Hustlin' Divas (25 page)

May…

I
t's been six weeks and I still can't believe Baby is dead. When I first received the call, I was in bed and I thought that someone was playing on my phone until I realized that I was talking to Ms. Gracie, Baby's grandma.

“Vivian is dead,” she'd said flatly. “I knew that these damn streets would get her sooner or later. Turned out that it was sooner than I thought.” She hung up the phone.

I continued to lay there with my heart melting out my chest, my head ringing, and tears streaming down my face.
Vivian.
Hard to believe but I never knew Baby's real name. She'd always been Baby Thug or Baby since the day I met her. When did she die? How did she die? When was the funeral? Her grandma didn't tell me any of those things, and she sure as hell didn't wait for me to ask.

I figured she must have gotten my phone number from my mother. I guess it really didn't matter. I was sure I'd find out the information eventually. I did—and when I heard how she died and what was done to her, I was devastated. I couldn't stop looping that last fight with Baby in my head. I remember the angry lines in her face, the clenching of her jaw, and the unmistakable love in her eyes. Baby loved me—probably the only one whoever truly did.

I didn't get out of bed for three days. I never knew that I could cry so hard or for so long. I should've tracked Baby down. I should've tried harder to get her to accept my apology. I should have done so many things.

Today, I stroll through the doors of J. D. Lewis & Son Funeral Home in a black dress and large matching hat, trying to hold it all together. I don't know what I was expecting, but I am stunned at the extremely low turnout—six people. I know that Baby had some beef with her people before they turned her out in the street, but I figured they'd squash that shit at a time like this. The minute I walk through the doors of the property's small viewing room, everyone's eyes zoom toward me. I want to run up out of here, but my gaze sweeps toward Baby's open casket and my legs carry me forward, not backward.

Halfway down the aisle, tears flood my eyes and make it nearly impossible to see straight. Still, I keep moving as if Baby's body is one large magnet. Baby's voice booms in my head:
I ain't good enough for you? Just fuckin' say it!

I step up to the casket and stare down at my best friend. She is beautiful, though she doesn't look anything like the Baby I knew. The mortician had pressed her thick hair straight, and her makeup is impeccably done, even though Baby's beauty regime had been cocoa butter and ChapStick. I have the strangest urge to scrub the shit off and then sit down with my big old jar of Blue Magic and wide-tooth comb and braid her hair the way she liked it.

“I bet she's one of them,” a woman whispers behind me.

“Lawd. It truly is the end of days with all this foolishness. Men sleeping with men and women sleeping with women.”

My ears perk up as I swipe at my tears and glance over my shoulder. However, when my gaze levels on Baby's grandmother, the woman just glares back at me. She reminds me so much of my own mother that my heart shatters into even more pieces.

I touch the swell of my belly and think about my other kids, the ones I'm supposed to be trying to get back, the ones I told myself I was selling my body for.
Only a retarded muthafucka would keep doin' the same thing over and over again and expect different results.
The words are still harsh, and I'm suddenly flooded with so much shame that I nearly drop on the spot. Forcing myself to stand, I can't help but ask myself,
What the fuck have I been doing with my life?

I turn back toward the casket and can't resist reaching out to touch Baby's face one last time. Yet, when I touch her skin, I'm repelled by its cold waxiness. This isn't Baby. This is just an empty shell.

With grief now as deep as the ocean, I turn away from the casket. The small crowd has now been reduced to just four. Baby's grandmother's eyes are still trained on me. I start back down the aisle, thinking I'm ready to just go home. But I stop in front of Ms. Gracie.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” I whisper.

She glances away from me and stares straight ahead.

“I loved your granddaughter,” I add. “Maybe not the way she wanted me to…but I did love her. I just wanted you to know that.” Her bottom lip trembles, but her eyes remain dry. After that, I bow my head and walk out. However, there's a surprise waiting for me in the foyer: LeShelle.

“Well, well, well. Look at what crawled out of the gutter.” LeShelle, impeccably dressed in a bright red silk dress, strolls toward me with her lips hiked up. Behind her are Pit Bull and Kookie; their gazes are just as hard as their leader's. Glancing around, I see other mourners getting ready to attend a different service in one of the larger rooms. I really wouldn't put it past LeShelle to start some shit up in here.

“What? You ain't got nothing to say, bitch? Or are you waiting for your girlfriend to rise from the grave to save your ass again?”

She stares into my eyes and laughs. The memory of someone picking up Baby's phone the night she was murdered pops into my head. For the first time in my life, I'm speechless. It's not that I don't know that the Gangster Disciples and the Queen Gs are responsible for body-bagging a good number of niggas in Memphis, it's just…this was my best friend.

“Yeah, I thought so,” LeShelle sneers, raking her gaze over me like I'm something she just scrubbed off the bottom of her shoe. “You ain't me. You ain't never gonna be me. And you're not always gonna be pregnant.” Slowly, she walks closer to me and then whispers, “Ticktock.”

A
rzell moved out.

I should've known that he would've been a bit sensitive about a little thing like my ass being married. Hell, I thought his ass knew. Everybody knows that my man, Isaac, is in the fed serving a twenty-year bid for drug trafficking and shit. I can't visit or nothing 'cause of my own record. We talks sometimes, about once a week, depending on whether his ass is in the hole for some macho bullshit that always goes on in the joint. One thing for sure, my man writes some beautiful letters. Shit he can't ever seem to say in person, but that's all right.

As far as me messing around with other niggas, all I can say is turn around is fair play. All those years he creeped out on me have finally come back to bite him on the ass. I can't say that he's completely cool with the shit, but I let it be known that I don't have the kind of pussy that can just chill on ice for twenty-something goddamn years, and the last time I checked, neither can his dick. So in the end, we just don't ask who the other is fucking and leave it at that.

Everybody's fucking happy.

Well, not everybody. Arzell can't play in his lane, so I told him to get the fuck out. To make myself feel a little better, I been taking these long peach-scented bubble baths and spending plenty of time down at FabDivas, getting my hair and nails done. On my drive back, I glance over at a car at the light and nearly piss in my pants when I see my parole officer, Cedric Robinson.

Is this muthafucka on his way to my place? Shit. I glance around, trying to think of a shortcut back to my place. If I get caught out and about without my electronic monitoring, my ass is heading back to jail and I ain't having that shit.

The light turns green, and I bank a right, jamming my foot on the accelerator. Because I've been the driver in my fair share of getaway cars, I'm floating and hugging street corners like a beast. I almost clip a couple of corner boys, but they recognize my ride and keep their gats at their sides.

I fishtail onto Shotgun Row with my tires squealing and my heart leaping into my throat.
Go, go, go.
Now, I don't know what the hell I was thinking when I left the house using my other prosthetic. Well, okay. Maybe I didn't think the electronic tag went with my outfit, but that shit seems silly now that I may be arrested if I don't beat my PO back to my house.

My house comes into view and I slam on the brakes, causing a thick cloud of smoke to engulf my car. But I don't give a shit because I'm jumping out of the muthafucka and racing toward my front door like a runaway slave.

“Damn, Momma Peaches. Where the fire at?” Rufus hollers out from down the way.

“It's coming up behind me.” I wiggle my key into the lock and then sprint inside. Two minutes later, there's a knock on the front door and I'm just barely getting my shit together. Then the knocking becomes a hammering.

“I'M COMING!” I press my skirt down and rush back to the front door. This nigga is still out there banging like he's trying to knock the door off its hinges. “I SAID I'M COMING!” I snatch open the front door and force a smile on my face.

Cedric Robinson, with his fine redbone ass, turns his head from the shenanigans going on in the streets to smile at me and remove his shades. His green eyes remind me of Manny, and I'm transported back each and every time I see him. “Mrs. Goodson. I hope I'm not disturbing you this morning.”

I'm chugging in deep breaths and praying my ass don't pass the fuck out.

Mr. Robinson frowns. “You been running?”

I keep my smile in place. “Only to the door.”

He nods as his full, sexy lips split into a smile. “Mind if I come in?” he asks, even though he's already shouldering his way past me.

“Sure. Make yourself at home.” I wink. I have to admit I like flirting with my parole officer. I'm sure all his female parolees do the same thing. He's just that goddamn fine.

He immediately starts looking around, like I'm one of those dumb hustlers who keeps her shit out with a glowing neon sign that says
arrest me.
“How have you been doing, Maybelline?”

“Fine. And I told you to call me Peaches.” I close the door and then just watch this muthafucka perform his half-ass inspection. I ain't gonna lie. I'm picturing his ass naked and wondering if he takes pussy payment for parole fees. How can I not? There's so much about him that has my ass reminiscing. His walk. His talk.

“Where's your lil boyfriend at?” he asks, turning toward me. “He's usually up in here eating pancakes when I come by.”

“Out. Probably playing on someone else's playground by now.” I fold my arms and hope he picks up on the hint that I don't want to talk about Arzell's ass.

That gets a laugh out of him. “You do like them young, huh?”

I rake my eyes over him again and guesstimate him to be in his forties, maybe fifties. “I like them with strong backs and big dicks—not necessarily in that order.”

His laugh deepens, and even that shit sounds familiar. “Well, I can see why the kiddies are attracted to you. You're a woman who definitely believes in keeping herself up.”

“Big dicks do a body good.”

He shakes his head. “You're a hot mess.” He kneels before me and starts checking my electronic tag.

“Nah. What I am is turned the fuck on. So unless you want a mouthful of pussy right now, you might want to hurry up reading that tag and get off your knees.” Now, I'm just fucking with this muthafucka, so I'm completely thrown off guard when he slides a finger under my skirt, all the way up to my wet panties.

“You mean this pussy right here?”

His green eyes light up, and that old feeling hits me again. “Who your people?” I ask. “Were you born in Memphis?”

“I'm on my knees squeezing your pussy and you wanna ask me where I'm from?”

“You just remind me of someone I used to know.” I reach down and caress the side of his face. “Someone I knew a long time ago.”

Cedric turns his head and kisses the palm of my hand. “I was born and raised here. My momma was Eugenia Robinson. She passed away about ten years back.”

“And your dad?”

“Never knew him. He passed away before I was born. The way everybody tells it, Papa was a rolling stone. He was a musician—a saxophone player who used to play with the usual suspects down on Beale back in the day.”

No shit, it feels like my heart just fell out of my chest. “Manny?”

“Emmanuel Brooks.” He cocks his head. “Did you know him?”

“I don't believe this shit. Hell yeah I knew him.” I bust out with a big ole smile while I stare into Cedric's eyes again. He didn't get everything from his daddy, but the resemblance is there. I feel myself tearing up and force myself to back away.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.” Cedric climbs to his feet, and for the first time since I've been assigned to him, an awkward silence hangs between us. “Um, I guess I got everything I need. Maybe I should go.”

“No. That's not necessary. You just threw me for a loop. That's all.” I suck in a deep breath. Manny's son. Here in my house. “In fact,” I say, collecting myself and taking his hand, “I think maybe we should try to get to know each other better.”

P
rom night.

It seems like I've been waiting for this night for forever—especially since I've been grounded for most of the damn school year. It doesn't matter that Profit and I still get in our little dirt: school, secret meetings at the public library, and his constant sneaking into my bedroom in the middle of the night. What choice did we have? We are in love. What surprises me is that Tracee and Reggie act like they don't understand shit. They made it clear that they want me to concentrate only on doing my studies and getting into college.

No boys.

No thugs.

No gangsters.

Since the shooting at the hospital, things ain't been right between us, and shit at school is even worse. The Queen Gs have clearly removed my veil of protection, and the Flowers have lowered a new, tenuous one—despite my slicing up Qiana. But word came down from Fat Ace himself, and that immediately shut down all beefs and past grievances.

The streets are still blazing more than ever with the Vice Lords making up ground like a muthafucka. Everybody is popping and everyone is dropping on both sides of the aisle, to the point that sideline niggas doubt the shit is ever going to end—especially me and Profit.

The school board is taking more drastic security measures, to the point that it seems easier getting in and out of Fort Knox than Morris High School. For a hot minute, it was rumored that they were going to scrap prom night altogether, but then the students raised so much hell that they had to backtrack.

I'm relieved. It's the one night I can break out of my suburban cage and participate in something that resembles me having a life. Now, the school green-lighting the prom and my foster parents giving me permission to go are two different things. The first time I brought the subject up, Reggie went from looking like David Banner to the Incredible Hulk in like two seconds. He wasn't having it.
No way, no how,
is what he shouted for like forever. In the end, it was Tracee who ran interference and seriously campaigned for me to go.

It didn't look like the shit was working until Tracee cut his stubborn ass off and made him sleep on the couch in the living room. That surprised me. You'd think she was the one who was going to miss out on the prom.

Three days later, Reggie stood in my door, looking a hot mess. “All right, if I'm going to agree to this, there's going to be a few rules.”

Excited, I jumped up from my desk, raced over, and threw my arms around Reggie. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

“Wait. Wait.” He threw up his arms. “You haven't heard the rules yet.”

“I don't care. I'm going! TRACEE!” I released him and took off running down the hall. “HE SAID I CAN GO!”

“Wait, Ta'Shara.”

“What's this?” Tracee stepped out of her bedroom, only for me to nearly knock her down.

“I can go! I can go! I can go!”

Tracee's excited squeals matched my own as we became a tangle of jumping arms and elbows. “Oh, baby. I'm so happy for you.”

Reggie was left sputtering in the hallway. It wasn't until we had returned with three different dresses to model for him that he finally set down a few ground rules. “This young man
will
pick you up here and introduce himself.”

“You just want to interrogate him,” I charge.

“Exactly,” Reggie said, no shame to his game at all. “
Also,
he will return you back to this house by midnight. Not twelve-ten or twelve-o-one.
Midnight.
”

“But—”

“No
buts.
Take it or leave it.”

I look to Tracee, hoping for an interception, but Tracee slides underneath her husband's arm, signifying their unity. Still, I try to negotiate a two a.m. curfew, but that shit wouldn't fly at all. It is midnight or nothing at all.

Now it's the big night. I settle on a sparkly, sky-blue, one-shoulder number that hugs my toned curves like a second layer of skin. When I model the dress for my foster parents, Tracee breaks out the camera while Reggie looks like he's just seconds from having a heart attack.

“I do not like this,” Reggie mumbles, shaking his head and rubbing his chest. “I just got a bad feeling about all this.”

Tracee laughs. “Will you calm down? I don't remember you complaining so much when you took me to our junior prom.”

“I'm not going to even dignify that statement with a response.”

Ding-dong!

“He's here!” Tracee and I squeal excitedly, and start jumping up and down.

Reggie rolls his eyes.

“Go answer the door,” Tracee says, shooing her husband out of my bedroom. “And don't scare the boy away,” she warns. “Be nice.”

“Uh-huh.” He strolls off, shaking his head. This whole thing is giving him indigestion, but by the time he gets to the front door, he has his game face on and is ready to put Profit in the hot seat. He jerks open the door and is temporarily thrown off guard when he see that Profit is taller than him by a good four inches. Not only that, but he has also cleaned up well. In a tux, Profit looks grown—at least, too old for high school.

“Good evening, Mr. Douglas,” Profit greets, jetting out a hand and holding a corsage.

Reggie looks at the hand but doesn't accept it. Instead, he glances down at his watch. “You're a few minutes early.”

“Yes, sir.” He smiles. “I figured you'd probably want to spend a few minutes grilling me before Ta'Shara and I head out.”

“Smart man.” Reggie steps back from the door and allows Profit to enter. “C'mon in. Let's get this grilling started.”

Profit crosses the threshold, determined to play it cool. After all, it's the first time he's entered the house by the front door. “What a nice home you have here, Mr. Douglas.”

“Thank you,” Reggie says tersely. “Take a seat.”

Drawing a deep breath, Profit does as he's told and continues to smile.

Reggie remains standing. “So you're the young man Ta'Shara stole my car to race to the hospital in the middle of the night to see?”

Profit clears his throat. “Um, yes. I'm sorry about that, sir.”

“Sorry?” Reggie crosses his arms. “Are you saying that you
told
her to steal the car?”

“Oh, no, sir. I would never encourage Ta'Shara to do something like that.”

“Uh-huh.” He holds Profit's dark gaze. “How did you come to get shot in the first place?”

“You don't have to have a reason when you live in Memphis.”

Reggie cocks his head at the smart-aleck response.

Profit tries again. “I was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. Police shot me but then had to drop the charges when they realized they fucked—I mean, when they realized they made a mistake.”

Reggie stares him down. “
Profit.
That can't be what your momma named you. What's your government name?”

“Raymond. Raymond Lewis.”

“Raymond.” Reggie bobs his head. “Nice, normal name.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“So what is it that your parents do,
Raymond
?”

For the first time, Profit appears to be a little lost for words.

“You do have parents, don't you?”

“Um, yes, sir.” Profit sits the corsage down on the coffee table and clasps his hands together. “My mother lives in Atlanta. She, um, works at a doctor's office, and my dad, well, he and my brother own a funeral parlor.”

Reggie's brows hike up at that, but before he can question Profit further, I make my grand entrance.

Profit jumps to his feet, his pearly white smile stretching from ear to ear. “Wow,” he says, drinking me in. “You look beautiful.”

I blush. “Thank you.” It's odd. I feel like some fairy-tale princess getting ready to go to a ball. It's even stranger to see my man decked out in black tux and looking
GQ
fine.

A light flashes and nearly blinds me. “Okay, I think we have enough pictures,” I joke, trying to get my vision back.

“No. No. We need some with you and your date.” Tracee waves Profit over while she leans over and whispers, “He's cute.”

Still smiling, Profit picks up the corsage and fumbles with the plastic casing as he walks over to me. My knees weaken when a whiff of Sean John's Unforgivable tickles my nose.
Oh, yeah. He's definitely going to get some tonight.

Tracee snaps pictures while Profit awkwardly pins my corsage to the left side of my dress, right over my heart. Our eyes lock for a moment, which, of course, Tracee catches on camera.

“Are you ready to go?” he asks.

“Absolutely.” I loop my arm through his and barely restrain myself from kissing Profit in front of my foster parents. “We better go,” I whisper.

Profit nods and then turns toward Tracee and Reggie. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Douglas.”

“It was nice to meet you, too,” Tracee gushes, following us to the door.

“Make sure you have her back here by midnight,” Reggie stresses. “I wouldn't want you to have to take another trip to the hospital.”

Tracee and I gasp while Profit takes the threat in stride with a laugh. “Yes, sir. You can count on me.”

Reggie gives him a look that lets him know just how much he trusts him.

Once we're out of the house and walking toward the stretch limousine, Profit wraps an arm around my curvy waist and pulls me close. “The things I do for you, girl.”

“Just wait until you see the things I'm going to do
to
you later on.”

“As long as you do it before midnight, you'll have yourself a happy man.”