Hustlin' Divas

Book 0: Diva

by De'nesha Diamond

Genres: African American Urban; Sagas

Synopsis

From the award-winning, national bestselling author hailed as the Duchess of Street Lit comes a steamy, sexy, gritty tale about Memphis’ ride-or-die chicks, who’ll do whatever it takes to get what they want.

In South Memphis, four women live in high-stakes, high-risk territory.

Ta’Shara has no interest in following her sister into the street game, but when she falls in love with the brother of a rival, her own sister orders a severe punishment.

LeShelle didn’t get where she is by being nice. When a drug mule tries to take her spot next to her man, Python, she pulls the hustle of a lifetime.

Yolanda is ambitious but not too smart. A lucky break lands her in Python’s bed and makes her an enemy of LeShelle.

Melanie is a police detective, but she helps Python skirt the law to line her pockets. When she starts catching feelings, everything goes to hell, and her shiny badge can’t help her now.

A Blackstone Audio production.

Release date: September 2, 2014

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

September ...

At 8:15 a.m. the halls of Morris High School are already crammed with a bunch of lil niggas who didn’t want to be here—me included. It doesn’t matter that I’m in the top 5 percent of my class and that I already know the colleges I want to apply to next year. I hate this shitty school and look forward to the day I can roll up out of the here for good. Real talk, I have plans—big muthafuckin’ plans that don’t have shit to do with holding down none of these wannabe grown niggas repping bullshit gangs and bragging about how hood rich they are while they blast they way to the jail or the graveyard.

It isn’t that I don’t understand the struggle. Hell, I didn’t come up with shit either. No money. No home. No parents. The only thing I did have was a crazy-ass sister who loved the streets despite the fact that they don’t love her.

“Ta’Shara!” Essence’s unmistakable babylike voice squeaks above all the other miscellaneous conversations floating down the hall.

“What up, E?” I say, jerking open my locker.

Essence reaches my side, out of breath. “Have you finally lost your goddamn mind?”

I know exactly what my girl is yapping about, but I’m not in the mood to try and explain myself. “Don’t start.” I grab my precalculus book and check my lip gloss in the small mirror on my locker’s door. “It was a mistake and it won’t happen again.” I slam the door closed and try to go on my merry little way.

“A mistake? Girl, do you—”

“Your ass ain’t cute,” Qiana sneers, poking out her hip and mean mugging me while her neck twirls on overtime.

I roll my eyes and smack my perfectly round booty at Qiana. “That ain’t what your man said last night.”

“Oooh!” The other niggas littering the hallway instantly jump into the mix.

Qiana, a compact shawty dressed in black jeans, black T, and sporting a lopsided Louis Vuitton cap, steps forward, popping her bubble gum. “Hands off Profit, bitch. I catch you rubbing your stank-ass titties on him again and I’m going to personally slice your ass up.”

“You mean these titties right here?” I cup my shit, knowing they put Qiana’s minus-A cups to sleep. “Don’t hate on Profit just ’cause you eyeballing my shit. If he was a homo thug, then I guess his ass would try to get with you and those dried-up Flowers you run with.”

“Dayum!” some inconsequential nigga in the crowd hollers.

Qiana’s already-burned toast complexion darkens as fire leaps into her eyes.

I’m not the least bit surprised that Qiana and her dyke friends with the Vice Lords’ Flowers feel bold enough to step to me like this. I sort of expected the shit when I let my guard down and got caught hugging up on Profit after homeroom—a serious violation since Profit’s family run with the Vice Lords, and guilt by blood means that he’s VL property as well.

Despite the ring of Flowers behind Qiana, Essence and I hold our ground, ready for the jump-off. The Flowers are infamous for jumping chicks and forcing them into their shitty-ass gang. The school is littered with bitches repping for the three dominate gangs in shady M-Town: the Black Gangster Disciples, the Vice Lords, and the Crips.

I’m in a unique position. Like Profit, I have a little guilt by blood situation myself. My older sister, LeShelle, is the head Queen G, riding with the Black Gangster Disciples. In the grand scheme of things, Qiana is just a lowly chicken head and she knows fucking with me means death.

Qiana grinds her back teeth and stares me down. She knows her options are limited. “Let’s just see what Fat Ace got to say about Profit dipping his dick in trash.”

I flinch. If anybody has the power to shut us down, it’s Profit’s menacing brother. “Get your snitchin’ ass out my face.”

“What’s going on over here? What is going on?” Principal Davis shuffles his tall, lanky frame through the crowd. His old ass always gets nervous whenever too many niggas are clustered together.

I turn my back, considering the situation squashed for the moment. Beside me, Essence exhales a long breath.

“Girl, you’re playing with fire,” she whispers as we make our way down the hall. “That bitch can’t keep water, and you and Profit’s scandalous situation is going to reach Fat Ace—and LeShelle.”

My mind races a mile a minute. What are we going to do?

“What the hell were you thinking about, kissing him like that in public? Y’all were supposed to keep y’all shit on the DL.”

“I know. I know. But Profit kept fuckin’ around and pinchin’ me on my titties.”

“Well, I hope it was worth it. ’Cause now y’all shit is wide open, and the blowback ain’t going to be nothing nice. You feel me?”

Now my head hurts. Profit and I didn’t ask for none of this gang bullshit, and neither of us feels like we should be beholden to a bunch of laws and bylaws that we never agreed to. We’ve been feeling each other for the past six months, ever since I caught him peeping me out in German Town. I’d just tagged along with Essence to visit her uncle out there in a nursing home... .

German Town was the latest spot white folks had flocked to, trying to get away from niggas. I remembered being stunned at the pristine sidewalks, mowed lawns, and fancy cars flying down the roadway. It felt like another universe to South Memphis, where bullets fly and drug fiends reigned supreme. Essence and I turned the day into an adventure and hung out at Wolfchase Galleria, snickering and cheesing at all the uppity white folks.

In my heart, there was a little jealousy about how the different classes carried themselves. They acted and were treated like the whole world was theirs. Their clothes were nicer. Their cars were hotter. Hell, if I didn’t know better, I would’ve sworn the damn air was fresher.

“Hey, Ta’Shara,” Essence whispered. “Ain’t that nigga checkin’ you out?”

“Hmm?” I looked up from my baked cinnamon pretzel and glanced around. My gaze zoomed across the food court and zeroed in on the only brother in the place. It didn’t hurt that his ass was fine. In one sweeping glance, I saw that he was an easy six-three, lean with a basketball-player frame. If there was anything against him, it was his being on the high-yellow side. Up until that moment, I had preferred my men to be dark.

“Oooh, girl. He’s undressing you with his eyes,” Essence teased. “You going to let him violate you like that?”

“Nah. That nigga ain’t nobody.” I went back to eating my pretzel, but all the while I felt the brother’s heavy gaze caress every inch of my body. It took everything I had not to peek back at him. I then decided to give the brother an opening by telling my girl I was going back up to the Auntie Anne’s Pretzels counter for something to drink.

“You want anything?” I asked.

“Nah, girl. I’m straight.”

I stood up and switched my hips all extra because I wanted the yellow cutie to see what I was working with. Up until the previous year, I had been a late bloomer. My older sister, LeShelle, had got her tits and ass in junior high while I had to wait until I was a sophomore in high school. Now that I got them, I sure as hell knew how to flaunt them. And it didn’t matter how much junk food I ate; being the star on the track team kept my waist small and my long legs firm and shapely.

“I’d like a Coke,” I told the woman behind the counter, and then wiggled a hand down the front pocket of my jeans for some change.

“I got you,” a deep baritone said from behind me. A second later, a Lincoln was slapped on the counter. “Keep the change.”

I took my time glancing over my shoulder, and when I did, I wasn’t prepared for the big, caramel-brown eyes twinkling from beneath a fan of long, curly lashes. My heart started playing hopscotch in my chest. His hair was cut low, but I could tell he had that good Puerto Rican grade that had a nice wave and shine without the help of greasy products.

“You ain’t got to stare that hard, baby. I’m real.” He smiled, hitting me with perfect rows of pearly white teeth.

I cut my gaze away and grabbed my drink.

“What, you just going to take a nigga’s drink and roll?”

I strutted off.

“Oh, your momma must not have raised you right.”

I stopped. “Don’t be talking about my momma. You don’t know shit about me.”

My anger only made his smile wider. “I know you’re rude as hell. Does that count?”

“What, I’m supposed to bend over because you dropped five dollars? I ain’t impressed.”

My potential boo licked his fat, luscious lips as his gaze dropped to my ass. “I ain’t said shit about bending over, but if you put that fat onion in my face, I’m going to give you something to remember me by.”

A delicious thrill slivered straight down to my panties, despite me holding on to my mad face. “Is that how your momma taught you to talk to a lady?”

“Oh, so it’s a’ight for you to talk about my momma, huh?”

“Answer the question.”

He held up his hands. “My bad, shawty. I didn’t know that you were going to try getting all brand-new on a brotha.” He adjusted his collar as if it were an invisible tie. “Excuse me, miss. May I ask you your name?”

I crossed one arm beneath my breasts and sipped on my Coke as I weighed my decision.

He stood, waiting and doing his damn best to mesmerize me with his deep-pitted dimples.

“Ta’Shara,” I finally said, offering my hand.

“Ta’Shara,” he repeated.

My name sounded sexy tripping from his lips, and I felt that same thrill hit my clit and dampen my panties some more. “And what’s your name?”

“Profit.” He straightened his shoulders and licked his lips. “But you can call me your boo.”

I cocked my head. “What makes you think I ain’t already got a man?”

“ ’Cause you standing here flirting with me.”

My lips twitched upward. “I’m just talking to you because you were crying about your five bucks.”

“Tsk, aww, Momma. Don’t play me. That ain’t no money. Come with me and let me show you how I roll.” He cocked his head.

“Nigga, I don’t know you.”

“What, you scared now?”

“I’m just stating the facts.” I went back to sucking on my straw. “You could be a mad rapist or a murderer or something.”

“Yeah, right.” Profit hooked his fingers through the front loops of my jeans and pulled me so close my titties pressed into his chest. When I didn’t resist, his smile turned cocky as hell. “Now do I look like a killer to you?”

I wanted to answer, but being all up on him like that made it hard to think about anything other than wondering what his fine ass looked like naked.

He laughed at me, his breath all spearmint fresh. “Do you put all niggas through this much drama when you know they feeling you?”

“There you go crying again. Your momma must not have breast-fed you when you were a kid.”

“There you go talking about my momma again.” His beautiful brown gaze lowered to my round titties. “But if you’re offering to breast-feed a nigga, I might let that shit slide.”

There was a hot moment of temptation. No little nigga had ever gotten me this hot. Plus, there was just something about his cocky ass that felt like the ying to my yang.

“C’mon, lil momma. I’ll take you and your little friend shopping.”

Essence, who was just inches away at a wrought-iron table, perked up at that shit.

“A’ight. Cool.” I hit him with the full power of my white smile.

“Yeah!” Essence sprang up like a Pop-Tart.

Wanting to see what Profit was working with, we hit every store in the mall, waiting to see when he would cry uncle and start cussing our asses out. It never happened. Profit peeled Benjamins off a fat knot of bills and made it rain at each cash register with a smile.

“I think this nigga is serious,” Essence whispered when her feet started hurting, and she was ready to go home.

I was thinking the same thing.

“So, can a nigga get the digits, or are you just going to play me?” he asked once he helped load our shopping bags into Essence’s old Ford Escort.

I folded my arms and stared. “Where you from?”

“Here.”

“German Town? What, your people got money?”

“My people do a’ight, but I ain’t from German Town. I meant Memphis. South Memphis, to be exact.”

I frowned. “I’m from South Memphis. How come I ain’t seen you before?”

“Been down in the ATL for a couple of years with my moms, but the stress of being a single mom tryna raise a black son was too much, so she sent me to live with my father and big brother, Fat Ace.”

My heart dropped. “Fat Ace ... is your brother?”

“Ah, shit,” Essence swore, crossing her arms behind her. “Give this nigga his shit back and tell him to get ghost.”

Profit’s face twisted. “Damn, shawty. Slow your roll. What, you kicked it with my brother or something?”

I stepped back and shook my head. “I can’t be fuckin’ around with the Vice Lords. My sister would fuckin’ kill me.”

“Whoa. Whoa.” Profit tossed his hand up. “I ain’t in that gangsta bullshit. I make my own moves. You feel me?”

“I hear you talking, but ...”

“But what? You don’t believe me?”

“I’m saying it don’t matter. I ain’t in the game, either, but it don’t mean that I ain’t caught up in the politics of the situation. My sister is Python’s main chick. Do you know who he is?”

“I heard the name around. I’ve only been back in Memphis a couple of weeks.”

“Well, he’s the head nigga of the Black Gangster Disciples. That means he’s your brother’s number-one enemy. Those niggas been beefing since my ass was in grade school.”

Profit paused, and then in the next second shrugged it off. “That shit ain’t got nothin’ to do with us.”

“You can’t be that naïve,” I said with my heart twisting in my chest. I was really feeling this nigga, too.

Despite Profit’s reassurances, there were flickers of concern about the situation in his face. But being a true stand-up nigga, he didn’t like being told that he couldn’t have something ... or someone. That was the day we hatched the idea of us seeing each other on the serious down low. The only other person who knew the deal was Essence, and she had my back like a muthafucka.

Now, because of one slipup, our shit is wide open. When LeShelle finds out, the blowback is going to be nothing nice.

Datwon Jackson is standing in the center of Momma Peaches’s cramped house, sweating like a runaway slave. Fear is a scent every Gangster Disciple killer thrives on, and we are all eyeballing Datwon’s trembling ass while he takes his sweet time stacking money in front of our leader—and my man—Python.

I smirk at the weak-ass nigga. I know what the fuck is about to go down, and I can’t wait for my man to deal with the weakest link in our organization. Had it been me, I would’ve toe-tagged his ass a long time ago. But he’s Python’s blood—who knows how he’s going to handle this situation.

“Somebody shoot this dumb mutherfucka,” Python hisses after taking one glance at the money stacked on the table and knowing that the shit is short.

An arsenal of handguns is lifted and aimed at Datwon.

I smile as I stand behind Python, ready for the shit to go the fuck off—which always happens when you get a bunch of niggas together.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, mutherfuckas. Whoa.” Datwon’s eyes bug out as he jacks up his hands. “Python, how you going to kill me? We’re cousins, man!”

“Nigga, you’re like my fifth cousin twice removed and shit. Ain’t nobody going to be crying foul over that bullshit,” Python sneers. His big, bulky, chocolate frame is littered with tats of pythons, teardrops, names of fallen street soldiers, and, more importantly, a big six-pointed star representing the Black Gangster Disciples. Python isn’t just a member of the violent gang; in Memphis he is the head nigga in charge. Everybody in South Memphis knows my nigga don’t fuck around when it comes to his money, drugs, territory, and women—in that order.

The seriousness of the situation hits Datwon like a ton of bricks. The young nigga’s face twists like he smells something nasty while his eyes manage to squeeze out a few tears.

That shit only angers Python even more. “Nigga, is you about to start crying and shit?”

The surrounding brothers snicker and cheese. It takes everything I have not to start instigating shit by yelling, Put a cap in his ass. This was a family situation. Everybody needs to fall back and let Python handle his.

Python snatches off his shades and rakes his black gaze up and down his cousin. Despite his hard-earned muscles, Python has a face only a mother can love. But the brother has presence, power, and mad respect. “If you going to be big, bad, and bold and steal from a nigga, then man up.” He hammers a fist hard against his own chest. “Pump that shit out and meet Lucifer like a fuckin’ soldier.”

“I’m trying,” Datwon cries. “But, Python, I didn’t—”

Before Datwon can finish the sentence, Python snatches his burner from the hip of his jeans and straight shoots his cousin in the foot.

“Aaagh!” Datwon hits the warped and dusty hardwood floor with a quickness.

Everyone jumps back and watches the family drama unfold like it was some shit on cable.

I smack a hand over my mouth to prevent myself from laughing out loud.

Python scratches at his scruffy face with the side of his gun as he walks over to his cousin and squats down.

Datwon grabs his bleeding foot and carries on with the theatrics. “C’mon, Python. You know I got a lil man and shit I gotta take care of. I’m planning on marrying his momma next week at the courthouse. Please don’t kill me. I don’t know why the shit is short. I’ll get whatever is missing back to you. I promise. I promise. Just don’t kill me.”

“Nigga, quit all that hollering. You’re embarrassing yourself—and me.”

To Datwon’s credit, he does attempt to quiet down, but then he starts snotting up.

“Lookie here, cuz. I’m going to be brutally honest with your ass. I don’t think this is the business for you. You sloppy with your shit. Word is you bumping your gums to anybody who’ll stand still long enough, and now you got Momma Peaches on my ass twenty-four /seven. A nigga like me don’t need the extra stress. You feel me?”

Datwon whimpers.

“Now, I’m going to cut your ass a break, and in return I want you to keep your punk ass out of my face. If not ... the next bullet”—he places the gun against Datwon’s chest—“is going to hit where it counts. We clear?”

Datwon meets his cousin’s black stare to see what most niggas usually saw: death.

“We clear?” Python presses.

“Clear.” Datwon swallows the knot clogging his throat and damn near chokes to death.

Python nods and stands. “One of y’all niggas take this punk muthafucka to get fixed up. And the rest of y’all get this shit cleaned up. Momma Peaches is going to be here any minute, and she’s going to be pissed if she sees blood and shit.”

Niggas get busy as Python dumps his cash into a Hefty bag and then sweeps the shit over his shoulder.

I have to admit I’m turned on, watching my man do his thing. Nobody comes harder or keeps it more real than my thuggish boo. Every nigga up in this joint knows that shit—just as they know that it takes the baddest chick in the 901 to handle his ass. And there’s no doubt about it; I’m that chick with the tightest pussy, the meanest head game, and the quickest trigger finger.

From the moment I’d laid eyes on Python, I wanted to be the Bonnie to his Clyde. Real talk there’s something dangerous and sexy as hell about his ugliness. I ain’t the only one who feels that way. My nigga has five different seeds running around by five different bitches; all of them just as ugly as they daddy.

But none of that shit fazes me. Those little niggas were all on the scene before I claimed the throne as head bitch of the Queen Gs—the female gang that keeps the Disciples, or what most around here called 6 poppin’: Sexed up and stress free.

I have only one true responsibility in life: looking out for my sixteen-year-old sister, Ta’Shara. We came up in the foster system. Nobody seems to know shit about what happened to our parents. Guess we’re supposed to believe that we just sprouted out from under a rock or some shit. So for most of our lives, we moved from one home to another, watching people collect checks for taking us in. Shit changed when my booty rounded and my titties sat up. Suddenly I had to endure a few foster daddies and uncles who liked to play with my pussy and stuff my mouth with a different kind of lollipop in the middle of the night.

None of those muthafuckas paid attention to my tears or gave a shit that I’d gone to bed with my asshole bleeding. In fact, no one gave a shit until I saw one of them seriously eyeballing my little sister. I finally took action by slicing up one of those child-molesting muthafuckas while his ass was sleeping. Then suddenly I was the crazy one and had to be locked up in a group home.

For two years, I was separated from my sister. The hardest part was always wondering how Ta’ Shara was or what she was doing. Would some doped-up muthafucka put her through the same hell I went through? Those couple of years was when I realized that I had seriously fucked up and had failed my sister.

How could I do my job looking after her from a damn group home?

However, that was where I had gotten my education in street politics. Drugs and boosted loot floated in and out of that group home like it was a fucking flea market. Despite all the heavy shit I could get my hands on, my drug of choice was weed—purple haze, to be exact. That shit made everything better: food, sex—just fucking life.

I first heard about the Queen Gs while lying in bed at that place. This dyke bitch, Sameka, just straight raped this chick Lovey with some metal dildo because she thought the girl jacked one of her chains. Nobody helped the girl because no one liked her big-boned ass. The next day, Sameka found her chain and realized the shit wasn’t missing after all. When someone suggested she apologize to Lovey, Sameka smirked and claimed the bitch enjoyed the shit.

And she must’ve, because to this day, Lovey is still Sameka’s main bitch. But back then, seeing the power that Sameka wielded was mind-blowing to me. Bitches jumped when Sameka said jump, and they jacked who she said needed to be jacked.

The only thing was, I didn’t know how to go about asking to join the Queen Gs. At first, I worried that I would have to let that mean bitch rape or beat my ass. Turned out, I had great reason to worry because that was exactly what happened. Four chicks held me down and took turns beating my ass. Shit. I had to stay in bed for damn near two weeks after that shit, but it was a small price to pay for the kind of world that opened up to me after that.

Next thing I knew, I was flying high, boosting shit from Hickory Ridge Mall for Momma Peaches’s network and jacking cars headed out to the Tunica casinos. It wasn’t great money, but it was enough to make sure I kept decent clothes on my back and something other than chicken in my belly.

When I finally left the group home and was placed with my sister at the Douglases in midtown, I felt like I’d been sent to another planet. The biggest change was in Ta’Shara. She thought she was good and grown and didn’t have to listen to me anymore.

Where I had been hard and jaded, Ta’Shara believed her shit didn’t stink, with her straight As and being a star on the track team. What really hurt was Ta’Shara thinking that I was crazy whenever I tried teaching her slow ass about how to navigate through the politics of the streets.

Ta’Shara just acted like she was above it all, not recognizing that it was my status that kept her safe—not only from the other Queen Gs but also from the Flowers and the Crippettes. But that was cool with me, seeing how my sister might actually have a chance of escaping Memphis’s rat hole and actually making something of herself. If that happened, then maybe—just maybe—it would make some of the bullshit I’ve gone through worth it.

When I was rising up the ranks, I was a good foot soldier, but I wanted more and set my sights higher. In order to do that, I needed to do something that would catch the HNIC’s attention. That meant locking down Python, a nigga who got his name for all the damn snakes he has slithering around his house. Python’s kryptonite is pussy—the tighter the better. He especially likes girls who have a different look. Ever since I can remember, people have told me I look like Chilli from TLC. Who knows, maybe I really had Indian in my family.

At sixteen, I got a fake ID so I could strip at Python’s club, the Pink Monkey. From the moment I stepped out on the floor, I made sure I put niggas in a trance: winding my hips and popping my oil-slick booty like my damn life depended on it. But the Benjamins didn’t start raining until I showed that I could swallow a big, long banana whole. That night, Python gave the order to bring me to his office... .

I was so excited. At the time, this was nothing more than a power move, if all went right. Of course, there was no guarantee that Python wouldn’t just fuck me and then put me back out in the stable, so somehow I had to make that first meeting memorable.

When I stepped into his office, it was smoky as hell. My weedology degree told me that Python was puffing on some blueberry AK-47. I was high before I even got to the center of the room. Up until that moment, I’d seen Python around the way, but never close enough to actually get a good look at him. But standing there in that room, staring into that face, I knew my life would never be the same.

I must’ve stood there forever while he inspected me in my string thong and white flower pasties. While he looked at me, I kept an eye on the red and silver corn snakes that swirled around his meaty arms and hands.

I knew then what I had to do. None of the gir. . .