Trust in No Man 2 Read online

  He wasn’t an immediate threat to me, but I would still have to monitor his progress because I was absolutely sure he would seek revenge.

  With Rich Kid convalescing in Maryland, his remaining soldiers in Englewood had no supplier, no dope to push. Murder immediately expanded his Englewood crew to more than a dozen workers, even posting half of them up by the basketball court where Rich Kid’s crew used to regulate.

  It didn’t take a warfare expert to figure out that Murder Mike had been involved in the assault on Rich Kid and the hit on his crew, for he was the immediate and sole beneficiary of Rich Kid’s demise.

  A few of the young rollers who had slang dope for Rich Kid by the basketball court and had survived the assault by Murder’s crew, tried to avenge the deaths of their two comrades who’d gone down in the Englewood shootout. They were unorganized and seriously outgunned and were little more than a nuisance to our boys now regulating the trap by the ball court. Still they had to be dealt with before one of their ill-planned drive-by’s were successful and we lost a soldier or two.

  The reckless lil’ niggaz weren’t hard to find. They were Englewood born, bred and raised and any number of their family members and girlfriends still lived there.

  They’d creep back to visit late at night when the traps were closed, and our soldiers caught two of them doing just that. By the time the two reckless niggaz’ girlfriends came out to investigate the late-night gunshots, the only person who could do anything for their boyfriends was the undertaker.

  The hood caught heat from the cops for a week or two, but with no eye witnesses to the killings, po-po eventually returned to their regular routine.

  Street niggaz were forced to respect Murder Mike’s ambition and his crew’s willingness to let their heaters bark. Englewood was now established as Murder Mike’s turf.

  Bit by bit, the plan was coming together, showing progress toward the ultimate goal of controlling the city’s drug flow. I had no way of knowing how the Dreads were coming along in their respective cities across the US, but Murder told me they were progressing at least as well as we were in Atlanta.

  CHAPTER 7

  Though there was still much work to be done, occasionally we made time for play, if for no other reason than to break the monotony of murder and drug dealing. The game could eventually drain a nigga’s energy and make him more susceptible to mistakes.

  To his credit, Murder Mike understood that we all needed a break from the everyday grind.

  Neither he nor I wanted to hang out at nightclubs and leave ourselves open to enemy attack, so I took Inez out to the house Murder and Cita stayed at in Austell, Georgia, by Six Flags amusement park.

  The house was nice but not so extravagant to warrant suspicion as to how such a young couple could afford it.

  The only vehicles I saw parked in the driveway were Cita’s E-Class and the Navigator Murder had driven to meet us. The inside of the house was sparsely furnished, giving me the impression that they’d moved into the house recently. The backyard, where we barbequed, was spacious and well-kept.

  Cita was dressed ghetto fabulous and hardly prepared to labor over a grill. Inez offered to help Murder Mike and before long the ribs, steaks and burgers were cooking over the hot charcoal.

  Inez, in her seventh month of pregnancy, labored over the barbeque pit while Cita pretended to be a diva, too beautiful and high maintenance to get her hands dirty with sauce or the likes. The bitch was really just a glorified hood rat, along for the ride with a nigga who had his sights set on the top. If something was to befall Murder Mike, Cita’s ghetto ass would be right back down in the hood happy to even smell barbeque.

  All evening long she was acting superior, dropping hints that translated into: Now that you work for my man, I’m better than you and your girl!

  Murder was trying to put her in check without making it obvious he had caught her innuendo. My nigga wasn’t on no high horse just ‘cause he was the shot caller. He knew that we still put our pants on the same way and I wasn’t nobody’s do boy. Once, he even called Cita in the house, like he needed her to help him find the Cristal, but I knew he was in there checking the bitch for her uppity attitude.

  Ain’t this the same bitch that was all on my dick a few months ago, every time Murder turned his head? Or was this payback for me stiff-arming the bitch and putting her on blast to my main man at the club that time?

  Inez wasn’t feelin’ the bitch either, in fact, she had whispered to me that she was gonna check her. She planned to remind Cita that if she was truly a diva, her knees wouldn’t be ashy as hell.

  I laughed and told Inez to chill. We’d make it through the evening.

  When we got back to the new spot Inez had moved into just last week, she had me cracking the fuck up by mimicking Cita.

  “Some folks get a little money,” she said, finishing with her impromptu performance of Cita, “and just don’t know how to act. Whew!” Shaking her head. “I wanted to slap that bitch!”

  “Murder Mike is cool, though,” I offered.

  “Yeah,” Inez agreed, “he was pretty nice.” She took off her shoes and showed me her beautiful but pregnant swollen feet. “Rub them for me,” she purred.

  “I will if you promise me some of that good pussy.”

  “Aw, nigga, you know you’re getting some of this good stuff tonight!”

  I massaged and rubbed her feet until she said it was time for her to deliver her end of the deal.

  “I’m waiting.” I laid back on the bed and pulled her on top of me.

  “Baby, baby, baby,” Inez muttered, like she couldn’t wait to put that pussy on a nigga.

  “Don’t talk about it, be about it,” I said.

  “Oh, you ain’t said nothing but a word,” she replied as she began to slinky her way down my body and release my wood from its constraints.

  The moment her mouth covered the head of my dick, all other things were temporarily forgotten. And when her sucking escalated to us fuckin’, Inez riding me, I closed my eyes and allowed my shawdy to ease all of my worries.

  ***

  The next day, the Navigator chewed up the highway but it could not distance itself from the drop top Benz. I could’ve whipped past Murder Mike anytime I chose to, but it would’ve been useless. I would’ve had to slow down and let him pass me, for he knew the way to Louisiana, and I didn’t.

  The city of New Orleans was famous for its jazz music, Mardi Gras, black colleges, crawfish, jambalaya, gumbo and, of course, witchcraft. None of which had enticed me to accompany Murder Mike to the city for a little fun, rest and relaxation.

  I’d been baited into going to New Orleans by Murder’s description of the beautiful Creole girls I’d get my choice of. I’d heard about Creole women, their beauty and passion, but I’d never seen or met one.

  “You’re gonna meet my real family, dawg,” he said.

  “I thought your family was your Ma Duke and ‘em in Englewood?”

  “Yeah, those are my real peeps,” he confirmed. “But I’m talking about my own branch of the family tree, my wife and kids.”

  “Boy, stop!” I chuckled. “Yo’ ass ain’t married to nobody unless it’s Cita!”

  He said, with a straight face, “Naw, main man, Cita ain’t nothing but my link to business, my bitch on the side. You’ll meet my boo when we get to New Orleans.”

  “Your boo? Nigga, stop fronting.” I laughed. “Cita is mufuckin’ boo.”

  “Nah, family. I got a wife. Real shit.”

  The look on his face told me he was dead serious. Out of curiosity, I pressed him for details.

  According to Murder, he’d met his wife, a Creole named Francisca, when she came to Atlanta to visit family a few years ago. Now they had a set of three-year-old twins and had been married for two years.

  I was anxious to get to New Orleans. The city Master P had put on the rap map. A city being represented by The Cash Money Millionaires, Juvie and others.

  After driving for hours, chopping
it up about different things, we reached Francisca’s house around noon.

  As soon as Murder climbed out of the Navigator, his twins broke loose from their mother’s grasp on the porch and raced into his arms. He bent to accommodate them, hoisting one up in each arm. The twins rained kisses all over his cheeks and talked in excited utterances. From my car in the driveway, I could see that Francisca was as pretty as a portrait, in an understated way.

  “Boo, this is my partner, Youngblood,” Murder introduced us as I carried my overnight bags inside. “Main man, this is my beautiful wife, Francisca.”

  “Hi. Pleased to meet you,” she daintily shook my hand. “I’d prefer you call me Fran,” she said.

  Up close, Fran was still as pretty as she’d appeared from the driveway. Her hair was reddish brown, down to her butt in one thick braid. Her skin was the color of French ice cream, maybe a shade darker. She was petite but sexy, without trying to be. She wore no makeup, a sundress and a platinum set of wedding rings on the proper finger.

  I knew from Murder Mike that Fran was twenty-four, but her voice sounded much younger, making her appear as delicate as a long stem rose. She called Murder Mike Michael, and he answered to his given name without complaint.

  Immediately after our introduction, I showered and changed into long, baggy shorts and a long, loose fitting Mike Vick Jersey #7 emblazoned across the front and back, a studded black bandana wrapped around my forehead and braids. My Cuban link medallion replica of a coffin hung from my neck, both my wrists were iced and ankle-cut Timbs rocked my feet.

  Fran’s younger sister, Lolita, came over to the house with two of her girlfriends, one Spanish, the other black. The three of them were sophomores at Tulane University.

  Lolita and the Spanish broad were eyeing me. The black girl was trying not to eye Murder, but I peeped her lose the battle more than once.

  Lolita was a carbon copy of her sister, if I added a size to her titties, a few octaves to her voice and a little hot to her ass. She was definitely making sure I noticed her, but it was energy she could have saved.

  Though she wasn’t the finest of the bunch, I had come to New Orleans to taste the gumbo, the crawfish and a Creole. And she was the only Creole of the three.

  Fran served us seafood and okra gumbo while we all sat around getting acquainted.

  Watching Michael interact with Fran and the twins reminded me of how I used to act with Eryka and Chanté, like a big kid. It only further proved to me that no man, but a foolish one, was a gangster around his kids. It was obvious that Murder Mike had way more love and respect for Fran than he did for Cita. He didn’t cuss around Fran or threaten to slap her lipstick crooked whenever her opinion differed from his.

  In fact, I wondered if Fran knew what her Michael-poo’s platinum fingernails represented? Or did he keep her blind to that part of his life? Regardless, she had to know that he wasn’t a traveling salesman and that being married yet living in separate states was done for a reason.

  She didn’t strike me as dumb or gullible. She was a computer graphics designer for a major firm in New Orleans, so she wasn’t being kept by my main man.

  “We’re going to the softball game at the park,” Lolita announced. “Y’all want me to take the twins, so that y’all can have some time alone?” she asked Murder and Fran.

  Like all kids, the twins got excited in a hurry, ready for the next car ride or adventure.

  “Youngblood, you want to join us?” invited Lolita.

  By the time we returned from the park, the twins were dirty and tired and there was no doubt as to whom I was interested in. We said goodbye to Lolita’s college pals, Carmen and Iris. I grabbed some fresh gear and took it with me to Lolita’s apartment where I was to shower, change and get ready to go with her to a club where Lil’ Wayne was to perform.

  Lolita’s apartment was near the University. It was a small efficiency, about what you’d expect a college girl to stay in.

  “We can shower together, to save time?” Lolita offered once we were inside and laying out the gear we’d rock.

  I wasn’t about to refuse that.

  She let me get under the shower water first and lather up. Then I moved over to allow her to do the same. Lolita had known the shower stall was barely large enough for one person, let alone two. But she tried to be coy. But I was a million miles from being lame, so I wasn’t buying her act. If the bitch didn’t wanna get fucked, she would’ve never gotten into the shower with a nigga she’d known less than a day.

  Soap suds stood up on her titties like snow on twin mountains. Water had already rinsed the suds from between her legs, revealing the neatest mass of reddish brown hair I’d ever seen covering a pussy. I could barely see her slit through the mass of silky red hair. She turned her back to me and I watched the water rinse suds down the crack of her tight ass. She turned around and saw my soap-sudded erection.

  “What’s this?” I felt her hand encircle me.

  “That’s Big Daddy!” I said.

  She laughed. “Does Big Daddy mind if I give him a kiss,” she purred in that southern Louisiana drawl.

  “You can kiss him ‘til your jaws hurt.” I was all gangsta.

  After a while, she came up for air and kissed me, but not with her tongue, just so that’s clear and understood. She whispered in my ear, “You wanna return the favor?”

  I picked her up and stepped out of the shower, both of us dripping wet. I laid her gently on the floor and then grabbed a towel, bunched it up and placed it under her ass so that her pussy stood up.

  After I licked and sucked her into a frenzy, I mounted her and drove mad dick into her Creole pie. She panted like she was about to explode and I felt her warm juices flood.

  She calmed down long enough to whisper in my ear, “Put it in the back door.”

  I wasn’t about to refuse that, either.

  I rubbed the head of my steel pole up and down her wet slit, lubricating it with her own juices and then I placed it on the hole of her brown cookie.

  “Ooh! Go slow, baby,” she moaned.

  “I got you.”

  I took my time pushing further inside until I felt her body accept all of my length. Even then, I remained still while I kissed her on her neck and shoulders.

  Lolita’s breathing deepened and I felt her body thrust against mine. “Fuck my ass, daddy,” she begged.

  “That’s what you want?”

  “Hell yeah.”

  “Like this?” I pushed in and pulled out, quickening my rhythm with each stroke.

  “Yessss! Just like that. Give me that dick!”

  Her eagerness for me to fuck her ass had a nigga harder than ever. I’m ‘bout to punish this bitch.

  I drew out as far as I could and slammed back inside of her with force, repeatedly.

  “Yes, baby! Fuck me until you bust all inside ass!” she cried.

  “You like this shit? Huh? Tell me you like it!” I stroked deeper, while rubbing her clit furiously.

  “I like it! I love it! I love it!” she screamed causing us both to erupt at the same time.

  ***

  When we stepped out to go to the club, I was rockin’ blue khakis, a Braves jersey, Braves fitted baseball cap, mad ice and my heater on my waist. Lolita had on a simple Tulane University sweat suit, a braided rope cross hung around her neck and lady Air Max 95’s on her feet.

  We whipped to the club with the top down on the Benz, T.I. blasting from the system. I’d put my heater in the secret compartment as soon as we’d left Lolita’s spot, just in case po-po pulled me over, hatin’ on a young nigga.

  Traffic was bumper to bumper three blocks away from the club, and moving at a snail’s pace.

  New Orleans’s hos were acting just like shawdies be acting in the ATL, yelling out of their cars at a nigga pushing a fly whip. Damn the bitch with him!

  Whenever traffic crept to a standstill, one bitch or another would hop out of their car and shake her ass to the sounds booming out of niggas systems. Then t
he bitch would hop back in her ride and high-five her girlfriends. Lolita would laugh and comment that the girls were way bolder than her. I couldn’t tell. Not after she’d asked for it in the ass a short while ago and took the dick like a champ.

  I knew we’d never find an empty parking space close to the club’s front door, so I just whipped up there to show off the drop. That way once I got inside of the club, hos would know that I was ridin’ in style.

  Luckily, I caught someone leaving a parking space not very far from the club’s entrance. Before getting out the whip, I retrieved my heat from the hidden compartment.

  “You can’t take that inside the club!” Lolita warned me, sounding alarmed.

  “Oh, they pat niggaz down?”

  “Of course!”

  I put the gun back.

  “Check this, shawdy,” I said seriously. “I don’t wanna run into no trouble with one of your current or ex-boyfriends ‘cause a nigga ain’t with that petty drama. If I do run into it, I damn sho’ don’t wanna get caught without my shit.”

  She swore I wouldn’t have to worry about that.

  “My ex died from AIDS last week,” she said.

  “What?” I screamed.

  She laughed. “I’m just kidding! My boyfriend is a professor at my school. He’s married, and he most definitely won’t be at a club like this.”

  Once inside, Lil’ Wayne and the Big Tymers had the club jumpin’! New Orleans hustlers were representin’ their spots, cliqued up and dimes on their jock.

  I played the bar, sippin on Cognac, while Lolita got her party on. She wasn’t my bitch and I wasn’t a jealous nigga, so I told her to enjoy herself. She knew where to find me when it was time to bounce.

  With her out of the way, I was free to choose other N’awlins hos. I couldn’t help wondering, though, if Juanita wasn’t somewhere at college, fuckin’ her professor and taking it up the ass on the side. I doubted it, but still, I wondered where she was and what she was doing with her new life and all.