Street Divas (2 page)

“N
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Profit jumps and wiggles around as bullet after bullet slams into him. His face remains filled with rage as he glares at LeShelle. If he could reach her, he would tear her apart limb by limb with his bare hands. At long last, there's an audible
click.
This evil bitch has run out of bullets. However, to everyone's disbelief, Profit remains standing—but barely.

“What the fuck?” one nigga marvels.

The shit spooks the small crowd as they stare openmouthed at Profit. A sliver of hope blossoms in my chest but then dies when Profit wobbles on his weakening legs and blood streams from both corners of his mouth.

“Profit.” I take advantage of my shocked captors and scramble out of their grasp. But by that time, my man drops to his knees like a stone, and his eyes slowly roll toward mine. Our connection doesn't last longer than a second, but in that time I read so much in his eyes.

Regret.

Sorrow.

Love.

It's the love that I'm going to remember and cherish. At last he tilts over and collapses against the gravel and dirt.

“Whoa, ho, ho,” Dreadlocks laughs. “Did y'all see that zombie shit? What the fuck?”

“Noooo,” I moan, shaking my head as I crawl over glass, sharp rocks, and God knows whatever else. I have to reach him. “Profit . . . baby?”

“That nigga was a fuckin' soldier,” another goon praises from behind me. “I ain't seen no shit like that in all my life.”

My breath thins when I reach Profit. He looks like a broken mannequin, lying in a growing pool of blood. I try to take it all in, but I'm wondering how on earth to put him back together again. “Profit . . . baby?” My hands tremble as I reach out to touch his face.

“Fuck that nigga. He ain't no damn body,” LeShelle snaps. “Grab Ta'Shara and let's get the fuck out of here.”

I sit and carefully pull Profit's head into my lap. “I'm sooo sorry,” I whisper as tears cascade over my lashes and fall onto his face. “This is all my fault. I knew better and . . . Please, I can't lose you like this. I love you. Oh, God, you don't know how much I love you.” Lowering my head, I rain kisses across his still face. “Please, please forgive me.” Once the sobbing starts, I can't stop. I no longer feel the pain in my jaw, my ass, or even in between my legs. The only pain that is threatening to kill me is the one that is in my heart.

“I SAID GRAB THE BITCH!” LeShelle yells. “What the fuck are y'all lollygagging for? We ain't chillin' out in Disneyland. We gotta get the fuck out of here.”

“Profit, I'm so sorry,” I repeat over and over again, rocking his head in my lap. “Please forgive me. Please.” I'm vaguely aware of approaching feet. I lock my arms around Profit's shoulders. At this moment, I have one truth: I want to die here with him.

“You heard your sister. It's time to go!” An arm as hard as steel latches around my waist and jacks me up so fast that he also pulls Profit up as well. But I lose my grip, and Profit slams down onto the ground again.

“PROFIT, NOOOOOO!” I thrust out my hands, trying to reach him.

“Goddamn, this bitch got a fuckin' pair of lungs!”

“PROOOOOOFFIIIIIIIIT!”

“Get her in the damn limo! Shit,” LeShelle barks.

Her girls scramble out of the way. The looks on their faces are ones of stunned disbelief.

“Damn, LeShelle,” Kookie says, shaking her. “You're a cold-ass bitch.”

“You didn't know? You should've asked somebody.”

“No! No! No!”

The farther this nigga drags me away from Profit, the more I lose it. “Let me go!” I kick, punch, and try to claw my way out of his arms. It isn't until I get a couple of broken acrylic nails into his tough skin and slice that muthafucka open that he loosens his grip and drops me.

“GODDAMN IT! YOU FUCKIN' BITCH!”

I scramble back onto my feet and take off toward Profit again, but I don't get too far before one of the other rapists snatches me up.

“Now where the fuck do you think you're going?” he laughs.

“Let go of me! Profit!” Any minute, Profit is going to hear me and get up. He has to. I can't survive this night without him. I can't. “Please, let me go! Profit!”

LeShelle steps in front of me as her gangsta goon continues to lug me toward the limo. “Shut the fuck up! Goddamn!”

Angered by the very sight of her, I use this nigga's arm as an anchor and then hike up both legs and deliver a high-roll kick that snaps LeShelle's head back so fast that it looks like it's about to fly off her shoulders. “I fuckin' hate you! You're not my sister!” Hocking up a wad of spit, I launch that shit against the side of her face.

Her two homegirls and fellow Queen G's, Kookie and Pit Bull gasp and cover their mouths.

“You're dead to me, you hear me? DEAD!”

Slowly, LeShelle turns her head back around. Her dark eyes glitter with hatred as she calmly wipes the spit from her face and then touches the side of her bleeding lips. When she sees a dot of blood on her fingertips, she smiles. “Well, what do you know? Lil sister got some real balls.” She steps closer. “But if you want to keep those muthafuckas, you better learn your fuckin' place 'cause it ain't shit for me to cut them off!”

I laugh. “Is that supposed to scare me now?” My laugh climbs another octave. “You think I give a fuck what you and your
weak
niggas do to me?” I hock up another loogie and spew it as hard as I can. The satisfaction of seeing it hit in between her eyes tickles the shit out of me. “Yeah. What the fuck are you going to do now, bitch?!”

LeShelle dives for me, but I rear back against her goon again and kick one leg straight up. My bare big toe cracks and bends painfully when it connects with her chin.

“Ahh. Shit!”

Mr. Dusty Afro releases me and then jumps back to watch LeShelle and I scrap. I rush over to her before she has a chance to blink the stars from around her head, and I send a punch across her nose. Her blood ejects across my face while I'm reeling back to throw another punch, but someone grabs the back of my hair and yanks so hard I'm probably bald-headed now.

“GET THE FUCK OFF OF HER!” Kookie yells. “Why y'all niggas ain't helping?”

Dreadlocks shrugs. “ 'Cause my dick gets hard when I watch two bitches fighting.”

The other dudes bob their heads.

I swipe at Kookie's legs and send her stumbling in the dirt, but when I turn, LeShelle jumps on me and starts pelting me with punches. Because of the beating I endured earlier, her assault renews and intensifies my pain.

“Goddamn it. I'm fuckin' tired of your ass!” LeShelle jumps up and then starts stomping me into the ground. “You're going to fuckin' learn, goddamn it, even if it takes all night. I'm in charge!”

Stomp!

“You're going to do what
I
say!”

Stomp!

“You hear me?”

Stomp!

“You're a Queen G for life, bitch!”

Stomp!

“And any goddamn time I feel like it, I'll take you out!”

Stomp!

I'm spitting and choking on blood while my head rolls to the right. Ten feet away from me is Profit's lifeless body while I take one stomp after another.
Soon. I'll be with him soon. Death is around the corner.

LeShelle stops stomping me and kicks up a cloud of dirt in my face. “Now get this bitch in the goddamn limo before she
really
makes me mad.”

T
he crowd at Da Club is jumping, which means the cash at the registers is flowing. That's usually all it takes for me to be in a good mood, but tonight I'm having trouble trying to fake the funk, since I know Mason, or Fat Ace as he's known in the streets, is rolling over at that pig's crib, getting his dick wet. And now that bitch is supposedly having his baby? I don't believe that shit. I know my nigga better be asking for a DNA test. I don't like
Officer
Melanie Johnson. I think she's as shady as her daddy. Everybody knows he's been sucking off the Vice Lord's teet for decades now. And Melanie used to date Python back in high school? C'mon, now. Is her pussy so damn good that niggas can't put two and two together?

Of course not.
What the hell am I thinking? If Mason was so smart, then he'd know that my ass has been in love with him since Adam gave Eve his rib. But, no, I have a
DO NOT TOUCH
sign on my forehead as far as Mason is concerned. He and my brother Bishop have been best friends since grade school, which makes me like the sister he never had. It doesn't matter how hard I ride or how vicious I am in this street game. I am and always will be just his right-hand chick.

“Shit, Cutty. Give me a whiskey on the rocks,” I say, pounding on the bar and then swiveling my head in a slow one-eighty to check out the dancing crowd. A few seconds later, I have my drink and start edging toward the back of the club. Damn. I should try to get fucked up or grab one of these punk-ass niggas to rub out some stress.

I find me a table in a dark corner at the back of the club and check out the scene. When my eyes land on one brother laughing with a group of niggas while quietly checking me out, I throw my head back to let him know that it's cool for him to approach me. He excuses himself, and I watch his confident pimp walk as he heads on back. Six foot two, chocolate, trim with a pencil goatee—I definitely see potential.

“Now, what's a fine woman like you doing hiding in the back of the club?” he asks.

So much for potential.
“Never mind, I'm busy.” I dismiss him and return to my drink.

“Whoa. Whoa.” He holds up his hands. “I'm sorry if I didn't come correct, but a nigga gets nervous when he gets around a beautiful woman. Let me try again.”

I glance up, annoyed that he's still standing there.

“My name is Justin, and you are . . . ?”

Holding his gaze, I reevaluate the situation. “Lucifer,” I say.

He doesn't laugh, which tells me he recognizes the name.

“How's your head game, Justin?”

Not sure he heard me right, he blinks and then glances around, as if there are going to be cameras jumping out or something. “Come again?”

“No. That's what I want you to help me with. How's your head game? Do you eat pussy?”

His smile returns. “I ain't had no complaints.”

I lean back in my chair. “Then let me see what you're working with.”

Justin's face twists in confusion as he checks around for those cameras again. “What? Here?”

“Why not?”

My cell phone starts ringing. It's Bishop. “Hold on a second,” I tell Justin, and then answer the phone. “Whatever it is, I'm busy.”

“They got Profit!”

“What?” The alcohol in my system disappears as I jet up out of my chair. “I thought he was at his prom tonight?”

“Hey!” Justin yells as I rush past him.

“He was. Those muthafuckas snatched him and his girl in front of witnesses on their way to the hotel! I'm trying to find Fat Ace, but he ain't answering his cell.”

“Shit.” I race through the crowd and then bolt out the front door. “Where you at?”

“We're out here looking for these niggas. We got a tip. . . . Hey, is that the building? Yo, I think we've found—there he go!”

I hop behind the wheel of my black Escalade. “Give me a fuckin' address, Bishop.”

“Over off O'Donnell. Where the abandoned warehouse buildings are.”

“I'm on it.” I peel out of the parking lot while straining to hear every little thing over the line. “Talk to me, Bishop.” When I hear nothing, I glance down at my cell to see I've lost the signal. I toss the muthafucka aside and slam down on the accelerator. Less than five minutes later, I make it over to O'Donnell and see Bishop and a string of brothers from the set.

“Tell me something,” I shout, racing out of my SUV with my gat ready to blast. Niggas part like the Red Sea, and my gaze lands on the twisted, bloody body lying in the dirt. “Shit.”

Brothers stand around and shake their heads. “Them grimy niggas gonna pay for this shit.”

For the first time in a long while, I'm stunned. I liked Profit, even though I'd known him for only a little over a year. The lil nigga had heart. “We know who did this?”

“Who the fuck else? Those Gangster Disciples,” Bishop shouts. “They want heat? We're about to bring it to them.”

I kneel next to Profit's body and look down at his young face.
So much potential.
Leaning forward, I place a hand against the side of his neck, and my heart nearly stops.

“What?” Bishop asks.

I pick up Profit's wrist and then place my ear against his chest. “Oh my God. He's still alive.”

“Y
ou brought this shit on yourself.” I cut a look over at my silent sister, who is slumped on the other side of the rented limousine. The foot soldiers I'd dragged in for tonight's job are all crammed in the front seat to give me some private one-on-one time with Ta'Shara so I can break down her new situation.

Ta'Shara, curled in a corner, stares at the dirt beneath her fingernails while a steady stream of tears rolls down her face. Now that she's finally in this bitch, she has stopped all that hollering. Her once-blue dress is now a nasty black and brown. Some of it is dirt, and the rest of it is drying blood. The pain in my chest grows while my own hellish memories try to resurface. Up until tonight, I had only one responsibility in life: protecting my sister. But in the last six months, Ta'Shara had made that shit impossible.

“I told you and I told you, but did you listen? No!” I grit my teeth and shake my head. “You just
had
to be hardheaded. The prom! You took that grimy Vice Lord to the muthafuckin' prom! What the fuck did you think was going to happen? Huh? You thought that I was going to let that shit slide?”

Silence.

I hammer my fist against my knee instead of swinging it at her head. I draw in a deep breath, but it doesn't do shit to calm my ass down. “Wait until this shit gets back to Python—just wait. He'll be looking at me sideways again. This kind of bullshit is the main muthafuckin' reason he doesn't trust me. Me! After all these damn years of jumping when he says jump, fucking when he says fuck, and blasting when his ass says blast. Now here comes your tired and dumb ass fucking up everything.”

Silence.

I draw in another deep breath. “Python is already out fucking everything that's not nailed down. I got bitches and babies turning up like cockroaches.” A lump clogs in my throat. Coughing, I strain to get the sucker back down while tears burn like acid at the backs of my eyes. I love my nigga. That's my first damn problem. In this crazy street game, love can only bring you disappointment and pain. I've played wifey to Python's ass for damn near four years. Still, my position as the leader of the Queen Gs feels just as slippery as the day my man moved my ass into his crib on Shotgun Row, the heart of the Black Gangster Disciples. I have some bitch cop on the scene and that retarded bitch Yo-Yo he got stashed somewhere in this shitty city, feeling herself and thinking that she's gonna replace me.

“I'm not going to let you fuck me,” I hiss, making up my mind. “You got me twisted if you thought that shit. I've been through too much to lose it because you ain't got a lick of sense.” My gaze slices back over to Ta' Shara. “I bet you'd like that shit, huh? Me back on the streets without a pot to piss in or a window to throw the shit out of.” My glare hardens at the thought of the years Ta'Shara had been nestled up in her foster parents' nice little crib over in midtown while I was hustlin' on the streets like a gutter rat. We may be sisters, but our lives couldn't be more different.

We were brought up in foster care. Back in the old days, Ta'Shara and I were like two peas in a pod. There wasn't a damn thing that we wouldn't do for each other. Had to. Nobody else gave a damn about us, especially not any of the sorry muthafuckas who took us in just for that little paycheck that came with us. The real nightmare began when I got tits and ass. Suddenly my foster daddies and play uncles wanted to play with my small nipples and hairless pussy.

Muthafuckas used to split my shit wide open on the regular, leaving me crying and bleeding all over the place. Being two years older, I've always believed that it was my responsibility to look after Ta'Shara—that is, until my baby sister flipped the script and started thinking that she was better than me, just because some Huxtable-wannabe couple was pumping her head with college bullshit. Since Ta'Shara's been living with them, they've been treating me like I'm something that is stuck to the bottom of their shoes. The sacrifices I've made over the years suddenly no longer matter, even the night I sliced one of our foster fathers up for eyeballing Ta'Shara's young titties. That shit landed me in a group home for two years.

At first I thought I fucked up. Getting separated from my sister meant that I could no longer look out for her. I had to toss that shit up to the man above and hope for the best. Meanwhile, I got educated into the street life quick, fast, and in a hurry. Ain't no sense in lying and saying that I didn't want this life. I did. After seeing all the power some of the girls had up in there. Those bitches said jump and everybody got their bounce on. What got me was how hard everybody was flossing. They were boosting shit and getting paid like a muthafucka. A bitch like me who ain't never had nothing was down with that shit.

The price? I got my ass beat and raped by a couple of carpet munchers. Most of us did in that group home. The shit has been well worth it. I got cliqued up with a real family—a family that has my back and I definitely have theirs. We're together until the world blows up. That shit is a fact.

I hear a faint sniff, and my gaze cuts back over to my sister. My heart twists as if a knife has been plunged right into the center of it.
What have I done?

Heat rushes up my neck. The time for babying her ass is over. “Stop playing the victim.
You
did this shit. Your boy's blood is on
your
muthafuckin' hands. You remember that shit!”

I watch as Ta'Shara's tears grow fatter and roll faster down her filthy face. I ain't doing nothing but spitting the truth. She refuses to look my way or say jack shit to me. That pisses me off more. “Put on your big-girl panties and own your shit. That nigga was neck-deep in the game. The
only
reason your ass ain't lying dead next to his ass is because we share the same blood. I did your ass a favor.”

Silence.

Her blatant disrespect has my blood boiling. For the first time, I think I would've been better off if I'd capped her ass as well. After the thought crosses my mind, guilt attacks me.
What the fuck is wrong with me?

“Shit.” I drop my head and stare at the limo's floor. I don't like examining the shit I have to do out here in Murder City. A part of being a leader is about making some cold and bold moves and keeping your emotions out of it. But tonight . . . ordering Ta'Shara's rape . . .

It's a fucking new low.

I stare out the dark window.
I am my sister's keeper. I am my sister's keeper.
I feel the threat of hot tears burning the backs of my eyes, but once again, I fight those muthafuckas off. There's no point in crying about shit out here. You either get or get got. Plain and simple. I understand these rules and so did that pretty boy Profit. Only Ta'Shara has been acting like she doesn't know how shit works out here. Well, tonight she got a long overdue education.

Silence.

“That
little
shit that went down with you and my boys was a small price to pay for your life,” I tell her. “Remember that shit. If you're thinking about opening your big mouth to the po-po, let's just say that I heavily advise against it. We got other muthafuckas we can touch.” I scoot across the seat until I'm right up on her so I can whisper in her ear, “Like Tracee and Reggie.”

Ta'Shara's head bounces up, and her large, brown eyes widen to the size of two silver dollars.

“Uh-huh. I thought that might catch your attention.” My lips curl into a tight smile. “You know I'll do it, too, don't you? I'll be happy to take care of your precious foster parents. Then what will you do?” I ask, searching her eyes. “Mmm? Where do you think you'll end up? Out here on the street?” I laugh. “You think that you can handle that?”

Ta'Shara turns her head away, but I grab her swollen jaw and jerk it back toward me. “Look at me when I'm fucking talking to you!” I grind my teeth together while I try to get hold of my temper. “Real talk: you snitch and it's over for them. You got that?”

She tries to pull away, but I have her chin locked in a grip so tight it's a wonder that I don't break the muthafucka off.

“Got it?” I ask again.

At long last, Ta'Shara slowly nods her head.

I release her as the limousine rolls to a stop. A few seconds later, the door is snatched open and I jump out first.

“Is she cool?” Treasure asks, scratching his dry dreadlocks and peering down into the backseat of the limo.

“Yeah. She's cool. Back the fuck up, homey.” I push him back and stare him down. “You done had all the pussy you're going to get tonight.”

His black glare lands on mine. “C'mon, shit. What's another little taste going to hurt?” He smirks and grabs his dick. “I'll be quick. I promise.”

“I
said,
back the fuck up.” I shove him backward and pull my gat from the back waist of my jeans.

“Whoa. Whoa.” Treasure's hands spring high into the air. “All that shit ain't necessary, baby girl.”

“I ain't your fucking baby girl, nigga. Show the proper respect, muthafucka, and stay in your lane.”

“A'ight. Chill.” He tries to laugh the shit off, but I don't even crack a smile.

“Look. I don't want no misunderstandings,” he says, trying again. I know his fake Rastafarian ass is more worried about Python than this Glock I have pointed at his skull.

“What you need to understand right now is that you need to hop your ass back in the front seat so you and Dog Pound can take this piece of shit limo somewhere and get rid of it.”

“Cool. Cool.” He steps back, crooked smile and all.

I shake my head and roll my eyes as I turn back toward the open door. “Get your ass on out here,” I tell Ta'Shara. When she takes too long creeping out the vehicle, I reach down and jerk her out by her arm. “Shit. I ain't got all goddamn night.” Beneath my firm grip, Ta'Shara is shaking like a leaf. I ignore this shit and drag her across a dark field behind a run-down, crack-infested apartment building toward my old but souped-up burgundy Crown Victoria.

A couple of shots pop off in the night somewhere, but I don't pay it any mind. Shootings ain't nothing new out here.

“Where are we taking her?” Kookie asks, rushing behind us.

“Where else? My place,” I say. Snatching the back door open, I yell at Ta'Shara, “Get in!”

Kookie don't look too comfortable with that decision. “Ain't they going to come looking for her there?”

I whip my head toward her. “No. Why should they?” Face blank, Kookie bumps her gums while no words come out.

“Exactly.” I return my attention to Ta'Shara, who is standing and quivering like an idiot. “What the fuck are you waiting for? I said get the fuck in there.”

“LeShelle . . . please.” Ta'Shara's cracked lips spew blood as she tries to talk. “Let me go. I p-promise I won't say anything.”

“I know you're not going to say anything. If I thought that, I would've wasted your ass by now.” I point my gun in her direction. “Now get your ass in the back of the car.” She got moving then. After she was in, I slam the door and then turn to see Kookie looking at me and shaking her head. “What?”

“You're a cold bitch.”

I laugh. “You said that already.”

“It fuckin' deserves repeating.”

 

Ten minutes later, we roll down Shotgun Row. Nobody creeps down this way unless they belong on this muthafucka. Even at this late hour, I spot the whites of niggas' eyes as they peep out my ride and then give me a casual head nod before going back to their business. Crackheads, college kids, and the occasional Caucasian persuasions are keeping the money flowing with the corner boys.

I pull the Crown Vic up against the curb in front of my and Python's crib and then kill the lights and cut the engine. However, instead of reaching for the door, I lean toward the glove compartment and pull out a Baggie of blueberry AK-47 and toss it over to Kookie in the passenger seat. “Roll that shit up.”

“Aye, aye, bitch.” She laughs, but it does nothing to break the tension layering in the car.

I glance up into the rearview mirror and stare at the top of my sister's head while her attention has returned to her dirty fingernails. I'm struck by how small she looks. I'm not completely emotionally detached, but I'm struggling to get there.

“Here you go,” Kookie says, handing over a perfectly rolled blunt and then whipping out her gold lighter. “Let's hit this shit. My nerves are fucking shot.”

I take the blunt, plop it in between my lips, and then lean over while Kookie brings the small flame to the bottom of the blunt. The instant I draw in a deep toke, I feel my muscles relax, my heartbeat slow down, and my million fucked-up thoughts mellow the fuck out. I still keep my gaze focused on the backseat. “You want a hit?”

Silence.

“Cut the shit, Ta'Shara. I know that you hear me. You want to hit this shit or not?”

Silence.

I grind my teeth together and then hiss, “Fine. Fuck you, then.”

Kookie shakes her head and reaches for the door. “I'm out. I said that I wasn't going to get involved in y'all family shit and look where the fuck I am.”

“You ain't got to worry. I got this shit,” I tell her.

“Yeah. We'll see. Catch you when the sun comes up, ho.” Kookie jumps out of the car.

“I'm coming with you,” Pit Bull says, and scrambles out of the car, too.

Ta'Shara and I are left sitting in a tomb of silence with the ghost of some dead nigga sitting between us. My mouth twitches for something to say, but this situation has gone beyond words. I jam the blunt back into my mouth and suck on the muthafucka until the front of the car is filled with smoke and I can fly instead of walk. “C'mon. Let's get the fuck up out of here.” I toss the rest of the blunt into the ashtray and then climb out of the car.