Trust No Man 2 Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27 EPILOGUE

  WAHIDA CLARK PUBLISHING PRESENTS

  Trust No Man II

  Trust No Man II

  Disloyalty Is Unforgivable

  A novel by

  CASH

  Wahida Clark Presents

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

  Wahida Clark Presents Publishing

  60 Evergreen Place

  Suite 904

  East Orange, New Jersey07018

  973-678-9982

  www.wclarkpublishing.com

  Copyright 2009 © by Cash.

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Trust No Man II

  ISBN 13-digit 978-0-9818545-2-6

  ISBN 10-digit 0-9818545-2-4

  Library of Congress Catalog Number 2009929482

  1. Urban, Atlanta, Hip-Hop, African American, – Fiction

  Cover design by Nuance Art [email protected]

  Cover Photography by Akintola Hanif

  Book design by Oddball Dsgn

  Contributing Editors N. Thelot, K. Moses, M. Johnson, K. Caldwell and R. Hamilton

  Printed in United States

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my oldest brother, James (Bunky) Alexander, who recently passed. I

  want the world to know that you live on through those who loved you. Rest in peace.

  Also, to Shorty Redd, this is dedicated to you because you have not once given up on me. You know our story, shhhhhhh!

  Author’s Note

  What I write in a story is not any different from the way shit really happens. I just tell it with swag. I don’t write make-believe shit, because some readers are impressionable, and it’s my duty to give them the truth about the streets. I wanna both entertain and enlighten.

  I’ve been on lock 18 years; ain’t no “fiction” in that. Enjoy the story, but devour the lesson.

  Much Love,

  Ca$h

  Get at me at:

  www.myspace.com/cash30341

  or [email protected] or write to:

  Wahida Clark Presents Publishing

  c/o Cash Fan Club

  134 Evergreen Place, Suite 305

  East Orange, NJ 07018

  Acknowledgments

  Straight up, writing the acknowledgements can be much more tryin’ on a nigga than penning the actual book. See, with the book, the story flows easily ‘cause I know the streets that I write about like I know the back of my hand. I lived how I lived, done what I done, and I know what I know. The shit is forever embedded in my mind. With the shout outs, I can forget a name or two. When I do that, y’all mafuckaz go ape! Like ya’ll don’t already know that I ain’t perfect. I don’t go ape in this cell when ya’ll forget to get at me for years at a time; I just keep on keepin’ on. So don’t make me put ya’ll ass on blast! Shit happens.

  One who I could never forget is my moms, Mrs. Rosie Williams. Ma, your love triumphs over all things. I love you, lady. To my brothers and sisters: James R.I.P. we miss you, Bobby, Elaine (yeah, you’re still fine. I’m very proud of you), Timmy (the mayor). Sue, (your heart is sooo big). Darnell (keep ya head up, we’ll both make it home one day), Deborah (thanx, especially for being there for Mama after Bunky died), Bernadette (don’t be so bougie, it ain’t that serious lol), Lisa (baby sis, do the stanky leg lol), Lil Ike-I love you all. Same goes to my nieces and nephews, especially Yella,

  Wanda, and Mann-y’all come through for ya unc. Pooh, hang in there. You too, Peanut.

  To my seeds: Destini, you are so very classy and intelligent. Keke, you remain my Pretty Girl, and your personality is so vibrant. Shortman, you are too much like me sometimes. Be careful of the choices you make. Lil Cash, you are so multi-talented, just like your pops, J. Jakia, please contact me. I love you. And to my lost but never forgotten son, by Jackie, if you’re reading this, please get at your pops. Your absence has left a hole in my heart. That’s real talk. I ask the forgiveness from you and your mom. To Cortez, my youngest, you’re always in my heart. I worry about you; please learn from my mistakes. The streets don’t love anyone!

  To my old and new friends, I appreciate the love. Melodie, we bump heads hard and often, but the bond remains intact. Monise, you hold me down. Boss Lady, come out of that shell. It can happen if you let it. Kenny, Rick, Head, Boone, Carl, Mike, and my old Carver Homes Posse crew, y’all let me know that I’m not forgotten. Much love 4 dat. To the authors who have hollered since Trust No Man part 1 dropped, I appreciate the tha love, especially my label mate and dude Mike Sanders (Thirsty), down in Charlotte, NC. When you told me that real recognizes real, and that’s why Wahida signed us, you called it straight up. Lookin’ forward to our build my man. Mad love, sun. Lil Wah, thank you for the Myspace hook up. The same goes to everyone else at WCP; we ‘bouta bubble!

  Wahida Clark, the true queen of this thing. Black Woman, I respect you to the utmost. You’re real, so the blessings will follow. I know I blow ya phone up but you ain’t hurtin’! lol.

  To all my peoples on lock with me, ya’ll niggaz show much love for what I do, and that’s motivation for this real shit I drop. Dion Jones (author of Mandingo Love, Turned Out and Player, Cheater, Damn Fool) keep strivin’, but you don’t know everything, lol. To my readers and fans, keep supporting me. I’ma keep hittin’ y’all with the realest shit- fiction but not make-believe.

  A special, special shout out to Deborah (lawyer girl J) cause you care when you shouldn’t, and you care a lot. Lawyer girl, calm ya ass down! Despite all the drama, we can be friends. Misha, you are very special to me, but the respect thing is a problem- street niggaz don’t play that! So get right, okay?

  To my truest fans: Kayla from Jersey, don’t let me find out you creep with another author. I better remain ya favorite. I know you know! Cutie pie (Tamika way out in Oakland…thanx for the love-back at you. Let your moms read my joint, she’ll return it. Pashan, thanx for hittin’ me up on MySpace. To all my fans and friends on MySpace, y’all show much love, especially “A shottas 9 mili wifey”, you stay representin’ for ya boy! You da shit Jamiella!

  Oh, Mike Harper (author of Street Raised ), my bad for taking so long to holla back.

  Ya joint is bangin’.

  Y’all get at me and lemme know how you like Part 2.

  Peace to the Gods and Earths. And a quick shout out to the few cool CO’s who ain’t on that police bullshit. Ms. Evans, let me get a haircut sometimes! Ms. Swint’, with tha dreads, you are real people. Can’t give a CO the final holla, so once again to Shorty Redd…you’re forever acknowledged. Love you till the end of time. Trust, it gets greater

  later.

  CHAPTER 1

  Mafuckaz better beware!

 
That’s all I kept saying to myself as I drove to the car wash on Georgia Avenue to have my whip washed and detailed. If niggaz thought they could get away with bangin’ me up, putting me in the hospital with a busted head, a broken jaw, and cracked ribs, and not have to feel my heat, they had the game twisted!

  I was out of the hospital now. Busted up, but alive and ready to turn the streets of ATL into a war zone.

  I still had the loot on me that had been in my pocket the night I was taken to the hospital. The emergency workers had given it to Inez. She’d returned it to me as soon as I was awake and coherent.

  After my whip was spotless, shining, and smelling brand new, I paid and tipped the boys. Then I drove to Decatur to my crib to check on Cheryl, my daughters, and my bank. I knew Cheryl would be mad because I hadn’t told her I was banged up in the hospital, but that was the least of my concerns.

  I’ma find those niggaz that banged me up, and show ‘em how the fuck I get down! I thought as I pulled into my apartment complex, parked, got out of my ride, and headed up to my apartment.

  As soon as I opened the door and stepped inside, I knew something wasn’t right. The only sound in the apartment was water dripping from the faucet in the kitchen sink. I followed the sound. When I reached the kitchen, the freezer door was ajar, leaving a puddle of water on the floor. The chicken boxes where I kept some of my stash were scattered about the kitchen counter, empty as fuck!

  My safes! My million dollar stash!

  In a panic, I dashed to the bedroom to check the closet. The closet door stood wide open. I held my breath and peeked inside.

  Both safes were gone.

  Oh , hell naw!

  So was my cache of guns.

  My clothes were cut up and strewn all over the bedroom. That lowdown bitch! Some nigga put her up to this! My million dollar stash was gone! I screamed like a madman through my wired mouth.

  The pain from my cracked ribs hit me so hard that I crumpled to the floor. After the pain lessened a bit, I was able to get to my feet. I stumbled back into the kitchen where I noticed a letter stuck on the refrigerator door. It was held in place with one of those small, plastic smiley faces.

  I snatched the letter off the door and began reading:

  Youngblood,

  Don’t bother trying to find us nigga ‘cause you never will. You didn’t want me in your life, so now I’m out, me and your daughters! See, we’re a package deal. You can’t have them and not me! I give you credit for loving Chante and Eryka, but you treated me like shit!

  Nigga, you made me stop loving you after money made you stop loving me. Money changed you, nigga! That’s why I’m taking all of your dough. Maybe without riches, you’ll treat women nicer.

  Oh ,just so you know, I have a man who loves me; he’s the Haitian nigga you caught knocking on the door that time. Yep, caught your ass slippin’, not up on your game. I may have gotten fat, but your ass got dumb! Again, don’t try to find us, we’re moving out of the country and never coming back. Dag, motherfucker I hate you! But who’s crying now? It sho’ ain’t me. Thanks to you, I’m a rich, fat bitch!

  Later nigga,

  Cheryl, Eryka, and Chantè

  Cheryl’s letter smashed me!

  I fell to my knees in the puddle of water, and cried like a baby. The bitch had run off with my two little princesses and all my bank.

  Bitch, you think stealing my dough is gonna make me nicer? Hell the fuck naw! It’s gonna make me even more of a killa…startin’ with your fam’.

  Inez could tell something was wrong as soon as I walked in her house. My eyes were red and my body dragged. All of my swagger was gone.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, alarmed.

  For a long time I couldn’t answer. I just sat there, staring into space. She got up and sat on the floor at my feet, and laid her head on my knee. My blankness must’ve warned her that whatever was the matter was serious. After a long silence I told her what I had discovered at my apartment, and showed her Cheryl’s letter, leaving out the exact dollar amount that was taken.

  “She shouldn’t have taken your money. All she had to do was leave,” Inez said, her voice was compassionate. “He probably put her up to it,” she added.

  I didn’t respond, what was there to say? I had already considered that, but what difference did it make? Either way, my money was still gone; my two lil’ princesses stolen away from me. I couldn’t blame the Haitian nigga. He couldn’t have known about the money unless Cheryl told him. Cheryl was to blame, though I’d kill ‘em both if I ever found them, but with my million dollars in their grip, they’d definitely be hard to find.

  “I still have most of the fifty thousand dollars you gave me. Plus, I have some money put up,” Inez said. “Do you want that?”

  “Just hold on to it, shawdy. Shit gon’ be a’ight.” But I wasn’t sure it would be. Still, Inez earned major props for offering me all that she had.

  I was in a trance, a deep state of denial. I mumbled through my wired mouth for Inez to roll up a blunt and blow me a shotgun.

  “You sure you can smoke?” Her concern for me was genuine.

  Inhaling the smoke from the ‘dro set my lungs on fire. My whole insides felt aflame, but then the pain mellowed and the weed high mixed with the pain pills I’d taken earlier, and I drifted off to sleep.

  I dreamt I still had a million dollars. When I woke up a few hours later, reality smacked me back to the present. I gathered up some of my gear, the medical supplies I’d needed, and one of the guns I kept under Inez’s couch. Before I left I told her I wouldn’t feel comfortable staying at her crib until I knew who was responsible for putting me in the hospital. She was probably safe, ‘cause if my enemies wanted to harm her, they would’ve done it already. I needed to be sure.

  She told me she’d probably go stay at her mother’s, or with a girlfriend, until I was sure she’d be safe at home. “Where will you stay?” she asked.

  “With Lonnie, probably.”

  “Or with Juanita?”

  “Maybe,” I admitted. “But, if I do, it’ll just be a safe place to lay my head until I can figure out my next move. It won’t be about sex. Real talk…I’ve never slept with her. That’s the last thing on my mind.”

  “I trust you, boo. Just don’t forget about us.” She looked down at her belly. My seed inside hadn’t grown enough to make it poke out yet.

  I mumbled through the wire, “I’ll have everything back in order soon. In the meantime, I’ll call you every day.”

  She scribbled her Ma Duke’s and girlfriend’s numbers on a piece of paper and pushed it in my palm.

  Juanita didn’t answer her cell phone, so I left a message on her voicemail. Ten minutes later, she called back. I answered the ringing payphone and told her I decided to accept part of her offer. I needed a place to stay while I recovered from my injuries.

  She immediately left work and met me at her house. After helping me put my things in the guest room, she ran a tub full of hot water, and suggested I get in and relax. The bathtub had power jet sprays that did my sore ribs a world of therapy. While I soaked in the hot, soothing water, Juanita put fresh Epsom salt in her palm and sprinkled it around in the water.

  “That’ll help with the soreness,” Juanita said. Then she put a fresh bandage on the wound in the back of my head.

  I remained silent.

  A while later as I sat on a floor pillow in her den while she tenderly combed and re-braided my hair, assuring me that my hair would soon grow back in the spot where the gash in the back of my head was at.

  She cooked boneless fried fish, potatoes, green beans and put it all in a blender until it was fine enough for me to suck through a straw. Her meal consisted of the same thing, but baked with a diet Coke on the side.

  After dinner I told her what Cheryl had done, and showed her the letter. As with Inez, I didn’t reveal to Juanita the amount of money Cheryl had ran off with. The shit hurt to even think about.

  Juanita read the letter. When
she was done, she asked if I thought Cheryl would ever come back.

  “I doubt it.”

  “So, you’ll never see your daughters again?”

  “Probably not,” I mumbled, too hurt to say more.

  Juanita said that it didn’t matter if I didn’t have a dime, she still wanted me to move away with her, start a new life, and leave the streets behind. I could sell all but one of my cars; she was putting her Viper up for sale, and we could bank the money with the other she had saved. We would only need one car, at least for awhile. If I didn’t find a decent job right away, she said, she would get a part-time job to help out, something other than exotic dancing.

  “We can rent a cheap one-bedroom apartment,” Juanita said. “It won’t be what we’ve gotten used to, but we both grew up in the projects. We’ll adapt. And we’ll have each other.”

  She said at least I wouldn’t have to worry about being killed or sent to prison. In a few years we’d be doing better, and it would be worth all the sacrifices once she got her degree and started practicing medicine. In the meantime, I could go back to school. Or maybe build up my own business.

  With what? I wondered.

  “Haven’t you ever wanted to be anything besides a hustler?” she asked.

  “Not that I can remember.”

  “Well,” Juanita said, not giving up, “I still have a few more weeks to change your mind.”

  CHAPTER 2

  I called everyone I usually communicated with and gave them my new pager number. Lonnie was back in town and riding shotgun with me. I’d told him everything that had gone down while he and Delina were in NY, keeping my words to a minimum since my shit was wired shut.