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Charlie was balling out of control. Immediately, her name started to ring out throughout the New York City hoods. She was moving one to three kilos a week, netting her cut of $3,500 a ki. In one month she had stacked over $25,000. It was a healthy profit for her, but she yearned to make so much more. If the NYPD kept supplying her with the drugs, then she would become a millionaire in no time. She was making more money with cops than she ever had with criminals, including God.
Charlie’s name had become synonymous with quality kilos of cocaine. She moved like a shark in the cold waters, hungry and looking for money to devour. She began to rub shoulders with big ballers and shot callers in the tri-state area and beyond. Dealers couldn’t wait to make the exchange with Red Charlie, the Brooklyn Bombshell. It was her name in the streets, and the name carried weight. Charlie would come through with her mind on money—always counting the cash before relinquishing the product. She was a bold and daring bitch, willing to walk into any apartment, dark alley, or warehouse with kilos of cocaine on her.
Carrying two kilos in a leather tote, Charlie knocked on the rusty steel door that was nestled among the other shady looking entrances in the back alleyway. She remained alert with her concealed .380 and 9mm, both guns already cocked back with the safety off.
The rusty door opened up and a burly giant of a man appeared standing a hulking six-six. He glared at Charlie and her petite and curvy stature. She glared up at him and asked, “Where Mission at?”
His hard stare stayed fixed on her longer than the comfortable gaze, but Charlie didn’t falter. In fact, hers matched his. He stepped back from the threshold, allowing Charlie into the building, and then hollered, “Yo Mission, Charlie here.”
Charlie coolly walked inside, but remained cautious.
Mission met her out in the open with a smile. “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie, what’s poppin’?” he asked gleefully. “I know you got that for me.”
“You know I do, Mission.”
“Always on point. I fuckin’ love it,” he replied.
Mission was an ambitious hustler who had come a long way from his days as a two-bit thug from Harlem. He had graduated from moving ounces and pounds to moving kilos in less than a year. He was thin, light-skinned, and motivated, and he was fortunate to have Charlie as his connect.
While the two talked, Charlie’s cell phone chimed. She checked the text message and a bright smile lit up her face. It was a smile that caught Mission’s attention.
“Damn, ma, I thought I was the only one that had ya attention at the moment. A nigga got you cheesing like that?” he asked.
“It’s business,” she replied.
“Business, huh? Yeah, I know that kind of business, and I don’t mind that kind of business myself,” he replied, looking her up and down. He wouldn’t mind something more with the kilos he was buying, but he knew not to push up.
“Listen, I didn’t come here to flirt. Let’s wrap this up.”
“Let’s . . .” his voice trailed off.
Mission placed the cash on the table in front of Charlie. She started to count it right away.
“Damn, Charlie, this like our sixth transaction together and you still don’t trust me?”
She shot a cold look at him. “I don’t trust anyone.”
She continued counting, not letting his remark distract her. Mission’s hulking goon stood guard by the doorway, remaining silent and being the muscle that he was paid to be. When she confirmed it was all there, Charlie handed over the product. Mission was all smiles.
“Ya shit do really good out here on these streets,” he said.
“I know,” Charlie replied cockily.
She pivoted and left the building and got back into her Benz, but not before securing the cash inside the trunk. She picked up her phone and reread the text message she had received earlier. It brought another smile to her face. The message came from a drug dealer from Atlanta named KB.
Hey baby girl, I’m back
in New York. I wanna see you . . . business and pleasure.
Something about KB made Charlie want to connect with him in more ways than re-ups. KB was making serious money by copping several kilos on a regular basis from her—doing business up and down the east coast. He didn’t flirt with her or show any sexual interest in Charlie at first, and if he did want to fuck her, he did a good job of hiding it. KB was a ruggedly handsome nigga, standing six feet tall with a lean and chiseled body, a narrow face, and intense eyes.
Charlie found him very attractive. He was country, from the backwoods of Georgia. He was born in the Deep South with dirt roads, trailer parks, and outhouses for bathrooms. When he talked, his southern accent was thick, and Charlie found it enticing. The stories he told her were interesting, and he was a go-getter—a nigga who earned his respect from the south to the north. Despite growing up underprivileged and coming from one of the poorest areas in Georgia, KB was intelligent, educated, and a natural-born hustler. He had pulled himself up from his bootstraps and made a nice life for himself.
***
“Mmmmm . . . Oh shit, fuck me, KB . . . I love that dick,” Charlie purred as KB slammed his hard dick into her.
The two were taking full advantage of the hotel room KB had booked for two days. With KB, Charlie found herself in full freak mode. His dick was big and thick, and his stamina was almost unnatural. He had a perfect rhythm inside of her, pounding her pussy and getting her juices flowing. He grabbed her hips and held her still while he thrust into her, emitting a cry of ecstasy from Charlie.
