The Cocaine Princess Part 5 (Cocaine Princess Series #5)(69)

“What up.” He curled an index finder around the trigger of the golden Desert Eagle that was lying on his lap; Cereniti’s warning was still fresh in his mind.

“My aunt Jenny’s back,” Alexus said. “I… just wanted to let you know that. Just in case…”

“I ain’t worried about that bitch.”

Alexus sighed. “There’s something else.” She paused. “My family and I are at your place, and… umm…. Your girlfriends’ been shot.”

“What?!” His eyes went wide.

“It’s only a graze. The bullet cut across the side of her head. I stopped Uncle Flako before he got a chance to shoot her again. My medical team is tending to her now. I’ll have her call you when—”

“I’m f*ckin’ yo’ uncle up,” Blake said, emphasizing every word. “On my momma I’m beatin’ his ass.”

He was staring straight ahead as they approached the crowded intersection at Laramie and Chicago Avenue. On one corner was The Visionary Lounge, a tall yellow brick edifice that stood over the other buildings like Shaq in a room full of midgets. A long line of club-goers—mostly thuggishly-comported black men and scantily-dressed black women, a few non-blacks sprinkled in here and there—were wrapped around the opulent nightclub, all of them eager to get inside and be a part of the MBM team’s official after party. Power 92 radio DJs had been announcing it for weeks.

“I miss you so much, Blake,” Alexus said, “I’m not trying to win you over, but… you… I’m sorry for what I did. God knows I am. I love you more than I love myself.”

The statement of love made Blake’s blood boil. He hung up on her without saying another word, then rested the back of his black Louis Vuitton skullcap against his seat’s headrest and let out his own sigh, angrily gritting his diamond-laden teeth as he remembered seeing Alexus sucking T-Walk’s dick. There was no way he could forgive her for such a betrayal.

“So, are we going to this party or not?” Mocha asked, glancing at her icy Chanel watch. “Let me know before this light turns green.”

He didn’t have a chance to decide.

In his side view mirror, Blake watched the dark blue Dodge Magnum on thirty-inch rims as it pulled up alongside his Bugatti. The Magnum’s tinted windows rolled down, and from them pistols emerged.

Gunfire ensued.





Chapter 44

Gentle moans blew from Rita Mae Bishop’s parted lips as Frederick thrust his rigid pole into her slick love tunnel.

Her bountiful butt cheeks were cradled in his strong black hands, her thick legs locked firmly around his waist to pull him deeper inside her. He had her back pressed against the cool window pane, and he was licking her nipples and kissing all over her neck and face while he pounded in and out of her pulsating wetness, driving her to a fourth breathtaking orgasm. When it happened, she dropped her head back, dug her fingernails into his powerful shoulders, and held on until she felt him empty his warm seed inside her.

Then, breathless and covered in perspiration, they fell to the floor. Rita propped her chin on his heaving chest. Stared up into his deep-set smoldering eyes. Grabbed his veiny hands and slapped them onto her ass.

“Good God, Rita,” he said in his throbbing baritone. “You’re as hot and wet as a Jacuzzi down there.”

“It’s the champagne. Gets me every time.”

“You hardly took a sip.”

“That’s not true. I drank two whole cups.”

“Two whole baby cups.”

Rita shrugged. “I might have had more if you weren’t such an alcoholic. We should get you into some kind of AA meetings. Maybe that’ll—”

The chilling sound of distant gunshots silenced Rita. She and Frederick became frozen in place.

“You hear that?” Fred asked.

“Of course I heard it,” Rita whispered.

And then it came again: rapid gunfire from a fully-automatic weapon.

They got up and dressed hurriedly. Rita ran to her desk and brought up the building’s camera system on her computer. What she saw made her gasp in horror.

There were two stiff bodies stretched on floor of the lobby, four more near the third floor’s elevator doors; a woman who’d clearly been shot in the head lay motionless in front of a snack machine inside Britney Bostic’s law firm on the fifteenth floor.

“Jesus Christ,” Fred murmured from behind Rita, “What the…”

Rita’s hands clamped down over her open mouth, and she groaned into her palms as she spotted Jennifer Costilla standing beside an assault rifle-toting masked man on the floor directly beneath her office.

Sprawled out in the hallway behind Jenny and the masked man were seven dead men. They were Rita’s bodyguards.

“Oh, my God.” Rita was shaking like a wet dog. “We’ve got to get out of here, Fred. She’ll kill us.”

Rita kept a loaded .38 revolver in her bottom drawer. She took it out and turned to Fred; he had stripped back down to his underwear, and was busy tying an arm of his sweatshirt to the leg of his slacks.

“What in God’s name are you doing, Fred?”

“Getting us out of here,” he replied, hastily tying the arm of his long-sleeved thermal shirt to the other arm of his sweater. “You’re gonna have to swing down to the floor under us as soon as they make it onto this floor. Take the elevator down to the lobby, get away from this building, and call the police.”