From the Streets to the Sheets by Noire Read Free Book Online Page A

giving me a look I’d never seen from him before. Looking deeply into his cognac eyes, I massaged his temples, kissed him deeply to make him feel like the man he’d no longer be after 12 dirt-napped him.
    “What’s on ya mind, Daddy?”
    “Thinkin’,” he said, and sat up. “You’d never cross me, Sweets.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. An order.
    Blushing like the nineteen-year-old girl he’d once turned out, I agreed with him. He’d always needed loyalty confirmed for him, so I wasn’t sweatin’ it. “Got that right. And you’d never do me in, would you?”
    “How you holdin’ down for money,” he asked, ignoring my question. “You straight?”
    I stood, crossed my arms over the ice-blue silk robe covering my titties. “You know I am. I gets mine, Whisky. If nuthin’ else I stack chips. I sell cakes in the front of the bakery and make dough in the back.” I paused. “You ain’t answer what I asked you. You’d never do me in?”
    Whisky laughed. “Don’t come at a playa like that. I put you on—you’d know if I took you off. Ain’t nuthin’ sweet about mines. Except you.” He kissed me. “What’chu think about letting Runner or somebody hold down Sweets Treats for you, and you and me bounce. I found a house you’ll like.”
    It was my turn to giggle. Crack the hell up in his grill. Whisky had pegged me for a fool’s fool. He must’ve, thinking I’d relocate to the house he’d planned to tuck his side-bitch in. Had to be outta his rabbit-ass mind if he thought I’d let someone hold the reigns and run the show where
I
made dough, legally and illegally. “Give me a minute to think about it. It ain’t easy parting with ya cake,” I said, sure that 12 would cradle-to-the-grave him before I could say boo, yet I already missed him because he was my cake. And I hated to lose money.
                      •                  •                  •
    My body ached from stress and the dick whipping 12 had put on me a couple of days ago. I sat at the bar going over my
real
books as music pumped through the speakers, and patrons buzzed around the back of the bakery. I was in the midst of it all, yet I really wasn’t there. I hadn’t been anywhere mentally since I’d found out Whisky had planned on trading me in for a new model.
    Sucking my teeth, I added up how much I’d lose because of Whisky. Ten to twenty grand a month, depending on income. “Fuckin’ niggah,” I hissed, realizing how much losing him was gonna hurt me. He’d been the one who dished out the payouts to the po-po.
    “Ya a’ight, sis?” Runner asked, his breath smelling like a garbage bag full of weed.
    “Haze or Chronic?”
    With a big Kool-Aid grin, he laughed. “Shit, maybe a lil’ of both. Want me to roll you a blunt to go with that tall-ass glass of yak? What, you guzzlin’ gallons now?”
    “Nah. Just a little stressed. What’chu gettin’ into?” I asked, hoping he was on his way out. I didn’t want him playing me too close until 12 had knocked off Whisky.
    “A chicken-head if she calls me on time. A hood-rat if the chicken don’t call first. Unless you need me.”
    Laughing at the truth, I handed Runner the keys to my whip and a wad of cash. “Do yo thang.”
    “Word? Money
and
the ride? Must be a niggah’s birthday.”
    I gulped my yak. “It’s cool. 12 got me, he’ll make sure I—”
    “Get to the crib safe,” 12 cut in from out of nowhere.
    “Cool,” Runner said, then answered his celly. “I’ll check y’all later.” He pointed to his phone. “Chicky, chicky,” he mouthed, disappearing in the crowd.
    “Sweets, I hate to do this to you. But there’s a problem.” 12 put his hand on my shoulder.
    My legs were splayed in an M again, mounted on my desk as Poochie, a big bouncer of a brutha, stared at my naked and still swollen poom-poom. The phatness of it made his eyes dance in his head. Turning to 12, he got the same