almond-shaped eyes. But what Annie liked best about her partner and best friend was the scrolled tattoo above her pierced navel. Real sweet-girl-gone-bad look.
Fannie, the perfect black love machine.
Annie rubbed her hand over the little smiley face near her own breast and looked at the mirror in front of her. Maybe she wasn’t that bad. Kind of cute with blonde hair cut as short as a boy’s and wild blue eyes. Pert little nose too.
But she wasn’t looking for a man. Already had one. Willie, her butcher knife. He’d never let her down. She remembered when she and Fannie were both growing up in the Robert Taylor projects, Willie became her best friend. Sometimes, she would stroke him under her pillow as she heard the screaming from the floors below.
She thought about the time when she was fourteen and that man who smelled like garlic grabbed her boob and tried to put her hand on his dick. They were stuck in a stairwell and the man was panting and making all kinds of dog noises. He gripped her small boob so tight she thought he was going to try and rip it off. But before he could get the second button undone on her shorts, she had the knife halfway in his belly.
Yeah, Willie was her man.
Butcher Knife-Totin’ Annie and Fast-Fuckin’ Fannie. Together they could do anything they wanted. Now that Fannie was out of jail for those B and E, possession, and prostitution charges, they’d take on the whole fucking world.
The Oriental bartender plunked down another orgasm for Fannie and a shot of Bacardi lemon rum for herself. There was a ratty captain’s hat sitting on his head like he thought he was being cool as he flashed some rotten teeth. Pimple marks dotted his face and he had a sweaty white bandanna cocked on his neck.
“What you lookin’ at, Chinaman?” Annie said. “You just gave us what we want, so go away, dick brain.”
The bartender frowned, then grinned and blew them a kiss.
Guess you really couldn’t blame the guy for staring at all their leather-and-lace glory. Fannie had on the tightest black pants Annie had ever seen. Looked like she’d spray painted her legs. And her low-cut red sweater really brought out the tiger tattooed on her right breast. The old beast growling.
She watched Fannie sip out of the glass like she was the damn Queen of England, her legs crossed and locked in a vise. The short man at the end of the bar looked like he was about to start drooling.
“Maybe you should just cut the crotch out of your pants, woman,” Annie said. “That’d make it easier for all your men.”
“Girlfriend,” Fannie said, taking another sip of the orgasm and licking the rim. “Please kiss my black coochie.”
“Promise?” Annie asked, raising her eyebrows and smiling a rubbery grin.
“Girrrl … you are too sick.”
“We got work to do,” Annie said, patting her side where Willie lived. His cold steel firm.
“You got a plan?”
“One of two things,” Annie said. “1 can stick Willie up his ass and make him disappear or you can fuck him to death.”
Fannie grinned and uncrossed her legs.
In a fake British accent, she said: “I’m quite glad us ladies still have options.”
The two girls shielded their mouths with their hands as they snickered.
Chapter 6
In the blackness of a Mississippi night, Nick watched the Delta landscape roll by from the Amtrak car window. The barren shotgun cottages, tired mobile homes, and brittle patterns of dead cotton fields shot out in strobelike flashes as he kicked off his old boots and took a sip from a stainless steel flask. The thumping metal on metal pounded a rhythm in his ears.
Kate Archer. JoJo had to bring her up. He just had to plant that seed in his mind to sprout and grow until he stepped off the train in Chicago. What a friend.
Nick heard she’d taken a job with the Tribune after a failed relationship with an Uptown restaurateur named Richard Brevard. A man she was supposed to marry. She must’ve met Richard shortly after
Fannie, the perfect black love machine.
Annie rubbed her hand over the little smiley face near her own breast and looked at the mirror in front of her. Maybe she wasn’t that bad. Kind of cute with blonde hair cut as short as a boy’s and wild blue eyes. Pert little nose too.
But she wasn’t looking for a man. Already had one. Willie, her butcher knife. He’d never let her down. She remembered when she and Fannie were both growing up in the Robert Taylor projects, Willie became her best friend. Sometimes, she would stroke him under her pillow as she heard the screaming from the floors below.
She thought about the time when she was fourteen and that man who smelled like garlic grabbed her boob and tried to put her hand on his dick. They were stuck in a stairwell and the man was panting and making all kinds of dog noises. He gripped her small boob so tight she thought he was going to try and rip it off. But before he could get the second button undone on her shorts, she had the knife halfway in his belly.
Yeah, Willie was her man.
Butcher Knife-Totin’ Annie and Fast-Fuckin’ Fannie. Together they could do anything they wanted. Now that Fannie was out of jail for those B and E, possession, and prostitution charges, they’d take on the whole fucking world.
The Oriental bartender plunked down another orgasm for Fannie and a shot of Bacardi lemon rum for herself. There was a ratty captain’s hat sitting on his head like he thought he was being cool as he flashed some rotten teeth. Pimple marks dotted his face and he had a sweaty white bandanna cocked on his neck.
“What you lookin’ at, Chinaman?” Annie said. “You just gave us what we want, so go away, dick brain.”
The bartender frowned, then grinned and blew them a kiss.
Guess you really couldn’t blame the guy for staring at all their leather-and-lace glory. Fannie had on the tightest black pants Annie had ever seen. Looked like she’d spray painted her legs. And her low-cut red sweater really brought out the tiger tattooed on her right breast. The old beast growling.
She watched Fannie sip out of the glass like she was the damn Queen of England, her legs crossed and locked in a vise. The short man at the end of the bar looked like he was about to start drooling.
“Maybe you should just cut the crotch out of your pants, woman,” Annie said. “That’d make it easier for all your men.”
“Girlfriend,” Fannie said, taking another sip of the orgasm and licking the rim. “Please kiss my black coochie.”
“Promise?” Annie asked, raising her eyebrows and smiling a rubbery grin.
“Girrrl … you are too sick.”
“We got work to do,” Annie said, patting her side where Willie lived. His cold steel firm.
“You got a plan?”
“One of two things,” Annie said. “1 can stick Willie up his ass and make him disappear or you can fuck him to death.”
Fannie grinned and uncrossed her legs.
In a fake British accent, she said: “I’m quite glad us ladies still have options.”
The two girls shielded their mouths with their hands as they snickered.
Chapter 6
In the blackness of a Mississippi night, Nick watched the Delta landscape roll by from the Amtrak car window. The barren shotgun cottages, tired mobile homes, and brittle patterns of dead cotton fields shot out in strobelike flashes as he kicked off his old boots and took a sip from a stainless steel flask. The thumping metal on metal pounded a rhythm in his ears.
Kate Archer. JoJo had to bring her up. He just had to plant that seed in his mind to sprout and grow until he stepped off the train in Chicago. What a friend.
Nick heard she’d taken a job with the Tribune after a failed relationship with an Uptown restaurateur named Richard Brevard. A man she was supposed to marry. She must’ve met Richard shortly after
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