Biker Chick

by Dakota Knight

Genres: African American; African American Urban

Synopsis

Crystal Sells is a biker chick, not one of those honeys who hang on the back of a motorcycle with their arms around some random man. The self-proclaimed “baddest bitch on two wheels” likes to ride alone on what she calls her “steel.”

Crystal hustles knock-off designer purses and bootleg DVDs to make ends meet, until she meets Ray Jackson of the Phantom Cruz, a local motorcycle gang, and begins living the life of a wifey. When their sweet life goes sour, Crystal is forced from their home and finds herself working at a gentleman’s club.

Never one to let a bad situation keep her down, she comes up with a grand idea to market the dancers at the club. Before she knows it, she has turned one of her best friends, Lala, into an exotic dancing superstar; but the way Lala repays her catches Crystal off guard, and Crystal finds herself seeking revenge with the intent to end someone’s life.

Biker Chick gives new definition to a “ride-or-die chick.”

Release date: August 15, 2012

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 300

Sample

Like most things that end in trouble, it all started with a party. Well, three parties, to be exact. The first one wasn’t your typical shindig, with streamers and balloons, cake and ice cream. It was in a living room full of women of all shapes, sizes, and colors. I knew most of them. And I knew they all wanted the same thing. There was Carmen Hampton, a heavyset, dark-skinned woman with micro-braids who lived across the street. She always needed her fix.

“I want ’em all,” Carmen would say in her loud, husky voice.

“You got the cash, I got the pass,” I would tell her.

Then there were the twins, Rachelle and Raquel. They were as yellow as the sun with long, straight hair. I’m sure they had to deal with their fair share of jealous ladies over the years. Interesting thing is, they still dressed alike even though they had to be at least forty years old. They were still single too. Go figure. They would peruse my goods silently, mumbling in their little twin language. But they wouldn’t make a purchase unless I had the same thing for both of them. And I always made it a point to satisfy.

There was Sheila, a sister who was always trying to get a discount, like I ran a dollar store or something. I had to tell her that I don’t even “count” change. She knew she had to come to me with the exact amount, or should I say, the total amount, or leave. I never played games with money. But that didn’t stop her from trying.

“You can’t hook a sista up?” Sheila would ask me.

“Are you a worm?” I would reply.

Too much beer didn’t enhance comprehension. “Whatchu say?” Her face wrinkled and her voice slurred.

“I don’t fish, Sheila. If you want the goods, you have to pay. No sales. No returns. Got that?”

She would frown and pull out her wrinkled bills, which always smelled like the Newports she smoked constantly. Not that stinky greens ever stopped me from getting paid.

“You wrong for that girl. You too young to stiff folks. You supposed to be helping your people.”

I would take her money and put it in my pocket for safekeeping. “I’m helping you right now by giving you what you want. I can only help one person at a time. So, thanks for your business,” I would say as I passed on the goods. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Whatever.”

I would smile, confident she would return to my mother’s living room the next time I had a party, just like the other thirty or so girls and women who made it a point to visit me on my party days. I knew it was hard to resist my wares.

See, I’m a Hustlette. A female hustler. Born to make cash fast. Even then, four and a half years ago during that first party a week before my eighteenth birthday, I knew I would always be in business for myself. Or so I thought at the time.

I wasn’t a “by any means necessary” type. I loved money, but I had my limits, meaning I didn’t get into the drug game. I can’t lie, it was tempting. Most of the dudes in Greenland Meadows, the apartment complex near my neighborhood, were already selling weed and crack or they were runners. I didn’t know many girl dealers, and I wasn’t trying to change the game. In fact, I didn’t have to. My parents told me that everyone has a vice, some void they try to fill with material things. For some, it’s food. For others, it’s drugs. But the majority of people need entertainment. They need the fantasy. Anything to take them away from their miserable lives, even if it’s for a moment.

So, even though I wasn’t into drugs, I’d sell a bootleg DVD, CD, or purse in a minute. My cousin Cutter got me into the game, hooking me up with his Arab supplier. I started having purse parties in my house. I would sell knock-off Louis, Prada, Burberry, Dooney, and Coach to teen girls and women alike. My momma was so proud, she only took fifteen percent of my profits. I might have gotten her down a bit more, but she did provide the refreshments, so I couldn’t complain too much.

“Crys, we’re out of beer. Go up to Cam’s and get some,” Mom told me the day of my party.

“I need to watch my stuff,” I said, eyeing the females in front of me as they examined my selection of purses on the tables set up in the living room. It didn’t matter that I was in my own place. I knew for a fact that any one of those bitches would steal my stuff from right under my nose . . . given the chance.

“Gal, I got you,” she said, holding out her hands, “Just give me the number and hurry up. It won’t even take you fifteen minutes.”

I scowled. I didn’t want to go when I needed to handle my business. But Mom didn’t play around. She wasn’t the kind of woman you said no to, unless you were prepared to deal with the consequences.

“Here,” I sighed, handing her my money, “We have sold five already.”

Mom fingered the money, shuffling the cash like a deck of cards. Her eyes danced as she counted the proceeds, and I knew she was working out her cut. She pulled a twenty from her hand.

“Take this,” she said, “Get me a case of Bud and some Newports.”

“Anything else?”

“Just get your motor going. We got purses to sell.”

Over the crowd, I noticed my two best friends, Dymond and Lala, standing in one of the corners of the room near Mom’s crystal collection. They were my backup, making sure the customers didn’t get too touchy-feely with the purses. I motioned for them to come toward me. They complied. Not to worry though; once they left their position, two of Mom’s friends took their place. I wouldn’t have to worry about a thing.

“What you need?” Dymond asked.

“Beer run,” I said, holding up the cash, “Let’s go.”

They both nodded. We slipped out of the front door and headed to Cam’s.

I lived in a neighborhood called Maryland Heights, a working class area on the east side of Columbus. I wasn’t rich or anything but we did okay. Dymond and Lala lived in the Meadows, which were located about four blocks away. I had lived there myself until three years before, when we moved to the Heights. It’s funny how two places so close together could look so different.

The Heights was dominated by small one-story houses and neat lawns. The Meadows, on the other hand, wasn’t a housing project, but it might as well have been. Most of the people I knew were on Section 8 and lived on food stamps. Government assistance was a way of life. It was tough, but living in the Meadows was better than being on the street. There were worse places in Columbus to lay your head at night.

Dymond and Lala were my down chicks. I had known them since our elementary days and we stuck together like Elmer’s. In school, we were known as the “Trio” because we were always together. We even dressed alike sometimes, matching shirts, skirts or jeans, and shoes. However, our personalities were totally different.

Dymond was the outgoing one. She could talk to anyone about anything. She was a varsity cheerleader and it didn’t hurt that she had a nice smooth, mocha face and a pretty smile. Girl ain’t never had a pimple or anything. She was by far the most popular girl at our high school. The great thing about her was even though she had it going on, she was humble—well, for the most part.

Lala, on the other hand, was the quiet one. She was the only girl I knew who had actually lived out on the streets, and by that I mean, been homeless. During the year of troubles, when shit was bad for the Trio, Lala’s mom got strung out on crack and lost her apartment in the Meadows. They left in the middle of the night like thieves. Lala later returned a couple of months later to stay with her aunt, and we could all tell she had changed. Her eyes were hollow and she was withdrawn. I later found out she saw things no child should ever see. In order to support her crack habit, Lala’s mom used the old beat up Ford Explorer they were living in to turn tricks. She would tell Lala to go play, but she always knew what was going on in the SUV. Her mom finally landed in jail and at least Lala got out of that situation.

We called Lala “EW” sometimes because she looked like Every Woman. No one could tell if she was black, mixed, Latina, or what. Her mom was black, for sure, but I never knew her daddy and unfortunately neither did she. Lala had caramel skin, with long, silky, black hair. But her most striking feature was her almond-shaped icy blue eyes. People would meet her and just stare at her. She never made too much noise about it, but I know she knew she looked good.

As for me, I was the cool one. Dymond and Lala called me “the Brain” from that cartoon Pinky and the Brain because I was always coming up with some hustle. Dymond would tell me, “One day, girl, you are going to rule the world.” And I would respond, “Or die trying.”

I can’t lie, I was methodical at times. Mom and dad taught me the hustle was the only way to go. Even then, I knew I could never work for anyone else. I had to get mine’s on my own. My last name says it all, “Sells.” If I had to sell on my own so I wouldn’t have to be up under no one else, than so be it. Hmmm . . . it’s funny how circumstances can change your perspective on things.

“Looks like you gonna make some cash today,” Dymond said as we walked along Allegheny Avenue. “Those women were going crazy over those purses.”

“That’s because we got a whole new selection in,” I said, inhaling a good dose of flower-scented spring air.

I saw Jonathon, the street vendor who handled my other goods, peddling as usual. I waved at him, but didn’t cross the street to talk to him. It wasn’t payday yet.

Following the success of my purse gig, I got into DVDs and CDs. Movies would come out on Friday, and I would have them in my house the next day. Same for CDs, except they would come out on Tuesday and I would have them by Wednesday. When it was going real good, I could get my merchandise before it hit the screens or the stores. My supply was A+. My purses were a half-step below the originals, the DVDs were clear (there weren’t any folks walking across the movie screens in them) and the audio on the CDs was top-notch.

I consigned my audio and video to Jonathon who would sell my stuff along with his in a parking lot everyday. I gave him a cut of everything he sold, while I did the minimum amount of work, so it worked out great for me. I also consigned some of my goods to Cam’s, but they took too much of a cut. I wasn’t drowning in cash or anything, but it was nice to have some extra ends to buy real clothes (meaning, no knockoffs for me) and reinvest in my enterprise.

So life was good and I was looking forward to turning eighteen. I was finally going to be an adult. Me, Dymond, and Lala were planning a party at the Extreme Games Arena at Easton. Everyone hung out there anyway, so I figured we might as well have the party there. I wasn’t trying to act like those rich snobbies on that MTV show, but I did want my party to be nice.

“Girl, you gonna get you some hair from Cam’s?” Dymond asked as we walked slowly to the convenience store. Not only was Cam’s the spot to quench thirst and hunger, but it also had all kinds of hair, wigs, and hair care products, in addition to all sorts of cheap stuff for a dollar. And, of course, my very own DVDs and CDs.

“Naw,” I responded. “I think I’m just gonna let Dee handle my do.” Dee was my hair stylist at The Art of Beauty Hair Salon. My hair was shaped in a shoulder-length style that framed my face, but I wanted something longer and flowing for my birthday. I only trusted Dee to do it right.

“You still sporting that Prada dress for your b-day?” Lala asked softly.

My momma had found a strapless red Prada dress a couple of weeks before. I could tell by the feel and thickness of the fabric that it was real Prada and not the usual knockoff. I didn’t ask where she got it; and, yes, I was definitely going to wear it.

Just as I was going to respond, I heard rumbling behind me. At first, the noise was so loud, it sounded like a jet engine. But then, I knew . . . the sound of motorcycles. A sound as familiar as my own voice and as comforting as a mellow jam. My heart skipped a couple of beats as I thought about the rides. The noise grew louder. The motorcycles were coming directly for us.

We all turned around and looked at the motorcycles as they roared toward us. “It’s the Phantom Cruz,” Dymond said excitedly, her voice just loud enough for me to hear over the noise of the engines.

The Phantom Cruz was a group of about forty guys from the east side. They did more than ride, though. They controlled the drug flow into the city’s east side for some kingpin everyone knew as Dennis the Menace. The Meadows was just a part of their territory. If you couldn’t tell the Cruz by all the noise they made, then the metallic white ghost face on each of their motorcycles would leave no doubt as to who you were dealing with. They rarely all traveled together, and on that day, there were only seven of the Cruz riding down Allegheny Avenue.

As they rode past us and into the parking lot of Cam’s, I stared at their steels. Of course, the Cruz had all of the top of the line models—well-known names like Kawasaki, Honda, Yamaha, and Suzuki. When the last of the Cruz glided past my line of sight, Dymond grabbed my arm. “C’mon girl, let’s hurry up and get to Cam’s. I wanna talk to some of the Cruz,” she said as she dragged me along. She drove me crazy sometimes, always wanting to ride on the back of one of the Cruz’s steels.

“Damn, girl, don’t break my arm off,” I said, shaking my arm to loosen her death grip. I turned around. Lala was walking slowly behind us.

“Hey, Lala, join the club,” I yelled. She didn’t quicken her pace.

We got to Cam’s parking lot just as some of the Cruz were leaving the store. We slowed down, and Dymond turned to look at me. “Do I look okay?” she asked.

I nodded. She turned back around, adding a little switch to her step. “You are such a ho,” I teased.

“Takes one to know one,” Dymond fired back.

As soon as she reached the motorcycles, it was on. I know it was hard for dudes to resist Dymond’s charms. They started flocking around her like starved pit bulls. I slowed down and waited for Lala to catch up.

I nudged Lala’s arm. “Can you believe she wants to deal with those fools?” I asked jokingly. Some of the Cruz were fine as hell.

“Not really,” Lala responded, trying to sound as playful as me, but I could sense her voice had a serious undertone. “They ain’t nothing but dogs anyway.”

“They can’t be all bad, right?” I asked.

Lala shrugged her shoulders.

“Lala, if Dymond wants one of the Cruz, I say, ‘Whatever floats your boat.’ More power to her.”

Lala shrugged her shoulders again just as we passed by the first parked motorcycle. Based on the conversation I heard, Dymond had almost convinced one of the Cruz, a dude named Shadow, to give her a ride around the Meadows. My eyes shifted as I noticed Lala walk past me and put a pair of sunglasses on. She lowered her head as she walked into Cam’s. I started to follow her, but then something stopped me.

The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up and I felt a chill go through me. Someone was staring me down. I turned around and my heart almost jumped out of my chest. I was looking at one of the finest brothas I’d ever seen. He had smooth chocolate skin with a mustache and goatee. He had thick eyebrows and sleepy, hooded dark brown eyes. His hair was neatly braided and fell just past his shoulders.

As I continued to stare at him, he put his helmet on the back of his steel, a KAW, and began to walk toward me. I felt warm and nervous. I had never reacted to a dude this way, not even when I was going with Lamont, and we were together for over a year.

The stranger walked slowly. He was looking me over hard, and not trying to front about it. Me, on the other hand, I wasn’t going to let him know how interested I was in him. Interested? And I hadn’t even talked to him. When he finally reached my space, I discovered how tall he was. He had to be at least six-three. I looked up at him, admiring his presence silently. But he wasn’t looking at my face or my body. He was staring at my hair. I got even more nervous.

“Hey, Ma,” he said, his voice deep. He reached up to touch my hair, but stopped. His hand was frozen in front of my face.

I couldn’t speak. The words were caught in my throat. I gave him a half-wave and smiled. Curiosity got the better of him. His hand reached for my hair. I shivered as his fingers ran down the length of my tresses.

“Interesting choice of hair color,” he said.

His comment felt like an insult. Any barrier between my throat and my mouth was broken. “Excuse me.” I reached up and grabbed his hand, yanking it away from my hair. “Don’t you know it’s rude to touch people’s hair? You don’t even know me.” I mustered up as much attitude as I could.

He smiled. He had perfect pearly whites. “You will,” he said, his voice filled with confidence.

I was starting to get angry. “Okay, what if I just walked up to you and said, ‘Hey, Papi and grabbed one of your braids?” I reached up and took one of his braids in my hands. It was soft and silky to the touch.

“Yo, I wasn’t trying to be rude, Ma. Please forgive a brotha for being interested. I ain’t never seen hair like yours.”

“My name ain’t Ma. It’s Crystal.” My voice was rising. I looked around and saw other members of the Cruz staring at us. I had to check myself.

I wasn’t particularly sensitive about my hair and, over the years, I had gotten used to the stares and comments about my hair. See, when I was about ten years old, my hair started going gray. It started out as a couple of strands, but by the time I went to Park Meadow Middle School, my hair was salt and pepper. Momma thought I had some kind of fatal disease, and all the doctors could ever say was that premature graying “happens sometimes,” even with kids as young as I was. But I knew why it turned.

As my hair continued to turn, Momma tried to dye my hair and it got real damaged. It almost all fell out. I sported a short do for most of my sixth grade year, but God blessed me with hair that grew thick and long. My friends and classmates got used to it after a while, even though people who didn’t know me stared sometimes. People rarely teased me, they were more curious, and I had to understand that so I wouldn’t be all messed up in the head worrying about my hair.

At seventeen, I had more gray hair than black, and I was fine with. . .