Sex in the Hood Saga (20 page)

Duke's big hand shaking her arm did nothing to wake her.

“Victoria!” he shouted. “Duchess! Wake up!”

He slapped her cheek.

Nothing.

He put his ear to her mouth. Couldn't feel her breath. He pressed his fingertips to her neck for a pulse. Couldn't find it. Not on her wrist, either.

“Baby girl!” Duke's insides felt like they were turning inside out. Right now, his whole body stung with fear.

“Baby girl!” he cried, sitting on the edge of the bed, rocking with her hand in his, raising it up to kiss her fingers. The gold blanket was tucked around her neck; her head rested on one of the gold pillows. One shoulder and arm were exposed, the one connected to the hand he was squeezing.

“You gotta wake up. I'ma die if I lose you this fast.” Duke hated feeling like somebody else's life had this much power over his. If something really had happened to his Duchess, if she really were dead—

He squinted in the bright beams of sunshine slicing into the room from the floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors leading out to the terrace. Even that bright-ass light on her face hadn't awakened her.

Damn, she looked like an angel. Her face was pure. It didn't have one mark or blemish or pimple. But something wasn't the same, like her skin was a little more yellow and her red, pucker-fish lips looked swollen. Her thick eyelashes still looked like black fringe, and her perfectly arched black eyebrows looked the same, as did all that hair fanned around her head like the prettiest peacock at the zoo.

“Massa Duke,” Beamer said, rushing in. “Doc Reynolds here.”

Duke barely looked back at the purple glasses on her fine-ass face, with her black hair all swirled up into a French roll. She wore all white, with white Nikes and a leather doctor bag. She pulled out a stethoscope and a little bottle with clear liquid inside.

“How long has she been unconscious?” the doctor asked, pulling back the gold sheer fabric. The bottle was the size of her pinky finger. She set it on her lap.

“More than twenty-four hours.” He scooted over so Doc Reynolds could sit on the bed. She leaned down, listening for breath. She took Duchess' pulse at her neck. She used a stethoscope to listen to her heart. She felt her cheeks, her forehead. She pulled back the gold blanket to look at her whole body.

“She dead?” Duke asked, hating the high-pitched panic in his voice. “Tell me she ain't dead.”

“She's alive,” Doc Reynolds said. “But I need to know if she has any health problems that could cause coma.”

“Shit!” The last thing he needed was some EMS ambulance crew coming up in here. It would be all over the news, and the heat would be all over him.

“Master Duke. Tell me exactly what happened.”

“I went to sleep. Musta been four-fifteen yesterday morning.”

“No, before that.”

“We kicked it,” Duke said. “For a couple hours.”

“Was she a virgin?”

“Tight as a vise.”

“Did she bleed?”

Duke pointed to the aqua blue towel heaped on the white marble stairs leading up to the bed. “Not a drop. But ain't no question—”

“Does she have health problems? Is she diabetic?”

Duke shrugged. “At dinner, she ate like it was no tomorrow. Salmon, salad, ice cream. Didn't say nothin' 'bout sugar.”

“Asthma?”

“She run track.”

“That would account for her slow resting heart rate. Runners who are physically fit often have a nearly undetectable pulse.”

“She said she hadn't slept in half a week. Some whack shit had happened in her life.”

Doc Reynolds nodded. “Victoria Winston. I saw her on the news. Exactly how long has she been sleeping?”

“She was layin' next to me when I went to sleep, but I don't know if she was 'sleep yet. Then when I woke up at ten-fifteen yesterday morning, she was still 'sleep. I kept checkin' on her all day. I did my business by phone, right here, so she was never alone.”

“She's the millionaire's daughter,” Doc Reynolds said. “I just heard on the news the feds are questioning her grandmother. They're aggressively searching for this girl, Master Duke.”

“I already took care of it.” Duke had Henry's nerdy-ass brother, Mike, who worked at a public relations company downtown, send all those reporters an official press release saying Victoria Winston had run away.

Duke had told Mike to hold a press conference yesterday on Miss Green's porch. He told Mike to say that Victoria Winston had left with her passport and just enough cash for a one-way ticket to Miami. That would keep them investigating motherfuckers scrambling for clues at U.S. Customs down in Miami, not on Babylon Street in Motown.

“Obviously you missed the latest report about her leavin' the country,” Duke said, casting a Doc Reynolds' intelligent brown eyes. She wore no makeup but she was proof that black don't crack because she was almost forty-five and didn't have near a wrinkle. Even after all those years in the pen for prescription fraud.

“Doc, I didn't bring you up here to play fuckin' Colombo,”

Duke said. “An' I know you always put Babylon confidentiality first.”

“Of course, Master Duke. That goes without saying.”

“Within Babylon, too. That mean Milan don't need to know the who, what, when, where, how or why of nothin'. She 'bout to get transferred anyway, an' don't need no info'mation bein' transferred wit' her skinny ass.”

“Understood,” Doc Reynolds said.

“Now, tell me what Duchess need.”

Doc Reynolds's eyes cut to Duchess' pale face like she was trying to figure out that this was Duchess.

“This girl needs rest,” Doc Reynolds said. “When she wakes up, make sure she gets plenty to eat and drink. She'll be disoriented and dehydrated, so give her orange juice, bananas, healthy food to get her strength back up.”

“Her strength was fine night befo' last,” Duke said. And she needed to be strong now. He was going to start Hoodology 101 yesterday, so they were already a day behind now that it was Tuesday.

“We gotta wake her up an' get her energy back, pronto,” Duke said.

Doc Reynolds shook her head. “Let me take this moment to let you know about Janelle. She's retired. HIV and genital warts. Milan gave her walking papers.”

“Dang,” Duke said. “Nasty bitch. Put out an alert to the B'Amazons an' Barriors so she can't creep up in here.”

Doc Reynolds looked serious when she said, “Of course, sir. And Janelle is aware of the penalty for such an offense.”

Beamer came jogging back in with a scary look in his eye.

“Massa D, newsflash.”

“I'll newsflash yo' ass if you think it's more important than—”

“It might be.” Beamer never looked that alarmed.

Duke stepped down. “What?”

“A Barrior jus' dropped a dime on Knight. He out. Now. Plottin' a take-over.”

Duke bit down hard. His voice was cool and calm as he said, “Yo, B, go tell yo' girl Milan to stop startin' bullshit rumors that could get somebody killed.”

Beamer's eyes got almost as big as his BMW medallion.

Duke made a shoo motion with his hand, making his diamond ring sparkle. “Go. You on evac. Now.”

As Beamer huffed away, Duke spun on a heel and dashed back up the steps to Duchess. He shook her arm. “Wake her up!”

“Sometimes after situations of extreme emotional duress,” the doctor said, “coupled with extreme sleep deprivation, the body can shut down into an almost comatose state.”

“Aw, hell no!” Duke shot up to his feet, pacing the white marble platform around the bed. “Wake her up!”

Doc Reynolds took that clear vial off her lap. She unscrewed the black cap, held the opening of the bottle under Duchess' pretty little nose. Nothing. Duchess slept just as peacefully as she had before.

“Can't you give her a shot or somethin'?” Duke demanded.

“She doesn't need—” She held the bottle to her nose and cupped her hand around it so Duchess had to breathe in the bottle vapors.

“Ah!” Duchess cried out. She coughed and tried to sit up.

“Baby girl!” he cheered, punching his fist in the air like he was at a Pistons game.

“Where am I?” Her voice was raspy and sexy as hell, but her blue moon eyes were huge, full of panic.

“You wit' me, Sleepin' Beauty,” Duke said, leaning down to stroke her hair. He sat next to her. “This Doc Reynolds.”

“Good morning, Duchess,” the Doc said.

Duchess held the blanket over her chest, looking back and forth at everybody like she didn't know up from down.

“Duchess, baby girl, you been sleepin' for a day an' a half,” he said. “Worryin' a ma'fucka half to death.”

She focused on Duke. Her eyes were still as intense as blue flame blow torches. Now, his whole body prickled with sweat. And Timbo was on swole!

She froze. The blanket dropped from her chest. Her cinnamon-colored nipples looked so good, they made Cinnabons look like dog biscuits. They were pointing straight out from her round, creamy curves of plump, round titties over her little tapered ribs.

Duke shifted on the bed, letting Timbo roll to a more spacious spot in his jeans.

Her lips curled a little. Something flashed in her eyes as she looked right at him.

“Duke, why the fuck you got all these people in our room?” Her voice sounded deeper. “You said you'd make love to me soon as I woke up.” She smirked.

Milan Henderson threw her cell phone onto the shiny, hardwood floor of the Sex Squad headquarters. It broke into two silver pieces at the base of the reception counter where three Sluts were checking in for their weekly exams.

Milan didn't care that they and the other Sluts and Studs were gawking at her as they sat on the couches, waiting for their exams. They hadn't even turned on the TV. They were too busy watching her flit around, trying not to lose her mind.

It was no secret that something outrageous and scandalous was going on. After all, nobody could miss the two big, barbaric prison wardens who'd been her constant companions since Sunday night, watching her every move, both yesterday and today. Now everybody was looking at her like she stole something. Whispering when she walked past. Laughing when she left the room. The hundreds of people in this building knew that Duke had been locked upstairs with that white bitch he brought here on Sunday. They were actually calling that girl The Duchess.

Two days! Duke had been fucking that bitch for forty-eight hours straight!
She couldn't remember the last time she had Duke to herself for two hours. Even when she did, he was constantly answering his phone, making calls, telling her to “hurry up an' cum.”

Now he had obviously turned off his phones, because Milan had called dozens of times over the past few days. His voice mail was full. That was why she just pitched the phone.

Not to mention, Beamer hadn't spoken to her since their hotel room tryst. He hadn't returned the phone messages she left, threatening to show Duke the videotape if Beamer didn't call her to talk about their plan.
Was he crazy? Peanut obviously had some other kind of plan of his own, but stupid as he was, it wouldn't get anywhere. But why did Peanut come down here all in a fluster, escorting Dr. Reynolds out when she had important work to do?

Duke had better not let somebody up in here get a sexually transmitted infection. If word got out that Babylon's Sluts and Studs weren't as squeaky clean as they were reputed to be, it would be the kiss of death for this multimillion-dollar empire.

Milan smiled. What a shame that would be. She could always call Janelle back for a job or two, or send her up to Duke's bedroom so she could lay some HIV and warts on Duke and his new Duchess. See how long they live happily ever after with that shit.

She clapped. Everybody turned, giving her their undivided attention.
There, that was better. The way it should be.

“Due to some unforeseen circumstances,” she announced, looking at all fifteen Sluts and Studs, “your exams for this week are cancelled.”

“Naw,” a chick on the couch said. “I got some burnin' an' I don't know if it's just bladder irritation or chlamydia or what kinda shit goin' on. I need to see Dr. Reynolds.”

“Ain't no way,” said the Stud sitting next to her. “All my years o' workin' here, we ain't neva missed a exam. I'd get my dick checked e'ry damn day o' the week, as many pussies as I be drillin' in a day.” He shook his cornrowed head. “Half these bitches be beggin' me to hit it raw. An' they tip a couple hun'ed extra if I do! So I say, well, I'ma see Doc Reynolds to make sure I ain't caught nothin'. So—” He crossed his arms, lifted the heels of his cow boy boots slightly, and banged them back on the floor. “I'ma wait 'til the doc come back.”

“I'm here,” Dr. Reynolds said.

How had Milan not heard or seen the entry door open?

“And when The Duke hears about this,” Dr. Reynolds said, “I guarantee he will not be happy, Madame Milan.”

Milan snapped, “I thought you had abandoned the premises. I was going to call in another doctor for today or reschedule everyone here.”

“Naw, that ain't what she said,” the Stud in cowboy boots said. “My cock ain't fallin' prey to her hate. She jus' mad The Duke—”

Dr. Reynolds glared at him. “That's enough, Johnny. You can come with me.” She led him into the office. “Milan, you'd be wise to resist the urge to sabotage any computer files or employee records.” She shut the door.

Milan's cheeks stung. That bitch would be wise not to answer the phone when the IRS called to inquire about how she earned a high six-figure salary at the storefront clinic—which she owned—for indigent patients in the ghetto. She never went there, just let three employees, who may or may not be doctors, operate it. But even all that Medicaid and Medicare reimbursement couldn't pay for her Benz, her big house in the suburbs, or her timeshare in Barbados.

What was she talking about anyway? Did she just see Duke? Had Duke said something about Milan's status here, or lack thereof? As partner? His children's mother? His top executive?

Milan stomped toward the door.

She grabbed the doorknob, but the barbarians wedged in front of the door before she could pull it open. And she screamed.