Durty South Grind

Strebor Books
P.O. Box 6505
Largo, MD 20792
http://www.streborbooks.com
www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

© 2011 by L.E. Newell

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever. For information address Strebor Books, P.O. Box 6505, Largo, MD 20792.

ISBN 978-1-59309-350-1
ISBN 978-1-4516-0799-4 (ebook)
LCCN 2010940493

First Strebor Books trade paperback edition March 2011

Cover design:
www.mariondesigns.com
Cover photograph: © Keith Saunders/Marion Designs

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Manufactured in the United States of America

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First of all, I'd like to thank GOD for not allowing me to give up on myself—for inspiring and continuing to inspire me through the trials and tribulations to keep pursuing my dream. For without GOD's guidance I couldn't have developed one word, one sentence, phrase or idea toward the beginning and the ending of this project.

I'd also like to thank my mama, Mama Marion—how she likes to be called—for birthing me and my sisters, Janet and Debra, who have continued to support me despite my hardheadedness to do the right thing. I'd also like to thank my nephews and nieces who've stuck by me, too.

To Robert, we call him Bobby “Hollywood” Washington; you would, too, if you ever met him. He's a character, my main man, adviser and manager, who has certainly played a pivotal role in getting all this done; and David Hamm, my agent, who's been super major in getting this work to the reader.

To my buddies from back in the day, who traveled hand in hand through the triumphs and failures of surviving the street life. I choose to leave them unnamed for obvious reasons.

Special thanks goes out to all the writers I have used to teach me about how to write by reading their works over and over again until I got it right. Nikki Turner, Zane, Michael Baisden, Omar Tyree and countless others. Oh yeah, and Charmaine Parker,
thanks, lady. Thanks, guys and gals, for without your brilliant styles I wouldn't have been able to develop my own.

And finally to Sister Michelle Renee Donaldson, my inspirational adviser, who has continuously encouraged me throughout the years that I could accomplish whatever I set out to do despite the odds as long as I put GOD first and foremost in my life. She's always saying that GOD is in my corner and heart, and with Him, all things are possible. Thanks, Chelle, you are wonderful.

T
he sexual tension of sweaty bodies permeated the room with a musky aroma. Exhausted, Sparkle rolled lazily off Mercedes' drenched body, his most recent conquest. He felt his dick throb anew with lust as he squinted at the oval ceiling mirror. He admired the glistening skin and long slope of her narrow back as it flared to her round ghetto booty and thighs. A tingle flushed along his spine when she cooed in a husky voice, “Oooh, baby, that was some real long dicking you put on me there. I was getting so raw and it was hurting good.” The petite red-haired stripper's firm breasts were still rising rapidly as she moaned through the final stages of leg-trembling climaxes.

With an exhausted, pleasing sigh, he smiled. “Was it, girl? Whew! You had me putting in some real work dere,” he whispered between gasps.

His attention swayed to one of the drawings on the far wall he'd sent his boy over the years. Suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck began to tingle. He wondered if it was his imagination or if he had heard a crunching sound, like someone walking softly through dry leaves outside the window.

“Yeah, honey, daddy, we…” Shortie Girl, still breathing heavily, began. She froze when he reached over and put his hand over her mouth. Her eyes bulged with surprise.

His street instincts snapped to full attention. “Shh, be quiet for a sec, girl,” he whispered. “Listen, you don't hear that?”

Her eyes swirled wildly with fear and before she could mumble, he placed his finger to her mouth and eased out of the bed naked. Creeping to the window on the balls of his feet, he eased the curtain back slightly. An adrenaline rush surged through him when he saw a shadow edge around the corner of the house. When he turned around, Shortie had sat up in the bed with the sheet pulled over her breasts, her nipples outlined through the dampened sheet. Even in the dark he could see her fearful eyes. He motioned, signaling that everything was going to be okay.

Sshhing her once more, he crouched and tiptoed to the closet, his instincts on full alert.

Making as little noise as possible, he eased the door open and reached into his leather coat hanging on the back. With tension rising by the second, he pulled out his own personal equalizer, a Glock nine-millimeter pistol. Squinting with anxiety, he quietly cocked it, placed it firmly on his hip and crept to the bedroom door. He gently turned the knob. Cautiously he peeked around the doorsill and quickly jerked his head back. Seeing no one, he pressed against the wall and edged toward the kitchen, where he felt the predators were headed.

Suddenly, with an ear-shattering thud, the door flew open. Two dark figures zipped through and quickly spread to each side. He immediately raised his gun and fired at the splitting hunters. Return fire thundered back and he hit the floor, getting off several shots of his own. One of the intruders' bullets sent wall plaster splattering across his face. He started belly crawling backward toward the bedroom but froze when rapidly fired shots zoomed over his head from behind. The surprise of another shooter sent shivers down his spine, sending him to another level of panic. One of the intruders grunted in pain when the hot lead bit into his flesh. A relieving sigh escaped Sparkle's lips when the two attackers sprinted out of the door.

Sparkle's head jerked back and forth between the kitchen and living room in desperation. His breath caught when a silhouette emerged out of the darkness. With raw nerves, he squinted at the shadowy figure. The sound of a familiar voice came in a whisper. “Yo, Ace, you aight?” The tone was quite anxious.

Sighing heavily, Sparkle released the pent-up air in his chest before replying in a shaky voice. “Uh-huh, who dat? You, Rainbow?”

“Whodafuckcha think it is, nigga?” Rainbow snapped back. “Man, who in da hell you done pissed off now, dude?”

“Wheew! You got any idea who the hell dem niggas was?” Sparkle spat as he sat up and began wiping the sweat off of his brow.

“You must not have heard what I said. But anyway, naw, dog, I ain't got no idea who it could've been, but we sho nuff gotta find out, that's for sure.” Rainbow breathed sporadically.

“That's fer damn sho.” Sparkle twisted some of the tension out of his neck, braced his back against the wall to help boost himself up off the floor, and then stood up in the doorway.

Rainbow eased out of the shadows of the living room with his head swerving to make sure he wasn't near one of the windows. Clad in one of his monogrammed silk robes, it showed that he had been there for a while. He cleared his throat before he spoke in a hoarse voice, “I think they've split, dog.” His brow wrinkled as he paused and tiptoed to the window. He eased back the curtain to take a quick peek. “Heard a couple of car doors slamming and wheels screaming down the street.”

“I think ya hit one of dem bastards,” Sparkle whispered.

“Yeah, me too; dats why dey split the way dey did. Uh-huh, could swear I heard one of da muthafuckas grunt,” he spat.

“Oh hell yeah, one of them did. I'm gonna make a run outside to make sure everything's safe. You check out things in here.” Sparkle wrinkled his nose and nodded before heading toward the door.

“Dontcha wanna cover ya naked ass first?” Rainbow smirked.

Sparkle looked down at himself and tried not to look so embarrassed as he headed back to his bedroom. He muttered over his shoulder, “Aw fuck you, man,” as he stepped across the sill.

In the dim light of the room he could see that Mercedes still had the sheet pressed to her breasts. “Is everything aight?” she whispered in a childlike voice. “Those shots sounded like a cannon going off.”

He walked on the balls of his feet to the chair beside the bed. He picked up his dark-green baggy shorts and a light-green polo shirt and dressed. He slipped on a pair of tan Timberlands. He eased the gun into his waistband and covered it up with his shirt. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Everything's under control, shortie. Lay back and chill. I've gotta go check outside but I'm pretty sure they've split.”

Before he could walk out of the door, Mercedes sat up on the edge of the bed. She snatched a red floral blouse from a bedside chair and slipped into it. Smiling demurely, she picked up a pair of faded jeans and stood up to put them on. As she wiggled her creamy hips from side to side pulling up the pants, he let out a long sigh. His mind went mushy all over again.
Mmh-mmh, baby girl's got one phat juicy-juicy,
he thought.

In terms of ghetto butts, Honey's was apple bottom phat. You could set a cup on it while she did her sashaying thang without spilling a drop. It was the first thing he'd noticed at a strip club when she worked the pole on the circular center stage. To accompany that awesome asset, she had large doe-like eyes that made her look innocent and cute.

What really turned his dick into a massive boner that night was her exotic expressions in mounting stages of climax as she undulated on the pole. She had concentrated on him and had gotten
so deep into the dance that he felt that they were actually fucking. He could actually see the cum soaking through her outfit. He had never felt such an experience and pulling her had proven to be a real plume in his hat. Right off the bat, Mercedes had blended so well into the hustling scams he and his down-ass old chick Violet had practiced on a nearly daily basis.