Sex in the Hood Saga (15 page)

Duke watched his Duchess' juicy ass pop as she walked in her baby blue velour pants toward the glass elevators. Those two fat, round bubbles of undeniably black booty were the perfect size to squeeze like ripe melons then bounce, bite and bury his face in.

Her ass had personality. The way it rose up with every step on her long giraffe legs then lowered down when she stepped with the other leg, it was like two giant pens handwriting a secret love note that said, “Come get this good pussy, but only if yo' name is Duke.”

Timbo felt like a big, heavy log. One look at Duchess' booty, it was instantly rock-hard, because she had just as much attitude in her ass as she had on her face.

This chick crazy.

She still didn't have a clue who she was talking to, or what she was dealing with. Or what kind of bank just dropped into her sexy-ass lap. But she would in a minute.

It would be the ultimate power potion that would rule, coast to coast. And so it was written, and so it was done.

“Massa Duke,” Beamer whispered, “I cain't b'lieve how you lettin' her disrespec' you.”

She turned around, looking straight in Beamer's eyes.

“I hate girls who are scared to speak up,” Duchess said. “Meek, mild, letting others make decisions for them. My parents taught me to be a very take-charge person.” She started to turn around, but looked back at Beamer. “And what do you know about self-respect when you call another person Master? Emancipation Proclamation of 1864. You should look it up.”

Beamer's goofy eyes looked like hardboiled eggs, they were so big right now. He looked at Duke, but Duke was staring at Duchess. He was smiling down into her big, silver-blue eyes. He loved how she handled herself.

“I still have my integrity,” she said.

“An' you got The Duke, yo' black knight in shinin' armor,” Duke said.

Beamer stared at her like he was so shocked he couldn't see straight, and he said, “You so pretty you hard to look at. Like how a man s'pose to look in them eyes an' think wit' his head?”

Duke smiled. “Maybe you can't, ma'fucka, but The Duke ain't got a problem.”

Duke laughed, leading Duchess into the glass elevator near the staircase. He and Beamer dropped some names of musicians, comedians, and athletes that Warrior Protection provided security for, including a highly promoted concert that night.

“If I work for you,” Victoria said as the elevator rose, “I want you to agree to pay my college tuition. I'm supposed to be at U of M right now. That's my number one priority. The lawyers said my college fund is gone, so I need to find another source.”

Duke stared down with amused eyes. She wouldn't need college after she got her undergrad degree in Dukeology, her masters in Streetology and her PhD in Babylonology.

“And one more thing.” She looked up in Duke's eyes with a serious expression. “My dad always stressed, the first thing you do when you enter a deal is establish the out clause.”

“The out clause.” Duke echoed flatly.

Timbo went soft. He couldn't believe this bitch who had nothing but the brains and beauty he needed, who was on a private tour of Babylon that nobody ever got, who was up for a job that a whole lot of niggas would kill for, was talking about an out clause.

“You bold as hell an' don't even know it,” Duke said, staring down at her hard. Her big, silver-blue eyes flashed with defiance but not fear. “A nigga could get jacked for talkin' shit like that to me.”

She blinked. “Shit like what?”

Duke bit down, making his jaw muscles flex. He glared hard at her; she stared back without flinching. Beamer was just as still and silent as he was supposed to be. Part of Duke was amused by her innocence and impressed that she wasn't scared to speak her mind to get the business done. Even with him.

“Damn.” He shivered with self-satisfaction. Timbo surged again. Even his nipples were hard against his shirt. He could take her right now, let all this ridiculous energy he hadn't ever felt before just go wild on her pretty ass. And she'd love it. She would love it. It wasn't a question. Tonight.

“Miss Winston,” he said with a playful business tone. “You know how many ma'fuckas cringe when I look at 'em like that? And you just sittin' there, starin' back? You a triple threat: brains, beauty, and balls as big as mine. You gon' be bad—”

She drew her brows together. “No, I don't want to be bad. At all.”

He smiled. “Bad. That's black for ‘good.”' He laughed long and hard. “You and me gon' be so good together, I'll let you do whateva you want. Go to college, start yo' own bidness—”

“Let?”

Duke nodded slowly. “However you want to do this, it's done. On one condition.”

“What?”

“Yo' name Duchess.”

“My parents named me Victoria Marie Winston.”

“Ain't that the chick the feds is lookin' fo' right about now? The chick who was on the news tonight, bein' left at her Grammomma house? The firs' place they gon' look.”

“Well, obviously,” she said with a slight neck jerk and very attitudinal tone, “I'm not there. I'm here with you in this urban underworld called Babylon.”

The elevator stopped on the second floor, where the doors opened onto the gym. The three of them stepped into the huge expanse of mirrored walls, red mats on the floor, silver-and-black weight machines and rows of cardio equipment. If kissing him at sunset didn't get her ready for the dick-down of the millennium, then this would.

Duchess' eyes were all over the Barriors and B'Amazons, who were pumping iron, jumping rope, doing push-ups and sweating on Stairmasters. Her eyeballs rolled up and down their fine-ass bodies on display in snug shorts and sports bras.

“I love this gym!” Duchess said, swaying to the relentless bass beat booming from the top of the line sound system. “It's huge, and the equipment, it's better than my fitness club. And that was state of the art.”

“You ain't seen nothin' yet,” Duke said as Lee Lee stepped to the front, by the mirrors, and blew her whistle.

All seventy-two of them one of four Squads, filed onto the big open space on the red mats. Standing in three rows of twelve, they peeled off their clothes. Noah and his assistants walked between them with baskets. Everybody tossed their clothing, including shoes, into the basket. Then they walked by with a basket of condoms; all the men took one.

Miss Daisy stared like a mug. She didn't know what the fuck was about to happen. When the first dick, then another, then another came swinging out of so many pairs of shorts, her eyes popped.

Duke bit his lip to stop from laughing. He wanted to tell her to close her mouth, but the way she was looking at all those titties flying loose and all the pretty asses, Duke wished he had a video camera.

Milan. Stupid scheming bitch. Did she really think she could take Duke's video camera and get away with trying to blackmail Duke's boy in her plot to do whatever she thought she was going to do? She had never been more ridiculous than today, fucking Beamer's pudgy ass on camera.

Didn't she know Duke knew everything? The Duke had godlike powers. God was in charge, no doubt. But certain men, like Caesar and Alexander the Great and the Egyptian pharoahs and Moses and Ghandi and Martin Luther King, Jr., they had superhuman powers to help them do what they did. Make change. Rule. Improve people's lives.

So, if gold digging Milan Henderson thought she was going to bring him down by tossing some of that skinny ass at his boy who never turned down pussy, and she was going to use some kinda whack videotape scheme to do it, she was beyond crazy.

That was why she was on lock-down right now, the first step toward booting her out of Babylon. It was going to happen while Miss Daisy was getting schooled on the ways of the world here at this “urban underworld,” as she called it. Duke was sure she had never dreamed she'd be in what she called a “fitness club,” where seventy-two motherfuckers were banging booty like the turbocharged, robo-dicked warriors that The Duke had made their asses into.

The sight of all of them made Duchess gawk. She was creaming those pants like nobody's business. Her pussy was blowing gusts of pheromones, the natural scent that people and animals gave off when in heat.

He inhaled, loving how the hot, sweet fumes of her pussy rose up and tickled his nose. Timbo was rock hard and ready, just like she would be in a minute.

The prison guard who was passing Knight Johnson's cell was the meanest one in the joint. When that hillbilly bastard's face appeared between the bars, Knight focused harder on his book,
As a Man Thinketh
by James Allen. He was on the top bunk, lying on his stomach in the arc of soft light glowing from the mini reading lamp Momma had sent him. The small, yellow book was open to pages sixty and sixty-one, propped up on a fold in the dark blue wool blanket on his bed.

Bang! The guard's baton hit the bars. The guard passed to the next cell and hit their bars.

Knight read his favorite sentence in the book, which he had highlighted in orange, “He who cherishes a beautiful vision, a lofty ideal in his heart, will one day realize it.” It was only being in prison though Knight Johnson was wrongly accused and wrongly convicted, that had prepared Knight's mind to believe and appreciate that incarceration had been a blessing in disguise.

Here at Monroe Prison, in its library, through books, audiotapes, and volunteer tutors, Knight had learned to read, write, and speak the King's English.

Now he had the ability to speak the white man's language. Moreno's language. Wall Street bankers' language. Business moguls's language. He would be able to communicate with them on an intellectual ground. Actually, he would be on superior intellectual ground, but they didn't need to know that.

In his peripheral view, the guard was standing there, still and silent, just staring into the cell, radiating evil energy as usual.

Knight put up his Teflon mental deflectors to stop and push back the literal gusts of hatred that were hurling into the cell, at him and his cellmate, from the guard.

In the lower bunk, Knight's cellmate, Lonnie, rattled the newspaper he was reading. He spoke in a tone just loud enough for Knight to hear. “Look like somebody wanna play gladiator.”

Knight focused harder on the page, refusing to poison his thoughts with stories about that secret sport when guards bet money on which inmate could beat the shit out of another. Gladiator was just like the dog fights back home, but here in lockup, they used niggas, rednecks, spicks, even a couple Indian brothas.

The guards never dared mess with Knight, although lately this guard, who either was not aware of Knight's status or didn't care, had been mumbling about “bringin' a proud nigger down a peg or two.”

Knight barely let that man's presence register in his mind. Instead, he was envisioning every detail of himself walking out of this place, into the wildest welcome home party Babylon could pull off, and taking his proper place at the helm of an empire begun by Prince, rest his soul. First on his list: giving Moreno an offer he couldn't refuse to surrender—not share or partner as Duke was planning, but straight-up hand over territories a.k.a. Erotic Zones throughout the Midwest, East Coast, and the South that Moreno had promised Prince.

It was a promise buried with one brother and banished by another brother's fear. Not so with Knight. He was ready to go after what was rightfully his, the property, and domain of Babylon.

The West Coast operation was basically a done deal, since Priscilla and Larry Marx were leaving the business to start Question Marx, a multimedia company. Just the other day, Knight had read an article in
The Wall Street Journal
about how the couple planned to produce Hollywood movies, documentaries about the sex industry, entertainment Web sites and a glitzy, mainstream magazine for couples who, they told The Journal, “. . . want to keep their love life sizzlin'.”

Knight had met the couple years ago, when they were in Detroit and contacted Babylon to arrange a party on a yacht. That was Knight's first deal. Sure, Prince was watching over his shoulder, checking every detail to make sure it was perfect. And it was.

Mr. and Mrs. Marx were phenomenally impressed with the Sex Squad, from the flawless transactions to the extreme discretion to the documented health status of all fifty Studs and Sluts. The Marxes were most pleased with the quality and performance of the fifty Sluts and Studs who fit the exact profiles that were desired, requested and enjoyed by the Marxes and the twenty-four couples who were their guests on the luxury yacht that summer night on the black waters of Lake St. Clair and the Detroit River.

Now, after frequent communications from the pen, Knight was going to luxuriate in their generous accommodations, in a business sense. That pipe was hot, about to burst right now.

Every time Knight talked with Duke, his little brother sounded recklessly power hungry. It made Knight realize that Duke's ambition was about to inspire premature moves and fatal growing pains, like taking over more turf than he could manage, expanding the ranks of the Squad to such huge numbers that quality control would be impossible, or promising protection for notorious celebrities whose parties and concerts were always known to have a gunbattle sideshow.

Bang! That guard slammed his baton on the bars then walked past, doing the same at the next cell.

Knight gripped his book, staring at the pages, feeling so confident in its message that it was only a matter of time until his own dream became reality. He knew it would happen even if his dream clashed with Duke's dream when big brother got free.

Li'l Tut was twenty, going on twenty-one. That wasn't nearly as wise or as capable as twenty-five, like Knight. And in inner city black man years, a quarter-century was ancient, venerable, and respectable. Sage. And highly qualified to take charge of Detroit's most unique underground entrepreneurial venture ever. As the boss.

Knight's eyes focused back on his book, to a yellow highlighted spot on the next page. “Ask and receive.” Below that, he read, “Dream lofty dreams, and as you dream, so shall you become. Your vision is the promise of what you shall one day be; your ideal is the prophecy of what you shall at last unveil.”

For Knight, that dream, that vision, that ideal was multifaceted: Freedom. Power. Happiness with one woman who loved Knight for Knight, who believed in strong family values, who shared his vision, his passion, his purpose. And my voracious libido. It had been self contained and self satisfied for two years and six months. Nobody had even thought about trying to do unnatural acts with Knight's muscle-pumped six-foot-seven inches of brawn. Even if he were a pee-wee runt, his special status as top Babylon Barrior would be all the protective shield he needed.

Now I need a wife, one woman who'll cherish and celebrate me. I don't want to swing Shane left, right, at every pussy in sight. That reputation is what got me locked up. Now I only want a single female for life who's a spellblinding beauty on the inside, first and foremost. Being beautiful in appearance is appreciated but not mandatory. And if she wants some sexual adventure, she and I can certainly indulge together by bringing extra playmates to our party.

Knight's dream for his life and for Babylon required security for himself, for Momma, his family. And he wanted fulfillment, by spending money on his community to improve it and make it safer. On that last one, during his two years and six months here, Knight had decided to start a foundation for people in his hood. Feeding hungry children, providing prenatal care to mothers to remedy the high infant mortality rates in the inner-city, and building safe playgrounds and community centers; that was what he planned to do with the millions he'd make after Moreno agreed to submit to Babylon in five cities. That would make Knight Johnson's business the biggest of its kind, anywhere. Duke, of course, would help as second in command.

Bang! Bang!

“Mister Knight Johnson,” the guard called.

Knight looked up, facing the man without letting his eyes focus on the windows of that evil soul. His mind felt so pure and inspired and focused on his vision of freedom and fulfillment out in the world, there was no point letting anything leap out of the guard's miserable mind and try to ride his evil stare into Knight's brain.

The guard laughed as he unlocked the bars. “Yo' momma named you right, Mister Knight Johnson, 'cause you sure as hell is black as night.” He slid the bars back. “Come with me, sir. Some folks up in the office picked yer name outta somebody's lucky hat. They wanna tell ya the prize.”

Knight sharpened his eyes on the guard's face. Was this just a ploy to take him off to the gladiator pit?