The Cocaine Princess Part 5 (Cocaine Princess Series #5)(22)

Blake frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s Papi,” she cried. “How can a sixty-one-year-old man be so evil?! He treats human beings like a farmer treats chickens, so quick to take off their heads.” She sniffled again. “I just watched him decapitate ten people. And two of them were women!”

“Watch what you say over this phone, baby.” He walked to the living room, cut on the 72-inch widescreen TV, turned to ESPN, and took a seat on the black Italian leather sofa, placing the duffle beside him.

“Our telephone lines are secure. I’ve told you that a billion times already,” Alexus said, still sobbing. She waited a moment, then added, “I’m sorry. I know you’re dealing with what happened to Lil Mike. It’s just…driving me crazy how heartless my father is. He’s worse than that D.C. sniper was.”

Snuffing out the butt of his blunt in an ashtray on the glass-topped coffee table, Blake looked at Tootie and told her to go back downstairs, grab four bottles of Ciroc, and tell everyone they could drink the other bottles.

Fly added, “And pick out the five thickest hoes down there to bring back with you. Make sure you get Marketa and Jessica, too.”

“What the hell did he just say?” Alexus asked, her perturbed tone shifting to one of anger.

“That ain’t got nothin’ to do with me,” Blake assured her. “I’m here to f*ck wit’ my niggas and celebrate Lil Mike’s life. I’ll be home by”—he checked his Rolex and saw that it was 8:55 p.m.—“midnight, alright?”

“Don’t make me f*ck you up, Blake. I’m serious.”

He chuckled sullenly. “What did I tell you about all that worrying? The keyword in faithful is faith. And besides, what could I possibly get from a bitch in the ghetto that I can’t get from you?”

“An STD,” she retorted.

Lying back in a black leather recliner across the room from Blake, Fly mumbled, “Some brand-new *.”

“Like I said,” Blake reiterated to Alexus, “I’ll be home by midnight. I might have to pay somebody to drive me home, but I’ll get there.”

“Okay well…I’m going over to Porsche’s party with Tasia and Cereniti. I spent almost two hundred grand to get the OMG Girls and Mindless Behavior to perform for her, and I want to be there to see it. I really wanted to get an MBM or a YMCMB artist to perform, but I know your crew had a show at Adrianna’s tonight, and Young Money’s booked.”

“She’ll be a’ight. I’ll bring her onstage at my next show.” Blake’s eyes went wide as Tootie returned with a round faced brown skinned girl in a tight-fitted denim Apple Bottom cat-suit. The girl was shaped like Kim Kardashian, and she was just as beautiful. “I…uh…love you, baby.” Blake stuttered into the smartphone as three other women entered the living room. “I’ll call when I’m on my way home.”

Alexus let out a resigned sigh. “I love you, too,” she muttered before hanging up.

Easing back on the sofa, Blake put the phone back on his hip and continued to ogle the dime piece from behind his shades. Tootie took her place on his lap again, this time facing away from him, and opened one of the bottles of Ciroc. She handed him the bottle.

“What’s her name?” He asked, pointing an index finger at the bad bitch.

“That’s my girl Tameka,” Tootie told him. “She’s from St. Louis, moved here a couple of weeks ago.”

Blake turned up the bottle and swallowed down four flaming gulps of vodka, wincing as the conflagration worked its way down his throat. He was trying to drink himself into cheating on Alexus, but he knew that he wouldn’t actually go through with it. Not after all Alexus had done for him.

A pair of headlights suddenly swept across the wide picture window behind Blake as a vehicle turned onto Patrick Street. Then the window lit up again—a second vehicle.

He twisted around, pushed the black curtain aside, and fingered down the venetian blinds.

A clean black GMC pickup and a green ‘70’s model Chevelle were idling in the middle of the street, lights off, engines running.

Blake rose quickly—forcing Tootie to rise with him—and snatched the couch away from the wall. He grabbed the two AK-47s he had stashed behind the couch and tossed one to Fly. “You know anybody with a black pickup truck or a green Chevelle?” He yanked back the slide on the K, chambering a round from the fifty-round banana clip.

“Hell naw,” Fly answered.

“Ay, y’all go upstairs right quick,” Lil Chris said to the girls as he drew a nine millimeter Ruger from under his long white tee shirt. He was slim and brown and ready to start shooting.

Once the girls were gone, Blake unlocked the front door. “Aim at ‘em, but don’t start bussin’ unless they get stupid,” he murmured authoritatively. His heart was throwing Tyson jabs at his ribcage. His adrenal glands were convulsing with activity.

He flung open the door, and the three of them rushed out onto the porch. The porch’s proximity light popped on, which seemed to shock the two men strolling up the cobblestone walkway more than the sight of the AK-47s that were trained on their faces. They threw their hands to the sky in surrender.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said the shorter, slightly overweight light-skinned nigga. “Hold on, my guy. My li’l nigga Lil Lord sent us out this way to cop some work. We was in the joint with the li’l nigga. You can call and ask him yo’self, my guy. Tell him it’s Lil Lew from Nap.”