All Hail the Queen Page 6

  Naeema gasped.

  Bap-bap-bap-bap-bap-bap-bap-bap-bap-bap.

  They both cried out as they came together. Fast. Fiery. Furious.

  Many things between them changed from day to day but their love and their chemistry—their connection—never changed. Never.

  “Damn, Na. Damn,” Tank moaned as he exhaled short bursts of air against her neck.

  “I know,” she said, her breathing mirroring his. “I know.”

  Naeema sat up in bed, the sheet falling to her waist as she looked around Tank’s bedroom. Something had awakened her. The room was dark except for the light from the television. Her eyes landed on the open bedroom door. Her brows dipped as she frowned.

  Tank had to indeed rush home and prep for a bodyguard job after they finally got their shit together in the van. With nothing on but her robe, she agreed to stay behind at his house. And she could have sworn that Tank shut that bedroom door after he showered, got dressed, and left.

  Right?

  She bit the tip of her nail as she replayed the hours since Tank left.

  “I took a shower,” she said softly. “Did some sit-ups. Called Sarge’s crazy ass. And watched all those reality shows ’til I fell asleep.”

  She never left the bedroom.

  Right?

  Kicking the cool sheets off her legs, Naeema climbed from the bed naked and walked into the hall. The fine hairs on her body seemed to stand on end and she rubbed her thumb across her palm wishing she had her gun in her hand.

  Calm down. It was probably a noise on the TV.

  The robbery last night had fucked her up. She knew she was being hypersensitive and shit but she still walked through the entire house and checked every bedroom. In the living room she moved to the window and peeked out the curtain. She leaned in closer when she thought she saw a shadow move across the porch.

  “You up?”

  Naeema gasped and whipped around with her hand raised.

  Tank turned up the dimmer switch. He frowned a bit as he eyed her. “You aight?” he asked.

  Naeema made a fist and lowered her arm. If she had a gun in her hand Tank would have been shot. “Did you just get here? Because something woke me up,” she said.

  He nodded and removed the black short-sleeved V-neck T-shirt he wore. “Yeah, I came in the back way,” he said, flexing his toned arms in the black wife-beater he wore before he sat down on the brown leather sectional.

  Naeema came over to sit down beside him. She was a strong woman—a take-no-shit-from-no-one woman—but in that moment as Tank pulled her head down onto his chest she was happy for his strength. His protection. “That robbery really got me fucked up, Tank,” she said.

  He kissed the top of her head and rubbed her thigh just below her ass. “I still got one of my guys patrolling the neighborhood. Whoever it is won’t get in your place again.”

  Naeema nodded and tilted her head back to look up at him. “I want to know who he is. Okay?” she asked softly.

  The one-word question held so many expectations of Tank.

  “Okay,” he agreed, shouldering them well.

  5

  Two months later

  Naeema looked down at the blunt she was smoking and twisted her mouth upward. She hated it. The high wasn’t the same for her. The cigar paper added another level to the shit that was just unnecessary for her. And just because she knew how to split, fill, and lick a blunt didn’t mean she wanted to. She especially didn’t fuck with it with others. Fuck passing around something somebody else rolled with their spit. Miss me with that germy shit.

  She tapped the ashes into a glass she was using in place of an ashtray. The door to the suite in the Renaissance Hotel opened and Tank paused in the entrance to take in the sight of her sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but a lace strapless bra, matching thong, and black patent leather heels as she smoked. She smiled at him as she released a stream of smoke through her nose. As he shut the door she stood up and offered it to him.

  Tank shook his head. “Not when I’m on duty,” he told her.

  “Where’d you go?” Naeema asked, sitting back down and crossing her legs.

  “I have to check in and out with you?” he asked, his tone tinged with sarcasm.

  Naeema made a face. “I don’t shadow you like that so don’t flip on me with no bullshit, Tank,” she said, eyeing him.

  He said nothing.

  The last couple of days his mood swung between short tempered and distant. Both were a hassle to her life. “Come chief wit’ me,” she offered again, holding out the blunt. “You need it.”

  He glanced up at her briefly as he checked his phone.

  She shrugged. “I know Sarge threw my pipe out,” she said. “Probably used it for batting practice or some shit.”

  Tank dropped his iPhone onto the bed beside her and started to undress. His face was pensive as he looked off into the distance.

  “Tank, yo, you heard me. I said I know Sarge threw my pipe out,” she repeated. “Tank.”

  “Huh, bae?” he asked, turning his head to look at her.

  “Sarge. My missing pipe.”

  He balled up the T-shirt he wore and tossed it into his open leather duffel bag on the luggage rack by the door. “Leaving it in the kitchen was crazy,” he said.

  Naeema nodded. She’d retraced her steps and the last time she could remember seeing her weed pipe was the night of the robbery when she took it into the kitchen just before she let Mya in. She could only imagine what all Sarge had to say when he came upstairs to a ceramic dick sitting on the table. She laughed before she took another toke and held it as she eyed Tank. “Buying an even bigger one to replace it is the real pissing contest,” she said.

  Tank smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  Man, fuck it.

  Naeema walked out onto the balcony overlooking the bright lights and fast-moving energy of Times Square. The city’s sounds were alive and popping. Tank was in town to supervise the security detail for platinum rap artist Fevah during the premiere of her movie Killer Eyes. He invited Naeema along and they were planning on spending the weekend together.

  She gave zero fucks if someone could see her. She turned and leaned back against the balcony as she eyed Tank in nothing but his boxers as he removed everything from the pants he just took off. Through the haze of smoke Naeema took in his body. The way he moved. His tattoos. The swing of his big dick. His everything.

  And it all said motherfucking boss. He was a man in control.

  But she knew she could make him lose it.

  “Who’s working with you tonight?” Naeema asked, holding the blunt between her fingers as she took in the way his dick was thick even at rest.

  “Yani’s escorting Fevah and her entourage in,” he said, moving over to the safe to unlock it and remove his weapon.

  “No Grip?” she asked, surprised that his right-hand man wasn’t in attendance.

  “Nah, he’s out of town,” Tank said, as he checked the Glock with speed and skill before setting it on the bed atop his outfit for the night. “That’s why I’m driving them all there and back.”

  Tank’s vehicles were all bulletproof, providing an additional layer of protection that he worked hard to provide for his clients. It was his job to make sure nobody got fucked up. He did it well. What security he couldn’t provide via his licensed gun, his bulletproof vehicles, and his team he was able to provide via his training in hand-to-hand combat.

  “Well, thank you for getting me in to see the movie,” Naeema said. “I don’t have to fuck Fevah up for doing you a favor on some ill shit. Do I?”

  Tank leveled his eyes on her. “When we’re together we are together,” he said.

  Naeema released smoke through her lips. “Just make sure all the females you work with know that.”

  “They can’t make me fuck ’em, Na, and I’m not looking for no pussy.”

  She gave him a look that said You better not be.

  “You grabbed the wrong damn shirt,” Tank said, holding up a light gray button-down shirt.

  “You’re just driving,” she said, knowing he favored wearing either all black or navy when he was on duty.

  “Yeah you right,” he said, glancing up at her.

  He did a double take. “Damn you look sexy as shit, bae,” he said.

  Naeema arched her brow and tilted her head in a nod of thanks before she held the blunt to her mouth and took another toke. Her head was freshly shaven. Her makeup was beat with smoked-out eyes, long mink lashes, and a bright red lipstick that made her mouth plump. Large fake diamond studs in her ears. Her full-arm tattoo sleeve. The sexy lingerie. The five-inch stiletto heels. Her vixen body. All with the bright lights of Times Square as her backdrop as she smoked a blunt.

  Tank looked meaningfully down at his dick.

  Her eyes followed his. It was hard and long and pressed against his boxer briefs and pulled the waistband away from his body. Well, damn, somebody’s in a better mood.

  Naeema dropped the half a blunt and then pressed it beneath her shoe before she walked back into the room. She grabbed Tank by his dick with one hand and an armless chair with the other. She pulled both out onto the balcony. “Sit,” she said as she bent slightly to tug his boxer briefs down around his thighs before he did. The rim caught on his dick as she did causing it to spring back and forth like a diving board.

  “You wild, Na,” he said, reaching up to smooth his hand over his Caesar as he shook his head in wonder.

  “You ain’t new to this,” she said cockily, straddling his hips as she stroked the back of his head with one hand and his dick with the other.

  Tank’s sexy eyes were on her face. “You a bad bitch, Na,” he said, before dipping his head to suck her nipple through the lace as she r
ose up on her toes to pull her thong to the side and lower her pussy down onto his dick.

  “You best believe it,” she told him as she pressed her feet against the wall on either side of him and leaned back to circle her hips and then glide them back and forth as she straight took care of the dick.

  “Fuck,” he swore, looking down at her breasts and her hard nipples pressed against the black lace as she rode him. He looked down at his dick wet with her juices as it disappeared and reappeared with each of her strokes. “Who pussy?”

  “What it say?” she asked him thickly before letting her head fall back as she reached up to tease her nipples as he supported her with his hands gripping her hips.

  He looked down at his name tattooed across the plump bald mound. The sight of it made his dick even harder.

  Naeema moaned at the slight change.

  They weren’t new to it at all and neither gave a fuck if they were putting on a hell of a show for anyone. In that moment it was all about them and nothing else mattered. Seriously.

  Naeema glanced down at her watch as she stood among the crowd outside the movie theater in anticipation of the red carpet arrivals of all the celebrities attending the premiere. She wished like crazy that she wore something besides the gray cotton spandex jumpsuit she wore from Lucki Charmz. She loved the outfit she bought from one of her favorite online retailers but having strangers brush up against her bare back was really pissing her off. August heat was warm even at night and being pressed between hundreds of sweaty bodies wasn’t helping a damn.

  “Come on, Tank,” she said, tired of listening to Fevah’s newest song “The Hottest” blaring around them on an annoying-ass loop. Between that and trying to block out a group of females running their mouths nonstop she was about to go crazy.

  “I’m the hottest chick in the game . . .”

  Naeema rolled her eyes.

  “Is that Fevah?”

  “Who the fuck is that?”

  “How you late to your own shit?”

  She could take the endless questions of the women over one of them giving a detailed, tongue-smacking retelling of catching her man, Laranz, getting blown by her cousin.

  “I’m the hottest chick in the game . . .”

  With another roll of her eyes she checked her watch again. She had the tickets to enter the premiere in her fake Louis Vuitton bag, but once she arrived via the car service Tank hired for her she remained outside with the rest of the onlookers because she wanted to see Fevah’s arrival more than she wanted to see her movie.

  And she really could care less about the Brooklyn-born rapper that was taking hip-hop by storm. She wanted to make sure the cute girl with the waist-length weave and plastic surgery—created body wasn’t feeling her man. She wanted to lay eyes on them and see their interaction for herself. Fuck that movie.

  She glanced over at the paparazzi and the TV cameras lining the red carpet as A-list to C-list stars posed for pictures or to answer questions fired at them by entertainment reporters.

  The crowd began to stir and Naeema saw a lot of the reporters and paparazzi turn to look down the length of the red carpet. She turned to the left just as Tank’s all-black Tahoe came up the street and pulled to a stop at the beginning of the red carpet.

  Naeema blocked out the crowd’s rising murmur as they wondered if it was finally the arrival of their beloved Fevah. She bit her lip and rose on the black wedge sandals she wore as Yani climbed from the passenger seat and Tank came around the front of the SUV to talk to him.

  Yani opened the rear door and helped a small white woman in her forties out first. She announced to the entertainment reporters that Fevah was about to hit the carpet.

  Final-fucking-ly.

  The crowd began to scream at the top of their lungs. Naeema pushed back as they all seemed to swell forward. “Damn, chill the fuck out,” she shouted over her shoulder.

  The security lined up along the length of the rope holding back the crowd began to hold up their hands. “Stay calm, people. Everybody relax,” they commanded.

  Naeema turned just as Yani stepped onto the curb to talk to the white woman as Tank walked his sexy ass to the rear door. He reached for the door handle and looked back at Yani and the woman Naeema assumed to be Fevah’s publicist for some kind of go ahead.

  The crowd continued to roar as the swell came forward again. Lights from what must have been a million camera phones were already clicking away around her. Naeema kept her eyes locked on Tank as she gritted her teeth and pushed back against bodies, scents, and voices. Shit.

  He nodded at them just before he opened the door and stepped back. Fevah smiled and waved as she turned on the rear passenger seat to exit.

  POW!

  “Tank!” His name tore from her like a roar as his shoulder jerked back from the force of the bullet. The weight of his large frame pushed back against the passenger door, closing it.

  Her eyes widened. Her pulse pounded. Her knees went weak.

  Life moved in slow motion before her. Slow and torturous.

  POW! POW! POW!

  The bullets pierced his flesh and forced his body against the passenger door, and seemed to pierce her soul as well.

  The crowd lining the streets outside the movie theater screamed, ran, or ducked for cover. Naeema climbed over the red velvet ropes corralling the movie premiere’s onlookers. Her heart pounded as she rushed across the short distance, not caring if more bullets flew as she reached Tank. She caught his bloodied body just as it slid down the side of the car. Her knees gave out under the weight of his tall, solid frame but she did not—would not—let him go.

  “Help! Somebody help,” Naeema screamed, looking around at those people still boldly standing around staring down at them.

  “Na,” Tank moaned, turning his face against her body as he winced in pain.

  Love for him filled her and she felt breathless with emotion. Naeema pressed her lips to his sweating brow. “I’m here. I got you. I’m here,” she assured him in a fervent whisper against the backdrop of the sirens growing louder in the air.

  She clasped the side of his face as she looked down into the pain flooding his dark eyes. She bit back a gasp at the sight of the print she made against his cheek. The blood on her hands from his soaked shirt was sticky, wet, and warm. Tank’s blood signaling his imminent death.

  “Please God, no,” Naeema begged in a whisper, nearly choking at the thought of losing him. Tears flooded her eyes blurring her vision.

  She reached up with one hand to pound on the passenger door as she fought to remain rational and not let panic diminish her senses. She needed help. Tank needed help.

  The driver’s seat of the double-parked SUV Tank exited was still empty but the local rap artist, Fevah, he was hired to protect and her entourage of three friends were still all inside. “Open this fucking door,” Naeema roared, pounding hard enough for darts of pain to shoot across her entire hand.

  Anger was an added layer to the myriad emotions flooding her as the door remained closed to them but she was flooded with relief as an ambulance screeched to a halt behind the Tahoe. She pressed kisses to his face. “Hold on, Tank. Don’t you dare leave me now,” she whispered in his ear in the moments before they took him from her.

  As she sat in the street surrounded by the blood of the man she loved, her soul wavered between feeling as empty as her arms at the thought of losing him forever and a fiery anger that would only be quenched at finding out who shot Tank and why.

  Naeema struggled to her feet and looked down at the warm, sticky blood coating her hands. She looked up and then held her hand up to cover her face at the bright lights of the cameras beginning to point in her direction. The barrage of questions being shouted at her blurred into a roar.

  The sirens blared as the ambulance raced by.

  Tank.

  She turned to follow it with her eyes. What hospital? I don’t know which hospital.

  She scooped down to pick up her purse and raced around the vehicle.

  “Yo.”

  She stopped and looked across the wide expanse of the hood at Yani running over to her. “Don’t come near me. Stay the fuck back,” she told him, slamming her hand against the hot hood before pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Don’t fuck with me, you punk-ass bitch.”

  Something in her face must have hit home for him because he backed up.