Sex in the Hood Saga (8 page)

Damn, how could somebody look so sexy while they were being so mean? Beamer's whole body was shaking as he thought about pulling open that robe, laying her on that lounge chair and fucking her until she started talking like she used to. Something about her made him feel weak as hell, like a nigga could think tough all he wanted, and say it, but when he looked in those eyes, he turned to grits inside.

She clawed her fingernails over his cheek, stopping to tickle his lip. “If you think it's cool to dumb yourself down to the lowest common denominator of every hoodlum you know, then I'm going to smarten you up until you're intelligent enough to partner with me on our Duke Deal of the day.”

All of a sudden, something in her eyes made Beamer remember when they were eight, she sweet-talked him into going to the corner store and stealing some Blow Pops for her. “I'll kiss you if you get me three green apple ones,” she said. But when he came out and delivered the goods, she was sitting on the porch with Duke, so Beamer gave each of them a sucker and kept one for himself. Never did get his kiss.

Right now, the way she was cracking up just looking at him—and he hadn't said squat—it was making him feel retarded. It made hot energy, like steam, blow through him, making him want to punch something.

“You know, Peanut, there are two kinds of people in the world: leaders who make decisions, and imbeciles who wouldn't know how or what to think if it weren't for the leaders thinking for them. Duke and I, we're the leaders. And you, sorry little punk, happen to fall in the second category. Now, here's my plan that you're going to help me execute.”

“Aw, hell no!” Beamer shouted, balling his fists. “You nothin' but a trick! Fulla tricks!”

She looked at him with excited eyes. Her lips poked out the way models always look in pictures like they were about to kiss their own picture.

“What the fuck you doin'?” he asked, sounding much more angry than he had intended. “I coulda got arrested up in this snobby-ass joint. The suburbs ain't no place to play.”

“You didn't get the password right, Peanut. And if you're going to do business with me, I need you to pay attention to the details. Now, what is the password?”

“Don't fuck wit' me.”

She tossed back her head, making that straight hair bounce all over the place. She leaned on one hip, spreading her fingers out on her thighs to press the fabric down. The robe fell open wider on her chest.

Beamer's dick was ramming up against his jeans. Benzo wasn't even this hard when Chanel was sucking it this afternoon. Something about Milan's bitchy drill sergeant way of talking made Benzo iron hard.

If he closed his eyes, she would sound white, but looking at the way she jerked her neck when she talked, there was no question she was a sista when she said, “I'll fuck with you every second of every day, you stupid motherfucker, until you can concentrate on business.”

He stomped closer. Their bodies were almost touching. “Don't call me a stupid motherfucker, you bougie wannabe, two-timin' bitch.”

She craned her neck forward. Her eyes grew bigger as she said, “You don't have the balls to make this happen with me.”

Beamer stared hard into her eyes. His right hand yanked open the top button on his jeans, which he pulled hard enough to unzip. He whipped out his big dick in his right hand and cradled his balls in his left hand.

“These some big muthafuckin' balls,” he said angrily, “an' a big black dick ta go wit' 'em. So don't tell me—”

“Maybe you have the equipment, but you're scared to use it.” Milan shook her head. “Put that little mess away. I been dealin' in dicks way bigger than that all day long.”

Beamer could feel something inside snapping, like his rattling veins had just blown a pipe and steam was blowing every which way but out. He was like a pressure cooker, and Milan's haughty expression, her words, her sexiness, were making his gauge tick even more violently.

“I said put the dick away before I jump up on it.”

Benzo throbbed harder, like that pressure cooker was about to blow right through the head of his dick. All that steam would shoot straight back into Milan, where it came from. And either pair of her lips would do.

“Peanut, if you think I want that little earthworm of a click—”

Beamer lunged. He wrapped his arms around her waist, lifted her up and let that robe fall open. He slammed her down on his dick like she was a bubble and he was sticking out a pin to pop it.

“Peanut, stop!” She clawed the collar of his Pistons jersey. Was she trying to hold on or get a grip so she could fuck him back? She didn't exactly wrap her legs around him, but she didn't push off either. Her pussy was hot, wet, and gripping him like she'd been wanting it all along.

“Damn, yo' pussy wet.” She was so small, all he had to do was hold her in place, lift and lower her real quick, and bang up. He inhaled the smell of her designer perfume and salty pussy. That put Benzo on swole even more.

This some good pussy. No wonder Duke
—

Beamer's whole body went cold.

He looked up into Milan's eyes. She was loving this dick. She was evil, just like Duke said. She'd sell her own momma to get her way, to get paid, to get some dick, just to be a bitch.

Then how could her pussy feel so good?

“You started now, Peanut. Don't you dare get guilty an' pull some
coitus interruptus
unless you're lusting for rigor mortis in return. 'Cause the number one way to royally piss off Milan Henderson is to get stingy with the dick.”

I'm double-crossin' Duke, now she's gonna double-cross me. Threaten me, too! An' I'm too stupid to have known better. Talk about stuck between a cock and a hard place.
Beamer would laugh if he were thinking about some other dumb-ass fool. Duke was right. The reason it was so easy for him to knock down Pinks was because Beamer had been holding him up.

“Fuck me!” Milan ordered. She tossed off the robe, letting it fall to the floor. Her fingernails clawed under the collar of his jersey, scraping over his shoulders. Stripes of pain burned his skin. Her hair was bouncing all over. She pulled the holder off his braids, letting them fly wild.

She was making her ass bounce like she was riding a horse. The sharp little heels of her slippers were stabbing his thighs, and he was galloping right underneath her. Yeah, galloping toward the barrel of a gun if Duke were to find out.

They fucked until they were both dripping, then they each blew a nut so hard, they collapsed on that couch and guzzled champagne straight from the bottle. After she put on her robe, Milan picked up the remote, pointed it at the TV and clicked.

“Where is it?” she asked, pushing buttons.

The screen flashed with images of green fabric sliding to the floor . . . brown hair bouncing . . . redbone braids flying. . . and Duke Johnson's number one baby momma getting fucked by his number one boy. His servant. His back-stabbing right hand with a death wish the size of Michigan.

Beamer's whole body shook so violently, he was afraid he was having a convulsion. He half wanted to tell Michelle to call 911. “Why the fuck—”

She raised her eyebrows, crossed her arms and looked at him like he was stupid.

“Give me the tape,” Beamer said with a dead-serious tone. “Thought you'd like a copy,” she said, pushing a button and ejecting a tape.

Beamer threw it on the floor. His gym shoe slammed down on the tape, making the plastic crackle.

“Why you laughin', bitch?”

“My new camera is so handy,” she said, aiming the remote at the TV. There they were, still fucking on the screen.

“Erase that shit. Now!” Damn, Beamer's voice sounded just as deep and powerful as Duke's usually did. “'Fore I tear up this room to find yo' hidden camera.”

“Cameras,” she said, pushing buttons. “See, I have multiple angles. Do you know anything about digital film? It's wonderful. You'll never guess where it's hidden. I can download the images, print them out, copy them to tape, e-mail them around the world if I want to. And the way you came at me—”

Beamer shot up to his feet.

“Of course, if you act up, Peanut, I can ring our friend down at the front desk, who'd be happy to call the police about the unruly nigga up in the Presidential Suite. Then you'd have to call Duke to bail you out of jail. After he and I enjoy our home movies.”

Beamer stomped back to the couch. He stood over Milan and glared down. “What the fuck you want from me?”

“I want you to make sure that Duke Johnson does not do whatever he's planning to do with that white bitch.” Her lips got real tight against her teeth and the words came out like a growl, like she was biting down hard. “Whether he plans to fuck her, hire her, pimp her, I don't know. I don't care. Just make sure she doesn't step one foot into Babylon.”

Milan opened her robe again, lay back on the couch, and spread her legs wide open. Her body looked like an evil face: nipples for eyes, an “outie” belly button for a nose, and that gapped-open brown-and-pink pussy was the mouth trying to suck him into hell.

“You're going to do all of that, of course,” Milan said with that playmate/drill sergeant voice, “after you eat my pussy.”

Beamer's mouth watered because her pussy was beautiful. It was still tight, even after two babies, and it was still good, real good. But that bitch who was attached to it made everything sweet about her body go sour.

“Don't make me have to cum by myself.” She pressed her long, gold fingernail onto her inch-long clit, rubbing it in circles. Her nipples pointed at him like poison darts.

“Eat my pussy. Now!”

If I'm gon' die, I might as well get as much good pussy as I can first.
He pressed his face into his own sticky nut all over her pussy. He rubbed his face around. He wasn't just going to drink the poison; he was going to savor every sip.

“Ooooh, shit. Think about how you ain't gon' let Duke fuck that white bitch. Think about how if he try, you gon' tell me so I can get a fresh manicure before I kill the bitch with my own pretty little hands.”

Even though she was dizzy from hunger, the first thing Victoria did when they arrived at the upscale restaurant on the river was go to the bathroom and make herself cum. The whole drive there, she had squirmed in her seat, making a soaking wet mess of her panties. Panic was gripping her throat, anxiety about her life turning her insides into a nest of wasps stinging her from the inside out. Something about that guy—that enormous, dark chocolate god who twenty-four hours ago she never would have even considered talking with much less going to dinner—was turning her into a boiling vat of cum cream. And that rap music, the kind Brian was always playing, was arousing something rebellious and wild within her. She'd almost made herself cum in the car by squeezing her pussy muscles in rhythm to that music that Duke said was Bang Squad.

Making herself cum mellowed her mind. It cured the sting. Especially when she thought about his dick and how he would feel. Fucking was a totally abstract idea because she had no real life reference point. All she knew was what her friends told her, and they'd all complained that losing their virginity was painful and disappointing. Even Tiffany complained, though she was like a little rabbit with Jake because, she said, “Once you pop it, you just can't stop it. You crave it constantly.”

If that were true with nerdy-looking Jake, then what would happen with sexy, studly Duke? Whatever it was, Victoria wanted it. But she would never, ever get it.

So, walking back through the restaurant to Duke Johnson, sitting so cool at a table framed by the bright blue Detroit River and the downtown skyline, Victoria focused on her goal tonight. She had to strategize how he could help her find a better place to live. If this guy had so much pull, maybe he could help her get an emergency loan.

As she sat down, a gray-haired white man in a business suit glared at her from a nearby table. He said something to his frothy-haired wife, who shook her head with disgust. Had they seen her on TV? Had they known Daddy? “Why is everyone staring at us?” Victoria asked. “The whole drive here, people in other cars were looking at me like I'm some kinda freak.”

The corners of Duke's mouth raised up slightly. His eyes sparkled. “They tryin' to fig'a out what NBA ma'fucka wit' a vanilla shorty.”

“Oh, I love those,” Victoria said, remembering her favorite coffee drink at the Java Joint, which just days ago was her favorite hangout with Brian and Tiffany.

“With cinnamon and whipped cream on top.”

“They're just some jealous ma'fuckas,” Duke said playfully. “Hatin' on a brotha for ridin' with the finest shorty in D-town.”

“I'm not short. I'm five-eight.” Victoria pointed to her red leather mules. “Make it five-eleven in these heels.”

“You short next to six feet six inches o' this Mandingo warrior ma'fucka,” Duke said coolly, his eyes roving down the exposed “V” of her cleavage to the round curves of her breasts. His stare made her nipples pop so hard against the pink satin of her bra, they made two points on her sweater. Then he said, with the sexiest deep voice she'd ever heard, “See, you hearin' me loud an' clear.”

She squirmed. His bad boy command of cuss words made Celeste throb even hotter and wetter. The simple act of looking into his eyes made her feel out of control. She had the same feeling as when she was dieting with perfect discipline until she walked into Mrs. Fields Cookies. All her discipline melted under the warmth of that fresh-baked goodie in her hand. The sweet chocolate scent literally turned off the part of her brain that said “no” to all other fattening treats.

But if Victoria succumbed to the temptation of this male god sitting in front of her, how could she make up for that? What if she got pregnant? What if she caught something? What if she loved it so much she lost her mind and become a slave to her sex?

“Wherever your mind takin' you right now,” Duke said, “let me go too. 'Cause the look on your face be sneaky as hell. Sexy as hell, too.”

She glared at him.

“One look in your eyes,” Duke said, “and I got a fuckin' all-access pass into your horny-ass mind.”

“Don't talk to me like that,” she snapped.

“Oh, sorry, Miss Daisy,” Duke said. “You ain't used to hearin' words like that.”

“My dad had a potty mouth too. I hated it.”

“Then I'll speak,” he said with that playful proper white cadence, “like a perfect gentleman.”

Victoria smiled.
But I don't know if I can keep being a lady with you.

“My pops booked. Never met him. You lucky you had one.”

“I can't talk about my dad right now.” Victoria squeezed back tears, closed her eyes, and inhaled the delicious cologne scent that was wafting from Duke. She kept squeezing her pussy muscles to soothe away the stares, the worries, and the sheer terror that was gripping her soul.

The scent of salmon made her open her eyes.

“I ordered fo' ya,” Duke said with an adorable smile. It was like his eyes sparkled and tenderness washed over his face, which was all the more dramatic because he was so enormous and tough-looking at first glance.

“Mmmmm, exactly what I had in mind,” she said, ogling the big slab of grilled salmon over mixed greens with gorgonzola cheese, walnuts, and dried cherries. “Duke, I can't remember the last time I ate. Or slept. It's been, like, half a week. I don't know how I'm staying awake.”

“You gon' sleep good tonight,” Duke said with a warmth in his eyes that made her shiver. It wasn't just in his eyes; it was radiating from his entire being. Just like it did from Daddy and Mommy. The energy registered in her mind like I'll take care of you no matter what. Duke flashed those big, beautiful white teeth and said, “I tol' you I got cha back, baby girl.”

“I'm not sleeping a wink at that hellish house of dogs,” Victoria said as the waiter placed a bread basket overflowing with hot whole wheat rolls. “Paradise.” She smiled as the waiter set a plate of steak and lobster before him. A platter of giant crab cakes descended between them. “No, I'm in paradise right now, and if this is my last meal in life, I'm gonna savor every bite.”

Duke let out a quick, deep laugh. “Oh, baby girl, it ain't the las'. It's jus' a little taste o' what gon' be yo' life e'ry day.”

She stared hard into his eyes, looking for answers, but radiating back was pure male domination that told her without words,
Your wish is my command as long as it fits into my mysterious master plan.

“The house specialty,” the waiter said, putting on the table an elaborate arrangement of fresh pineapple, strawberries, and blueberries with a dish of fresh whipped cream. “Indulge.”

“Thank you,” Victoria said between bites that transformed the acid burn of hunger in her gut into a warm, mellow fullness. “Damn, baby girl,” Duke said playfully, his dark eyes sparkling.

“You eat like a man.”

“Thank you! This is so good!” she said, savoring every flavor. She speared a big piece of pineapple, dipped it in cream, stuck out her tongue, and chomped in an exaggerated way. “All my friends were always starving themselves. They were so scared to eat in front of guys. Stupid.”

“I love a girl wit' a big appetite,” Duke said with a mischievous smile. “Can't stand them salad-eatin' chicks. Always mad 'cause they so hungry.”

Victoria laughed. His eyes were mesmerizing. She could not look away from the rich, black depths of his pupils and irises, the super whiteness of his eyes, the beautiful radiance of his flawless, coffee bean brown skin. She had never really looked this hard into a black face. Gramma Green and other relatives, of course, but somehow a man, a young handsome man, was different. Way more intense. And scary.

He represented everything opposite her, and her body was electrified. If she were to put her fingertip to the bottom of a lightbulb right now, it would no doubt glow brightly. She never felt this electric, even after hours of heavy petting with Brian. But now, all of a sudden, she was analyzing the whole race-sex vow that she had made to herself. She ached to talk to Mommy, to hear the adult version of what she had told her in the vanity mirror.

What if the power that Mommy described only worked on white men? What if an inner city tough guy like this was so used to sex power that he was immune, so nobody would get hurt? If so, then Victoria could satisfy the incredibly distracting craving to indulge her virginal body in sex—especially a hot mouth on her pussy. Celeste would go wild. Oooh, what would it be like for Duke to wrap those full, chocolate brown lips around her clit? And his dick was probably huge. Would it hurt? Or would she love it so much that her pussy sucked him inside her forever?

“You a'ight, boo?”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“What?”

“Boo. Like you think I'm scared or something.”

“We alike like that,” Duke said. “You got a poker face like a mug.”

“A what? I've never had a mug shot. Don't plan to.”

Duke laughed. “Girl, I gotta school you on the language of the street if you gon' make it.”

“That's not a question,” she said. “I'm gonna find a job and move out as soon as I can.”

“I know,” Duke said.

“How do you know?”

“I see it in your eyes. You and me, we just alike. You'll see. We got the same soul, but it was split apart and born in different worlds. But now—”

“I'm trapped since the lawyers took away my car,” Victoria said. “What can you recommend that's close to my grandmother's house, where I can work?”

“Work for me.”

“Doing what?”

“Represent me. At meetings. Help me run my business. The way you talk and carry yourself, that'll give me a lot more credibility.”

“With who?”

“Various business partners.”

“Duke, I'm eighteen.”

“I'm twenty, and I'm runnin' the shit. I learned it from my brothers startin' when I was twelve. I took ova wit' Knight when Prince—” Duke looked down. “Jus' say we on the fas' track business plan here in'a hood. Life short, so you gotta shoot to the top quick or—”

Victoria's stomach cramped. “Where's your brother?”

“The same place a whole lotta niggas go befo' they see twenty-one. Elmwood Cemetery.”

“Was he a drug dealer? I'm not doing anything illegal.”

“Hear me now,” Duke said, taking her hand. “You help me out, I will make sure your fine ass never takes a fall. I'll confess it right now, you are my new reason for living.”

Victoria stood up. “I'm sorry, but you know nothing about me. I'm going to college to start my own business someday, and I don't want anything to do with whatever business you're in.”

“Think about it,” he said. “Workin' at McDonald's by yo' Grammomma house or workin' for me with your own apartment, a car, and protection.”

Tears stung Victoria's eyes.

“Now come on,” he said. “I'm takin' you grocery shopping so you can get some white girl food for your gramma house. Anything you want.”

His eyes scanned her body. “And you can come to my crib for a shower if you still want.”

Celeste throbbed, but Victoria shook her head and looked at him like he was crazy. “Your crib?”

He laughed. “That's ghetto for home.”

“I feel like I need a Berlitz book when you talk,” she said playfully, ticking down a grocery list in her head: green apples, yogurt, tuna, baked chicken, peanut butter.

“A what book?” he asked.

“It's a travel guidebook, for when you visit a foreign country. It has a bilingual dictionary of common words and phrases. You say something, I look it up, and get a translation.”

“Yeah, write that book,” Duke said. “Whitey's Guide to the Hood.”

She stopped, turned, glared at him. “I don't like racial jokes.”

“Nobody ever called you a nigga bitch, have they?”

“You just did.” She stared back without flinching.

“Nice,” he said, those piercing eyes glowing with approval as they walked past tables toward the exit, that white man and his wife who stared at her earlier stood up.

“Victoria Marie Winston,” the man said. Her heart pounded. Not that she was scared, just that after being all over the media for a week, she was expecting lunatics, perverts, and racists to come crawling out of their gutters to say or do vile things.

Duke wedged himself between her and the man. He was so tall and wide, he entirely hid her like a big, black wall. “Can I help you?”

“No,” the man said, stepping around Duke.

“Victoria, I worked with your dad.”

“She don't want to talk right now,” Duke said.

“Wait,” Victoria said, allowing the man to approach.

Maybe he was looking angry because he was grieving. “The apple doesn't fall far from the tree,” the man said with furious eyes. A bit of spit landed on his lip.

Duke blocked her as gracefully as a giant cat. “Yo, step back.”

The man did, but he shouted, “Your dad was a despicable, nigger-loving bandit!”

“A criminal!” the woman shrieked. She shook her over-powdered cheeks, which were dusted with giant ovals of rouge. “You're obviously following in his footsteps!”