my ass.
I worked up a nice sweat and when that sexy-ass Nas’s voice came over the speakers with “Let There Be Light,” I spun around real slow, then twirled my hips into his crotch and pressed my body up against his. He placed his hand on my hip, pulled me into him, and found a rhythm that matched mine, while slippin’ his thigh between my legs and grindin’ into me. I pressed back harder, lettin’ him know I was no slouch. I took my hand and ran it along the front of his designer slacks, felt the length of his dick and squeezed.
The following day, I was loungin’ on my damask chaise with my leg tucked under me, listenin’ to 2Pac’s “Hit ’Em Up,” openin’ the manila envelope that had been sent by FedEx. I glanced over at the leather suitcase filled with my paper, smilin’. I pulled out two 8 x 10 photos of my next marks and the details of where I’d find ’em. I stared at the first photo, studied it carefully, taking in every aspect of the nigga’s features. He was a darker version of the ex-NBA player Jayson Williams with Jay-Z lips. My pussy twitched imaginin’ those big, juicy lips all over my clit and pussy. Yeah, fuckin’ him was gonna be a real treat. I hoped he had a big dick. For some reason, I always felt gypped when I ended up gettin’ a mark with a little-ass dick. That shit made me want to blow a hole in his head right on the spot for wastin’ my damn time. I read his stats, which were always found on the lower right corner of every picture:
When I got to the second photo, I almost fell outta my motherfuckin’ chair. It was a white nigga. And the muhfucka wasn’t even fine. It was bad enough I didn’t do white dick; Cash knew that shit. Still, to hit me with a stringy-haired nigga with brown teeth was a bit much.
“What’s good?”
“You givin’ me this white muhfucka who looks like he’s been eatin’ shit, that’s what’s good. You know I don’t get down with no white niggas. And definitely none who look like this cracker.” I let my words roll off my tongue before I could catch what I had said.
He started laughin’ ’n shit. “Yo, ma, you actin’ like you tryna fuck the nigga or somethin’. What’s good?”
“What you mean ‘what’s good’? Ain’t nothin’ good, nigga.”
“Yeah, aiight.” He lowered his voice. “Listen…check this out. How you slump these muhfuckas don’t matter; only that it gets done.”
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“Whoa, pump ya brakes. It means just because I ain’t ever say shit don’t mean I don’t know how you doin’ yours. Don’t think I don’t know you freakin’ them niggas before you waste ’em.”
I pulled the phone from my ear and looked at it. I couldn’t believe what I heard. “Excuse me?” I said, shocked. For some reason, I really didn’t think the nigga knew. But I guess I’d been sleepin’ on his ass.
“On some real shit, it ain’t that serious, babycakes,” he said, causin’ the hairs on the back of my neck to stand.
“You,” he said. “I wish I coulda been a fly on ya wall when you peeped his flick. I know that shit was priceless.”
“Whatever,” I said. “You ain’t funny. So you know, now what?”
“Do what you do best. I promise to make it worth your while.”
“So why you send this shit to me instead of one of ya dudes on the squad?”
“’Cause I wanted to line ya pockets with a little extra somethin’.”
I sighed. “Yeah, right. That’s what ya mouth says.”
He busted out laughin’ again. “And I wanted to see how you’d handle this nigga since he ain’t fuckable.”
“Fuck you, Cash. I’m glad you think this shit is funny. How long have you known?”
“For ’bout a year now,” he said. “At first, when the crew was findin’ all the niggas you slumped naked, I didn’t pay the shit no mind. But, then I peeped how every time you went on an assignment the muhfuckas would be butt-ass naked and the sheets would be removed. Shit wasn’t addin’ up. Then it hit me, and that’s when I put shit together. Like I said, I thought the freaky shit was fiyah. And the only reason I kept it on the low is ’cause at the end of the day you real thorough. And I really don’t give a fuck how you handle yours. So, you got this one or what?”
“How much you tryna line my pockets with?” I asked, usin’ the photo to fan myself.
“An extra twenty-five gees,” he said.
“Fuck that,” I snapped. Now that I knew this nigga knew, he’d be tryna clown me every chance he got if I let him. I ain’t the one. The only way to shut a nigga like him down—other than puttin’ a bullet in his skull—is by diggin’ in his pockets. “You musta banged ya damn head if you think that’s ’posed to be makin’ it worth my fuckin’ while. Come betta, Cash, or it’s a no-go. And I’m not fuckin’ around.”
“Aiight, aiight. I’ll make it another fifty gees. Just handle the dude. His wife wants his ass stretched, ASAP.”
My pussy pulled in my thong. The sound of that got me heated. “Then you need to get my seventy-five percent to me now. Otherwise, you’ll have to send someone else on this one.”
He sucked in his breath. “Damn, your little ass is really playin’ hardball these days.”
“I’ve learned from the best,” I replied, tossin’ the photo of this pasty-faced fool to the floor. “I want my money tonight.”
“It’ll be there.”
“It better be,” I said, snappin’ the phone shut.
CHAPTER FOUR
At eleven a.m., my flight had safely landed at O’Hare International Airport. I loved Chicago, especially downtown, and had hoped to strut along Michigan Avenue to have lunch at one of the trendy restaurants that lined the strip, then do a little shopping, but I knew that wasn’t my real purpose for being there so I decided to pick up my rental, then go check into my hotel suite. A bitch needed time to chill before it was time to do what I had come to do. The thought of this nigga with his white, clammy hands touchin’ my body made my gut turn.
I made my way onto 90 East toward downtown Chicago, thinking about my life. At twenty-five, I had the life most bitches only dreamed about. I owned my own spot, was paid out the pussy, had e’erything I wanted, but somethin’ still felt like it was missin’. I ain’t sayin’ I was on some lonely-type shit or some other crazy mess. It felt like…uh, fuck it. Shit ain’t that serious. But in the back of my mind, somethin’ was tellin’ me I’d better get my ass outta this shit before all the shit I’d done caught up to me. A bitch in an orange or tan uniform wasn’t a good look, and I wasn’t tryna be the one.
Well, for a minute. Maybe travel the world, fuck a few foreign niggas, get my pussy ate and suck a few dicks on an airplane. But I had so much blood on my manicured hands that I wondered if I really had it in me to walk away from the thrill of it all. Holdin’ a burner in my hand, pressin’ it against a nigga’s skull turned me the fuck on. Yeah, I was probably a sick, sadistic bitch, but I was paid and I’d be walkin’ away with millions stacked.
I pulled up in front of the hotel and parked in the valet parkin’ area, then stepped out of my busted-up rental—a fuckin’ Aveo—and grabbed my satchel and carry-on bag, walkin’ into the four-story lobby of this fly-ass hotel.
“Welcome to The InterContinental Chicago,” an attractive young woman said, smilin’ in my direction. “How may I help you?”
“I have a reservation.”
