Slide

Nine

Felicia didn’t know how much more Max Fisher she could take. Lettting him touch her-shit, that was the easy part-it was everything else about the man that was driving her crazy.

At first she thought it was gonna be easy. She was sick of dancing anyway, was looking into doing something else. Thought maybe she’d be an escort. She’d do it high end cause, damn, she knew girls didn’t have half her ass making a thousand a night. Or maybe she’d get back into pornos. She used to do that shit, back in the nineties. But she was thirty-six now and knew if she tried to get back into films them fat white-ass producer motherfuckers with the cigars hanging in their mouths like big-ass dicks would tell her she was too old, too fat, too this, too that. She’d want to say to them, Look who’s talking about fat, bunch of hairy, sweatin’, beer-gut assholes can’t even bend down to tie their own damn shoelaces. Then they’d be going on, telling her her tits were hangin’ too low and she needed more surgery. Yeah, like 44 double-E’s wasn’t enough. Shit. So then, after she went on, got all her surgery, lost the damn weight, she’d have to give ’em blow jobs, maybe fuck ’em too. Then maybe they’d say, “Sorry, baby, you ain’t what we lookin’ for.” Or, if she got lucky, they’d give her a role. Yeah, but not in the good movies, like the ones Jenna Jameson gets in. No, she’d have to bust her ass, doing the “mature” movies-you know, the ones with words like “old lady” and “granny” in the titles. She’d be lucky if she got five hundred a film and how was she supposed to pay her rent and all her damn bills with that bullshit?

So this was where her mind was at when Max Fisher walked into the club and asked for a dance. She remembered Fisher-this practically bald-headed white-ass businessman in a suit, acted like he was all that and shit. Did something with computers, always talking about it like it was some hot shit she gave a damn about. Dropping big-ass computer words, like he thought he was Billionaire Gates or something. She used to play along, suck up to him, tell him how smart and cute he was, when really she thought he was as dumb and asshole-ugly as all the rest of ’em. Stuck-up motherfucker always talkin’ the way he did about his Porsche and his town house and how much money he had, all that trying-to-impress-her bullshit when the truth was all she cared about was the next twenty-dollar bill he was gonna stick in her panties.

Another thing about Fisher-he was a titty man. When she was doing a dance he didn’t look at nothing else but her titties. It was like that was all she was-two titties, and it was like her nipples were made of metal and there were little round magnets in his eyeballs. Too bad he wasn’t making the porno movies because her tits were fine enough for him.

Then, one day, she saw something about him in the paper, how he was mixed up in some shootings or whatever. The cops even came to talk to her, wanted to know where he was the night his wife or girlfriend or somebody got shot. She was surprised, never thought a man like that would ever get involved in something like shooting people. Thought he was all bullshit, no action. Finally the man’d done something impressed her.

But after that, she didn’t hear nothing about him for a long time. He didn’t come into the club no more and she forgot all about him. Then, there he was, back in his seat, asking for a dance. While she was going at it, he asked her if she wanted to be his live-in ho, paying her double what she was making dancing. She thought maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea. She get to rest her feet and it was better than regular hoin’, goin’ man to man. And shit, it was lot better than having to suck off some scumbag movie producer for a role in Horny Grandmas 11. She’d get to live in a penthouse on the Upper Rich Side, eat as much sushi as she wanted. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that shit, right?

What she didn’t know, she was getting in with a crazy damn crack dealer.

Man was on the rock all the time. He said it was just balancing him out or some shit, cause of all the drinks he be having, but Felicia knew that was bullshit talking-the man was just a big stupid-ass crackhead who didn’t know how to keep his damn mouth shut. Talking like Al Pacino, thinking he knows shit about hip-hop, and calling her bee-atch all the time. Or how about he’s calling people nigger around her, dissing her race and shit? Motherfucka was lucky he was paying her or he woulda wound up with six in his back real quick.

And how many times was the man gonna say chill? Sometimes, listening to him, Felicia would think, does he know how stupid he sounds? And how about the way he treated her, giving her orders, making her walk around topless all the time so he can always be looking at her titties? And, shit, she had to give him lap dances and blow jobs whenever he wanted them. Yeah, he was paying her, but treating her like she was a damn sex slave was bullshit. Crack-smoking dumb-ass motherfucker had no respect for women and shit.

Sometimes he took her out-yeah, like she was a dog that needed walking. Meanwhile, she knew it was only cause he wanted to show her booty off to the whole damn world. Sometime he’d take her to restaurants and clubbing-damn, somebody had to give that man some dancin’ lessons-but his favorite place to go was that swimming pool near Times Square. In the middle of the day, he’d make her get in the damn water with him, so he could be sipping on his drinks with the little umbrellas inside them, showing off her booty for all the white-ass businesspeople looking in.

Shit, being around that asshole twenty-four-seven sure as shit wasn’t worth the four grand a week he was paying her. Actually, she was making more than that, because she was screwing Katsu, the man’s sushi chef, on the side. Yeah, like sometimes when Max was asleep, she’d go into Katsu’s room, be on his body, and then she’d go back to Max. One time he went, “How come you smell like fish?” and she thought she’d got busted. She told him she was hungry and went to have a tuna sandwich in the kitchen and the stupid-ass believed her.

She was also making some money going in Max’s safe. One time Max was so shit-ass wasted he gave her the combination, so she was going in, taking fifty, a hundred bucks, figuring the man was so high he wasn’t gonna keep count.

The money was good but, no, it wasn’t worth being around Max, twenty-four-seven.

She was all set to quit-go back to dancing or whatever-when one day Max sent her out to buy some Cuban cigars and a white guy in an ugly-ass plaid suit-shit went out of style in 1974-came up to her and went, “Hey, Felicia.”

Just like that, like they was old friends and shit. She never seen him before in her whole damn life but, shit, all you had to do was look at that motherfucker and know he was a cop.

Pretending she didn’t know what was going down, she went, “What the fuck you want?”

And then he laid the shit on her straight up. His name was Detective Joe Miscali, NYPD, and he was gonna bust her ass hard for prostitution, possession, whole mess of charges, if she didn’t give him some shit on Max Fisher.

She was like, “Shit about what? I don’t know shit about nothing.”

Playing hardball with the cop, waiting to see if he was for real or not.

Turned out the motherfucker wasn’t playing. Said he was on to Max, was ready to take his ass down hard, and he gave her two choices-cooperate or go away. Shit, she didn’t want to do no jail, so she said, Yeah, she’d help. What the fuck? She didn’t like helping cops, but she’d love to see Max go down, give the old bald-headed bitch some payback for the way he been treating her.

She started trying hard as she could to get Miscali some shit on Max. She was listening in on conversations, trying to always be by him all the time, whatever. Then, one night, he came into the shower, pointing the gun in her face. She thought, Fuck, he musta found out I’m gonna snitch on his ass. Then it turned out it wasn’t about that at all; it was about the stupid money from the safe. Played it right, denying all the shit he was saying to her, and he finally left her alone.

Later, she heard him talking to his boy Kyle on the phone about some drug deal was gonna go down with some Colombians. He told her to get out of the room, but she was listening in on the call on the other line in the bedroom. Okay, so now she had the info for Joe Miscali and she could stop being Max Fisher’s ho-praise the Lord.

But then she got to thinking-a drug deal, and didn’t they say it was twenty thousand dollars? There was gonna be product there too and she was thinking, Why I gotta tell that shit to Miscali? Felicia been thinking about getting away, leaving New York. She was tired of ho’in, being worried about money all the time. She had her friend Ramona in St. Louis, was always calling her, saying they should open a beauty salon together. But she need money to do that and no bank was gonna start giving no stripper no loan. But maybe if she could figure out a way to get that twenty grand she could go half with Ramona on the salon, get a whole new life started.

Shit, she barely slept the whole night because she was thinking about one thing-how to get that old stinkin’ crackhead’s money. Then it came to her-her cousin Sha-Sha from Brooklyn. Damn, why didn’t she think of that shit straight up?

Sha-Sha was her second cousin on her mom’s side. Felicia was six years older than him and funny shit was he was the first trick she ever turned. Happened when she was nineteen and he was thirteen. He was just hitting puberty and he was a horny little thang-nasty too. He was always walking around, touching his dick, asking her to do shit with him. Finally, sick of hearing him talk, she went, “You wanna fuck, I’ll fuck, but it’s gonna cost you five bucks.” He must’ve gone and stole five bucks from his momma, Felicia’s aunt. Was the fastest five dollars she made her whole life.

Felicia told Max she needed to go get a haircut. Meanwhile, she was really going to meet Sha-Sha in Brooklyn, in Canarsie. She took the L train out there and maybe she should’ve worn some different clothes. In this short leather skirt Max had bought her every guy on the train was wanting to bone her.

Sha-Sha was living in Breukelen Houses, off the L train. It had been a long time since Felicia had been back to the projects and she wasn’t missing none of it. When Sha-Sha answered the door she didn’t even recognize the nigga. She went, “Sha-Sha here?” and he went, “The fuck you talkin’ ’bout?” Yeah, that sounded like Sha-Sha, but what happened to his body? He used to be fine looking-well not too fine, he wasn’t no Denzel-but he was big and strong and his face wasn’t too bad either. But now the man was fat. She was talking Rerun fat, like the man be eating ten meals a day.

She looked around at all the pizza boxes, Chinese containers and shit and said, “Damn, how much you be eatin’?”

Sha-Sha went, “That how you say hello? How’d you get so rude, bitch?”

“Fuck you,” Felicia snapped. After listening to Max call her bee-atch all the time she wasn’t gonna take that shit from her damn cousin.

“Sorry, baby,” Sha-Sha said smiling. “Come to me.”

He held open his arms for a hug but, damn, Felicia felt like she was only getting her arms around one-quarter his body. She was glad she wasn’t hookin’ no more, havin’ Sha-Sha-size men on her body. Nigga that big fall on a girl’s body he kill her and shit.

Then Felicia felt one of Sha-Sha’s hands grabbing her ass and she shooed it away.

“Don’t be grabbin’ my ass,” she said.

“Shit, you lookin’ good,” Sha-Sha said. “Smellin’ good too. I bet you nice and tasty.”

Listen to the nigga, talkin’ to her like she was food. She better watch out-the fat motherfucka might eat her.

When he started kissing her neck-sucking on it more like it-she pushed him away. Tried to push him away. Nigga didn’t budge.

“The fuck you doin’?” Felicia said. “Ain’t you forgettin’ we cousins?”

“Shit never stopped you before,” Sha-Sha said.

Sha-Sha grabbed her ass again. She slapped his hand hard and went, “I ain’t playin’,” and he finally let go.

He moved some pizza boxes off the couch and they sat down, got caught up and shit. He asked her if she was still dancing and she said “Yeah,” leaving out that she was Max Fisher’s ho. Then she asked him if he was still dealing and he said, “Yeah,” and she was thinking, I wonder what shit he’s leaving out.

Felicia didn’t want to spend her whole damn day bullshitting in the projects. Yeah, Max was a bitch-ass motherfucker, but living in a penthouse-shit, she could get used to that. So getting right down to it, she went, “Yo, there’s this white motherfucker I know. You know, I dance for him and shit. Motherfucker’s dealing rock.”

“Who’s he with?” Sha-Sha asked.

“Ain’t with nobody,” Felicia said. “See how stupid his ass is? He don’t even know he keep it up the gangs’re gonna be coming down on his ass. His clients-yeah, motherfucker calls ’em clients, are all rich-ass white people like he is. Nigga’s getting’ all the white people in Manhattan smokin’ rock and shit.”

“Damn,” Sha-Sha said smiling.

“So I be thinking,” Felicia said. “Why wait till the gangs come down on him, know what I’m sayin’? How ’bout I find some way to get down on his ass first?”

“Shit makes sense,” Sha-Sha said.

“Shit makes lotta sense,” Felicia said. “So nigga’s on the phone last night, talkin’ about this deal’s gonna go down with these Colombians, for twenty thousand dollars and shit. Then I think about you and your boys and I’m like, ‘Yeah, we can get in on that shit.’ Know what I’m saying?”

Sha-Sha was into a pack of Chips Ahoy, eating the shit two at time. Piling that shit down his throat like his damn life depended on it.

“Shit, you eatin’ or listenin’?” Felicia asked.

Sha-Sha gave her a long look, swallowing cookies, then said, “Keep talkin’ to me.”

“What I been saying,” Felicia said. “All I gotta do is find out where the drug deal’s at, right? Then you and your boys, whatever, bust in on that shit, know what I’m sayin’? I get the money, you get the rock. Shit, Max-that’s the nigga’s name-payin’ twenty for it, shit’s gotta be worth forty, right? You know how much pizza and cookies and Pringles and whatever the fuck else you been eatin’ make you so damn fat you can buy for forty thousand dollars?…A lot, that’s how much.”

Sha-Sha thought it over for a few seconds, stuffing more cookies down his mouth-looked like he was swallowing them whole-then went, “Max huh? And you say the nigga don’t got no back-up?”

“Ain’t you listenin’ to me?” Felicia said. “It’s just him, he’s alone. Oh, yeah, and some white boy from Alabama. Name Kyle or some shit. Max and Kyle. That sounds like two scary-ass motherfuckers, right?”

Felicia laughed.

Sha-Sha wasn’t laughing, went, “What about them Colombians?”

“What about ’em?”

“You say this is twenty thousand dollar, right? Shit, ain’t no high-level deal for no twenty thousand dollars, know what I’m sayin’? Sound like some street-level bullshit to me.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. So? That makes the whole thing even more easy. How hard’s it gonna be for you and whoever else you got backin’ you up, do whatever you gotta do. Shit gonna be stupid easy, you ask me.”

“Yeah, I guess maybe I can get my boy Troit in on it with me,” Sha-Sha said. “We split up the rock together and shit.”

“That’s right,” Felicia said, “and I get the money. That’s all I want-the twenty grand. I don’t care if they got a hundred grand worth of rock there. All I want is the cash.”

She liked the deal, but she didn’t like the sound of Troit. If he was in with Sha-Sha, he was probably some sick-ass, that was for damn sure.

Sha-Sha was quiet a few seconds, like he was thinking real hard, then said, “You know I might gotta cap this Max motherfucker, right?”

“Shit, you wanna cap him, go ’head,” Felicia said. “You be doin’ me a favor, wanna know the truth. Cap his ass in the head, serve him right for the way he been treatin’ me. Walking around with my titties showin’ all the time, makin’ me do him whenever he get a hard-on, which is like what, five, six, seven times a day? Man’s little dick be hard all the time with all the Vi-agra he be takin’.”

“A’ight, I’m in, yo,” Sha-Sha said. “Let’s bust this Max nigga hard.” Then he pushed the Chips Ahoys aside, said, “Man, I’m getting’ sick off these cookies. Man need some real dessert, know what I’m sayin’?”

Felicia smiled, like she didn’t know what Sha-Sha was saying, and said, “Yo, I should be gettin’ back. I don’t want Max getting’ suspicious or nothin’. I told him I was gonna get a haircut but it ain’t gonna be no shorter when I get back. Not like his cracked-up ass would notice.”

As Felicia headed toward the door Sha-Sha said, “You think I’m playin’ with you?”

Felicia stopped, looked back at him. He had his legs spread and he was undoing the buckle on his belt.

“Come on, Sha-Sha, don’t be doing that shit. We cousins.”

“You want me to do shit for you, you better do some shit for me. Know what I’m saying?”

Felicia knew she had no choice. Shit would end fast anyway. Besides, had to be better than Max, right?

When she had her panties down and was climbing on she went, “You better be quick. And you tell our mommas about this shit, I’ll kill you.”

When Felicia was done screwin’ Sha-Sha she took the train back to Manhattan. Man, it was a relief being back in Manhattan, being back in the city. She was through with all that being in Brooklyn, back in the projects bullshit. She had class now and she wasn’t gonna be poor ever again. All she needed was the time and place of the meeting with the Colombians and Sha-Sha would take care of all the rest. She’d have her money, be able to open her salon in St. Louis, her life would be all set up.

That night, when she was in bed with Max, she figured there was no use not getting right to it and she said, “When’s the drug meeting with the Colombians at?”

She figured Max would just come out and tell her. Why’d he have to keep it a secret?

But either he thought something was up or he was just being an asshole, cause he said, “Why the fuck do you care?”

Shit, why’d she have to be so straight up with him? She shoulda tried to work it out of him, or waited till they were in the swimming pool at the QT and he was in a good mood and shit.

“No reason,” Felicia said, twirling her finger in his sweaty gray chest hair, acting all lovey dovey with the damn asshole. “I just wanna know where my man’s gonna be at, that’s all.”

“Hey, let’s not forget your role in this relationship,” Max said. “I’m not your man, I’m your boss. You got that?”

Damn, she wanted to bitch slap his ass.

“Yeah, I got it,” she said. “But ain’t I gonna come with you to meet the Colombians?”

Max laughed then said, “Honey, this is business, complicated stuff. Your role is to be waiting for me when I get back. I’m gonna be very worked up after that meeting and I’m gonna to need my bee-atch to relax me. Now make yourself useful and roll me a joint, will ya?”

She knew it was because he’d caught-well, almost caught-her going into the safe. Now he wasn’t gonna trust her with nothing.

In the morning she was ready to give up, say fuck you to the whole busting in on the drug deal idea. She was gonna call Detective Miscali and give him whatever he wanted and then she was gonna get her ass outa, what’d he call it? Oh, yeah, FisherLand.

But then the next morning Max’s boy Kyle arrived up from Alabama. One look at that white boy and Felicia knew she was back in action. When she first saw him she even said out loud, “Damn, that boy be white.”

Serious, if there ever was a white boy, it was Kyle. Damn, nigga put the white in white boy. She didn’t know how he was from the South because his skin looked like he was one of them albinos, like he hadn’t been out in the sun his whole hillbilly life. Probably because he spent all his time in church, that’s why. The boy be carrying around his bible all the time, talking to Max about crack-how fucked up is that? Max had told her something about how he was gonna set Kyle up with some ho’s when he came to the city, wanted to know if Felicia had any “references,” but Felicia knew the only ho on that boy’s body was gonna be her.

And she could tell the boy was hard up, looked like a dog that wasn’t getting none. Whenever he looked at her his mouth hung open, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. She kept him in heat, brushing her titties up against his arm, touching his ass with her index finger, and all the time she kept thinking, “She-itt, this boy be white.”

And the way he talked, like some southern gent and calling her “Ma’am.” Ain’t nobody ever called Felicia ma’am and she had to be real careful not to laugh in his damn fool face.

But, shit, she kind of liked the way he was worshipping her, treating her with her respect. Aretha said it right-ain’t no girl on the planet gonna turn down some r-e-s-p-e-c-t. And, hell, being called ma’am was better than being called bee-atch, right?

One time, in the kitchen, she moved up close to him, her titties right up against his chest, and tried getting the drug deal info from him but he clammed way up, stuttering, “I–I-I don’t think the The M.A.X. w-w-would like me talking ’bout that, m-m-m-a’am.”

Stuttering and shit, he was so nervous. She wanted to slap him upside his head, get some sense in his dumb Southern boy ass, but then she needed that information. There was only one way she knew she could get it out of him-fuckin’. There wasn’t a man alive didn’t talk like a jackrabbit when he got some pussy with the promise of more to come. Besides, she was screwing her own damn cousin, what was one more little white boy?

Later that day, Max went out to sell some of his crack to somebody and Katsu was out buying fish in Chinatown. Felicia put on some of the lingerie Max had got her and went out into the living room. Kyle was sitting on the couch and when he looked up at her he almost dropped his damn bible. She didn’t say nothing, just looked him up and down and then went to the stereo and put on some Mary J. Blige. Then she got a bottle of bourbon, two glasses, piled some ice in there and then splashed lots of booze in each. Holding the glasses in one hand, like she’d seen in a movie, she strolled across the room to where Kyle was now sitting straight up, like he was an army man, and went, “Girl sure does hate to drink alone, suga.”

He took the glass, his hand shaking, and she eased down next to him. He gulped the bourbon straight down, swallowed the ice too, like he needed it to cool off.

Squeezing up nice and close to him, she went, “What you readin’?”

Kyle could barely speak, he wanted it so bad. He went, “E-E-Ezekiel eigh-eighteen twenty-seven.”

“Ooh, that sounds nice,” Felicia said, puckering up her lips. “What it say?”

“N-nothing much, ma’am,” Kyle said. “Just that, um, uh, ‘When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive.’ ”

“Oh, yeah, that sounds real pretty,” Felicia rubbed his leg-damn, he had a tent in his sweatpants already-then went, “You know, I go to church all the time too?”

“Really?”

She wanted to laugh in his face, but she had to keep this shit going.

“Yeah, I always sit up close, in the first row, so I can hear what the reverend say loud and clear. You know, I’m related to Dr. Martin Luther King?”

Damn, she wished she could take that shit back. Boy was from the south, might be some kind of racist or something.

But, nope, turned out it was the perfect way to go because he went, “Wow, Dr. King, that’s real impressive, ma’am. I’m a big, big fan. How’re you and the Reverend related?”

Shit-questions. She wasn’t expecting that.

“He was my mom’s cousin twice removed on my sister’s side. But he and my mom was real close-like brothers. I mean brother and sister.” Figuring she had to get off this subject real quick, she went, “You know what I like about you?” She was tickling his leg a little, happy to see that big tent coming up already in his pants-yeah, boy was ready to go campin’ all right. “You real polite, that’s what. Callin’ me ma’am all the time. I like that shit. Wanna know something else? You real pretty too.”

She almost said purty, but figured they were past that.

She grabbed the bible from him, tossed it onto the floor, and climbed on his body.

“Don’t worry none about your bible, honey chile. We can have our own, private bible class. I be Eve, you be Adam, and our asses are stuck in the Garden of Eden.”

“O-okay, ma’am,” he said. He could barely talk. Shit, he could barely breathe.

She grinded up against him, putting his face right between her titties, then said, “Ain’t there a snake in the garden of Eden?” and undid the snap on his Levi’s.

“H-hold up a second, ma’am,” Kyle said. “Ain’t you Max’s…I mean The M.A.X.’s girl?”

“Honey, I ain’t nobody’s girl,” Felicia said.

She got his pants down, then pulled his shirt up over his head. Then she took his Y-fronts down and she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

She went, “Damn, boy, you are hung.”

And she wasn’t lying neither, like when she told all them pencil dicks that they got the biggest cocks she ever seen just to boost their egos and shit. Sometimes she even told Max he had a big one. Meanwhile, sometimes she couldn’t even feel the shit. He’d roll off her and go, “I’m done,” and she didn’t even know they was started yet.

But, Kyle, man, he was the real deal. She’d been with half the Knicks and most of the brothers in Canarsie and, shit, none of them had nothing on this white boy.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said.

“Naw, thank you,” she said, and they got at it. She didn’t want him to shoot too soon, because those southern boys-even the gents like Kyle-turned real mean when that happened.

Felicia was letting loose, coming like the goddamn D-train, shrieking like a crack ho who’d had her shit taken away.

Meanwhile, Kyle was going, “Am I hurting you, ma’am?”

She just screamed at him, “You da man, you da man, you da man!”

When she finished up she turned over and let Kyle do his thing. When he blew he didn’t make a sound. Boy was too polite to make noise.

Sitting up on the couch after, Felicia went, “I ain’t been fucked like that in a long, long time, suga.”

Then she saw he was crying, big-ass tears going down his cheeks.

“What’s the matter, baby?”

He could hardly talk, he was crying so bad.

Then he went, “I’ve betrayed The M.A.X. What am I gonna do now?”

Boy was so messed up he didn’t even remember to call her ma’am.

She caressed his cheek, went, “Ain’t no power on earth can stop love, honey.”

“You really mean that? You…l-l-love me?”

“Why you think I’m here with you right now, baby? I ain’t usually the type of girl who gets with a man real quick, know what I’m sayin’?”

Lucky she wasn’t Pinnochio or her nose’d be blowing a hole through the door, past the elevators, out the damn building and shit.

Kyle said, “But The M.A.X. said that you’re a…a… a ho.”

“That’s bullshit,” Felicia said. “Don’t listen to anything Max be saying to you cause that man got his head inside his ass, know what I’m sayin’? I ain’t no ho. I’m just a woman, a lonely woman lookin’ for love, and now I found it.”

She saw his eyes well up and let him kiss her, trying not to laugh, then said, “You love me, too, don’t you? I can see you do. I can see it. And listen, baby, if you love somebody, you tell them everything. There ain’t no secrets. So why don’t you tell me where that drug deal’s gonna be at?”

“Can I ask why you want to know?”

She wanted to go, “No, you can’t,” but went with, “Cause I just like to know where my man be at, that’s all….You are my man, ain’t you?”

She saw the way he was looking at her and that was it, piece of cake. He told her everything she wanted to know about the drug deal-the time, the place, who was gonna be there, everything.

Then he said, all scared and shit, “You sure you won’t tell The M.A.X., ma’am? I mean, I know it’s no big deal and all, but I don’t think The M.A.X. would appreciate it if he knew I told you something I wasn’t supposed to.”

Yeah, Kyle had a big dick but Felicia had never seen a pussy like him her whole damn life. Never saw a sucker like him neither.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Be our own little secret.” Then she climbed back on him and she said, “You like Britney?” Kyle said yeah and she said, “Then what you waitin’ for? Hit me one more time, baby.”