Around the Way Girls

by La Jill Hunt, Dwayne S. Joseph, Angel M. Hunter

Genres: Urban Fantasy; Anthologies; Hispanic & Latino

Synopsis

There’s a saying that if you come from my part of town, you're from around the way. Around the Way Girls is a fast-paced look at the lives of some street-smart women who might think they know it all but are about to get the lessons of their lives.

La Jill Hunt brings us “Southern Comfort,” the tale of a Southern girl who has to learn to survive on the streets of New York after a tragedy forces her family to leave Georgia and relocate to Brooklyn.
 
Angel Hunter spices things up with “Busted and Disgusted,” bringing us into the world of Cream, who is dealing with an unfaithful man and trying to build a better future that doesn’t include the strip club where she’s worked for years. 
 
In “Played,” Dwayne Joseph introduces us to Angel, a smart girl with a great career who suddenly finds herself in a dangerous situation when she meets a handsome drug dealer she can’t resist.
 
Twenty years ago, Urban Books debuted the Around the Way Girls series with popular urban authors bringing tales of savvy, street-smart women. Revisit this classic with the twenty-year anniversary edition of the original.
 

Release date: August 22, 2023

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Cream was lying in the bed, massaging the inside of her legs. It’d been so long since she’d had an orgasm, and she felt long overdue. It was time to have a release of some sort, and what better way than sexually? Now, the sensible thing would have been to call up her man, Wise, and have him come over and scratch her itch, but his ass was missing in action. So, the next best thing was the power of the hand.

Closing her eyes, she let her mind wander, trying to decide on who would be the star of her fantasy today. She’d been doing a lot of fantasizing lately. It was all good, though, because more often than not, her fantasies were better than what was taking place in real life. Her man wasn’t hitting it or licking it right. They were going to have a discussion about it; at least when she worked up the nerve, they would.

Cream settled on Ving Rhames to be her man that night. She liked those big, manly men and the protection that she felt they offered. They were like a safety kit, a security blanket, better than a weapon. She thought about his broad back and how her breasts would feel pressed up against his hardened chest. Her hands would roam down the length and across the width of his muscularity, cupping that nice, round ass. She’d stand on her toes to kiss him. She’d close her eyes and get lost in the sensuality of his tongue. He would wrap his hands around her waist and pull her closer to him, pressing his manhood into her. She’d step back and place her hands on his chest while thinking, damn, this man has muscles in all the right places. Moving her hands farther down, she would grab his dick, a little rough, and ask him, “What would you like me to do?”

As Cream got deeper into her fantasy, she relaxed her body and started to squeeze her nipples with one hand while rubbing her clitoris with the other. She rubbed and dipped her finger into her pussy—rub and dip, rub and dip—causing her vaginal walls to contract.

Damn, this feels good.

By now, she was on her knees, licking the head of Ving’s dick, teasing him. She cupped his balls in her hand, rolling them around while she lowered her mouth onto him.

Cream could feel her juices flowing. It wouldn’t be long before her hips were in the air and she was calling out. She could feel the pressure building up, and the pace of her fingers quickened.

“Shit,” she said. It took all her concentration, but when the point of no return came, it came hard and fast, causing her to call out and cover her pussy with her whole hand and squeeze.

“Ahhhh.” She moaned, pleased with the outcome and with herself.

Before she could get up, the phone rang. She didn’t want to answer it but thought it might be Wise.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

“Yes.”

“This is Doctor Markus.”

“Oh, hi.” Cream’s heart started racing. Why would he be calling her? Dr. Markus was her gynecologist.

“I have the results of your pregnancy test. You’re pregnant! You’re pregnant! You’re pregnant!” Although he didn’t say it that many times, that’s how she heard it, with an echo effect.

Cream couldn’t believe what she’d heard. If she was a child, she would have covered her ears to replace the words with something other than what the doctor was saying.

Shit! How could this be happening? How could she have been so stupid? Why was she so stupid as to let that no-dick-having, no-stamina, can’t-fuck-me-right-anymore, won’t-kiss-the-pussy-unless-I-beg-and-plead ex (or so he claimed) drug dealer impregnate her? Was it because she thought she was still in love with him? Was it because she was still with him out of habit, comfort, and security?

The one night she believed she might have gotten pregnant was the night the sex was better than it had been in a long time. She could kick herself in the ass.

Wise just wasn’t there for her like he used to be. For one, she believed something was going on with him. She believed he’d been lying to her. About what, she wasn’t sure. When she asked him, he didn’t admit to anything; not that he would, because there was no real evidence, so why tell on himself? All she had was hearsay and someone constantly calling her phone and hanging up. That shit was getting on her last nerve.

First thing tomorrow morning, she would call the phone company and get caller ID. It was a damn shame that she even had to go that route. Whoever was calling would disguise their voice and say “Bitch” or “Whore.” The caller sometimes wouldn’t say anything, just breathe into the phone. This only happened when she answered. When her son, Shacquille, or Shala, her cousin who she was caring for, answered, the caller would hang up. So, she knew it was personal. Something was going on, and she was determined to get to the bottom of it.

Irritated, pissed off, and horny was not the combination to be. Horny because lately Wise hadn’t been hitting it right, if at all. The last time, his dick didn’t even stay hard. What the hell was that about? Just the sight of her naked used to turn him on. Irritated because she didn’t want to be pregnant. She already had a six-year-old. Another child this late in the game would be out of the question and just not something she planned on. That’s why she should have gotten her damn tubes tied. Pissed off because Wise was nowhere to be found when she needed him. His ass was always running off, talking about he’s taking care of business. He’d better be out there looking for a job and not standing on the corner selling that cocaine shit.

Cream’s body was tight, not an ounce of fat on her. It was all due to genetics. She was one of the top strippers at High Rollers gentlemen’s club. She could shake it, shiver it, move it, and groove it with the best of them. Niggas requested her when she wasn’t there. They would ask for her the second they walked in the door. She made the most in tips, and in all actuality, she didn’t have to work as hard as the other girls to get them. Lap dancing? Oh, hell no. She definitely wasn’t doing that. Little did she know that was part of her appeal. They liked that whole hands-off mystique: you can look but you can’t touch. She wasn’t raunchy. She was sexy, and the men picked up on that shit. They knew who to fuck with and disrespect and who to treat like a lady.

Cream was hands-off for two reasons. One was her man, Wise Allah. No one fucked with him or his property. That’s how women in the ghetto were viewed—as some man’s property. The men in the club knew that if they violated this rule, they might catch a bullet or two. They also knew that Grape, the bouncer at the door, was protective when it came to Cream.

One time, a customer who was new in town went a little too far. After Cream finished dancing, he cornered her and started groping. Before she could let out a sound, he was picked up by his throat and thrown out of the club, never to be seen again. Normally, Grape would step in, make a threat, and then proceed with violence if the rules were broken again, but for Cream, he went straight to violence. The other dancers noticed this inequality but didn’t say a word. High Rollers was an exclusive club, and they knew that there weren’t many options out there that provided rich men and a clean environment.

Cream White was her real name, and Shacquille was the son of Wise. They’d been together now for seven years, since she was seventeen and spotted him in a picture.

Thinking back, she laughed and went to her dresser, pulling out the picture that had caught her eye. It was old as hell, and he was looking like a don, wearing a Gucci leather suit and tons of gold around his neck. It was taken in the eighties. Today he wouldn’t have gotten away with wearing it without being considered country. But back then, it gave him that gangsta thug look. It appealed to her immediately.

He was standing next to a red Jeep Cherokee with the doors off and the top down, one foot up on the ledge. He even had a joint in his hands. His hair was in waves that were thick and noticeable. He sported a goatee. His expression said, “I’m the motherfucking man, and who are you?” He knew that it was all about him, and Cream knew it too. That’s why she asked Tina, the girl who had the picture, “Who is that?”

“Girl, that’s my cousin, Wise.” Laughing, she touched the picture and said, “He thinks he’s something, doesn’t he?”

He is, Cream thought. To Tina she said, “You didn’t tell me you had a fine-ass cousin.”

“That’s because you never asked me.”

“When are you gonna see him again?”

Hearing the curiosity in Cream’s voice, Tina looked at her and asked, “Why?”

“Because.”

“Because what?” Tina liked Cream but wasn’t sure she was girlfriend material for a family member. She didn’t really know much about her.

“Well, I’d like to meet him.”

“Well,” Tina started. She was thinking that maybe Cream couldn’t be all that bad. Heck, she couldn’t be any worse than the knuckleheads Wise was usually bringing around now. “We’re having a cookout Sunday. You can come if you want to, and I’ll introduce you to him. That’s all I’m gonna do, introduce you. You’re on your own after that.”

“Bet.” Cream thanked her, and in her mind, she started planning what she would wear.

That Sunday took long as hell to arrive, and Cream made sure she looked her best. She knew that Wise belonged to the Five-Percent Nation, so he considered women to be queens. With that in mind, she set aside the hoochie outfit and replaced it with something more befitting a respectable queen. She wore a long, white, form-fitting jean skirt that skimmed her ankles, and a white tank top that accentuated her 34Cs without looking cheap.

Please, don’t let me spill anything on myself, she silently prayed. She also had on white, flat sandals. Her hair was out and curled, flowing down her shoulders. Instead of wearing the bright red lipstick she loved to wear, she put on lip-gloss.

During the days leading up to the barbecue, she’d done some investigating and found out that Wise was five years older than her and one of the most popular drug dealers in the area. He had a couple of women, but no one he considered his main girl. Cream would make it her business to change that, and she did it well.

Now, it was seven years after that first meeting, and they had a six-year-old son together and possibly another on the way. Now ain’t that some shit.

Why wasn’t she sure she wanted to carry this child to term? Well, for one, Wise already had three kids besides Shacquille—two before his birth and one after. He had gotten someone pregnant while he and Cream were together. That was someplace she didn’t want her mind to travel. She’d made her choice to forgive and stay with him when she found out. Now, don’t get it twisted. She caused a scene, kicked his ass, put the pussy on lockdown. Staying with him was easier said than done, but she did it. Devastated and all, she did it.

Sometimes she regretted being so crazy and in love. That was another reason she wasn’t sure about keeping this baby. She wasn’t in love with Wise anymore, not the way she used to be. That love that will make you do crazy things—stay up all night and wait on a nigga; that love that will have you in tears and going against yourself; that love that steals your soul and leaves it out to play. Shit, that was the love that had allowed her to accept his betrayal. Now, she loved her baby’s daddy, but she just wasn’t in love with him anymore. She loved him the day she met him and would always love him, but like Tina Turner says, What’s love got to do with it? Cream knew the answer: Not a damn thing.

How would Wise react to her being pregnant? Cream recalled one night they were laying up in the bed talking and he said something to the effect that he didn’t think he wanted anymore children. Four was enough.

“Then get a vasectomy,” Cream told him.

“Why don’t you get your tubes tied?”

Cream looked at him like he’d lost all of his mind.

“Why are you looking at me like that? How are you gonna stand there and act like you want more kids? You told me you didn’t.”

“Well, I might have changed my mind.”

“Anyway,” he said, “Shacquille is six. The way I figure it, if you were going to have more, you would have done it by now.”

Cream ignored him because she didn’t know whether she wanted more or not. What if they broke up and she found another who loved her deeply and she loved just as much, and he wanted kids? If she got her tubes tied, that couldn’t happen.

There were many cons to this whole pregnancy thing. She’d yet to think of the pros. Would she continue stripping? Cream had seen some girls stripping right up until the sixth month with their bellies protruding. She knew that would not be the case with her. That was straight up trifling. But once she stopped, how would she pay for Shacquille’s private school? She and Wise had some money stashed, but how long would that last? Would he resort to selling drugs again? That is, if he wasn’t still selling them now.

Damn, shit was all fucked up, or at least it was about to be. Putting on her black leather trench coat and matching hat, she took a quick look in the mirror. She liked what she saw: a five foot, four-inch, 120-pound woman who still had a glow to her. There was one thing the ghetto didn’t take from her, and that was her looks. She had watched her mother go to waste and was extra careful not to let that happen to her. Grabbing her bag filled with stripper gear, she walked out of the rented house. One day I’ll have my own, she’d tell herself each month when the rent was due. She was tired of letting her money go to waste.

Glancing at her watch, she was glad she would be getting to the club a little early. Her fifteen-year-old cousin Shala had said she was going to a girlfriend’s, and Shacquille was staying the night with one of his classmates, so Cream would hang out a little while with Grape at the club. It was Thursday. Thursday was moneymaking night. All the ballers, white and black, came out.

Cream pulled up in front of High Rollers. She was driving a silver Lexus coupe. It was a damn shame it wasn’t hot enough to have the top down, but fall was coming to an end. There weren’t any parking spots in front, so she drove to the lot behind, grabbing her signature lightly tinted Versace glasses. She strutted inside with her head up and her shoulders back, adapting her club persona, her I’m-the-baddest-bitch-don’t-fuck-with-me-or-you-will-get-fucked attitude. No, she wasn’t being aggressive with her shit. She just liked to let everyone know that she was one hundred percent woman. Actually, those that were close to her knew she was just the opposite. She was the sweetest one in the club with the biggest heart and the kindest personality. If one of the other strippers barely made enough to feed her kids, then Cream would hit her off with a few dollars. She was always baking and bringing desserts in for Grape. That was her way of thanking him. If she had to, she’d work the bar and watch the door. Everyone called her the manager of the joint. It was an unofficial position. That was also one of the reasons she got away with not doing lap dances.

All kind of deals went down in the club—drug deals, gambling deals, but mostly sex deals. Sex for money, money for sex, oral, vaginal, sometimes even anal. It was a well-known secret which girls would do what in the back rooms, as long as it stayed a secret. It was like the motto at AA and NA meetings: What’s said in this room stays in this room. It helped that some of the best customers were cops also, so if there were going to be a bust, the club owners would get a warning and shit would be correct for a week or two: no sex in the building.

It was so easy to get caught up in that lifestyle. Too easy. Once a girl got a hold of the dough, she’d spend it and want more and more. It was a never-ending cycle. That was one of the reasons Cream was in the game for so long. But she was starting to realize that money wasn’t always gonna make her happy. She wanted out now.

Thankfully, she’d never turned tricks. She’d seen too many girls get caught up. They’d get hooked on a man, hooked on drugs, and hooked on crime, on a man’s time and making that dime. Some were hurt mentally, some physically, a lot spiritually, and she refused to be one of those. She wasn’t trying to take a chance. She had a son to take care of. Her little man meant the world to her, and she wanted the best for him. On the few occasions when she did let her mind roam, wondering what it would be like to live the life of a true hustler and not just an around the way girl, she thought of her son.

Boom! Her eyes would open real quick at that thought. Did Shacquille know what his mommy did? She told him she worked at a bar. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it wasn’t a full lie either. Did it really matter if she planned on quitting sooner rather than later? She wanted to in the worst way, and as the days, weeks, and months passed, she envisioned it. She wanted to go back to school, get her GED, possibly become a nurse, maybe even a teacher. She wasn’t sure what just yet. Whatever it was, she knew it would service the people.

How did she get into the strip game in the first place? How did her man allow it? Life threw her some mean curves, for one thing, and for another, it wasn’t up to no man. It was up to her. Cream did what she had to do in order to survive. She wasn’t left with many options. In this life, sometimes you’re not. Sometimes you have to step outside of yourself and play the by-any-means-necessary game. That’s just what she did when her mother died.

Cream’s mother died of AIDS when she was thirty-one and Cream was sixteen. She caught it from her long-term boyfriend. Cream never knew her daddy. All she knew was that his name was Lewis. That wasn’t unusual, at least not in her Brooklyn neighborhood, which was full of on-welfare, drug-infested single family homes and babies raising babies. Hell, here nothing came as a surprise. She grew up used to seeing all kinds of things.

When her mother died, there was no one to step up to the plate to raise Cream or her cousin Shala, who was living with them. Shala’s mom was in jail for armed robbery. The rest of the family lived down South. Being sixteen and streetwise, there was no way Cream was going down there. She didn’t even know those people, and she doubted they wanted to know her. Hell, no one even showed up for her mother’s cremation, although they sent a little—a very little—money. It was devastating. There stood Cream, Shala, and a couple of people from the church her mother had joined shortly before her death. Not one additional family member in sight. It would have been embarrassing had it not been for the pain.

The realization that her mother was dead tore Cream apart. They had been close. They could talk about everything from the weather to boys. They were poor in cash but rich in love. When her mother died, it left a void in her life. She often thought she would fall through it. So many nights she just wanted to give up, but Cream knew she had to make a decision for herself and Shala, who was still a toddler. It was either be on their own or go to foster care, and that she didn’t want to do. She could just imagine her and Shala being separated and sent to abusive families. So many bad things could happen in the system, and she didn’t want to find out. So, she did what she had to do and went to one of the local strip joints to see if she’d qualify for a job. She’d overheard some girls on the train talking about how much money they made from stripping.

“Girl, I made over two hundred dollars in three hours.”

“Shit, that ain’t nothing. Come to LaLa’s and you can double that, especially on a Friday night.”

Cream made plans to check out this place called LaLa’s on the upcoming Friday. Running low on funds, she had to do what she had to do. After begging the neighbor to watch Shala, Cream put on the hoochiest outfit she could find: a black miniskirt that barely reached past her ass, a too-tight T-shirt, and a pair of her mother’s heels. Looking in the mirror, she thought she looked like a slut and almost changed her mind. Then she remembered that the alternative was foster care, so she headed out the door.

When she walked in the club, she freaked out. It was a straight up nasty dive. It even possessed a rancid odor. It was dark, and there were drunken men everywhere. They were staring so hard at her that she felt frightened. Gathering her strength, she refused to leave. This wasn’t about ego and pride; it was about having a roof over her and Shala’s head. It was about having food to eat.

“Yo, can I get you a drink?” a strange man asked with liquor on his breath.

Knowing she should say no, she said yes, thinking it would loosen her up some. She ordered a shot of Stoli. She’d remembered her mother saying that’s what her father drank. The burning sensation almost caused her to throw up.

Watching one of the dancers on stage, Cream thought, I have a better body than her, and look at these nasty-ass men giving up all the money. I could make a killing. She watched the girl’s every move, trying to memorize each one.

“So. . .