The Cocaine Princess Part 5 (Cocaine Princess Series #5)(3)

“I already know bruh”, Blake concurred. He pulled a dense, rubber-banded bundle of hundred-dollar bills out of his front right pocket. It was only thirty thousand dollars, pocket change compared to the $428 million in his Chase Bank account, and the $170 million in drug money he had stashed throughout his four Chicago mansions. “I gotta do somethin’ in memory of Trayvon; you know somethin’ that’ll be remembered for a long time.”

“Let’s do a song about him,” Mocha suggested.

“Yeah bruh,” Young-D added. “We can shoot the video before the tour starts. Have everybody wearin’ hoodies in the video, wit’ bags of skittles and bottles of iced tea.”

Nodding his head in agreement, Blake stood up and snatched his iPhone from his hip. “We’ll come up wit’ somethin’,” he said. Blake began to dial Alexus’ number. She answered immediately.

“Baby I’m right down the street from our house. Mercedes and her stupid-ass boyfriend met me at the airport, and now they’re screaming at each other in the middle of the street.”

“What?” Blake frowned.

“I know. Sounds crazy as shit, doesn’t it?” Alexus snickered. “One minute we were following them up the street, and the next they were leaping out of her car, arguing and shouting.”

Blake flicked his eyes around the coach’s pricey interior. The walls and cabinetry were Italian maple. All the upward-facing cockpit surfaces—including an eighty-foot long counter top—were swathed in carbon fiber, and the hardwood maple floors were painted a glossy black. His gold-plated Kalashnikov AK -47 assault rifle rested atop a cash-filled Louis Vuitton duffle bag on the counter.

He walked to the counter, pushed the AK aside, and unzipped the duffle bag. “That nigga bet’ not put his hands on my sista-in-law,” Blake said, lifting a gold-plated .50 caliber Desert Eagle handgun out of the bag.

“Just get out here and calm him down before he gets himself killed,” Alexus said. But Blake knew she didn’t mean it; the Halloween shootings had taken all of the fight out of her.

“On my way baby.” He cocked the pistol and shouted for his driver to start the engine.

Seconds later, the 55,000-pound Newell coach was drifting down the long, circular driveway toward the fifteen-foot wrought iron gates at the front of Jordan’s old home.

Blake was stuffing the thirty grand back into his pocket when his phone rang. The tour bus had not yet reached the gates. He looked at the phone and saw the call was from Kenny-Lord, a Mafia Insane Vice Lord from Gary, Indiana. Since last summer, Blake had been selling kilos of cocaine and heroin and pounds of purple Kush to Kenny-Lord’s crew. Over time they had established a brotherly rapport with one another. This was partly due to their flourishing business relationship, but mostly because Mercedes was cheating on her boyfriend with Kenny. And, in Blake’s opinion, Kenny was a better man for Mercedes than her current boyfriend.

“What it is bruh?” Blake answered. He leaned back against the counter and stared at Mocha’s ass as she hurried off to the bathroom. She was tall and slender, and her pink denim booty shorts showed off her sexy chocolate legs.

“Man bruh,” Kenny-Lord said, “you ain’t gon’ believe what just happened. I called Mercedes to let her know I was on my way over there to pick her up, and that nigga answered the phone.”

Blake chuckled, “So that’s why they’re out there arguing now.”

“She told me he was supposed to be in Atlanta for two days.”

“Yeah, but his flight doesn’t leave until five. It’s not even twelve o’clock yet, bruh. You trippin’.”

The gates slowly swung open.

“I wish she would’ve told me that,” Kenny said. “I’m right around the corner from yo’ spot now.”

“We’re on our way to my album release party,” Blake said, securing the bulky pistol in his shoulder-holster. “Just follow my tour bus. We’ll kick it at Redbone’s for a couple hours, throw a few hundred thousand at the strippers, holla at Twista and Ross for a li’l bit, then get the f*ck up outta here. I gotta get some rest so I can be ready to perform on 106th and Park tomorrow.”

“A’ight, bruh, I’ll be right behind you.”

Blake put the iPhone back in its Louis Vuitton clip-on case on his hip. Momentarily, he observed his MGM crew through squinted eyelids. He wondered if they would be as successful and dominant in the rap game as MMG and YMCMB’s artists and if he, himself, would be a legendary CEO like Diddy and Birdman.

His attention shifted to the cantankerous couple as his driver eased the tour bus through the driveway entrance.

Mercedes Costilla and her dark-complected boyfriend, who Blake only knew as ‘Duke,’ were standing face to face in front of her bright, white Mercedes Maybach convertible. Her hands were planted on her hips. Duke was gesticulating angrily, and both were shouting in each other’s faces. Behind their car, Alexus’ snow-white Rolls-Royce Phantom limousine was parked in the middle of the street, followed by three white Tahoes full of armed body guards.

Blake told his driver, a thick-browed black man named Joey, to stop the coach. He stepped outside and perambulated to his sister-in-law’s side, fighting the overwhelming urge to sneak a peek at her jaw-dropping derriere. In her black Gucci jacket and snug black leggings, she looked stunning, almost like Mesha Seville.