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He unzipped his jeans and pulled out his snake-looking penis, wanting a quick blowjob in the backseat. “C’mon, sexy, give me a sneak peek of what I’m gonna get from you tonight,” he said with a perverted smile.
Jessica was nonchalant toward the comments. She didn’t cringe or become offended. She eyed his watch and his jewelry, and in due time, she was going to pick him clean. So she had to open her legs and let him fondle her pussy, grab her tits, kiss him passionately, suck his dick in the backseat. If push came to shove, she would have to fuck him too to get her way. So what? She was a big girl with an agenda.
She leaned into his lap and wrapped her lips around his thick penis and bobbed her head up and down. He moaned and rested his head against the headrest, becoming utterly blissed out by her full lips and adept tongue.
***
Devon and Papa John followed behind Kennan’s black-on-black Range Rover, their guns on their laps, loaded and ready for action. They remained two or three cars behind Keenan’s Range Rover, and where he went, they went—left turn, right turn—south on Eighth Avenue. It was early morning, so the city streets weren’t crowded with traffic, but it was still alive with people and businesses. The Big Apple never sleeps.
Devon was keen on moving, but Papa John knew it was going to be difficult. They couldn’t go back to Kip empty-handed. Kennan was too much money to lose. They continued to follow the vehicle, trying to remain inconspicuous. The windows to the Range Rover were tinted, but they speculated only five were inside—Kennan and his groupies in the backseat, the bodyguard, and the driver.
“We gonna have to smash and grab on this muthafucka,” Papa John said.
Devon agreed. He loved violence. Impatient to see his payday, he didn’t see the robbery happening any other way.
Finally, the Range Rover came to a stop in front of Brazil Grill, an all-night diner nestled between other open businesses on Eighth Avenue. The late-night hour meant the eatery was almost unoccupied, but there were a few customers inside. The Range Rover parked, and
the doors opened. All five occupants climbed out and stepped onto the street. Kennan Thompson looked like a movie star with his darks shades, expensive gear, and blinding bling. He had his arms around both his blonde-haired groupies and was ready to get his eat on.
Kennan’s bodyguard soon spotted Papa John walking their way, dressed in a dark hoodie with his head lowered toward the ground, his hands in the front pockets of his hoodie. Kennan noticed Papa John too, but he was sure that his six-foot-three bodyguard had everything under control. He didn’t think anybody would be stupid enough to try to rob him on a busy city block.
Papa John stayed focused. He walked toward the group undaunted. He quickly locked his eyes on the group and shouted, “Is that Kennan Thompson in New York?”
“Yo, my man, he’s busy right now if you’re looking for a selfie,” the bodyguard said.
Papa John dismissed the comment and looked at the man like he was stupid. “Fuck a picture—I’m here to collect his city tax.”
“City tax?” the bodyguard repeated with bewilderment.
“Yeah, city tax, nigga!” Papa John swiftly pulled a .45 from his hoodie pocket and thrust it into the bodyguard’s face.
The group was suddenly taken aback and in awe. One groupie with Kennan attempted to scream, but Papa John warned her to shut the fuck up.
While they were distracted by Papa John, Devon came from behind the group and struck the bodyguard in the head repeatedly with his gun. The large man fell to his knees, hurt badly.
“You know what this is, nigga—Run ya shit, muthafucka!” Papa John ordered, pointing the barrel of his gun at him, while Devon held the bodyguard at bay.
The driver was a coward, and the bitches were useless. They didn’t want to die. So Kennan found himself a victim of a stick-up.
Devon snatched the platinum chains off his neck and forcibly removed his rings and his expensive watch. Devon was burning to implement more violence upon the basketball player, but Papa John kept things cool and kept him under control.
They had his jewelry and his dignity. It was time to go.
Before they left, Devon glared at him and suddenly cold-cocked him with a right hook, sending the millionaire ballplayer stumbling backward and leaving him with a bloody lip. Devon shouted, “That’s for beating my Knicks last time,” and the men ran off, leaving everyone stunned and shaken up.
Smash-and-grab, it was one way they operated.
***
Finally, Jason left the club with the white groupie with the brunette curls under his arm. He had his prize for the night and was ready to enjoy himself. He deserved to be happy. He’d won the game for the Nets and was their golden boy—their Michael Jordan. His groupie was all over him as they left the nightclub, and he was all over her. He was a bit tipsy but still alert. This was his town, New York City, though he was from Brooklyn. Jason Miller was that goon in the NBA, the epitome of that old saying, “You can take a boy out of the ghetto, but you can never take the ghetto out of the boy.”
Jason walked toward his burgundy Bentley coupe that cost $250,000. He hit the alarm button, and it deactivated. The area around Club Revolt was busy with people, cars, and the nightlife. He crossed the busy city street and was nearing his car.
His white groupie was full of laughter and perversion. She was ready to please him anywhere at any time. If he had asked her to suck his dick in the middle of the street, she wouldn’t have hesitated in doing it. She was open for anything tonight. He knew he had picked the right one to take home. He was a few feet from his luxury coupe when, suddenly, out of the shadows, the threat came.
Kip was cunning when it came to executing the element of surprise. Jason didn’t see him coming until it was too late.
Kip hurried behind them, thrust the gun into Jason’s back, and said into his ear, “You already know what this is, playboy—Run ya shit!” Kip was so close to him, he could feel the man’s heartbeat. And he wasn’t intimidated by the athlete’s imposing height and his size. He had the gun and he had the wits.
