Sex in the Hood Saga (49 page)

Knight led Jamal into the silent, empty auditorium, which filled the entire first and second floors of The Playhouse. In just a few weeks, it would be packed to capacity for The Games. That was also the time that they would do the multimillion dollar buyout for Jamal to take charge of Babylon, so Knight could flee into the safety and security of a tropical eternity with his Queen and their baby Prince.

But right now, Knight needed to stop Jamal's second thoughts in their tracks. He also needed to let Jamal know that conspiring with the likes of Raynard “Dickman” Ingalls who was on Li'l Tut's payroll was a good way to follow in the bullet-riddled footsteps of a whole lot of dead musical geniuses.

After he knocked some sense back into Jamal's dreadlocked head, Knight still believed that this trusted friend was the only man who could take over the reins of his urban empire in a way that would continue its goodwill endeavors.

“A thousand seats on this level,” Knight said as they walked down the purple carpeted aisle. “Plus, the balconies and the box seats, and we'll have two thousand.”

Knight stared hard down into Jamal's eyes. “You hear me, man? Ten grand a seat, times two thousand people. Do the math. And the other folks payin' five K a head to swim, dance, and party in this building during The Games. That's ridiculous bank for one night.”

“But I'm gon' take the admissions money,” Knight said. “Just this year. Next year it's all yours.”

“Dig that,” Jamal said. “Yo, dog, if I bail, how come you can't fin' somebody else to buy Babylon? Like Mr. and Mrs. Marx out west, or even Moreno.”

Knight stared down at Jamal, who was framed by the ornate gold figures carved into the balconies. “Jamal, it's not about the money; it's about the principle. I need to know that for the next fifty years, at least, proceeds from Babylon will continue to feed and shelter children in the village I've adopted in the Sudan, and fund college scholarships for twelve graduates of Detroit public schools every year.”

Jamal shoved his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans. “This my beef wit' it. All my bidnesses legit, right? I'm wonderin' why I wanna take on somethin' that could bring me down?”

Knight's chest squeezed. His mind lurched forward to the moment of transfer, of money and ownership, just minutes before he and The Queen would execute the exit plan. If Jamal reneged at that moment, or didn't show up, or acted wishy washy, it could jeopardize Knight's entire strategy.

For now, Knight would keep it diplomatic. But if Jamal persisted like this, Knight would have to go ghetto on the young brotha. Yeah, he'd remind that muthafucka where he came from and who
made
his music mogul ass.

“Every detail will be in place for you to take over once I'm gone,” Knight said.

“Coo',” Jamal said. “Man, this some hype shit you 'bout to do. Bad as I think I am, I don't know if I could do it. 'Specially if my lady don't have a clue.”

Tiny needles of pain shot around Knight's heart. Guilt.

“Yo' dog, you ain't worried yo' lady gon' be so pissed, she gon' kill yo' ass right there on the beach? Like, ‘What the fuck you mean, nigga, we ain't goin' back?' Damn, between that an' Duke, no wonder you be lookin' so pale lately.”

“No sleep,” Knight said coolly. “I been workin' twenty-four/ seven. It's a lot of work planning a Houdini act and running an empire at the same time.”

Jamal shook his head. “See, I'm worried that runnin' Babylon will jack my music vibe. I don't know, dog. I'm still havin' second thoughts. Gimme a minute to think. I worked so hard to build up what I got in the music business. I ain't no pimp.”

“We don't use that term at Babylon; we're far and above that gritty, degrading image for both black men and women. We don't even say prostitute. We provide a much needed service that creates win-win situations for all parties.”

Jamal laughed, making his long dreads shift over his shoulders. “You make it sound so professional.”

“It is. The security company is a legitimate front. You know our Barriors and B'Amazons provide protection for your concerts all over the country. Plus sporting events and political gatherings.”

Jamal shrugged. “It sound sexy as hell to rule ova Babylon. But music be my numba one—”

“I have directors in place for every city to handle the day to day operations. You, your name, and Bang Squad Incorporated will be well insulated from any risk involved in Babylon's main source of revenue.”

Jamal nodded. “Dang, dog! You be spittin' some big words dese days. Yo' Queen daddy blood mus' be rubbin' off some white boy speech lessons.”

That “white boy” comment flipped a switch inside Knight's brain from the blue zone labeled DIPLOMATIC into the yellow zone marked PISSED OFF. Knight resented the commonly held belief among too many of his people that speaking correct English meant acting white. He was bilingual, he spoke Ebonics when necessary and proper English when appropriate. That had nothing to do with his racial allegiance. But that was a debate for Jamal on another day.

Knight put his hand on Jamal's shoulder. “The best thing about this deal is that you'll be the figurehead who makes the most money.”

“Yo, dog, say it all like that an' I'm all in.” Jamal scanned the wide, shiny pine stage. “Where the judges gon' sit?”

Knight extended his arm over the purple velvet seats. He pointed to the empty space between the stage and the arc of bolted-down chairs. “Up there, at a long table, we'll have security stationed across the front of the stage. And under cover every where else.”

After a quick tour of the dressing rooms backstage and downstairs, and a glance at where the deejay would spin the tunes for each routine, Knight led Jamal up the stairs to one of the plush box seats overlooking the stage.

“The Queen and I will be here until eleven forty-five,” Knight said as they sat on a purple velvet couch in the box closest to the right side of the stage. “You'll be in the next box.” Knight pointed to the balcony like seating area to their left. “At eleven forty-seven, you slip back into these curtains with us, and I hand it all over to you.”

“Check,” Jamal said. Something in his eyes glinted in a way that kept Knight's suspicion running high. As if Jamal were going through the motions of this conversation with no intention of following through.

Did Jamal think that if his punk ass disappeared when the deal was to go down that Knight would carry on and “Houdini” himself and The Queen away regardless?

Jamal's eyes looked a million miles away as he said, “An' you got e'rythang set in case it's mutiny in the ranks?”

Knight stared back hard. “Everything is set.”

“Yo, dog, what about Duke? Y'all's search an' destroy mission accomplished yet? I don't want no shit.”

“I guarantee,” Knight said with a sinister chuckle, “there won't be any.”

Jamal stiffened. His eyes grew a little bigger. “Well where that Duke muthafucka at? I want that shit done now. He crazy as hell. I ain't takin' ova, 'less I know e'rythang runnin' smoov.”

“We're watching him.”

Thanks to Reba, Knight was monitoring Li'l Tut's every move. Knight knew that Moreno, Shar, Raynard, and Leroy were all conspiring with his brother. What he didn't know yet was whether Reba was telling him the truth about what that “motley crew” was actually planning to do. Were they plotting to start their own sex empire? Seize Babylon? Or both?

“What you fin' out?” Jamal asked in a way that pushed Knight's mental mad meter into the red zone marked RENEGADE.

Knight's fist shot out with lightning speed and grabbed the collar of Jamal's white tee, twisted it up against his Adam's apple. Raised that muthafucka an inch or two off the floor and looked down in his eyes with six-gun brutality in his stare. “Jamal, tell me straight-up,” Knight groaned through tight lips. “Who'd your punk ass come to when you needed bank to start the Bang Squad?”

Jamal's eyes bugged. “You.”

Knight twisted his shirt harder and shook him.

“You an' Prince an' Duke.”

“Who gave you the money?”

“You an' Prince. Duke didn't want to—”

“Nice.” Knight loosened his grip.

Jamal exhaled with relief.

But just as quickly, Knight snatched him up even higher. The heels of his Air Force One hit the side of a chair. “Who
made
your hip-hoppin' ass?”

“You!” Jamal's voice was high-pitched due to the fact that he was being choked by his shirt. His face bulged and turned red.

“Who has the power to destroy you just as fast?”

“You! You!” His teeth chattered like it was ten degrees below zero outside.

“What you gon' say next time Dickman call?”

“F-f-f-f-f-fuck that muthafucka.”

Knight nodded. “And if you talk to him.”

“Jamal a dead muthafucka.”

Knight threw him down to the aisle.

Jamal thudded on his back. His eyes opened wide, staring up as if he were trying to figure out if he were still alive.

“Jamal,” Knight said coolly, “Tell me what you're gonna do at eleven forty-five the night of October first on the other side of those curtains.” Knight pointed to the purple velvet drapes framing the stage.

Jamal coughed. He grabbed his throat, massaging the red marks.

“Tell me!” Knight's bellow echoed through the auditorium.

“I'ma sign the papers.” Jamal coughed.

“I'ma give you a fat-ass check. An'?”

“I ain't neva gon' tell nobody nothin' about Manifest Destiny.”

Knight stared down. “Remember them magic words for the rest of yo' life. They yo' bulletproof vest as far as I'm concerned.” The power pumping through Knight's veins made him feel eight feet tall. His chest was clear. His heart was pumping slowly, calmly.

In the dark paneled office inside The Penthouse at Babylon HQ, Knight huddled in front of his computer with Larry Marx. The California media mogul and his wife were in town to discuss the final details of Manifest Destiny. Now he and Knight were switching accounts to protect Babylon's assets, just in case the Marxes got indicted.

“Julius Mark Anthony, meet Moses Alexander,” Larry said as he typed account numbers in the global banking Web site. “This is switching all your assets into another account that's handled by our company in Sweden. It's untraceable.”

Knight patted Larry on the back of his snug fitting brown sweater that matched his brown linen trousers and polished, lace-up brown and white shoes. “I appreciate all the wisdom over the years, man,” Knight said, hoping this money maneuver was the remedy for relieving the tightness in his chest. “You helped me work a miracle.”

“I'm about to.” Larry said, glanced up with a sparkle in his brown eyes. His curly dark hair shook as he laughed. “I cannot wait to see how you pull this off.”

Knight's chest squeezed. “I've been working my ass off for years. I need to get away.”

“I hear you,” Larry said. “Me and Prissy have been so worked up over this indictment, we're thinkin' about doing the same thing. Latest word is, the heat's off. But this is a wakeup call. Can never be too careful.”

Knight nodded, watching as Larry worked the keyboard to make page after page pop up with seven-figure bank balances.

“All you have to do after The Games is log on with that same password,
Caesar,
and transfer the money from Jamal's account into this new account, and
voila
lifetime of luxury.”

“Thanks for eveything man,” Knight said, “you a cool cat.”

“Of course Knight,” Larry said, looking up from the computer.

“You're the boss,” Larry said. “And I'm proud of you, dude.”

He's sincere,
intuition told Knight.

Still, Knight stared hard into Larry's eyes. “Nothin' like trust. Nothin' like trust.”

Larry nodded. “Speaking of trust, this dude, Jamal, you really trust him?”

That band of tension squeezed around Knight's chest. “Jamal knows that any deviation from this plan will earn him a life long visitor's pass to see Prince at Elmwood Cemetery.”

“What's the latest on Duke?”

“He's planning an eleventh hour heist, but I'm ten steps ahead of him.”

“Stay there.” Larry stood. “Mission accomplished. Now let's go see what that pretty little Cleopatra of yours is up to.”

Knight's heart pounded as he took long strides to the door. He would be down on his Queen faster than Larry could say, “Swing.”

The Queen moaned as the woman's long fingernails raked through her long, black hair and massaged her scalp over and over.

“Knight told us you were even more beautiful than you were last year.” Mrs. Marx stared at The Queen in the mirrored wall of the dining room in The Penthouse at Babylon. “But you are absolutely breathtaking.”

The Queen, sitting in her Louis XIV chair at the head of the table, leaned her head back and looked up into the intrigued blue eyes that were on a thin, upside-down face with bright pink lip gloss. “Thank you. I always loved Egyptian stuff and playing dress-up with my mom. So this—”

The Queen's throat burned so much, stealing her words. This was the first older woman she'd encountered in more than a year. Except for Duke's mother, who'd hated her until Knight brought her home, and Mrs. Johnson suddenly loved The Queen. Because, as she learned, their mother praised anything Knight did, while in her eyes, Duke could never be as good as his big brother.

The housekeeper, Nina, pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen and began to clear the table. “Madame Queen,” she said with a curtsy that made the tops of her nutmeg-brown breasts jiggle, “I'll serve dessert soon as Master Knight and Mister Marx come back from the office.”

“Thank you, Nina,” The Queen said, bending her head forward to look into Nina's pretty almond shaped eyes. “You got some French vanilla ice-cream and caramel sauce to go over the pecan pie, right?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Nina curtsied again, then piled up dinner plates from the table.

The Queen leaned her head back.

Mrs. Marx, standing behind her chair, cupped a warm hand over The Queen's cheek and stared into her eyes. “You okay, sweetie? You look sad.”

As Nina clinked china and silverware, The Queen squeezed hot tears from her eyes, which dripped down onto Mrs. Marx's wrist. She kept her eyes closed, and loved the sensation of Mrs. Marx's hands stroking her face, from each side of her nose, down to her jaw, over and over.

“I think you need to relax,” Mrs. Marx said. “Let's go into the living room.”

“I'll bring coffee and dessert out there,” Nina said.

As they walked toward the plush all-white couches, Mrs. Marx massaged The Queen's shoulders. Perhaps because of the affectionate and grateful way Knight had always spoken of the Marxes, The Queen felt extremely comfortable with this woman. She wanted to tap into her wisdom and learn the ways of a married woman that she'd not been able to learn from her mother.

“Mrs. Marx?”

“Priscilla, please,” she said playfully, laying The Queen face down on the couch.

“Priscilla, do you think too much sex can kill a woman or a man?”

“If it can, then Larry and I have nine lives.” She laughed, pushing up the Queen's dress to massage her calves. “Or more.Why do you ask?”

“Mmmmm, that feels good,” The Queen whispered as the woman kneaded the flesh of her hamstrings.

All through dinner, The Queen had been getting hornier and hornier as she watched Malibu Barbie and her gorgeous husband, eating dinner at the table.

She got the same feeling she'd had when Rip Masta Mac and his harem of hotties had joined them, along with Jamal and CoCo, for dinner last week. They'd barely made it through the lamb chops before Rip Masta put one of his girls in front of him on the table, spread-eagled, and started eating her pussy like it was a pie-eating contest.

That sparked an oral extravaganza around the table, as The Queen had slurped down Knight's dick with wild abandon, and they all ended up on the mattress style chaises on the outdoor terrace, fucking to the funkiest beats of the Bang Squad and Rip Masta, until the sun rose in an explosion over the Detroit River.

Tonight's dinner had been much more reserved, but the twinkle in Mrs. Marx's blue eyes let her know this guest from the West Coast was saving the best for last.

Now The Queen wished Knight would return from whatever serious conversation he was having with Mr. Marx, so they could cap off the evening with dessert. Because Mrs. Marx's hands were massaging her butt cheeks now, and her pussy was as hot and creamy as the steaming coffee that she could smell brewing in the kitchen.

“Your ass is so round.”

“Oooh, squeeze my ass,” The Queen whispered. “I
loooove
that.” She always could cum extra good when Knight took each cheek in one hand, then squeezed and massaged her ass, while he fucked her.

All of a sudden, something hot and wet pressed into The Queen's booty. It was a pussy. Waxed satin-smooth. Creamy, and steaming hot.

Mrs. Marx ground her clit in sultry circles into the round curve of The Queen's juicylicious booty. Meanwhile, her hands massaged The Queen's bareback.

Celeste screamed, loving this new sensation.

Mrs. Marx grinded and rotated until she screamed, shivered, and creamed all over The Queen's ass.

The Queen needed Knight right now. She needed Shane to slam up into her hungry pussy and take care of this ache for love.

She felt Knight's hands on the backs of her knees. He pulled them apart, pooted up her ass with Mrs. Marx still on it, and rammed Shane into the swollen, slippery jellyfish that Celeste had become.

His dick was like an electric eel, slithering up into her and sending jolts through her every cell. Lightning crackled behind her closed eyelids. She spasmed with the shock of his size and speed, and she shuddered, cumming with one magic stroke.