From the Streets to the Sheets Read Online Free PDF Page B

threatened, waving the burner from him to her. “You want me to splatter yo bitch? Huh?”
    Grabbing her waist, he tried to push her off him.
    “Uh-unh,” I said, walking closer to them. “You enjoyed her doggy-style. Now it’s my turn to get a taste.”
    With her back to me, she begged. Pleaded. Prayed for someone to save her when I stuck the barrel of my gun in her asshole, then rammed it as far up as I could.
    “Ya better suck like you ain’t never sucked before. Matter of fact, tea bag him!”
    Whimpering, the chick pulled Whisky’s soft penis in her hands.
Lifting it skyward, she rested her head between his thighs, cocked open her mouth, and dunked his nuts in and out of it.
    “Slurp, bitch. Ya betta moan like you love it.”
    “Come—” Whisky began.
    “Oh, don’t worry. I am. Y’all got yours off, I’m gonna get mine off too,” I said, letting loose three shots in her ass, literally blowing her back out.
    This Week . . .
    A bunch of pretty mu’fuckas walked by vying for attention as I threw back a double shot of Courvoisier and chased it, upping the game two bills. 12 o’clock, the niggah I’d held down while he’d rocked a baker’s dozen in the bing before springing on an appeal, sat opposite me. He nodded and called my play, slapping a couple hundred on top of the stack. Reading the other gamblers, my eyes stopped on Lil’ Lee. I knew there was going to be trouble. He was a diesel, blue-black brutha who snuck up on people like nighttime. Down ten Gs, he gripped the edge of the other side of the table while his lower lip twitched—a sure sign that he was frustrated, ready to explode. There was an excess of pussy buzzing around and too much money on the green felt for him to get down. Weak-ass niggahs like him were always distracted by fat asses and the possibility of riding them. That’s one of the reasons I’d gotten in on the game. No way was I going to walk away with less than I came in with. Especially in my own spot: Sweets Treats, an all-night bakery that served up confections in the front and offered every kind of sweet a person could imagine in the back. Drugs, liquid, down-low hoes, and gambling, with a little money-laundering added in for extra flavor.
    “Hurry up, yo. We ain’t got all day,” Runner, my brother and right hand, who’d outrun the police more times than any of us could count, rushed me.
    I swept his tall ass with an icy glare, saw he was slipping. He had his dough in front of him where everybody could see. “Shut the hell up. Five men gotta roll before you even touch the dice.”
    “Yo! Who the fuck you talkin’ to?”
    I snatched the money out of his hand. “Why not just buy you some ass, that’s why you holdin’ your paper up, right?” I winked. “Hoping one of these sack chasers bow down to it?” I asked, knowing that taking his stack had gotten his undivided attention. Kicking him under the table, I tapped my foot twice. Our signal that he should pay attention to the man in the two o’clock position—the one who stood two places over from 12 o’clock—Lil’ Lee. He was too jumpy, eyeing the money on the table like a child tempted by candy.
    Runner gave me a slight nod of approval. I tossed his stack to Lil’ Lee and aimed my burner at him under the table in one swoop. If he wanted to play underhanded, we could both get grimy. “My fault. Pass that to 12.”
    “
Word?
” 12 o’clock asked, taking the money from Lil’ Lee and laughing in his grill. He shook his head, pocketed Runner’s dough. “American’s Express, baby,” he said, coding the nickname he’d given his gun because in our part of America the streets demanded you have at least one. “Nevva leave the crib wit’out it. Call it!” He sat back and crossed the lumberjack arms he’d choked out plenty of bruthas with.
    Shaking the clickers, I threw in my last shot, and came up on the come-up.
    Lil’ Lee smacked the table. “Aw, hell nah! Them dice’s loaded.”
    “What the