what you see?” Tonya asked.
“Hell yeah.”
“Let’s go back to my penthouse,” Q said.
“We don’t know ya’ll like that,” Summer said.
“Listen, baby, I ain’t no serial killer. You are safe with Q.”
“Is that what they call you?”
Damn. Q didn’t mean to let his nickname slip out. He knew she was Tommy’s bitch and if ever Tommy discussed him, it would be easy to realize who he was.
“Yeah some people call me Q, but I prefer the ladies to call me Quentin because that’s what my mama calls me.”
“You a mama’s boy, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“Yeah, that nigga’s a mama’s boy. His mama still cooks for him. She prepares his food for the week,” Country said.
“Ah, how sweet,” Tonya said.
“That’s a good thing. It means you respect women,” Summer said.
I wouldn’t say all that, Q thought. He glanced at Summer’s toned calves. He pictured himself fucking her on his balcony, pulling her hair and smacking her ass.
“So, can I call you?” Q asked her.
She blushed and then said, “I don’t know. It depends.”
“Depends on what?” Q asked. He knew he had more money than Tommy, and he knew he was more charming and good looking. What the hell could it depend on? he thought.
“If you’re a player.”
“You have a boyfriend, ma. What you talking about?”
“I don’t exactly have a boyfriend.”
“First of all, that player shit ain’t me.”
“Yeah, right,” she said, smiling.
“Seriously. That’s old and I’m about to be thirty next year.”
Summer pulled out her cell phone, smiled politely and asked, “Quentin, let me have your number. I think it will be better that way.”
“I understand,” Q said, then he spit out his digits.
Chapter 11
S
quirt was in his cell reading his Bible. He had sworn to God that if he got out of this one, he would get a job and spend more time with his son and his baby’s mother. He thought about all those nights when he ran the street and never spent time with Sheniqua, or his little boy. He looked up at the aluminum bed and read the words etched in the bed— This is Hell. He had to agree with whoever authored the phrase. This was hell, and he didn’t want to be here. He remembered the white arresting officer saying, if ever he wanted to help himself, give him a call. He knew the man meant snitching. He couldn’t do that, nor would he ever do it. It went against his morals, unless somebody was a child molester or cold-blooded killer, but even then his life or his kid’s safety would have to be in direct danger. He hated being in jail and it seemed as if ever since he was 16 years old he’d gone to jail at least once a year for one thing or another. But now he was twenty-three, and he had gotten caught with nine ounces of crack cocaine. With his record, this could give him ten years. If the feds picked up the case, he could get life. God, please don’t let the feds pick up my case. If the feds got the case, he knew he was bound to be gone until his two-yearold son was about to finish high school, and he didn’t want that. He pulled out the pink paperwork with his charges on it. When he did, Jessie, an old con, walked into the cell. Jessie was 46-yearsold with graying braids in his hair.
The two men made eye contact before Jessie said, “Put that
paperwork up, young buck.”
“Why?”
“Nigga, there’re a lot of snitches dying to look at your paperwork to get out of jail.” Jessie’s face hardened. “Remember that.”
Squirt knew Jessie was telling the truth, because he’d been to jail before. He folded his paperwork. “There’s nobody in here but us.”
“I don’t wanna see nobody’s paperwork, because I don’t want to even see mine.” Jessie sat on the edge of the desk. Then he pulled out a carton of lemonade that was left from lunch. He opened it and took a sip. “This shit is the pits. Ain’t it, man?”
Squirt sat up on the edge of his bed. “I was just thinking, man, if I ever get out of this one, I’m
“Hell yeah.”
“Let’s go back to my penthouse,” Q said.
“We don’t know ya’ll like that,” Summer said.
“Listen, baby, I ain’t no serial killer. You are safe with Q.”
“Is that what they call you?”
Damn. Q didn’t mean to let his nickname slip out. He knew she was Tommy’s bitch and if ever Tommy discussed him, it would be easy to realize who he was.
“Yeah some people call me Q, but I prefer the ladies to call me Quentin because that’s what my mama calls me.”
“You a mama’s boy, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“Yeah, that nigga’s a mama’s boy. His mama still cooks for him. She prepares his food for the week,” Country said.
“Ah, how sweet,” Tonya said.
“That’s a good thing. It means you respect women,” Summer said.
I wouldn’t say all that, Q thought. He glanced at Summer’s toned calves. He pictured himself fucking her on his balcony, pulling her hair and smacking her ass.
“So, can I call you?” Q asked her.
She blushed and then said, “I don’t know. It depends.”
“Depends on what?” Q asked. He knew he had more money than Tommy, and he knew he was more charming and good looking. What the hell could it depend on? he thought.
“If you’re a player.”
“You have a boyfriend, ma. What you talking about?”
“I don’t exactly have a boyfriend.”
“First of all, that player shit ain’t me.”
“Yeah, right,” she said, smiling.
“Seriously. That’s old and I’m about to be thirty next year.”
Summer pulled out her cell phone, smiled politely and asked, “Quentin, let me have your number. I think it will be better that way.”
“I understand,” Q said, then he spit out his digits.
Chapter 11
S
quirt was in his cell reading his Bible. He had sworn to God that if he got out of this one, he would get a job and spend more time with his son and his baby’s mother. He thought about all those nights when he ran the street and never spent time with Sheniqua, or his little boy. He looked up at the aluminum bed and read the words etched in the bed— This is Hell. He had to agree with whoever authored the phrase. This was hell, and he didn’t want to be here. He remembered the white arresting officer saying, if ever he wanted to help himself, give him a call. He knew the man meant snitching. He couldn’t do that, nor would he ever do it. It went against his morals, unless somebody was a child molester or cold-blooded killer, but even then his life or his kid’s safety would have to be in direct danger. He hated being in jail and it seemed as if ever since he was 16 years old he’d gone to jail at least once a year for one thing or another. But now he was twenty-three, and he had gotten caught with nine ounces of crack cocaine. With his record, this could give him ten years. If the feds picked up the case, he could get life. God, please don’t let the feds pick up my case. If the feds got the case, he knew he was bound to be gone until his two-yearold son was about to finish high school, and he didn’t want that. He pulled out the pink paperwork with his charges on it. When he did, Jessie, an old con, walked into the cell. Jessie was 46-yearsold with graying braids in his hair.
The two men made eye contact before Jessie said, “Put that
paperwork up, young buck.”
“Why?”
“Nigga, there’re a lot of snitches dying to look at your paperwork to get out of jail.” Jessie’s face hardened. “Remember that.”
Squirt knew Jessie was telling the truth, because he’d been to jail before. He folded his paperwork. “There’s nobody in here but us.”
“I don’t wanna see nobody’s paperwork, because I don’t want to even see mine.” Jessie sat on the edge of the desk. Then he pulled out a carton of lemonade that was left from lunch. He opened it and took a sip. “This shit is the pits. Ain’t it, man?”
Squirt sat up on the edge of his bed. “I was just thinking, man, if I ever get out of this one, I’m
Similar Books
