All Hail the Queen Read online

  Naeema turned and leaned in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. She shook her head as he pumped the air with his fist and did a little dance at the bottom of her porch like his ass won the lottery or some shit.

  She looked up and down the street and then over at the apartment building near the corner. She did a double take to see Mya sitting in a second-floor window with it pushed wide open, her chin in her hand as she openly watched Naeema. The teen waved and smiled at her. Naeema forced an uncomfortable smile and waved back.

  Turning and walking into the house, she tossed the pipe and the weed on the bed and then headed to the left of the living room, past the stairs, and a little ways down the hall to the first-floor bathroom. Naeema had no worries about her pussy smelling offensive but she was always serious about her hygiene and after a long day of work barbering she figured the very least she could offer Mook for his hundred-dollar sniff was sweet-smelling pussy. She lowered her leggings and thong bikini to her knees. As she ran the water and added a good dollop of pear-scented Bath & Body Works beneath the stream, she ran her fingers across her cleanly shaven mound and then held them to her nose.

  Nothing but the faint aroma of the fruity-scented wash she bathed in that morning. Completely fuckable.

  Quickly she turned the water off and plunged a clean washcloth in the sudsy water now filling the sink for a ho bath.

  Ho.

  Naeema lifted her head and faced herself in the mirror as she gripped the edges of the porcelain sink. She saw the softness of her close-shaven head framing her face and highlighting her high cheekbones, full mouth, and almond-shaped eyes with lashes that most chicks had to pay good money to have. She saw she was pretty . . . but she also saw more. I’m better than that.

  Here she was, a grown-ass woman about to sell a sniff of her goodies for a bag of weed. It was a tough pill to swallow that she was still doing shit she pulled in her teens. When she was young and dumb. Just like Mya.

  And the truth of her fucked-up hypocrisy first nudged at her long before she checked her reflection. Seeing Mya looking at her was the true mirror for her ass.

  “Fuuuck,” she swore, shifting her eyes away from a reflection she wasn’t ready to face.

  Naeema emptied the water from the sink and tugged her bikini and leggings back up over her thighs, wide hips, and ample bottom.

  When she walked back into the living room Mook was posted up by the door waiting for her.

  “They really tossed your shit up,” he said, holding up the half-ounce of weed before tossing it over to her across the room.

  Naeema caught it easily with one hand and pressed it against her nose to deeply inhale the scent with a moan that echoed the excitement of the pleasure point in her brain before throwing the small sack back to him. “Sorry, Mook,” she said as he caught it between his large hands with his long, narrow fingers.

  He looked regretful as hell. “Damn. Curved,” he said.

  Naeema reached in her bra and pulled out the fold of money she kept there. She peeled off two fifty-dollar bills and pushed them into his pocket—a little too deeply. Her mouth shaped into an “O” in surprise as she accidentally stroked the side of his dick. Even at rest she could tell that what God didn’t bless his ugly ass with in the looks department was made up for in dick.

  Both ugly and skinny dudes always packing. Always. Fuck around and run up on the dick of a mofo that was ugly and skinny? Listen . . .

  Quickly removing her hand as Mook shifted his hip to press his dick against her touch, she leaned past him to open the door. “I was just playing, Mook. I shouldn’t have fucked with you like that,” she said.

  “One of these days, Naeema, your thicky-thick fine ass gon’ slip and let me hit and—”

  “And if I did it wouldn’t be in exchange for a damn thing,” she stressed. A sniff? Maybe. Sex? With Mook? Hell nah.

  Although it had been a minute since she and Tank cooled off and she hadn’t had a good dicking down since then. That little accidental rub of Mook’s dick had awakened her clit from hibernation. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

  “Bye, Mook,” Naeema said, pressing her hand to his thin chest to give him that little extra nudge he needed out to the porch as she used her free hand to politely pluck her package of weed from his hand. With a smile and extra flutter of her long lashes, she eased the door closed already lifting it so the warped doorjamb didn’t stop its smooth flow.

  Turning, she eyed the mess she still had to handle. “I need a little motivation,” she said, crossing the room to pick up her dick pipe to carry into the kitchen.

  Naeema backed against the door Sarge hung after happening upon her naked in the living room/bedroom. The door was so clearly a mismatch to both the kitchen and the living room. Not that it mattered. The once orange walls were now white and the dull walnut cabinets were painted black, but the yellow appliances were still relics that didn’t have anymore get up and go to work regularly than a wealthy man. The pale yellow, mint, and white linoleum had seen better days . . . thirty years ago and the small secondhand dinette set she purchased to replace the one she shot during a rampage over her son’s murder was straight out of the eighties. The big brown swinging door stuck out but it served its purpose.

  She chuckled at the memory of Sarge finding the initiative to get something normal done. That was saying a lot for an oddball who’d rather cook food outside on a cheap-ass grill barely big enough for two full-sized pieces of meat when there was a kitchen at his disposal. Cracky ass.

  She hated to even take a guess what he was doing in that basement where he dwelled. Nothing would surprise her.

  Shaking her head, she quickly washed the dick with dish detergent and rinsed it before drying it with paper towel. Back in the living room she politely prepped and then loosely packed some of that good-good in the balls of her pipe and then lit that motha with a deep sigh of anticipation. The first inhale from the glossy tip was so long and deep her breast rose high in the air as she let it fill her lungs. Tilting her head back to the ceiling she licked her lips before pursing them to release a stream of thick smoke. “Yesss,” she sighed, as the smoke continued to swirl in the air above her head like clouds.

  Naeema kicked her sneakers off and folded her legs Indian style as she lowered her head and raised the dick to her mouth to suck the whole tip into it. With a little giggle she circled the smooth ceramic with her tongue like it was real . . . and pulsing . . . and able to fill her mouth with cum and not just smoke.

  Her nipples hardened into tight buds as she took another long toke. “Shit, I’m. Horny,” she said, the smoke leaving the corners of her mouth as she spoke.

  Her clit was all the way awake now. Thump-thump.

  Weed made her horny.

  Smoking weed out of a big black dick that was lifelike made her horny.

  Not getting dick on the regular made her horny.

  Hell ugly-ass Mook made her horny.

  Something had to give.

  “Fuck that shit,” Naeema swore, rising to her feet to walk across the room and sit the pipe on the fireplace mantel.

  High and horny led to bad sex decisions. All. The. Time.

  Naeema set about cleaning up the aftereffects of the robbery. As she was throwing all her beloved stretchy, latex-infused garments in a pile to be washed it suddenly hit her that Tank never showed. She had no doubts that Sarge’s snitching ass had called him. There were many times she threatened to stop putting minutes on the old man’s cell phone after yet another discovery that the NNN—Naeema News Network—was putting out regular updates.

  A mix of anger and hurt swirled. Naeema pulled out her cell phone but the pointed stiletto shape of her nail shadowed the touchscreen as she floated her thumb in the air above it. Nah. No. Fuck him. Shit. Triple fuck his ass.

  But still the phone was in her hand and her thumb was ready to swipe.

  No matter any bullshit going down between them Tank always came when he was called. Always. Whether the call was mad
e by her or a nosy old man in the basement who she knew was just looking out for her.

  Maybe this time we’re done for good.

  She bit her bottom lip as she finally tossed the phone away onto the middle of the bed. The seesaw had to stop one day because continuing on like this was pure madness.

  Still . . .

  Naeema ignored the dick she was smoking from and the real-life one she was missing as she finished setting the living room back to her idea of normal. As she picked up a pile of DVDs that she had stacked on the corner of her dresser, she was surprised and pleased to find her iPod. She hardly ever listened to it but it was nice to know it wasn’t stolen.

  Knock-knock.

  She glanced over at the front door as she wrapped the earbuds around the iPod and then set it atop the stacked plastic containers next to the broken television. She moved over to one of the living room windows and pulled back the sheer curtain and the blinds to look onto the porch. Night had just begun to darken the skies and Naeema had forgotten to replace the bulb in the fixture on the porch but she could clearly make out Mya standing there.

  I done started some shit now.

  With a roll of her eyes she moved toward the door but stopped to turn and race back to the fireplace to pick up the dick pipe. “She’s seen enough dick today,” Naeema muttered, hurrying to sit the pipe on the kitchen table before rushing back to finally open the door.

  She bit back a smile as Mya just breezed right on in, leaving Naeema in a cloud of some sweet, overpowering perfume that made her eyes water just a bit. “You busy, Miss Naeema?” she asked, now dressed in a black T-shirt and SpongeBob sleep pants.

  Naeema fought the urge to ask if she bathed and then soaked herself in cheap perfume or if she just bathed in the perfume. “Actually you are just the person I want to see,” she said, shutting the door.

  Mya glanced at her over her shoulder. “This is a big house. Why you sleep in your living room?” she asked, making a face that showed her confusion as she moved around the bed and to the dresser against the far wall.

  “Same reason you ask a lot of questions . . . because I want to,” Naeema said, coming over to take the stack of Brandon’s photos from Mya’s hand.

  “He’s cute,” she said.

  “Was. He was cute,” Naeema corrected her.

  “Was?” Mya asked.

  “Someone broke into my house and I wondered if you saw anyone running from my house not too long before I came over to your apartment building?” she asked.

  “I saw a dude running but I don’t know if he came from your house.”

  Naeema pierced the young girl with her eyes. “Did you see what he looked like?”

  Mya shook her head. “Kinda but not really. He ran by so quick.”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?” Naeema asked, her heart pounding as she felt her adrenaline racing. She was like a beast on the chase in the wild.

  “I ain’t no snitch,” Mya said, sounding reluctant and slightly apologetic like she didn’t want to let Naeema down . . . but she would.

  Hood politics.

  Naeema shook her head. “Listen, I will show you a picture of them on my phone and you tell me yes or no. Plus, snitching would involve the police and I can promise you, Mya, that calling the police is the last thing on my mind,” she said, hoping her tone wasn’t too ominous. She didn’t want to scare the kid or let on that she may very well hold the fate of a man getting seriously—like seriously—fucked up in her little hands.

  3

  Naeema removed the cape from her client’s shoulders with one hand and brushed away any stray hairs from his neck and shoulders with the other. “There you go, Diego,” she said, turning the chair for him to face one of the mirrors lining the walls behind the stations of A Cut Above barbershop. She held up a large hand mirror behind him giving him a view of the back of his head in the reflection.

  “Yo you the best, Naeema,” he said, his voice low enough for just her ears amidst the noisy backdrop of the men gathered in the shop.

  “Thanks,” she said, thinking that his deep voice and that sexy mix of his Puerto Rican and East Coast accent was almost dope enough to make her forget he was one of the biggest heroin hustlers in the tri-state area. Almost.

  Naeema was far from innocent. Hell, she had bodies. Last year she committed crimes ranging from robbery to murder as she hunted down her son’s killer—and she would do it again. And she wasn’t one to knock someone hustling but it was hard to overlook the effect of heroin on the city she loved. That shit was on the streets hard in the nineties and now it was back badder and more lethal than ever. Working in a barbershop meant she got a level of news about the ins and outs of the streets that the police and the press would love. Motherfuckers were really dying—killing to get it or overdosing from it.

  Their eyes briefly met in the mirror but Naeema just gave him a slightly playful expression before she spun the chair and then walked behind it to busy herself cleaning up her station before her next client. She heard him chuckle low in his throat behind her. Diego Martinez knew he was fine—tall, fit, and sexy. Broad shoulders. Narrow hips. Slanted eyes and full, suckable lips. Dimpled chin. Tattoos. Even the faded scar across his left cheekbone. Just blessed. Fine and fuckable. He knew that shit. And he was just as clear that if maybe he pressed a little harder he could find out if she lived up to the sex appeal she exuded without even trying.

  The chuckle was a reminder of that. Slightly mocking.

  Naeema knew she was a hypocrite. To her Mook and Diego were dealers but not on the same level. So no matter how fine Diego was she couldn’t overlook he was hood-rich off heroin. Mook had a better chance with her than Diego and his chance was minuscule to fucking none.

  “Here you go.”

  Naeema turned and extended her left hand as he reached out to press money into it. His black eyes were almost possessive as he took in the fit of the jeans on her ass and hips. Like he owned it and was sitting it up on a shelf until he felt like playing with it. Negro please . . .

  He stroked her palm with his thumb.

  “I’m married. Remember?” Naeema said gently, trying to tug her hand free.

  He held it tighter and turned it over to stroke her bare ring finger. Another chuckle and shake of his head. “Take it light, Naeema,” Diego said, before taking a step back from her as he released her hand.

  Something about the final look he gave her made a shiver race up Naeema’s spine. She couldn’t quite place it as desire or fear. He was built to deliver both.

  Naeema slid the money Diego gave her into her back pocket knowing without looking that it was a crisp hundred-dollar bill. Diego had money to burn and dropping a bill on a ten-dollar haircut meant nothing to his pockets. Leaning onto the back of the barber chair she watched through the front windows of the shop as Diego moved like a star through the crowd of dudes that always hung out in the parking lot of the small mini-mall that housed the popular barbershop, a liquor store, and a beauty supply store—all owned by her boss, Derek Majors.

  Her eyes narrowed as she watched Diego walk his sexy ass to his convertible Benz boldly double-parked on the busy street. He knew no one would mess with it. He stopped just before he climbed behind the wheel to look back toward the mini-mall. Her eyes followed his line of vision and she frowned a little as Davon “Murk” Grant strode across the lot to greet Diego. Naeema eyed the two men. Both were big-time dope hustlers in and around the city. Their conversation barely lasted a minute before Diego walked away to climb into his car and speed off. Murk moved to a car and soon drove off too.

  Probably cooking up some shit to flood the city with more dope.

  Naeema didn’t give zero fucks about either one of them, their hustles, their wives, their sidechicks, nor their kids if they had any. Fuck ’em.

  She eyed her boss, Derek, as he came down the stairs from his second-floor office. He worked the room like a two-bit politician looking to charm votes and give empty promises of shit n
ever to come.

  He eyed her as he walked out the door. She eyed his slick ass right back.

  His office was in the barbershop but he posted up in the liquor store. Rumor was he was fucking the hell out of the new cashier he hired, who was more ass than brains. She fought the urge to be Petty McBetty and give his wife an anonymous call to catch his cheating ass. She wanted to but she didn’t. The cashier wasn’t the first and probably wouldn’t be the last of Derek’s sidechicks.

  He was a well-dressed man with money trying to trick himself into believing he wasn’t ugly. He was born that way and would die that way and the in-between was nothing but cash and ass flow. Shit he could control.

  Who gives a fuck?

  She had to remind herself that she didn’t. She didn’t have the time to keep tabs on someone else’s husband when she still hadn’t heard from her own. Her feelings were hurt that Tank didn’t show up to check on her.

  Damn.

  She blinked her long lashes, hating the tears that rose up as she pulled on each of her fingers as she continued to stare out the window at the busy traffic on one of the dozens of streets leading into downtown Newark. People in a constant state of go. Working, moving, riding, walking, fighting, grinding, partying, chiefing, fucking. Doing anything to keep from thinking. Worrying. Dealing.

  Between the disrespect of the robbery and being hurt to the blow of Tank not turning up, Naeema felt tension spread from her nape and down across her shoulders. The shift had come quickly. Her emotions were visceral. They pierced her.

  She released a heavy breath as she rubbed her fingertips over the full-sleeve tattoo on her left arm made up of her son’s yearly school pictures from kindergarten to eighth grade interwoven with a large cross, roses, and scrolls. Feeling that same haunting darkness come over her at the thought of his death and her guilt, she curled her fingers into as much of a fist as she could to break the pull. She had enough weighing her down.

  “Yo Naeema, we need a woman’s opinion.”

  Shifting her eyes from the street she found nearly all of the men in the shop looking at her. As always, the shop was loud and raucous but Naeema felt right at home even as the lone female. It had been that way for the over ten years she had been cutting hair there. She enjoyed the fellas’ conversation, which could go from politics to street gossip in no time at all. In time they got used to her and held nothing back. They all thought of her as their sister and on many occasions she had to either defend or just enlighten them on the female point of view.