Sex in the Hood Saga (4 page)

“Day-um!” exclaimed one of four guys kneeling around four pit bulls that were ripping raw steaks to shreds in the middle of the floor. In the corner, a dog was running on a miniature treadmill.

“This
can't
be little Victoria,” said another guy who was Henry's younger brother, Hank. “Ain't nobody that fine in this family.”

“Her momma was,” Henry said. “Our momma was, 'til she hit that pipe.” Henry glanced back at a table in a sunlit alcove. Beyond three black handguns and a box of bullets, Aunt Harriett sat dazed, her skinny, scarred legs crossed. Bony brown shoulders protruded with grotesque skinniness from a halter top as she smoked a cigarette.

Victoria's stomach burned with disgust. How could
that
be Mommy's sister? Something about the shape of Harriett's dark brown eyes resembled Mommy's so much. A sour heave bubbled up in Victoria's throat.

“Git!” Henry shouted at his dog. It scampered to the others to slurp that meaty mess on the floor.

The guys circled Victoria, steamrolling her body with four pairs of eyes. She wished she hadn't worn the pink sweater that always made Brian so hot and bothered, the way it pushed up her C-cups and exposed just a slice of stomach above those black jeans that were too snug for this ghetto family reunion.

Brian.
That bastard said he loved me.
He said they'd be together forever . . . graduate together from The Academy, attend business school at the University of Michigan, then open their own company.

“Pretend we never met,” Brian said just days ago, his blue eyes turning to ice as she sobbed her fate. She begged him and his parents to let her live in one of the wings of their mansion across the lake from Winston Hill.

His dad looked up from the Sunday newspaper with Daddy's picture on page one along with a story that revealed Mommy was black. “You deceived us, Victoria,” Mr. Martin said. “We knew about your Indian grandmother, not your black mother.” Mrs. Martin flinched as her husband continued. “Had you been open and honest with us, perhaps we could be more obliging to your tragic plight right now, but I'm afraid we could never trust you.”

Then, after Brian ripped out her heart, he smashed it to bits by reading—with an executioner's accusatory tone—the newspaper's sidebar article about Mommy's mysterious death. “An unnamed source tells
The News
that thirty-two-year-old Lynnette Winston's dark beauty—with her caramel brown skin and black satin mane—was so bewitching and seductive, she literally aroused her husband to make love to her with such frequency and force that it killed her.”

Brian looked up from the paper. His sandy hair clumped on his sweaty forehead, his angular cheeks reddened, his blue eyes glowed with disgust as he growled, “Your mom was a little freak and you won't even fuck me!” Then he read more. “‘Mrs. Winston's death certificate read: cardiac arrest from an undiagnosed congenital heart defect.' Shoulda said sexual overdose! You little freaky bitch! It's a good thing you're finding this out now, before you let me or anybody else fuck you to death too!” He snatched her arm, yanking her into a little room where his parents would never hear him act on the rape roiling in his eyes.

She kicked him in the dick she had sucked so many times. And she ran, crying, trembling, and hating the world. She ran a whole mile to Tiffany's house, where her parents were also reading the Sunday paper.

“Earth to Victoria!” Henry shouted, laughing. “Girl, you trippin' up in the Twilight Zone! You in'a hood now. Betta pay attention, front, back, and sideways.”

“You gon' live
here?”
asked a guy with cornows and denim overalls. “Yo, Pound, dis dat chick you was shown' us on da news? Da one who daddy suck down some lead?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Henry shouted at him. “Dog, you sho' she black?” another guy asked. “Booty don't lie,” Henry said, his eyes scanning her jeans.

“Girl, I got your back around these fools, too. Kay-Kay, though, she crazy. Keep your legs crossed when you sleep, else she'll try to lick your pussy all night long.”

Victoria kept her face a stiff mask, just like Daddy taught her.

“Her girl stay here half the time, so she straight,” the guy in overalls said. “I mean she gay, but she straight when her girl—” The other guys cracked up.

“Let me get you away from these clowns,” Henry said, putting his arm around Victoria. “'For they scare you half to death.”

As he led her down the hallway, Victoria remembered how Henry taunted her in the church dinner hall after Mommy's funeral. “Yo' momma got fucked to death. Yo' daddy loved black pussy so much he banged it up, dead.”

Victoria, who was six, had no idea what Henry was talking about. All she knew was that whatever Mommy did to die that way, Victoria was never gonna do when she grew up.

Ever.

Milan Henderson's insides were a pent-up coil about to spring loose if Dr. Reynolds didn't hurry up. It had been three hours, and ten more Studs and Sluts were still lounging around the plush red couches up here in Sex Squad HQ. Above them, in the tall paned windows set in exposed brick, the late afternoon sun cast an orange haze as they watched TV, flipped through magazines and missed five o'clock sexercise.

“Madame Milan, you fine as hell in them pants,” said Johnny “Flame” Watts, flashing those famous smoky gray bedroom eyes. His black-as-leather linebacker body stretched on the couch, facing the TV, barely covered in white cotton bike shorts and a tank top. The shining black head of his legendary dick stuck out of the waistband, resting on his flat abdomen. Against the white fabric of his cotton tank top, it was so swollen that it looked like the mangle-shaped head of a big snake, lying in wait for a treat. He was one of the most requested Studs, who could slither like no other.

“Yo' ass look like two tiny apples,” he said. “Madame Milan, if you was my woman—”

“Yo, G, she ain't,” Dante Williams snickered. “So, 'less you wanna get Duked, put cha eyes back in ya head and zip them pretty-ass lips. Let a brotha watch the news in silence.”

Sharon “Lollipop” Barnes sucked her teeth. “Niggas.”

The way she was sitting, she looked like an indigo wishbone. Her black sundress was raised around her waist, and each long, elegant leg was hoisted over the arms of the chair. She was holding a hand mirror and examining her pussy.

“Madame Milan, that new chick down in the salon jacked my cunt up wit' her no-bikini-wax-havin' self. Shit! When you gon' get Freida back? That girl can work wit' some pussy hair.”

“I need some ointment for the same thing,” Dante said, running a hand over his pecks that were bulging through a muscle T-shirt. “Call herself waxin' my chest. Sheee-it! Coulda done a better job wit' a lawnmower. What's takin' Doc so damn long?” Milan crossed her thin arms, closing her eyes, trying to block out Dante's prattle. “Ma clients ain't tryin' ta lay up agains' no nasty-ass rash.”

Milan ground her teeth to make the sudden wave of nausea stop. Why did they call it morning sickness when it lasted all day? And what was the name for the extreme horniness she always felt when another baby was growing up in there?

It was time for him to make good on his childhood promise to marry her and call her Duchess. No more of this grunt work, overseeing the Sex Squad, their checkups and all their drama. It had been two years since she graduated, thanks to a scholarship at the exclusive prep school. She had come to work for Duke instead of going to college. Now it was time for her ultimate promotion to Duchess, wife, and mother of two, soon-to-be-three, of his babies.

Her breasts felt swollen, extra sensitive and too tight inside her lace bra. She had a serious Dolly Parton look in her green silk blouse. She reached under, to the green alligator belt around her slim waist, where she unclipped the cell phone. The metallic jade rectangle flashed 5:03 p.m. on the display.

Her muscles tensed, as if that coil inside her was tightening even more. Sobbing echoed from the exam room. Milan's green gator pumps tapped the polished hardwood floor as she made a beeline to the orange door marked EXAM ROOM. When the next Squad member came out, Milan was going to talk some sense into that dingy broad, Dr. Reynolds. Was she fucking one of the Studs? Eating some Slut pussy?

“I will fire her rule-breakin' ass if she even thinks about it,” Milan mumbled under her breath as her knuckles rapped on the door. “And sic Uncle Sam on her house out in West Bloomfield. Let him ask her how she can live so large with her little clinic in the hood.”

“A few more minutes,” Dr. Reynolds called. Somebody was crying. A woman.

“I don't have time for this drama,” Milan said, opening the door. Duke needed to understand that her brainpower, her class and sophistication needed to be put to more challenging and important work, like negotiations with the Moreno Triplets and strategizing the future of Babylon. Not what she was doing now, opening the exam room door to see Janelle Rhodes, a.k.a. Hot Box, slumped like a big heap of butt-naked brown sugar on the table. Janelle's platinum blond braids were all over the place like Medusa's snakes, all the way down to the red heart tattoo over her plump ass.

Milan's nipples hardened. She remembered the feel of Janelle's smooth ass and the taste of her pussy at one of the Duke Joint parties. That was well before Janelle started to look so used up and through.

“You look like hell,” Milan said, closing the door and crossing her arms. “You must have this medical exam room confused with a psychologist's couch. And
greet
me when I enter the room!”

Janelle stared through bloodshot brown eyes ringed by plum arcs of fatigue from fucking for a living. No words passed over her chapped, quivering lips.

“I said greet me,” Milan ordered. Her every muscle was tensing so hard it hurt. “I don't care how bad you look or feel, Slut. Show your respect.”

“I ain't callin' you Madame Milan no mo'. Fake bitch, stuck-up snob. Walkin' 'round like you da queen when all you really is is a prissy-ass p-i-m-p!”

Milan ground her teeth.
I will not waste my energy going off on this worn-out wretch.

“Janelle, you've obviously been smoking something or taking a hallucinogen, both of which are grounds for termination from the Squad. Not to mention your appearance has been going from bad to worse by the week.”

“Excuse me, Madame Milan,” Dr. Reynolds said. “It's time for Janelle to retire.”

“What did you catch, Slut?” Milan noticed purple bruises dotting her thigh and upper arms.” And who beat you?”

“My client,” she sobbed. “He seen somethin' on my pussy after we fucked.”

“I just tested Janelle. She's got genital warts. And HIV.”

Milan stared hard into Dr. Reynolds' almond-shaped eyes behind those big, purple glasses. “Why the fuck didn't you see this at her exam last week? Thank goodness I didn't send you to the party on Chicago this afternoon. Stupid bitch.”

Dr. Reynolds said, “As you know, HIV can take three months to register on a test. And Janelle's vagina was so swollen and red from a yeast infection last week that the warts were not visible.”

“Janelle, did you use condoms like you're supposed to with clients?” Milan asked.

Janelle sobbed into the crinkly paper on the exam bed.

“Stupid bitch,” Milan said. Her neck muscles were so tense she was sure that coil was going to spring and she'd just go off. “I recommend that you leave town for a while. Visit your family in Texas,” Dr. Reynolds said.

“Just go,” Milan said. “Get dressed. Go to your room. Pack your things. Leave out by six o'clock. You know the drill. If we catch you tryin' to do business on Babylon turf—”

“I ain't got no death wish, bitch,” Janelle shrieked. “You always walkin' 'round here like you a drill sergeant. Maybe if you act like a woman, the man you think yo' man would give you the time o'day!”

Nausea made Milan want to grip the edge of the exam table, but she stopped. She didn't want to touch Janelle's nasty-ass germs.

“I know Babylon gon' pay for my HIV drugs,” Janelle snapped.

“Out,” Milan ordered.

Janelle darted from the room.

“It'll be a few minutes, everybody,” Milan told the Squad members in the lounge. All of them were staring up at the TV. “That is Duke,” Flame said. “Him an' Beamer.”

“That's the mixed chick who been on the news all week,” Dante exclaimed, sitting up straight.

Milan glared up at the TV. If Duke thought he was gonna jump on that half-white bitch right under her nose . . .

“Hey,” Flame said, shooting up like a rocket over to the window. His hard, round ass looked better than any male underwear commercial as he looked through the horizontal blinds, down and to the right. “That's all down at Pound Dog house.”

Milan sprang to the window. There was Duke in his Porsche. There was the bitch on the porch, cameras, eyes and probably a few guns all aimed at her fat ass. A hot, burning sensation shot up Milan's throat. She ran to the bathroom, a door beside the exam room. She barely made it to the toilet before she vomited. That coil of tension inside her was sprung, and it was bringing up the seafood salad she ate for lunch, along with all the toxic thoughts and feelings.

Her mind tripped forward over so many scenarios. She could go down there right now, tell Duke off to his face and put him and that bitch on notice that Milan Henderson was Duke Johnson's first and last, his one and only. She could call him real sweet, plan a candlelight dinner, and convince him how much he loved her and only her. Or she could bitch-slap him into submission by treating him the way he needed to be treated until he acted right.

She splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth, gargled then stared at her diamond-shaped face. Her usual complexion was more gray-green. But one good thing about morning sickness, all this vomiting was making her cheeks look chiseled like those fashion models she saw on the runway during Fashion Week last fall in New York. Duke was so sweet, sending her there to enjoy the glitterati and stay in one of Bang Squad's penthouses. Since then, she had starved her five foot three inch hourglass from a size eight to a size four. Now, her little triangle of a nose looked more pointed than ever. Her eyes, the same rich light brown color as maple syrup, appeared bigger, more intense. Her relaxed, straight, brown hair was thick and shiny, parted at the side and pulled back to show off the raisin-sized rocks in her ears. The earrings were gifts from Duke, of course, on the day one year old Hercules was born. The diamond studs were double the size of the ones he gave her in the hospital when their first baby, two year old Zeus came into the world.

She fingered the necklace at the base of her much skinnier neck, displayed so richly between the still collar of her green silk blouse.
Milan,
it said, scrolled in diamonds. She remembered the love in Duke's eyes five years ago when he gave her that and said, “You in ma blood, baby girl. E'rytime ma blood pump through ma heart, you there.”

Horny as she was, carrying their child, Duke
was
going to take care of her pussy, her life, their family. The right way. With a ring. A wedding. A proper household. Not that either of them had ever had that, but Milan wanted it, and she always got what she wanted, even if she had to take it.

“And no suburban cream puff is going to steal my spot at Babylon,” she whispered. “Never.”

Milan walked calmly back into the lounge just as Flame was coming out of the exam room. She took his hand, led him into her office and closed the door. Then she stepped to the window, rested her elbows on the ledge, and stared down at Duke in his Porsche with one hand holding his phone to his ear, the other hand on Timbo, eyes on Miss Thing's ass.

“You like my pants,” Milan said lustfully back at Flame. “Pull 'em down and fuck me.”

As his huge hands unbuckled her belt and pulled her pants down over her pooted-out ass, her phone fell to the floor and began to ring. DUKE flashed on the screen. She was watching him call her back finally, but she let it ring. She was busy moaning, grinding her back on the baseball bat and big balls connected to this Stud. No, she couldn't hear Duke ringing her phone now. Not when she cried out as Flame slammed her hot, wet pussy into the outfield.