The drive to New Jersey before the sun had come up was oddly comforting. At four-fifteen in the morning, there were hardly any motorists on the road and Cruze felt like he owned the highway. The dark sky was beginning to streak with reddish-yellow colors, and it was eerily beautiful.
Like Arabia.
She was weird as fuck with her freaky self, but so eerily beautiful with that luscious mouth that seldom smiled, and her dark-brown eyes that were filled with mystery. When Cruze had looked deeply into those illuminous orbs of hers, he’d felt like he was sinking into an ocean of pain and despair. In her eyes, he’d seen his own tortured spirit revealed. He sensed that like him, Arabia was engaged in an inner war and was terrified of showing even a hint of vulnerability.
He didn’t know her story, but was certain that she had one. Everyone did. As far as he could tell, no one made it through this life without experiencing their fair share of unbearable grief. Cruze swallowed, thinking about the loss of his mother. She’d been so young. So brave, trying to raise him on her own. She’d never told him who his father was and had always dodged the question by saying it didn’t matter as long as he had her.
But it turned out that he didn’t have her. He ended up trying to make it in the world, all alone. As twisted as it was, he now realized that he’d been looking for something that resembled a mother’s love in Ramona. What a laugh. Ramona had exploited his naiveté and had abused the pure love he had for her in the cruelest way. He didn’t need a shrink to tell him that he was damaged goods.
And so was Arabia. He could feel it. Maybe that was why he was so attracted to her. Couldn’t get her off his mind. He thought back to their bathroom encounter and his dick thumped and enlivened, but it instantly went limp when he recalled grabbing her thong and sniffing it like some kind of sick-o. What the fuck was that shit about? He had surprised himself with that blatant show of perversion. It made him cringe to even imagine what Arabia must have thought of him.
With her repeated warped behavior, she had a lot of nerve thinking that Cruze had issues. Sniffing a thong was mild compared to the way she liked to get down. Grabbing the first nigga with a swinging dick and serving him up juicy pussy in the midst of a huge crowd was straight bananas. Although bathroom sex was freaky, too, at least it was somewhat private. The way Arabia had lured him into the freak zone at Club Seduction was proof that she had a loose screw or two.
But he had to admit that he liked her kind of crazy.
He had fucked more bitches than he could ever count, and in every position of the Kama Sutra, yet he couldn’t stop thinking about Arabia’s tight pussy and the way she’d spread her legs for him with her high-heeled shoe planted on the toilet seat. Both times they’d smashed had been the most erotic adventures of his life. If he’d had the foresight to pick her thong off the floor and stick it in his pocket, he’d be sniffing that hot pussy fragrance right now while he was driving.
With a sigh of regret, he exited the interstate highway and followed the GPS directions to the dock.
Dressed in bummy sweats, hoodie, and dogged boots, Cruze joined two middle-aged white dudes and one Asian who were prepping for a long day of fishing, tinkering with tackle boxes and busily setting up their rods. He glanced at the hats they wore, taking notice of the colors: tan, brown, and a dingy off-white.
Cruze held a duffle bag in one hand and the other hand was stuffed in his pocket as he discreetly tried to determine if one of their caps was possibly a dull yellow.
The guy he’d contacted over the phone had said he could be identified by his yellow cap, but none of the fishermen’s hats were any shade of yellow.
The men returned Cruze’s curious glance with cold, unwelcoming looks. Carrying no fishing equipment, Cruze stood out. It must have been unnerving to have a tall black guy hanging around on the dock in the pitch-black darkness. They probably thought he was planning to rob them.
Cruze let out a snort of disgust. Their old, broke asses didn’t have shit he wanted. To put their minds at ease, he took down his hood and moved several yards away from them, meandering in the direction of the darkened bait shop.
He looked around impatiently. Where the hell was the guy in the yellow cap? Trying to occupy his time, Cruze pulled out his phone and was pleased to see a message from his real estate broker, informing him that one of his properties had sold. Flipping houses was so much easier than flipping kilos, but a part of him missed the danger.
He studied the screen on the phone, reading the details of the sale. After he returned the phone to his pocket, he resumed craning his neck, checking out a new group of retirees that moseyed onto the pier. No yellow hats. He was beginning to grow antsy and wished there was a number he could call to find out when the dude was planning on getting there, but the guy used burner phones that he changed regularly.
Cruze checked the time. Thirty minutes had elapsed since his arrival. That was a lot of time considering the nature of the business he was there to conduct.
Maybe he was on the wrong pier.
The lights inside the darkened bait shop suddenly flickered on and all the fishermen began moving toward the dinky little shack like it was Mecca. Cruze slowly maneuvered toward the shop, as well, but not because he wanted to buy bait. Through the window, he could see that the guy behind the counter had on a bright yellow hat.
Up close, Cruze could tell by dude’s complexion and features that he was Italian. But he’d been expecting a much younger guy.
Nah, this dude couldn’t have been the dude Cruze had spoken with—not with those bent shoulders, worn, leathery face, full set of clicking false teeth, and a wide gratuitous smile that he bestowed upon each customer.
Cruze’s guy would have to have a steady hand and be quick on his feet. Cruze had expected to meet up with a terrifyingly malicious contract killer, not some smiley-faced senior citizen who made a living selling worms and fish guts and shit. He should have known better than to take someone seriously who advertised on Craigslist. Disgusted, he whirled around, prepared to drive back to Philly.
“Is anyone looking for snake bait?” asked the gravelly-voiced man behind the counter.
Recognizing the voice, Cruze stopped in his tracks and glanced over his shoulder. The customers standing in line shook their heads. None were looking for snake bait. The old guy settled his gaze on Cruze and Cruze detected a glint in his eyes.
If you want to kill a snake, you chop it off at the head, the killer had said over the phone when Cruze confided the dilemma he was in with an unforgiving drug gang. He’d learned that the top dog, Big Crockett, had been recently locked up, but would most likely get out in thirty days or less. Cruze was prepared to pay someone to go after the second-in-command and the rest of the organization while Big Crockett was incarcerated. He wanted the whole crew dead so he could stop looking over his shoulder and start living his life to the fullest. He’d take care of Big Crockett personally when he was back out on the streets, disoriented and hastily trying to reorganize.
Over the phone, the hit man had suggested that Cruze take down Crockett first, and he’d seemed confident that he could accomplish it while Crockett was behind bars. He’d demanded a hefty fee for his services, and Cruze was willing to pay it—to someone who could get the job done. Judging by the old man’s slow movements, it seemed like his arthritis was killing him. With his gnarled, crooked fingers, he could barely bag up the worms without winching. There was no way such a feeble person could orchestrate a prison killing of a high-profile drug kingpin. The guy’s glory days were long over.
After the customers thinned out, the man in the yellow hat asked, “Did you bring the money?”
“Man, who da fuck you kidding? How you gon’ get to Crockett when it takes you forever to press the buttons on the damn cash register?”
“Don’t worry about my capabilities. I get the job done,” the man replied knowingly. “Been running this joint for over forty years and none of my customers have ever asked for a refund.” He winked again and Cruze read between the lines. The bait shop was a front for a more sinister business.
“Okay, look, old man, I’ma give you half down like you requested, but don’t try to fuck me over or you’ll find this little shack you running, burnt down to the ground.”
“Be careful with the threats, moulinyan,” the old man said with his mouth twisted viciously. Then he quickly displayed a huge smile.
The old dude had called Cruze a nigger in Italian and had followed the insult with a ready smile. But the menace that lurked beneath his broad grin hadn’t gone undetected by Cruze. He was dealing with an old-school mobster, the kind of man who killed without flinching and never lost any sleep.
And though Cruze had his share of bodies, unlike the Italian, he didn’t sleep well at night.
Still . . . fuck the old bastard’s credentials. He was gon’ be introduced to some new-school learning if he called Cruze a moolie, again. Moolie, moulinyan, whatever. They meant the same thing. Moolie was the short version of moulinyan, the slur Italians used for black people.
Begrudgingly, Cruze handed over the duffle bag that was stuffed with crisp bills and sauntered out of the bait shop.
• • •
The team took up three tables at Red Lobster. The boys were excitedly looking over the menu when Tanji and the woman Cruze recognized from one of Tanji’s sex tapes slinked in, uninvited. Both were dressed inappropriately for a kiddie event, showing cleavage and midriff and looking whorish. Earlier that night at the game, Cruze had noticed them both jumping out of their seats and twerking in celebration every time one of the boys scored a point.
Just ratchet!
Now they were ogling Cruze while pretending to peruse the menu. Licking their glossy red lips, they sent him salacious promises of double-dick-sucking pleasure. Tanji was determined to give Cruze some head and he was just as adamant that he wasn’t going to give her the chance. She had caught him during a weak moment in his office and it bothered him immensely that he’d disappointed Bret.
“Y’all boys were on fire tonight!” Tanji exclaimed and then passed her phone around showing the footage she’d filmed. Her friend passed her phone around, too, and the boys excitedly watched the highlights of the game.
Cameras had been flashing all night, and having the moms there snapping pictures and handling the filming hadn’t thrown Cruze off his mark the way the media cameras had done at previous games. It was a relief to coach without the pressure of Bret and Marquan scrutinizing his coaching methods. Those two icons always felt the need to give Cruze pointers and took it upon themselves to give pep talks to the boys. Cruze felt he’d never be a good coach if he didn’t learn by his own mistakes.
After winning with a fourteen-point lead, Cruze felt the boys deserved to be indulged, and he allowed them to order anything they wanted, including all the dessert they could handle. After they filed out of the restaurant and were lined up to get back on the bus, Tanji’s son complained of a tummy ache, and Cruze pulled him out of line. He told Tanji it was best if she drove her son straight home instead of driving behind the bus as she’d intended.
Cruze figured Tanji was going to try to pawn her kid off on one of the other moms who were waiting at the center for the boys to return from Red Lobster. After her son was out of her hair, Tanji and her girlfriend would try to worm their way to his office for a threesome that Tanji would no doubt try to sneak and film.
Outmaneuvered by Cruze, Tanji took her frustration out on her kid, yanking him by the arm and fussing at him for being greedy and eating too much dessert.
Despite being presented with the opportunity to penetrate two hot mouths, Cruze’s dick was oddly uninterested. It didn’t respond to Tanji’s or her friend’s plump tits and fat ass. There was only one ass on his mind . . . Arabia’s. And he had no idea when their paths would cross again.
• • •
“Congrats on the win Friday night,” Bret said, sitting at his desk. “That Barack is starting to look more and more like he has Kobe Bryant potential.”
“Yeah, and Breon did a helluva job, too. All the boys pulled their weight,” Cruze responded. He still didn’t consider himself one of Bret’s peers, and he found it difficult to kick it with him casually. Being in his office was like being in the principal’s office, and he shifted in his seat, waiting for Bret to get to the reason he’d asked to speak with him.
“Cruze, I realize you have good intentions, but don’t you think the luxury bus you rented for Friday’s game was a bit excessive?”
I knew it. Here we go . . .
“That raggedy yellow school bus you got us riding around in is an embarrassment and an inconvenience. Personally, I couldn’t go to another game in that cramped-up rat trap. That bus was a necessity—it’s a quality of life issue for me.”
Bret chuckled. “Having a bus equipped with Wi-Fi, video screens, and leather seats is a necessity?”
“Damn right, man. I need those roomy, reclining seats to stretch out my long legs. I’m getting sick of arriving at games with my legs cramped and hurting. I don’t like being in pain while I’m coaching. And the boys need the video screens for recreational purposes during the ride. I bet you won’t see white kids in the suburbs riding to their games in outdated school buses with no perks, so why should my boys?”
“My only concern about your extravagances toward the youth league is the message you’re sending the teenage players. The older kids are being outshined by a group of little knuckleheads and they’re starting to feel some kind of way about it.”
“I’m not the teen coach and they’re not my problem, man,” Cruze retorted, leaning forward.
“All the kids here are your problem, Cruze. You can’t enrich the lives of a select few and treat the rest like second-class citizens.”
Cruze pondered Bret’s statement for a moment. “Let me ask you something. Outside of HYPE, do you and your wife donate to any other charities?”
“Of course. Martina is passionate about supporting the National Breast Cancer Foundation.”
“Why breast cancer as opposed to . . . prostate cancer?” Cruze asked.
“Her mom is a breast cancer survivor.” Bret wrinkled his brows. “Where’re you going with this, Cruze?”
“I was a young ragamuffin playing b-ball on glass-littered courts with metal hoops and I’m passionate about giving the young kids I’m coaching a better experience than I had. They’re my pet project. You’re the head of this organization, Bret, and if you want the teen league to rock new sneakers, if you want them to wear fly uniforms, and travel in style, then I suggest you and their coach get some funding that’s specifically earmarked for that cause.”
“Coach McKinney is not into fund raising. He’s doing enough by coaching the teens free of charge.”
“Oh, well,” Cruze said, hunching up his shoulders. “Stop trying to make your problems mine, Bret. If you want the teens to look fly, then that’s on you.”
It felt good speaking his mind, and with nothing more to say, Cruze stood up. Hovering over Bret’s desk, an impressive-looking business card with embossed, gold foil lettering caught his eye. He made out the name of Arabia’s agency and his heart took a quick dive. The card represented her flair perfectly and for a fleeting moment, he was tempted to zoom in on the glittery card and memorize the phone number. But that was stalker behavior. The bitch knew where to find him the next time she was in the mood for more raunchy, public sex.
There was a sudden burst of rowdy noise out in the hallway and Bret rushed out the office to go investigate. Cruze was about to follow, but had a better idea. The moment Bret left, Cruze grabbed a Post-It and jotted down Arabia’s personal number that was listed beneath her office number.
He jammed the sticky note in his pocket and joined Bret out in the corridor where a fight had broken out. Cruze gripped up one of the troublemakers by the scruff of his neck and Bret grabbed the other.
With both Bret and Cruze towering over the boys, wearing menacing expressions and threatening to take them somewhere private and jack them up if they didn’t calm the fuck down, the two brawlers eagerly called a truce and shook hands.
• • •
Later that evening, relaxing in bed and smoking a blunt while the TV kept him company, Cruze bolted upright when he heard a breaking news story. Anthony Crockett aka Big Crockett had been murdered behind bars. The anchorman reported that investigators had no suspects in custody at this time as it appeared to be an inside job.
Well, I’ll be damned. That old Italian bastard came through!
Cruze felt a mixture of profound joy and overwhelming grief at the same time. The killing had only just begun, and there would be a lot of bloodshed on the streets of New York. Innocent people that were at the wrong place at the wrong time would probably end up as collateral damage. And no matter how many bodies he’d accumulated over the years, Cruze still couldn’t make peace with the man he’d become. And tonight, he wouldn’t rest easily.
He hated being alone right now. He needed his dick sucked and wanted to pump into some hot pussy in the worst way. Tanji was probably available. If he let her, she’d come running with her mouth wide open, happy to swallow several splashing loads of hot cum.
But he didn’t want that horny bitch knowing where he lived, nor sucking his dick. And he wasn’t in the mood for the funky pussy she was offering. He thought of Arabia’s sweet-smelling drawers and his dick swelled up so big, it felt like it was about to pop.
He got out of bed and took the jeans he had on earlier out of the hamper. He rifled through the pockets, and fished out the yellow Post-It. Although when it came to women, rejection was never something he had to face; they willingly came when he called. But, for some strange reason, when it came to Arabia, something about her made him so terrified of being rejected. His heart knocked in his chest as he picked up the phone and quickly pressed the ten numbers imprinted on the card.
Fuck pride. Fuck acting like a stalker. He needed Arabia, and no matter how wishy-washy the broad acted, he knew in his heart that she needed him, too.
The phone rang four times before she picked up.
“Hello?” she answered in her hot, silky voice.
“What’s good, Arabia? It’s Cruze.”
He heard the surprise in her voice. “Oh. Cruze. Isn’t this . . . Wait. How did you get my number?”
“I have my resources,” he answered coolly.
“Mmhmm,” she purred. “I bet you do. So now that you’ve found me, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
“I was hoping we could link up . . .” I need some pussy. He paused. “Uh, tonight.”
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He was expecting her to say something slick, before cursing him out.
Instead, a deadly silence ticked between them, and he felt the hammer of rejection about to come slamming down on his plans, when she sliced into the quiet and breathed out, “I’ll come to you.”
Cruze hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until that very moment. A slow grin eased over his lips. “Cool,” he said, before giving her his address, then telling her he’d see her when she arrived.
“And Cruze?” she said, low and husky.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“I hope you’re not planning on getting any sleep.”
With that said, she was gone. The line disconnected.
And Cruze felt his dick stretching, along with an unexpected smile.