On the Run with Love

by J.M. Benjamin

Genres: African American Urban; African American Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Freddie Holmes could’ve written the book on how to be a player. With his good looks, gift of gab, his Jersey swag, and his ability to put it down in the bedroom, his only source of income is the women he manipulates. After meeting Simone, however, he is ready to hang up his womanizing gloves, or so he says.

Slug is a stick-up kid/hustler from the Dirty South. After losing his drug connect, he uses his trip to New Jersey for a funeral as an opportunity to link up with his cousin Freddie, in hopes of finding a new supplier. Freddie wants to show his cousin a good time, Jersey style, while he’s visiting, only he chooses the wrong place and the wrong time to do so. At the end of the night, two people are left in their own blood. One is the younger brother of a known drug dealer—the other is a cop.

Freddie is forced to make some quick decisions. To evade his situation, he takes his cousin up on his offer, relocates to North Carolina, and changes his profession, but not without his soon-to-be-wife Simone. She gives up everything to go on the run with her man, all in the name of love, and soon gets a dose of reality. She has no idea what she had signed up for until she takes a good look at her life with Freddie.

See how Freddie Holmes learns the hard way that you can run, but you can’t hide forever.

Release date: June 28, 2016

Publisher: Urban Renaissance

Print pages: 304

Sample

One Year Earlier

“Pimpin’ is easy when you got the looks and the mouthpiece to back it up,” old head Butch the barber remarked as he turned Freddie’s chair toward the mirror.

Freddie Holmes looked into his own reflection, admiring his light brown complexion. He was half Dominican and it showed in his features. His father, whoever he was, had left him with naturally curly brown hair and hazel eyes that took on a greenish tint in the summer. He wore his hair close with neatly shaped sideburns and a trimmed goatee. Freddie really didn’t need a haircut, but because he took pride in his good looks, he made biweekly trips to Nu Cuts Barbershop, his old friend’s establishment. Butch had been cutting Freddie’s hair for almost ten years, since he was eleven. So he knew exactly how he liked his hair cut.

“Unc, touch up this sideburn a little. It looks thicker than this one,” Freddie said, turning his head from side to side.

“You must be goin’ blind, nephew. I know what the hell I’m doin’. When you sit in my chair, I create freakin’ masterpieces,” Butch boasted with a chuckle. “I’m like a gotdamn Picasso in this bad boy, huhhh!” Butch added with a preacher’s flair, making the other patrons laugh.

“Man, just fix my joint ’fore you make me late,” Freddie replied with a smirk. Butch was like an uncle to Freddie for real. Their families went back generations, even before Freddie came into existence.

Butch’s second barber, Mr. Shuttleworth, a short West Indian man, stopped the cut he was doing on another brother to glance over at Freddie. “Let meh fin’ out da likkle young gal yuh ’bout to tie da knot wid wear da pants and got yuh runnin’ home wid your nose open,” Mr. Shuttleworth joked in his native tongue as the patrons joined in with laughter.

Freddie took it in stride. “Nah, man, I got a funeral to go to.”

“Oh, da wedding’s today?” Mr. Shuttleworth snapped back, laughing hard. “’Cause mine damn sure was a funeral! Man!” Everybody fell out.

“Nephew,” Butch said between cackles, “I ain’t no gay-ass joker or nuttin’, and excuse my French, Mr. Shuttleworth, but if I had your hand, I’d throw mine away. What in the hell is you gettin’ married fo’?”

“Yeah, mon. All dem fine women I done seen yuh wid,” Mr. Shuttleworth joined in, as he shook his head in mock disbelief. “Yuh violatin’ the player’s code, my youth!” Everyone in the shop just exploded in laughter.

Freddie chuckled along. “Naw, Unc, you got me twisted. See, y’all see these broads at they best. But I’m tellin’ you, you ain’t seen shit until they butt-ass naked bangin’ at your door at two in the mornin’ wit’ a broken heart and a butcher knife.”

“Well, I don’t know about the butcher knife,” Butch replied, “but a buck-naked sista can bang on my door anytime!”

“Mine too!” someone in the peanut gallery yelled out.

Freddie just shook his head at the two old coons because he knew they didn’t understand. You see, he was blessed with features that spoke for themselves. And he had developed a razor-sharp game that made females Silly Putty in his hands. But he wasn’t a cold-hearted individual. He was a dog to some and a player to most; still, he wasn’t cold enough to not let females’ emotions affect him once he was done with them. Money, sex, in that order. Those old coons hadn’t seen what Freddie could do to or get from women. Besides, they had never been desired the way Freddie often was. Now the thrill was gone and the game had become more problematic than it was worth.

“Y’all just don’t understand,” he stated simply.

“Understand what? Pussy? Man, the day pussy becomes a problem, I’ll be the first black muthafucka in line lookin’ for trouble!” the third barber, Nas, exclaimed, now joining in.

“Right behind me!” one of the regular customers added.

Then, as if on cue, the door busted open and in walked a problem. Everybody abruptly stopped laughing when they saw this big black nigga standing in the door holding this fine, thick redbone firmly by the neck.

“Cream, get off me! You hurtin’ me!” the redbone begged.

“Bitch, I’ma do more than that if you don’t point out this Freddie muhfucka!” the big black monster-looking stranger thundered as he shook her real hard, like a ragdoll.

Freddie tensed up at the sound of his name. Then he recognized the girl. She was a stripper he’d met, or rather ran back into, at the new gentlemen’s club on Richmond Street. He’d first met her back in the day at Club Knockers in their city. He had sexed her a few times before he realized she was more of a liability than an asset. By then she had already caught feelings. And with the cat standing in the doorway, he remembered her saying that her man had been in the county jail for a few weeks, and her trick ass was out sucking the next man’s dick.

“In the chair, Cream! Right there!” She pointed at Freddie with satisfaction. She’d gladly take her ass whuppin’ if she could see Freddie’s no-good ass take one too.

Cream shoved her aside and approached Freddie. “You know her, nigga?” Cream demanded.

Freddie silently cussed himself out for leaving his gun in the car. He eyed the Goliath in front of him, realizing he was in an awkward position. He wasn’t usually defending himself.

“Come on, man, you can’t be serious,” Freddie replied, checking all around for the upper hand.

“Answer the question, muhfucka! Let me hear you say you fucked my wife!”

Wife? Freddie thought and looked back at the redbone. He could see her smirk through the tears. The tension was too thick to reply verbally. It was either move or get moved on, and Freddie wasn’t about to choose the latter. His next move was quick and effective. He spotted clippers in Butch’s hand and, with lightning-fast agility, grabbed the cord and swung the clippers as hard as he could into Cream’s nose. Cream grunted and fell back, but only momentarily. As Freddie got out of the chair, Cream lunged at him, only to catch a Nike ACG boot in the nuts that folded him up. A pistol fell to the floor from Cream’s waistline. Freddie caught him with a crushing left that broke the gargantuan man down, proving that he had a glass jaw.

“Bitch-ass nigga! Confrontin’ me over this stankin’-ass broad!” Freddie barked as he bent down to pick up the pistol. “And, you was gonna shoot me?” Freddie grabbed a handful of Cream’s cornrows and brought the steel down hard on his jaw line, making him spit out a tooth. “Don’t you ever bring this shit down the west end, nigga!” Freddie yelled, punctuating every word with a blow.

The redbone was in shock. She was sure Big Cream would beat Freddie down. She jumped on Freddie’s back, all nails and teeth like a wolf protecting her young. “Get off my man, motherfucka!” she bellowed.

Freddie fought to get his arm loose from her grip. “This bitch,” he said, and chuckled in disgust. He grabbed a handful of weave and brought her face down hard on his knee as Butch begged him to stop. She doubled over and crumpled to the ground.

“Gotdammit, Freddie, I said stop!” Butch yelled and locked his sawed-off shotgun for emphasis. He had been calling Freddie the whole time but Freddie was in a zone.

Freddie heard the metallic clack and froze mid-motion of pummeling Cream again with the pistol. Blood was everywhere. He stood up, breathing uncontrollably. “Now, nigga, take your punk ass back to the east end,” Freddie said before he spat on Cream’s mangled body.

“I hate you, Freddie! You ain’t shit!” the redbone screamed with her nose bleeding.

“Neither was your rotten-ass pussy! That’s why I ain’t givin’ you what you want now!” Freddie taunted her.

“Somebody get this brother out my shop,” Butch ordered. Nas and another man helped Cream and the redbone out.

“It ain’t over,” Cream mumbled through lips that were already beginning to swell, but Freddie didn’t hear him. He turned back to Butch as Cream was carried out.

Butch just shook his head. “On second thought, I’m glad yo’ pretty ass is gettin’ married.”

“Just fix my muthafuckin’ sideburns so I can go,” Freddie spat, climbing back into the chair. “Actin’ like you was gonna shoot some-damn-body.” Freddie smiled.

“I was. You. I love you, but I’ll kill you before I let you shut my business down, neph,” Butch replied with a straight face.

Freddie knew he was capable because he was an old-school gangster, but he knew he could never harm a hair on him. “Just finish me up, unc.” Freddie took another look in the full-sized barber mirror. Butch the barber shook his head as he did what he was told.

Freddie inserted his key into the door of his apartment. He glanced down at himself and at all the blood splattered over his Polo shirt. He was still mad, but the more he thought about it, the funnier it became. Cream was a grown-ass man on some high school shit, fighting over a piece of ass. Now that was a violation of the player’s code. If anything, he should have shaken Freddie’s hand for showing him how triflin’ the woman he married really was. He was sure, in her profession, she had done a little something strange for a little change while Cream was locked up. Freddie busted out laughing at the thought, as he entered the apartment.

“Freddie?” he heard a sweet voice call out from the kitchen. “Your mother said she was gonna kill you if you . . .” His fiancée, Simone, came out of the kitchen wearing only a dress slip and stockings. Putting her earrings on, she stopped short when she saw her man covered in blood, and she quickly rushed to him.

“Freddie! Are you okay? What happened?” she asked in a quick succession, checking him for wounds. Then she noticed he was laughing. “And what’s so funny?”

Freddie shook his head and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Plainfield,” he replied with irony.

“What you done did, boy?” she inquired with a sigh.

“Don’t sweat it, babe. This joker just had his people fucked up, yo,” Freddie told her, checking his watch. “Let me take a quick shower and I’ll be ready, a’ight?” He quickly stepped off to avoid any more questions. Wasn’t no way he was gonna tell Simone he had to smash a brother over a piece of ass.

Freddie headed down the hallway, pulling off his Black Label jacket. He pulled his Ralph Lauren Polo shirt over his head and tossed it into the hamper. He turned on the shower and tested the temperature until it was to his liking. He got undressed, pulling off his black Nike ACG boots, Antik Denim jeans, and Movado watch. Freddie climbed into the shower and held his head under the nozzle, letting the water cascade down his face. He watched the brown residue of dried blood slip down the drain, and thought about how easily the tables could have been turned. He could be somewhere stitched up and swollen right now.

His mind was brought back by the touch of a silky hand caressing his back. He turned around to find Simone in the shower with him, smiling into his eyes. Freddie took one look at Simone’s deep, dark Foxy Brown eyes, her small but pert breasts, nipples erect, and her thick hips; and he forgot all about the fight. Freddie wrapped his arms around her waist and palmed her ass. “Now we really gonna be late,” he remarked.

Simone playfully hit him then wrapped her arms around his neck. “No, we’re not. I’m just checkin’ on my man. You came home covered in blood, laughing, and I ain’t supposed to worry?”

Freddie took one long look into Simone’s eyes and knew why he was marrying her. Love was written all over her face. There was no explanation that could put her concern to rest. So he just caressed her face and gently sucked her bottom lip. Then Freddie kissed her.

“Dig, ma, I love you, okay? And ain’t nothing in the world gonna take me from you, so don’t worry about daddy. It’s okay.”

Simone gazed back trustingly and nodded. “It’s just . . . It’s been so crazy out there, baby. I just want you to be careful.”

“Wit’ all this chocolate waitin’ for me, a nigga gots to be careful.” Freddie grinned, making her blush. “Now, can we be a little late?” he flirted, massaging her ass and pulling her closer.

“So your mother can kill me? I don’t think so,” she answered, kissing him softly. “But, ah, good things come to those who wait,” she promised seductively, stepping out of the shower, dripping chocolate. Simone grabbed a towel and strutted out of the bathroom knowing her man was watching. She was just happy that he was home safe.

Meanwhile, a heated Dante looked at his man Cream in disgust. This sucka for love–ass nigga, Dante thought as one of his top crew members, Cream, lay back on the couch with his face stitched up and his jaw wired shut. He couldn’t believe his man played himself over that slut of a wife of his. Dante knew the chick was trifling because half the clique had tossed her up before Cream had married her. But this was different. Freddie had washed his man out and shit had to be handled. Dante knew what had to be done. The question was how he intended to go about it. He had options.

He had a clique of wolves on the come up who would end not only Freddie, but his entire family’s lives, for the right price. After putting them in position to lock down the entire east end of town with heroin and the best weed money could buy, leaving only coke sales to the scramblers, he knew there was nothing anyone of them wouldn’t jump at the chance to handle. But although it wasn’t a large territory that his young boys controlled, it was a lucrative one, one he was willing to risk over Cream’s matter. With that money came the opportunity to expand. Dante knew he had to protect his investment because at his command his team would do whatever it took to get paper. Seeing Cream flip over a female, and a bird at that, made Dante think. What would he do if shit got hectic and cases were caught? To be a killer in the streets was one thing, but to hold water in a storm was the test of a real gangsta. Dante planned to keep a close eye on Cream.

“Ay, yo, fam, we gonna handle this shit. But on the real, son, check yo’ broad. Matter of fact, you need to check that broad out, yo. Dead ass,” Dante told a wired-up Cream.

Cream nodded in agreement but, deep down, wasn’t nobody gonna tell him nothing about his wife. Shorty had that snapper and she had her hooks sunk deep into Cream.

“That shit won’t happen no more,” Cream replied, through the wire. “Believe me.” Cream was naïve enough to think an ass whuppin’ every now and then was enough to turn a ho into a housewife.

“You know where this nigga rest his head?” Dante inquired.

“He from the New Prozecks, but don thik he stay dhere.”

“What?”

“The New Projects,” Cream repeated with saliva running down the side of his mouth.

“The New Projects? Freddie from the New Projects?” Dante asked, fighting back a laugh. “Are you serious?” The only thing Dante knew of Freddie in the streets was of him being a pretty boy, nothing remotely resembling a gangsta.

Cream nodded, relieved to be understood. Talking was painful with wires holding your grill together. Every time he winced, all he could think of was finding Freddie.

“Don’t stress, my dude. That joker something light,” Dante assured him. He was already contemplating how he intended to approach the newly arisen beef.

What the fuck is beyond the grave? That was the thought in Slug’s mind as he stood, watching the casket of his great-aunt being lowered into the ground. He had come up with his mother from Goldsboro, North Carolina, to pay respects to a woman he had never known. In the process, he would congregate with a family he hardly ever saw.

Most of his kin had stayed in various parts of New Jersey. Only Slug’s mother and her brother had moved down South, where Slug was born and raised. Although his mother was from Jersey, Slug was strictly Dirty South, tried and true. He wasn’t one of those Southern dudes who secretly admired dudes up North for their style or accent. He was proud to be from Webbtown, as they called it in the Dirty South.

Nothing about Jersey excited him. It stunk for one thing. The smell hit him in the face as soon as he stepped out of the car at his aunt’s house. Slug looked around at all the weeping faces gathered at the grave. The only faces he knew were his mother’s and his Aunt Elsie’s. Some of his cousins were sho’ nuff fine, which kept the service interesting, but he was searching for one face in particular: his cousin Freddie’s. He hadn’t seen Freddie since they were twelve, the year he stopped coming down South for the summer. And even though he and Freddie spent half of each summer fighting and the other half arguing, every winter Slug looked forward to seeing his cousin Freddie, not knowing that Freddie was in Plainfield doing the same thing. But once Freddie turned fourteen, he fell upon the game he would eat off of: females.

Freddie was born in a petite one bedroom, in an apartmen. . .