Street Divas (7 page)

“Shit.”

“Exactly. Shit.” He shakes his head. “I say we just find some woods and dump her ass.”

“Fuck naw. That shit ain't going to happen.” And I mean that shit. I may be spooked, but I ain't going to punk my girl out like that. “We'll take her to her house.”

“What? And tell her peoples what?”

I'm shaking my head and making shit up as I go along. “Nothing. We'll do a drop-and-roll there. Put her on the doorstep, ring the doorbell, and haul ass.”

“What if we get caught? We'll be right back at square one.”

“We
won't,
” I insist, but I don't have any fuckin' idea if that's true of not. All I know is that it's the best I can do for her right now.
Fuck.

Fifteen minutes later, our asses roll into picturesque midtown. We loop around the Douglas' neighborhood a few times to make sure there aren't any roaming niggas hanging out to catch what the fuck we are about to do. In this blue-collar neighborhood, niggas are locked up and snug as a bug at this time of night. It's a mystery why Ta'Shara fucked with a nigga tied to the streets in the first place. The way I saw the shit, she was set. After growing up in foster care and being bounced around from one foster house to another, she'd landed a loving couple who was doing everything they could to steer her down the right path. A year ago, Ta'Shara was talking about college and getting the hell out of Memphis.
What a difference a man makes.

“Is it this one?” Drey points to the two-level beige and gray stone craft bungalow.

“Yeah.”

“Shit. It's nice out here,” he comments, looking around.

“C'mon. Let's hurry up and do this.” I tense up again. I can't believe that I'm about to do this shit.

Drey hops out of the car and opens the back door. When he pulls Ta'Shara out of the backseat, he almost bangs her head against the door frame.

“Hey, watch it,” I snap, crawling out behind him.

“You stay in the car. The faster we do this shit the better.”

I want to argue, but I know that he's right. “Make sure that you ring the door bell,” I remind him.

Again, he rolls his eyes and then jogs up toward the door with Ta'Shara cradled in his arms.

I watch him like a hawk while he sets Ta'Shara down on the porch bench. He hesitates a moment but then rings the doorbell and takes off. He's halfway across the yard when the house lights click on.

“Hurry, hurry,” I mumble under my breath. For a moment, I'm really fearful that he will be caught and ID'd for this shit.

But Drey is nimble as fuck as he jumps and slides across the hood of the car to get to the other side. “We're out of this bitch,” he hisses, shifting the car into drive.

My eyes remain glued to the front door. When it opens, Drey jams his foot on the accelerator. Ta'Shara's foster mother, Tracee, opens the door and we're able to hear her scream, “REGGIE!” above the squeal of Drey's tires as we rocket into the night. I close my eyes against the gush of wind rushing through the open window, but it does nothing to brush away my shame. “I'm so sorry, Ta'Shara. I hope that you will forgive me.”

S
trolling across the dark hospital parking lot, I'm suddenly hit with the smell of burning oil. To my right, I catch sight of a rusted-out Buick Electra and twist my nose up in disgust. Some niggas really will ride around in any damn thing nowadays. Then something strange happens. A chick in the backseat points at me, and the driver's eyes get so fucking big that he looks like a goddamn cartoon.
Do I know these niggas?

I stop at the curb and watch the car make an awkward U-turn. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I cast a look at a couple of my flagged brothahs standing guard outside the ER, ready to shut down any potential drive-by bullshit like we had to deal with the last time.

“Yo! Go peep that shit out,” I yell.

Like real soldiers, they take off to follow those shady-looking muthafuckas.

Satisfied, I resume my stroll toward Mason's SUV and hop into the passenger's side, but before I can launch my interrogation about where his ass has been for the past hour, I notice blood seeping through his white T-shirt. “What the fuck?!”

Mason groans as he tries to shift his massive frame around in his seat. “Don't worry about it. It's a scratch.”

“A scratch?” I reach over the dashboard and turn on the interior light. I get in only one quick glance before Mason shuts it back off. “Damn. Chill out, Willow! I said it's just a fuckin' scratch. Tell me what's going on in there with my brother. Is he going to make it?”

For a few seconds I draw a damn blank, because I want to get to the bottom of what else went down tonight while I was getting my clit sucked at a goddamn club. At my hesitation, Mason's head jerks toward me.

“Is he . . . ?” His voice croaks.

“Nah.” I snap out of it. “At least they haven't come out and told us one way or the other just yet. But . . .” I struggle on whether to reach for his hand. I'm not exactly known for my softer side. It's hard for me—has been for a long time. “Profit took a lot of bullets. Whoever did this shit tried to turn him into Swiss cheese. For real. But you have my word that we're going to find these muthafuckas and return the favor, and we're going to make sure that their asses ain't still breathing when we're through.”

“What the fuck happened?” Mason growls. “Last I heard he was taking his lil girlfriend to the prom. Did a gang fight break out or some shit?”

“Not at the school, but a few of our young guns who go to Morris High filled me in on a few things I didn't know about. Not that it's my job to keep up with the drama that goes on in the high schools.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Profit. Apparently, he and his girl, Ta'Shara, have been pissing a whole lot of people off—blatantly flaunting their relationship.”

Mason's brows dip. “Okay. What's the big deal? They were all hugged at his initiation party, too.”

“Profit has never talked to you about Ta'Shara's people?”

Mason pauses. “All I know is that he's crazy about the girl.” He thinks about it some more. “She's crazy about him, too. At least as far as I could tell.”

I bob my head because that's the same impression I had, too.

“The last time we were up at this hospital,” Mason continues, “Profit did get defensive when I tried to ask his girl a few questions. What the fuck were they hiding?”

“An awful lot,” I tell him flatly.

“Are we going to sit here and play twenty questions while I bleed all over the place, or are you going to spit it out?” he snaps.

“I thought you said that it was a scratch? Let me see.” I reach for the light again only to have Mason knock my hands away.

“Goddamn it, Willow! I'm not in the mood for this shit right now.” He winces and grips the steering wheel. “I'm trying to handle one crisis at a goddamn time.”

I watch uncomfortably while his arm muscles bulge to the point that I see veins popping out. Clearly he's in pain, but he's not going to admit it. Mason's pride is a monster. A minute later, whatever spasm that hit him subsides, but he's panting and sweating like he just finished running a marathon.
He needs a doctor.

“The prom . . .” he reminds me, pulling out his flag from his back pocket and mopping his head with it. “Finish telling me what happened.”

Sucking in a frustrated breath, I spill what I know. “Ta'Shara is a Queen G—by blood. Nobody knows if she's taken the oath personally but—”

“Who's her people? Anyone we know?”

“Oh, we know her all right. Ta'Shara's sister is Python's wifey, LeShelle. Head Queen G herself.”

Mason snatches off his ever-present Louis Vuitton shades so that his one brown eye and one milky eye can level on me and see if I'm serious. But I've always been a hard read. “Please tell me that you're fucking bullshitting me.”

“I don't bullshit—you know that.”

“That mutha—” Mason bites down on his bottom lip and shakes his head. “Why the hell would Profit keep something like that from me?”

“You really have to ask? What would you have done had you known?”

“Tell him to dump the bitch!”

“Exactly—but since when do you Lewis men listen to reason when it comes to pussy?”

“Fuck!” Mason rolls eyes. “He invited that bitch out to my crib. For all we know, her ass was sent there to spy on our asses. You know how hot the streets have been this past year. Those pussy muthafuckas have been dropping our people like flies.” He pauses for a moment. “Come to think of it, her ass showed here that night just before the Gangster Disciples came blasting up the damn hospital. Remember that? She crept in and surprise, surprise, guess who was waiting for our asses downstairs ready to light our asses up?”

I nod, but then toss out, “Or . . . Profit and Ta'Shara really do like each other and didn't want people telling them who they can and can't be with.”

Mason cocks his head at me. “What? You're a muthafuckin' romantic now? You going to try and tell me that you grew a heart when I wasn't fucking lookin'?”

That jab hurt.

“In case you forgot,” Mason sneers, “Romeo and Juliet died at the end of that fucked-up story.”

“Doesn't change the fact that they still loved each other.”

Mason rolls his eyes as he turns his head away. “Love . . . it's all bullshit. Trust me. I got a fucking reminder of that shit tonight.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just don't talk to me about that love bullshit. One bitch is as good as the next. Smiling bitches lie to your face and then creep around and be squashing your enemy behind your back. FUCK!” He punches the steering wheel and the horn blares, breaking the night's silence.

“Where's the bitch?” Mason asks.

I frown, confused as to which bitch we're talking about.

Mason's large head rolls toward me again, and I swear to God I can see anger simmering off his body in waves. “The girl,” he spits. “Where the fuck is the girl?”

Blinking, I'm surprised that the obvious question hasn't even crossed my mind. I've been so focused on Profit and Mason that . . . “I don't know.”

“You don't know?” he repeats, nodding his head for a few beats. “You don't
fuckin'
know?” he explodes, and then unleashes a fierce torrent of punches against the steering wheel. “Aaaarrrrgggh!”

Stunned, I lean back and watch while each solid punch causes the horn to blare in protest. I understand his frustrations, my own emotions are all over the place. But after a full minute, I worry. “Mason, please. Calm down.” Awkwardly, I reach out and place my hand against his shoulder. “We're going to handle this shit. Trust me. Those fake gangstas are going to pay for this shit. You got my word on that!”

Mason throws his hands up and shrugs off my touch. “I want
every one
of those muthafuckas dead. You hear me? Every. One.” He's panting so hard he looks like he's getting ready to pass out.

I bob my head, but we still have one more thing left to discuss. The big black elephant in the SUV. But Mason can be stubborn, and he damn sure doesn't like asking for or accepting help. “You need to see a doctor,” I toss out. “You look like shit.”

“What doesn't kill me makes me stronger.” He sucks in a deep breath.

“But a hard head makes a soft ass,” I remind him.

“It's gonna take a whole lot more than this shit to take me out.”

“Let me see what type of damage we're dealing with.”

“Willow—”

“And you got one more fuckin' time to call me by that damn name and then we are going to have a fuckin' problem.”

Our eyes lock and I know him well enough to recognize pain.

“You still think that you can beat my ass, don't you?” he asks.

“Don't front. You know I can take you down anytime, anyplace,” I tell him.

He laughs, but the shit sounds painful. After a minute, his laughter dies out and he sits there thinking for a long while. “I fucked up,” he says. “I really fucked up tonight.”

Whatever the hell he's talking about, I know this shit ain't easy for him to admit. “Is that right?”

Another long silence and then, “Yeah.”

I don't like the way his breathing sounds. It's too choppy, and sweat is still pouring down his face. What had he said earlier? Bitch has been fucking someone on the sidelines? Was he talking about his precious Officer Melanie Johnson?

“So who was the other dude?”

A muscle twitches along his temple. “That reptile wannabe muthafucka.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“You knew that shit?”

“They dated back in high school, Mason. She confirmed that shit to you not too long ago. She said it was over—you chose to believe that bullshit. I didn't.”

“You never really liked that bitch, did you?”

That was an understatement. “Like father, like daughter,” I tell him.

Mason rolls his eyes.

“I know that . . . but—”

“Like I said, when it comes to pussy—”

“You made your point,” he growls, looking like he's on the brink of another spasm. “Squash it.”

Of course I don't. “Was Python there when you went over there?” I press.

“He busted in on us.” Mason coughs. “Nigga started blasting while my dick was still swinging in the muthafuckin' air.” He coughs again and then chugs in a deep breath. “Bitch started begging for her life and admitted that the baby she's carrying is his.”

“Muthafuck! What kind of soap-opera bullshit are you involved in?”

“None. I blew a hole in that ass.”

I blink. “You killed her?”

“Don't know. Her ass was still breathing when I jumped out the window in my fuckin' birthday suit.” Mason's cough sounds like he's trying to hack up a lung. When he stops, blood trickles from the corner of his mouth.

I panic. “That's it!” I pop open my door and hop out of the car. “Yo!” I holler to the guys posted outside the ER. “Y'all niggas come over here and help me.”

“Willow—”

“Time-out with that ‘Willow' shit. You need to see a doctor.”

Mason shakes his head and tries to talk again, but I take full control of the situation. I rush around the vehicle, and when I open Mason's door, he spills out.

I barely catch him before he hits the concrete.

It takes six niggas to help get him back into the SUV, and by that time Mason's entire T-shirt is soaked through with blood. I can't take him into this hospital. Not if he possibly killed a cop tonight. There's only one place I can take him.

“Don't you fuckin' die on me,” I say, struggling to get the upper half of his body back into the car while tears burn the backs of my eyes. “Don't you fuckin' dare.”