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“I made close to fifteen hundred dollars up in here, chickie. So don’t knock the hustle. I sucked his dick, licked his balls, swallowed his baby batter, and let him call me every degrading name in the book. I did whatever I had to—and I do mean, whatever—to make a few dollars. Not one motherfucker out on the streets has sent me shit, not even that worthless fucker I’m in here for. So, I gotta make money however I can to survive. I’m not trying to be one of these indigent bitches in here begging for somebody else’s scraps.”
Heaven was quickly learning prison was a breeding ground for debauchery, and was a compound for a very lucrative black market trade. And it was filled with fiends and freaks. And—from what it sounded like—cigarettes, drugs, and sex was a seemingly hot commodity behind these walls, and—yes, yes, yes—she wanted in.
SEVENTEEN
No Angel . . .
Heaven shrugged out of her jumper, washed and pat-dried her face and then combed her hair, before pulling it up and fastening it with a black ponytail holder. Then she grabbed her seven-inch tablet from out of her locker and crawled up on her bottom bunk. She powered up her tablet, and waited for it to boot up. The one-hundred and forty-seven-dollar commissary purchase wasn’t necessarily what she was accustomed to. She’d rather have her Apple instead of this nondescript gadget, but she had no other choice but to make do.
The money in her commissary account was slowly dwindling down to almost nothing from all of the purchases she’d had to make once she returned to general population. Hygiene products. Hair care. Skin care. Styling products. Cosmetics. Laundry supplies. Padlocks—so bitches wouldn’t be tempted to steal her shit. Towels. Phone cards. Utensils. Radio. RCA flat-screen. Extension cords. Tablet. Table fan. And the list went on.
She learned very early on, if you wanted to jail comfortably, you had to have money. And before she knew it, she’d spent close to four hundred dollars, leaving her with a little under two grand left in her inmate account. Most of it money she’d already had in her purse when she’d been arrested and, then, some money that had been sent to her while sitting in the county jail.
Her bail had been too high to bail out—five hundred thousand, and her two bail motions filed on her behalf by her attorney had been dismissed. The two male prosecutors assigned to her case believed she was a flight risk, even though they’d forced her to surrender her passport.
So she was left with no other options but to sit in the county until her charges were disposed of. She didn’t want her brothers taking on the financial burden of bailing her out. They had their own families, with their own encumbrances. So she’d sat in that disgusting hellhole for almost a year before she was finally sentenced. Then another two weeks before she’d finally shipped out, with her inmate check in hand.
She shook her head. This prison shit wasn’t for her. She wasn’t used to budgeting money. But without Freedom—fucking Freedom—no longer financing her, and the few friends she thought she had pretty much turning their backs on her, she would be penniless in no time if she didn’t learn to pinch off her coins, and shop sparingly.
Sure, she had about eight thousand in a Chase savings account and about twelve thousand more of Freedom’s drug money secretly stashed in a safety deposit box. She also had another few thousand tucked away in another hiding place, but there was no one trustworthy enough to entrust with securing her coins and mailing in money as she needed it.
Her three brothers lived out of state, so she couldn’t impose on any of them to fly in to collect her monies. And she didn’t want them to. They had their lives. And she had hers. And, sadly, they’d drifted apart once she’d gotten involved with Freedom.
All three of her brothers had thought he’d end up being her downfall. Ha. They’d been right. Now look at her.
For a fleeting moment—one mixed with momentary insanity—she’d thought about asking Kareema, but quickly dismissed the idea. That bitch would run off with her money, then say someone had robbed her for it. She knew how grimy-hoes could be when it came to dick and dollars. And she knew exactly what kind of ho Kareema was. The type to fuck an ex’s father while still fucking him, too; the type to fuck a man in his girl’s bed, punch holes in condoms, lie about being pregnant, then trick men out of their money for make-believe abortions.
That bitch was as nasty as they came. Cum-swallowing anything with a pulse. She’d been known to . . . fuck raw, fuck married men and . . .
She frowned.
Wait one goddamn minute. Something suddenly churned in her gut. Had she missed it all these years? Had that scandalous bitch done her dirty too? Had she been smiling in her face all these years, while fucking her man—well, ex-man—right up under her goddamn nose?
Grimy bitches had no scruples.
Freedom had been a cheating dog, but she didn’t believe he’d stoop that low and fuck Kareema. Let her suck his dick? Well, that was a possibility. But fucking her? She simply couldn’t see it. He’d known how she was. Several of his boys had already run up in her; they’d played the pump and dump game with her, passing her around like a blunt. Then talked trash about her.
Then again—she’d never thought he’d stoop so low and have fucked some bitch in their bed, either. So, maybe he did fuck her.
Ugh.
Did (no, should) she even care? Hell no.
So why was she feeling as if she were about to have a panic attack?
There went her gut again; twisting in knots as she mentally noted the way Kareema would eye Freedom on the sly anytime he was around.
He’d laughed at her when she’d asked him if he’d been fucking her, pulling her into his arms. “Listen, baby. That broad can’t ever get this dick. A’ight? This dick is all yours, baby,” he’d assured her, before molding his mouth to hers in a hot breathless kiss that melted away any further crazy thoughts of him wanting to fuck her.
But, now—as the disc in her mind rolled backward over her life with Freedom, she realized more than ever . . . anything was possible.
“You got my heart, baby. Forever . . .”
“Fuck you, Freedom,” she hissed, throwing her tablet across the cell. It hit the wall, then clunked to the floor.
Broken.
Just like her heart.
