Sex In The Hood Saga

by White Chocolate

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

Synopsis

Sex in the Hood by White Chocolate.

Release date: January 1, 2005

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

Duke Johnson towered over a fucking, sucking tangle of bodies at his feet. The wall-to-wall carpet of black, brown and beige asses, titties, legs, arms and dicks extended up the huge staircase and under tall archways on each side. To the left and to the right were huge rooms where hundreds of people were bouncing and banging and blowing to a deafening bass beat and nasty rap lyrics.

Straight ahead, double glass doors reflected Duke’s six feet six inches of smooth, dark muscle draped in white linen pants and matching shirt. The dim light cast a crown-like glow around his bald head and made his diamond ring sparkle as he surveyed his enterprise, including the dozens of Barriors, black warriors who flexed like the ninja motherfuckers they were supposed to be if some fool went crazy in the middle of all this pussy. Wearing black from head to toe, the Barriors were double-strapped at the hips, watching to make sure everybody followed the rules in the hot, intoxicating fumes of booty, booze, and blunts.

Yeah, it looked and felt like the kind of pussy party that made Babylon the baddest in the business, but something didn’t smell right. So, The Duke was about to collect the bank his damn self and remind everybody who was the boss. Not Izz, the host of this Sunday afternoon fuck fest. Not any of these warriors who worked for him and were conspiring with Izz to steal his cash. And not Knight, who was reputedly trying to call the shots from behind bars.

Hell naw. The only one in charge of Babylon and beyond was The Duke—and only The Duke, now and forever. Especially after today, when he would meet the goddess who was going to help him take Babylon coast to coast.

“We gon’ be in an’ out in a Motor City minute,” Duke told his boy, Beamer, who stood beside him. “I ain’t gon’ let Izz’s bullshit make me late to get my Duchess.”

“You trippin’,” Beamer said. “You crazy if you think that half-white rich bitch from TV is gon’ come down to D-town worse hood an’ get wit’ yo’ gangsta ass.”

“Watch me,” Duke said, staring each Barrior in the eye. He had no time for anybody’s scheme right now, since Knight would be out in two weeks. Duke had to make everything perfect, to show he was handling business himself and building Babylon even bigger and better than what his older brothers started.

The four Barriors at the front door approached, handing Duke a miniature gold treasure chest full of cash.

“Babylon!” They shouted the way Marines would say “Attention!” with the loudest emphasis on the last part of the word. As they bowed to Duke, the tall, muscular men each pounded their right fists over their hearts and said in unison, “Massa Duke rule Babylon!”

“Wha’z up.” Duke’s nod let them know they could march back to the door.

“A lotta dicks is what’s up,” Beamer said, taking the heavy money chest and sliding it into his sleek black shoulder bag.

Beamer was usually obedient and reliable, but right now Duke wanted to slap the silly out of his boy’s big Bambi eyes. A goofy glow always seemed to jump off Beamer’s face, from the cinnamon-hued freckles on his plump, peanut butter brown cheeks to his thin brown lips. His wide, flat nose was pointed down at the tip. His hair, dark brown with a slight red cast, snaked back in cornrows that gathered in a ponytail down his neck as he watched a girl’s titties flap while she fucked.

“Stop gawkin’ like this the first time you seen pussy,” Duke said, biting down to make his jaw muscles flex.

“Yes, Massa Duke.” Beamer wrapped his chubby fingers around the BMW medallion hanging over his red, white, and blue Detroit Pistons jersey. His fast-talk was even more jovial than usual as he said, “This ain’t nothin’ compared to what your birthday party gon’ be Friday. Check out homegirl. She earnin’ her keep today.”

At the foot of the stairs, a Slut was working two guys. They were laying on their backs, their heads pointing in opposite directions. She was squatting down, fucking one guy with her ass pointed toward his face, while she bent over to suck the other guy’s dick. Both of them wore condoms to protect her mouth and her pussy, according to Babylon rules. She was like a pump; her ass went up when her head went down, and vice versa.

The dude under her pussy was squeezing her ass, with one black hand on each of her big, brown booty bubble cheeks. The guy under her mouth had his redbone fingers all up in her black braids. They were flying all over his belly and hips as she worked it to the rhythm of some rapper chick squealing lyrics about how she loved to “bounce that ass, make it fas’, make it last, bounce that ass.” That’s what hundreds of people were doing on each side of this foyer, where big archways opened onto huge rooms full of sex.

“Damn,” Beamer said, scanning the scene that was littered with rubbers and wrappers. “They ’bout to play musical pussies.”

Duke looked to the right, where about fifty Sluts stood facing the four walls, pressing their hands to the red paint, bending over, and sticking out every size and shape of booty. Some orange Victorian-style lamps, the kind with the fabric shades and hanging beads, cast an orange light on the chicks’ asses, which were every color from almost white to blue-black.

In the middle of the room, a Barrior stood with a whistle, surrounded by fifty nude dudes with condom-covered cocks ready to rock. The whistle blew, and every guy found a pussy to drill. Thirty seconds into the act, the whistle blew again, and all the dicks had to swing to the next pussy on the right. All kinds of dicks—from that huge-ass licorice stick covered in cream to that brown pencil prick in the corner to that fat, brown sausage to the left—they all came out, shining like a mug with sex juice, then disappearing under some of the prettiest asses in Motown. They did this over and over, until each guy made his way around the room, sticking his dick into all fifty of those hot, wet holes. They were healthy holes, as the Sluts were checked by the doctor every week back at Babylon HQ, and the mandatory jimmy rule made sure all that pussy meat stayed clean.

Duke watched this symphony of sex being played by every kind of human instrument: titties that were pointed, flat, swole, bite-size, natural, silicone, suntanned and freckled, with nipples that looked like pepperonis, pink frosting, licorice discs, copper pennies, or bronze slots at the casinos, all with a little point or a big udder tip on the end.

He watched asses of every shape and size: huge, ripply ones that looked like if somebody put his hand on it, the booty would ripple like a rock in a pond, and tiny butts that were so skinny the whole asshole was exposed when they weren’t even bent over. But mostly, perfect booties filled the room—big and round, firm and smooth, muscular, and athletic—as if the bitch could buck and ride for hours and never get tired.

There was pussy hair that sprayed out like afros or was shaved into shapes like hearts, stars, and lips. Others had just a little strip of hair at the top—a Brazilian wax like Duke’s first baby momma, Milan, had—so everything else, including the pussy lips, was bald. Some of the chicks were shaved completely hairless. Other girls had pussy hair that was so nappy it looked like little black ants crawling around the tops of their thighs. Others had silky black fur that made a nigga just want to pet it like a cat while he was lapping up the milk in her steamy bowl.

The Sluts wore the hair on their heads in every imaginable style, all of it bouncing and flying around as they fucked like rabbits without getting tired. Lee Lee worked them in the gym as tough as she conditioned Babylon’s Secret Service because this was their job, and they had to be in shape . . . and healthy. But if Milan kept acting crazy, Duke was going to have to replace her scheming ass with somebody who could concentrate on keeping the Sex Squad schedules, doctor’s appointments, and income on time and accounted for. All of it.

Sudden vibration on his waistband made Duke pull the cell phone from his belt. MILAN flashed across the blue screen for the fourth time in an hour. He pressed his thumb to the little silver button to put that wanna-be-who-ain’t-gonna-be into voice mail. He’d heard enough of her bitching and whining for today, because this was a day for the history books of Babylon as ruled by The Duke. This was the day the black god that he was would meet the ultimate female partner—in business and in bed—and give her the power and glory that every bitch in the hood would kill to have as The Duchess.

“She trippin’,” Beamer said, holding up his red-flashing phone which read: MILAN. Duke shook his head. Beamer reattached the phone to the pocket of his saggy jeans. “Dog, I got a bad feelin’. Just like that night Prince got shot.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Duke said. “Don’t jinx my shit, ma’fucka. Don’t never say that to me again. Jus’ let me work. An’ tell me if Pound call. We gotta be on the spot right when Duchess come.”

“Yes, Massa Duke.”

“We rollin’ strong,” Duke said, referring to the back-up he had outside the kitchen windows and door, just in case. “But if you act like a bitch, I’ll treat you like one.”

A girl to the right screamed. “Fuck ma pussy, punk! Not ma assho’!”

In a flash, the nearest Barrior was on him, saying, “You out.”

“Aw, man, I won’t do it again.” The rule-breaker had a punk look on his face.

The Barrior’s big hand on homeboy’s shoulder made him sober up. “I said you out,” the Barrior repeated, pushing the punk toward the door. “Go to the Black Room. Ain’t no rules in there.”

The booty-poker stroked his cock as he left. He walked across the foyer to the room that was pitch black except for a few purple lightbulbs, which cast a lavender glow over the twist of shiny bodies. They were grinding and banging and shaking in every inch of the room.

“Look like a bowl of purple chitlins,” Beamer said with a laugh. “And if somebody get they period, it’s gon’ look like they poured hot sauce on the chitlins.”

“You a nasty ma’fucka,” Duke said, turning back to the musical fucking, where another dude took the booty-poker’s place.

“Shit!” another Slut shouted. “My pussy ain’t the Windsor Tunnel, an’ I ain’t lettin’ yo’ eighteen-wheeler bust through!”

“Ooh,” another girl purred. “Send ’im to me.”

The Barriors rearranged the guys, blew the whistle, and let the fucking begin again.

Duke loved to look at all this sex. No matter how many times he had seen this, his dick would get cocked as hell. But right now, Timbo wasn’t swole for any of these bitches. Timbo was as big and hard as a tree trunk with only one pussy in mind. Her ridiculously fine face on TV this morning was stuck in his head like a hologram, touching every thought, shooting a laser beam down to his dick. Even his fingertips were tingling with the need to give that virgin pussy the Mandingo dick-down of the millennium, which The Duke would do before the night was over.

Even though he’d never met the girl, he just knew he had to have her the first time he saw her beautiful face and heard her brilliant, sultry voice on the news a few weeks ago. “And so it is written,” he had said, quoting the Ancient Egyptian pharoah Ramses from The Ten Commandments. “And so it is done.”

And it would be done in a couple of hours. But for now, Timbo was hard as hell for another reason. Every one of those pussies and every one of those dicks represented big dollar signs in Duke’s mind. Big, big dollar signs. Money he learned how to make from Prince. Money he earned by building the Sex Squad to three times what Prince had started. Money he planned to make even more of once he got Duchess in on negotiating and strategizing to make every part of Babylon bigger, better, badder.

With a brilliant business mind, a pretty, light-bright face and the Queen’s English, that chick was about to become the money-making face and voice of Babylon. And if he had any concern about how her lily white suburban-raised ass would react to this, he knew she would get over it in a Motor City minute. The sex power in her eyes was so strong he had felt a chill when she looked into the TV camera and out the screen, right into his soul.

She’ll be all into this. Might like it too much. But I’ll be bangin’ her fine ass so tough, I’ll give her some Timbo ten times a day if she want it. An’ she will.

Gold-tipped titties came bouncin’ his way. Long fingernails tickled his cheek. Like a brown Barbie with straight black bangs, a bob-style haircut that swayed just below her ears, and thick fake eyelashes, Chanel’s face came at him.

“What’cha need, Massa Duke?” she whispered, her sparkly gold pasty crushing into his arm along with her big, ripe, caramel brown titties. She smelled like expensive perfume as she did a pole dance on him. Standing on one gold six-inch stiletto boot that came up over her knee, she rubbed the side of his thigh with the gold lame crotch of her thong. It was held up by three gold chains that draped over her hips and came down to the crack of her ass, where they disappeared. Her other leg was up in front of him, in the gold boot, and her knee was stroking Timbo.

“I need somethin’ ta suck,” she whispered through big, swollen lips shining with coral-colored gloss.

“Chanel, baby girl, you fine as hell,” Duke said, loving that intoxicated-by-lust look in her big, dark eyes. It was a look that he would soon put into Duchess’ eyes and keep there. Forever.

He reached down, squeezed her soft ass and said, “I got bidness ta han’le. Hook up ma boy, Beamer. He hurtin’.”

Chanel puckered and squinted those false eyelashes together. She mouthed “I miss you,” then she slid to her knees, kicked her spike heels up to her pretty ass, and worked Beamer’s jeans with those long, gold fingernails. His big, peanut butter brown dick came flying out like an arrow, making a bulls-eye into Chanel’s shiny mouth. Didn’t take but a minute to blow his nut. Chanel knew right when to stand up, turn around and bend over, letting Beamer jack his hose as he sprayed a white fountain all over the caramel curves of her ass. His cum dripped down her round, mouth-watering booty like sugar glaze on a golden brown donut.

“Hell yeah,” Duke groaned. For a second he was tempted to pull them gold chains to the side of her booty crack and drill himself some relief in a pussy that had never disappointed Timbo. But he had work to do, and he didn’t need the mellowing powers of pussy to dull his mind when he was talking with bad-ass niggas about his bank.

Sex transmutation. That was the term in one of Duke’s favorite self-help audiotapes based on the book, Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill. It said most men didn’t earn their fame and fortune until after they turned forty because they were so distracted by chasing pussy. In the hood, forty was the equivalent of ninety in the white world. Duke was damn lucky he was about to celebrate twenty-one, let alone fucking forty. So, on the hood accelerated life plan, he was right on target. And he was going to stay that way, with Duchess’ help.

Once in chemistry class in seventh grade, the teacher talked about “shelf life,” how a chemical lost its full potential because it would start decomposing or getting weaker after a few days, months or years. All of Duke’s friends started talking about “hood life,” how they only had a few years to do what they were going to do before they got shot, went to prison or got killed. And it was true. Most of his boys were either dead, locked up, fucked up on drugs or bums with babies they weren’t taking care of. No plan, no goal, no vision. Just living down to the sorry-ass expectations the white world had laid out for them since the first slave ship left Africa four hundred and some years ago.

So, when Duke listened to that book hoping that someday he could actually read it, he decided he needed to focus his sex energy into his work and find just one woman to take care of it for life. That way he wouldn’t be squandering his sex power on every ho in D-town. He’d be building his business every time he was fucking his sexy-ass partner in business and in life. His wife. Duchess. Even though all this pussy was his for the taking any time, any way, any day, he knew no pussy could compare to the one he wanted. Now, rather than snack on some always available chicken wings, he would wait for the rare cut of premium filet mignon.

First he had to make dog meat of Izz and any one of these Barrier motherfuckers who were giving each other looks that let Duke know something was up. And wrong.

“Let’s roll,” Duke said to Beamer, who had zipped up his pants and was on the phone with Pound, checking to see if Duchess had arrived in the hood yet. Beamer tapped his phone to his heart, his signal that everything was cool for now.

Duke stepped toward the hallway leading under the staircase to the back of the house.

Where Izz might be stealin’ from me right now.

He walked fast, with purpose, into the kitchen. Izz was at the table counting bricks of Benjamins. Two handguns sat like black eggs in a nest of cash. One of Izz’s titty bitches was standing behind him, braiding his hair, and shaking her butt-naked ass to the beat of the music. Some orange platform shoes were sticking out from under the table where another of Izz’s own hoes must have been sucking his dick.

Dumb-ass ma’fucka can’t concentrate on cash and cummin’ at the same time.

His boy, Rake, who was supposed to have Izz’s back, was standing at the counter, scarfing down a deep dish pizza. And catching bricks. First Rake would take a bite of pizza then look over at Izz, who would toss a brick. Rake would catch it and toss it into a brown leather backpack next to the pizza box on the counter. They did it again, and Rake didn’t even look up. He just held out his hand and caught the cash.

My cash. These ridiculous ma’fuckas makin’ a game outta tryin’ ta get ova on The Duke.

Duke hit that switch in his head marked BAD-ASS NIGGA-TURBO-DRIVE. He moved so fast, he was like a cat pouncing a mouse.

Before Izz could blink, Duke was on him, with the silver tip of a gun on each of Izz’s ashy ears. Duke’s voice was deep and hard. “Ma’fucka, fin’ the rest o’ ma bank you an’ Rake stashed, an’ you can keep havin’ yo’ dick sucked.”

Izz froze. Beamer was in front of the table, double-aiming at Rake.

Izz groaned. “I ain’t—”

Duke pressed the cold metal into his ears harder, to help him think more clearly.

Izz grunted. “Yo, man. Rake.” The brown leather bag came flying. It landed on the table, making money flutter up.

“Put it all in the bag.” Duke pressed the barrel tips harder into this empty-skulled motherfucker. “An’ listen close, bof y’all. One mo’ whispa that y’all even thinkin’ ’bout takin’ wha’s mine—” Duke loved the power of his deep voice that put the whole room on freeze-frame. “An’ you bof gon’ get a up close an’ personal introduction to ma favorite brotha, Prince.”

Babylon Street was jumping as Duke screeched his ivory convertible Porsche between TV trucks, Escalades and hoopties. Folks packed the porches in every direction, dancing, barbecuing, and talking about this mixed rich bitch from TV who was moving into their hood. Whether they loved her or hated her, they couldn’t touch her. Duke had big, bad Barriors standing guard on every corner, just like they did for school kids and grandmothers and anybody else who hired Babylon’s protection services.

Now, all eyes were on Miss Green’s crumbling little wood-sided house with faded, peeling blue paint, a sagging porch, and dirt for a front yard. A media mob was already camped out on the cracked front sidewalk. A strip of dirt stretched between them and the curb, where Pound Dog sat inside a black Hummer. TV trucks were parked in front and in back of the big vehicle that was holding the hottest spot in the hood right now.

“It’s on,” Beamer said into his cell phone.

In a flash, the Hummer pulled out and Duke pulled in, just in time to watch his Duchess get dropped by fate right into his lap.

“Tell me I ain’t the baddest ma’fucka in the galaxy,” Duke said, loving how his voice was vibrating as deep as the funky electric beat of his Bang Squad CD. “Ain’t no otha ma’fucka got his own theme song to rock wit’. Jamal finally finish cuttin’ Duchess’ jus’ in time.” Duke’s diamond “D” ring sparkled as his enormous left hand fell from the polished teakwood steering wheel to the tentpole in his white linen pants. “Damn, Timbo ain’t neva been this cocked. An’ I ain’t even seen her in person yet. This bitch gon’ rule.”

“No joke, Massa Duke,” Beamer said, pulling a thin gold box from the dash. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d ask what you been smokin’.”

“B, why you think TV here?” Duke nodded toward reporters and cameramen who were running around like ants, jockeying for a spot on the three-foot swath of dirt between his gold rims and the sidewalk. “’Cause e’rybody wanna see the mos’ wild, whack give-you-a-heart-attack love story ev’a!”

“She gon’ look at you an’ run!” Beamer laughed then shouted to the media mob. “Yo! We security. Y’all can’t block us.”

A white female reporter cut her eyes at him and shook her head, but she got out of the way anyway. So did the big black dude with the camera on his shoulder, and some other reporters with notebooks and tape recorders.

“You definitely on pussy patrol now,” Beamer said, nodding across the street where Sha’ante and her hoochie crew were blasting “Move Bitch Get Out Da Way” from the porch of their second story flat. They were also smirking down at the news trucks raising their poles to broadcast live from this urban warzone where the rat-tat-tat of gunfire was as common as sirens and screaming.

“Media on one side,” Beamer said, “and them blown-out hoes across the street at Sha’ante house, plottin’ a bitch hunt.”

“Hell no.” Duke stiffened with the overwhelming need to protect his Duchess. Sweat prickled down his solid muscles that he had pumped tougher in the gym with the Barriors this morning. He glanced up at those jealous, hard-ass hoes then he looked down at the silver metal nestled between his leather bucket seat and the center console. “Let a bitch try.”

Above, the rhythmic beat of helicopter blades stirred up frenzied noise and movement amongst the kids on bikes by the weed-clogged lot next door, the dark faces crammimg every inch of porches on crumbling Cape Cod-style cribs, and the brothas and bitches parked in cars up and down the street sparkling with broken glass. Duke cranked the Bang Squad on the stereo and nodded with Beamer to the deep, steady drumbeat, like marching soldiers, and a chorus of Barriors chanting “Babylon!” Their voices vibrated through Duke with the powerful force of the black warrior motherfuckers he created.

Jus’ like they boss. Me. Duke flipped down the mirror. His black wrap-around sunglasses were cool as hell against the angular planes of his dark-dark brown, clean-shaven face and his bald head. The shades rested on an exact replica of King Tut’s nose as it appeared on the gold masks Duke had at Babylon HQ. His heart was hammering so tough, he could see it pumping through those thick veins on each side of his wide neck, all the way from the white linen collar of his shirt to the little silver hoop earrings in each ear. They flashed in the late afternoon sun as Duke nodded harder and pointed to the stereo.

“Here go Jamal.” The background chant continued as Jamal preached. It was like the ghetto gospel according to rap.

“Babylon rule, wit’ D-town cool, urban jewel, win any duel, jack a fool, sexy seductive, serve an’ protect, in Babylon, Duke an’ Duchess get respect.”

The male chorus got louder then faded as the girls rapped over a belly dancer beat. “Babylon men, I’ll take ten, rock this ass, oh, so fast, they last an’ last, like a rocket blast. The Duke, he rule, wit’ D-town cool.”

“Watch,” Duke said. “She got a light-bright face, white voice, white brain—wit’ black balls big as mine.”

A week’s worth of TV reports flashed in his mind about the girl who would soon be formerly known as Victoria Winston. She had worked for her millionaire daddy in his business. Got straight A’s at private school and was scheduled to start classes this week at the University of Michigan in nearby Ann Arbor. She was star of the debate club and school play.

“B, read ’bout how her daddy let her do deals.”

Beamer snatched the newspaper from the back seat and read aloud. “Victoria Winston was apparently so wise and mature beyond her years that her father who was known for his distrust of others, entrusted her to secure six-figure negotiations.”

“Tha’s what I call good home trainin’,” Duke said. “She perfect for helpin’ me manifest my urban destiny, ’specially when we meet wit’ the Moreno Triplets and Mr. and Mrs. Marx out west. They an’ the rest o’ the world betta sit down an’ shut up. ’Cause Duke Johnson and his Duchess takin’ ova, side by side.”

“Who you kiddin’?” Beamer said, laughing. “You know damn well that bigger, badder Knight gon’ come back an’ snatch Babylon back from baby br’a.”

“Hell naw.” Duke bit down, making his jaw muscles ripple so they’d stop trembling like the rest of him. “Knight know I be runnin’ it as good as him an’ Prince was.”

Even though I shoulda had all this shit from when Knight firs’ got locked up. But it took me this long to figure out what the fuck I was doin’, all by my damn self. Now I know, an’ I’m gon’ make Knight finally give me my props.

“Yeah,” Duke said. “Me an’ Knight gon’ be equals, like him an’ Prince was.”

“Then why you look scared jus’ thinkin’ about it?” Beamer asked. “Can’t nothin’ or nobody else scare The Duke.”

Duke cranked the music louder.

“Except Knight,” Beamer said. “An’ you should be scared o’ your girl, Milan. She gon’ go off! If you make some new, light-skinded, long-haired, blue-eyed bitch yo’ Duchess, it’s gon’ be baby momma mutiny.”

“Milan ain’t it.” Duke ignored the vibration of his phone flashing her number. “Blowin’ up my phone. She all external. Got too damn skinny, tryin’ to be like a model, obsessed wit’ looks an’ clothes. Greedy, powa-hungry bitch who’d stab my back if I didn’t have her watched. Talkin’ white, perpetratin’ like she so smart.”

“She ain’t stupid.” Beamer put the newspaper on the floor.

“Yeah, she stupid, thinkin’ she can get over on me. I hate how she be perpetratin’ like she so bougie. The spa. Her aromatherapy. Tellin’ me spaghetti ain’t spaghetti, it’s vermicelli. Michelle ain’t Michelle, she fake-ass Milan.”

“No joke, Massa Duke, I’d take Milan in a Motor City minute if you ’bout to put ’er out wit’ the trash.”

“What bank you think you got to get that gold-diggin’ diva?”

Scheme flashed in Beamer’s goofy-ass eyes as he slid his Glock between the ivory leather seat and the console. He ran his hand over that gold box on his lap, pulled off the lid and stared at a dozen chocolate truffles.

He inhaled loudly, then said, “I’ma get my treasure. But while we on it, how you think yo’ num’ a one boy feel gettin’ trumped by some snowflake you fell in love wit’ through a TV screen?” Beamer popped a chocolate ball into his mouth. “Damn, these good when they half-melted in the sun.”

Duke shook his head. “Listen to you, ridiculous ma’fucka. Lookin’ at chocolate like it’s some good pussy. An’ you want The Duke to take you serious about havin’ juice at Babylon.”

“Why you lookin’ at me like I ain’t shit?” Beamer turned pale.

“’Cause you lack vision, ma’fucka.”

“I got vision, man.” Beamer nodded at a dark blue Caddie turning into Miss Green’s driveway. “Here come Lily White.”

“The gods ’bout to deliver my Duchess. Delivered into some Timbo temptation she can’t neva resist.”

“Mo’ like Miss Lily White ’bout to get delivered into Terror Nation,” Beamer snickered. “She probably the mos’ scary, prissy-ass brat who gon’ get here, say ‘hell naw,’ then do jus’ like her daddy and take the quickest exit off Planet Black!” Beamer pointed his Glock at the sky and imitated that nursery rhyme, “Pop Goes the Weasel.”

“Pop go the white girl!”

“I’ma pop yo’ ridiculous P.O.W. ass like I thought about when I captured you,” Duke said. “You ain’t said it yet today.”

Beamer looked down and bowed his head, just like he did two years ago when Duke decided to let him live. “You gave me life, Massa Duke. You give me life every day, so I serve The Duke in every way.”

“Don’t forget it, neither.” Duke cut his glare away from Beamer and focused on his goddess inside that Caddie about fifteen feet away. All he could see was the back of a white man’s head in the driver’s seat. The sun glare on the window was blocking her.

His heart hammered so loud, it made static in his ears.

The car door opened. Her long, black hair appeared like a silky, swaying cape as she stood up. “Hell yeah!” Duke groaned with his hand on his dick. Timbo was damn near doing fl