The Cocaine Princess Part 5 (Cocaine Princess Series #5)(23)

“And Smoke from Anderson,” the second guy said. Tall and light-completed, he was clad like a professional dope boy: True Religion outfit and Jordans.

Reluctantly, Blake lowered the assault rifle, keeping a wary eye on the two men. He lifted his iPhone and told Siri, the computerized smartphone assistant, to call Lil Lord, who was currently serving time for murder in Indiana State Prison. The prison was located four blocks south of where they were now standing.

Lil Lord had been a straight goon before he was arrested back in ’05. He had introduced Blake to the Traveling Vice Lords in Chicago, his hometown; he had taught Blake to handle enemies in the streets in the same manner that the U.S. government handled theirs—shoot them to death; and he’d also instilled in Blake the code of the streets, explicating why snitching was so cowardly and why it was so important that real niggas unite and prosper.

“What’s the thought, li’l bruh?” Lil Lord answered, his voice flowing crisply through the speakerphone.

“Ay, you know a nigga named Lil Lew from Nap and another nigga named Smoke from Anderson?” Blake asked.

“Yeah, I f*ck wit’ them niggas. I talked to Lil Mike earlier and told him they’d be comin’ through. What happened, they got on some bullshit?”

Blake motioned for Chris and Fly to lower their weapons. “Nah, they ain’t on that. I was just checkin’.” He informed Lil Lord of what had happened to Lil Mike and Terry. Then he hung up and passed the AK-47 to Chris.

“Sorry to hear ‘bout cha li’l guys gettin’ offed,” Lew said. He wore Akoo from head to toe, and gold teeth were shining in his mouth. “I’m just out here tryna get a bankroll, my nigga. We been payin’ twenty-eight a brick down our way, and a lotta times we can only get one or two of ‘em. I’m tryna get a plug that can give me as much as I can buy, you feel me? I’ll hit the highway e’ry month and get the shit myself.”

“Straight up,” Smoke concurred. “I got ninety racks in the Chevy right now.”

“And I got sixty,” Lew said.

Blake stepped closer to Fly and whispered, “How many you got left?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“A’ight, charge ‘em twenty a brick and front ‘em what they buy.”

“So that’s six for Lew and nine for Smoke.”

“Yup.” Blake turned to the two men. “As long as you niggas stay solid, y’all gon’ stay flooded. Kush, boy, girl—whatever. My niggas gon’ have it for you.”

Smoke said, “Man, you’s a rap superstar. You got that Diddy bread, and yo’ girl is a f*ckin’ billionaire, Bulletface. What the f*ck are you doin’ out here uppin’ Ks on niggas? Shit, if I had that kinda bread, I’d be the last muhf*cka pullin’ a choppa on a nigga. You can pay some niggas for dat.”

“I wouldn’t leave Alexus nowhere alone, either,” Lew chuckled. “Every man in the world wanna crash her.”

Blake nodded his head, acknowledging the truth in their opinions. But he was still too upset over Lil Mike’s death to converse with anyone, let alone two strangers.

“Y’all stay up. One hun’ed,” he said, turning around and heading back inside. He picked up his heavy duffle bag and left out the back door, forcing himself to remain faithful to his fiancée.

Minutes later, he was back on Interstate 94, racing the Bugatti toward the Windy City.





Chapter 15

Alexus Costilla looked up as Cereniti Stingley and Tasia Olsen came into the dressing room. She smiled, a half-nostalgic smile, because the two ex-strippers had been her friends for almost two years now, and she had not seen them since the day before she left for Dubai.

She was sitting in front of the six foot wide mirror at the dressing room table, putting on her makeup and listening to her favorite song on Blake’s album.

“Ugh,” Cereniti groaned as she reached out and pinched the white fur that covered Alexus’s easy chair. “Why are you so obsessed with this color? Your cars are white, your clothes are white, and everything in your house is white. I don’t get it.”

“Maybe it’s not for you to get. Ever considered that?” Tasia muttered condescendingly.

Alexus smiled at their reflections. Bow-legged, thick-thighed and steatopygic, with smooth, yellowish-brown skin and short, red-streaked black hair, Tasia was dressed in a skin-tight red Valentino cocktail dress over five-inch Louboutin heels. A black Birkin bag hung from her shoulder. She had the kind of flawless face that made men and stare, and the kind of ass that made everyone stare.

On the other hand, Cereniti was decked out in a fuchsia Chanel jump suit with a matching fedora and Zanotti heels. She looked like Alicia Keys from the neck up and LaLa Anthony from the neck down, with a diamond Movado watch, two diamond bracelets, and a pair of diamond-encrusted hoop earrings dangling among a bevy of shoulder-length dreads.

“Truthfully,” Alexus said as she applied her mascara, “I began wearing white because it symbolizes purity. But then I inherited my grandmother’s fortune, and I figured I’d stick out more in the corporate world if I stuck to that same unorthodox dress code.”

“Fuck all that, yo,” Tasia said, planting a hand on her hip. “You just made four billion, two hundred and thirty million dollars in Dubai. I know I’m good for one of those Phantoms you got stashed away in that big ass garage.”