All Hail the Queen (14 page)

“I'm good.”

“Do you do security work? Maybe you can be my personal bodyguard,” she said as she dipped her pinky in the cocaine and dabbed some on her gums. “That's a good cover. I don't like people in my business.”

“You do realize that the shooting is all on the news and not once since I've been talking to you have you asked how my husband is doing? No flowers. No calls. No shows. Nothing,” Naeema said. “Then you fire him like it's his fault.”

“The news updates the story every fucking hour,” Fevah said. “So you want the gig or not? You protect me and I'll satisfy you.”

“In the words of Kelly Price: I'm booked,” Naeema said just before she tugged her wig back on and left the room.

8

N
aeema was anxious to get back to Tank but she was glad she spent what little of the night was left in her own bed. After leaving Club Vixen she called the nurses' station to check on Tank and decided to make the thirty-minute drive back to Newark instead of wasting Tank's money on a hotel. Plus she was able to get some more clothes, check her mail, and make sure Sarge hadn't pulled a stunt that would leave them both on the street—even though she doubted his behind would mind.

Being back at the house reminded her of the robbery but she didn't have the energy to focus on that fool. Almost losing personal items was bad. Almost losing Tank was beyond tragic. No, the lucky motherfucker would get off for now. She had bigger fish to catch and fry.

Knock-knock.

Naeema walked over to the window overlooking the porch but found it empty. She looked back over her shoulder. Sarge. Ever since he put up the door he always knocked before he came into the living room. “Come in, Sarge,” she said, stopping by the fireplace to get her gun. It was licensed and she had a concealed weapons permit. She needed her own piece and not Tank's just in case she shot a motherfucker—while protecting herself, of course.

Sarge pushed the door open. At first Naeema saw nothing but the tight, short silver and white twists of his hair looking like a dingy Q-tip. She slid the gun inside the molded case and zipped it closed before sliding it between the layers of clothes in her fake Gucci duffel.

He finally stepped into the living room eating a cold can of baked beans with a plastic spoon. “Just want to lay eyes on you,” he said, smacking his lips.

“I'm good,” she promised, cutting her eyes up at him as she sat down on the chair before the long mirror in front of the window to do her makeup. “I'll be even better if I could find my weed pipe.”

His smacking slowed down as the rest of his body froze and he stared off at nothing.

Naeema was just about to put mascara on her lashes and she dropped her head side-eyeing him faking like a statue or like his ass was invisible or some shit. She pressed her elbow onto her knee and then rested her chin in her hand as she watched him. The smacking stopped and he shifted his eyes over to look at her but shot them back straight ahead as soon as he peeped her sitting there watching him like a hawk.
That pipe was gone. All the way gone.

“Me and mine,” she said, twirling her finger around her. “You and yours. Remember?”

He backed out of the living room slowly, his face and eyes still straight ahead.

Something really bad happened to my damn pipe.

Shaking her head, she finished putting on her makeup and double-checked her lineup and the white fitted jeans she wore with a white tee with huge hot-pink lips stretched
across her bosom paired with white high-heeled gladiator sandals.

Knock-knock.

Naeema paused in putting on rhinestone hoops to cross the floor and look out the window. She was surprised—but not really—to see Mya standing there. She'd honestly forgotten all about the teenager the last couple of days. Clasping the earring her heels hit against the scuffed wood as she walked over to open the door.

Mya's hands were pressed to her stomach and her eyes filled with tears. “Ms. Naeema. Can you help—”

Naeema touched her hand to Mya's back and guided her into the living room. “What's wrong?”

“My stomach hurt,” she said with a wince. “Feel like somebody stabbing me with a knife.”

Naeema let her sit down on the edge of the bed. “Is your mother home?”

Mya shook her head in response before she cried out in pain, clutching at Naeema's hand, which lightly rested on her shoulder. “I don't want her or my stepfather to know,” she said, the pain so intense she sounded out of breath as she spoke.

“I thought it was just you and your mom?” Naeema asked, walking over to her dresser to open the top drawer and pull out a bottle of Tylenol.

“My stepdad live with us too.”

Naeema walked across the living room and pushed open the kitchen door. It hit against something. Hard. Coming around the door, she put her hand on her hip when Sarge stiffened and looked off at another spot. “I didn't mean to hit you . . . but that's what you get for eavesdropping.”

She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, removed the top, and tossed it into the trashcan. “The fuck?” she said when she turned to find Sarge now facing the corner still stiff as a statue.

She waved her hand at him dismissively. “Whatever, Sarge,” she said, her voice sounding beyond sick and tired of his shit.

“Take this. It's Tylenol.” Naeema handed Mya the water and shook two pills out of the bottle. “Go home, call your mother, and then lie down until she comes to take you to the doctor.”

Mya just held the bottle in one hand and the pills in the other as she shook her head. “I think I got something, Ms. Naeema,” she admitted in a soft voice before she quickly glanced up at her and then back down at her hands.

“Oh,” Naeema said. “Oh. Okay.”

“I can't tell my mom. Please help me, Miss Naeema,” Mya said, crying harder. “Please.”

Naeema took a step back, her fingers lightly pressed to her mouth as she ran a dozen different scenarios through her mind. An STD would explain the scent of Mya's intimacy in the hall that day.

“I'll run away before I tell them,” she added.

“You have to go the doctor, Mya, and I can't take you,” Naeema exclaimed. “If you want I will be there when you tell your mom if that will help.”

Naeema looked over her shoulder at the sound of a loud grunt from behind the kitchen door. She swung her head back when the girl cried out in pain.

Shit. She really needs to go to a doctor ASAP.

“Where is your mother?” Naeema asked. “Your stepfather?”

“They not home.”

Naeema stepped up close to wipe away some of the sweat beaded on the teenager's forehead.
She needs help.

Sarge stepped into the living room. “Right is right, Naeema,” he said, his disapproval all in the lines creasing his face. “And wrong is wrong.”

Naeema bore a child but she never got to be a mother. Not the struggle every day to make sure your child is fed, clothed, and educated. She passed that job to Miss JuJu. Still she knew the black and white of right from wrong.

And she also knew there were shades of gray.

“Let's go,” she said to Mya as Sarge released another grunt.

She hurried across the room to grab Tank's keys and her white Gucci crossbody bag. She helped Mya to the door and with one last look at Sarge that showed she wasn't even sure she was making the right decision they left the house.

Naeema was relieved to finally get back to New York and be able to lay eyes on Tank. The steady beeping of the medical equipment flanking the head of his bed was the only sound. He was slightly elevated in bed and his linens were crisp and fresh. His chest rose and fell and if she knew no better she would just think he was sleeping.

She smiled as she walked close to his bed after she set the duffel she carried in front of the closet. “I'm back, Tank,” she said, bending to press kisses to his brow. “I'm sorry I was gone so long.”

She pulled the chair closer to the left side of the bed and took his hand in her right to stroke gently with her thumb as she used the remote to turn the TV on and lower the volume. As she mindlessly looked up at the television on the wall she tried not to let it sink in that his hand offered her nothing back. Nothing at all. Still . . . she held on.

Even when the nurses or aides came to check his vitals, the hospital cleaning staff came to lightly clean the room, or the doctor came to update her on his status Naeema never let his hand go.

Glancing at the nondescript clock on the wall she used her free hand to pull her cell from the back pocket of her jeans. She dialed the burner phone she purchased. It seemed to ring forever before it was answered.

“Mya, this Naeema. How you feeling?” she asked.

“Much better. I was sleeping,” she said, her voice thick with it.

“It's time to take one of the big pills,” Naeema said.

“Okay.”

“Do it now,” she stressed.

“Hold on.”

The trip to the doctor had taken the entire morning, lies about being Mya's mother, and a third of the cash from Tank's wallet to pay for the visit and the medicines to cure her of both trich and a urinary tract infection.

“I took it.”

“Is anyone home yet?” she asked.

“My stepdad . . . but I told him I had a stomach virus. I got the phone on vibrate.”

Naeema grimaced with her guilt. Had
she made the right decision? Was she really a grown-ass woman helping a child keep secrets from her parents?

She could only pray that trusting her gut didn't get her truly fucked up one day.

“Okay, I'll call you back when it's time to take the other pill,” she said.

“Okay . . . and thanks, Miss Naeema,” Mya said. “And I'll keep my promise. No more sex.”

Naeema didn't know if she believed that.

After ending the call she unlatched the crossbody to put her phone inside. A loop of Tank's cell phone charger sprang out.
I almost forgot about that.

After dropping Mya back home, Naeema had grabbed her duffel from her house—before Sarge could emerge from downstairs with any more disapproving grunts—and went by Tank's to grab his phone charger. She looked around the brightly lit room. The only outlet she saw was above the sink.

Naeema released Tank's hand.

Curiosity was killing the cat.

She plugged the phone up and leaned back against the sink as she waited for it to get enough of a charge to turn on. As soon as the screen lit up she got busy trying to figure out his passcode. She hated that he made it so hard to crack. She even knew the password for his e-mail and online banking accounts—and when she was feeling nosy she logged on and peeped his balances.

Aggravated, she tapped her thumb against the zero four times.

The home screen and all its icons appeared.

“You have got to be kidding me, Tank,” she said with a shake of her head but then it made perfect sense. Tank assumed anyone dumb enough to fuck with his phone wouldn't be smart enough to guess a password so simple.

Biting her bottom lip she looked over at him. Truth be told they were honest with each other—probably too honest—and if she had ever simply asked him for the passcode he would have given it to her. And now that she had unlocked it she felt like the worst kind of lame for behaving like the shooting was her opportunity to snoop—when she didn't even have to. They always kept it “one hundred” with each other.

Bzzzzzz.

She looked down at the screen as a text popped up.

I KNOW YOU SAID YOU WERE BACK WITH WIFEY

SO WE HAD TO CHILL BUT I JUST WANTED TO LET

YOU KNOW I'M PRAYING FOR YOU.

“Not wifey. His
wife
, bitch,” Naeema muttered.

In the hood those legal papers made the difference.

So Tank put his sidelines and part-times on alert that his number one was back.