The Cocaine Princess Part 5 (Cocaine Princess Series #5)(49)

He was handing a box of $3,400 Christian Louboutins to a pretty-faced redbone when he suddenly spotted Nona Malden standing behind her. Nona was dressed in a white Gucci halter and skirt, and she was gazing intently at Blake, smiling and aiming her smartphone at him like so many others were doing. He immediately noticed that she wasn’t wearing a bra; her nipples were poking at the thin fabric of her halter top. He pulled her to the side of the truck, where twenty members of his original crew—the Dub Life Good Squad—were standing.

“Have you seen the latest issue of Straight Stuntin Magazine?” She quickly asked. “I’m on the cover with Mesha Seville and Meek Mill.” She reached out and pinched his cheek. “Kayslay told me you asked him to put me on the cover. Thanks. As soon as that issue was released, I started getting calls from photographers all across the country. Next month I have a cover shoot for Dime Piece Magazine.”

“Yeah? That’s why you stopped callin’ me, huh? You done got all famous and forgot about me.”

“Negro, please. I called you every day for a week straight after we talked that night. You never even let me know if you liked the video.”

“I didn’t watch it. Had to erase it the next mornin’ before Alexus had a chance to see it.”

Nona flicked her eyes around the bustling street, which was lined on both sides with cars, pickups, and SUVs. Most of them had big chrome rims, because their owners were either drug-dealers or business-owners working beneath Reesie Cup.

“Let me ask you a question,” Nona said. “Where are your bodyguards? I mean, you can’t just be walking around out here in Chicago wearing all this jewelry. These niggas are crazy. More people get killed in this city than soldiers in Afghanistan.”

“I don’t give a f*ck how many niggas get murked out here, I’m not walkin’ around wit’ no bodyguards. I’m a TVL like all the rest of these niggas. I was comin’ out here when I was broke, f*ckin’ wit’ Cup and Lil Cholly n’em. My nigga Lil Lord came up under Cup and other guys off Fifteenth and Trumbull. I’m doin’ this shit for him.”

“Didn’t you shoot up T-Walk’s Rolls-Royce on this same street?”

“Who told you that?” Blake asked, staring through his shades at Nona’s huge breasts.

“My friend was out here when it happened. She said you pulled out two guns and started chasing his car down the street, shooting through the back of it. Then I saw on the news that he’d been shot twice, in his left hand and shoulder.”

“Hmm. So, uh…what’s up? What made you come over here?”

“I live a few blocks down from here, on Fifteenth and Spaulding.”

“You walked?”

“Hell no,” she laughed. She pointed up the crowded street. My girl gave me a ride. I dropped my car off at a detail shop this morning to get it painted lime-green like those Bugattis you had in that video. I already had some twenty-sixes put on it, and I had the MBM logo stitched into the headrests.”

Blake’s grin flourished as he scanned Nona’s perfectly formed body from head to toe. She was definitely a dime piece; her yellowish-brown visage was flawless, her breasts were large and round, her stomach was flat, and she had an ass like Diana Escotto.

“What are you grinning about?” She asked, grabbing her hips. “What, are you surprised that I’m so down with MBM? I told you I was your biggest fan, didn’t I?”

“I think I do remember you sayin’ that,” Blake laughed. “Listen, I want you to stay right here. I’m about to pass out some signed copies of my album, then we’re headin’ straight to G.I. for a show at the Genesis Center.”

“You’re taking me with you?”

“Just to the Gary show. Alexus’ll be at the one in Indianapolis.”

“She’d go crazy if she caught you with me, huh?”

“Prob’ly,” Blake said.

He turned his attention back to his fans and started taking pictures with them, handing out copies of his now triple-platinum album, hugging the women and shaking hands with the men. He discerned an undiluted money-lust in the eyes of the women, and an equal abundance of hatred in the eyes of some of the young hustlers. The latter of which was understandable; last year, on the eve of Blake’s very first stadium concert, he had opened fire on a group of teenaged Traveling Vice Lords on the corner of 15th and Trumbull, killing several of them. He had done it shortly after he’d learned that Reesie Cup had been responsible for the kidnapping of his daughter and murder of his daughter’s mother.

His manager approached him timidly as he was taking a picture with a pack of seven ‘hood chicks. Once the picture was taken, Frederick nudged Blake’s elbow and canted his head toward a beat-up, rust-laden Buick sedan that was parked behind Fly’s drop-top Caprice. Three Hispanic men with bald, tattooed heads and faces were seated inside the car. Their frigid eyes were trained on Blake.

“That car followed us here from the mansion,” Frederick muttered tensely.

“They’ve been staring at you since you stepped off the coach.”

‘Aww shit,’ Blake thought as he studied the glowering trio. He knew that they must have been sent by Jennifer Costilla, to do whatever it was she wanted done to Mercedes, who was still on the tour bus with Kenny.