Natural Born Liar: The Misadventures of Mink LaRue

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Authors: NOIRE

BOOK: Natural Born Liar: The Misadventures of Mink LaRue
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Also by Noire
 
Maneater
(with Mary B. Morrison)
 
 
Lifestyles of the Rich and Shameless
(with Kiki Swinson)
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
NATURAL BORN
 
Liar
 
NOIRE
 
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
 
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
This urban erotic tale is dedicated to my friends and family who watch my back, protect me from the noise, and allow me to do this thang in my own unique way every single day.
And to all the Mink LaRues out there who are enjoying a few crazy misadventures of their own, I lubya!
Acknowledgments
 
As usual, all props go to the Father above for blessing me with originality and creativity. Thanks to Missy, Black, Nisaa, Man, Jay, Reem, Ree, and my entire team for all you do behind the scenes to help make me a success. Big ups to my UETBC fam, and all my loyal readers and friends for hopping on the urban erotic train every time it pulls into the station.
 
 
 
Muahhhh!
 
Noire
WARNING!
 
This here ain’t no romance
It’s an urban erotic tale
A gwap is up for grabs
And Mink is gunnin’ for that mail!
A missing kid was on a carton
Real cute and rich and smiling,
Mink looked into the mirror
And straight pictured herself styling!
She hopped a flight with Bunni
So they could gank on her fake fam,
They bust up in da mansion
Tryna cop a hunnerd grand!
Mink took a DNA test
Just to prove her story true,
But the boss man peeped her hustle
Even from the ICU
So this here ain’t no romance
Y’all gold diggers know how we do!
Hop aboard this urban train
With con-mami Mink LaRue!
CHAPTER 1
 
The Rip-Off
 
P
ussy sold for pennies on the dollar on Friday nights in Harlem, and if you were looking for a couple of hot whirly-whirlies, then Club Wood was damn sure the place to be. Located on a busy corner off 125th Street, Wood stayed packed out with coochie-sniffin’ niggas who were deep on the prowl, and some of the baddest bitches in the city of New York stripped, danced, and hosted private fuck-fests in the club’s back rooms.
I had twirled around the strip poles earlier in the day, but I was taking the night off so I could collect some dough from a mark that me and my best friends, Peaches and Bunni, had recently ganked.
We’d schemed up a plan to lure a switch-hittin’ old head into a motel room, then we snapped a bunch of shots of him sporting a sexy red bra and taking some real thick pipe up his ass.
Dude was a high-profile principal at a private boys’ school and he didn’t want no trouble. He didn’t want no publicity neither, and in less than five minutes he had agreed to give up twenty g’s to stop a picture of his hairy balls from being posted to his teenaged daughter’s Facebook page.
The lick had gone down perfectly, and I was chillin’ at the bar sipping slut juice and congratulating myself for a job well done when outta nowhere I caught a funny vibe.
Something wasn’t right.
I got the feeling I was being watched. I had a bag full of blackmail dough slung over my shoulder, and something in my gut told me to get the fuck up outta Dodge.
I slid down from the barstool and broke for the door, but Hova’s latest banga came on, and every pole freak in the house broke out in a mass stanky stroll. The strippers jumped down from the stage and hit the floor rolling hard, booties twerkin’, hips grindin’, stroking their pussies and sending a wave of horny niggas rushing down the aisles straight toward me.
WHO GON’ STOP ME? WHO GON’ STOP ME, HUH?
I crashed into about thirty sweaty niggas as I pushed through the crowd and tried to fight my way outside. I was shaking fools offa me left and right as their horny asses pulled me in all directions and tried to feel me up. A few of my regular customers offered to get me toasted, some wanted me to slide over in the corner so we could smoke some yay, and even more begged me to go in the back room and hit ’em with my patented-move, double-hump lap dance.
Somehow I made it past them, and I was
this close
to getting my ass outta there when a strong hand clamped down on my shoulder and a deep voice boomed, “Excuse me, ma’am.”
I almost shit. I didn’t know if I should turn around swinging or make another break for the door, but I knew I was busted. The twenty racks I had just hustled from that principal felt like a ton of bricks weighing down my bag. This was supposed to be an easy little gank, and I couldn’t believe that greasy old dick-rider had called the cops on me!
Getting arrested was gonna cause some real big problems for me. I was already on probation for writing bad checks, and a thousand lies flew through my head as I thought about the bus ride to Rikers I was about to take.
“I said, excuse me, ma’am,” the deep voice boomed behind me again, “but is your name Nicki Minaj?”
I spun around so fast my pink-and-blond Chinese bangs swished across my forehead. I eyeballed the hand that was still gripping my shoulder. It sported a five-thousand-dollar platinum Versace ring on the pinkie finger, and I’d seen that fourteen-thousand-dollar Rolex Prince Cellini on sale at a jewelry store on Broadway.
“Oh! My bad.” Dude busted a grin as he checked me out. I was styling pussy-pink from the top of my Glama-Glo wig all the way down to my toenails, and it was real obvious that he was feeling my flow. “You look
just like
Mizz Minaj from the back, but you’re even finer than she is in the face.”
I stunted on him. I was a con-mami, a pole dancer, and under the right circumstances I could be a big-ass thief. A chick like me had ninety-nine hustles but a rap star wasn’t one of ’em.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I checked him out right back. Dude was handling his. He had pretty brown skin and real white teeth. His dome was freshly-lined and he stood at least six-five.
My eyes rolled over his gear as I added up his digits. Chocolate-brown Polo shirt, baggy jeans, Cool Grey Jordans. Uh-huh. He was thuggin’ it and I was lovin’ it. Papa was stackin’ some real mean paper and he wasn’t shy about flossin’ it. I could almost see the fat money knots swelling up in his pockets and the hard piece of wood that was starting to rock up in his drawers too.
“I’m serious.” He grinned again and hit me with his dimples. “I didn’t mean no disrespect, shawty. You just look so damn fly, so damn ...
New York.
For real. My bad.”
His mistake was understandable because my shit was put together super-tight. I was rocking Fendi from my diamond-trimmed pink shades down to my tight pink miniskirt. My jewelry was pink mother-of-pearls from Tiffany’s, and my pink-polished toenails looked nice and suckable in my peep-toe heels.
“No problem.” I grinned and played it sexy-classy. “Men take me for Nicki Minaj all the time.”
“Hell, yeah, with that kinda body I bet the fuck they do,” he growled. His voice was full of mad appreciation as he introduced himself. “My name is Dajuan,” he said. “Dajuan Latrell Sullivan. What’s yours?”
“They call me Tasha,” I lied, sliding my shades off so he could peep my hazel eyes. “Tasha Pierce.”
“Look, I don’t mean to come at you, Tasha, but I’m just visiting here tonight. Me and my brother own a club in Philly and we’re thinking about opening up a joint around here pretty soon too. You look like you know this city. Can I buy you a drink so we can kick it for a while?”
A businessman? A club owner? I was definitely down for that!
“Nah, I don’t think so,” I fronted. “I don’t drink with strange dudes. For all I know you could be the Harlem River Strangler.”
He laughed and pulled out a business card. “I’m a balla, not a killer,” he said, passing it to me. “That’s real talk. Look, I ain’t tryna push up on you, I just want some good conversation, that’s all. I ain’t askin’ you for no lap dance or nothing like that. I got a nice little spot over in the VIP joint, and we can have a few drinks together and then I’ll have my driver drop you off anywhere you wanna go. You feelin’ that?”
“Your driver?” I played him off, but I had never been the type to turn my back on a knockin’ opportunity.
He looked through the glass doors and pointed toward the corner where a shiny black limo was parked right at the curb. An old white man was sitting behind the wheel, and when Dajuan waved at him the old man smiled and waved back.
I glanced down at his business card. The lights in the club were pretty dim, but I could tell it was made of thick, cream-colored card stock with heavy gold trim. The initials D.L.S. were scripted and embossed in large red letters, and a bunch of other words were printed on it real small.
That right there did it. I felt a rush coming on. God, I loved this fuckin’ hustle! Hoodwinking niggas felt as good as the first hit on a crack pipe, and I had to stop myself from squealing with excitement. This Philly fool was gwapped out. Swimming in cream! Did I wanna sit in his VIP booth and have a drink with him? Did a wino piss on the stairs?
I shook my head again. I was wide open but I still had a role to play.
“Nah, I can’t. I got other plans for tonight.”
I was praying he’d push up on me just one more time, ’cause I could tell his deep-ass pockets were dying to get tricked out.
“So that’s how y’all treat company around here? A Philly nigga can’t get no Big Apple love?”
My bag was already full of dough, but a hustlin’ chick like me was always good for one more con. I did the math in my head as I let Dajuan hold me by my waist and lead me back through the crowd. I was in debt with some real dangerous cats for some real crazy cash, and this was gonna be a great opportunity to get my weight up. Between his watch and his ring alone I could probably rack up at least ten grand at the pawnshop around the corner.
I switched my plump apple ass toward the VIP booth while Dajuan walked behind me watching it move. He seemed like an all right cat, but he was on the young side too. He was fine, but he didn’t look like no genius. I was planning on getting his horny ass naked and doing a quick little dip and zip. Peaches and Bunni were expecting me to show up at the crib soon, and I figured I could lure Dajuan into the hotel next door and get the whole bizz over and done with in less than an hour.
I slid into the VIP booth just a’ crackin’ up inside. Somebody’s mama shoulda warned him about pickin’ up strangers ’cause this was about to be a mismatch. But what the hell
ever
! Niggas these days were just beggin’ to get got, and even with a pocketbook full of cash I could always find time to roll an unsuspecting mark with nothing but pussy on his brain!

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