Street Rap

Book 1: Crescent Crew Series

by Shaun Sinclair

Genres: African American Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

They risked it all for the love of the dough, then wrote chart-topping songs about it. But can this crew escape their past?

For Reece and Qwess, being rap superstars was the dream, but in real life, nothing moved without the money. So they formed the Crescent Crew, an outfit of young, ruthless hustlers who locked the Southern drug trade in a stranglehold.

They're at the height of their power when Qwess is offered a record deal from a major label. He accepts and makes plans for his whole crew to go legit, but Reece enjoys his position as king of the streets and has no desire to relinquish his crown.

As a rift in the crew grows, Qwess is busy gliding up the charts, and Reece expands Crescent Crew's powerful reach into new territory. Then tragedy strikes close to home, and Qwess is pulled back into the streets he desperately fought to escape.

Will he fall victim to the trap, or will he become a superstar of rap?

Release date: September 25, 2018

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

The black Tahoe crept onto the rooftop of the parking garage overlooking downtown Fayetteville and stopped. The driver lumbered his hefty frame out of the truck and stood to his full six-foot-seven-inch height. He flipped the collar up on his heavy mink coat, readjusted the sawed-off shotgun tucked beneath his arm, and scanned his surroundings for danger. Satisfied that the area was clear, he tapped on the passenger window of the truck. The tinted window eased down halfway, and a cloud of smoke was released into the air.

“It’s clear,” the giant reported.

“Good. Now go post up over there so you can see the street, make sure no funny biz popping off,” the man in the truck instructed.

The giant hesitated a moment. “You sure about this? I mean, I don’t trust these dudes like that,” he said.

The man smiled. “You worry too much, Samson. Nobody would dare violate this thing of ours again. Look around you, it’s just us and them. This is crew business, and this shit has gone on long enough. Tonight, it ends, one way or another.”

The window glided up, and the giant assumed his position near the edge of the parking garage.

Behind the dark glass of the Tahoe, two men sat in the back seat sharing a blunt while a brooding hip-hop track thumped through the speakers. The men casually passed the blunt and enjoyed the music as if they were at a party, and not on the precipice of a drug war for control of the city’s lucrative narcotics trade. Although partners, each of the men was a boss in his own right. Their leadership styles were different—one was fire, the other was ice—but it was the balance that made their team so strong.

In the back seat of the Tahoe sat Qwess and Reece, leaders of the notorious Crescent Crew.

“Yo, that beat is bananas, son!” Reece remarked to Qwess. “You did that?”

Qwess nodded. “You knowww it,” he sang.

“Word. You already wrote to it?”

“I’m writing to it right now,” he replied. He pointed to his temple. “Right here.”

“I hear ya, Jay-Z,” Reece joked. “So, anyway, how you want to handle this when these niggas get here?”

Qwess nodded. “Let me talk some sense into them, let them know they violated.”

“Son, they know they violated.”

“Still, let me handle it, because you know how you can be.”

Reece scowled. “How I can be? Fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You know how you can be,” Qwess insisted.

“What? Efficient?”

“If you want to call it that.”

Headlights bent around the corner and a dark gray H2 Hummer came into view. The Hummer drove to the edge of the garage and stopped inches in front of Samson. He spun around to face the truck. The giant, clad in a full-length mink, resembled King Kong in the glow of the xenon headlamps.

Inside the truck, Qwess craned his head over the seat to confirm their guests. “That’s them,” he noted as he passed Reece the blunt. He climbed from the back of the truck and tossed his partner a smirk. “Stay here, I got it.”

Qwess joined Samson while men poured out of the Hummer. When the men stood before Qwess, someone very important was absent.

Qwess raised his palm. “Whoa, whoa, someone’s missing from this little shindig,” he observed, scanning the faces. “Where is Black Vic?”

One of the minions stepped forward. He wore a bald head and a scowl. “Black Vic couldn’t be here tonight. He sends his regards.” The man thumbed his chest with authority. “He sent me in his place.”

Qwess frowned. “He sent you in his place? Are you kidding me? We asked for a meeting with the boss of your crew, and he sends you?”

The man nodded. “Yep.”

Qwess shook his head. “Yo, get Black Vic on the phone and tell him to get his ass down here now.”

The minion chuckled. “I see you got things confused, dawg. You run shit over there, not over here. Now are we talking or what?”

Samson took a step forward. The other three men took two steps back. Qwess gently placed a hand on Samson’s arm. The giant stood down.

“I need to talk to the man in charge,” Qwess insisted. “Because we only going to have this conversation one time.”

“Word?”

“Word!”

Suddenly, the back door to the Tahoe was flung open, and all eyes shifted in that direction. Reece stepped out into the night and flung his dreads wildly. Time seemed to slow down as he diddy-bopped over to them, his Cuban link and heavy medallion swinging around his neck. He pulled back the lapels on his jacket and placed his hands on his waist, revealing his Gucci belt and his two .45s.

“Yo, where Victor at?” Reece asked.

Qwess scoffed. “He ain’t here. He sent these niggas.”

Reece looked at each man, slowly nodding his head. “So Victor doesn’t respect us enough to show his face and address his violation? He took two kis from my little man, beat him down. My li’l homie from Skibo hit him with consignment, and he decided to keep shit. Now, we trying to resolve this shit ’cause war is bad for business—for everybody, and he wanna say, ‘fuck us’?”

“Black Vic said that you said ‘fuck us’ when you wouldn’t show us no flex on the prices,” the minion countered.

“Oh, yeah? That what he said?” Reece asked. He shook his head and mocked, “He said, she said, we said . . . See, that’s that bitch shit. That’s why Victor should’ve came himself. But he sent you to speak for him, right?”

The bald-headed minion puffed out his bird chest. “That’s right.”

“Okay.” Reece nodded his head and looked around the rooftop of the garage. “Well, tell Victor this!”

SMACK!

Without warning, Reece lit the minion’s jaws up with an open palm slap. Samson lunged forward and wrapped his huge mittens around the neck of one of the other minions, who wore a skully pulled low over his eyes. Qwess drew his pistol and aimed it at the other minion in a hoodie, while the soldier in the passenger seat of the Tahoe popped out of the roof holding an AK-47.

“Y’all thought it was sweet?” Reece taunted. He smacked the bald-headed minion again, and he crumpled to the floor semiconscious. “I got a message for Victor’s ass, though.”

Reece dragged the man over to the Hummer and pitched his body to the ground in front of the pulley attached to the front of the truck. He reached inside the Hummer to release the lever for the pulley, then returned to the front of the Hummer. While the spectators watched in horror, Reece pulled bundles of metal rope from the pulley and wrapped it around the man’s neck. Qwess came over to help, and when they were done, the two of them hoisted the man up onto the railing.

“Wait, man! Please don’t do this!” the minion pleaded. He was fully conscious now, and scrapping for his life. Qwess cracked him in the jaw and knocked the fight right out of him.

Reece fixed him with a cold gaze. “We not doing this to you, homie. Your man, Victor, is,” he explained. “His ass should’ve showed up. Now, of course, this means war.”

Reece and Qwess flipped the man over the railing. His body sailed through the air, and the pulley whirred to life, guiding his descent. His banshee-like wail echoed through the quiet night as he desperately tugged at the rope around his neck. Then suddenly, the pulley ran out of rope and caught, snapping his neck like a chicken. Both Qwess and Reece spared a look over the edge and saw his lifeless body dangling against the side of the building.

Reece turned to face the others. Slowly, he slid his thumb across his naked throat, and the AK-47 sparked three times. All head shots.

This was crew business.

The following morning Qwess walked into Crescent Sounds, the studio he had erected when he really started getting money. After making his rounds through the building he learned he was all alone, which was how he preferred it. He left the lights low, walked into the vocal booth, and inhaled the scent of the place. This was his sanctuary, his home away from home, the place where everything in his world made sense.

Qwess stepped before the mic, closed his eyes, and visualized himself on stage commanding the crowd. In his mind, they showered him with love as he spit a vicious rhyme about the streets. His vision was so vivid he could’ve sworn he heard the roar of the crowd ringing inside his ears. He bobbed his head to the imaginary beat, the brooding track he and Reece had been listening to just before they tossed a man over the edge of a rooftop at two in the morning. He felt light, free. He felt as if he were on top of the world. Unconsciously, he started rapping aloud . . .

“Niggas bleed when they romp with the Crescent Crew, heard tales ’bout the kinda evil shit we do/ like stay true and put it down for the culture, a savage act up we give ’em wings like vultures . . .” he spat, referring to the incident from last night.

This was his shtick, the thing that set him apart from everyone else. The rep of his crew preceded him, so when Qwess spat some gangsta shit, the streets embraced him because they knew he was authentic. However, while most rappers were desperate to run toward street cred, Qwess was actually trying to run away from his.

Qwess opened his eyes, and his attention fell on the television hanging on the wall outside the booth. The midday news was on, broadcasting live from downtown about a gruesome murder that had been committed during the wee hours of the morning. Qwess rushed from the booth and turned the volume up.

“Authorities are still trying to piece together the details of a gruesome scene they discovered this morning. Apparently, a man was thrown from the rooftop of this hotel behind me. Now what happened next isn’t clear. Apparently, some type of mechanical device was wrapped around his neck from his SUV before he was thrown over the roof. The tension from the rope caused the man to become decapitated . . .” Qwess silenced the TV. He had heard enough. He watched the remainder of the report on mute.

The door to the studio opened, and in walked Reece, swagged out and beaming from ear to ear. “Peace, my brother! Beautiful day, huh?” Reece asked.

Qwess pointed to the TV. “You see this shit?”

Reece watched a few seconds of the news, then spread his arms expansively. “Yeah, it’s beautiful, isn’t it? I bet Victor got the message now.”

Qwess shook his head. “Bro, we don’t need this right now. I got some big things on the table right now, things that can set us all straight.”

“You talking about this music shit again?” Reece asked. “Bro, I respect what you got going on with that, but, man, they don’t let guys like us in that industry. The industry is full of move fakers.”

Qwess shook his head in exasperation. “They respect units, man! Numbers. We’ve been doing numbers like crazy out here in these streets.”

Reece reached deep into his pockets and pulled out a huge wad of cash. “These type of numbers?” he asked. “I got a Louie bag in the trunk of the Masi with about ninety bands in it, too. Half of that is yours. Are they showing you that type of respect with the numbers?”

Qwess walked over to the mixing board and cued up a track. “This is the ticket right here, Reece. This music shit is the new dope game. You know they just gave them niggas down in New Orleans a thirty-million-dollar distribution deal? Where else can you see that type of money legally?” Qwess posed. “Now I got love for the crew. We built this shit from the ground up, but like I told you before, I’m out. That shit last night can never happen again. I only agreed to come along because me and Black Vic got history. Thought I could talk to him.”

“Well, you see how that worked out,” Reece sniped.

“Yeah, because you didn’t stay in the truck!” Qwess pointed out.

Reece walked up to Qwess and got right in his chest. “Look, the day I let a muthafucka disrespect me, you, or this crew we built is the day I’d rather die,” Reece vowed. “Now you ain’t the only one out here making moves. I got some shit lined up that can put us in a real good position also, and that’s what matters most. A’ight? Crew business, all the time. Remember?”

Reece was pulling rank. Crew business was their motto. It meant that nothing or no one came before the crew. Whatever it took for their crew to win was crew business. That was the oath they had built the Crescent Crew upon.

“I remember, bro.” Qwess sighed heavily. “I’m just saying, we can’t do this shit forever. If we have a way out . . .”

“We ain’t trying to do it forever. We just trying to do it for our forever,” Reece returned.

Qwess turned away. “I feel you,” he conceded, then pointed at the TV. “But this shit can’t be good for nothing.”

Reece shrugged. “It is what it is, bro. We here now. Ain’t no such things as halfway crooks.”

“True indeed.”

The brothers walked outside to Reece’s Maserati Cambio-corsa Spyder. Reece popped the trunk and passed Qwess a bag stuffed with cash.

“Take that, Qwess. Smell that money and remind yourself what life is all about,” Reece suggested.

Qwess took the bag and tossed it on the back seat of his Benz. “What you got planned tonight?” he asked.

“I got to see a man about a dog,” he joked. “Matter fact, two dogs.”

Qwess shook his head. “You can’t get enough, huh?”

“Brother, you locked down; I’m not. I’m a descendant of Solomon, and I’m going to live like it,” Reece bragged.

“Word.” Qwess dapped Reece up. “I’ll get at you later.”

The friends parted ways with their minds on two separate missions, yet one cause—glory for the Crescent Crew.

Unbeknownst to them, there was someone watching their interaction from a distance. This person was on a mission also. Their cause? The demise of the Crescent Crew.

Later that night

Reece lay in amazement as the ladies worshipped him like the god he thought himself to be. Sure, this wasn’t the first threesome he’d indulged in, but it was definitely the most memorable. Just the way Cretia was moaning had him rock hard. And oh, that skin . . . that beautiful chocolate skin! He’d normally go for the redbones, but Cretia was next-level fine with thick thighs, nice breasts, and long, wavy hair that she didn’t pay for. Besides, the way Cretia had made this proposal, who was he to refuse? Turned out she was right. Chocolate does melt in your mouth!

And how could he forget Vanilla? She was doing her best to make sure he didn’t do that. Hell, the way she was sucking him, you’d think his dick was a pacifier. The broad never let up! He had already released himself inside her mouth twice. The first time, she shared the reward with Cretia. The second time, she selfishly kept it to herself.

Reece raised his head from the bed. “Yo, why don’t y’all switch,” he suggested. “Vanilla, let a nigga breathe this time, though.”

Vanilla smirked. “I’ll try, ’cause you know that shit be feeling too good,” she claimed. “Who would’ve thought King Reece could eat pussy like that.”

“Yo, chill, shorty. They call me King ’cause I get down for my crown in everything,” he boasted.

“Well, why don’t you get down on this,” Cretia interrupted, pointing to her crotch. “My shit is throbbing, and I’m dying to feel that inside me,” she stated, pointing at his erection.

Reece slipped on another condom and dived in. Although she was wet already, she was still somewhat tight. With a little maneuvering, he managed to sink deep inside Cretia. As he began a nice, rhythmic, long stroke, he felt Vanilla grab his ass. He knew what she was about to do, but before he could object, she slid her tongue through the crack of his ass. At that point, it felt so good, he figured fuck it and let her have her way.

A few moments later, Reece exploded with a powerful orgasm. No sooner than he released his load, both women snatched the condom off and drank of his essence as if their lives depended on it.

As they pleased him simultaneously, Reece marveled at how beautiful the women were, as if truly noticing it for the first time. He had dealt with so many beautiful women in his life that he was somewhat jaded when it came to pretty faces. However, he’d always run into one—or two—that would raise the bar on his personal standard of beauty.

Such was the case this night. Cretia and Vanilla were two of the most desired women in the city. Every hustler in town wanted a piece of them, but they played hard to get. Yet, here was Reece having his way with both of the beauties, doing things that would have gotten them kicked out of the Bible, purely on the strength of who he was.

This is the life! he thought. Qwess would be a fool to want to give this up.

For Reece, living any other way wasn’t an option. He was true to the game. He would rather rule in hell than serve in heaven.

Qwess scanned his rearview looking for a cop as he ran yet another red light. He shifted the gear in his SL55 and zoomed down Skibo Road. He was already late for his meeting with Reece and Doe, and he knew how Reece could be about time. For a dude who didn’t have any set work hours, he sure stressed punctuality.

As Qwess rolled up to the restaurant, he spotted Rolando, or “Doe” as he was called, sitting on his Corvette, talking on the phone. Reece’s first cousin, Doe was the third member of their brotherhood. The three had been friends since high school, and although Doe chose to live on the right side of the law, their bond never wavered. By day, Doe worked as a logistics specialist for a firm that handled accounts for Cape Fear Valley Hospital. By night, he handled most of the day-to-day business operations for Qwess’s record label, A.B.P. In fact, it was Doe’s expertise that had catapulted A.B.P. to the top of the rap game in the Southeast. He had coordinated the marketing campaign and was responsible for getting the CDs in the hands of the people.

Right beside Doe’s car was Reece’s Porsche. Qwess pulled into a parking space a few cars down from Reece’s 911 and hopped out, eager to share the great news.

As he got out of the car, he spotted Reece all the way on the other side of the parking lot of the restaurant. He was bent over at the window of a red Honda Accord, spitting game at some chick. Reece spotted Qwess and held up a finger for him to wait. Qwess had to give it to the brother, he pulled more hoes than a dentist pulled teeth.

Qwess and Doe salaamed each other, as they were both Muslims, in theory anyway. Doe checked Qwess’s clothes out and nodded approvingly. Qwess was wearing olive-green slacks, an orange Coogi short-sleeve sweater, and olive-green alligator loafers. He topped it off with a thin platinum chain with a charm that read Allah in Arabic, along with his signature Versace frame glasses with rose tint.

“You looking real smooth, brother,” Doe complimented him.

“Appreciate it. You ain’t slacking yourself.” Doe instinctively looked down at his gear and knew what was coming next. “Though you could lose the tie,” Qwess continued.

“Yo, you always say that!” Doe said, shaking his head.

“’Cause that’s word, Ock,” Qwess insisted. “You gotta learn how to coordinate.”

Just as Doe was about to respond, Reece walked up, interrupting them. “Yo, son, you not gonna believe what happened to me the other night,” Reece claimed.

“Here we go!” Both Qwess and Doe said simultaneously.

“Yo, word, word. Check it,” Reece said, rubbing his palms together. “You remember ole girl that used to dance at X-tasy named Vanilla?”

“You talking about the short mixed broad with the blond hair?” Qwess recalled.

“Yeah, yeah. Her!” Reece confirmed.

Before Reece could delve deeper into his tryst, the red Honda Accord pulled up next to them. The driver’s door swung open, and time seemed to slow down as the woman stepped out of the vehicle as if she was on a photo shoot. Her black stiletto heel touched the pavement and she rose to her full five-foot-six-inch height, allowing everyone to drink in her beauty. Black suede boots encased her smooth, peanut butter–colored skin all the way up to her thick, sculpted thighs, which glistened with oil all the way up to the edges of her short, ripped jean shorts. Her waist seemed to disappear between wide hips and large melons weighing down the fabric of her white spaghetti-strap top. It was evident she wore no bra because her nipples were eagerly trying to get a glimpse of everything around them. Her juicy lips were coated in lip gloss and shined like the chrome rims on Reece’s Porsche. Her auburn colored hair was cut in a sharp bob style that was Reece’s weakness.

Reece quickly stepped in, wrapped his arm around the woman’s slim waist, and presented her to his crew. “Brothers, this is my new lady,” he sa. . .