Hustlin' Divas (4 page)

T
he music from Momma Peaches's welcome-home party is bumping so hard all the walls up and down Shotgun Row are jumping and trembling. But nobody says shit because everybody loves Peaches—me included. As far as I'm concerned, Peaches is like a second momma, only better. She has always tried to look out for me, despite the fact that I'm a little hardheaded. Still, I have nothing but love for the feisty old lady.

Back in the day, she saved me from my drunk, no good daddy (though I found out years later that he really wasn't my daddy) when he came at me with a broken beer bottle. Peaches had stepped in, bold as you please, asking him what the hell he thought he was going to do with that bottle. Daddy charged toward Peaches. However, Peaches had something for his ass. Instead of slicing her up,
he
got sliced. Hell, she was so fast, nobody even saw when she'd reached for her blade. It was just swish-swish-swish—like some old Zorro shit, and the nigga went down, grabbing his face and hollering like a bitch.

My momma, Betty, was pissed about that shit, and to this day blames Peaches for chasing her man off.

“Shit. Betty should be grateful—I did her ass a favor,” Peaches would always say whenever Betty's venom dripped into her ears.

I agree.

I don't even remember how old I was when the shit went down. My
daddy
had already banged me up pretty bad because he claimed I'd back talked him. Maybe I did, maybe I didn't—I don't remember. However, I
do
remember laughing my ass off when Peaches lopped the nigga's ear off.

Peaches looked at me like I was crazy. But the shit was just funny. After that, people up and down Shotgun Row started saying that my elevator didn't quite reach the top. Teachers told Betty on the regular that I was slow and needed to be on Ritalin. Keeping it real, the shit was just a legal high and turned me into a zombie.

Teachers and the neighborhood kids still called me slow no matter how hard I tried to be like them. There was nothing I wouldn't do to be popular. I used to let people borrow what few good clothes and toys my momma scraped up only for them not to return them or fuck them up before giving them back. In junior high, a few of the kids were curious about my Ritalin, so I let them try it. I got into some major shit for that. Soon after, a boy I liked, Jimmy Gaines, gave me a box of Lemonheads to let him put his dick in my mouth. I did it—and then the next day another boy asked, and then another.

I finally became popular—at least with the boys. They even gave me the nickname Lemonhead.

I didn't care. Boys loved me, especially when my body started to resemble a Coke bottle, and I proved that I was a certified freak when it came to sexing the 6 poppin' crew. School turned out not to be my thing; books always hurt my head. So I dropped out in the ninth grade and started hustling. When my momma couldn't afford my medication, I turned to the street shit and found it all made me feel about the same.

But now I'm tired of just being a mule, hauling shit everywhere and spreading my legs for every foot solider in Python's crew and getting next to nothing for my troubles. I might not be book smart, but I know that shit ain't fair. Other bitches started moving up the ranks faster than me, and they didn't do half the shit I did.

My gaze cut across Momma Peaches's living room to where LeShelle is doing her old stripper pole routine all up and down Python's leg. I can't stand that bitch, always flossing shit Python laces her with, thinking that all the Queen Gs are here just to lick her ass. The bitch thinks she's the shit just because she looks half Indian. So? Most of us niggas up in here are mixed with some other shit. Hell, I know my ass is rounder and can clap harder than hers. Ain't that all a bitch needs to lock down a nigga—that and to know they way around the kitchen?

Sure, Python is a little hard on the eyes, and he does freak me out with all those damn snakes, but being with his ugly ass means money, power, and respect. There isn't a bitch up in here who isn't feeling that.

He also has a slew of rug rats running around Memphis, and all his baby mommas are laced up nice, rocking Chanel this and Gucci that even if they are still living in different projects. Everybody keeps waiting for her ass to drop another seed, but it's been three years and LeShelle's belly remains empty. Word on the street is that she might be wifey, but she will never be wife with a rotten-ass belly. That's why I'm looking to get in where I fit in.

“Damn, girl. You keep staring at LeShelle, she's going to come over here and smack the taste out your mouth.”

I glance over my shoulder to see KyJuan, one of Python's old road dawgs, flashing his platinum grillz.

“You got a big-ass sign that says ‘HATER' flashing on your forehead. Better turn that shit off before you embarrass yourself,” he jokes above Jay-Z's latest joint while puffing on a blunt so fat it looks like a Cuban cigar.

I calmly reach over and remove the blunt from his mouth and toke on it for a few puffs. “I just don't see what she got that I ain't got. That's all.”

“She keeps the nigga happy. That's all that matters, ain't it?” KyJuan looks down my white, mesh, see-through top, drooling over my large ebony-tipped nipples. “Damn, you believe in advertising your shit, huh?”

“When you got it, you flaunt it, right?”

His gaze roams as he smacks his lips. “Sheeit, girl. How did you get all that ass into those booty shorts?”

“One cheek at a time.” I puff out a ring of smoke and smile into his chocolate eyes. I can tell by how low his eyelids are that he's already fucked up, but I also know that he's higher up the food chain than the wildin' out foot soldiers I usually deal with.

“Is that blood in my carpet?” Momma Peaches harps, squinting down at the floor.

KyJuan props one hand on the wall above my head and continues talking to my titties. “Looky here, are you rolling with anybody here?”

I brush my braided blond extensions back from my face. “No. Why?”

“'Cause I'm thinking about raping your fine ass,” he says, smiling. “Damn titties got my dick hard.” He takes a swig from his beer bottle. “For real, those muthafuckas are staring me straight in my eyes. Hypnotizing a muthafucka.”

I smile. I'm used to getting this kind of reaction from niggas. “You ain't got to do all that, Daddy,” I say in my best seductive schoolgirl voice, which I've perfected. “I'm feeling you, too.”

“For real?” He smacks his lips some more and then glances around. Every inch of the place is crawling with muthafuckas. A few card tables have been propped up, and serious dominoes and poker games are under way. In between those, soldiers are grabbing Queen Gs left and right and are rocking the same two-step no matter what's spitting out the speakers. “Let me holler at you out back.” Without waiting for a response, KyJuan takes my hand and leads me toward the back screen door.

“Damn, Python,” Peaches complains. “I told you to convince Datwon to get out of the game—not shoot his ass.”

Niggas laugh.

“Peaches, how about a dance?” Rufus asks, squeezing in between her and Arzell. Everybody knows he's been sweating Peaches for decades.

“If you don't get your old ass up out of my face!”

The crowd roars again.

There are even more niggas crawling outside, most of them hanging by the grill and food table, loading up on grub like they ain't ate in weeks. The rest are either dancing or leaning against the back fence and swigging down Buds.

“Shit.” KyJuan cups his meat like his hard-on is getting to be too much to handle.

I smile at his frustration. In my head, I'm calculating. If I can lock down a lieutenant like KyJuan, maybe my hustlin' days are over. I can be one of the Queen Gs who spends her time shopping and rocking the latest fashions. This nigga isn't Python, but surely he's the next best thing.

“Ain't no thang, Daddy. I live just a couple of doors down.” I puff out another smoke ring and feel my eyelids go heavy. I look at the blunt and wonder about all the sudden tingling sensations spreading throughout my body. Hell, it was stronger than the shit my best friend, Baby Thug, be rolling. “What's in this shit?”

“Ayo, man. That's a KyJuan specialty blend. My shit going to have you feeling
loverly
.” He rubs on my arm, but then does a sneak wraparound and squeezes my booty. “Damn, girl, you thick as hell.”

I giggle and lick my lips. “C'mon, Daddy. Let me hook you up.” I take him by the hand and then proceed to start stumbling out the yard.

KyJuan laughs. “Aw. You're feeling the shit now, huh?”

I laugh. Saying that I feel good is a serious understatement. At some point while I try moving through the crowd, I'm convinced that I'm not walking but floating through the scene with Lil Wayne's old hot track “Lock and Load” blasting through the street. Suddenly, the air is charged with a different kind of energy—a dangerous energy. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I glance to my left and then to my right.

My gaze locks onto a dusty brown Chevy Impala cruising down the crowded street. Behind the wheel, a short muthafucka with thick cornrows and cheap mirror sunglasses catches my attention and blows my high.
Who's that muthafucka
? But my brain is working slower than usual.

“FORKS UP!” KyJuan yells, shoving a hand against my back, tripping me out of my pumps and sending me careening toward the sidewalk.

I scream just as my exposed skin hits concrete and I scrape a good foot along pebbles, broken glass, and God only knows what else.

POP! POP! POP! POP!

RA-DA-TAT-TAT-TAT!

Bullets fly everywhere.

Startled and hysterical screams fill my ears while I'm still a little dazed and confused. An army of Gangster Disciples pours out the houses on Shotgun Row, guns blazing. There's a loud screech from the Impala's tires, and the evening air is blanketed with the scent of burning rubber.

POP! POP! POP! POP!

RA-DA-TAT-TAT-TAT!

The Impala attempts to make a sharp turn off the street but instead crashes into a parked black Escalade. Disciples proceed to turn the Impala and the three niggas inside it into Swiss cheese. When I sit up, I watch as the dead bodies jump and wiggle around as a barrage of bullets hits them.

“YEAH! YEAH!” KyJuan starts jumping around, throwing his fist in the air. “FUCK THEM NIGGAS UP!” He runs over to the car just as most of 6 poppin' crew are pulling the doors open and jerking bodies out. KyJuan is one of the first to start stomping the niggas into the ground.

I pull myself off the sidewalk and then inspect my legs and arms to see what the damage is. Relieved to find only a few cuts and bruises, I start laughing about the near-death experience.

WHOOSH!

I glance up to see the old Impala now ablaze. I can't feel sorry for those niggas, even if I wanted to. What the hell were they thinking rolling through our hood and attempting to do a massive drive-by? Everybody in Memphis knows that Shotgun Row is the muthafuckin' heart of the Gangster Disciples' territory. Clearly these niggas were trying to impress somebody and got caught up.

KyJuan races back over to me, shooting his gun straight into the air. “YEAH! YEAH! You see that shit?” He stumbles. “Whoa.”

I smile. “For sure. You handled yours, Daddy.”

“Damn straight.” His greedy eyes roam my figure. “I done smoked me some la, capped me some Vice; all I need is some pussy to call it a day.”

I frown as my gaze falls to the blood soaking his T-shirt. “Did you get hit, Daddy?”

KyJuan follows my line of vision and then looks surprised. “Oh shit.” He lowers his gun and pulls up his T-Shirt.

All I can make out is blood and pulverized flesh before he slumps to his knees. “Those muthafuckas!” He swears under his breath, drops his gun, and then passes out.

I stare at my golden ticket to rising up in the Queen Gs and can't believe my eyes. I walk over to him on bruised knees and check for a pulse. When I can't find one, my tears swell. “Now what the fuck am I going to do?”

I
'm high as hell, grinding my hips and clapping my ass in Python's face when these pussy, punk muthafuckas start blasting down Shotgun Row. Next thing I know, my arm is on fire and Python is shoving me to the floor and reaching for his chrome. There isn't even time for me to question what the fuck is happening before he charges the front door with the rest of the set.

But it's hard to keep a good gangsta bitch down. I roll up off the floor and reached for the 9 mm I keep strapped to my right calf. Even Momma Peaches goes for her cast-iron umbrella stand and rises up with an HK SL8 assault weapon, ready to rock-a-bye any nigga who gets in her way.

In the short time it takes for me to hustle my way to the front yard, the brown Impala has crashed and niggas are pulling bodies out of the car and stomping their asses like cockroaches. I start to run over to add my high-heeled pumps into the mix when someone sets that shit on blaze. Niggas whoop and holler, acting like they just got their freedom papers.

“Is y'all sure that's all of them?” Momma Peaches asks, clutching her weapon and peeking around the corner of the front door like some real commando.

I laugh. “Yeah, those trick ass—” From the corner of my eye, I see KyJuan drop like a stone.

“FUCK!” Rage twists Python's face before he plows through a crowd of niggas and hoofs it up the cracked sidewalk.

I race after him. My heart pounds in the center of my throat. Everyone knows that Python and KyJuan have known each other since they were baby seeds. They grew up and blew up together. They were the kings of Shotgun Row, and the thought of some miscellaneous niggas rolling through our block and blasting one of them off their throne is just too much to wrap my brain around.

Python drops to his knees and snatches KyJuan away from the chicken head crouching over him, but it's clear by the way KyJuan flops over and the amount of blood painting the concrete that the Grim Reaper has collected one king and is marching him toward heaven's ghetto.

“Fuck these muthafuckas!” Python jumps up and throws punches in the air. “I want to know who the fuck sanctioned this shit, and then we ride the fuck out.”

“Vice, man,” a foot soldiers says. “I know I've seen that one dude dumping and running with those dirty niggas. You feel me?”

“McGriff,” Python hollers as he heads back toward the burning Impala. “Verify this shit. Are those niggas tagged?”

An army of Disciples launch an immediate search of the two dead bodies that had been pulled from the wreckage. There are no flags, and none of the tats identify a gang affiliation.

“These muthafuckas are clean.”

“What the fuck?” Python reaches their side and performs his own search. “You ain't going to tell me that these niggas just decided to pop off down here by they damn selves.”

“Could've been just an initiation stunt,” McGriff offers, shaking his head, his hand still clutching his chrome.

Python lifts his foot back and delivers a hard, swift kick to one of the dead man's head. It's clear he's hot. Heat rolls off of him in waves. “These muthafuckas had names. I want them, plus where they lived, who they people is—you feel me? And if we get
any
muthafuckin confirmation that Fat Ace's ass had anything to with this shit here, we're blazing this city up. Six poppin' five droppin' tonight, baby. You feel me?”

“I feel you, man.” The men fist pound.

With flames and black soot coiling up toward the darkening sky, Python turns his attention to the hundred deep surrounding him. His six-foot-five frame suddenly looks ten feet tall as he starts looking niggas one by one in the eye. “This shit here won't stand. Niggas got us confused if they think they can roll down our shit, disrespecting Shotgun Row or any other block we got on lock.” His black eyes cast back up a ways, where his road dawg still lay in the street. “Somebody get something to cover my nigga up. Show some muthafuckin' respect!”

A few Queen Gs scramble to carry out the order.

Python sniffs one time, but no tears drop from his eyes. “Niggas want to blast, we blast. We going to let the muthafuckas who are behind this shit know that they started a war! You feel me?”

“HELL YEAH!”

“We will not rest until we earth every one of those grimy muthafuckas!”

“HELL YEAH!”

The crowd of blue and black cheer their agreement, and some even shoot off a few bullets into the air.

I smile, loving how my man commanded everyone's attention and respect. As I start to pump my fist into the air, that fiery pain surges back into my arm. How in the hell did I forget about that? I glance down and suck in a sharp breath as I notice my thin, bubble-gum-pink top darken with blood.

“Shit!” With my right hand still holding my nine, I use the tip of my pinky finger to pull up my short sleeve and reveal my gushing wound. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

Despite the amped-up crowd, I catch Python's attention. In a flash, he's standing next to me, examining the wound. After a sec, one corner of his thick lips quirks up. “I can take care of this for you, Ma.”

I try to smile back, but my arm feels like straight fire now, and as sure as my ass is black, I know every member of the Queen Gs is watching me, so the option of crying like a bitch is completely taken off the table. To clamp down on the pain, I grind my teeth together as Python leads me back through the crowd to Momma Peaches's spot.

“Get the fuck out of the way!” Python shouts, storming through the front door.

Niggas part like his ass is Moses.

We make a beeline to the kitchen.

“Let me get my shit,” Momma Peaches says, returning my weapon back to its hiding spot before rushing for the first-aid kit.

“I need some ice,” Python says calmly.

Baby Thug, a short, thuggish shawty just barely kissing five feet with little mosquito bites for titties, quickly jerks open a couple of cabinets, grabs a large Glad bag, and then fills it with ice. Shortly after, the bag is pressed to my bullet wound.

I hiss but still manage to fight back tears.

Python's chest swells with pride. “That's right, Shelle. You can handle this shit.” He takes my gun from my clenched hand and sets it on the counter.

Momma Peaches whirls onto the scene like a hurricane. “How we doing in here?” She pops open the white box and starts pulling out bandages and medical tape.

“We're numbing the shit up,” Python says, moving to the stove and turning on an eye.

“Good. Good.” She turns toward the crowd at the kitchen door. “One of you niggas get me some alcohol. Either Scotch or some whiskey.”

“Get me something for her to bite down on—a stick or something,” Python adds as he sets a large knife on the glowing stove eye.

Fear knots in my chest. My heart races. My head spins.

“Don't worry, baby. I'm about to fix you on up.” He moves back to my side and removes the ice bag. “That's long enough with that.” Python produces a second knife and runs it under some cold water from the sink. “Now this shit might hurt for a minute, but you man up, baby. A'ight?”

I nod.

“Here you go, man.” Lethal, another lieutenant, steps up with a nasty little stick. He doesn't even bother to wipe off the dirt and bugs.

Momma Peaches notices my scrunched-up face and snatches the stick from Lethal's hand and runs it under the sink. “Better?” she asks.

I nod, though all I want to do is scream for them to get the fuck away from me. The stick is shoved into my mouth with Momma Peaches's simple instruction to “Bite down.”

Python smiles and wraps one of his large hands around my wounded arm and lifts it so that he can have a better look. Then I watch as the cold, wet knife descends to my arm like a hawk. In the next second, my entire world is nothing but pain as Python's knife digs around in my arm.

I growl and hiss, and then my teeth clamp down so hard that the stick snaps in half—but not a muthafuckin' tear drops.

“That's right, Shelle. Hang in there. I almost got it.”

When the bullet eases out of my bloody arm, I expect some relief, but it doesn't happen. Blood continues to gush and the pain is relentless.

“C'mon over here by the sink,” Python says.

Momma Peaches removes the knife from the stove's eye.

I spit the sticks out of my mouth and try to walk on legs that feel like they are filled with Jell-O. By sheer will alone, I make it over to the sink with my audience doubling in size.

“Goddamn.” One bitch winces. “Shouldn't we be getting her ass to a doctor or something?”

Python leans my arm over the sink and reaches for the bottle of Scotch. “Take a deep breath.”

Again, I follow orders, but damn near faint when the first drops of liquor splash against my arm. Suddenly Momma Peaches is right there to help hold me up. Still, I don't scream or cry.

But the comments from the peanut gallery continue. “Aw, hell naw.”

“Sheeit!”

“Yeah, that's my gangsta bitch right here. Niggas, y'all checking this shit out? Is my girl a solider or what?”

There's a rumble of agreement and even a few cheers for me to hang in there.

“Some of y'all could learn a thing or two,” he boasts as he splashes Scotch all over my arm. “I ain't going to call out no names, but I know a few of y'all would be hollering my damn ear off right about now.”

“Not me!”

“Nuh-uh!”

Python rolls his eyes and then sets the bottle aside.

My ego doesn't even trip. It takes all I have just to hang on.
You can do this. You can do this
. I repeat the words until I start to believe it. But then Python reaches for the heated knife his aunt has taken off the stove. Tears finally rise up and sting my eyes, but I blink those muthafuckas back as I watch Python bring the knife closer.

He licks his lips with his snakelike tongue. Python loves inflicting pain. It doesn't matter on whom. “Now I'm going to seal this shit up. A'ight?”

I draw in a sharp breath and summon courage from parts of my body that I didn't know existed before I finally give Python the nod to go ahead.
You can do this. You can do this
. Yet, doubt starts creeping up my spine.
You can do this. You can do this.

“Look at me, baby,” Python commands.

My jittering gaze makes its way up to my man's black eyes, and a strange calm settles over me as I stare into his soulless depths.

“Ready?” he asks.

I swallow as sweat blankets my face. “Ready.”

Python presses the scorching knife against my skin.

My head explodes with pain while the sound of my skin sizzling fills my head. A scream rips from my throat before I have a chance to stop it. But it isn't a bitch scream. It is more guttural and Herculean—like a nigga trying to bench-press twice his body weight.

More importantly, no tears fall.

Pride polishes Python's black eyes as he finishes sealing my wound and then wrapping my arm up with a tight gauzy bandage. When it is all over, he stands and inspects his work as police sirens fill the air. “You're a bad bitch, baby.” His face twists into a menacing smile as he tilts up my chin. “Don't ever let anyone tell you different.” He leans down and slithers his forked tongue into my mouth for a kiss.

I smile against his thick lips.
Damn straight, I am—and don't
you
ever forget it.