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Bacardi had lived a hard life and she carried a lot of burden and guilt on her shoulders. She sighed profoundly with her eyes still fixed on her dark image—her murky soul gazing right back at her. She thought about Chanel and the animosity she carried toward her youngest. She would never admit to herself or anyone else that she hated Chanel. It wasn’t because Chanel was her darkest child out of the three girls or that Chanel looked like her in her younger years—when Bacardi had the finest shape and beauty like a runway model. She held a profound hatred for Chanel because she knew that Chanel wasn’t Butch’s biological daughter. Bacardi didn’t know who the father was until Chanel had gotten older.
When Bacardi was a bartender at a Harlem bar, she had an affair with a man named Leroy, a smooth and handsome hustler with the gift of gab. Night after night, Leroy captivated Bacardi with his charm. It didn’t take long before she fell deep for his sweet, big black dick that would thrust deep into her after her shift ended at the bar every night. She became infatuated by him. He made her feel good. He made her feel like a woman, and the sex was amazing. Then she became pregnant—and Chanel came into her world.
By the time Charlie and Claire were six and seven years old, they started to tease Chanel about her dark skin and say she wasn’t their sister. Bacardi never stopped them. In fact, she was the most divisive one. Bacardi would treat Charlie and Claire like queens and Chanel like trash, and her daughters treated Chanel accordingly.
Whenever Bacardi would look at Chanel, she saw Leroy all over again—the man who rocked her world with great sex, the man who’d made promises to take care of her and love her forever. But Leroy soon became the man to break her heart, suddenly leaving her with no explanation, a protruding belly, and no idea if the baby she was carrying was his or her husband’s.
***
“Damn, your sister can burn in the kitchen. These eggs are fuckin’ good,” God said as he munched on the breakfast Chanel had cooked.
Charlie twisted her face at the compliment. “She a’ight. Don’t be sweatin’ her cooking.”
“I’m just sayin’, that bitch did us nice wit’ this breakfast. A nigga was fuckin’ starvin’ this morning,” said God.
They were both seated at the foot of the queen size bed in Charlie’s bedroom. Charlie was dressed in her panties and bra, and God was shirtless and in his boxers. His physique was manly—tattoos, battle scars, and muscles. He rocked a low haircut and a long, thick beard and mustache. He was twenty-three years old and a monster on the streets—everyone’s worst nightmare. He was known to be ruthless and coldblooded. He had been killing people since he was thirteen years old and he once lived in Miami’s Pork ‘n’ Bean projects. It was his gang initiation. When he was seventeen, he moved to New York City with his mother in search of a better life, but his criminal life only advanced in the Big Apple.
“I can give you sumthin’ better to eat,” Charlie said with a flirtatious smile.
God laughed. “I bet you can, shorty.”
God’s cell phone rang on the bed beside him. The caller ID indicated that it was Fingers calling him. God answered. “What’s up, my nigga?”
“Yo, turn to the news on channel five right now,” Fingers quickly said.
God wasted no time picking up the remote and powering on the flat screen TV. He turned to Fox News and there it was, their horrendous job displayed across the television screen. He turned the volume up to listen to the anchorwoman.
“What was supposed to be a joyous and celebrated holiday for this family on Christmas Day turned out to be a nightmare. A couple was found brutally murdered in their home after an apparent home invasion,” announced the female field anchor.
The lavish house in Jamaica Estates was broadcasted for everyone to see. The area was flooded with police. The camera panned right to show distraught neighbors lingering in the background, and then it showed friends and family members pulling up the crime scene and folks consoling one another after hearing the news. Some were completely inconsolable. They cut to a middle-aged female neighbor who had nothing but nice things to say about the Johnsons.
“They loved each other so much, and they loved life, and they loved people. This is so horrible. I can’t imagine how anyone could do such an atrocious thing to such wonderful people,” the neighbor lady proclaimed.
Charlie munched on her bacon and God stared intently at the news. He was watching and listening to find out if they had any suspects or if there was a break in the case. But he knew the police didn’t have any suspects. God was a very cautious criminal. He had been doing home invasions for over five years and had never been caught. To him, robbing and killing became simple—always wear latex gloves and black, know everything about your targets, always strike after midnight, and never leave any witnesses behind. To God, it was less risky than robbing hustlers or dealing drugs.
God and Charlie felt no remorse for the deadly home invasion—not when they’d struck payday. Liasha and Malik Johnson had lots of nice things—a closet full of pricey clothing and furs, diamonds, watches, electronics, and, of course, money. It was a beautiful score for the robbing and murderous trio. Fingers walked away with fur coats too—one for his girl and one for himself. God wasn’t into wearing mink coats—too effeminate for his reputation, but he took one anyway. Free was free.
After the story of the deadly home invasion ended, Charlie turned to God and uttered, “Let’s fuck! I’m horny.”
She didn’t care that her parents were home. They both let Charlie do whatever she wanted, including have sex with a twenty-three-year-old man in her bedroom.
God smiled. She stole the moment to yank his boxers down and used her forefinger and thumb to tease his dick and stir up a huge erection from him. She straddled him, rubbing her dripping pussy over his hard dick and moaning when he bumped her clit. She worked his dick into her nice and slow. She moaned when he thrust into her—almost going animalistic on her—hungry for every square inch of her naked and natural frame. God was a beast. And she was on fire with need.
“Oh baby, fuck me! Fuck me!” she groaned.
She panted as he pushed himself farther in. His erection was hard like concrete inside of her. She wrapped her arms around him, clutching him affectionately, and their bodies became entangled in sexual bliss. Their mouths opened and they kissed fervently. She continued to grind her naked bottom into his lap, wanting to explode with fire.
God moaned and groaned. “You’re so fuckin’ tight!” he cried out.
Charlie rode him like a professional. She reached behind her and started to massage his balls. God was her rock, and there was never a boring moment with him. He provided her with whatever she needed—money, material things, and security.
“Oh shit . . . you ’bout to make me come, shorty!” God cried out, his breath hard and hot.
Both conveniently forgot about the Christmas Day massacre.
Chapter Three
Bacardi waltzed into the ACS office proudly wearing Claire’s mink coat without her permission. Despite the cold, she had to keep the coat open since it wouldn’t close around her, and she had to wear two pairs of socks with the red bottoms she strutted in. She also carried her new Valentino bag and sported her new Apple watch. It was hardly appropriate clothing for her job. She was a walking fashion disaster—a mismatched heap of ill-fitting designer clothes that looked a mess on her overweight frame, but no one could tell her she wasn’t fierce.
