Queen of Hearts

by Dorian Sykes

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

Nothing will stop Mecca on her devious climb to the top, including death or deception.

“Trust, I gets what I want…period!”

Blessed with beauty and brains, Mecca was destined to shine. At a young age, she had a go-getter mentality that drove men wild. Spoiled by the streets, her heart soon ran cold, the brazen woman showed absolutely no mercy when things didn’t go her way.  With big dreams to make it out of the hood, Mecca used any way she could think of to make that happen. Nothing was off limits, and nothing would stop her devious climb to the top, including death or deception.

Release date: April 28, 2026

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

“Love don’t live here, love don’t live here anymore,” Mecca sang while doing her morning exercises. She was grooving to Faith Evans. It was her theme song. Every morning she’d wake up at the crack of dawn and get her Jane Fonda on.

“Finished!” she said, out of breath. She had just completed her last set of squats, and they were indeed serving their purpose. Mecca was in perfect shape. She stood five foot seven with 140 pounds of ass and titties. Mecca was what niggas referred to as a red bone. Her hair was silky black and fell damn near to her behind. She was the total package.

Mecca stood in front of her workout mirror, looking at her calves and rear end. Satisfied that everything was at its best, she grabbed an awaiting towel and headed toward the bathroom. She showered while listening to Faith on repeat. After showering, she walked over to one of the two walk-in closets located in the master bedroom of her five-bedroom colonial.

Her home was located five minutes outside of Detroit, in Grosse Pointe. It was a bit of a suburb, and you had to have a few dollars to live out there. Her home was equipped with an in-ground swimming pool, an attached guesthouse, and a three-car garage.

Mecca and Matt, aka E-Way, had purchased the house some six months earlier after E-Way settled out of court for $2 million on a civil suit. One night while at a gas station, E-Way was approached from behind by two men wearing hooded sweaters and brandishing handguns. One of the men put his pistol to E-Way’s head and told him not to make a scene and to get inside the back seat of his car. E-Way, realizing that the men wanted more than just money and that they were attempting to kidnap him, pushed the man back, giving himself enough time to run. The two gunmen fired several rounds at E-Way as he ran for his life. He managed to fire back a few rounds while still scrambling for safety. The Arab working the gas station locked the inside, leaving E-way to fend for himself. The two men finally retreated as a Detroit police car pulled into the scene. Without warning, the two white officers fired several rounds at E-Way as he stood at the gas station door with the gun still in hand. He was hit eight times and was placed in ICU. E-way stayed in the hospital for two months recovering from his wounds, while Mecca hired an attorney and filed suit against the Detroit Police Department for negligence and pain and suffering.

Mecca and E-Way had been boyfriend and girlfriend for five years. They had been kicking it since the eleventh grade. E-Way was your average dope boy. Prior to getting the settlement, he was getting a little money, but once he received the settlement check he began to live out his “Butch Jones” fantasies. He purchased their home, three late-model cars, jewelry for himself and Mecca, and enough dope to supply half of Detroit. He also gave Mecca some money to open up a salon. For the most part, E-Way was good people, not to mention an attractive brother. He stood at six foot three, at about 210 pounds, was dark skinned and bald, and had perfect white teeth and a swagger like no other.

Mecca browsed through the many shoes and clothes inside her walk-in closet. She selected an Apple Bottom outfit she recently bought, along with a pair of white stilettos to match. It was a shorts set, white with red piping, and it fit Mecca like a glove. She grabbed one of her Gucci handbags and walked over to her jewelry box. She decided to rock a pair of five-carat diamond stud earrings, a matching tennis bracelet, her white gold necklace, and her Rolex watch. She modeled in front of the mirror, inspecting every aspect. Satisfied with her pretty, Mecca walked into the bedroom and kissed E-Way goodbye. He was sound asleep from running the streets the night before.

It was off to the salon. Mecca dropped the top on her BMW 645 and enjoyed the morning sun as she drove down Houston Whittier. It was summertime, and that’s exactly what was bumping from Mecca’s sound system: Will Smith’s “Summertime.” She pulled into her parking spot at the salon and made her entrance. She was greeted with the usual phony “hey, how you doing’s” from the assorted hating-ass low-budget bitches who were either getting their hair done or doing hair, with the exception of Benji.

“Where you going, Ms. Thang, to an audition for Luke’s new video?” asked Benji as he examined Mecca from head to toe.

“You got jokes, huh?” laughed Mecca, not at all offended because she knew Benji was only playing.

Benji, whose real name was Benjamin, was a homosexual. Let him tell it, he was a woman trapped in a man’s body. Mecca and Benji were best friends, had been since third grade. As far back as Mecca could remember, Benji had always been gay. As a child he was a bit different. He may have been gay, but he had always been a real mothafucka, which was why he and Mecca became best friends.

Both Benji and Mecca grew up poverty-stricken. Mecca was raised by her late grandmother, but she passed away when Mecca was 16. Life had always been rough for Mecca. Her grandmother would take her to the Salvation Army thrift store to buy hand-me-downs for school clothes. Mecca’s mother, Yvette, was a crackhead, and Mecca’s father, James, turned her mother out to the streets at the age of 15. As a result, they both became full-blown crackheads. Mecca would only see them when walking to and from school. They’d be at the corner store panhandling, and Yvette would often be trying to turn a trick.

By fifth grade, Benji began stealing from the local malls, trying to keep up with the Joneses. He tried turning Mecca out to stealing, but she wasn’t good at it, so Benji, being the friend he was, kept Mecca laced with all the latest fads. Whatever Benji stole for himself, he made sure Mecca had it too. If it weren’t for Benji, Mecca probably wouldn’t have graduated because she hated going to school with the clothes her grandmother bought her.

When Mecca’s grandmother passed away, she had nowhere to live. Her grandmother didn’t have any life insurance, which left Mecca homeless. All her relatives had kids and problems of their own. To live with one of her aunts meant even worse conditions than living with her grandmother. It was Benji who copped an apartment along with a Nissan Maxima for the two to share. Benji turned his petty shoplifting into a hustle and started boosting. The boy was so cold. He’d take orders from customers before going to the mall. Benji’s boosting paid for prom, senior trips, everything. Mecca felt like she owed Benji her life, so when E-Way received his settlement, she vowed to open a salon because Benji always wanted his own shop. He and Mecca were partners.

“Girl, you know I’m just being silly. Turn around and let me see the whole shit,” Benji said as he stood twirling a pair of curlers. He was finishing up one of his early morning clients. It was Thursday, and every chickenhead with a balla as a boyfriend-slash-sponsor was getting ready for the weekend. By Sunday, they’d be in need of a fresh ’do.

Olivia, one of the shop’s stylists, had said something smart under her breath as Mecca modeled her new fit for Benji and of course the haters.

“You likes?” she asked Benji, coming to a pose.

“You stay killin’ shit. That’s why you my girl. I’ma have to go snatch me one of them shits. Devin wouldn’t mind seeing all this in one of those,” said Benji, rubbing his girlish frame.

Everyone in the shop burst out laughing at the thought of Benji in an Apple Bottom outfit. Benji was hella funny. He was the life of the shop. He stood at five foot eight, was 165 pounds, had a caramel complexion and hazel contacts, and wore his hair in short perm-brushed waves. Benji was one of them dudes on first sight you knew was gay. Everything about him from his wiggle walk to his clothes said, “I’m gay.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t,” laughed Mecca.

Devin was Benji’s current boyfriend. He was another one of them down-low, “I’m not gay” niggas. Who do they think they’re fooling?

The shop was jam-packed as always. It would be that way on any given day from morning to closing, which sometimes was after ten o’clock depending on how much a bitch was spending. The shop was called Elite. Mecca and Benji chose the name in effort to eliminate the riffraff, separate the ballas from the fakers. That way they could charge top-notch prices. As a business major and ghetto entrepreneur, Mecca knew how to appease the urban economy. Blacks tended to go for the most expensive shit they could find just to be able to say, “I paid X amount for this here.” Mecca suffered from the same insecurities many other young blacks did. She had to have the best of everything.

Everyone inside the salon indeed felt they were elite, from the customers to its owners. The shop was located on the east side of Detroit on 7 Mile Road and Mackay Street. It was an old bank that was closed down because it kept getting robbed. The salon consisted of five booths, with four hair stylists and one barber. There was also a station near the entrance for a nail technician. The shop was very spacious and comfortable. In the waiting area sat two black leather sectional couches, two loveseats, and a few recliners. All the latest magazines filled the two coffee tables, along with a stack of DVDs for the forty-two-inch plasma mounted on the wall. The floor was white granite, giving it that marble look. Everything about the shop was elite.

Benji manned the first booth, and next to him was Olivia, a bad-ass mixed broad from the Buffalo Projects. She and Mecca were neck and neck as far as looks, but for some reason or another they couldn’t stand each other. They kept it professional and remained cool on the strength of Benji. Olivia and Benji became friends while attending cosmetology school together.

Next to Olivia was Marie. She was a petite dark-skinned sista from Oak Park, Michigan. She grew up in the suburbs but also went to school with Benji and Olivia. Marie was quiet. She was always watching and soaking up game from the many gem-running whores at the shop. Benji would always tease her and tell her, “You’re square as a pool table, girl, and twice as green.” Marie earned her booth because she brought the suburban clientele to the shop, plus she was very creative. She created several new hairstyles that earned the shop slots in local hair magazines and hair shows.

Next to Marie was Tae, the old head of the shop. Tae was in her late fifties but looked no part of it. She had been doing hair since Diana Ross was with the Supremes. Tae was hella jazzy. She wore her hair cut short, and she stood a mere five foot four with a petite frame still intact. Tae was good people and was very knowledgeable in the hair field. Mecca and Benji rented Tae her booth because she was good for the money, and she brought the older clientele to the shop.

Pete was the shop’s barber. He was the only other man who worked in the shop. He was a young brother from the west side, quiet, brown skinned, with a medium build, about five foot nine and 180 pounds. Pete landed his position at Elite for reasons not related to his craft. He, too, was a down-low brotha. He had met Benji at a gay bar and learned that Benji was part owner of the salon. To earn his position, he had to pay like he weighed, fucking and sucking Benji.

Across from Pete was Tory, the nail tech. Girl was always late, but she was tolerated because she was always on time with her booth rent. Plus, she kept everyone laughing. She’d cuss you out in a minute but while smiling. If your gear wasn’t up to par, best believe Tory was gon’ pull you up. She was one of the few real ones. She always spoke her mind no matter whose feelings were at stake. Tory was what you call funny built. She was all chest and no ass. She kept her attire on 1,000, and her hair and nails were always done. She stood five foot six, was 175 pounds and dark brown, and wore wire-frame Cartier glasses.

Mecca’s nook was in the back room. She didn’t do hair. She would go to the shop every morning just to have something to do.

“So what’s the deal, Mecca?” asked Benji. He had just finished up his customer’s hair and was waiting for the new shampoo girl, Veronica, to finish with his next head.

“Ain’t much. Looking forward to tonight. We’re still on, aren’t we?” asked Mecca. Once a week, sometimes twice, the salon would have ladies’ night out at the local male strip club called Henry’s Palace.

“Babe, I’m going to have to pass. I already got some ass lined up. Devin is taking me over to Canada tonight.”

“Sounds romantic,” said Mecca, a bit disappointed.

“I guess it would be or-man-tic considering,” laughed Tory.

Everyone caught the sly statement and began laughing. She was trying to be funny. Seeing as how Benji and Devin were both men, the evening would be “or-man-tic.” Everyone laughed, with the exception of Benji. He was a little salty, so he shifted the spotlight.

“I know your undercover brotha ass ain’t over there snickering and whatnot!” Benji snapped, looking directly at Pete.

Everyone ceased laughing and waited for Pete to reply to Benji’s bold allegation. No one knew about Benji and Pete’s fling, except Mecca, and she, too, was all ears waiting for Pete to respond.

“That’s what I thought, snack butt. I knew you ain’t have shit to say for real.”

Pete had the shit face. He continued to cut the hair of the gentleman seated in his chair, pretending not to hear Benji, but Tory wasn’t letting it go that easy.

“Say it ain’t so, Pete,” Tory said, then burst out laughing. “I knew you had a little sugar in yo’ tank. Ya damn near pretty as me,” she continued between laughs. She was riding Pete’s ass like a professional comic. She couldn’t even finish the young lady’s nails she was laughing so hard, and she was in tears.

“All right, all right. Tory, that’s enough. Y’all know Pete isn’t gay. Isn’t that right, Benji?” asked Mecca in an attempt to clean up the mess. She was looking at it from a business sense. She didn’t want Pete to feel uncomfortable and quit. “Isn’t that right, Benji?” Mecca said, repeating herself.

Reluctantly, Benji retracted his statement. “That’s right. Pete’s not gay. Although he does act like it sometimes.”

“Um … hum. Don’t try to clean that shit up now,” said Tory.

“Girl, you know you’s a mess,” laughed Tae.

It was just another day at the shop, gossip on top of more gossip.

“A’ight, my man, good looking out,” said the man whose hair Pete was cutting. He was examining his fresh cut. “What I owe you?” he asked, then stood up, handing Pete the mirror.

“Fifteen dollars,” answered Pete.

All the women in the salon were gawking at the brother who was six foot one, 200 pounds, light brown, and well-groomed.

“Damn he’s fine,” one woman said as she looked over the Essence magazine she was reading. Marie was doing her hair.

“Huh, girl,” Marie whispered.

Mecca was checking out the man’s behind as he stood with his back to her. After paying Pete, the man looked in the mirror one last time. He was about to turn and leave but noticed Mecca staring at him. She immediately broke her stare and then reached for a magazine on the coffee table. She was sitting in one of the recliners. The guy smiled and then turned to face Pete.

“Ah, look, my name is Mario, man, and I was hoping you could cut my hair on the regular. No one has ever been able to get my line as straight as you got it.”

“Anytime, man. Just stop through. Here’s my card. I even do appointments,” said Pete.

“A’ight, good looking,” said Mario, taking the card and then heading for the door. “Y’all ladies have a nice day,” he said, looking at Mecca in particular.

“Girl, did you see how that nigga was eyeing you, Mecca?” asked Benji after the door closed.

“I thought the nigga was looking at me for real, for real,” said Olivia in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

“I knew you were a bit cross-eyed,” said Mecca.

“Ooh wee,” Tory said, instigating as always.

“But anyhow, you hoes know what time of the month it is. That’s right. It’s the first. See me before ya leave and please have my cheese,” said Mecca, and with that, it was off to her office. She sat at her Dell computer, surfing the internet, looking at handbags and shoes, while eating her favorite cheat food: soft batch chocolate chip cookies.

Meanwhile, E-Way had made his way to his hood. He hated being at home. The only time he went home was at night to go to sleep. No sooner had Mecca left for the shop than he was up and at ’em. E-Way owned a bar on Mt. Elliott Street called Tippin’ End. He bought it from old man Sal out of his settlement money. E-Way grew up in a historical mansion four houses down from the bar. He used to run numbers for old Sal as a young’un, and when Sal decided to retire from the streets, E-Way made him a proposition on the bar. Old man Sal not only sold E-Way the bar, but he also gave him his connect. Old man Sal had been dealing dope since the seventies and had never been caught. He was now in his mid-seventies and felt it was time to pass the torch.

Every morning, E-Way and his street team, who called themselves KFB (Known for Balling), would all meet up at the bar and break bread. KFB was a neighborhood clique E-Way and his best friend, Bubbles, started back in high school. Its members consisted of Kev, Chuck, Chuckie Bom’s, Big Whitney, Bubbles, and E-Way. Together they were really known for balling. Everything was boss this, boss that. That’s what they called themselves as individuals. They’d tell you in a minute, “I’m a boss, bitch, boss up!” That was their motto.

E-Way had invested in some studio equipment, which he put in the upstairs of the bar. He formed a record label called Floss-A-Lot, using the same members of KFB as artists. They put out several independent projects and soon became local celebrities. They had the entire city saying, “Boss up!” As with anything else, the haters and competitors came out mimicking. In this case the haters were known as Murkland Niggas. They were from the flip side of 7 Mile. They were in the same age bra. . .