Retribution (27 page)

I slip a hand up my skirt, slip two fingers in between the elastic of my panties, then slide my fingers into my horny pussy, matching the thrust of my fingers to the bobbing of my neck. Lamar's thighs shake. He grabs my head and bounces it all the way down into his lap, grunting and grinding and fucking himself into my throat.

I dig my nails into his hips. He grunts again. Thrusts harder. Faster. He shakes and cums,
hard
, emitting a low howl from somewhere in the back of his throat as his hot creamy nut coats my tonsils and slides down my neck. He shudders. And I keep sucking him, siphoning out every last drop, until his dick goes limp.

I stand up, licking my lips, then my fingers. Lamar doesn't move. He's slumped to the side. His eyes are shut. And for a second I think he's not breathing, wonder if I need to do a pulse check; that perhaps I've literally sucked him to death—until he lets out a hard breath, shaking his head and his eye lids flutter open.

He looks dazed.

I tilt my head, smoothing the wrinkles out of the front of my skirt. “Ummm, are you okay?”

He blinks, focuses to keep his line of vision glued to my probing eyes. He blinks again. “Yeah. I'm good. You got'a muhfucka zonin' ‘n' shit, that's all. On some real, I've had mad head in my life, but, on everything, you the first chick that has
ever
had my head spinnin' ‘n' had me seein' stars as I'm bustin' off.”

I keep from smiling.

Sucking dick for a cause is a delicious mess, but it has to be done. I'm on a mission. So it might as well be done by a bitch like me who loves the thrill of having a nigga's dick down in her neck.

I eye Lamar as he bends over, grabbing his pants and standing up. I glance at his shiny dick—compliments of spit and cum, watching it disappear beneath black boxers and black slacks as he zips, fastens, then buckles his belt.

I watch as he heads for the door, admiring the view.
My, God, he has a nice ass. And that dick…mmmph! Yes, God! That young hard dick is exactly what I need to get the job done.
I place a hand up to my neck, grazing my fingers along my collarbone.

Lamar reaches for the door, his hand on the doorknob. He turns slightly, glancing at me over his broad shoulder. “I'ma have that situation handled
tonight.”

Our eyes meet, one last time. No words are needed. We are both keenly aware of our roles—his, to serve and protect—by any means necessary. Mine, to suck and serve.

The sweetest, most delicious part of revenge is watching from the sidelines…

E
ight a.m., Saturday morning, and Booty's ass is one of the first ones walking through the door bright and early, along with two other clients, one for Kendra; and the other for one of the estheticians. She says her name is Tasty. Tasty Evans. I welcome her to the salon. Thank her for her patronage, then ask her who her appointment is with since she's not in the appointment book. She says she called a few days ago, spoke to someone who kept popping her gum in her ear.

I shoot a dirty look over at Booty, wondering how many other appointments this bitch done fucked up. She rolls her eyes, turning her back to me. I bring my attention back to Tasty. She's here for a lip, chin, and chest wax and a back facial. I strain to not stare at her thick mustache and whiskers as she's talking.
Mmm, looks like you can also use a good waxing on those hairy-ass knuckles,
I think glancing at her hands. Then back up at her.
Ooh, no, girl! And them bushy eyebrows are a wild mess.

I blink. Tell her to have a seat. That Nina, another one of my newest estheticians, should be in shortly. Mel, who's sitting on a stool in the corner, looks up from a magazine he's reading to eye
her, then Booty—who I know is only here first thing in the morning so she can flounce her ass in front of him.

I stand up and walk around the receptionist's desk to turn on the flat-screen in the waiting area. I watch Booty eyeing the Tasty chick—who's wearing a short denim skirt with a pair of peep-toe pumps. Both of her big toes, with their long toenails, are peeping out of her shoes—as she takes a seat.

Booty grunts, slinging a brown snakeskin Bottega Veneta bag off her shoulder, swinging it into one of the waiting room chairs. “See, this is why I ain't schedule this booga-coo—”

“Cassandra,” I warn.

“Miss Pasha, girl. You know I'ma keep it classy. Don't do me.”

Oh, God, no, please. Not today! And definitely not this early in the morning!

“Now, sugah-boo,” Booty starts, placing a hand up on her hip, “what you say your name is again?”

“Tasty, why?” she asks with attitude.

“Oh, no, sweetness, don't do me. Take down that
stank
in your tone a pinch. I ain't messy, okaaay? I heard you over there tellin' Miss Pasha, girl, that you was here for a waxin'. But sounds like…”

“Cassandra, girl,” I quickly say, knowing she's about to crank it up, “c'mon to my station so I can hurry and get you up out of here.”

She shoots me a look. “See, Miss Pasha, girl, you tryna do me. All I was gonna say is, that it sounds to me like Miss Tasty over here needs the works. Not just some wax.” She turns her attention back to Tasty. “Now, sugah-boo. I been comin' here for years, okay. And can't a bitch in the Tri-State area do me, like Nappy No More, okay.”

The Tasty chick seems to relax a bit. “Girl, I heard that. One of my good girlfriends told me about this spot. That's why I made me an appointment, that
somehow
didn't get put in the book.”

I hold my breath. Mel lowers his eyes, shaking his head.

“Girl,
boom!
You here, ain't you?”

I race over, snatching up Booty's bag and grabbing her by the arm, ushering her toward my station. “Miss Evans, don't mind this one here. She's on meds.”

She shrugs, waving me on, shifting in her seat.

Booty starts talking sideways, telling me I'm trying to be messy; that I stay trying to
do
her. That all she was doing was trying to get me more business. “Don't do me,” she hisses. “You ain't see that booga-beast's hoofs, Miss Pasha, girl? Mmmph. You know I ain't ever been messy.” She lowers her voice. “But that booga-beast right there needs to be in a cage somewhere. Ain't nothin'
tasty
'bout that hairy bitch.”

“Cassandra, stop,” I say, turning on the water on and adjusting the temperature. “You need to really learn when to keep your mouth shut. You can't go around saying whatever you want to people.”

I snap the cape around her neck.

“Miss Pasha, girl,
boom!
I don't know why not. I ain't even tryna hear you right now. It's too early in the mornin' for you to be tryna do me. You stay tryna say I'm bein' messy when I'm
only
bein' me.”

Yeah, messy!

I wave her on dismissively. “Cass, stop. Now what are you in here for
today?
You were
just
in here a few days ago getting your hair done.”

She eyes me. “See. There you go, again. Tryna do me. You know I likes to keep them ole stank cooter-boos down at the club on they toes. You know it stays crackin' down down at the Crack House on Saturday nights. And Booty gots to be laid like no other, okaaay, sugah-boo. I wanna keep my bang, though, Miss Pasha, girl, 'cause you did that. But I want you to toss me a lil blonde through it. And I'ma need me a lil silky yak swooped down over
my left shoulder. You can keep it shorter on the right side. And”—she runs her hands along the back of her neck—“lay this kitchen down real flat, sugah-boo. I want it tighter than a baby's crack.”

I chuckle, leaning her back in her chair. “I got you, girl.” I hear the door open. It's Nina walking in. She greets Tasty, then throws a hand up in a wave at me as they make their way to one of the waxing rooms.

“Oooh, Miss Pasha, girl. You know that nigga-boo over there in the corner is some kinda fine. Mmmph. Too bad he ain't shakin' in no real paper, though. My cootie-coo ain't friendly to no broke dingaling.”

I shake my head, laughing. “Cass, how you know he's broke? And his name's Mel.”

“Mmmph. 'Cause my cootie-coo don't ever get juicy when I look at him.” I tell her it's not always about money. That he's a really nice guy. “Mmmph. Then how 'bout you give 'im a lil taste, if you ain't already swallowed him down in ya neck, ‘n' tell me how it is.”

I splash water in her face. “Don't have me drown you, Cass.”

“Sugah-boo,
boom!”
I tell her I'm loving her bag, changing the subject. Compliments sidetrack her ass real quick. “Miss Pasha, girl, you know how I do, sugah-boo. Heels ‘n' handbags stay turnt all the way up.” I shake my head. Ask her what else she's passionate about besides heels and handbags. Ask her if she has any goals. “Miss Pasha, girl, don't do me, boo. You know I'm passionate 'bout good damn dingaling, keepin' my handbag lined with greenery—that good
get right
‘n' them Benjamins—‘n' takin' care of my kids.” I rinse out the conditioner, then turn off the water, wrapping a towel around her head and lifting up her seat. “And of course I got me some goals. Makin' sure all'a my kids graduate from high school without bringin' me home no grandbabies or goin' to jail, then makin' sure they hurry up ‘n' get the fuck outta my house…”

I blink. “Okay, those are definitely some goals. But what about goals for yourself?”

Every so often I glance up at one of the flat-screens situated on the walls back here as I wash Booty's hair. The morning news is on.

I turn her toward the wall mirror. She eyes me as she talks. “You know my goal is to get to the next level of hood-fabulousness, Miss Pasha, girl. I'm always tryna keep me two or three sponsors on deck at all times.”

I blink again. “Okay, that's definitely another goal. But I was thinking more along the lines of professional goals, like maybe going to school, taking up a trade. Wouldn't you like to work somewhere one day, maybe have a job with benefits? Wouldn't you like to own a home of your own one day?”

She huffs. “See. Here you go tryna be messy again. Who gonna hire me, huh? And don't even think I'ma be ridin' up ‘n' down on no poles, either. Been there, done that. The only pole I'm ridin' down on now is a long damn dingdong. This cootie-coo ‘n' good juicy booty is my moneymaker, okaaaay. And, sugah-boo, I got me good benefits with my Medicaid card. And I'm already doin' it big in the house I got with my Section-8. What I need'a buy me a house for when the government done already laid me out right? Don't even get cute.”

I blink.
It's too early in the morning to have this conversation.
I reach for the remote to the television when I see the caption: T
HREE
R
AGING FIRES IN
N
EWARK
scroll across the screen and the lead anchorwoman for Channel Two News is standing in front of an insert of a roaring fire in the background.

“…In other breaking news…Tragedy strikes in the city of Newark as firefighters in the city's North, East, and South Wards were called onto the scene of three separate fires early this morning, blazing through three homes, claiming the lives of at least ten
unidentified victims. The first fire in the city's East Ward section was called in at two-fifteen a.m., by a neighboring resident who reported flames coming out of the windows and front door of a home believed to be known for drug dealing. An unidentified man was seen running out of the house yelling and screaming engulfed in flames. Fire fighters arrived minutes before the flames swallowed the entire house. The unidentified man was rushed to University Hospital where he remains in critical condition…”

My pulse quickens. I quickly swallow a sliver of guilt as it slices its way up to the back of my throat.

For God's sakes! Get a hold of yourself. No sense in feeling guilty now. The damage is already done. You knew there'd be casualties. Some more innocent than others. It's collateral damage. Oh well.

“…The second call came into fire fighters in the South Ward section of the city at two forty-eight this morning. Officials indicate the five-alarm fire was so intense that fire fighters were unable to get inside. One unidentified man engulfed in flames jumped from a second-story window seconds before the center of the home collapsed. He was rushed to Beth Israel Hospital…”

“My
gawd!”
Cassandra exclaims, shaking her head. “We in the last damn days, Miss Pasha, girl. How much you wanna bet them fires ain't no accident. I bet you it was some of them crazy-ass nigga-coons fightin' ‘n' tryna take over blocks. You know there ain't nothin' but drugs ‘n' gang wars over in Newark, sugah…”

“Cassandra, please,” I hiss, gesturing with a hand for her to shut the fuck up so I can hear the rest of the news correspondent's report.

“Oooh, no-no, Miss Pasha, girl. You tryna be messy.” I roll my eyes, turning the television up louder. She grunts. “Don't do me. I want my damn wig did. You better catch the midday news ‘n' get them fingers up in this scalp.” She pulls out her cell, when she
hears it vibrating in her bag. She starts texting back and forth with whoever it is.

Good! That should keep her ass quiet.

“…the third fire swept through a home in the city's North Ward section of Newark and quickly began to swallow up the building as fire firefighters arrived on the scene. A source in the investigation indicates all three houses were known for illegal activities and had been under federal investigation. The known causes of the fires are still under investigation by the Fire Marshal…”

I lower the volume.
Come see me now, motherfucker!
I think, running a comb through Booty's hair while drying it with the blow drier. In my mind's eye, I see Jasper blacking out, stressing about the loss of three of his operations.
Oooh, I'm going to fuck the shit out of Lamar's ass first chance I get.