Read From the Streets to the Sheets for Free Online

fuck you tryin’ to say, niggah?” I barked. I wasn’t in the mood for his shit. Not tonight. Just hours ago, I’d been less than five seconds away from catching a body after I’d caught my
main
piece with someone else. If it weren’t for a busy intersection and swarms of witnesses, my burner’s chamber would’ve been smoking and the coroner’s dinner would’ve been interrupted. Again. “If it’s any lead in these dice, you put it in’em. They yours, right, bitch-ass?”
    “You the only bitch at the table, Sweets,” he shot back, looking around. “Last time I checked.”
    The table quieted, and the other players turned to stone. Everybody knew there were two things I didn’t allow anyone to play with. My money. And calling me outta my name. “Bitch,” in particular, just got under my skin.
    12 o’clock leaned forward with a Desert Eagle in his hand, turned it on Lil’ Lee. Runner grinned and opened his jacket, revealed he had enough steel on him to start a mill. The other players cleared. Even Lil’ Lee’s phony cronies, who only rolled when his paper was thick, bounced.
    Lil’ Lee held up his hands. “Come on now, Sweets. You don’t really want this. Do you?”
    I swept my arm across the table, raked the money into my bag. “Damn right, I do.” I strutted over to him, kissed him on the cheek and slapped his ass. “What, baby? You were going to sneak-thief us, or just take the money?”
    Lil’ Lee’s stutter ran from his mouth to the south. He quaked in his boots. “N-nah. Y-you know me betta than that. I ain’t no cr-crab-ass niggah. What I look like h-holdin’ up a wo-woman, Sweets?”
    “Thought I was a bitch.” I dug my long, French-manicured nails into his firmness, gripped his ass. “Ain’t nuthin’ wrong with sticking a
bitch
for her paper, right?”
    Lil’ Lee threw me a sideways glance; pleading masked the scowl I knew was hidden underneath. He’d kill me quicker than I could make two cents if he could. Fuck me even faster. And I was hella paid, churning out paper faster than the U.S. Mint.
    “Say ya sorry,” I whispered, moving my grip from his ass to his jaw. “Make nice, niggah.”
    Lil’ Lee hung his head. His rep used to precede him around the way. He’d been a tough sonuvabitch who’d taken no slack, stacked his chips as high as his bitches. Dime-store pimp, player, triple-momma baby maker, he’d made himself a millionaire before his twenty-first birthday. But now he’d have to ice my cake—if he wanted to live past the stroke of midnight.
    With a nod of my head, 12 o’clock laced him up—dragged him into the back office—patted him down, shook him for all his weapons.
    “Sit’im down, 12,” I instructed.
    He sat Lil’ Lee down on one of my hot-pink chaises, then took his position, blocking the office door. He cocked his burner, made sure one was in the chamber.
    Lil’ Lee nervously looked from 12 to me. Confusion furrowed his brow before he bitched up. “Can’t we talk about this, Sweets? Y’know I ain’t mean no disrespect, Ma. All kinda shit is said when niggah’s gamblin’. It was game.”
    “Still is, baby,” flowed out of my mouth as I licked my lips. I was going to have some fun with Lil’ Lee. As dirty as I knew he’d wanted to do me at the craps table, I couldn’t help but notice that he was a pretty mu’fucka. His blue-blackness, beating tunes like an African drum, made my pussy throb. With just one look I knew his ancestors hadn’t been as violated as mine, and that shit turned me on. He was a Mandingo brutha if I’d ever saw one.
    Leaning against my desk, I spread my legs, let my skirt ride up my thighs, expose just enough of my amber flesh to tempt him. Lil’ Lee fidgeted. Gave me a look that said if 12 o’clock wasn’t in the room he’d try to push up. But 12 was there, and no one moved inside of my groove unless I said so. Except one man. Whisky.
    “Come get you a taste of Sweets,” I beckoned, pointed to my moist spot,