieving—cut me some slack.”

Fowler grabs my arm to slow me down. “How are you really holding up?”

I glance around to make sure that no one is paying attention to our conversation. “You want to know how I'm holding up? Barely.And the one thing that keeps me sane has just been snatched from me.” I pull away and continue my march to my office.

Fowler doesn't enter, but leans his weight against the door. “I'm sorry, Hydeya. I know that you're not in the headspace to hear or believe that—but I am. I know what you and Drake had was special. This has to be completely devastating.”

I find a small box and start cramming my personal belongings into it.

“Did the chief ask why you were at the funeral?”

“Told her that I was following up on the Maybelline Carver case.”

“So you still didn't tell her that Isaac Goodson is your father?”

My gaze snaps up to his. “No. There's no fucking reason for her to know. So keep your damn mouth shut.”

“What the fuck? I'm not going to say anything. Why the hell would you even suggest that I would?”

At his hurt look, I start to feel like shit. I have been snapping his head off a lot lately and he doesn't deserve it. “I'm sorry. At least you don't have to deal with my bitchy behavior for the next six to twelve weeks.” I pick up my box and head for the door. “Keep my seat warm. I'll be back.”

T
he streets are talking again. This time they're saying that chinky Crippette bitch, Trigger, is R.I.P. But to top the shit off, muthafuckas are spreading the word that I wiped her ass off the map. I don't mind the muthafuckin' rumor. It was probably put out in these streets as a cover for that bitch and Shariffa going M.I.A. All that extra shit those Grape bitches are doing isn't necessary.

When the time is right, I'll see those last two bitches for that dirty hit they did on Bishop. Far as I'm concerned, they're living on borrowed time. For now I'll have to put my homicidal fantasies to the side. Because right now every time I close my eyes my damn belly blows up another two to three inches. Now nothing in my closet fits. Hell. Even my damn feet are huge. My nose has bubbled and my hands are starting to look like sausages. This morning I had to slather a tub of butter on my hand to get my engagement ring off before I had to have the finger amputated.

I'm not normally vain, but this shit ain't cute. At least the doctor said that everything looked fine on the ultrasound and confirmed that we are indeed expecting a baby boy.

“How are we doing this morning, beautiful?” Mason asks, coming up behind me and kissing me on the neck.

“Beautiful? I look like a damn beached whale.”

He chuckles. “That's not true. You look like you're about to have my baby. I can't think of anything more beautiful than that.”

Sweet, but I don't believe a damn thing coming out of his mouth. Not after a night of awkward lovemaking when I almost peed on him. How come nobody told me that not all orgasms are real orgasms when you're pregnant? After I shut the show down and told his ass no more pussy until after the baby is born, Mason has been slathering on the compliments, hoping I'll change my mind.

Maybe I will. I can't imagine going another ten weeks without riding the perfectly good dick lying beside me.

Despite my ass feeling hot, I let him nuzzle on me and then settle his hands around my belly. I know what he's waiting for, but for some reason the baby refuses to move for him. If it weren't for Dr. Modi letting us hear the heartbeat, I'd think something was wrong. Meanwhile, the baby has found its sweet spot, sitting on my bladder.

Mason waits a little longer and then sighs. “Well. We got ten more weeks before we'll be properly introduced.” He looks at me. “Excited yet?”

“I feel a lot of things, but excitement isn't one of them.”

He laughs. “I hope with the next one, you'll have a better attitude.” He hugs me tighter, but it just makes me feel smothered and I have to wiggle my way out of his arms.

“C'mon now. Get off me.”

He releases me, but his laughter deepens.

I flash him the bird.

“All right. I'll stop teasing you.”

“Thank you.”

“That is, when you tell me what day you want to finally stand before a preacher. Tomorrow . . . next week?”

My neck nearly swivels all the way off. “You have lost your damn mind if you think that I'm going to waddle my fat ass down an aisle.”

“I told you that you look beautiful.”

“Boy, bye.” I walk back into the bedroom.

Mason follows. “How about a justice of the peace?”

“Oh God. It's hot in here. Did you turn off the air conditioner?” I plop down onto the bed, still at a loss as to what I'm going to wear, since the bedsheets are probably the only things that'll fit.

“For the millionth time, the a/c is working, Willow. Don't change the subject.”

“Look. Whatever you want to do is fine with me,” I say, fighting tears. I really don't know what I'm going to put on.

“Really?” He walks over and tries to pull me up from the bed.

I struggle real hard to muffle my crankiness.

“So. City hall or a church wedding? I know weddings are supposed to be a big deal with you females.”

I cut him a sharp look. I can't imagine fussing over colors, patterns, dresses, and menus. “Nah. I'm good. The simpler the better, but
after
the baby is born.”

“Nah. Nah. I want my boy coming into the world legit.”

I feel where he's coming from. It's a new beginning for him. Time for him to be the man and put down real roots—a final push away from the Carvers. Despite my ass hating the Carvers and their Gangster Disciple affiliations, I still feel some kind of way that Dribbles failed to reunite the family. Ever since we put her into the ground, there has been no real talks about his real mother, his older brother, or the aunt that was dying in his arms. We'll probably never know what happened in that church before Python came in blasting. We just know that a storm is brewing and we gotta be prepared.

“What time is your meeting?” I ask, hating that I have to sit this one out.

Mason peeps his Rolex. “Actually, Profit and I need to head out.”

“You really think Profit is ready for this?” I remember how I had to save his ass when the last arms delivery went south with those Angels of Mercy muthafuckas.

“The fastest way to teach his ass how to swim is to throw him in the water.”

I hear what he's saying, but I'd feel better if I was the one that had Mason's back—always. “So you trust this dude?”

“I trust Smokestack,” he says it in a way that makes it clear that I should've gone to his stepfather for a new connect from the giddy up. But there's nothing new about it. We're going back to the same people who'd always provided us with weapons:
the police.

“C'mon. Smile for me. I'm sure that this Lieutenant Fowler cat is on the up-and-up.”

A
fter a good dicking down, a bitch can't help but pass the fuck out. But even in sleep, I still keep dreaming about that green-eyed monster, Diesel. The shit doesn't make any sense since the nigga is determined to take me down. There is just something about his fucking cockiness and swagger that's touching me on a level that Python has failed to do—and if I'm honest, other than the hot shit a few hours ago, it's been a while, since there has been a disconnect both physically
and
mentally.

Since I've been the bitch fighting to keep our asses in the game, Python's mental implosion over that brother shit has turned me all the way off. But a nigga like Diesel? I can't see that ever happening. That muthafucka keeps his eyes on the ball at all times. And now to hear his presence even gives King Isaac pause? That's the sort of nigga a bitch like me could really rock with.

But what about the bedroom? Can Diesel do a bitch the way that she needs to be done? My body screams yes despite never having tasted his ass.

An image of Cleo singing and Diesel being so enraptured resurfaces in my mind. Jealousy in its purest form grips me by the throat and thrashes me around even in my sleep. When it feels that I'm seconds from dying, I bolt up, gasping and sweating like a fucking pig. A few seconds later, I come to my senses and take a look around. The bed is empty.

I throw the tangled sheets off my body and storm out of the bedroom. At the sound of hushed voices in the living room, I return to the bedroom and put on some clothes. Once dressed, I rush my nosy ass up into the living room and see at least a dozen top-level Gangster Disciples hunched over in an intense business discussion.

Python, listening and playing with his new Burmese pet, resembles the old Python, commanding the room like a boss and strategizing his return. For a moment I forget about my traitorous thoughts about Diesel.

A knock on the door pulls me out of lustful fantasies and puts all the niggas in the room on ten.

“Who the fuck is that?” Python asks, the last one to climb to his feet.

I'm just as curious as the rest of them until Shank, another Gangster Disciple on the come up, steps back and announces, “It's Avonte.”

Python's gaze zooms to me. “You going somewhere?”

Fuck. Qiana. How in the world did I forget?
“Yeah. I got this little thing with the Queen Gs I promised to run through. I shouldn't be gone but a couple of hours.”

Shank lets Avonte in.

“What? A party?” Python lifts a dubious brow. “Do you think going to something like that is wise? The streets are still hot—for both of us.”

“I know that,” I say, irritated. “I know how to handle myself.”

Python pauses to think the shit over before giving me his approval.

I let his ass act like he's my daddy and then tell Avonte, “Give me a minute, girl.” I rush to put on my Timbs and strap up. Before I step out of the house, Python peels himself from his meeting to stop me at the door, his pet snake coiling around his arm. “You be careful out there,” he says.

“I will.” I give him a quick peck on the cheek, but Python's muscular arm blocks my path. “I mean it. You check in when you get to where you're going.”

I frown. “Why the hell are you acting like it's the last time you're going to see me?”

His midnight gaze roams my face and then that strange feeling creeps over me again. This time, the heavy dread won't shake off.

“Just be careful,” he says and then slaps me on the ass before stepping away from the door.

“Let's go,” I tell Avonte and march out to the car. We pile inside with Myeisha and Erika and head to Hack's Crossing.

 

“Where the fuck is this bitch?” I pace back and forth under the moonlight at Hack's Crossing. I don't believe this bitch played me again. It never pays to give bitches second and third chances. But that's okay. There's not a fucking rock in this fucking city where she can hide from me. Why are bitches always trying me?

The longer I wait, the angrier I get. I'd planned on making the shit quick. None of that wet shit that Lucifer prides herself in, but the longer these bitches take, the more I rethink it.

My cell phone buzzes from my back pocket. It's a text message from Avonte. Her, Myeisha, and Erika are spread throughout the small park and casing the entrances.

 

 

Annoyed, I grit my teeth, mainly because I now suspect that the bitch ain't coming again. Instead of firing off an angry text, I ignore her ass. We'll wait until I get good and damn ready to go. My pace quickens around this oak tree.

My phone buzzes again. I glance at the screen.

 

 

I roll my eyes and stuff the phone back into my pocket.

Maybe I should take Diesel's ass out.
I stop walking and weigh that as a possible solution. But how in the fuck do I get at that nigga? The muthafucka is far from dumb and probably would see my ass coming from a mile away. Still, the idea intrigues me. Everybody fucking bleeds—and everybody's guard comes down at some point. I need to figure out his weakness.

Pussy.
Every nigga's weakness.

An image of Cleo, singing on that stage, floats to mind. I need to use the Queen G to my advantage.

What the fuck was that? My head whips around—and when I don't see anything, I strain my ears to detect another sound.

Snatching out my gun, I crouch low and look around.
Somebody is out there.
The seconds tick by as my heart hammers against my chest. Staring into the park's inky blackness is like staring into a vat of crude oil. I can't see shit.

I reach for my phone, grateful for the small light from the screen. Quickly, I blast out a text.

 

 

I wait and wait, but don't receive a response. I hit the call button. The bitch doesn't pick up.
I know that these bitches didn't leave my ass out here.
I crouch lower and then back into a nearby bush for additional cover. The phone buzzes and a strange message flashes on the screen.