Retribution (19 page)

My gait back to the master suite is swift, purposeful—my feet sinking deep into the carpet with each step. I snatch open Jasper's enormous walk-in closet and start yanking all of his shit off wooden hangers. I go downstairs to the kitchen, grab a box of sixty-count, thirty-gallon Hefty CinchSak trash bags—no this nigga isn't worthy of luggage; not good luggage, that's for sure—then race back up the stairs, two at a time. I toss all of his shit—designer button-ups, polos, pullovers, hoodies, jeans, dress pants, suits, tons of shit still with tags on it—into bags, stuffing each one to capacity.

Next, I sweep his vast collection of sneakers, boots, and hard bottoms into trash bags. When I am done—thirty-six trash bags later, I start pulling open his dresser drawers and dumping his underwear, T-shirts, socks, and everything else, inside another bag.

I'm done with you, nigga!

I race into the bathroom, reach for the trashcan and sweep all of his colognes, electric shavers, clippers, and other manly cosmetics into it. Then I drag, kick, swing everything down the stairs, then drag it into the foyer, setting all of his belongings along the wall near the door.

I am exhausted from all the dragging and pulling and lifting, but I am too wired to sleep. I walk back into the kitchen, deciding to fix a cup of white tea. I fill the kettle with spring water and set it on the stove, turning the eye on.

I stand in the middle of my gourmet kitchen with its enameled lava stone countertops, marble flooring, Swarovski lighting, and Viking appliances, sweeping my eyes around the luxurious space. It's all fucking full of pretense! The whole house—way out here in fucking No Man's Land, with all of its trappings of wealth—is nothing but glitz and show and tell.

Like my life, nothing about it feels right.

Yeah, it was Jasper's drug money that paid for this gated-hellhole. But it was my impeccable credit that sealed the deal. It was my sweat and labor that turned this—fifteen-thousand-square-foot, two-and-a-half story, ten-room, five-bedroom and six-bathroom—estate into a damn home, or a facsimile of one. Be it an unhappy one, or not. So, Jasper has no claims to shit, except for the third-floor rec room, his man cave, which he had designed and decorated specifically for him.

I sigh, making a mental note to contact my realtor in the morning as I open a cabinet and pull down a large mug. I open another cabinet for the tea canister, then drop a teabag into my mug and wait for the water to boil.

Walking over to the floor-to-ceiling window, I glance over at the digital clock on the stove. 2:37
A.M.

No sense in going back to bed now.

Part of playing your position is always knowing when to play stupid and to keep your mouth shut and your eyes and ears wide open. Always acting disinterested in the street hustle. And over the years, I've done exactly that. I've overheard the phone calls. I've deciphered the broken code words Jasper's used to whomever was on the other end of his hushed calls. And I've memorized everything that has ever come out of his mouth.

By the time I'm done with Jasper, he's going to wish I would have simply turned over state's evidence on his black ass. He'll regret not beating me to death that night down in that basement. I'm going to fuck this nigga in his pockets—for all of my pain and suffering, first. Then I'm going to finish him off nice and slow.

As I'm staring out of the window, overlooking the three acres of manicured backyard property—waiting for the kettle to whistle, a switch clicks on in my head.
The safes.

I hurriedly shut off the stove, then climb the stairs up to my bedroom, swinging open Jasper's now-empty closet. I feel along the edges of his cherrywood shelves until I find what I'm searching for. The button.
Yes, here it is!
I press it twice and watch as the side wall panel slowly slides open. I glance up at the hidden cameras I had secretly installed in his closet a few months back, smiling.

Yeah, nigga, you never know who's watching you!

I step inside the small hidden room, which contains a large safe, and feel along the wall for the light switch, flicking it on. It takes me three attempts to figure out the two six-digit pass codes. It's his birthday—month, date and year, then year, date and month: 11-07-76.

Stupid-ass!

It clicks. I grab the lever and pull down on it. The heavy door opens. And I am instantly greeted with rows of neatly stacked money. I'm immediately blown away. Breathlessly, I quickly step out of the space, race out into the bedroom and into my own walk-in and grab a large black four-wheeled Tumi travel case. I hurry back into the space and start stuffing everything inside, emptying it out. I shut the chrome door, spin the dial, shut off the light, then press the button underneath the shelf twice, watching the wall slowly close shut.
You won't be getting your hands on any of this!

I grab another four-wheeled suitcase out of my closet. Then slip out into the darkness, beneath a full moon, gripping my gun in one sweaty hand and briskly rolling the suitcase with the other, heading toward the pool house—my heart frantically pounding loudly in my chest with each step.

Forty minutes later, everything is secure. I am back in the house. My mug of hot tea with lemon in my hand, I head upstairs to my room, climbing back in bed, then turning on the fifty-five-inch
TV, and surf through the channels. After about two minutes of scrolling through channels, I settle on last week's episode of
Scandal,
then fluff two pillows in back of me, sipping on my tea.

Fifteen minutes into the show, a sly smile finally inches its way over my lips as sleep finally finds me.

I may not be a bitch from the streets, but it's in me. It's been all around me. Underestimating me is Jasper's
worst
mistake. I may not hustle and game niggas, but I know all too well how to bait a nigga. I know the game. Play or get played. Plot or get plotted on. I've sat back and watched long and hard. It takes a sly bitch to outwit a ruthless street nigga.
Now
…the rules are about to change.

And Jasper's black ass is about to get beaten at his own damn game!

Deception and lies come easy to the cunning…

E
ight-thirty
A.M
., the minute the doors open, I am strutting through the doors of the bank on Prospect Avenue in West Orange, stylishly dressed in a black Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress that hangs four inches above my knee—still sexy, yet conservative, and six-inch pumps. My hair is pulled back in a sleek, shiny ponytail, my long bang swept in one big curl along my jaw. A pair of black Chanels cover my lashed eyes. My earrings, choker, and tennis bracelet are flooded in diamonds. The five-carat rare red diamond solitaire on my left ring finger perfectly matches the red lipstick coating my lips. Matches the fire burning in my blood, symbolizing the war being waged against Jasper, and the dangers soon to follow once the nigga learns I've cleaned out his safes.

Two six-foot-seven, three-hundred-plus-pound bodyguards—compliments of my newly appointed security team Lamar put together—follow me through the bank's glass doors, rolling behind them the fruits of Jasper's drug dealing.

It's not every day a beautiful black woman struts into a bank with two handsomely strapped, suited-up men, wheeling in two suitcases packed with money. I had to dress the part. Look the part. Be the part.

A fly bitch on the move.

Immediately, the branch manager greets me, a wide smile pressed over her glossed lips. I state my business, hand her my safety-deposit box key, then follow her down the red-carpeted aisle to a shiny-chrome elevator. She slides her key-card in, the door opens and we step in. A few seconds later, we're down in the basement walking a long corridor to the vaults.

She greets two security guards as we walk by. One of them walks behind us. The huge concrete and reinforced steel-cladded vault door is already open. She punches in a few codes, then slides back the thick steel gate. The officer with us, stands guard.

I watch as she takes my key and inserts it into a lock and turns it simultaneously with a key—among many others, on a large ring. On the outside, I am cool and calm, the epitome of sophistication. But everything on the inside of me shakes. I am a nervous wreck. From the second I slid behind the wheel of my Benz and rode through my gates—with these muscled men trailing behind me, I've been on high alert, practically bordering paranoia. The only thing I kept thinking during the entire ride here is, I'm being followed. I'm going to be ambushed, robbed, and killed.

And even now, in spite of being flanked by two beefy, hard-bodied bodyguards, Jasper's fucking ass has me on edge!

My buzzing cell phone causes me to blink. I dig it out of my purse, glancing at the screen. I roll my eyes. It's him. I press
DECLINE.

The bank employee glances over her shoulder. “If you need to you use your phone, don't even bother trying. We have horrible reception down here.”

I pull my shades up over my head. “There's absolutely no one I need to speak to at the moment. So no worries.”

Within moments, she pulls out the large, long metal box, then
tells me to follow her to a private room. She smiles. I take the huge box from her and walk it to one of the tables. “Take as much time as you need.”

I smile back. “Thank you.” I walk back out and grab the luggage from my protectors, wheeling them into the room and closing the door behind me. I sit my purse beside the heavy box on the table, then open the safety box hinge. I take a few deep breaths, then quickly empty out the contents of each suitcase, neatly lining the thick stacks of money inside the metal box.

I haven't even bothered counting any of it. It doesn't matter. I already know it's more than enough to have Jasper lose his mind over it. But the one thing I'm sure of, he won't try to kill me without knowing where his money is first.

But the nigga's crazy enough to…
Ohmygod! Jaylen! He'd try to do something to our son in order to get to me, and his money.
I gasp, the realization causing my chest to tighten.
I can't let anything happen to my son. I have to keep Jaylen safe and out of that crazy nigga's reach.

I run my hands along the rows of money, one last time, grabbing two stacks, then dropping them inside my purse. I close the safety box. Once it's safely secured back in its compartment, we head back up to the main lobby. I step out of the bank with a new purpose. But my first—and most important—mission before anything else is, keeping my son safe.

The minute I slide behind the wheel of my car and lock the doors, I call Anna, one of my nail technicians, on her cell to let her know I won't be in today and to please cancel the three appointments I have and to reschedule them for tomorrow afternoon. Next, I call Sophia and leave her specific instructions. Then I make three more calls—one to my realtor, the other to my travel agent. My last call is to my saving grace.

Four hours later, I am on a last-minute flight with Jaylen,
Sophia, and, Greta—the only person I
think,
hope, I can entrust Jaylen to until this shit with Jasper is over. Greta is not only another longtime client; she's someone I also consider a friend, whose hair I've been doing since high school. She's a single, social butterfly with no kids whose only addiction—that I know of—is hard dick. We don't talk often. And I've never had to call on her for anything. But when I called her this morning, knowing she's been unemployed for the last three months, and propositioned her to look after Jaylen for a few weeks or so, she didn't hesitate.

I'm not sure if it's because she heard the urgency in my voice; or if it's the promise of getting two thousand dollars a week, in cash, that made it easy for her to say yes. And it doesn't matter. All I care is that my son is going to be out of Jersey, and three thousand miles away from Jasper's scheming ass.

The fact that Jasper is afraid of flying, has always refused to step foot on a plane, and has no knowledge where my L.A. condo is—let alone that I own one out there, offers me some relief. Still, I
know
, if I am going to snare Jasper and the rest of them niggas, I have to set more than one trap and stay three steps ahead. And I can't, don't want to, be worrying about Jaylen's safety.

While Greta and I play catchup since the last time I'd seen her—about six weeks ago, I fill her in, giving her the condensed version—and, of course, leaving out specific details she doesn't need to know—of what's been going on in my life, leaving her to believe I'm a helpless victim who's been caught in a vicious cycle.

“Girrrrl, no,” she hisses, her green-colored eyes narrowing to slits. I take in her flawless caramel skin. Long gone are the days of thick glasses, a thick lopsided-afro and gapped teeth. Thanks to expensive orthodontic work, Lasik surgery, personal trainers, and devoted years of patronage at Nappy No More, that ugly
duckling has been transformed into the graceful, beautiful diva before me. “That dirty motherfucker! I had no idea you've been going through that
hell
all this time. I can't believe he's been putting his hands on you. Then the bastard has the nerve to force himself on you whenever he feels the urge to get his rocks off.” She grunts her disgust, shaking her head. “That nigga was
raping
you. Your own damn husband.”

Mmmph. You have no idea!

I sip my champagne. “Believe it. He's out of control. I knew what I was getting myself into when I married his ass over the summer. So it's not like I'm surprised. Jasper had shown me
exactly
who he was”—
in more than one way
—“long before I said I do. Still, I thought I could deal with it. But I can't. And I'm not going to. It's gotten progressively worse over the last two months. It's too much.”