Boss Divas (5 page)

L
ynch is still pissed as shit. He hasn't said a word since we spent the night scrubbing that tattoo shop. I don't know what the fuck they did with the body parts and I don't want to know. My mind is whirling over how we're going to play defense with a bitch that thinks her ass is the Terminator.

He storms into the house and marches straight to our bedroom. I follow, thinking the moment we're alone he's gonna really let me have it. Jaws clenched, he snatches sheets and pillows from the bed.

“C'mon, Lynch. You don't have to sleep out on the sofa. We can sit and talk about this.”

“I'm not sleeping out there.” He rams the shit into my arms. “
You
are.”

“Me?” I blink.

“Damn right. You sleep out there until I don't feel like killing you anymore.”

“But—but . . .”

Lynch grabs me by my shoulders and spins me toward the door. “Shar, you don't want to fuck with me right now. I'm trying real hard to remember that you're my babies' momma,” he warns.

“But—but . . .”

With one shove, I fly out of the bedroom door.
What the fuck?
Pissed, I jerk back around, but he slams the door in my face.

I grab the doorknob.
Locked.
“Lynch. C'mon. Open the goddamn door!”

“Walk away, Shariffa. I mean it,” he barks.

The last thing I need right now is for this nigga to be on his fuckin' period. Determined to settle this shit, I drop the sheets and pillows and pound on the door.

“I'm not going anywhere until you open this door.”

“LYNCH, OPEN UP!”

After a full minute, Lynch snatches the door open. “What the fuck is your goddamn problem?”

I ignore him and push my way into the room. “I fucked up! There! I said it. Now can we cut the drama and figure out what our next damn move is? In case you forgot, I'm at the top of some psycho bitch's hit list.”

“What the fuck did you think was going to happen?” he roars, planting his face in front of mine. “You pushed and pushed to start a fuckin' war with those VL niggas and now you've got your goddamn wish. Congratu-fuckin-lations!” He chest bumps me and I stumble backwards.

“What the fuck?” I rush back at him and shove him, but all I end up doing is hurting my arms.

“I'll tell you what the fuck,” Lynch says, going in. “None of my niggas want to tangle with that bitch and her crew over some bullshit that
you
started. They made that shit perfectly clear to me tonight.”

I flinch. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“C'mon, Shar. You can't be that goddamn stupid. These niggas ain't buying that your ass is a true Crip. They only put up with you because I wifed your ass. All that swag you strutting around here can't buy your ass a McDonald's Happy Meal outside this crew. Everybody looks at you and all they see is a Queen G perpetrating. They view you as
my
muthafuckin' problem—not theirs—so don't be expecting for a Crip army to charge at those bumble-bee-wearing muthafuckas. Fuck. You got one of their favorite homies chopped up. They want to kill you more than that slob, black and gold bitch.”

Lynch's words punch me and I'm left to stand here looking like I'm stuck on stupid.
Here I am, busting all these moves and making all these plans for a crew who despises me?
I plop down onto the edge of the bed.

“Look. That shit came out harsh.” He brushes his hands over his low-cropped hair.

“But it's true?” I ask.

He hesitates.

“I don't give a fuck about it being harsh. I need to know whether the shit is true. I always want the fuckin' truth, Lynch. You know that shit.”

Lynch huffs out a long breath, deflating the anger in his chest, but he doesn't attempt to answer my question.

“Is it true or are you just fuckin' with me because you're mad?”

“It's true. Maybe I should have told your girls to tell you—”

“Fuck them bitches! You're my man. You're the one who is supposed to always keep it one hundred with me.”

Lynch explodes again. “What the fuck are you talking about? I
told
your ass plenty of times to have a muthafuckin' seat—several seats, in fact. Did you listen? No! You kept right on stirring the pot, pulling your bullshit trap-house robberies and pissing niggas off. The set isn't what it used to be, baby girl. Niggas are in this shit for self.Too many niggas have been bodied or locked down. The ones in the joint, we're struggling to put money on
they
books and to hold down
all
their wives
and
baby mommas. It's to the point we can only concentrate on feeding the niggas that are pulling their weight in the streets.

“The cartels don't want to hear about no fuckin' ghetto, hood, soap opera shit we got going on in Memphis. I'm tryna focus on moving product. Period. Now I gotta deal with this side shit because you're obsessed with invisible thrones? Nobody owns these streets but the goddamn devil. You're blind if you don't see that shit.”

“I don't need a fuckin' lecture. I—”

“Fuck it. I'm tired of talking about this shit.” He turns and storms out of the bedroom.

“Lynch!”

In the hallway, he snatches up the bedding. “
I'll
sleep out on the sofa.”

Tossing up my hands, I watch him storm off. “Now what?”

“I
don't understand.” I take a step back and nearly trip over air. “This isn't happening. This can't be happening.” I'm seeing things. I
have
to be seeing things.

Mason's ghost moves forward. “I know that you're in shock right now,” he says.

Fuck.
He even sounds like Mason.
But it can't be him.
I go for the gun again. In no time, I have it cocked and leveled at the intruder. “Don't you fuckin' move,” I snap. For the first time in my life, I'm visibly shaking with my finger on the trigger.

Mason, or whoever the fuck he is, doesn't make any sudden moves. In fact, he slowly lifts his hands. “All right. Calm down.”

“Don't fuckin' tell me to calm down!”
Shit.
I need to get it together so that I can think. “Who are you?”

“You know who I am,” he says.

“But that can't be. You're . . . dead.”

“I should be dead,” he agrees. “But I could've died a lot of times before . . . and would have if you weren't around to save my ass.”

“Python's car. The explosion,” I insist. “I saw it flip off that bridge. Everyone saw it. It was all over the news. But you were dead
before
then. I know it. I know what I saw.”

Mason sighs. “My memory is still spotty about that night. I remember our accident—chasing Python on the highway—the car flipping—the fight with Python. Then he must've knocked me out. After that, I remember fire and then suddenly being submerged underwater. The rest . . . like I said, is a blur.”

“And what?” I ask. “You're going to tell me that you've been swimming around in the Mississippi for two months?”

“No,” another voice barks out of the darkness. “Me and my grandson fished him out the river.”

I jump and swing my weapon to three o'clock. “Who's there? Who are you?”

“Willow, it's okay,” Mason says. “He's with me.”

Footsteps pad across the carpet to the window, where stripes of moonlight splash onto an old, gray-haired black dude. “Name's Eddie,” he says, flashing a remarkable set of white teeth. “Like I said, me and my grandson grabbed him up out of the water two months back. I have a small place out in the woods in Osceola—Arkansas. Small town—a river town about an hour out from Memphis.” Nervous, Eddie glances over at Mason. “He was messed up pretty good when we found him, barely conscious—but alive.”

My heart sinks. He was alive
.
How could I have gotten that so wrong? My mind flashes back to that night, but it's no longer reliable. It's playing tricks on me and adding things that I hadn't previously remembered. Did the rain obscure my vision? Could there have still been a light in his eyes?

Eddie rocks on the soles of his feet as he slips his hands out of his pockets and looks at Mason. “I guess these still had some healing in them. I used to do a whole lot of doctoring back in my army days,” he boasts. “Now they mostly work on cattle and other farm animals.”

“Why didn't you take him to a doctor?”

“We were gonna, but, uh, the patient here wouldn't hear of it.” Eddie chuckles. “He might not have been able to say much, but he did make it clear that he didn't want to be taken to no hospital.”

Mason laughs with him like they are sharing an inside joke.

“And the cops? The feds dragged that river for a while. Surely they checked your neck of the woods?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “They came snooping around, but I don't care too much for police. Not since they killed one of my nephews ten years ago. He was unarmed and walking home from the store one night. Apparently that's an unwritten crime when you're black. They pumped thirty-six bullets in him. I guess they wanted to make sure that they got him. Of course they claimed that they mistook him for another random black man and gave the family their sincerest apologies. Kenny was a good boy, wanted to be a doctor someday—like his favorite uncle.” Eddie lowers his head with a humble smile.

The story has taken us off course, but that's okay. I'm still struggling to wrap my brain around the fact that Mason is truly standing in my living room. I size him up and down. He's the right frame, but he's lost a lot of weight—a lot of muscle. His once-bald head now sports a nest of black, tightly coiled hair. He even has a thick beard and mustache. But it's the eyes that leave no doubt. One brown. One white.

Mason creeps toward me. “It's really me.” He reaches over and removes the gun from my hands.

I don't protest. I can't stop staring at him. He's a walking, talking,
breathing
miracle.

He clicks the safety back on and places it down on the table. “I missed you, Willow.” He pulls me into his embrace. Only when his muscular arms envelop me in a familiar cocoon do I accept that it's true.

I lift my arms and let them drift around his neck. His warmth sinks into my own and stills my trembling. Before I know it, I'm melting into him and thanking God for a miracle that I don't deserve. My shock gives way to joy and I can't help but laugh, and then cry at the same time. When our embrace loosens, it's only so that our lips can find one another.

He tastes like Hennessy and chocolate, a heady combination that is as delicious as it is addictive. Our tongues dance in an erotic rhythm. In no time at all, my nipples are rock-hard and my pussy is throbbing beneath this towel wrapped around me. We're seconds from giving Eddie the show of his life when he loudly clears his throat.

“AHEM!”

Mason chuckles as he pulls back. “I haven't forgotten you, my man. Sit tight.” With that, he keeps his arm looped around my waist and pulls me towards the dining room. “You still got my emergency stash here?” he whispers.

I hear the words, but it takes me a while to understand what he's asking.
He's here. Mason is really here.
The world's burdens lift from my shoulders.

“The stash,” Mason repeats. “I promised the old man that I would break him off after he got me through this rocky patch, nawhatImean?”

I nod.

“Okay. Then where is it?” Mason presses.

“Where is what?”

“The money.” His brows crash together.

“Oh. The money,” I blurt, snapping out of my trance. “It's in the basement.”

Mason glances over his shoulder at Eddie. “Sit tight. We'll be right back.”

Together we turn and head down into the cluttered basement. Plowing through the mountains of miscellaneous junk, I lead him to the back brick wall. From there, I feel around for the loose brick. Once found, I claw at it with my fingers. After I get the first one out, it's easy to get the other ten surrounding bricks to get at the steel safe. I punch in the passcode and pull it open.

Mason grabs a few stacks of bundled cash. “Lock the rest of that up,” he instructs before turning and heading out.

I quickly do what he says, but leave the bricks down so that I can rush behind him. Now that he's here, I don't want him out of my sight.

In the living room Mason hands over the money to a stupefied Eddie. A second later, his white picket-fence smile returns to his face and erases ten years off of him. “Thank you—and don't you worry,” Eddie says. “Me and mine know how to keep our mouths shut.”

“You've already proved that.” Mason slaps him hard on his back, and then escorts him to the door. “Now remember, if you need anything . . .”

“We'll give you a call,” Eddie says.

“You got it, man. You're part of the family now. I'll never forget what you've done for me,” Mason says. He opens the door and they exchange their final good-byes.

When he returns to the living room, he stops and flashes a smile. His burned skin crinkles at the edges—but it's still a smile that steals my heart—a smile that I've always loved.

For a long, silent minute, we stare at each other. Then, as if someone has fired a starter pistol, we rush toward each other, our arms wrapping and our lips locking together. I drown in both the taste and smell of him—and yet I need to get closer. I
need
him—inside of me.
Now.

My towel falls to the floor with a soft
whoosh,
while I, suddenly possessing the strength of ten men, rip off his T-shirt and jeans. He's steel hard and rough like I love it.

Lamps, vases, picture frames all crash to the floor as we stumble over an end table. We don't give a fuck. Our minds are gone and our bodies have completely taken over. Neither of us have any time or patience for foreplay. He jams me up against a wall. My legs go east and west around his hips. A second later, his dick impales me with one long, smooth stroke. I gasp as stars explode behind my eyes.

He feels so fucking good.

“Willow, I missed you,” Mason pants before shifting his hot mouth to vacuum-suck my titties.

I want to tell him, “me, too,” but I'm dizzy as hell and I can't get the words out. His dick game goes into overdrive, hammering me into the wall until breathing is no longer possible.

Small explosions begin at my toes and then roll upward, taking over my body limb by limb. When he hits me with that perfect stroke at the perfect time, a scream rips from my soul and my nails dig deep into his shoulders.

Mason's lion-esque roar follows suit and this big brick building of a man trembles while his knees buckle. We cling to each other for dear life while slowly sinking down onto the carpet.

We remain locked together in each other's embrace, too afraid to let go.
I never want to let him go.
Never.