All Hail the Queen (29 page)

“Don't make me cum. Not yet,” he whispered.

She looked up at him with her mouth still wet and forced a smile as she rose to sit on his lap with her hand still tightly stroking his dick. “Feel good?” she asked.

“I knew I would get this pussy,” Diego boasted, his eyes hot with desire for her. He wanted it and bad.

What she had for him wasn't what he was begging for.

“You did?” she asked, rising up off his lap and undid the front latch of her bra to press his face between her breasts.

He pressed kisses to each smooth brown globe before taking one nipple into his mouth to suck deeply.

Motherfucker please.

The chill that coursed over her body was disgust not desire. She reached behind the back of the seat and grabbed the rope she had already pushed into the leather pocket. As he gripped both breasts at once and sucked both nipples she faked a hot gasp and leaned back from him as she pulled the rope forward. She crossed the ends as she jumped off his lap to come around him looping the rope again and again, pressing her knee to the back of the chair to jerk it tightly.

“Yo, what the fuck, Naeema,” he said, pulling forward against the rope.

She tied a knot and looped it again so that the rope pressed his arms down against his body before she knotted it again. She came back around the chair and sat in the one facing him. Her eyes dropped down to take in his dick now lying on its side like it was deflated. She smiled and pouted her lips. “Poor baby,” she said.

“What the fuck is this, a robbery, yo?” Diego asked, still struggling against the rope.

Naeema shook her head. “It's kinky sex,” she lied, kicking off a shoe to extend her leg and stroke his flaccid dick with her foot.

He shook his head and relaxed his body as he eyed her.
“How my dick taste?” he asked.

“Forgettable,” she shot back.

“I shoulda nut in your fucking mouth,” he spat.

“I woulda spit it back in your face.”

“
Puta
,” he swore.

“And a damn good one,” she advised him, kicking his dick lightly up against his stomach before she removed her leg from his lap and crossed it over her other one.

He started cursing in Spanish and Naeema studied her nails until he quieted down.

“How's Councilman Planter?” she asked, watching him closely.

His eyes were a dead giveaway as they filled with surprise. Naeema got confirmation that Diego knew the man. She was still insistent that the break-ins at her and Tank's place were a search for the evidence that Tank had against the councilman. Diego put a hit out on Tank but the councilman was still in the mix. Question was: How?

Diego's whole demeanor changed. “You know more than I thought you knew,” he said, his face arrogant and his voice demeaning.

“You not the first motherfucker to make that mistake,” she said.

He shook his head.

“You're the last one left, fool,” she lied. “And it's all on you. I honestly didn't even know your role in all this shit until the councilman gave you up.”

Diego's eyes iced over. “I hate weak motherfuckers,” he said, his voice filled with disgust. “Almost as much as I hate fucking snitches.”

Careful, Naeema. Slow walk this motherfucker.
Don't rush it.

“Your bitch of a husband fucked up some good money for me,” he said. “He fucked up everything testifying against Murk and then blackmailing Vic. Them fuckers ran scared. Shit on the deal. I
needed
that fucking money.”

She kept her face passive but she was truly confused as hell.
Deal? Them? Who?

“Not giving away four-thousand-dollar Louie V bags,” she said, knowing she had to fill the silence to keep him talking.

“There was three times that in heroin inside it though,” he bragged.

“You're not a boss, not to him anyway. Or me,” she said. “That's why you're here tied the fuck up.”

“I'm a fucking boss, bitch. Believe that. I did what Murk ain't had the balls to fucking do. Okay? All this going legit shit and so happy that Victor help him beat the last murder case, now he gone just
let
that motherfucker walk these streets.”

Councilman Planter was in with both Murk and Diego and Tank testifying fucked up whatever deal they were about to go in on. The councilman got scared and Murk was sticking to going legit. Naeema remembered her last conversation with Tyrai from Gentlemen Only.

I've been here since he first opened up and he promised us all he was legit now and we shouldn't worry about our jobs.

“I did what neither one of them punk motherfuckers had the
cojones
to do,” he spat. “Fuck letting that snitch live. Fuck trying to find whatever shit he had on him to stop blackmail. Yo, murk that motherfucker and be done with it. Kill two birds with one stone. No snitching. No
blackmailing. Done deal. Now let's get back to fucking
business
,” Diego said, his lips curled in anger as he stared out the window and stomped his foot as he talked.

This motherfucker ain't bright worth a fuck.

He sat there tied in a chair, with her in total control, and bragged about the death of her husband—
her
king—putting a business deal his ass needed back in place.
He don't know me very well, do he?

She uncrossed her legs.

He looked over at her. “You disappoint me,
Queen
,” he said mockingly.

She eyed him as she sat up on the edge of the seat.

“I actually thought you thought Murk put the hit out and you was undercover to kill his ass or something. I wanted you to take that nigga out. Do what I couldn't do without starting a fucking war on these streets, man,” he said.

Maybe he does.

“The
fuck
was I thinking, yo?” Diego asked himself before he laughed.

And then again, maybe not?

She stood up and straddled his lap again as she reached to grip his chin and turn his face toward her. She stared at him. Something about the look on her face made him fight against the ropes and jerk his head from her tight grasp. “You fucked up, Diego,” she said, releasing his chin roughly only to slap him twice across the cheeks until they reddened.

He spit and it landed on her chin. Thick, hot, and clinging.

Naeema wiped it away with her hand and then smeared it on his cheek. She reached behind him again and pulled two connected spools of thin metal wire from
the pocket.

He eyed them warily. “What the fuck, yo?” he asked, his voice rising more successfully than his sudden attempt to get up from the chair.

She said nothing as she unrolled the two spools and exposed a good length of wire between them. “I'm not going to kill you with this,” she promised even as she pressed the wire against his neck. He struggled. She pressed her knees into the edges of the seat to brace herself. “You have helped to flood these streets with enough heroin to leave our people fucked up from it for a long damn time. For some people it will take years to get their shit back together.”

“Ahh,” he cried out as the wire broke his skin.

The break filled with blood.

His eyes filled with fear.

The interior of the Sprinter filled with his cries.

She did not let up. She pressed down harder. The blood reddened his neck. The gash deepened as his flesh tore from the wire.

Like with Grip she knew she couldn't use a gun to finish him. She didn't have a burner and hers was registered in her name. No, she had other plans for Diego. Something that was fitting as hell.

She dropped the wire and rose from his lap to turn and open the Louis Vuitton box. She looked down at the heroin package. She had left the purse behind at her house. She opened the knife on her key ring. Again the scent of the chlorine she used to clean it rose and stung her nostrils. Using the knife she cut a long slit in the package and then opened the edges wide.

Naeema held it with one hand and then used the other to recline the chair Diego was tied
to. “You lived off it, now die off it,” she said before raising the package and dumping the heroin into the opening in his neck as she pressed his head back with her free hand.

Dropping the package onto his belly she turned, grabbed her shirt to pull back over her head, and climbed back behind the wheel. His cries echoed around her as the drug infused his blood and she reached over to turn on the satellite radio.

Future's bass-driven “Move That Dope” filled the speakers.

“Hey move that dope, hey move that dope . . .”

She glanced back once and turned it up feeling like he would appreciate it as she cranked the van and pulled out into traffic.

“Hey move that dope, hey move that dope . . .”

Naeema entered the hospital room and slumped back against the door, pushing it closed. Tank set his cell phone down on the bed as he looked over at her. She closed her eyes and lightly beat her head against the door as the tears she fought hard to hold back fell.

“What the hell? What's wrong? I've been blowing your phone up,” Tank said as he came over to pull her into his arms.

She slumped against him in relief and buried her face against his neck. The beating of his pulse against her lips gave her life. “I got 'em. I got Grip and I got Diego,” she
admitted in a rush.

Tank stiffened and pulled back to look down at her. “What?” he asked.

“This dope dealer named Diego paid Grip to kill you because you messed up some big deal between him, Murk, and the councilman when you testified against Murk and blackmailed Councilman Planter,” she said.

“Wait a minute. Hold up, yo,” he said, walking away from her toward the window just to turn and come back to her. “Grip?”

She nodded, tears filling her eyes again. “I'm sorry,” she told him, hurting for him.

Tank pulled her to him and pressed kisses against her forehead as he stroked her back. “Baby, why you always taking shit like this on?” he asked, relief in his voice. “What if they had . . .”

Naeema shook her head. “The queen protects the king,” she whispered against his chest.

“Na, baby, baby. Come on,” Tank chastised her.

“I should've made them bitches bow down to me. All hail the Queen, right?” she joked before another round of tears swelled her chest. “I made light work of them fools. I got you. When you weak. I'm strong. And vice versa. It's me and you against the fucking world, Tank. Forever and always.”

“Forever and always,” he agreed.

She hugged him tight.

“Where are they?”

“Huh?” she asked, feeling so fucking wiped out and drained from it all.

“The bodies. Where are they?” he asked.

“Grip is home and Diego is downstairs in your Sprinter,”
she said.

“Lie down,” Tank said, gently nudging her toward the bed as he crossed the room to open the closet. He pulled out his duffel bag.

“Tank,” she said, rising from where she had just sat on the side of the small bed.

“I gotta clean this shit up now,” he emphasized, his eyes serious as hell. “I'll be back in no time but I gotta handle this shit real quick and make sure you aight. No repercussions. You did the lightweight now let me finish it up. Lie down. Fucking sleep. Rest your nerves. I got this. I'll be right back.”

Naeema saw the determination in his eyes and truth be told she was physically and emotionally drained from the weight of it all. She nodded and he rushed to pull on clothing as she lay back on the bed.

Her king was back and she wasn't at it completely alone anymore.

It felt damn good.

Six months later

M
y city. My city.

Newark, New Jersey, was everything it appeared to be—good and bad—and much more. The city's history was rich, from it's founding way back in the 1600s—the third city in the state—to the influx of black folks in the 1950s and 1960s, the riot of 1967, and on up to the election of its first African American mayor, Kenneth Gibson, in 1970. There was plenty more during and after those highlights, but there was a lot more Naeema didn't give a fuck about. That was just truth. The history was so disconnected from the realness of Newark today—the shit about the city that helped shape her into a woman with a heart who was also willing to go all out to protect those she cared about. Growing up on the streets of Newark helped shape her and frame the way she viewed the world. She wanted nothing but the best for the city because the best is what it deserved.

Through the pink visor of her helmet Naeema eyed the Krueger-Scott Mansion as she passed it on her way down Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard. The forty-room, Victorian home sat empty, now a historical landmark and a shadow of its former beauty. It was a symbol of the contradictions
within the city. The former beauty and the ongoing ugliness. Surviving. Battling for superiority. The mansion almost looked out of place amid its surroundings. A sign of past wealth fighting to overcome the look and feel of poverty on the blocks surrounding it.

Louise Scott, said to be the city's first black millionaire, once owned and lived in the mansion from the 1950s up until her death in 1982. That was the type of history that should be told, taught, impressed. Motivation.

As she zoomed past St. James AME Church and then Whigham's Funeral Home on her bike, Naeema thought of Mya. She said a quick prayer for the teenager, hoping she was at the very least motivated to be, do, and have better thanks to her promise to Naeema. Naeema knew herself to be far from a role model but she did cop to a murder she didn't commit in order to give Mya another shot at more. Over the months Naeema fought the urge to track her down to see if the teenager was keeping her word because she honestly didn't know if she could swallow discovering otherwise. She would be beyond pissed but even more so she would be hurt.
I'd rather not know.