Bonded by Blood Page 8

  She really wanted to win that stack.

  Khalil told the chauffeur to pull over to the shoulder of the highway to let him get out and take a quick leak.

  “Man, piss in one of those empty champagne bottles, or roll down a window and piss out dat muthafucka. We ain’t pulling over; highway patrol might roll up and fuck wit’ us, wanting to search this mafucka,” interjected Q. They had weed, open alcohol, and X pills in the limo.

  Khalil opted to roll down one of the back windows and piss out that mafucka. The force of the wind blew a spray of piss back into the Hummer, showering several of the scantily clad girls. They cussed and screamed at Khalil, Q, and B-Man. Avia, one of those who had gotten an accidental golden shower, quickly pressed a button on the door panel rolling the window up, cussing Khalil as well. .

  Silk, a mocha-complected honey with a bangin’ body and a cute smile quickly handed Khalil an empty champagne bottle. It blew Khalil’s mind when, in the next second, the freak bitch put his dick in her mouth while he was still pissing. The shit felt damn good, but after that, Khalil didn’t want the nasty hoes mouth on his dick again. He was thinking wasn’t no telling where that freak bitch’s mouth had been. If a hoe will drink a nigga’s piss, ain’t shit she won’t do.

  After everyone recovered from the shock of seeing Silk guzzle down Khalil’s piss, a chic named Butter Cup tried to make Khalil bust in the allotted three minutes but failed. Khalil remembered that he was getting served by piss-drinking hoes, so he wrapped back up.

  Only Sinnamon and Miss Tee hadn’t taken a turn tryna get Khalil to bust in under three minutes. Q had been keeping track of the time with his iced-out Piaget watch. Miss Tee, a redbone stallion, declined her turn, acting like all of a sudden she wasn’t a trick bitch. Q threatened to put her fake moralistic ass out on the highway and see if she liked walking a hundred miles better than sucking dick.

  B-Man added, “Fuck dat ho, anyway. Her mouth look like she been chewing broken glass!”

  Miss Tee self-consciously covered her mouth with the back of her hand, while the limo filled with laughter.

  “Whateva!” came from behind the hand covering her grill.

  A minute later Miss Tee found herself hitchhiking back to the “A.”

  Once the Hummer stretch pulled back into the highway traffic, Sinnamon didn’t hesitate to win the prize money. Shawdy stroked Khalil back to an erection then began slurping on the dick like it was a Popsicle. Khalil felt the back of her throat massaging him. He was close to busting when shawdy spat the dick out, straddled Khalil’s lap reverse cow-girl style, pulled her thong to the side and slid down on Khalil’s erection. Khalil shot off in less than thirty seconds, barking and growling like DMX.

  “Fuck dat, shawdy da winner!” proclaimed B-Man.

  Q hit Sinnamon off with a stack and then blessed the other girls with three-hundred dollars a piece on GP. When they arrived back in the city they dropped the strippers off at their respective apartments, then went to Lennox Mall so that Khalil could cop some gear.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Jones boys were headed to the Level Three nightclub, where Q and B-Man were throwing a welcome home party for Khalil. They had Azure at their disposal for twenty-four hours, so they were still rolling in the Hummer stretch. In the back of the limo they were drinking bubbly and burnin purp. Q had brought along Persia, who was looking sexy as hell. B-Man had left Gwen at home, but on his arm was a shawdy named Amore, whom he met through Bed-Stuy. Amore was short and thick to death, and tonight she was wearing the fuck out of a white Donna Karan mini-dress and a pair of knee-high red leather boots. Persia could’ve sworn she caught the weave-wearing bitch sweating Q. The night was just getting started and already she didn’t like the ho.

  Khalil, being fresh home from a bid, was, rolling dolo but looking to snag something to help him start up his stable. He was rocking a cream-colored Sean John linen summer suit, lightweight gator loafers, and a little shine. Upon meeting him face-to-face for the first time, Persia had commented that he looked like Morris Chestnut.

  The Level Three club was crowded, but not sardine-like. The club was a popular night spot anyway, but tonight many of those in attendance were there to welcome Khalil home. Q had a growing rep in the streets, so a lot of partygoers were there out of respect for him. Thomasville Heights was in the club representin’. There were three different levels or floors inside the nightclub. Q had rented the top level—the ballers floor—for Khalil’s party. Levels one and two were open to those not attending the party but clubbing anyway.

  As Q, B-Man, Khalil and ‘em were being escorted to their reserved booth by the club’s manager, a brown-skinned Amazon interrupted their procession.

  “Hi, Quantavious,” she purred, titties pressed against Q’s chest. Her look said: shake your bitch and come holla at me.

  “Whud up. Dorena?” Q spoke, tryna push on. But Dorena wouldn’t move out of his way.

  “You’re what’s up,” she replied. Fuck that bitch you’re with.

  “I hear you,” said Q.

  Persia stopped in mid-stride, spun around and faced the bold ho.

  “What the fuck? Do bitches always have to disrespect? Q, are you gonna check this drag queen, or am I gonna have to go ghetto on her ass?” Persia began removing her loop earrings.

  Q just shook his head in mild disbelief then pulled Persia along to avoid that petty shit. Dorena was trying to fuck with his girl’s head. He had hit it a while back; the bitch was throwback pussy. He wasn’t about to allow them to start no shit and ruin Khalil’s party.

  A while later the party was jumpin’. Khalil and ‘ems reserved booth overflowed with champagne, liquor, weed smoke and visitors’. Party streamers and banners that read “Welcome Home, Khalil—the Streets Are Yours” decorated the walls all around them. The same message flashed repeatedly across the large television screen that hung down from the ceiling.

  Khalil was chillin’, taking in everything. He’d been away sixty months so everything looked new to him. In addition to the cognac and purp, he was intoxicated with freedom. He was just checking out the new styles, the new dances—the whole nine. Shawdies looked so good, and their asses were sooo phat, he couldn’t wait to get his mack on. Hos were gonna make him rich. If mafuckaz thought pimpin’ was dead they were going to be in for a big surprise. Black Girl had told him he was born to mack; he was planning to do his mama proud, elevating the game to the new millennium.

  Judging from the way they were doing it up big for him, Khalil guessed that Q and B-Man must really be gettin’ to the money. Especially Q. Bitches were acting like Q was T.I. up in that bitch; niggaz were showing him much respect.

  A few seats down from Khalil in the booth, Persia was noting all the man-stealing females who were sweating Q. She stayed glued to him, not allowing any of those slick bitches the opportunity to slip Q their number. Persia had pulled that stunt too many times herself to fall victim to it. If Q needed to use the restroom, Persia planned to escort him there and back.

  B-Man parked Amore at the booth with Khalil and ‘em, then went off to parlay with some other hustlaz. He was using the occasion to build up clientele and scout out niggaz he might be able to flex down the line. He was determined not to play the background to Q’s lead much longer.

  Khalil left the private booth and drifted over to the main bar, Henny and Coke in hand. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Being fresh out the joint, he was not yet reaccustomed to being touched.

  “Damn, baby, why are you so jumpy? I was only tryna get your attention to say hello and welcome home.”

  Khalil smiled. “Oh, what’s up, April?” he was hardly able to believe his eyes. When he left the streets, April was ‘bout fifteen years old, a little chunky chic. Cute, but a little round. Now shawdy had come the fuck up; she had an hourglass figure and ass to spare!

  “Ain’t nothin’ up,” April replied. “What’s poppin’ with you? Can a bitch take you home and get some of that dick tonight?” She had hear
d that fresh out of prison dick was the shit.

  “I’ma have to get back with you on that another time,” Khalil declined. He guessed that April would’ve been some good cut, but now that he had gotten that first nut off, he planned to make the next ho he got with choose before he gave her some dick.

  Khalil had just brushed off April when Sinnamon, slid up, trying to get with him for the night.

  “This the business, baby girl,” Khalil broke it down to Sinnamon. “I ain’t knockin’ ya hustle, this ain’t what you think it is. Ain’t nothing sweet right here.”

  “It ain’t even like that, Khalil. Shid, I’ll pay you to let me finish what I started in the limo earlier today,” Sinnamon offered.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How much money you got?” Khalil asked.

  “How much it gon’ cost?”

  “Ho, won’t enough money fit in your purse to buy me. Don’t get shit twisted because of that shit that went down today. I’m a stone-cold mack. When you’re ready to fuck, suck dick, lie, steal and cheat to help me become a million dollar nigga, that’s when we can finish what you started. Until then, push on.”

  The change in Khalil from earlier had Sinnamon fucked up. She walked away with bruised feelings, thinking Khalil had to be the only nigga in the city that would refuse to let her pay him to sleep with her.

  The deejay was spinning Pussy Poppin’ by Ludacris. Q asked Amore to dance. It was a way for him to shake Persia for a minute after he came off the dance floor.

  When B-Man returned to find Amore on the dance floor with his brother, he knew something was up because Q wasn’t the dancing type. What Q was up to, B-Man couldn’t quite guess. He thought maybe Q was trying to holla at Amore, but he wasn’t trippin’ it. Amore was just his cut buddy, she could easily be replaced. Besides, B-Man grinned as a thought occurred to him; if Q was busy trying to get Amore, he couldn’t keep an eye on Persia. B-Man would’ve traded five Amore’s for one Persia.

  “What’s up, shawdy?” B-Man said, sliding in next to Q’s wifey in the booth. “If you were mine ain’t no way I’d be dancing with another bitch.”

  “Well, Amore is yours, ain’t she? And she’s dancing with another nigga. So what does that say about you?” countered Persia.

  “That bitch don’t mean nothin’ to me. You already know who I want.”

  “Who do you want, B-Man? Old tired-ass Gwen?”

  “Don’t even go there. You know who I want. Shid, I’ll give up my right arm to have you.”

  “That shit sounds good.”

  “That’s real talk, girl,” B-Man swore. “Just wait ‘til I build my weight up. I’m coming to claim you. That’s on all I love.”

  From the bar Khalil saw B-Man and Persia engaged in conversation, but he had no reason to suspect that something shady might be going on. As far as he knew, everything was good with his peoples. He didn’t even allow the thought that B-Man might be scheming after Q’s girl to enter his mind.

  Khalil’s visage turned hard like granite, when he saw Chyna. She was one of the lil’ hos he used to chili pimp. Chyna still had that sexy walk, and when she got up close Khalil saw that she was a penny short of being a dime. The years had filled her out just right. He wasn’t fazed by her looks, though. A dime piece ain’t worth a damn penny if she won’t hold a playa down when sugar turns to shit, he thought.

  “Hey, Khalil—welcome home. I know you’re probably mad at me for not writing and all that, but still I missed you even though I didn’t keep in touch,” she said.

  “Shawdy, don’t even waste ya breath. Fuck a letter. I ain’t salty ‘bout that shit. A ho gon’ be a ho. But, bitch . . . you’re not even good enough to be called a ho. You’re sleepin’ with the enemy. Back up outta my face!”

  “I don’t fuck with Twin no more,” Chyna said.

  “Still, you used to fuck with the nigga, and you knew my brothaz had beef with him. How you gon’ disrespect then show up at my party? I oughta hit you over the head with this bottle of Henny!” He raised the half gallon bottle above his head.

  Chyna flinched. “Why you acting like that, daddy? Ain’t a bitch entitled to one mistake?”

  She wanted back into Khalil’s life now that he was back on the streets. She had kicked DeWayne to the curb a year ago because the nigga fell off his game. Since then, Chyna had remained unattached, waiting for a boss playa to give her a position on his team. Chyna knew that Khalil was a top-notch nigga and that he would spark.

  Khalil had already decided not to fuck with Chyna ever again: if it was one thing he was unwilling to forgive it was disloyalty. He waved a bouncer over and had the ho tossed out the club.

  Later Sinnamon cornered Khalil again.

  “What if I tell you I’m willing to do all those things you said I’d have to do to get down with you?”

  “Then you’ll get yaself a boss nigga.”

  “That’s what I need,” confessed Sinnamon.

  “Empty ya purse then, shawdy. Make me know I’m what you want and need.”

  Without hesitation Sinnamon handed him all the money in her purse, which was $1,500. It was petty cash to Khalil, but he accepted it without complaint. Because more important than the money, he had just copped the first hoe for his stable.

  “Will you go home with me, daddy?” asked Sinnamon instinctively adopting a ho’s vernacular.

  “Yeah. Daddy gon’ break you off tonight.”

  Chapter Twelve

  B-Man came through in his dark blue bubble Chevy to scoop Khalil up from Sinnamon’s crib out in Clarksdale. She lived in the new townhouses over by the Clarksdale Shopping Center, an area B-Man was familiar with, so he had no trouble following the directions she had given him last night when Khalil left the party with her.

  Khalil had tapped that ass so good last night and early this morning that when Sinnamon answered the door to let B-Man in, shawdy was walking bow-legged. When B-Man pointed it out, Sinnamon giggled like a schoolgirl.

  “Damn, pimp, lil’ buddy beaming like a thousand watt bulb. You must’ve put it on her ass real good.”

  “I handled mines,” replied Khalil gripping Sinnamon’s Victoria Secrets-clad ass.

  He told Sinnamon that he would be “home” later to drop her off at Teasers, the strip club where she worked. Sinnamon had her own whip, but from now on Khalil would be using it until he copped one of his own.

  B-Man and Khalil headed over to Q’s crib in Scotsdale to chop it up with him about how the three of them were going to rule the streets now that Khalil was back. B-Man was bumpin’ a Plies mixed tape trying to talk over the loud music as he steered the Chevy towards Q’s crib. Khalil couldn’t hear what B-Man was saying, so he turned down the volume.

  B-Man was explaining the trouble Q was having collecting on the twelve stacks Lamar owed him. Khalil didn’t know Lamar, but he knew that Q was forever trying to help his shawdy’s people. He also knew that Q had been burned many times like that and should’ve learned his lesson by now. He reminded himself that Q was just a kind-hearted nigga who would give a mafucka a chance. The way B-Man was telling it, it sounded as if he was saying their lil’ brother had turned softer than baby shit.

  Khalil retorted, “You telling me all about how Q ain’t straightening his business—what about you? Your gun don’t bust no more?”

  “Long story short, bruh; Man, I’m tired of straightenin’ shit for Q.” His tone disclosed a bit of hidden animosity in his heart.

  “Nigga, we all fam! The three of us all came out the same womb. So it don’t even go like that. Shawdy, you’re ya brotha’s keepa—point blank period!”

  “I feel you, Khalil,” conceded B-Man. “But Q ain’t living by the same code”

  “What you saying, shawdy?”

  B-Man recounted the whole situation where Q hadn’t vouched for him with Fazio.

  Khalil already knew how it had gone down. He’d thought it over many times while he was on lock. In his heart of hearts he didn�
�t believe Q had intentionally blocked B-Man’s come up. The truth was the truth; B-Man was quick to fuck up money then try to juggle a nigga. Khalil understood why Q hadn’t wanted to bet his life on B-Man’s word.

  “You can’t be mad about that, shawdy. Shid, how many times you done came short with Q’s money when he fuck with you like that?”

  “I should’ve known you were gon’ take his side?” B-Man said.

  “Don’t even try that weak shit, nigga!” Khalil snapped. “Shawdy, my love for you and Q is the same. I done a bid for him, and I duffed a nigga for you,” Khalil reminded him.

  Right after Black Girl had died, a well-known drag queen in the hood had tricked young B-Man into bed. B-Man hadn’t realized Rachel, the drag queen was really Ricardo until they were naked. Then B-Man had to fight his way out the drag queen’s apartment, ‘cause the cock-strong mafucka was gonna take the dick! A week later Khalil gave Rachel something hard to suck on— a chrome nine.

  “So miss me with that bullshit, pimp!” continued Khalil. “Nigga if both of y’all went blind, I’d give each one of you an eye apiece and walk around like Stevie Wonder my goddamn self. That’s real talk!” he pounded his chest with a fist, emphasizing the force of his love.

  Unperturbed, B-Man maintained, “Still, Q ain’t doing it like dat you’ll see, bruh. Just wait till we get to this nigga’s condo and you peep how him and his bitch living. I mean, I ain’t starvin’, but we ain’t eating no where close to the same.”

  Dayum. Is this jealousy and envy I’m hearing? Khalil couldn’t help but wonder. It sho sound the fuck like it. Khalil wasn’t about to try and solve any riddles or guess what was on his brother’s mind. If a nigga had something on his chest, he oughta man up and be heard. B-Man was trying to say something, but at the same time he wasn’t saying nothing at all, just talking in riddles.

  Khalil cut him off, “Check this shit, pimp,” he said. “If you know something about lil’ bruh that I don’t, spit it out. Otherwise, quit bitchin’. Maddafact, wait until we get to Q’s crib then speak your piece in his presence. ‘Cause the truth ain’t gotta be said behind a man’s back.”