Hard Candy

Book 1: Hard Candy

by Amaleka McCall

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

Can the daughter of a notorious drug kingpin be just as bold and bad as her daddy was? Candice Hardaway is about to find out in this exciting street tale! When Candy arrives home from school to find her entire family murdered, she turns to the only one she trusts, her uncle, Joseph “Rock” Barton. Rock’s a reclusive hitman and “cleaner” who’s been in service to Candy’s father for years. He takes her in, and together they vow to avenge the murders. When she turns eighteen, her plans go into effect as she knocks off all her father’s enemies, one by one, going up against some of the most dangerous killers in the game. But has she put her trust in the right hands? Or is she destined to face the same grisly fate as the rest of her family?

Release date: June 8, 2011

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 240

Sample

A raucous laughter erupted through the house. The strange men’s voices were muffled through the homemade ski masks they wore.

“Hold ya head up, nigga!” one of the men instructed, taking delight in his victim’s pain.

Easy did as told. His neck, snapping left and right as they took turns hitting him, was throbbing with an unbearable shooting pain. Another blow to the face caused something to crack at the base of his skull. It felt like a fire had erupted in his brain. The pain rendered him speechless with shock.

“You a tough guy? You ain’t gon’ try to scream, beg, ask for mercy or nothing?” one of the masked intruders belted out.

Easy felt the butt of a handgun connect with his skull. His pride wouldn’t allow him to budge. He was cut from a different cloth. From a rough childhood, he had clawed his way to the top of the drug game. His reputation in the streets preceded him, and he wasn’t going to show weakness now.

“A’ight, nigga, if you so tough, get up and save your family, motherfucker!” one of the masked men taunted, his breath hot on Easy’s nose and lips.

Easy continued to let his head hang, his blood dripping on the expensive Oriental rug that covered his living room floor.

“You gon’ die a pussy even if you don’t say shit. We gon’ teach you a lesson, since you think you’re invincible in the streets,” said the main instigator amongst the intruders. He wanted Easy to beg for his life.

Easy’s body swayed from the incessant blows, but he still didn’t lift his head or give the men the satisfaction of knowing they were hurting him. The high-pitched screams of his youngest daughter, however, penetrated his resolve.

“Daddy!” Brianna wailed from some distant place. “Daddy, help me!” she screamed again, this time her voice more high-pitched and frantic.

Easy opened his battered eyelids, turning his head painfully toward the sound of his youngest daughter’s voice, which grew louder as the intruders dragged her by her hair to Easy’s location.

“I want my daddy!” Brianna belted out again.

Brianna’s voice caused a sharp pain in Easy’s chest. Out of his severely swollen eyes, Easy could see his baby girl squirming and fighting, blood all over her face. His breathing became labored as a surge of hot adrenaline suddenly coursed through his veins.

It was the first time Easy felt nervous since the entire ordeal had begun. He had conditioned himself to believe that he would die in the game, so this end wasn’t totally unexpected. But he’d never thought that his enemies would come after his family like this, especially when everybody in the streets knew his creed was “no women and children.”

“Now, nigga, I think you gon’ change ya fuckin’ mind. I want you to whimper, beg, cry, like the pussy you are!” one of the men said.

Easy closed his eyes in anguish. He didn’t want to see them kill his baby girl. At that moment, he envisioned himself killing all of the intruders slowly, torturing them mercilessly.

“You gonna beg or what?” another man asked him.

These men were hard-pressed to get Easy to beg, but it wasn’t happening.

“Eric, please! Give them whatever they want. Please,” Easy’s wife, Corine, begged.

When the men had finished raping and beating Corine, they brought her to Easy’s side, bound with nautical rope that had cut into her soft skin and left rope burns.

Easy had been unable to look at his wife until now. The only man to ever have her sexually, it hurt him to even imagine another man touching her, much less having sex with her. Easy was being emasculated before his family.

Corine let out another bloodcurdling plea. “Eric, please! I’m begging you!”

Easy didn’t budge. He refused to open his mouth. It wasn’t pride or selfishness; this moment was like living an art-of-war principle for him. The one rule he was going to live and die by was never to give in to the enemy when they would kill him, anyway. That would be like giving them double satisfaction.

“Eric!!!” Corine screamed, attempting to break through his calm reserve, but her pleas fell on deaf ears.

The intruder who had been taking the lead said, “A’ight, the tough-guy gangster is not going to fold on his own, so we’ll fold for him.”

“Take off her clothes,” the man demanded.

The men were ramping up their act in a desperate attempt to get a rise out of Easy. When he heard the man’s words, he began fidgeting against the layers and layers of duct tape and rope that held him captive. His knees burned from the kneeling position he was in. Easy felt as powerless as the first time he had been beaten by his caretakers as a child.

“Daddy!!” Brianna let out another throaty gurgle, her ponytail swinging as she tried to get away from her captors.

The first man slapped Brianna with so much force, she hit the floor like a rag doll.

Easy watched as one of the three men stood over her and began unzipping his pants. He bit down into his jaw, drawing his own blood. The metallic taste filled his mouth and made him thirst for revenge. Easy could feel vomit creeping up his esophagus, his blood boiling in his veins, but he did not utter a word.

“You still playing hard-ass? Well, I’m about to show you real hard-ass,” the same intruder said. “Do it,” he ordered, and the other two intruders forced Brianna’s small legs open. The main man climbed between them and used his manhood as a weapon. The little girl let out an ear-shattering scream from the pain.

Easy rocked back and forth now, his fist clenched so tight, he was sure the bones in his knuckles would burst through the skin.

“Yeah, you ain’t so tough now, Eric—I mean Easy,” the rapist huffed as he banged into the little girl’s flesh.

Easy finally recognized the man’s voice. His heart began to pound, knowing who was perpetrating this heinous act on his daughter.

“Junior?” Easy rasped, blood dripping into his mouth and eyes.

“What, nigga? You calling out my fuckin’ name?” Junior said as he continued to rape Easy’s youngest child.

“Oh shit! Man, how the fuck did he know it was you?!” one of the other men asked nervously.

“Fuck him! You shoulda never crossed me, Easy,” Junior said evilly.

“You’re a dead man,” Easy said, his voice muffled.

“No, you the dead man, bitch nigga!” another one of the intruders said, leveling his weapon at the back of Easy’s head.



Candice sat up, her heart racing. Sweat drenched her sheets and her pajamas. She touched her face and realized she had been crying in her sleep. Using her hands, she wiped away her tears and took a deep breath.

She flopped back down on her pillow, realizing the nightmare was over. “This is getting ridiculous now,” she whispered to herself as she tried to shake the horrible images from her mind. The dreams had now become a regular occurrence in her life.

Although she wasn’t in the house when her entire family was massacred in cold blood, she was the one to find her mother, father, older brothers, and little sister. Candice had deduced that the killers had viciously raped and sodomized her mother and her eight-year-old sister. They had also brutally tortured and killed her father.

“I miss you, Daddy,” Candice whispered. Then she looked over at the pillow next to her and relaxed a little. “Y’all still here, boyfriends? Always down to ride to the bloody end,” she whispered, speaking to the two semiautomatic handguns—a .40-caliber Glock and a .357 SIG Sauer that she lay next to at all times.

She immediately thought of Tupac’s lyrics and smiled. “All I need in this life of sin is me and my boyfriends, me and my boyfriends,” Candice mouthed, changing the lyrics a little bit. She laughed at how she’d butchered the song. It still wasn’t nearly as bad as what Jay-Z had done with Pac’s song when he had done a remake, as an ode to Beyoncé.

The joke didn’t last long enough to erase Candice’s pain. She covered her eyes with her forearm. She wanted to feel better about today—the four-year anniversary of her family’s murders.

Although she had a beautiful luxury apartment, highend furniture, and flat-screen televisions in every room, she was lonely. Candice found that material things only made her feel better temporarily. Nothing could be a fix for the loss of her family. In fact, she often wondered what life would be like if her family was still alive. She envisioned her father hugging her and her baby sister as he showered them with gifts, his smooth Hershey’s chocolate–colored face plastered with a smile. “Here, sweet candy cane,” he would say. “This is for you from the only man who will ever love you.”

Now eighteen, Candice wondered if her father, a revered figure on the streets of Brooklyn, would’ve threatened whichever boy she brought home to escort her to her high school prom. She knew for sure her two older brothers, Eric Jr. and Errol, would have been very protective of her. Candice was a tomboy, playing sports with her brothers and challenging them on a regular basis. She also wondered about her little sister, Brianna, who would’ve been twelve today. Candice could see her sister’s moon-shaped face and tried to imagine what she would look like on her twelfth birthday. On her twelfth, Candice had gotten a Tiffany diamond pendant and necklace with the matching bracelet. Her father had also thrown her the biggest party that year.

A smile formed as she pictured her mother’s face, the color of butterscotch, smooth and milky. Candice didn’t always get along with her mother, but she knew her mother loved her just the same. If she was more girly, she was sure her mother would’ve been easier to get along with.

Candice could still hear her mother’s voice fussing with her about coming home late from basketball practice. “Candice, why are you so late? You think the sun rises and sets around you? Eric, you have to do something about that girl! We are not going to keep waiting for her to eat dinner and to get things started in this house.”

Candice’s father, of course, would jump to her defense. “Corine, you leave my little candy cane alone.”



The day her family was murdered, Candice was rushing home from basketball practice. As she exited the A train station at a feverish pace, her basketball shorts whisked back and forth in the wind, and sweat made her white tee stick to her athletic chest and abs. She whizzed past the usual corner and stoop hangouts in the neighborhood.

The Bed-Stuy neighborhood in Brooklyn had definitely undergone some changes in the last few years. There were even a few white people now in the mix. In fact, the brownstones on either side of her family’s home were undergoing massive renovations before the new tenants moved in. This seemed to validate Candice’s mother claim that “the Jews are taking over Bed-Stuy.”

Candice just knew her mother was at home beefing over her chronic tardiness. It was Brianna’s eighth birthday party, and the family had gathered to celebrate. Though it was still the middle of the week, a large party for family friends was planned for the upcoming Saturday.

Candice slowed her sprint to a walk as she neared home. She could only imagine the spread her mother would have laid out. A grand birthday cake that looked more like a wedding cake, with purple and white frosting that would surely be the center of attraction. (Purple was Brianna’s favorite color.) There would probably be enough food to feed the entire United States military. The Hardaways never spared any expenses when it came to their children’s birthdays.

Candice had been told several times to be home on time. In fact, her father had told her that he would have one of his workers pick her up from the gym, but she protested, saying, “Daddy, I’m old enough to get home by myself. Getting picked up is for lames.”

Candice hated being treated like a little kid. She was fourteen and needed to be a little independent. Her dad didn’t agree with her taking public transportation, but she was the one person who could have her way with him. She was her dad’s first daughter, and his heart definitely belonged to her.

When she got to her brownstone, she realized her keys were in the pocket of her jeans, which were inside her gym bag. She thought about ringing the bell but didn’t want to take the chance that her mother would answer the door.

Candice placed her bag down on the stoop and fished around in her gym bag until she located the keys. As she was about to insert the key in the door, she noticed something that looked like blood on the doorknob, but she couldn’t be sure. Confused, she used her shirt to try to wipe the substance off, twisting her shirt over the knob to clean it, and the door clicked open.

Candice knew her father would have a fit if he found out any of them had left the door unlocked. They all knew what their father, known in the streets as “Easy,” did for a living, and so did the entire city of New York. With Easy’s line of work came danger and high paranoia, so he’d always preached to them about locking doors, making sure the home security system was on, and being cognizant of their surroundings.

Candice pushed the door open cautiously and walked into the grand foyer, where she noticed a trail of bloody sneaker prints. She dropped her gym bag and covered her nose with her sleeve. The smell of raw meat gone bad made her gag. Swallowing hard, her heart began pounding as she moved forward slowly. Although there was loud music blaring around the house, she thought the house was eerily desolate.

“Daddy?” Candice called out as she continued to creep forward. Her legs felt like butter melting against the hot sun, and an eerie, unsettling feeling took over her stomach. “Daddy?! Mommy?!” she called out as the hysteria began to build.

She reached the huge wooden sliding doors that led to their living room. “Daddy?!” Candice cried out in a shaky soprano voice when she noticed blood seeping under the door. A tingling sensation came over her body as she reached out and slid the doors open. An unknown force seemed to be propelling her forward, but her mind screamed, Danger!

Candice’s eyes popped and her mouth fell open at the shocking sight before her. Open, vacant eyes, dead and unforgiving, stared back at her. Urine ran involuntarily down her legs.



Candice began to cry again. Her fists were balled so tight, it caused the veins in her hands to pulse fiercely against her skin. The hot tears leaked from her eyes and pooled in her ears. These tears, four years later, made her even angrier than she was the day she’d discovered their bodies.

She pulled herself up out of bed and stalked over to her dresser. She lifted the family portrait off the mahogany wood and ran her fingers over each face, sucking in the sobs now. She would’ve given anything in the world to have her family back. After finding them all dead, she wasn’t even able to attend their funerals. That was too risky.

Whoever killed her family thought that they had taken out every member. The news had reported that the entire family, including all of the children, had been massacred, so no one knew there was one Hardaway still alive. Candice didn’t just lose her family, but her identity as well, as she was forced to begin a new life.

Candice used the pad of her thumb to dust off the glass that covered the photograph. Gently placing it back on the dresser, she looked into the mirror. Her eyes were dull and sad, but familiar. They were her father’s eyes. She swallowed hard. She contemplated observing this miserable anniversary by staying in bed all day long, sulking and crying, but she knew that wasn’t an option. She had a mission to carry out.

She walked over to the far left of her bedroom, where she had set up a mini office, complete with a computer, a small file cabinet, a safe, and a printer that doubled as a fax and scanner. Although she didn’t need to really work or go to school in the traditional sense, she had set up her bedroom like a college dormitory.

Before she sat down to check her e-mails, she looked up at the cork bulletin board that hung above the computer desk. Smirking, Candice examined all of the grainy pictures she had thumbtacked to the gauzy cushion. She looked each man in the eye and studied his features, as she had done so many times before.

Her heart thundered with excitement. “One by one, day by day, I’m coming for y’all. Y’all motherfuckers ain’t never met candy harder than this piece. Hope y’all niggas got a serious sweet tooth.”

Candice jiggled her key in the familiar old rusted door lock. “Why the hell doesn’t he get this shit fixed already?” She grunted in frustration. “Unless he got this shit boobytrapped again.” Finally the lock clicked. “Damn! About time.” Candice sighed and rushed through the door. She was glad she had kept her keys to Uncle Rock’s apartment after she turned eighteen and moved out.

Everything was in its usual place. The sun streaming through Uncle Rock’s old-fashioned metal blinds accentuated the dust particles on his dilapidated furniture. She shook her head. “He must really miss my ass,” she whispered. When she lived there, she dusted and kept the place clean.

“Uncle Rock!” Candice called out. She didn’t get an answer. “Uncle Rock, you here?” she called again. There was no sign of her uncle, except for the herbal tea packet on the table, which indicated he’d had his liquid breakfast.

She heard a noise coming from the small bathroom to her left. Placing her face up against the raggedy wooden door, she shouted, “Uncle Rock, you all right?”

No answer.

Candice knew something was wrong. She rattled the doorknob, but the door was locked. Candice’s uncle was a master locksmith and booby trapper, so getting inside could prove very difficult.

Candice was worried sick about her uncle Rock. She knew he wasn’t well but wasn’t sure what exactly was wrong with him. Lately he had changed. He didn’t exercise anymore. She remembered a time when Uncle Rock would ask her to load his back down with the heaviest books in his . . .