All Hail the Queen Page 4

  But she wasn’t in the mood for that shit.

  “Nah, miss me with it this time,” she said, rubbing her hands over her shaven head before looking back out the window at everything and nothing.

  “PMS,” someone said over the fray—someone new or extremely motherfucking bold because Naeema’s temper once stoked was infamous.

  But she wasn’t even in the mood to curse out whatever lame-ass fool just tried her.

  “Yo, Naeema, you ready for me?”

  She looked over at one of her regular clients rising from his seat in the waiting area. She bit her bottom lip and continued to gently tug on each of her fingers as she looked back out the window, back at the men laughing and talking, and then back to her client. Her eyes shifted from one to the other and the other. Again and again and once more.

  Fuck this shit.

  Naeema grabbed her knock-off studded MCM bag from the small closet on the barber station and snatched off the leopard print apron she wore to shove it in its place before she turned and just rushed toward the door. She felt someone grab at her arm but she jerked free of their loose grip and crossed the lot to where her motorcycle sat.

  She slid on her hot pink helmet and cranked the bike to reverse out of the parking spot. Sitting low in the seat she guided it toward the crowd of hard-faced dudes in white T-shirts smoking freely on stuffed Philly blunts. She revved the bike and they finally parted to allow her to accelerate forward. Her boss suddenly stepped in her path and Naeema rolled her eyes as she easily steered the bike to the right of him and sped out of the parking lot.

  She enjoyed the feel of the air against her body as she dipped and weaved in and out of cars, New Jersey Transit buses, and even children playing in the streets enjoying their summer. She didn’t stop until she turned down a long, wide alley off Broad Street leading to a blacked-out glass door with the word BOXING in large red block letters. She parked her bike in between two vehicles that lined the brick wall of one of the buildings that flanked the alley.

  Nothing but a workout could help get her mind right. Release. Process. I’m ready to hit some shit.

  She entered the gym, her eyes taking in the two large boxing rings in the center of the room where men sparred and then the weight equipment and boxing equipment lining the walls. The sounds of fist hitting flesh or boxing equipment echoed in the thick, musty air of the facility that was nothing but the bare essentials. The black paint on the exposed brick walls was peeling. Flyers announcing upcoming boxing events were haphazardly hung. No frills. No fuss. Just working out through boxing.

  She loved it.

  In the days since her most recent breakup with Tank she had come back to the gym to be trained and keep her shape. Fat ass? Thick thighs? Hips? All cool. A gut to go along with all of that? No haps. She wanted to keep it more along the lines of Amber Rose than Luenell the comedian. Especially in the body-conscious clothing she favored.

  Naeema rushed into the female locker room glad that she paid the monthly fee to rent one of the bright red lockers lining the walls. She took a quick shower and changed into a bright yellow sports bra and leggings.

  “Naeema!”

  She had just exited the locker room and looked up to see her trainer, Rocko, motioning for her from the front ring. She moved toward him. She didn’t have an appointment and her plan was just to get out her emotions by getting into some work on the treadmill and then one of the speed bags.

  “You feel like a quick sparring match?” he asked, sounding like the beloved guido that he was with bulging muscles, a deep tan, and jet-black moussed hair.

  She eyed a woman in the corner of the ring getting her gloves laced up.

  “I don’t know,” Naeema said, her reluctance showing.

  Rocko gave her a playful wink and another wave. “Just a little light workout,” he said.

  Naeema gave him a friendly smile that didn’t reach her eyes. In fact, he was irking her nerves. She didn’t enjoy having to decline an offer more than once.

  “Find me somebody with some fight in ’em, Rocko,” the woman said, turning to lightly pound her gloves against each other. “She don’t want to fuck with this.”

  Naeema narrowed her eyes. She didn’t know if it was a bad coincidence or divine intervention. “You sure you want to fuck with that?” she asked, continuing forward and climbing up into the ring with ease.

  Rocko nodded. “Naeema . . . Ashley. Ashley . . . Naeema.”

  They gave each other a head nod in greeting.

  “Just a little lightweight spar, ladies,” he said, suiting Naeema up in gloves and a head guard.

  They squared up in the ring with Rocko standing between them. As soon as he stepped out of the way Naeema swung and delivered a feather-soft blow to Ashley’s shoulder.

  “Good, Naeema,” Rocko called from somewhere outside the ring.

  Naeema didn’t know and didn’t care. She was focused. And she didn’t miss the spark of anger in the woman’s eyes. Naeema brought one hand up to block a right punch the woman threw and followed with a right of her own that the woman leaned to the left to avoid.

  A blow to her right side caught Naeema off guard and she released a stream of harsh air at the pain as she doubled over. Shit!

  “You all right, Naeema?” Rocko called out to her.

  “Damn, my bad,” Ashley said, sounding apologetic.

  Naeema cut her eyes up at her as she slowly straightened her body. She tilted her head to the side as she spotted the woman was happy as shit no matter her fake-ass words. With a nod of understanding, Naeema took another deep breath before she delivered a roundhouse kick to her side that toppled the woman off her feet and down onto the mat with a loud THUD.

  “Damn, my fucking bad,” Naeema said mockingly.

  Ashley jumped to her feet and came running across the ring at Naeema.

  “Fuck!” Rocko exclaimed.

  Naeema locked her left leg and swiftly raised her right catching the bitch midstride with a kick against the side of her head guard.

  WHAP.

  Wrong day. Wrong chick to try.

  Rocko jumped between them just as Ashley swung. Her blow landed against Naeema’s right temple.

  “La-dies,” he exclaimed in disbelief. “What the fuck?”

  Tank trained her for every possible scenario and her instincts kicked in as she dropped down to a squat and leveled a leg sweep to Rocko that laid him flat on his back with a look of surprise. She rose, jumped over him, and delivered a round of blows to Ashley with a swiftness that caught the woman off guard.

  “Ow,” she cried out.

  Naeema shut the woman’s mouth with an uppercut and then delivered three swift kicks—one to her thigh, then her hip, and then her upper arm. She finished her with a gut punch that sent her tumbling back onto the mat again.

  Naeema was about to land dead on her ass and fuck her up some more when someone caught her from behind locking a strong arm around both of hers. She tried a couple of moves to break free but each challenge was met with ease.

  “Stop it, Na.”

  Only shock at the sound of his voice stilled her. And sent her heart pounding like crazy in her chest.

  Tank.

  Her entire body felt a new level of awareness. Every fine hair on her body stood on end and her pulse raced. Thump-thump.

  She wanted to let her body go slack in his arms and just be held by him.

  Her anger came back full force. “Let me go, Tank,” she said, as he carried her out of the ring.

  “You aight, Ashley?” Rocko asked, helping the woman to her feet where she wobbled back and forth like her focus was shot to hell.

  “I guess you shouldn’t have fucked with it,” Naeema called over just before Tank carried her toward a long hall at the rear of the gym.

  “Put me the fuck down, Tank,” she said, even trying to jerk her head back to butt against his as she futilely fought against his strength. His might. His will.

  Tank owned and operated his own securi
ty firm specializing in bodyguard services for politicians and celebrities. Staying fit and being prepared to fuck someone up was his business and his body was built to succeed at it. He could easily be mistaken for a power forward on a professional basketball team. Tall, muscular, strong. He handled her with an ease where other dudes would struggle.

  “Stop acting the fuck up, Naeema,” he said, his deep voice hard with anger.

  And with that ease he opened the door to one of the cedar steam rooms and stepped inside, finally releasing her as he leaned back to pull the door securely closed behind them as the steam swirled. Naeema tumbled to her knees but hopped right back up on her feet to stand before where he stood with his arms crossed over his chest in the sleeveless navy tee he wore with basketball shorts.

  For the first time in weeks Naeema laid eyes on her husband, Lavarius “Tank” Cole. Just fine as fuck. She forced herself to look away from his Laz Alonso—like goodness. It was too much. The steamy heat. His looks. Her anger at him. Her disappointment in him. Her love. Every pulse in her body throbbed. Including the one between her legs. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

  Grinding her teeth, Naeema locked eyes with him again. Their faces were just inches apart. “Let me out,” she said, her teeth clenched.

  “What was that all about?” he asked.

  “None of your fucking business . . . that’s what,” she said. “Nothing about me is your business.”

  “How many times have I heard that?” he asked, his voice mocking.

  “Let’s fix it where you don’t have to hear that or anything else I have to say ever again, Tank,” she snapped. “Go file the papers and be on your way.”

  They hadn’t spoken in weeks and their most recent attempt to reunite had ended in a fiery argument over . . . over . . .

  She couldn’t even remember. The thing was a disagreement over something as dumb as the time a TV show came on and could quickly escalate to them bringing up old arguments and old hurts. Molehill to mountain. They argued just as hard as they loved and that seesaw of making up and breaking up continued.

  It had to stop.

  “You aight?” he asked, his voice deep and strong.

  “I’m straight,” she said, her voice cool. “Just as straight as I’ve been since the last time I spoke to you.”

  His body stiffened. “You told me to stay the hell out of your life and that’s what I did,” he reminded her.

  She thought he would never let her down. He would always come when he was called—whether by her or the nosy old man who lived in her basement. Until last night.

  “Fuck you,” Naeema said, reaching a fist to her mouth to pull the end of the ties of the boxing glove with her teeth.

  He grabbed her hand and began to undo the ties for her.

  Naeema snatched her hand away and hit him soundly in the arm. “I don’t need you for nothing,” she snapped.

  Tank’s eyes got bright with his anger. “Man, fuck you, Naeema,” he said.

  Her eyes flared and she hit him again. And again. And again.

  Releasing a breath filled with all his aggravation, Tank grabbed her wrists in each of his hands and pushed them behind her back. “Stop,” he said, his voice low.

  She hated the tightness in her throat and the tears filling her eyes. She bit her bottom lip and fought against him.

  “Stop, Na,” he said.

  She looked up to lock eyes with him. “You didn’t even show up last night after the robbery,” she said softly, her voice filled with disappointment and hurt.

  Love could strengthen or weaken you and in that moment Naeema felt defenseless.

  “When do you not show up for me?” she accused.

  Tank looked incredulous. “When I get tired of you telling me you don’t need me, Naeema,” he admitted.

  She looked away from him. The truth was hard to face. She clung to her independence like a motherfucker, but she knew he was there as her safety net. There were times during one of their long separations that she knew he was seeing another woman but she would hop on the phone and call him from that woman’s bed if there was something she needed—be it as simple as changing a fucking lightbulb to fucking her. But she always made it clear she didn’t need him.

  “We got back together and you wouldn’t even move back home or let me move in with you,” he said. “Hell, you barely wanted me to spend the night.”

  Oh yeah. That’s what that last argument was about. Naeema closed her eyes and her lashes lightly brushed the tops of her cheeks.

  “I had one of the fellas patrol the neighborhood and I called Sarge every hour to check on you,” he said. “Today I went over while you was at work and got some fingerprints.”

  Naeema dropped her head against his sweat-soaked shirt. Tank. Her Tank. He was that dude. “I hated knowing somebody was in my house and mixing all through my shit,” she admitted. “I barely slept all night and when I did I had crazy-ass dreams.”

  He released her arms.

  “And every time I woke up I would hug the pillows and sit and wish you were there,” she admitted, as he removed the gloves from her hands. “I was so pissed and so fucking hurt you didn’t come to me. My whole day has been fucked.”

  “And that’s why you beat that girl’s ass like that,” he asked with a half-smile.

  “Mostly.”

  “Good thing I came by to drop off my ad looking for a new guard for my team,” Tank said. “I trained you too good.”

  Naeema nodded solemnly as she looked at him. Her breath came in these little-ass gasps that mirrored the steady, fast pace of her heart. Quick and shallow. “Tank.”

  His eyes dropped down to take in her partly open lips before shifting to take in the heat of her eyes. “No,” he said, lifting his hands to her shoulders to gently push her back a bit from him.

  “Tank,” she said again, licking her lips and tasting the salty sweat on her skin as she reached out and grabbed the damp front of his T-shirt in her fist. She laughed as the back of his sneakers hit the door as he tried to retreat from her. She had him between a soft and a hard place.

  With a flirty look at him she turned and pressed her ass back against him before bending over to grab her ankles as she grinded against him as the steam continued to press against their bodies. Naeema felt her nature rising. It had been so long since she had some. Even the feel of the sweat dripping down the valleys of her body was turning her on. Her nipples were hard. Her clit was aching. Her pussy was wet.

  Tank had no choice but to prepare to be sexed.

  She turned and got on her knees. His hard dick was pressed against his shorts and eye level with her.

  “I’m seeing someone, Na.”

  “So,” she said, reaching under the hem of his shorts to stroke the smooth skin of his hard dick.

  Tank had one of those big, pretty dicks. Evenly proportioned. One smooth color. Perfect shiny tip. Thick. Long. Even his balls hung just right.

  He caught her hands in his just as she was about to free his dick from his shorts and stroke that pretty motherfucker with her tongue. “She’s out in the truck,” he added quickly.

  Naeema froze.

  Say what now?

  Naeema stood up. “Wow. Curved by my own husband,” she said.

  Tank reached for her.

  She sidestepped his touch. “Can I go enjoy my workout now?” she asked, not looking at him.

  “Na.”

  “Please. Ain’t this shit embarrassing enough for me?” she snapped.

  Tank dropped his head and sidestepped to avail her of opening the door to the steam room to exit.

  Naeema walked quickly down the hall toward the two main rings. “Sorry,” she shouted to Ashley, who was on the treadmill, as she sprinted past and headed straight out the door.

  With one look back over her shoulder to see Tank coming down the long hall, Naeema upped her speed to a full run to reach his blacked-out Mercedes Sprinter van. She opened the door and hopped up into the driver’s seat just as she saw Tan
k reach the door of the gym. Fuck youuuu.

  Naeema allowed herself just a moment to let it marinate that the woman sitting in the passenger seat was a white woman. Really, Tank?

  “Who are you? Is this a carjacking?” the pretty blonde asked.

  Naeema locked the doors and reversed out of the parking spot before accelerating forward down the wide alley. She barely checked traffic before she made a right to enter the flow of it.

  “Excuse me?” the woman said with attitude reaching over to tap Naeema’s arm with a long nail painted bubble-gum pink.

  Naeema gave her a sidelong glance that was thorough enough for the woman to quickly remove her finger. “Look here, Barbie.”

  “My name’s not—”

  “I’m Tank’s wife, Naeema, and that fact makes this van just as much mine as it is his—”

  “His wife,” she exclaimed.

  “That’s right. I don’t really care who you are or what you are or what you want to be. I only have one question for you. Where do you want me to drop you off: at home, the nearest bus stop, or a cabstand because your time chillaxing with my husband ceases today. Clear?”

  She nodded and bit the tip of her nail. “Uhm, cabstand please.”

  “Smart girl,” Naeema said, before steering the luxury passenger van toward Newark Penn Station.

  4

  Bah-dup.

  Naeema activated the alarm on Tank’s Sprinter, which she parked in her driveway. She felt anxious at the stunt she pulled. She was curious as fuck what his reaction would be. She knew he was probably blowing her cell phone up but it, along with her keys and street clothes, were still in her locker. Fuck it.

  She wasn’t worried about him being stranded. He would just call one of his workers or use friends to bring him one of several vehicles he owned. Or his own key to the bike she left behind—the bike he purchased for her for one of their anniversaries. She knew he would not leave the bike at the gym. Nor would he dare mess with calling the police and she was sure he chilled once he spoke to Blondie to make sure she was alive and well.