The Banks Sisters 3

by Nikki Turner

Genres: Christian Suspense

Synopsis

Just like any dysfunctional family reunion, loyalty, love, and good times soon turn to bitterness, regret, and promises to never see one another again.

At the end of the day, the Banks sisters are no different than any other family in the city of Richmond-other than the fact that they are rotten to the core. Sure, the girls are bonded by D.N.A, but they're also tied together because of their past of robbing banks, extortion, drug dealing, and even cold-blooded murder. However, that bond means absolutely nothing to them. When it comes down to it, it is every sister for herself, even if it means throwing her siblings underneath the bus to avoid the consequences of their many crimes. Sisterly love be damned; this is survival!

Release date: January 31, 2017

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

“It’s the fuel strainer, and I’d bet my cash on that.” Rydah, dressed in an oversized blue Dickies work jumper, threw five one hundred-dollar bills on the hood of the Maserati with confidence. Her hair was done, somewhat, in two messy braids.

Jack, a newbie at Everything Exotic Repair, said, “You’re wrong, sweet thing. I’m positive that it’s the fuel pump. I know these cars like the back of my hand,” he bragged. Jack was a self-proclaimed genius when it came to fixing cars, and he never wasted an opportunity to prove it.

“Just put your cash where your mouth is,” Rydah said, calling Jack out on his cockiness. Laughter erupted throughout the shop, and the fellas gathered around.

Jack, pride and ego on the line, dug into the back pocket of his dungarees, fishing out his wallet.

Rydah quickly peeped that the wallet remained closed as tight as fish pussy. “Man, put up or shut up,” she said, both chumping and finessing Jack all at the same time. “My money is already on the hood. Alone.”

Jack pushed air into his chest. In true male chauvinist form, he said, “I ain’t never let no broad talk me down off of nothing.” He pried the closed wallet open, peeled out a handful of bills, and tossed it on the hood, matching Rydah’s wager. “It’s your loss. I was only trying to save you some money, sweet thing.”

The other mechanics shook their heads. They had seen it far too many times.

Rydah released an audible chuckle of her own. “Next time, save your breath. You’ll live longer.” Rydah felt bad for Jack. He had no clue as to what he’d gotten himself into. “You got a lot to learn,” she said, “about cars and women.”

The line in the sand had been drawn and crossed. There was only one thing left to do—Rydah called for Mickey to settle the bet.

She cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled “Ayeeoo, Michelob!” calling her co-worker Mickey by his moniker.

Mickey was six foot three and thin as a whip, with big hands and feet. And as usual, one of those huge hands of his was strangling the neck of a brown Michelob bottle.

“You’re not suppose to have that on the work floor,” said Jack out of the side of his mouth.

“No shit!” Mickey gave Jack a quick once over. “You got a lot to learn,” said Mickey.

“I keep trying to tell him that,” Rydah added. “But he’s one of them dudes that knows so much that he don’t know shit. Dumb like that.”

Jack paid Rydah the same attention that he would’ve paid to a stain in his drawers—none. After all, she was a woman playing shop in a man’s place. What did she know? Instead, Jack stood there, gazing at the beer bottle in Mickey’s hand, giving a look that said “unacceptable in the workplace.”

Mickey felt the side-stare.

“It’s a psychological thing,” he said by way of explanation. “It’s filled with water. The feel of the bottle manipulates my mind into thinking that I’m having a cold one. It’s part of my AA recovery. I haven’t had a real drink in more than ten years.”

Jack nodded his head. “I didn’t know AA allowed you to even be around that type of stuff.”

Mickey informed Jack that it was his personal alcohol treatment program. “I invented for myself,” he said.

“And it’s one that you shouldn’t bother to try to figure out,” Rydah said, “Just let it go. It works for him, and been working for him for a decade now. And that’s all that matters.” This time it was Rydah who nodded, but at Jack. “Like I said, you’ve got a lot to learn around here.”

Jack continued to ignore her. Rydah noticed the shade but didn’t let it faze her. She knew that the best way to get a man’s attention was through his wallet.

“Mickey, we need you to look at this car to settle this bet for us, fair and square.”

Mickey caught a glimpse of the pile of cash on the hood of the Maserati. He took the Michelob water bottle to his mouth, took a sip, and shook his head. Then he smiled at Jack. “Man, you let her get you, huh?”

Jack poked his chest out farther than it already was. “She didn’t get me. I know these cars like the back of my hand,” he huffed.

“Well, your hand must be amputated, because your pockets are about to come up short . . . real short.”

“The day a broad beats me at anything, let alone fixing a Maserati, I’ll eat shit and die.”

“That’s a pretty funky way to go, but suit yourself,” Mickey said. “If Rydah put her money down, trust me, there’s no ifs, ands, or buts. Don’t let the estrogen fool you; Rydah knows cars like a gynecologist knows pussy.” To Rydah: “No offense intended.”

“None taken,” said Rydah, knowing that Mickey wasn’t throwing shade.

Mickey continued, “If she says the car needs a blood transfusion, the only question you need to ask is where to hook up the damn I.V. Let’s get this over with.” Mickey scooped up the money, stuffing the bills into his shirt pocket, and motioned for Jack to pop the hood.

Rydah turned her cap to the back and began to remove the plastic wrapper from a cherry Blow Pop. “I’ll hold the job of the banker.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mickey came up from under the hood, examination complete. “Let me guess: Rydah said it was the fuel strainer and you said it was the fuel pump?”

“That’s right.” Jack put his hand out to collect.

“Not so quick.” Mickey looked at Jack with a small touch of sympathy. “Did you say it was a fuel strainer?”

Jack, who still hadn’t got the memo, blurted out, “Fuel pump! I said it was the fuel freaking pump.”

“Then you won yourself a losing bet.” Mickey gave Rydah her winnings.

Rydah took her money with a smile. “Well, Jack, special thanks to you. Drinks will be on you tonight.”

The heels of the nude red-bottom shoes were the first part of her body that he saw after the valet attendant opened the door of the Lamborghini Gallardo. By the time both 6-inch heels kissed the pavement, people were outright gawking. Pockets of bystanders, tourists, and would-be club-goers in line waiting to get into the club were trying to figure out which was more astonishing: the rebuilt custom yellow Lamborghini, or the lady who’d gotten out of it.

God damn she was bad!

She was tall, sophisticated, and overflowing with sex appeal. She carried a red and nude clutch bag under her arm that perfectly matched the form-fitting nude cat suit that clung to every curve of her body. Her gait was as fluid as a fashion model as she strutted past the club’s bouncers and velvet ropes, straight to a VIP booth at the hottest party in Miami.

Another stunning woman, wearing a turquoise sequinned dress, reached out and gently grabbed the catsuit-clad woman’s arm in a hasty attempt to get her attention.

Rydah stopped to see what she wanted. The girl wasn’t a friend, but she’d seen her out often. They had conversed on a few different occasions. “Hey, Sky. What’s up?” The music—a Chris Brown song—was so loud that it was hard to hear.

Sky looked Rydah over as if she were a delectable piece of meat, similar to the stares she’d gotten when she got out of her car and entered the club. Sky admired her. “As always, you’re looking like a million dollars, girl. Have you decided to date women yet? Because when you do, I’m available.” She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, which had been pierced with a flawless 1-carat diamond.

Rydah thanked Sky for the compliment. “You’re not looking too shabby yourself. I love that dress. However, I’m still strictly dating men right now. But if I ever decide to change lanes, I’ll keep you in mind.” Rydah had never been with a woman, but several of her friends did. Some went both ways, not sure which team they wanted to suit up for. While others, mostly chicks that had been burned badly by a guy or two, now only strictly dated girls. Either way, Rydah didn’t judge.

Sky winked. “You do that. I promise you won’t regret it. The grass is fo sho mo’ green and mo’ wet on the other side.”

Flattered, Rydah was unsure how to respond. Sky was cute and all . . . but so was her Bengal cat. But she wasn’t interested in dating either of them. Before departing she said, “Keep it sexy, Sky.” The music engulfed her as she walked away.

Twenty minutes later, Rydah enjoyed the view and the sounds from one of the ten private VIP balconies which overlooked the main floor from 25 feet above the action. The owner of the club was a friend of a friend, and he comped Rydah the highly sought after spot whenever she wanted it. She was swaying her hips to a Future song when a text notification flashed on the screen of her iPhone 6Plus.

Buffy: Hey girl.

Buffy and Rydah were friends and had met each other about a year ago. The two met in Bal Harbour Mall—both were shopping and had so much in common. Immediately, the two ladies hit it off and had been thick as thieves since.

Rydah: Where R U?

Buffy: On the dance floor w/ a girlfriend f/ church

Is it cool for us to come up & kick it w/ U?

Rydah: Sure. Give the bouncer my name and take the stairs.

Rydah watched Buffy snake her way through the crowd. A gigantic bouncer wearing a tight black T-shirt blocked the door to the stairway. He had to be at least seven feet tall, with a tree trunk for a neck. It would have taken a very determined person—and an M104 Wolverine army tank—to move the bouncer off his square if he didn’t want to be moved. Buffy quickly gave him Rydah’s name as she was leaning on the rail, looking down. When the bouncer contorted his massive neck to look up in her direction, Rydah nodded her approval, then looked away to make another call.

Upstairs in the posh VIP section of the club, Buffy greeted Rydah with a smile and a hug. “You look great,” she said. Rydah returned the compliment. Buffy, staring at Rydah’s rear, said, “Girl, your ass looks too perfect to be real,” smacking Rydah’s backside.

Rydah wasn’t wearing any panties, and the playful smack on the rump stung and made her butt jiggle like jelly. Rydah wondered how Buffy would like it if she returned the favor with an open-handed smack to one of her cheeks, and not on the ass. But the thought dissipated as quickly as the sting.

“I don’t know how perfect it is,” Rydah said modestly, “but it’s definitely real.” Nothing about Rydah was artificial, including her hair, nails, or demeanor. She had nothing against girls that rocked that way, but she chose not to. Rydah was more than satisfied with the gifts God had blessed her with. Why fuck with God’s work?

“I know that’s right,” said Buffy, stroking her 27-inch copper weave.

Buffy had yet to introduce Rydah to her girlfriends, when some no-manners-having busta-ass dude decided to pour himself a drink from Rydah’s freshly-opened bottle of champagne. The drink thief was with a male friend and two females, and the four of them were obviously with Buffy, but Rydah didn’t want to assume.

She asked Buffy, who was cheesing ear-to-ear, “Do you know them?” pointing to the drink-stealing busta and his sidekick.

A day and a drink later, as far as Rydah was concerned, Buffy introduced her entourage. “Oh,” she said, “that’s Lisa from my church and my friend Charlotte who I think I told you about.” Lisa and Charlotte were gawking at the lavish suite as if they’d never been off the block. “That’s Charlotte’s boyfriend, Ken. It’s Ken’s birthday.” Ken was the drink thief. “And that,” Buffy continued, “is Ken’s boy Jake.” Buffy ran it all down extra cavalier-like.

Before Rydah could voice her disapproval of Buffy’s arrogance, Buffy tried to clean it up. “I know Wolfe always makes it his business that he hooks you up with this huge VIP suite, and it’s always hardly anyone in here with you, so I thought it would be cool. . . .”

“Cool to do what?” Rydah asked, watching Buffy’s friends snap selfies and pictures holding her bottles of Ace of Spades. “Take the liberty to invite folks into my space without asking me?”

“It wasn’t even like that,” said Buffy. When she saw the unyielding look on Rydah’s face, she tried to laugh it off. “The more the merrier, right? Live a little. We need to get this party popping! It’s not like you don’t have enough room, or drink for that matter.”

Is she serious? At the moment, Rydah wasn’t feeling the excuse or the messenger.

One of Rydah’s pet peeves were leeches, especially leeching-ass so-called grown-ass men. She was all for women’s liberation and all, but she also felt that a man should be a man and hold his own weight. And the fact that Charlotte’s boyfriend had helped himself to a bottle that had been, in fact, gifted to her, was a problem.

“What I got has nothing to do with them,” Rydah said. She hated inconsiderate people. She’d seen alley dogs with more manners than Buffy’s present company, who had yet to even say hi and were just about finishing the bottle off. She considered calling the bouncer, booting everyone out of her shit. However, she said to Buffy, “Let Ken know that I said happy birthday and all, but he needs to be a gentleman and order himself bottle, and at least offer us ladies some as well.”

“Girl.” Buffy sucked her teeth. “It’s the man’s birthday and you got two bottles over there. You very seldom even drink anything. Always having water in your glass, faking like you sipping on something.”

“It’s principle,” she said. “Men need to be men. That’s the problem with these new-wave-age dudes.”

Ten minutes hadn’t gone by and every drop of the champagne was gone. “Ayo, Buffy, can you get more of this where that shit came from?” Ken asked in earshot of Rydah.

Rydah was about to snap, but before she could, Ken’s homeboy, Jake, spoke up and said, “Man, don’t worry. It’s your birthday. I got us! Alllllll of us,” he said, putting emphasis on the entire group.

“Very gentlemanly of you.” Rydah smiled at Jake.

The server crept into the area almost embarrassed, with two bottles of Absolut vodka, which were the cheapest bottles in the club.

Just then, the sparklers lit up a path heading straight to Rydah’s VIP area, and the sexy bottle girls came in toting five more bottles of Aces of Spades. Jaffey, the owner, had comped Rydah since she was low.

Before she knew it, Jake was in the ear of her cocktail waitress, asking for a refund on the cheap bottles of Absolut vodka. Ivy, who was always Rydah’s waitress and took great care of her when she came there, didn’t want to make a big deal. Besides, Rydah, always tipped her extremely well. Ivy could see the disgust on Rydah’s face, and she wanted to defuse the situation before Rydah had the bouncer toss them on their asses.

“Don’t worry. I’m going to have Jaffey comp it for you.”

“No, don’t do such. Make them motherfuckers pay for it,” Rydah said.

“It’s okay,” Ivy said. “I don’t want a scene. It’s no problem.”

Though Rydah never took advantage, she really did have full access to anything she wanted in the club. And Jaffey never spared any expense when it came to showing her a nice time.

“It’s the principle,” Rydah said to Ivy, and Ivy just looked at her with a coy smile.

“It’s nothing. Trust me,” Ivy said. “In fact, that slimeball Jaffey needs to eat something. In my opinion, you never spend enough when you come in here.”

“A’ight.” Rydah smiled. “Thank you so much. And have the big Wolverine tank bouncer move them motherfuckers outta of here.“

“Gladly!” Ivy smiled.

Her song came on. Rydah used it as a welcome distraction and tried to focus on the lyrics and beat of the tune. She was upset but determined not to let a handful of freeloaders ruin her night.

Rydah began dancing and sipping, intoxicated by the music. Dancing was her second love, after working on cars and bikes.

Ken got the message from down in General Admission. He and his boy ponied up to buy a bottle of Ciroc. They were hugged up with Charlotte and Lisa, acting like big shots.

Buffy, who was tipsy, posted an endless stream of selfies. When she wasn’t posting pics, she was banging out texts and what she thought were clever captions for the photos.

Rydah loved to laugh and have fun. She was a closet party animal and free spirit who loved cars, music, and life. A couple of satisfied big spenders approached her about future car projects they wanted her to tackle for them. Others just wanted to show their respect, talk shop, or just flirt. She was a confident man’s dream girl: independent, beautiful, and could build a car from the ground.

Buffy, checking for someone to leave with, asked for Rydah’s opinion. “What you think about the guy over there?” She nodded. “The one with the big diamond earring and necklace, wearing the red hat.”

Rydah looked in the direction where Buffy had nodded. “The Spanish dude?” she asked.

“I don’t think he’s Spanish,” Buffy said. “I think he’s light skin. You think I should talk to him?”

Rydah looked more closely. “He look like he’s either Spanish or a hip white boy. But he’s definitely not black.”

“Well, should I go talk to him?”

“Not my style, to go approach. But if you think he’s cute, go for it.”

Buffy said that she definitely thought that he was cute.

“Then claim him before someone else does.”

That’s all Buffy needed for encouragement. That . . . and all the champagne she’d drink, courtesy of Rydah.

Rydah watched Buffy half stagger down the stairs through elbow-to-elbow clubbers on a packed dance floor, to the other side of the club to introduce herself. Damn, had Rydah known the girl was feeling the alcohol like that, she wouldn’t have even let her go over there.

Meanwhile, Rydah kept sipping and turning up by herself. Before she knew it, Buffy was back, introducing her new friends.

“Rydah, this is Mike and his boy Tiger.”

Tiger looked familiar to Rydah, but she couldn’t put her finger on where she knew him. Tiger said, “Nice to meet you.” And then she remembered. He was one of the dudes eyeing her out front when she arrived. And nothing had changed; he was still staring.

“Sorry. I can’t stop admiring you. I saw you the second your feet hit the pavement. You look nice fo’ sho. But I bet people tell you that all time, huh?”

“Compliments never get old,” she said with a coy smile.

He offered to buy her a drink. “What you sipping on?”

“Water, now.”

“In a champagne glass?” he asked as if he didn’t believe her.

She seldom drank more than one glass of champagne, and when she did, two was her absolute limit. “I’m a grown woman,” she said, “in case you can’t tell by looking at me. And I have no reason or inclination to lie, especially to anyone other than the. . .