Sixteen-year-old Diamond "Ray-Ray" Jenkins has it made in the shade, until one wrong move by her parents turns their lives upside down. Their secret of taking from the wrong Street King in the Trap, Damien Orlando, has now put her in peril. Their deaths signal an end to Diamond's semi-perfect life, putting her in the hands of evil. Her only salvation is to learn the game, and to put her trust in a kid wearing a hoodie. Trigga has been a survivor and a killer in the streets of Atlanta since the murder of his parents. . With his heart set on vengeance, he finds his destiny as a misfit and works his way through the ranks of Damien Orlando's crime syndicate. Once he's forced to snatch up a girl as hard as diamonds, his world changes drastically. It's up to him to use the plan of payback in the form of a simple motto: E.N.G.A. (Every Nigga Gotta Agenda). Trigga will have to use it to save them both. With his boy Big Jake, along with Gina and Ray-Ray forming their own family, Dame and every goon in his circle are targets. Chaos is coming, and Dame's most trusted are about to bring him pain and death.
Release date:
September 1, 2014
Publisher:
Urban Books
Print pages:
288
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“Mama, what’s going on?” I asked with tears in my eyes.
No matter how many times I’d seen my mama frightened, I’d never seen the total look of terror and panic in her eyes. Her skin was fire-red, and her eyes watered to the point where I was sure her vision was blurry.
“Shut up, Ray-Ray. Just cut them open and dump them, baby. Please.”
She was working frantically as we dumped ounces of pure white coke into the toilet. I was going so fast, the sharp knife in my hand had cut me. I didn’t understand why we were dumping the goods when the Feds weren’t at the door. Yeah, somebody was banging on the door, but I knew it wasn’t the Feds, judging by the way my father was pleading for the people on the other side of the door to give him some time.
“We fucked up, Ray. We did, baby. We fucked—”
She couldn’t even get the words out before the front door of our house came flying off its hinges. My mama jumped up, her chest heaving up and down like she was having an asthma attack. Her mouth was moving but nothing would come out.
“Come on, Dame. Man, look, man . . . let me—”
My daddy’s words got cut short when the sound of gunshots rent the air, and he was silent for a brief moment. I jumped up, ready to run out to see if he was dead, but my mama stopped me, snatched me back into the bathroom, and silently closed the door.
“Shhhh!” she ordered me as she moved me back. “Get in the shower and lay down. Don’t move, Ray-Ray. Don’t say shit, baby. Understand?”
My mama looked at me, I mean, really looked at me for the first time in my sixteen years. I saw all of the things that she feared, all of her worries, all of her anxiety. For the first time, she looked older than thirty-one.
“Mama, please, don’t leave me,” I cried.
“No, Ray-Ray. No. No fuckin’ tears,” she aggressively whispered. “You never shed one gotdamned tear, you hear me? Never let these niggas see your fear. They feed on that shit. Understand? Dry those fuckin’ tears now.” She then reached to cup the back of my neck and lay her forehead on mine.
My eyes widened, and we listened on in horror as my father’s agony rent the apartment.
“Aw, man. Fuck! Come on, Dame, just give me time,” Daddy pleaded. “I’ll get yo’ shit back to you, nigga. Just give me time.”
Then I heard his voice. He sounded like he could be your savior, but in reality, he was your executioner.
“Fuck, nigga! You gone steal my shit then try to sell me my own work back?”
I assumed that was Dame.
“Look, man, I fucked up, a’ight. I fucked up. We been boys, Dame. I looked out for you when your pops caught it back in the day. Come on, man.”
“Where’s your bitch?” Dame asked.
My mother held me tighter and stared into my eyes. She’d told me not to cry, but her tears were flowing freely.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” she said to me. “Please forgive me and Raymond. We fucked up, baby.”
“Sh-she ain’t here,” my daddy lied. “I sent her to get the product.”
“See? You see this shit, my niggas? Even on his death bed, this nigga lying. Go find her.”
My mother stood quickly, kissed my lips, and then forced me to lie down in the tub. She then quickly unscrewed the lightbulb in the bathroom.
“Stay there,” she told me then grabbed the knife she had been using to cut the coke bricks open.
Both of us still had the powder on our hands, fear in our breaths, and death in our eyes. We listened on as they ransacked our house. Silently, I was wishing, hoping, and praying that they didn’t find me or my mama. I was praying, as bad as it may sound, that they would just kill my daddy and be gone. But the look on my mama’s face said the end was near. She knew what was coming.
Suddenly, the door to the bathroom swung open. Mama didn’t even have time to swing the knife. Somebody yanked her by her long black hair and slung her out of the bathroom into the hall. I almost screamed when he kicked her in her stomach then punched her, but I slapped my hand over my mouth and inched down into the tub. I tried to lay flat like a plank. I was grateful then that the bathroom was dark.
“Aye, yo, Dame, we found the bitch and some of your shit,” the guy said, his voice deep and raspy as if he had smoked too many cigarettes.
I couldn’t see his face, but I would remember that voice.
He dragged my mama kicking and screaming from the bathroom, taunting her. “Shut up, bitch.”
There was a loud smack, and then my mother screamed. Items crashed to the floor. I could only assume she had fallen over something. What I heard next made my heart stop.
POP!
My daddy’s yells when they shot my mama chilled me to the bone.
“Shut up, nigga,” the raspy voice growled out behind another gunshot.
My daddy’s agonizing shriek pierced the air again. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I wanted to see my parents, needed to see them, even if they were dead. Before my common sense kicked in, I hopped from the tub, screaming and sobbing, then ran to the front room, falling over my mother’s dead body. Her eyes were wide open with a bullet hole between them.
“No, mama! No!” I cried, trying to cradle her in my arms.
Her body was limp, heavy. The weight of death was suffocating me. Through hazy and burning eyes I looked at my daddy. He was still clinging to life. I’d never seen my father cry before. Had never seen him weak, but in that moment I knew he was at his weakest.
“Dun”—He coughed, spat up blood as it bubbled in his throat—“don’t kill my baby,” he begged with his last breath.
“Pick that bitch up, Trigga,” Dame said.
I looked up at the man through blurry vision. I couldn’t really make him out. There were about twelve other men in our home. It was overkill. Did he really need all of those men to kill my mama and daddy?
Trigga snatched me up by the back of my hair and then made me kneel in front of him. I couldn’t see his face, just felt the aggressiveness in his hold on me. The tight grip on the back of my hair was already giving me a headache. I tried to snatch away to no avail. I almost fell face first into his steel-toe Timberlands. Trigga snatched me back up, and I tried to fight back. My mama would want me to fight back. My daddy always babied me, but my mama told me to fight. I had to fight for my mama.
I started to kick, scream, and yell, bucking my body, trying to get away. I arched my back and reached behind me to claw at his face. I got him too, just enough to try to dig his eyes out for my mama. “Get off of me!” I screamed out, kicking my legs and bucking like a horse.
I could make out some of the faces of the niggas in the room. Could hear them laughing at me clawing at the man’s eyes. Half of them were supposed to be my daddy’s boys, was supposed to be his friends, have his fuckin’ back. Pookie, Slammer, Janky, all those niggas was just breaking bread with my mama and daddy, and laughing about how they had come up.
Rage took away my senses. I swung my hand in a backward motion at the nigga who had a hold on me, trying to hit him in his dick. He was quicker and stronger than me, and used his big foot to take my legs from under me, taking me down to the floor face first. His knee in my back made me scream out louder. I could feel the blood oozing from my nose. My daddy had always told me niggas in the street didn’t care for you.
“They don’t give a fuck. You hear me, Ray-Ray? Niggas ruthless as fuck, baby girl,” he’d said as he used his pinky nail to sniff coke up his nose.
He was right. The big muthafucka on me was sure to kill me.
See, real niggas didn’t care about raping no chick when it came to their money being fucked up. They didn’t waste time with pussy when there was bloodlust.
“Sit this nigga up so he can see Trigga cap his daughter,” Dame barked out then took a seat on our leather sofa.
All I could see was his expensive-clad feet. He had on Italian leather dress shoes that looked fresh from the shoemaker.
I could hear movement as Dame’s henchmen moved to sit my father up.
Oh God, my life was about to end. Somebody would walk in and find me, my mama, and my daddy dead on the floor.
“Dame, please . . .” My daddy choked as he tried to talk.
I heard the gun click back. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, hot tears rolling down my face.
Daddy’s sobbing voice finally found its way out. “Waittttt. She’s a virgin. Use her.” He coughed. “Don’t kill her. Pussy . . . fresh money.”
“Yo, yo, Trigga, wait a minute, my nigga. I think Ray just sold me his daughter’s virgin pussy.”
There was an awkward silence, and then Dame and his henchmen burst into a fit of laughter, all of them except the one with his knee in my back.
“You really bargaining your daughter’s pussy for your life, nigga?” Dame asked.
“Don’t kill her” was all my father could get out.
“Finish him,” Dame ordered.
My body jerked when the shot rang out. I didn’t know who had shot my daddy, just like I didn’t know who’d shot my mama. When I opened my eyes, my daddy was laying right in front of me, his lifeless eyes wide just like mama’s. The last look in them begged my forgiveness.
“Stop fuckin’ struggling,” I growled low next to li’l shawty’s ear, my knee dug deep into her back as I pressed her hard, her cheek sandwiched between my foot and the floor.
I licked my lips in a scowl before looking up at my boss Dame. I pushed my hand against li’l shawty’s head to keep her there and waited for my next command, gun ready to bust at any moment. This shit was my birthday present—my rise as Dame’s main killer—and the shit had me on a rush.
All around me was niggas thirsty for my new position, and fuck if I was gonna let another nigga take my shit. So, I kneeled there, holding down the shawty who fucked up my face with that shit she pulled. Bitch cut under my right eye good. I knew I was gonna have a scar there, but I didn’t care; I just wasn’t digging how shawty got at me. The broad had to be stupid. She should have stayed where she was, and her life would have been much better, but that was her bad. Now her bitch-ass parents’ debt was hers. And she was still fighting me. I hated when I had to introduce people to who I was.
Every nigga had a sob story, had the tiniest violin playing and shit, waiting to spill their secrets like bitches. I didn’t. My life was simple as it was, and this broad was about to find that out. My name was Trigga. My finger was always itching to grip that Glock, and my right hook ready to connect to any nigga’s jaw. I didn’t mess around and play games. I had no time for that shit. So I sat and waited for the command from the boss.
Life in “the trap” was like that. Li’l shawty was tapping on my black box, reminding me of that shit. Like I said, it was my birthday. A nigga eighteen now. People in my past would say I was a man now, but that shit ain’t true. I became a man the day my mom handed me a Glock and told me to take down the killers who’d snuffed both my parents out. Yeah, simple as that. Who I was then died, and Trigga came out of the shadows. A li’l nigga educated by a revolutionary NGE/New Black Panther from Brooklyn and his Assata Shakur protégé wife, both of whom went to one of those HBCUs around here in ATL but lived in the trap. Yeah, Trigga got education but was raised on the streets of the trap. Went from house to house once my parents got popped. Stopped caring about my situation when I touched the blood of my pops, mom, and little sister. Stopped caring when I watched my mom get raped by some niggas who wanted what my pops had. Had took him down just to get her.
Yeah, in that shit, my pops taught me a man who was king was never a nigga unless he wanted to be, and a king always took care of his throne to survive. My throne was gone the moment they got popped, so I had to survive by becoming a nigga. Feel me? My moms taught me that day that a queen was a jaguar and a jaguar could never be made pussy. She lived that truth even as she got ran through and then, in turn, snuffed a couple of them niggas out as she lay choking in her own blood. I finished off the rest I could get to as she schooled me on her and pops’ rules in surviving the game. She told me where their stash of paper was hidden with her and my pops’ book of thoughts then she took her last breath. Her glossy amber eyes were the last thing I remembered.
I took it and hid all that shit before five-O ran through. I watched as they lined the place with that dust and said my parents were drug runners.
People forgot about my fam and me. My name disappeared that day, and I became Trigga.
I watched in silence as they threw me in the system, where I went from home to home until I met Dame. You know, same story every little black kid got. In my black box was all that shit. All emotions died in those moments. I was ten then. So, like I said, every nigga got a sob story, but mine never made me cry, so I ain’t got shit to sob over.
Dame gave his approval from behind me. “Trigga nigga, good look. Now pick that pussy up, and let’s roll out. I got better shit to do.”
“So we ain’t cappin the bitch?” one of the homies asked.
Nigga was sweating and shit, dick print visible, and it pissed me off. Sloppy killers always got caught and snitched, and this fool was just that type. He killed ’cause shit made his dick hard. Sewer-ass niggas like him always had to find some way to get his, and by the way he was sweating and shit, it looked like he needed to get him some molly too. Weak-ass niggas, I swear.
I yanked hard and lifted li’l shawty’s head to slam it hard against the floor, knocking her out easily. Then I picked her up, threw her over my shoulder, and locked eyes on Dame.
“Did I say cap that bitch yet? No, I didn’t. Let’s be out. Got uses for that pussy,” Dame said and walked out.
My eyes narrowed, I pulled my fitted down to shield my eyes, reached back to tuck my short locks into my hoodie, and pulled it over my head. As we walked out the apartment, I made a mental note to come back and holler at each broad and nigga in the complex that may have wanted to talk. Everyone knew that you didn’t fuck with Dame and you didn’t fuck with his product. This broad’s people had done just that. Never take from the hand that feed you. Feel me? That was a straight OG rule right there.
Throwing her in the back seat, I watched some of the niggas grab their dicks the moment li’l shawty’s legs fell apart and showed her pink panties. Typical-ass niggas. Pussy always on their minds no matter where they could get it. Me? Fuck that shit! My pussy knew where to stay and knew not to be fucked with outside of me. I stayed getting my dick wet, so being hungry for random pussy, especially fresh pussy, wasn’t even on my mind. My throne was on my mind.
My throne always equaled staying tight in the street, my money, my kills, and then pussy. Ain’t no order to that shit either.
“Ey yo, pretty boy Trigga, we got some shit ready for tonight for your day.” TooTight, another nigga in the crew, flashed his gold and laughed while watching me. “Li’l nigga going to get mad pussy and dough, right?”
Nigga always called me pretty boy, because of my brown skin. Broads stayed thirsty from that alone. They said I had eyes that look lined with eyeliner or some shit. I hated when they said that crap, but it always made their pussies wet at the same time. Said my brown skin looked like red clay and you know the broads loved my short locks and smile. They loved the way I licked my lips and rubbed my jaw too. So, yeah, a nigga was pretty to them. Always had me pullin’ pussy for Dame and the crew. Always. But TooTight’s words went over my head as he asked me again.
So, I said nothing. Why? Because I didn’t talk. But I did smirk and swipe at my nose, closing the door to the car behind me. Yeah, party was going to be swagged out, but I couldn’t give two shits about it really. I just wanted my cash and wanted to push more product. Was done with school, so I had to hit up my block on the regular now to push out Dame’s goods. Yeah, a nigga had his high-school diploma. I really don’t know why I cared about that, just reminded me of what my pops always put in my head, I guess. Either way, it kept me close to anyone that needed some dust, as well as our enemies on the street.
Climbing into the car, I dropped my head back as the other goon niggas started clapping at the mouth, talking ’bout dumb shit. This was the time I usually always go into my black box and pull out the teachings of my pops and one of the books on being a samurai that I found in his closet. But right now, that shit wasn’t even possible. Niggas kept talking, asking me about when I was going to get inked up.
I mean, I didn’t know how many fuckin’ times I had to tell them that shit wasn’t happening. I mean, I thought about that shit, but my mind was always ten steps ahead of niggas. What was the quickest way to be ID’d in the black streets of ATL? Ink. You got ink that stands out and shows, then how you gonna hide in the hood? Naw. I wasn’t going to do any visible shit, and if I did, you would have to get up on me to ID that shit. That wasn’t going to happen.
I sat back and just laughed as they asked me questions, like bitches.
“Yo, li’l homie is getting inked up just right tonight. My gift,” Dame said to us from the front.
Of course he would throw his weight around. Damn!
When Dame said something, it was law around the A, and since I didn’t feel like hearing that nigga’s mouth, I had to oblige. Now I had to think about how to do the shit smart. I mean, yeah, I had an idea of what kind of ink I wanted to get—something dealing with who I was—which made me smile inwardly. I knew getting a tat went against everything I’d just said, but I had to show loyalty to Dame’s word or he would start to fuck with me. It was all good though because I was a different kind of nigga. So, what I got would be something I drew—two shackles on my wrists with the chains disappearing into my veins. That was it. They’d think it was some hood shit. I didn’t care. It would be what I wanted it to be.
So the day came close to night, and li’l shawty started whimpering on my lap. We had run some product all the while she laid in the back of the ride tied up, blindfolded, and gagged. Every time I got in, I made sure to knock her out with a quick squeeze near her neck and behind her head, something I learned in my pop’s book that I had been practicing. Made shit easier in these situations, and I didn’t want another Band-Aid on the side of my eye.
The trap was thick with niggas and bitches in the streets. As we made. . .
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