King Divas (2 page)

P
rofit and Lucifer . . . kissing.

I stand outside Lucifer's house, gawking at them through the open window and feeling like a fool.
This is not happening. It can't be.
No matter how many times I blink or how hard my heart hammers against my chest, Profit and Lucifer remain lip-locked in the middle of that living room,
kissing.

Finally, I stumble backwards with my eyes burning. Not until the tears blur my vision do I spin away and race back to Profit's crib. Hyperventilating, I rush into the house and slam the door.

“T, are you all right?” Mack asks, her brows high on her forehead.

Fuck. Why are these bitches still here?
Last night, Mack and Romil, who I met in jail, threw me an impromptu party to officially welcome me into the Vice Lords' Flowers. Now it's late into the next morning and these chicks still don't know how to go home.

“T?”

“Get out,” I tell them. “The fucking party is over.”

Romil twists up her face. “What? But we were about to—”

“GET OUT!”

They jump, but then only stare at me.

“OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY GODDAMN HOUSE!”

Eyes big as fuck, everyone scrambles.

“All right. All right. You don't have to shout. We're going,” Romil says.

Mack, moving slowly, eyeballs me like she's trying to read my mind. It takes everything I have not to throw shit at her hard-of-hearing ass. “What's wrong? What happened?”

“Goddamn it.” I take off to the master bedroom, where I slam the door and fall back against it. When I look at the bed that I've been sharing with Profit for months now, my blood boils. Pushing away from the door, I head straight for the closet, snatch out my clothes, and toss them onto the bed. Next, I rush over to the chest of drawers to grab my things.

Hurry up.
I move faster, but my hands and arms tremble. Then my legs and knees go weak. I'm barely able to get them to support my weight. I get one armload of clothes over to the bed before I collapse into a heap on the floor. Fuck my tears. I'm struggling to breathe. No matter what I do, I can't get enough oxygen in my lungs.

“How could he do this to me? He said that he loved me. He said that he would always take care of me. I risked and lost everything to be with him. I was a good girl. I made straight As and was listed on the honor roll. I had wonderful foster parents and lived in a nice midtown home, with a bright future ahead of me. Once upon a time, I had a best friend, Essence, and I even had a fucked-up sister in LeShelle. I threw all of it away to be with
Profit
—and that muthafucka does
this
to me? How could he?” I rake my hands through my hair a few times before I tug and pull chunks of it out.

“No, God. Noooo! Please don't let this be happening. Please.” More hair slides through my fingertips. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I need to stop, but I can't. “It's not fair. None of this shit is fair.”

“Girl, you're playing with fire.”
Essence's voice floats to me from an old memory. She told me from the giddy-up not to go down this path, but my hardheaded ass did it anyway. I listened to my heart, not my head. I knew the street politics of hooking up with Profit from the moment he told me his name at the Germantown mall. Despite my sister, LeShelle, being in the street game with the Gangster Disciples, I had stayed out of the bullshit, but then Profit—with those big, brown eyes, deep-pitted dimples, and soft-looking lips—had me believing the impossible. I was book smart but street dumb, and now look where it's landed me.

I've been raped, branded—committed to a mental institution. I attempted to kill my sister. I was doped up and slammed into a padded room. Even then, I was given a second chance to go back to my nice, safe, suburban home, only to have LeShelle burn it down
with
Tracee and Reggie, my foster parents, inside. Also inside was LeShelle's girl, Kookie. The police think that I had something to do with it and I'm currently out on bail. I'm innocent on that charge, but last night I really did kill someone : a clerk at Hemp's Liquor Store. It was self-defense, but who in the fuck is going to believe that?

Homeless, I moved here with Profit—believing in his fucking lies that we belonged together. Now he's kissing Lucifer ?

She's not
any
woman. She's Mason's girlfriend
and
the meanest and most dangerous bitch in the street game.What am I going to do—fight her for him? Shit. I might as well slice my own neck. Hell, she even looks like a mean Laila Ali. Every enforcer in the game is scared of that bitch. Who the hell am I to step to her? I'm just some stupid seventeen-year-old girl who thought that she was in love. Profit has made a fool out of me.

I glance over into the bedroom mirror and stare horrified at my thinner than normal frame. My brown face, pale. My long hair, stringy. Hell, I'm a teenager and I'm already developing huge bags under my eyes.
No wonder he's attracted to Lucifer. I'm a mess.

Crying so hard that my face aches, I don't know what else to do. I have nowhere else to go.

Not a damn thing comes to mind. I'm fucking useless. I don't have a goddamn thing to live for. When I open my eyes, my gaze lands on the gun on the nightstand.

I pause for a moment, waiting for another voice to step in and talk some sense into me.

Silence.

My breathing slows and a strange calm descends over me. I stop pulling out my hair. Suddenly, the gun is the only thing that exists in the world.

It sounds so nice—and final.

I climb up onto my knees and inch toward the nightstand as if under a spell. I pick up the gun. It's heavier than I remember. I hold it like it's the most precious thing in the world. The answer to
all
of my problems. Tears stream down my face as I place the barrel into my mouth and click off the safety.

S
napping out of my shock, I step back from Profit's wet kiss and slap the fuck out of him. “What the hell?”

Profit staggers his six-foot-three body back and blinks his large brown eyes at me. “I'm sorry. I don't know what got into me.”

That pretty boy, puppy-dog look may work on his girlfriend, Ta'Shara, but not me. “I'm engaged to your brother,” I roar. “Have you lost your mind?” I place my hand on my
very
pregnant belly to remind him that I'm also carrying his brother's child.

He shakes his head, his caramel-colored skin now blotchy with embarrassment. For the first time he doesn't seem to know how to work his tongue.

“Say something, goddamn it. Before I shoot you or something.” I'm not being flippant. I am that angry.

“I don't know. I wasn't thinking.”

“You damn right you weren't thinking.” I process this shit again. “I thought you hated my ass.”

“I do. I mean, I don't. I mean—fuck, I don't know what the fuck.” He storms over to the couch and plops down.

“Oh hell, no. You can't stay here.” I shake my head. His ass might be confused, but I sure the hell am not. I have a man. Mason is my man and I love him very much. I always have, ever since we were kids. Profit, on the other hand, has done nothing but given me grief.

During the months that Vice Lords thought we had lost Mason, Profit and my brother Bishop caused all kinds of waves within the set. They conspired behind my back to knock me off my throne. If he had been any other nigga I would've murked his ass for even thinking that shit. Now Mason is back, I'm pregnant with his kid and even have his rock on my finger, and suddenly his little brother makes
this
move? Where the fuck they do that shit at? Not to mention, Profit's girl is two doors down. He's been through hell for that bitch—and now he's throwing his tongue down my throat? It doesn't make sense.

“I'm sorry,” he says, looking confused. “I don't know what came over me.”

“I don't know either, but this shit better not happen again.”

“It won't,” he swears, climbing back up to his feet. “Can we keep this shit between us?”

“Who the fuck am I going to tell? Mason? As far as I'm concerned, the shit never happened.” I cross my arms, mainly for his fucking protection. “You need to get your shit and get the fuck outta here.” Now I'm uncomfortable with him in my house.

He nods and turns to grab his shit from off the floor. He avoids making eye contact as he scrambles for the door. Once it slams shut behind him, I'm left staring at the damn thing.

“What the fuck?” I swipe my arm across my lips to remove the taste of him. It's not that Profit isn't a good-looking boy—or man; he is. There's not a bitch on Ruby Cove that wouldn't snatch his fine ass up if he batted his brown eyes at them—but I'm not one of them. Profit's like a little brother to me, an annoying teenage brother—but still a little brother. Jesus. If I wasn't pregnant right now, I'd pour myself a stiff drink to help me get over this shock. How in the hell did I miss the signs that Profit had a thing for me? As far as I can remember he's acted as though he couldn't stand the sight of me. When we thought Mason was dead, he blamed me—guilt-tripped me into feeling like a piece of shit for not protecting his older brother. He insinuated and whispered to everyone who would listen that I couldn't or didn't have what it took to run the Vice Lords. Now he wants to pull some bullshit like this? Is he testing me? Is he going to wait and see what I'll do next? I pause on that shit. Now
that
sounds like some shit Profit would pull. My shock now has transformed into suspicion.

That sneaky muthafucka. Was he really trying to entrap me? Now what am I supposed to do—tell Mason before he does? Then again, if I talk and Profit doesn't, then I'll be the cause of a rift between them.

This is some fucked-up shit—and I don't appreciate being put in this position. I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't. I slide my hand across my growing belly. One thing for sure, I need to think this shit through. I sense a trap in here somewhere.

Turning away from the door, I climb the stairs. All the while, I curse Profit's ass out. I have way too much shit on my plate to now add this heap of bullshit. I have two Crippettes to kill: Shariffa and Trigger for their part in my brother Bishop's murder. Plus, I have to be on the lookout for the heat I'm gonna get from other biker gangs for wiping out the Angels of Mercy bikers.

The Vice Lords have three wars in the streets, I'm pregnant, and now I'm caught up in this shit where my loyalty may be questioned because Profit kissed me. I don't know. It's days like this that make a bitch start dumping lead in every damn body she sees. I don't need this shit. I don't appreciate this shit. The more I think about it, I should've put a cap in Profit's ass when I had the muthafucking chance.

Discarding my robe, I climb into the shower, but the pelting heat does nothing to settle my nerves. I play that damn kiss over and over in my head and each time the shit's pissing me off more.

To tell or not to tell? Fuck. I don't know the answer.

While standing beneath the spray, I keep hearing my phone ringing from the adjoining bedroom. For a fleeting moment, I'm tempted to ignore the damn thing, but in my position, you never know when you'll need to take care of an emergency. Finally, I shut off the water and grab a towel to go answer the phone.

Mason's burner number flashes on the screen and my heart thuds.
Did Profit already blab this shit to his brother?
Fuck. I'm surrounded by pussy-fuck muthafuckas. I answer the call, prepared for any damn thing. “Yeah?”

“Willow,” Mason barks. “I need you!”

W
ith the gun barrel still in my mouth, the bedroom door explodes open. Profit sees me and freezes in his tracks. A look of horror etches his features. “What the fuck are you doing?” Profit roars.

Tears streaming, I shift my gaze toward him.

He throws up his hands and then creeps farther into the room. “Okay. Okay. Be cool, baby. I don't know what this is about, but everything is going to be all right.”

Baby?
Baby?
How in the hell does he have the nerve to call me baby? After what I saw?

“Don't do this. Please, T.” He inches closer. “Give me the gun. C'mon.” He reaches out to compel me to hand over the weapon. “Give it to me.”

My trigger finger trembles. I can end it all right here. Right now. My brain splattering across this room will haunt him for the rest of his life. I could destroy him. If only I could pull the fucking trigger.

“T, please, sweetheart. Don't do it.”

My resolve snaps. I ease the barrel from my mouth.

“That's my girl. There you go,” Profit says, his body coiled tight with tension.

“How could you do this to me?” I ask.

His brows dip in confusion. “Do what?”

“How could you do it to us—after all we've been through? After all we meant to each other? How could you betray me like that?”

Profit lowers his hands to stand upright.

“I
saw
you,” I inform him. “You and Lucifer.”

All expression falls from Profit's face. “How long?” I ask. “How long? Hmm? How long have you two been sneaking behind my back? Are you and Mason sharing her now? Is that it? Is she pregnant with your baby—or his?” I ask, growing angrier from his silence. “Say something, dammit! I deserve that fucking much.”

“It's . . . I'm sorry.”

“You're sorry?” I ask, incredulous. “Is that it? That's all you got to say? You're sorry? Look what I gave up for you. Look what I lost! My life! My family!”

“T, calm down.”

“Calm down? Don't fucking tell me to calm down!” I jump to my feet with the gun clutched in my hand.

“All right. All right. You're right,” he says, contrite. “I owe you an explanation.”

“You're damn right you do.” Hysteria borders my sanity.

“T, it's not what you think.”

“I know what I saw,” I shout, waving the gun in his direction. “Do you think I'm stupid?”

“What you saw,” he says, “was me making a stupid, stupid mistake. Fuck!” He runs his hands over his short-cropped hair. “I wasn't even fucking thinking straight. There's nothing going on between me and Lucifer.”

“I
saw
you kissing her!”

“Yes! I kissed her—and it was the first and only time that it has ever happened. I swear. I don't know what made me do it. But after she slapped the shit out of me I fucking woke up.”

I stare him down, weighing whether I believe his bullshit.

“T, I'm not in love with her. There's nothing going on. I . . .”

I wait, but he doesn't seem to be able to complete his sentence.

“I fucked up. I don't know how else to explain it. A'ight? I fucked up—for a split second. It was just a kiss. It didn't go any further than that. Can you forgive me?” He steps forward.

I step back.

“Baby. T, I promise you that it will never,
ever
happen again. Please. You
have
to believe me.”

“I don't
have
to do a damn thing,” I snap. “You're a liar—and a cheat. I regret the day that I ever laid eyes on you. From the moment I met you, my life has turned into a living hell. And there's nothing that I can do to change it back.”

Profit keeps moving forward. “T, give me the gun. We'll talk it out.”

“Why? Am I supposed to believe that you suddenly give a damn about us—that you give a damn about me?”

“Ta'Shara, baby. I swear nothing has changed about the way I feel for you.”

“What are you talking about?
Everything
has changed. You can't be that stupid not to realize that.
Nothing
is going to be the same again. That's my fucking point!”

“Baby, I'm sorry. Please. You have to forgive me. It was a momentary . . . I don't know what it was.”

I glare and shake my head. “So I'm supposed to believe that you were momentarily confused—that you forgot that you already had a girl riding and dying with you. Is that it? You're a confused, forgetful muthafucka?”

He huffs in exasperation.

“After all that we—no. Scratch that. After all
I've
been through.”

“C'mon, T. I get that you're upset, but we've been in this together.
I
laid shot up in that hospital on prom night.”

“Boo-fucking-hoo. In the grand scheme of things that shit is
nothing
compared to what LeShelle and her thugs did to me that night. I was the one who was fucking gang-raped and branded like a fucking animal.
I
was the one in a goddamn mental institution. I was the one who had to take on that bitch LeShelle, one-on-one, only to be doped up and placed in a padded room. Then when I get out, she burns down my home with my foster parents inside. Now I'm stuck here—dependent on your cheating ass.”

“All right. All right. This isn't a fucking contest,” he says.

“No. Because you'd lose.”

The bedroom roars with silence as we glare at each other. We're seconds from saying some shit that we can't take back.

“You're right,” he says, his body slumping in defeat. “I have no excuse. None. I wish that I could take back those few insane seconds—but I can't. I'm sorry I hurt you. You're my heart. You know that. If I have to spend the rest of my life making up for those few seconds, I will. If you give me the chance. I don't want to live without you by my side. I need for you to believe that.”

I laugh. “I don't know what to believe.” My tears fatten.

Profit takes the opportunity to close the rest of the distance between us, and then reaches for the gun. “Please. Give it to me.”

I draw a breath and then release the gun.

Profit clicks on the safety.

Immediately, I unleash a torrent of punches, clocking him in the head, chest, face. Any and every damn where. At first he ducks and dodges, but then he caves and takes the blows, wrestles for dominance, and then pulls me into his arms.When he's had enough, he tosses the gun onto the bed.

“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” I fight until exhaustion.

“Shh, baby. It's all right. I got you.”

“I hate you,” I wail.

“I know, but I'm going to fix this. I promise.”

He
still
doesn't get it. The Bonnie and Clyde fantasy is over.

Profit's cell phone chirps. He scoops his android out of his pocket and frowns at the screen.

I can't help but ask, “What is it?”

He looks up. “It's 9-1-1. Mason is in trouble.”