Working Girls (3 page)

Mike-G, his younger brother, Los, and his main man, Buster, were sitting around playing PlayStation while rotating a blunt of a good grade of Kush. Mike-G knew Los loved being around him. For Los, the world revolved around Mike-G. He gave Los everything he wanted and needed. Their father was doing life in the pen. Their mother had passed way from a drug overdose. At the time, Los had been only eight years old. Mike-G had been fourteen.

Ever since that day, Mike-G had been Los's father and his mother. Although he was only six years older than Los, it felt like he was much older. He made sure that Los went to school and he wouldn't hesitate to beat Los's ass if he didn't go. He didn't allow him to hustle in any way. Mike-G was like a God to Los.

“Aye, where the rest of them dutchess at?” Mike-G asked. “I'm tryin'a roll something up,” he continued as he looked around the cluttered table, ready to roll up the rest of the good weed.

“Ain't no more. You want me to run and grab some from the store?” Buster asked, pausing the video game.

“Nah. I'm good. I'll go.” Mike-G headed to the door.

It was a beautiful night outside. It was just barely dark out, and the temperature still hovered around a balmy seventy-five degrees. The humidity made it feel hotter than it really was. There was a minimal breeze in the air.

Mike-G jumped into his all-black Cadillac Escalade. He could've walked to the gas station; it was only one block away. He was forever stuntin' on the hoes, and he loved to be seen. He never knew when he might run into a bad bitch. He knew enough to know that bad bitches didn't fuck with niggas who walked. He swerved into the gas station and hopped out of the truck. He left the driver's door open, and the music playing on the sound system echoed throughout the entire station. It sounded like a mini club. Mike-G staggered over toward the gas-station window.

He couldn't help but shake his head every time he frequented this establishment. Arabs owned the gas station. They had had the nerve to put up a bulletproof-glass enclosure all around the front of the building. They passed items through a steel trap on the front of the window. That shit really irked Mike-G. Let him tell it, they were the same type of jokers who strapped bombs to their bodies and blew themselves the fuck up.
Now they're acting all scary and shit,
he thought and laughed to himself as he rocked back and forth.

“What do you need?” the Arab at the window asked. His tone came across as nervous.

This little raggedy-ass gas station don't have shit, anyway
, thought Mike-G as he chuckled.
Them turban-wearing muthafuckas always be talking that tough-ass gangsta shit behind that glass.
In a way, though, he couldn't blame them. Anything might jump off around here. Niggas stayed shooting up the hood. But it had never crossed his mind that he wasn't exempt from what went on in the hood. Aside from the obvious, given the fact that he had haters in the Lou, he should have been more on point. The blunts he and his crew had already smoked and the liquor he had tossed back had him slippin'. Which was why he didn't see what the Arab did.

“We don't want any trouble.” The Arab threw up his hands.

“Aye, man, put your fuckin' hands down. Me neither, yo,” Mike-G slurred. “Aye, I just want two boxes of dutchess, a pack of Newports, and a cherry jungle juice.” He noticed the Arab was fidgeting and had become more nervous. His eyes alarmed Mike-G. He knew something was wrong. “What the fuck is wrong with you, man? Just get my shit so I can pay you and leave! Damn!”

* * *

Rome was on his way to the gas station on the corner when he saw Mike-G pop up in his Escalade and roll into the gas station. He quickly ducked around the corner.

“This is perfect. Now I don't have to find his bitch ass,” Rome said out loud to himself. He pulled his 9 mm chrome Glock out of his jeans and waited. He watched as Mike-G exited his truck and walked up to the gas-station window.

This nigga is a dead man, and he don't even know it,
Rome thought to himself. He smiled.
This has to be my lucky day!

* * *

The Arab's eyes bulged out of his head like two hard-boiled eggs. He had a look of terror on his face.

“Yo, what the fuck is yo' fucking problem, man?” Mike-G asked as he turned around to see what the Arab was looking at. The red beam from Rome's 9 mm was focused on the middle of Mike-G's forehead.

“What's wrong my nigga? You look like you seen a ghost,” Rome said. “What you thought? Shit was sweet over here, nigga?” he added as he stared into Mike-G's eyes.

Rome loved that old-school shit by Scarface: “Always look a man in the eye before you kill him.”

Mike-G noticed that innocent bystanders were scattering and were reversing out of the gas station to avoid any drama. Fear filled his insides. There was no doubt in his mind that he had been caught slipping. He had told himself as soon as he saw Rome with the gun that he wasn't going to go out like a coward. He cleared his throat before he spoke. “Rome, what's up, dawg? What type of shit is you on?” he asked.

“That real shit,” Rome spat. “What was all that shit you was poppin', playa, when you robbed my li'l homies?”

A twisted and distorted frown appeared on Mike-G's face. “Man, fuck you talkin' 'bout?” he replied angrily. He was stalling for time. He knew exactly what it was about.
Damn, I shouldn't be out here like this! Now this is what I get, a fuckin' death sentence! Fuck!

Rome chuckled. “Wrong answer, my nigga.”

The barrel of Rome's gun rang out like a Roman candle on the Fourth of July.

Mike-G's brains sprayed all over the gas station's bulletproof glass. The Arab stood there, paralyzed by fear. He looked directly into Rome's face. Rome looked back at him.

“You ain't see shit! You hear me?” Rome pointed his weapon at the Arab. He knew the glass was bulletproof, so there was no sense in trying to shoot him. He figured the threat would be enough.

The Arab shook his head rapidly to confirm that he had heard Rome loud and clear. He still stood there, looking at Rome, burning the image of Rome's face into his mind. He looked up and thanked Allah that he had recently installed the bulletproof glass.

“Don't fuckin' look at me!” Rome barked. “Get on the floor and count to one thousand,” he demanded.

The Arab did as he was told. Before he could reach twenty, Rome was back in his car and out of the parking lot of the gas station. He glanced at his watch, like he had done minutes before, to make sure he was still on schedule. He still had twenty-five minutes before he was to meet with his connect at the Hilton, which was only five minutes away.

He couldn't believe he had jeopardized an important meeting by detouring to take care of Mike-G. But it had all worked out. Rome couldn't let the opportunity pass, not with the game he played on the streets. If he allowed someone to play him, then he would be on the other side of the gun, and he wasn't about to let that happen.

Jewels quickly sashayed through the hotel lobby after the driver let her out. She was already thirty minutes late for her client. He was a new one, but according to the DGP escort screening staff, he was filthy rich. He was paying eight hundred an hour for her services. She planned to give him at least three hours' worth of good pussy. He was in the presidential suite at the Hilton St. Louis at the Ballpark. She knocked on the door to the suite and almost ran when he opened it. He was huge, at least six feet five and well over four hundred pounds of blubber. He had the nerve not to have a shirt on when he opened the door, as if he had great pecs and six-pack abs. His gut was disgusting. Jewels couldn't help but notice the visible stretch marks on his belly. On top of that, his chest and stomach were covered with a mass of wet, curly hair. He looked and smelled like a bear.

She thought about calling the escort service back to see if they had the right guy, because this big, fat, funky-ass white man in front of her sure didn't look like no respected businessman. He didn't smell like one, either. He reeked of stale cigarettes and smelled like a wet dog.

“Jim?” she asked, smiling sweetly, hoping that he was not Jim.

“You're late. I don't like people to be late.” He turned around and left her standing in the doorway.

I know this big, fat, stankin' muthafucka didn't just play me like that,
she thought to herself.

She stepped in behind him and closed the door. “Yes, I am a little late, because I had car trouble. I asked the escort service to call and inform you, but I guess they didn't. I'm so sorry about that.”

“Well, better late than never. Don't worry about it,” he said as he sat on the bed. He looked her up and down.

She slipped out of her blazer, giving him an ample look at her full, perky breasts. They were one of her best assets. Her nipples were long and fat, and her breasts stood up and out. They were all natural. She was dressed smartly in a navy blue business suit. Her skirt was expertly cut to hang just above her knees, showing off her pretty legs but still leaving something to the imagination. She sat down and crossed her legs, allowing him to see that she wasn't wearing any panties.

“Well, Jim, time is of the essence, so if you could just tell me what you like, we can get started.” She had been told by the escort service that he liked it rough, so she figured that he was just another pervert who wanted to be tied up and beaten. That was fine by her. She needed to relieve a little stress.

He just sat there staring at her for a minute. Suddenly, he jumped out of the bed. With surprising speed for a big man, he leaped across the room and slapped the dog shit out of her.

Jewels went crashing to the floor. Before she had any time to react, he was on top of her. Jewels peered up in horror.
No wonder this motherfucka pays so damn well,
she thought as the next blow he delivered knocked her temporarily unconscious.

The hot urine that splashed on her face immediately woke her back up. She regained her vision in time to see the burly man hovering over her. She could see he had a pair of brass knuckles on his right hand. Jewels lay there, playing possum. The trick kneeled down. He cocked his fist back, ready to tear into Jewels's face. That was all she needed to launch her own attack. With all her might, Jewels thrust both of her legs upward. Her feet landed perfectly between the fat, grotesque man's legs. She nearly kicked his testicles into his stomach.

“You fuckin' cunt bitch!” he bellowed.

Jewels paid him no mind. She was focused only on getting up and out of the room. She struggled to get up off the floor. Her eyes zeroed in on her emergency phone, which was across the room. Jewels made a beeline over to it and retrieved it. Her adrenaline was pumping like cheap gas while her heart did its best to jump out of her chest. She frantically looked around for her attacker. The trick still occupied the floor. He held on to a handful of his genitals as he rocked back and forth in agony.

In record-breaking speed Jewels was headed to the door, ready to make her escape. Her hands were shaking so bad, she couldn't manage to hold the phone still enough to scroll through and call for help. Besides, there were only two numbers she could call. She couldn't call the police. She could dial only the agency or her partner in crime, Sassy. Those were the only ones who knew where she was. She decided to get out of the room first and worry about contacting someone afterward. She could feel her heart rate decreasing as she reached for the door handle. She nearly stopped when there was the sudden boom.

“Where the fuck you think you're going?”

She stopped in her tracks when the trick grabbed a fistful of Jewels's hair with one hand and the back of her blouse with the other.

“Get the fuck off of me!” Jewels fought back. She managed to break free of the trick's hold. She heard and felt the back of her shirt tear, but she didn't care. All she cared about was getting out of that room and away from her crazed trick as she snatched open the door.

Under any other circumstances, Rome would've been doing somersaults on the hotel bed after what he believed was a successful business meeting with his new connect. But instead, he was laid up in the hotel, thinking about what he had done moments before meeting up with his new plug. He wasn't really tripping over the fact that he had killed Mike-G. That was business. He knew his man could clean up the mess if there were immediate repercussions from Mike-G's peoples.

What had him worried was the fact that the Arab had seen the whole thing. He knew who Rome was, because Rome went to that gas station every day. Here he had just been put in a better position to expand throughout his hometown, thanks to his new connect from Chicago. But the fresh body he had caught wore heavily on him because of someone seeing the whole thing transpire. Not that he was complaining about the position he now held. He felt that he did what had to be done, according to the rules he played by, but the last thing he needed was unnecessary heat on him. Not when he was about to invest all of his and his crew's hard-earned money into his new plug. It wasn't the best connect, but it was better than having no connect at all.

For months, he and his man Red's crew had been struggling in the streets, due to the dearth of good product. Only those with the best connects, the best prices, and quality product were eating. Rome had come up on two out of the three. He had found somebody with quality product, but their numbers were above average when it came to keys of coke. Still, he was grateful for what he got and hopeful that with consistency, things would get better. He too wanted to push a Bentley, like his new connect, but he knew he had to put himself in an even better position than he was in already. If not, then he'd cross that bridge when he reached it, he told himself. He believed there was only one thing that could jeopardize all that, and that was the Arab opening his mouth. He knew he had to lay low until he figured out how to get the Arab taken care of.

Dead men tell no tales,
he told himself as he pondered how he would have the matter handled.

He usually didn't drink and smoke at the same time—it was either one or the other—but tonight he wanted to get lit both to celebrate the new plug and to calm his nerves about the loose end he needed to tie up. He rolled up a Dutch cigarillo and took a blunt to the head as Chi-Raq's Pandora station blared through the room's Bluetooth. He chased the L with gulps of Grey Goose straight out of the bottle. He was feeling kind of nice.

A blunt and a half and nearly a dozen gulps of clear liquor later, Rome was faded. His eyes were Chinkier than Bruce Lee's, and his throat felt like sandpaper. Rome sluggishly climbed off the king-size bed and snatched up the ice bucket. He left the room and headed to the end of the hall, where the ice machine was.

Just as he approached it, the door next to the ice machine flung open, and out came a young, light-skinned female. She was screaming, the back of her shirt was ripped, and she was struggling to exit the room in a hurry. Her face was bloody and swollen.

“Help me please!” she yelled. She leaped next to Rome. Fear was written all over her face.

A big, fat white man came to the doorway, wearing some tight-ass white briefs and nothing else. His face was a mask of fury.

“Don't you run from me, you little black whore.”

Rome dug into his jeans and removed the silencer-equipped Glock 40 he had tucked in his waistband. “Slow your roll, patnah.” He pointed the gun directly at the man.

He locked eyes with the fat white man. Out of nowhere lyrics to one of Scarface's songs played in his head.
Always look a man in the eye before you kill him
. The drugs and alcohol had him in a zone.

“You better mind your fucking business, boy.” The fat man attempted to step around Rome. “I'm going to kill this fucking whore.”

Although the fat man's mouth was running a hundred miles an hour, his feet were in the same place. Rome didn't hear everything he had said, because his words had come out warped and choppy, but he knew he didn't really like the man's tone of voice. He especially didn't like the fact that he had called him a boy. Rome might have been under the influence, but he was coherent enough to know the fat man was not from St. Louis. His nasty Southern accent didn't help matters for him. Rome was true blue from the Lou and was proud of it. He repped St. Louis to the fullest. Which was why he didn't like out of towners. Especially white ones. Rome stared at the fat white man long and hard.

He flashed a shit-eating grin at Rome and said, “Boy, get on and mind your fucking business!”

Without hesitation or a thought, Rome squeezed the trigger in rapid succession, ending the fat white man's sentence. The bullets lifted the man off his feet and knocked him back into the room. Rome watched as the man fell backward and hit the floor with a thud.

Jewels was quiet. She didn't speak for a few minutes. She glanced at Rome out of the corner of her eye. Although he had just killed a man in cold blood, he didn't appear to be bothered by it. His demeanor was calm, and he seemed to be comfortable with what he had just done. Jewels, on the other hand, was sick to her stomach. She held on to the wall for balance as she released whatever food she had in the pit of her stomach all over the floor. She felt light-headed. All she kept thinking about was the chain of events that had led up to the present situation. She wiped the vomit residue from her mouth with the back of her hand.

“What the fuck!” she yelled.

Rome looked up and down the hotel hallway. He knew it was just a matter of time before someone stepped into the hall or off the elevator and saw them. He walked into the room and pumped three more shots into the fat man's body for a confirmation of his death, then made an attempt to close the door to the room. The fat white man's legs prevented him from doing so. He kneeled down and grabbed the dead man by his pudgy left foot, which was blocking the doorway. He held his breath to minimize the stench from the bowel movement the dead man had released upon meeting his Maker. He slammed the door shut, then turned back toward Jewels.

She had just regained some of her senses.

“Yo, we gotta bounce,” Rome informed her. The sudden chain of events had somewhat sobered him up.

Before she could agree or oppose him, he had already grabbed her by the hand, and together they fled the scene. He stopped by his room, quickly snatched up the most important item there: the duffel bag containing the fifteen keys of coke he had just received. As luck would have it, the elevator arrived and opened three seconds after Rome pressed the elevator button. He pulled Jewels in the elevator, put his back against the wall, and glanced over at her.

She looked a hot mess. Her makeup was practically smeared all over her face. It had dried up and had mixed with the dried blood from her nose and mouth. The two top buttons of her blouse had popped off, and there was that big-ass rip on the back, and her skirt was wrinkled and had shifted.

“Yo, you gotta tighten up, baby,” he told her. “You gonna get us knocked,” he added. Rome shook his head in disgust.

Why the fuck did I get involved in that shit? he asked himself and cursed silently. He watched as Jewels tried to fix herself up. She was still somewhat in shock.

“Here. Put this on.” He took his fitted off and handed it to her. The last thing they needed was for someone to see her face looking the way it did and to get suspicious. He was all too ready to get out of the elevator and the hotel. He peered up at the numbers as they counted down.

Jewels eyed him. Her mind was racing all over the place at a million miles a minute. She couldn't believe she had just witnessed a violent crime and had become an accessory to a murder.
This has to be a fucking nightmare or a practical joke,
she thought. If it weren't for bad luck, she wouldn't have any at all, she believed.
Why me, God?
she questioned. It was just days before her birthday, and now she was in a predicament that could possibly have her spending it in jail. The thought of that caused Jewels's stomach to tighten. The dinging sound of the elevator caused her to jump and snap out of her daze.

When they exited the elevator, Rome put his arm around Jewels's waist and gripped it tightly. She flinched. Her nostrils tingled from the weed and the alcohol that Rome reeked of.

“Keep cool,” he whispered. He kept his arm wrapped around her and pulled her close to prevent someone from seeing the rip in her shirt.

Jewels nodded.

No one paid them any mind. They blended in with the other patrons as Rome navigated her through the lobby and into the parking garage. Flashing lights could be seen as he hit the alarm on his keychain.

“Get in!” he ordered Jewels as he jumped in the driver's side of his white Denali truck.

Minutes later, Rome was weaving in and out of the downtown traffic. He didn't slow down until he had gotten outside city limits.

Jewels sat across from him, still trying to process what had just taken place back at the hotel. Bits and pieces flashed through her mind. From the moment the trick named Jim opened the door, she had had a bad feeling about the evening. She knew she should have canceled when she got the feeling. She had always followed her gut, but this time she had let greed supersede what she trusted, and now she was in an SUV with someone who she believed was a stoned cold-blooded killer. There was no doubt in Jewels's mind that he had killed before and that he wouldn't hesitate to kill again.

“Did you have to fucking kill him?” Jewels said, lashing out, breaking the dead silence.

“Nah. I could've let him kill your ass,” he retorted, taking his eyes off of the traffic to glance at her. He laughed at his own joke.

“You're a fucking animal. How can you laugh after what you just did?” Jewels snapped, horrified.

He pulled over to the side of the street.

“Get your yellow, stuck-up ass out of my muthafuckin' truck.”

A surprised look appeared across her face. “Where the hell am I supposed to go? I don't live out this way.” She was shocked that he was actually trying to put her out on the street.

“I don't give a fuck about all of that. All I know is that I just saved your life and probably put the rest of mine in jeopardy, and I don't know your ass, and you got the nerve to call me a muthafuckin' animal. Yeah, you're right. I am an animal. Now, get your ass up out of my truck.” He popped the locks on his SUV and waited for her to get out.

For some strange reason, she was afraid of him. But at the same time, for some strange reason, she was aroused by him.

“I'm sorry,” she said sincerely. “I'm just scared. Could you please drop me off at home?”

Rome stared at her long and hard before he responded. “Let's start with your name,” he replied.

Jewels contemplated giving him a fake name, but considering that he had just literally saved her life, she kept it real. Besides, no one really knew her real name, anyway, because she went by the name Lite in her profession.

Rome couldn't recall hearing the name Jewels before. He nodded. “I'm Rome,” he offered.

“Short for Jerome or Romeo?” Jewels forced a smile. She was trying to lighten the tension between them.

“Short for Rome,” he replied dryly.

Jewels got the hint. She sat back and folded her arms.

Rome snorted. “Where you stay at, yo?” He whipped back into traffic.

“South Side. In the new condos,” she answered.

Rome cut his eyes over at her. He knew the area all too well. It was nearly forty-five minutes across town. Away from the hood. The only blacks who lived in that part of town were either married to upper-class Caucasians, were biracial, were athletes, or were niggas who were seeing major paper and wanted to move out of the hood. Although Jewels could pass for a half-breed, he didn't think she fell under that umbrella. If he had to bet money on how she had come to reside in the upscale area, he would bet that she belonged to one of the bossed-up pimps.
But who, though?
he wondered. He knew all the major money players in the Lou and knew which chicks belonged to whom. He often used females to get to his enemies, so he always liked to know who was connected to whom in case of an emergency.

He took another look at Jewels. Her face didn't register with him at all. He had a thing for light-skinned women, so he was sure that they didn't travel in the same circles. As bad as she was, he knew he wouldn't have ever forgotten her.
Even with her face all beat up, she is still badder than the average chick running around St. Louis,
thought Rome. As he racked his brain, another option came to him. One he had never even given a thought, but it made sense.

“Fuck was you doing in the room with that cracker alone like that fo', anyway, huh? They don't screen them muthafuckas?” he asked. He came across as a concerned parent. “As fine as you are, your man don't provide you with no security?” He had complimented her in an odd way. He wasn't into hookers, but he couldn't front. She was one of the baddest chicks he had ever laid eyes on, and he had laid eyes on many.

Jewels took offense at his comment. She batted her eyes and clenched her jaw to keep from snapping. “My man? Security? Who the fuck you think you talkin' to nigga?” Jewels wanted to say. But she didn't think that would be good for her health, or her life, for that matter. She had just seen him kill for less, so instead, she humbled herself. “Can we please just not talk?”

She closed her eyes. The reality of all that had happened started to set in.
I wouldn't even be in this predicament if Kareem hadn't fucking canceled on me!
she thought. She wanted to place blame on somebody for the fucked-up things that kept happening to her. Jewels felt drained. She also didn't want to tell him what she did for a living. Usually, she didn't care if people knew what she did. It was easier that way, because she didn't have to beat around the bush. It was either they wanted her services or they didn't. Simple as that.