A Gangster's Girl Read online

  Oh my goodness, I just witnessed a drug deal!

  Suddenly there was a knock on the door, and I almost jumped out of my seat. My hand went straight to my chest, as if to keep my heart from leaping out. When I nervously turned toward the knocking, I was relieved to see Vegas staring at me.

  “What’s up? You gonna open the door or what?” he asked.

  “Oh my God, you scared me,” I replied.

  I unlocked the car and Vegas jumped in. Once inside, he directed me to an old house a couple of blocks away. The house was huge and looked as though it had at least five bedrooms. A long driveway led to a gated backyard. Parked in the driveway was a black Honda Accord with dark tinted windows and an older model Maxima. I was silently praying that the Honda was his. He quickly ran inside and emerged with a Nieman Marcus bag.

  “You’s ’bout a size six, right?”

  “Yeah,” I responded.

  “And a European shirt forty-two?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said as he tossed the bag on my lap, nonchalantly.

  “Well, this is for you.”

  I opened it, peeking inside, and then smiled a smile so broad that it showed all thirty-two of my pearly whites. It was my favorite—Versace! He was definitely on the right track now. I leaned over and kissed his cheek.

  “Thanks, you didn’t have to do this.”

  “You right. I don’t gotta do shit. I just wanted to.” He smiled. “You hungry?”

  “Yeah, I could eat something.”

  “Then why are we still sitting here? Drive.” With a huge smile, he reached down and reclined his seat.

  Dinner was great. We ate at a nice little low-key seafood restaurant down by the oceanfront; it was a perfect choice since I love seafood. We ate a candlelit dinner on the deck while admiring the stars and listening to the waves and the seagulls. It was so romantic, something I was not very accustomed to.

  After eating, he suggested we take a stroll along the beach, talk a little, and get to know each other better. It seems like he only got to know me, because I did most of the talking. I was surprised that he was truly interested in things that were important to me, like my goals, school and work. I told him I graduated from high school as an honor student with an advanced studies diploma and that after high school I attended Hampton University where I received my degree in dental hygiene. He was pleased to learn that I had no kids and worked full time as a dental hygienist in a large dental clinic. When it was his turn to share, he told me that he was the youngest of three boys. He also had no kids but wanted some eventually. He was born and raised in the streets of Norfolk, repping Park Place to the fullest.

  “How did you get the name Vegas?” I asked out of curiosity.

  “I used to be a big gambler,” he explained. “After a few big wins, my friends started calling me Vegas. Plus, I was living the lifestyle like those flamboyant niggas from Las Vegas.”

  As we continued to talk, I found out what effects my first impression had on him. He said my chestnut eyes originally mesmerized him. Then, when he saw how snappy my attitude was and how curvaceous my body was, he knew he just had to have me by his side.

  After about an hour on the beach, he asked if I wanted to stay at the oceanfront for the night. At first I was hesitant, then I thought what the hell. I didn’t want to fuck up what may be a good thing by acting like Ms. Goody-two-shoes. Shit, I had done far worse before with people I didn’t even like. So I agreed, and he chose the best hotel on the strip. He paid for the room and valet with no hesitation. Don’t call him cheap.

  Once inside the room, I took a seat in the small sitting area and flicked on the television while he showered. Emerging from the bathroom, he walked over to the Jacuzzi in the corner of the room, drew the water, and lowered his buck-naked ass inside.

  I can’t believe this guy, I thought as I admired his body through the mirrors surrounding the Jacuzzi. He had the build of a god! His ass and thighs were as firm as an NFL ball player’s, his abs were rippled, and his man parts, well, let’s just say, daaaaammmmn! It has got to be a crime!

  “Want to join me?” he asked. “You can wear your panties if you’re uncomfortable about getting undressed.”

  With a dick like that, nigga, I’m getting in ass naked! I thought. However, my response came out more like, “Okay, I’ll be right in. You got to try to control yourself, though.”

  I undressed slowly as Vegas watched my every move in the mirrors. I was precise with each movement as I lifted my shirt and pulled down my pants. As I tempted Vegas with my tantalizing striptease, I could tell by the way he was licking his lips that he was enjoying the show. My breasts popped out with ease as I unsnapped my front closure bra. Because of the way his eyes were dilating, I was certain that Vegas was quite pleased with my physique. Lastly, I slowly removed my butterfly thong and began to walk toward the Jacuzzi. I could see Vegas’ dick rise as I stepped into the water. Little did he know I was just as pleased as he was.

  Chapter 3

  Girls’ Night Out

  The next morning, I was awakened by the shining of the sun through the crack in the hotel curtains. I glanced at the clock radio, which read seven o’clock. “Oh shit!” I jumped up shouting. “I’m gonna be late for work! God-damn it! Vegas, wake up! Wake your ass up!”

  He didn’t budge, but that was his problem. I was the one driving, and if he didn’t leave when I did, that was just too damn bad. I searched frantically for my clothes as he slept like a log. Not able to locate my panties, I grabbed his underwear and threw them on along with my pants and shirt. Shit, guys have been stealing my panties for years.

  Now, I know I was wrong for doing what I’m about to tell you, but I couldn’t resist. Since he was sleeping so soundly, and since I was already going to be late for work, I decided, Why not go through his pockets? A sistah’s gotta know what she’s dealing with, right?

  Like most of the thugs I’ve dealt with, Vegas didn’t carry a wallet. Therefore, I was able to locate his money rather quickly simply by digging deep. He had exactly thirty-five hundred dollars in one pocket and a little over a thousand in the other. As I continued my search, I came across a few phone numbers. One read Kim, then Steeze, and one was surrounded by little hearts and read Jalisa. I got a good laugh at that one as I ripped it up. I figured that he was pretty popular with the ladies from the way his pager was blowing up every five minutes the night before. It eventually got to the point where he had to turn it off. My biggest concern was that he might have been married. God, I hope not.

  Last but not least, I came across his ID, which listed his name as Laymont Jackson and Virginia Beach, Virginia, as his place of residence. Now that was strange. I thought he was from Norfolk. Still, none of that was as confusing as his date of birth, which read September 17, 1980. At first I didn’t pay it any mind, but then I realized he was younger than I was. That’s when I started to do the mathematics and counted the years in my head. One, two, three . . . ten, eleven, twelve . . . eighteen! Oh, my God, this nigga is only eighteen years old!

  Just then, Vegas started to stir, so I quickly replaced the card inside his pants pocket. Part of me wanted to confront him about his age while the other part just wanted to have a good time, which was exactly what he had shown me.

  “Yo, why you up so early?” he grumbled.

  “Because some of us have jobs,” I answered sarcastically. “I’m gonna be late for work. Now get up, Vegas.”

  “Fuck that shit,” he responded very nonchalantly. “You wit’ me. Chill out. Lie back down and get some rest. We were up late last night.” He rolled over, trying to get comfortable.

  What doesn’t this nigga understand? I gotta get to work.

  “Look, Vegas, I’m the only dental hygienist at a very busy dental clinic. I can’t just stay home.” I was quite perturbed at his previous statement.

  “How much do you make in a week, ma?” He asked, rolling back over and staring at me.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I bring
home about a thousand dollars a week,” I snapped with attitude. I’d exaggerated the amount of money I made, but he shouldn’t have been asking anyway.

  “A’ight, I got you. Hand me my pants.” I did as he asked and was surprised when he pulled out the smaller roll of money, counted off ten hundred-dollar bills, and handed it to me as if it were ten dollars. “Now come back to bed, a’ight?”

  If I had known that was going to be the outcome, I would have told him I made twice as much. Not wanting to end my date with Vegas so soon, I agreed to stay. I called the office and used the excuse of a family emergency to get me out of a day of work. Then, I returned to bed and to the comfort of Vegas’ arms.

  Two hours later, we were up and on our way to Norfolk. It was the day of the Rap Concert ’99, so I was happy that I had decided to take the day off. That way I would have plenty of time to prepare for the show. During the entire ride to Norfolk, Vegas was on his cell phone.

  As a subtle hint, I sang softly with Aaliyah, “Your loooove is a one in a million. It goes oooon and oooon and oooon.”

  The way he laid it on me the previous night was definitely what I would call some one in a million loving. I must say, that was the best sex I ever had. And who would have ever imagined it would have come from an eighteen year-old? I have to give him his props, though, because if I had not come across his ID, I would have never known. He had all the characteristics of a grown ass man, including dick, body and mind. He actually had me screaming his name. Anyone eavesdropping would have thought I had hit the jackpot.

  As I listened in on Vegas’ cell phone conversation, I came to the conclusion that he was planning to have a meeting with this guy he referred to as Red. He also mentioned someone by the name of Martinez, but not a word was mentioned about going to the show that evening. I did wonder what all this “business meeting” stuff had to do with.

  I drove Vegas to the same house we had stopped by the previous night. Before getting out of the car, he gave me the number to the cell phone he had given me at the attorney’s office and told me it was mine to keep. He also slapped another thousand dollars cash in my hand.

  I decided to give you two grand instead of one because I know you’re going to that show tonight and may need a little extra pocket change.” I thanked him and gave him a small peck on the lips before he got out.

  “Damn! That’s a fine ass nigga,” I said as I watched him walk toward the house.

  And generous, too!

  When I pulled off, I immediately called my girl, Deedee, and made a hair appointment. I knew she would be booked up because she was the hottest stylist in the Tidewater area. Her services were in high demand. She even did cornrows for all the niggas in the area. She managed to squeeze me in. Then I called my girls to find out what the plans were for the night. I started with Tionna and then called Mickie and Carmin. The four of us always rolled together, though at times our clique could get as deep as eight girls. We all agreed to meet at Carmin’s house at seven. That would give me enough time to get my hair done and purchase an outfit. Since I had a few hours before my hair appointment, I went home and freshened up. I quickly jumped in the shower and threw on a cute little Sergio jean outfit. After that, I hit the mall. I was able to find an outfit and get my nails done in record-breaking time.

  After I got my hair done, I rushed to Carmin’s house. Although Carmin is pure Italian, she is the blackest chick I know. Don’t be fooled by the name. Her name should actually be Tameka. Carmin is knowledgeable in all the latest fashion and has a major in international design. She did freelance design for a number of artists and lived the life that many only dreamed of having. She knew all the hottest stars, went to all the celebrity parties, and even screwed a few of them too.

  During her ideal life, Carmin had fallen hard for a new artist on the charts. The only problem was that his feelings weren’t mutual. He was involved in a relationship and had no intentions of leaving his girl. But as we all know, the power of the pussy can make a guy do some strange things. He claimed he loved his girl, but at the same time, he just couldn’t stay away from Carmin. When he would go on tour to places like Europe, he would take Carmin along. He kept her laced in the finest fashions and even purchased her a Lexus SUV. Still, he stressed to her that he was not her man. That’s the kind of shit that makes you wonder. You give a man your all—sex, head, and love—and he can’t give you any type of commitment in return. And to beat all, he even had the nerve to be possessive. If he even thought Carmin was letting another nigga hit that, he would snap. However, if she saw him with his girl, Carmin had better not even think about cutting her eyes wrong or there would be problems. It takes a certain kind of chick to play the role as the other woman, and I definitely don’t meet the criteria. I demand a certain amount of attention and to share it with someone else is just not possible.

  Carmin was one of the wildest, coolest, most fun people you could meet. She had a gorgeous body with a waist and hips like Beyoncé Knowles. She didn’t have to put up with being second if she didn’t want to. Not to mention she was voted MVP of the group when it came to giving head. With those qualifications, she could have any man on the entire East Coast.

  Her two-bedroom apartment screamed her name. To most people, it would resemble a Trading Spaces project gone bad, but I thought it was the shit. She had a twist between eclectic and vintage furniture. Against the wall sat an old leather couch. It was a rust color with metal button accents around the arm. On her mantle were blown glass vases in cobalt blue and orange that held huge sunflowers. Her walls were bordered with pages from the latest fashion magazines. And my most favorite decorative piece of all was the portrait of Marilyn Monroe that hung on her living room wall.

  Soon, everyone had arrived and we decided to have a couple of drinks, put on some Li’l Kim, the Queen Bitch, for some girl power, and spark one. The mixture of apple martinis, hydro, and the lyrics of No Time put us in the mindset we needed for the night to come. Tionna, the title holder for doggie style, was the comedian of the group. Our friends could always count on me to come in and form a comical tag team with Tionna. She drove a cute little bubble Camry that we often joked with her about. Not that anything was wrong with it because her shit was paid for, but it was just so funny when the rest of us had such elaborate cars. To understand the car, you must understand Tionna. Born and raised in New York, she never learned how to drive. We had just recently taught her to drive, and the Camry was her first choice for a car. Tionna was also the penny pincher of the group. Now don’t get me wrong, she had just as much loot as any of us, if not more, but the bitch was just so damn cheap.

  After our drinks, we were ready to get dressed. We all put on our best because we knew the world would be watching. For some reason, all eyes of the area were always on us. It was four of us total, so we had to decide which cars to drive. We pretty much knew we could rule out Tionna’s ride, therefore, we decided that Carmin would drive her Lex. We figured we all could roll in that together.

  Once we hit the coliseum, it was on! Niggas were everywhere, and every single one of them was flaunting their jewels, cars, clothes and women. I was impressed with some of the chicks I saw.

  “You have to be careful,” Tionna quickly reminded me, “because if you don’t, you could be fooled by the once-ayear show outfit.”

  She was referring to the girls who don’t really have it the way that they would like to have you believe, but instead spend their whole welfare check on an outfit and accessories so they can be jiggie for the show. But catch them the next week and they are your straight up “Reebok broads.”

  Once we found a space, Carmin parked the truck and we headed for the doors. It seemed like we would never get there. We walked briskly as the wind whipped through our little outfits. Upon reaching the door, we found a line of at least seventy-five people waiting to get inside. Standing in line was out of the question, so we did like always and politely said “excuse me” to each person until we reached the front. We acted as thou
gh we were shareholders of the establishment. It’s amazing how each person stepped aside without hesitation. I guess that’s another benefit of being the shit and having a pussy. After three minutes of waiting, we were in and headed straight to the bathroom. In keeping with our girls’ night out ritual, we had to put our hair in place and spray on a refreshing bit of fragrance. Afterward, we headed to the arena floor to check out the scene. Like at every show, there were your chickens, whores and hood rats, all trying to get backstage. There was no question we would get back there, though. Carmin already had things on lock.

  We headed directly to the back and Carmin whispered in the security guard’s ear. “Scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours,” she said.

  Instantly, we were in. It’s crazy how one simple phrase and a little sex appeal can go so far with men. As we watched the show from backstage, a couple of the artists started conversing with us. After a few minutes of chatting, they were ready to chill.

  “Yo, y’all mad cool. Wanna smoke one?” one of the guys asked.

  Wanting to be social, but at the same time not trusting any nigga, I responded by saying, “Yeah, we can spark one, but we’ll roll our own shit.”

  They thought my response was real funny but decided to smoke with us anyway. We meditated on the herb for a while then decided we would depart. Before we left, though, I noticed Mickie and one of the guys exchanging numbers. I wondered why she would even waste her time, like there was any chance of them actually hooking up. Once back on the arena floor, we mingled with some of the ballers while Mickie continued to gather numbers. After a while, we made our exit.

  The spot to hang after the club, show, or what have you, was always Fat Danny’s Soul Food Restaurant. So, that’s where we headed. Again, we walked right in and sat down, bypassing the line. This time things didn’t go as smoothly, though.

  We were only sitting for forty-five seconds before this terrible looking hood rat came over and said, “Hey, we’ve been waiting here for thirty minutes and y’all just walked in and took our seat!”