All Hail the Queen (5 page)

Naeema turned and extended her left hand as he reached out to press money into it. His black eyes were almost possessive as he took in the fit of the jeans on her ass and hips. Like he owned it and was sitting it up on a shelf until he felt like playing with it.
Negro please . . .

He stroked her palm with his thumb.

“I'm married. Remember?” Naeema said gently, trying to tug her hand free.

He held it tighter and turned it over to stroke her bare ring finger. Another chuckle and shake of his
head. “Take it light, Naeema,” Diego said, before taking a step back from her as he released her hand.

Something about the final look he gave her made a shiver race up Naeema's spine. She couldn't quite place it as desire or fear. He was built to deliver both.

Naeema slid the money Diego gave her into her back pocket knowing without looking that it was a crisp hundred-dollar bill. Diego had money to burn and dropping a bill on a ten-dollar haircut meant nothing to his pockets. Leaning onto the back of the barber chair she watched through the front windows of the shop as Diego moved like a star through the crowd of dudes that always hung out in the parking lot of the small mini-mall that housed the popular barbershop, a liquor store, and a beauty supply store—all owned by her boss, Derek Majors.

Her eyes narrowed as she watched Diego walk his sexy ass to his convertible Benz boldly double-parked on the busy street. He knew no one would mess with it. He stopped just before he climbed behind the wheel to look back toward the mini-mall. Her eyes followed his line of vision and she frowned a little as Davon “Murk” Grant strode across the lot to greet Diego. Naeema eyed the two men. Both were big-time dope hustlers in and around the city. Their conversation barely lasted a minute before Diego walked away to climb into his car and speed off. Murk moved to a car and soon drove off too.

Probably cooking up some shit to flood the city with more dope.

Naeema didn't give zero fucks about either one of them, their hustles, their wives, their sidechicks, nor their kids if they had any.
Fuck 'em.

She eyed her boss, Derek, as he came down the stairs from his second-floor office. He worked the room like a two-bit politician looking to charm votes and give empty promises of shit never to come.

He eyed her as he walked out the door. She eyed his slick ass right back.

His office was in the barbershop but he posted up in the liquor store. Rumor was he was fucking the hell out of the new cashier he hired, who was more ass than brains. She fought the urge to be Petty McBetty and give his wife an anonymous call to catch his cheating ass. She wanted to but she didn't. The cashier wasn't the first and probably wouldn't be the last of Derek's sidechicks.

He was a well-dressed man with money trying to trick himself into believing he wasn't ugly. He was born that way and would die that way and the in-between was nothing but cash and ass flow. Shit he could control.

Who gives a fuck?

She had to remind herself that she didn't. She didn't have the time to keep tabs on someone else's husband when she still hadn't heard from her own. Her feelings were hurt that Tank didn't show up to check on her.

Damn
.

She blinked her long lashes, hating the tears that rose up as she pulled on each of her fingers as she continued to stare out the window at the busy traffic on one of the dozens of streets leading into downtown Newark. People in a constant state of go. Working, moving, riding, walking, fighting, grinding, partying, chiefing, fucking. Doing anything to keep from thinking. Worrying. Dealing.

Between the disrespect of the robbery and being hurt to
the blow of Tank not turning up, Naeema felt tension spread from her nape and down across her shoulders. The shift had come quickly. Her emotions were visceral. They pierced her.

She released a heavy breath as she rubbed her fingertips over the full-sleeve tattoo on her left arm made up of her son's yearly school pictures from kindergarten to eighth grade interwoven with a large cross, roses, and scrolls. Feeling that same haunting darkness come over her at the thought of his death and her guilt, she curled her fingers into as much of a fist as she could to break the pull. She had enough weighing her down.

“Yo Naeema, we need a woman's opinion.”

Shifting her eyes from the street she found nearly all of the men in the shop looking at her. As always, the shop was loud and raucous but Naeema felt right at home even as the lone female. It had been that way for the over ten years she had been cutting hair there. She enjoyed the fellas' conversation, which could go from politics to street gossip in no time at all. In time they got used to her and held nothing back. They all thought of her as their sister and on many occasions she had to either defend or just enlighten them on the female point of view.

But she wasn't in the mood for that shit.

“Nah, miss me with it this time,” she said, rubbing her hands over her shaven head before looking back out the window at everything and nothing.

“PMS,” someone said over the fray—someone new or extremely motherfucking bold because Naeema's temper once stoked was infamous.

But she wasn't even in the mood to curse out whatever lame-ass fool just tried her.

“Yo, Naeema, you ready for me?”

She looked over at one of her regular clients rising from his seat in the waiting area. She bit her bottom lip and continued to gently tug on each of her fingers as she looked back out the window, back at the men laughing and talking, and then back to her client. Her eyes shifted from one to the other and the other. Again and again and once more.

Fuck this shit.

Naeema grabbed her knock-off studded MCM bag from the small closet on the barber station and snatched off the leopard print apron she wore to shove it in its place before she turned and just rushed toward the door. She felt someone grab at her arm but she jerked free of their loose grip and crossed the lot to where her motorcycle sat.

She slid on her hot pink helmet and cranked the bike to reverse out of the parking spot. Sitting low in the seat she guided it toward the crowd of hard-faced dudes in white T-shirts smoking freely on stuffed Philly blunts. She revved the bike and they finally parted to allow her to accelerate forward. Her boss suddenly stepped in her path and Naeema rolled her eyes as she easily steered the bike to the right of him and sped out of the parking lot.

She enjoyed the feel of the air against her body as she dipped and weaved in and out of cars, New Jersey Transit buses, and even children playing in the streets enjoying their summer. She didn't stop until she turned down a long, wide alley off Broad Street leading to a blacked-out glass door with the word
BOXING
in large red block letters. She parked her bike in between two vehicles that lined the brick wall of one of the buildings that flanked the alley.

Nothing but a workout could help get her mind right. Release. Process.
I'm ready to hit some shit.

She entered the gym, her eyes taking in the two large boxing rings in the center of the room where men sparred and then the weight equipment and boxing equipment lining the walls. The sounds of fist hitting flesh or boxing equipment echoed in the thick, musty air of the facility that was nothing but the bare essentials. The black paint on the exposed brick walls was peeling. Flyers announcing upcoming boxing events were haphazardly hung. No frills. No fuss. Just working out through boxing.

She loved it.

In the days since her most recent breakup with Tank she had come back to the gym to be trained and keep her shape. Fat ass? Thick thighs? Hips? All cool. A gut to go along with all of that?
No haps.
She wanted to keep it more along the lines of Amber Rose than Luenell the comedian. Especially in the body-conscious clothing she favored.

Naeema rushed into the female locker room glad that she paid the monthly fee to rent one of the bright red lockers lining the walls. She took a quick shower and changed into a bright yellow sports bra and leggings.

“Naeema!”

She had just exited the locker room and looked up to see her trainer, Rocko, motioning for her from the front ring. She moved toward him. She didn't have an appointment and her plan was just to get out her emotions by getting into some work on the treadmill and then one of the speed bags.

“You feel like a quick sparring match?”
he asked, sounding like the beloved guido that he was with bulging muscles, a deep tan, and jet-black moussed hair.

She eyed a woman in the corner of the ring getting her gloves laced up.

“I don't know,” Naeema said, her reluctance showing.

Rocko gave her a playful wink and another wave. “Just a little light workout,” he said.

Naeema gave him a friendly smile that didn't reach her eyes. In fact, he was irking her nerves. She didn't enjoy having to decline an offer more than once.

“Find me somebody with some fight in 'em, Rocko,” the woman said, turning to lightly pound her gloves against each other. “She don't want to fuck with this.”

Naeema narrowed her eyes. She didn't know if it was a bad coincidence or divine intervention. “You sure you want to fuck with that?” she asked, continuing forward and climbing up into the ring with ease.

Rocko nodded. “Naeema . . . Ashley. Ashley . . . Naeema.”

They gave each other a head nod in greeting.

“Just a little lightweight spar, ladies,” he said, suiting Naeema up in gloves and a head guard.

They squared up in the ring with Rocko standing between them. As soon as he stepped out of the way Naeema swung and delivered a feather-soft blow to Ashley's shoulder.

“Good, Naeema,” Rocko called from somewhere outside the ring.

Naeema didn't know and didn't care. She was focused. And she didn't miss the spark of anger in the woman's eyes. Naeema brought one hand up to block a right punch the
woman threw and followed with a right of her own that the woman leaned to the left to avoid.

A blow to her right side caught Naeema off guard and she released a stream of harsh air at the pain as she doubled over.
Shit!

“You all right, Naeema?” Rocko called out to her.

“Damn, my bad,” Ashley said, sounding apologetic.

Naeema cut her eyes up at her as she slowly straightened her body. She tilted her head to the side as she spotted the woman was happy as shit no matter her fake-ass words. With a nod of understanding, Naeema took another deep breath before she delivered a roundhouse kick to her side that toppled the woman off her feet and down onto the mat with a loud THUD.

“Damn, my fucking bad,” Naeema said mockingly.

Ashley jumped to her feet and came running across the ring at Naeema.

“Fuck!” Rocko exclaimed.

Naeema locked her left leg and swiftly raised her right catching the bitch midstride with a kick against the side of her head guard.

WHAP.

Wrong day. Wrong chick to try.

Rocko jumped between them just as Ashley swung. Her blow landed against Naeema's right temple.

“La-dies,” he exclaimed in disbelief. “What the fuck?”

Tank trained her for every possible scenario and her instincts kicked in as she dropped down to a squat and leveled a leg sweep to Rocko that laid him flat on his back with a look of surprise. She rose, jumped over him, and delivered
a round of blows to Ashley with a swiftness that caught the woman off guard.

“Ow,” she cried out.

Naeema shut the woman's mouth with an uppercut and then delivered three swift kicks—one to her thigh, then her hip, and then her upper arm. She finished her with a gut punch that sent her tumbling back onto the mat again.

Naeema was about to land dead on her ass and fuck her up some more when someone caught her from behind locking a strong arm around both of hers. She tried a couple of moves to break free but each challenge was met with ease.

“Stop it, Na.”

Only shock at the sound of
his
voice stilled her. And sent her heart pounding like crazy in her chest.

Tank.

Her entire body felt a new level of awareness. Every fine hair on her body stood on end and her pulse raced.
Thump-thump
.

She wanted to let her body go slack in his arms and just be held by him.

Her anger came back full force. “Let me go, Tank,” she said, as he carried her out of the ring.

“You aight, Ashley?” Rocko asked, helping the woman to her feet where she wobbled back and forth like her focus was shot to hell.

“I guess you shouldn't have fucked with it,” Naeema called over just before Tank carried her toward a long hall at the rear of the gym.

“Put me the fuck down, Tank,” she said, even trying to
jerk her head back to butt against his as she futilely fought against his strength. His might. His will.

Tank owned and operated his own security firm specializing in bodyguard services for politicians and celebrities. Staying fit and being prepared to fuck someone up was his business and his body was built to succeed at it. He could easily be mistaken for a power forward on a professional basketball team. Tall, muscular, strong. He handled her with an ease where other dudes would struggle.

“Stop acting the fuck up, Naeema,” he said, his deep voice hard with anger.

And with that ease he opened the door to one of the cedar steam rooms and stepped inside, finally releasing her as he leaned back to pull the door securely closed behind them as the steam swirled. Naeema tumbled to her knees but hopped right back up on her feet to stand before where he stood with his arms crossed over his chest in the sleeveless navy tee he wore with basketball shorts.

For the first time in weeks Naeema laid eyes on her husband, Lavarius “Tank” Cole. Just fine as fuck. She forced herself to look away from his Laz Alonso—like goodness. It was too much. The steamy heat. His looks. Her anger at him. Her disappointment in him. Her love. Every pulse in her body throbbed. Including the one between her legs.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.