Authors: Noire
Later that night I did what I usually did whenever I got too stressed. I got in the shower and turned the water on and stood under the spray until the ceiling was wet with steam. Then I turned the water pressure down and rubbed a bar of sweet soap all over my body, enjoying the lush bubbles and paying special attention to my swollen breasts and growing nipples.
I worked the soap between my hands until I was holding creamy suds. I cupped my titties and squeezed them gently, loving
the thickness of them and how full and firm they felt in my hands. I held on to them, sliding my fingers forward a little at a time, teasing myself into a heat as my nipples stiffened and ached.
Finally I spread the thick suds over my nipples and massaged them in small circles, moaning out loud as my pussy started to drip. My hands had a mind of their own as they cupped and squeezed, then returned to my nipples and flicked and teased. I took the soap and slid it down my muscled belly, then worked up more lather on my mound, soaping my soft red pussy hair until it was foamy and white.
I dipped my middle finger into the suds and pressed it down hard on my clit, then climaxed as I inserted it deeply into my hot pussy. My walls clenched and collapsed around my finger as my body convulsed like crazy. Near the end of my orgasm I pushed three fingers up inside of me to feel some thickness, then squeezed my muscles tight until the very last spark of pleasure faded and my breasts stopped heaving. By the time I climbed out the shower my body and mind were both at peace. My decision had been made and I was cool with it.
The next morning I got to Mama's house bright and early, two hours before she had to leave for work. “Okay, Mama.” I sighed after running the scenario down to her for almost an hour. I didn't know why I was so worried. Mama had been doing a hellified job at work, and for the first time in her life Caramel knew what it meant to have a damn near normal life. Mama had just got promoted to assistant manager, and she was seeing a guy named Greasy who worked at the station across the street from her job pumping gas and fixing cars. “Let's go over everything one more time.”
I ran the rules down to Mama for the fifth time and tried to make her see just how important it was for her to present the right image when making a run. “You're too pretty, Mama,” I said. “You gotta tone yourself down. Otherwise, people will remember you. Don't give those screeners no reason to even look your way. Be so plain they can forget they forgot you. No perfume, no jewelry, no makeup. Put a wig on top of all that pretty hair too. You gotta be like an actress playing a role. It should be easy too, 'cause you're traveling under the perfect cover. You're going to Seattle for World Peace Day. See yourself doing that in your head, and then make yourself believe it.”
Everything I was telling Mama was what I practiced myself, especially when I was onstage. As soon as those lights hit me and the mic went live, shy little Candy Montana became a whole different person. Onstage I saw myself as irresistible, a superstar, a badass bitch. The way I moved, the things my body did, all that funky sex appeal … even I didn't know where I got it from. It was like I was that free little girl holding a toilet tissue roll and singing for her mama in the living room. I captivated the audience, oozing pussy. The world was mine and my performance was usually so live it brought down the house. There was no way I was gonna blow off Hurricane Jackson's offer and mess up my chance to sing in the House of Homicide.
“So when do I pick up the money?” Mama wanted to know. I stared into her eyes and for a second I thought she looked wild and hungry, but I shook it off. Nicky was getting in my head. Mama had kept herself straight since she'd been in L.A. She'd stopped drinking hard liquor and wasn't even smoking cigarettes no more. She deserved the extra ends this run would
give her, and she even planned to use some of it to get a fake front tooth put in her mouth so she could feel more confident when she was talking to people.
“I'll take care of all that, Mama. You just work on remembering the rules, and leave the rest up to me.”
P
ercy Graham arrived at his office at the House of Homicide promptly at seven. He was always the first person on board each day and enjoyed the solitude of working alone for two or three hours before anyone else showed up. At a glance you might figure Percy to be a stockbroker or a corporate bigwig, but you'd certainly be mistaken. Percy was a master at keeping his appearance smooth and tight, and the three-thousand-dollar suits he wore every day and the Mercedes-Benz parked in a secure garage two blocks away were just a few of the fruits that the labor of his brilliant mind had afforded him.
Sliding his briefcase under his desk, Percy pulled a chair up to his third-floor window and watched Harlem come alive. He'd watched these same streets almost every morning during the four years he'd been working for Hurricane Jackson, and every year when spring broke he'd buy a few potted flowers and set them outside on the specially built fire escape he'd had constructed the same day he'd arrived.
An alumnus of Harvard Law School, Percy was a child
prodigy in mathematics and reasoning who had graduated at the top of his class and had twice been listed in
Who's Who in American Law.
Percy gazed outside as commuters walked to and from the subway. Storefront shops were beginning to open, and working-class people roused winos and crackheads off their stoops before leaving for work. He loved Harlem, and loved Harlem's people even more, but it wasn't long ago that he worked a job that kept him isolated from regular people like these and focused his energies on white-collar criminals who ran empires from uptown offices with doormen and deep carpets.
At five feet eleven inches tall and weighing roughly 180 pounds with smooth chocolate skin, Percy wasn't an intimidating brother and didn't appear all that impressive unless you got caught sitting across from him in a courtroom. Only then could you see the killer glare creep into his eyes, and by that time it was always too late.
After graduating from high school at the age of sixteen and the Harvard School of Law five years later, Percy received scores of job offers from nearly every top law firm in the country, but had instead chosen to accept a low-paying position as an assistant DA with the prosecutor's office in Manhattan. Since he'd majored in corporate law with a specialty in tax codes, the DA put him to work prosecuting cases involving tax fraud schemes, drug trafficking, corruption of public officials, and loan-sharking.
Percy was tops at his job, and his handsome face and his notorious cases were plastered all over the
Daily News
, the
New York Post
, and
Newsweek.
He won countless awards and accolades for successfully prosecuting more illegal activity offenses
than any other Manhattan assistant DA since Thomas Dewey. Word around the watercooler had it that Percy was in line for a huge promotion, one that was usually reserved for higher-ranking white attorneys who were well-established members of the system.
But one sunny day in December while Percy was in court ready to do battle on behalf of the citizens of Manhattan, his world came crashing down.
The State v. Jacob Freeman
was in full swing, and right in the middle of his first summation Percy was interrupted by a court clerk who informed him that the DA himself was waiting outside in the hallway and needed to speak with him urgently.
Percy glanced at the defendant who was up on the stand lying through his teeth, and then looked down at his carefully prepared notes. He was just about to drop the bombshell evidence that would introduce a paper trail that had originated with the defendant and ended with an illegal offshore account that held millions of dollars in his wife's name. Stopping now would disrupt the dramatic effect and kill the momentum he had going with the jurors.
But the court clerk was insistent, and Percy had no choice other than to turn the proceedings over to his colleague, Jim Battle, an eager white boy who had recently graduated from Yale. Exiting the courtroom quickly, Percy was surprised to be met in the crowded hallway by not only the DA, but the director of legal hiring as well.
“Percy Graham,” the DA hissed, “a serious situation has been brought to my attention. A situation that can not and will not be tolerated on my watch.”
The Manhattan DA was known for his honesty and above-the-board
ethics, and the look on his boss's face was so grave that Percy knew this had to be something heavy.
“What's the problem, sir?”
The director of hiring stepped forward. “Kickbacks, Graham. Kickbacks and payoffs. All done under the table, and all conducted in your name.”
Percy glanced at the assortment of people walking the halls, searching for a colleague who could vouch for his character, but all he saw were criminals and their attorneys conversing in small groups. He looked back at the DA, and then he actually smiled, for this had to be a joke. They could have asked anyone, Percy thought in amazement. Anyone who knew him could testify that his professional behavior was always above reproach. Yes, this had to be some sort of sick, white-boy joke. But the look in the DA's eyes and the words coming out of his mouth convinced him that it wasn't.
“You're fired, Graham!” the DA exploded. “Fired! I believed in you, and you planted corruption in my organization and tried to foul it up! It'll be months before we fully uncover the dirt you've done and years before we recover and regain the public's trust. Don't worry about getting your things from the office. I'll have them boxed up and sent to you. You're lucky I'm not inclined to have you disbarred, but if you're not out of here in five minutes flat I might just change my mind.”
A hush had fallen over the busy hallway and Percy knew all eyes were on him. He also knew what time it was. He'd been set up. Framed. Railroaded out of position by the people who worked closest to him. By his colleagues who were supposed to be working on his team.
He didn't bother to ask what they had on him. Whatever it
was, Percy knew it was trumped up and bogus, but he also knew it didn't matter. He could spend considerable time and effort fighting this thing and going into court to get his job back, but for what? They'd already questioned his integrity and insulted his professionalism. He'd lost the trust, and for Percy, that was the most important part of his job.
He looked down at his right hand, the one that was missing an index finger. He remembered what his grandmother had told him as he lay in an Illinois hospital bed with a bandage covering his entire hand.
“Son,” she'd said, “I know you hurtin’, but some good can be found in every bad situation. So you only got four good fingers left on your hand, huh? All right, then. That means you better not never grab hold of nothing you can't let go of in a hurry.”
Percy nodded at the DA, then turned around and walked back into the courtroom where Jim Battle was busy presenting Percy's findings as though he'd discovered them himself. Without a word, Percy gathered his belongings and placed them neatly inside of his briefcase. As he neared the door he locked eyes with Jim, who winked mischievously before returning to Percy's carefully constructed notes.
He was waiting for the elevator when he felt the nudge on his arm.
“Yo. Whattup?”
Percy turned around and saw a well-dressed brother who looked like he pumped iron for a living. It had been a long time, but Percy still recognized him. The last time their paths had crossed had been in a courtroom as well. Back when Percy had still been a quiet, scrawny little kid. A lot had changed in
both of their lives since then. He stared at the large man with the bald head and handsome features. “What's up?”
“Hurricane Jackson,” the man said as Percy held him with his eyes. “Check this. I saw what just went down. Whatever them crackers was paying you, I'll double it.”
“Nah, man …”
“Okay, I'll triple it. My lawyer is late and I need some solid representation real quick before they put my ass in jail.”
Percy's brain whirred like a computer. “All right. Then I'm Percy. Percy Graham.”
Hurricane reached out for a little dap. “Cool, ak. I read the papers. I know who you be. But Percy?” Hurricane frowned and shook his head. “That's my daddy's name.” He shrugged. “You can answer to that shit if you want to. But from here on out, I'ma call you Knowledge.”
T
he House of Homicide was packed. There were rappers and video hoes lined up out the door and around the corner waiting for a chance to jump in the pit and impress Hurricane. Everybody wanted to cash in on the energy he had going, and all the hopefuls were bringing their best talent to the table, praying that what they had going was good enough to get an offer of a contract.
When it was our turn in the pit we got in there and performed our asses off. We had star quality and it was easy to see. I knew I was good because I worked my body into such a heat that I had a mini-orgasm right there in front of the crowd. I hate to say it but Dom and Vonnie weren't even in my zone. It was like I was down in that pit by myself in my halter top and tiny white shorts. Doing me to the fullest. The beat zapped into me at my feet, zipped up the back of my legs, then slipped between my thighs and stabbed me in the pussy. I wore that stage out, rocking it treacherously. Hurricane watched me the whole time. His eyes was crawling all over my body, checking
out my ass and all my moves. Every baller and rapper in the house had lined up around the pit to see our audition. They made mad noise in the background and got crazy hot from the heat we were putting out onstage.
The response was clear. If Hurricane signed us up, Scandalous! was gonna bring something to Homicide Hitz that would knock the rest of the competition straight off the map. I wasn't even off the stage good before playas were trying to holla in my face and industry heads were comparing my looks, moves, and sounds to Beyoncé Knowles.
“But Beyoncé ain't got them fake-ass eyes,” I heard one sis-tah say.
“Yeah,” her man answered, “but this jawn's got a much phat-ter ass though.”