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“Whatever,” I said. “You ain’t funny. So you know, now what?”
“Do what you do best. I promise to make it worth your while.”
“So why you send this shit to me instead of one of ya dudes on the squad?”
“’Cause I wanted to line ya pockets with a little extra somethin’.”
I sighed. “Yeah, right. That’s what ya mouth says.”
He busted out laughin’ again. “And I wanted to see how you’d handle this nigga since he ain’t fuckable.”
“Fuck you, Cash. I’m glad you think this shit is funny. How long have you known?”
“For ’bout a year now,” he said. “At first, when the crew was findin’ all the niggas you slumped naked, I didn’t pay the shit no mind. But, then I peeped how every time you went on an assignment the muhfuckas would be butt-ass naked and the sheets would be removed. Shit wasn’t addin’ up. Then it hit me, and that’s when I put shit together. Like I said, I thought the freaky shit was fiyah. And the only reason I kept it on the low is ’cause at the end of the day you real thorough. And I really don’t give a fuck how you handle yours. So, you got this one or what?”
“How much you tryna line my pockets with?” I asked, usin’ the photo to fan myself.
“An extra twenty-five gees,” he said.
“Fuck that,” I snapped. Now that I knew this nigga knew, he’d be tryna clown me every chance he got if I let him. I ain’t the one. The only way to shut a nigga like him down—other than puttin’ a bullet in his skull—is by diggin’ in his pockets. “You musta banged ya damn head if you think that’s ’posed to be makin’ it worth my fuckin’ while. Come betta, Cash, or it’s a no-go. And I’m not fuckin’ around.”
“Aiight, aiight. I’ll make it another fifty gees. Just handle the dude. His wife wants his ass stretched, ASAP.”
My pussy pulled in my thong. The sound of that got me heated. “Then you need to get my seventy-five percent to me now. Otherwise, you’ll have to send someone else on this one.”
He sucked in his breath. “Damn, your little ass is really playin’ hardball these days.”
“I’ve learned from the best,” I replied, tossin’ the photo of this pasty-faced fool to the floor. “I want my money tonight.”
“It’ll be there.”
“It better be,” I said, snappin’ the phone shut.
CHAPTER FOUR
At eleven a.m., my flight had safely landed at O’Hare International Airport. I loved Chicago, especially downtown, and had hoped to strut along Michigan Avenue to have lunch at one of the trendy restaurants that lined the strip, then do a little shopping, but I knew that wasn’t my real purpose for being there so I decided to pick up my rental, then go check into my hotel suite. A bitch needed time to chill before it was time to do what I had come to do. The thought of this nigga with his white, clammy hands touchin’ my body made my gut turn. No wonder his bitch wants him dead. Probably gotta pencil dick, too, I mused.
I made my way onto 90 East toward downtown Chicago, thinking about my life. At twenty-five, I had the life most bitches only dreamed about. I owned my own spot, was paid out the pussy, had e’erything I wanted, but somethin’ still felt like it was missin’. I ain’t sayin’ I was on some lonely-type shit or some other crazy mess. It felt like…uh, fuck it. Shit ain’t that serious. But in the back of my mind, somethin’ was tellin’ me I’d better get my ass outta this shit before all the shit I’d done caught up to me. A bitch in an orange or tan uniform wasn’t a good look, and I wasn’t tryna be the one. Two more bodies, I thought, makin’ a right onto Michigan Avenue, and I’m shuttin’ shit down.
Well, for a minute. Maybe travel the world, fuck a few foreign niggas, get my pussy ate and suck a few dicks on an airplane. But I had so much blood on my manicured hands that I wondered if I really had it in me to walk away from the thrill of it all. Holdin’ a burner in my hand, pressin’ it against a nigga’s skull turned me the fuck on. Yeah, I was probably a sick, sadistic bitch, but I was paid and I’d be walkin’ away with millions stacked.
I pulled up in front of the hotel and parked in the valet parkin’ area, then stepped out of my busted-up rental—a fuckin’ Aveo—and grabbed my satchel and carry-on bag, walkin’ into the four-story lobby of this fly-ass hotel.
“Welcome to The InterContinental Chicago,” an attractive young woman said, smilin’ in my direction. “How may I help you?”
“I have a reservation.”
“Your name, please?” I told her my name, then handed her one of my fake-ass identifications. “Oh, Miss Lewis, a package came for you this morning. I’ll be right back.” She went to the back to retrieve it, then returned. I already knew what it was: the supplies I needed to carry-out my job. While I got to fly all over the U.S. to handle these niggas, Cash’s job was to make sure shit was in order. With the exception of his fat ass tryna shortchange me it was an operation that ran without any glitches. We all knew Cash was ’bout the business of killin’, and a missed body was a missed bankroll. “Here you are,” she said, returnin’ with a medium-sized box.
I smiled. “Thanks.”
“You’re in Suite 6201,” she said, handin’ me my room key. “I hope you enjoy your stay with us.”
“I’m sure I will,” I stated, headin’ toward the elevators.
Nine-thirty p.m., I was standin’ out on my balcony admirin’ the view of the Chicago skyline, wishin’ I was slumped over the railin’ with a stiff dick diggin’ my pussy out from the back. I needed some cock, and I was fuckin’ disgusted that this job wouldn’t be served up with a side order of thick dick. My private cell rang, breakin’ my thoughts.
“Hello?”
