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“You can’t blame us for not liking this,” Truck mumbled. “But uh,” the big man ran his finger along his lower lip and peered at him from hooded eyes, “I, for one, want to rock with you when you get it figured out.”
Jude took a toke from his cigar, then set it down in a clear ashtray.
“I appreciate that, Truck. I need to make sure I still have good income for my future plans, and that you all have enough money to hold you down until you figure out your next move, if you don’t want to stay in the game due to my exodus. If you don’t go straight, I don’t care. Seriously, I don’t.” He threw up his hands. “I just want you to be happy. Now, there are some things we need to settle up. First, there are two big shipments going to California next month that need to be monitored.” Heads nodded in agreement.
“Second, we have the situation we were just discussing. We can call it, Project Paul. Last, I’ve got to sell all of my properties I’ve dedicated to our operation, with the exception of two. I’m givin’ myself three months to do that. I will sign those over—one will go to Kash, and the other to Sizzle and Paul, pending his recovery. Truck, the three of you are in charge, and all I ask is that you keep everyone Cain and I hired on board, unless they become, in some way, a direct threat to your operation. Just know though, you’ll need to shuffle the properties around, sell them, and all of that, like I did, in order to stay afloat. Don’t stay in the same spot too long. Watch your surroundings. Anyway, those properties will be yours and as long as you pay attention, you’ll be fine. Run them right.”
Sizzle and Kash nodded their assent. He could see the relief on their faces that he’d left them with a course of action.
“I’ve got a personal situation I need to deal with, too.” He took a deep breath before continuing, “Back to Cain for a minute. Y’all know he’s got a life sentence. I just spoke to another attorney this morning, and the probability of him ever getting paroled is slim to none. That’s because of his prior arrest record, drug charges, and the two guys he killed were young. Community outrage is always the final nail in the coffin. Problem is, some MS-13s have been sniffin’ around him because of their members gettin’ smoked. They’re making threats. Sayin’ if they don’t get certain things, he’ll be dealt with. They’ve already been messin’ with him, and some of the guards in there are helping them. Kash, I need you to contact your people. We’ll have to settle this from the inside out.”
“Fo’ sho.”
Jude spoke with the group for a while longer, ironing out more details, then dismissed everyone. When the place was cleared out, he turned on some different music.
“Mama, let me play somethin’ for you…”
He walked into his gold and red paisley salon, an offshoot of his mancave, which featured a large round window, fireplace, thick black fur rugs, and a library full of old books. There, he turned on an old record player that had belonged to his parents. Grabbing one of his mother’s favorite albums—Al Martino’s—that had been gifted to her from her father, he positioned it on the record player and placed the needle just so. ‘To Each His Own’ started to play. He swayed back and forth to the song, then poured himself a glass of bourbon. After a couple of minutes, he sat down in a large white and gold throne of a chair, a fresh cigar in hand, and made a phone call.
“Hello… what time is it?” The woman of his dreams yawned. He imagined her in her new bed, her hair wrapped in purple satin, and her lavender lingerie hugging her body in all the right places.
“Iris, Ayanna is stayin’ with her friend this weekend, right?”
“Yeah…” She yawned again.
“I need you here, but I don’t want you drivin’ all this way this time of night.”
“But you said you were busy this we—”
“I know what I said, baby. Forget about that. I’m sending an Uber to come get you. Throw on some clothes and pack an overnight bag. I want to pluck and suck the petals of my precious Iris, until ain’t nothin’ left but a rain puddle, and you drenched the sheets…”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Spoiled
His house waslike a museum.
Greek busts of Apollo, Aphrodite and various other Greek gods lined the front parlor, creating a commanding entryway. Shirtless Jude closed the large red and black barn-style doors behind her, clicking the gold locks in place as the Uber driver drove away, leaving her alone with the man who made her heart skip beats.
Jude made small talk as he went through a series of steps to secure the premises, including the setting of the alarm. Several screens showcased live footage of numerous areas of the home in color from various vantage points.
“You don’t play around with your security, huh?” He took her jacket and hung it up in a closet.
“Nope. Are you thirsty?” he asked.
“I could use a taste of somethin’ nice.”
“Follow me.” He took her hand and led her down a long black and gold marble hallway, which led into a gorgeous brightly lit ivory and gray kitchen. The appliances were all dark carmine, the shade of Red Delicious brand applies, including the double oven and coffee maker.
“Oh damn, Jude, this is nice.” She slid onto a black leather barstool at the breakfast bar. Before her sat a stone bowl full of bright yellow bananas and shiny Gala apples.
He took out a bottle of red wine from a small cellar that looked like a cedar closet, grabbed two glasses, and poured. “Alexa, play ‘Jude’s Mix.’” Suddenly, a pure, perfect pitch of reverberations came from speakers tucked away in the corners of the galley, belting out John Mellencamp and Bruce Springsteen’s, ‘Wasted Days.’ The tinkle of the rich, blackberry hued liquid blended with the music as it filled the glasses. He handed her one and leaned against his kitchen counter near his stove, ankles crossed, reminding her of an owl on its perch. He looked at her with the fiery lust of a million devils in his eyes.
“So, you call me in the middle of the night, invite me in, time is passin’,” she glanced at her watch, “and yet you still don’t tell me what you want.”
“You know what the hell I want.” He tasted his drink, then set it beside him on the counter, his expression as devious as ever.
“I’m not a call girl,” she quipped. “This ain’t no 1-900-sex line.”
