A Gangsta's Son (3 page)

~Chapter 8~

“What’s in those duffle bags?” Shay asked.

I glanced over at her and grinned. We were climbing the stairs in the house where Kisha lived on 16
th
and Millard, and I was having a hard time keeping my eyes off Shay’s smooth brown thighs.

“Smells like Kush,” she muttered, returning my stare.

I ignored her and dialed Kisha’s number on my smartphone as we continued to ascend the black-carpeted staircase. Both Kisha and Shay were from the same northwest Indiana city—in fact, it had been Shay who’d introduced me to Kisha on December 28
th
of last year—but I was still worried about how Kisha would take to me showing up with Shay. Kisha was the most jealous girlfriend I’d ever had, and I didn’t feel like arguing; not now, anyway.

Kisha answered on the fourth ring.

“Come open the door,” I said into the phone, while my eyes wandered back to Shay’s luscious thighs.

“Nigga, why the fuck didn’t you answer the phone when I called you earlier?” Kisha snapped.

I shook my head. “Just open the muhfuckin door.”

Seconds later, Kisha unlocked and opened the door. Tall, chocolate, and slender, she looked like the Kisha character from the movie
Belly.
She wore a see-through white Hello Kitty shirt over a tight-fitting pair of matching sweat pants, and her hands were already planted on her hips.

She squinted at Shay for half a second, then shifted her accusatory glare back to me as she stepped back to let us in.

“Make yourself at home, Shay,” Kisha mumbled vacantly, her eyes burning a hole in the side of my head. “Lil Mike, getcho ass to the bedroom. We need to have a long talk.”

Grinning pleasantly, I headed to her bedroom and immediately dropped the
duffle bags onto the foot of her bed. She slammed the door shut and crossed her arms over her chest, scowling at me. I knew why she was mad: she thought I had ignored her phone call because I’d been cheating with Shay, a notion that made no sense at all since Kisha was bisexual and would have gladly welcomed Shay into our bed.

“It’s not what you think,” I said grabbing the $2
,500 from my pants pocket.

Her crabby frown flipped over instantly.

“I was busy when you called,” I said, flipping through the hundreds. “Hit a sweet-ass lick for damn near a half million and some dope. Split it wit’ my Pops.”

“Boy, are you serious?” Her tone was soft with disbelief.

“You think I’d joke about some shit like this?” I turned and opened the duffle full of cash, then dumped it all out on her Hello Kitty blanket.

Kisha’s mouth dropped open and her eyelids ran away from each other.

**********

After giving Kisha two thousand dollars and sending her and Shay out to get blunts and drinks, I sat at the small wooden kitchen table with my digital scale, a box of sandwich bags, and a pound of Kush. I dialed my older brother Darrell’s number, put it on speaker phone, and started bagging up ounces of the strong-scented weed.

“Sup lil nigga?” He answered.

“Loud pack on deck, bruh,” I said.

“Whaaaat?” He sounded enthused.

“Hell yeah, nigga. Me and
Pops caught a nigga slippin’, came up on a nice ass lick. Got me on yo’ level now.”

I laughed aloud, but I was dead serious.
Darrell—better known as “Scrilla Man”—was a boss in the dope game. He lived way down in Anderson, Indiana, but his drug ring spanned several states. He had once given me a half kilo of cocaine to get on with, but I’d come back empty handed after tricking off all the money on Kisha, Alycia, and a few other hood chicks, and ever since then he’d resorted to giving me a grand or two whenever I needed it. And he kept track of every dime he “loaned” me.

“Hope you got that ten racks you owe me,” he said.

“Ten racks?!” I scoffed. “Nigga, I owe you
six
racks.”

“Plus interest,” he joked.

“You got me fucked up, Joe. On my momma.”

“What I tell you ‘bout callin’ me “Joe”? Call me Scrilla or don’t call me nothin’. And where my old man at?”

“At the crib wit’ the OG getting’ the grill ready. We’re driving down there later on tonight.”

“Down where?” He asked.

“To yo’ house, nigga!” I said. “Pops might have to lay low for a while. I’ll talk to you about it when we get there.”

“Shit, I’m in Gary right now and I’m gettin’ a room wit’
my lil bitch in MC tonight.”

“MC?”

“Michigan City,” he elaborated. “It’s thirty minutes from Chicago. I was gon’ come through and kick it wit’ y’all today.”

I nodded, putting a bud of Kush under my nose and inhaling deeply.

“Well,” I said, “you can just take him with you when you leave. I really wanna stay in the house wit’ Kisha and Shay.”

“What?! Shay over there?!” He had a major crush on her. “I’m on my way, nigga,” he said and hung up.

Chuckling and shaking my head, I went back to bagging up the Kush while I mentally calculated the dough I’d make off the weed and cocaine.

Thirty-two thousand dollars per kilo?

Sixty-five hundred dollars per pound of Kush?

Yeah, that sounded about right.

~Chapter 9~

“Whatever you do in there, James, just make sure you don’t kill anybody, okay? I can’t be an accessory to murder,” Lacresha mumbled worriedly.

James looked over at her, gave her a square stare. Then he turned and continued his undercover surveillance of the house they were now parked behind—the Love residence.

“I’m for real, James. I told yo’ ass from the jump I didn’t want nothin’ to do with no murder. Who’s gonna take care of my baby if I get locked up? Who’s gonna look after—”

“Shut that bullshit up,” James snapped.

Cresha sucked her teeth and lit another cigarette; she had smoked eight of them since the shooting at Mone’s place. Her hands and legs were trembling uncontrollably. Half of her wanted desperately to leave without the money, but that was her scared half, the half that was still badly shaken by Mone’s brutal murder. What kept her in place wa
s the harsh reality of her financial situation. She was flat broke. All the guys at the club made the majority of their dollars rain down on the girls with big asses and light skin, and the fact that Cresha possessed neither of those attributes put her at the bottom of the totem pole. She was averaging $500 every night she danced, but her many habits—snorting cocaine, popping Ecstasy and Molly’s, smoking Kush and cigarettes, drinking bottles of Ciroc every night—ate up nearly all of her income. What was left she used to pay bills and take care of herself, her seven year old daughter Defina, and James whenever he needed it.

‘All I need is ten thousand for those butt implants,’
she thought to herself as she watched the slender man from the barbecue grill step around the big green dumpster she was parked next to and toss two trash filled bags inside it. She immediately noticed his limp.

Fearing the man would get a glimpse of her face and realize that she was the same girl from Mone’s
house; Cresha sucked in a breath and pushed her brother’s shoulder.

“Hurry up,” she whispered, nudging James toward his door.

James pushed open his door and rushed out. He had his gun against the nape of the man’s neck a second later.

“Where that muhfuckin bread at, nigga?” James’ voice sounded icier than usual. He clamped his free hand onto the side of the man’s neck. “I don’t wanna have to murk you over this shit. I’m about to walk you into your house, you’re gonna give me those
duffle bags, and then I’m leavin’, a’ight? We clear on that?”

The man didn’t answer right away. Watching from the driver’s seat, Cresha grabbed James’ chrome .38 Special from the glove compartment. She thumbed back the hammer and stepped out of the SUV,
grazing her eyes around the vacant alley. The man spoke just as Cresha made it to her brother’s side.

“You must not know who you’re fucking with,” he said through clenched teeth. “Nigga, I’m Big Mike
. Certified
OG, lil nigga! You better take that lil pistol up the street and rob one of them lil—”

James quickly silenced the man with a pistol-slap to the side of his head. Then he roughly shoved the man around the dumpster and into a small, neatly decorated backyard.

Reluctantly, Cresha let out a sigh and followed her brother. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the teenager she had seen on a bike a few minutes earlier, he was standing at the end of the alley with a second teenage boy, and the bike was nowhere to be seen.

The two boys were gazing at Cresha.

She pointed the revolver in their direction and opened her mouth to yell at them, but they took off running before she could get a word out.

~Chapter 10~

Lucky for me, I’d still had one White Owl cigar left in a glass bowl on the glass-top coffee table in Kisha’s living room. I was sitting on the sofa—an ugly burgundy davenport Kisha had gotten from one of her tasteless aunts—smoking a plump blunt of Kush and shopping for a set of rims on eBay when Kisha and Shay returned with the drinks and blunts.

“Let the celebrations begin,” I chimed, smiling from ear to ear.

“Look at this high-ass nigga,” Shay said with a laugh. She cracked open a bottle of Ciroc Vodka and poured equal amounts into three red plastic cups as Kisha set them on the coffee table. I caught both of them staring at me as Shay poured the liquor.

‘Thirsty hoes,’
I thought, moving my eyes back to my phone and scanning the list of Lexani rims. I had a gut feeling Kisha had told Shay about the cash I’d shown her, because both of them were unusually quiet, and Kisha kept glancing at the huge bulges in the front pockets of my jeans; I had $5,000 in hundred-dollar bills in each of my front pockets, and an ounce of the loud-smelling Kush was sitting on the table.

We started smoking blunts and drinking and watching Django Unchained on the 42-inch flat-screen television. Seated between them, I listened to them talk about an engagement ring one of their girls had just received from her boyfriend. Then the topic changed to how “sexy” and “cute” Jamie Foxx looked in the movie.

And the next thing I knew, Kisha was taking my shirt off and rubbing her hands across my chest.

“I got my own Django,” she said, caressing my impeccably chiseled abdomen. My daily morning ritual of five hundred sit-ups and a thousand push-ups had paid off handsomely, and Kisha
was fond of enjoying the fruits of my labor.

“Can y’all please get a room?” Shay muttered as Kisha unbuckled my belt and pants and pulled out my dick.

For some odd reason, she loved slurping on my ten-inch erection in front of other women; and I loved watching her do it. She wasn’t all that good at doing it, but she was good enough to get the job done. She’d sucked my dick twice in front of Shay. Both times I’d ended up fucking Shay a few hours later.

I set my phone on the table and eased back on the sofa, eyeing Kisha’s tongue as it flickered across the tip of my brick-hard pole. Shay passed me a blunt, and I took four or five pulls before passing it back and asking her to hand me my cup.

“Hope you plan on lacin’ a bitch wit’ some of this Kush,” Shay said, staring at the line of smoke that was curling up into the air from the lit end of the blunt.

My phone started ringing on the table just as Shay was handing me my drink. I looked at the phone screen and saw that it was Tyrone, a seventeen year old gun-slinger from the hood who was always seen riding around on his bike with a big-ass pistol on his hip. I took a fiery sip of Vodka and briefly considered answering the call. But I knew he was probably just calling to check on me, and since Kisha’s lips were now jackhammering, I decided against picking up the phone. I was going to
whip up a few ounces of hard to give him anyway. Better to return the call when I had the work ready for him to sell, I figured.

I was shaken from my thoughts by Shay’s cotton-soft voice.

“Girl you gotta suck harder than that,” she said, blowing a stream of smoke at the ceiling fan. “You suck dick like a white girl.” Shay glanced at Kisha and laughed. “Like Paris Hilton or some-damn-body. You better suck that dick like Superhead if you tryna keep yo’ man, ‘cause I can name a thousand other hoes who will.”

Instantly, Kisha popped her sucking lips off my glistening dick and pushed it toward Shay.

“Fine.” Kisha lifted her head from my lap. “You show me how to do it then, Ms. Pornstar. Give me a few lessons. I might learn somethin’.”

I sipped my drink, smiling widely. My phone lit up with another call from Tyrone, but I ignored it and kept moving my eyes from Kisha to Shay and back to Kisha again.

Shay put the blunt out in the ashtray next to my phone. Then she took a chewed up piece of gum out of her mouth and pressed it against the side of her cup.

“I’m tellin’ you now Ki-
Ki, I’m gonna have this nigga scratchin’ at my door in the mornin’, askin’ for another fix,” Shay warned as she pulled her legs up beneath her and leaned toward me.

She wrapped her hands around the base of my love-muscle and spit on its bulging head, then lowered her mouth and went ape-shit. Shay sucked dick like she majored in fellatio and graduated summa cum laude. Her fingers squeezed as her mouth bobbed ecstatically. Kisha went to sucking and licking and kissing on my chest and abs while Shay sucked the life out of me.

I dropped my head back and gazed up at the spinning ceiling fan, thinking,
‘These hoes is up to somethin’. Or at least Kisha is. Bitch ain’t been this nice to me since I moved out last month.’

On the coffee table, my phone was still ringing.