Love Trumps Game (3 page)

The boy put his head down.

“Suit yourself then.”

No matter how much she tried to instill good morals into her grandchildren, the more it seemed like a losing battle. For a seven-year-old, Brandon knew more curse words than she did, and didn't mind using them. Raynita, on the other hand, was plagued with sticky fingers. More times than she could recount, the girl had been reprimanded for stealing small trinkets from some local store. Hattie had to hide her purse when Raynita was in her house.

“Brandon, you sure you don't want some cookies?”

Brandon glared at her with tight lips.

“Nanny, can I have some more?” Raynita asked, after wolfing down two cookies and half a glass of cold milk.

“I said, I don't want no stupid cookies. Stop punking me!”

“Punking? What? Boy, please. Honestly, you starting to act more like your father every time I see you. And don't take that as a compliment.”

Brandon frowned up at her. “Don't be talking about my daddy either.” He stood up with balled fists.

“Boy, I'm forty-nine years old and this is my house. I can talk about what I want.” Hattie fought the urge to laugh. In her heart, she knew that they were good kids, but she also knew their tendency for waywardness stemmed from a poor environment. The Crenshaw District, the area where Neema lived, was infested with people who had long given up on the idea of doing better. As a result, many lived in poverty, their normal lives filled with baby-making for a payday, prostitution, drugs and violence. “Is that how your mama teaches you to behave?” Her tone softened. “Nita, of course you can have more cookies.” Then to Brandon, “And you, young man, you need to work on your attitude. You hear me?”

Hattie was waiting for the boy to say something smart back when she heard her screen door being closed gently. Just one more sassy word from that boy's mouth and she'd whack him one good time to show that she meant business. Next came the sound of a car engine starting up, and the peel of tires spitting dirt as they sped away.

“W
hat?! I know that trifling Neema didn't tip out my…” Hattie put her cookie jar down, hurried to her security door, and stepped outside in time to see Neema's 2006 black Range Rover burning rubber away from the house.

“Neema! You get yourself back here right now! Neema!” Furious, Hattie tried running a few seconds behind the car, but it was hopeless; not to mention dangerous with all the heat. Besides, she didn't see the sense of giving her nosey neighbors something to talk about. Her legs ached, and smoke and dust stung her eyes.

“Damn her!”

After a cloud of dust cleared, she pursed her lips and headed back to her house to discover Raynita and Brandon arguing over a cookie.

“Cut it out, you two.” Hattie went straight to her phone to call Neema's cell phone.
How dare she pull a kid-dumping stunt?

“It's mine, give it back!” Raynita screamed, about to clobber her brother.

“Make me, ho.” Brandon was daring her with a clenched fist. A cookie was clutched in his other hand. “Don't make me hurt you!”

Hattie hung the phone up and stared in disbelief. “Brandon! What's wrong with you?” This wasn't the first time she'd seen the
two argue over something so trivial, but it was the first time she'd heard the boy call his sister a derogatory name. “Young man, I don't know what your problem is, but we don't talk like that in this house.”

The two were at her house a mere three days ago and Brandon had seemed fine. She couldn't imagine what had transpired enough to change his attitude in such a short time frame.

“Nanny, he snatched my last cookie!” Raynita yelled loud enough for her neighbors to hear. “He's always doing stuff. That's why I hate him.”

“Alright, you two. Nita, you don't hate your brother, and Brandon, if that's her cookie, give it back.”

Brandon tossed the bitten-off cookie to the table. “Crybaby. That's why I can't stand you either. You nothing but a snitch. That's why Daddy likes me better than you.”

“Brandon, stoppit! Nita is your baby sister and you're supposed to look out for her.” Lord have mercy. This was exactly what she wasn't in the mood for—kids bickering back and forth, and acting like baby hoodlums. “I don't know what's wrong with you, but I'm tired and it's too hot for all this.” She loved her grandkids to the core, but sometimes, after spending a day or two with them, she was ready to yank out her own hair.

“I can't stand her; that's why.” Brandon looked ready to throw some blows.

“This is what happens when mothers spare the rod.” Neema was forever claiming that she was doing her best to provide structure and discipline for her offspring, but Hattie was having a hard time seeing the evidence.

Brandon yelled, “It's too hot in here! I wanna go back to Daddy's house. I didn't wanna come to your stupid house no way.”

“Boy, what in the world has gotten into you?”

“I hate snitches; that's what.”

“Brandon, you do not hate your sister.”

“I do so, and when I go live with my daddy, I won't even miss her telling butt.”

“Umph.” Hattie shook her head as she sauntered back over to the cookie jar and removed a few. “I know your mama ain't foolish enough to let you live with that man.” It was wrong to bad mouth Topps to their faces, but she couldn't help how she felt. Topps was notorious for his gang affiliations and drug dealing. Maybe even a few murders. People talked and she'd heard enough. It was difficult to feel warmth about a man who had allowed his own mother to starve to death. “If you wanted some cookies, all you had to do was ask. Whatever has gotten into you, you need to control it while you're at my house. You hear me, Brandon?”

His only reply was a stubborn pout.

Raynita talked with a mouth full of cookie. “Mama said he acting mannish 'cause he spent the night at Daddy's house. She said Daddy musta let him do weeds or somethin'.”

It felt like Hattie's heart thumped and skipped two beats. She patted her chest. “Is that true, Brandon? Your father let you try drugs?”

“I ain't no snitch like Nita.”

“Little boy, please. Snitching is when you talk to the police. I asked you a question. Did your father let you do drugs?” Hattie waited with a hand on her hip. It was hard to keep her face from frowning.
So help me to God, if Neema is allowing that man to abuse this child, I will go crazy on her behind!
“You can tell Nanny the truth, Brandon.”

Every now and then, the boy spent time with his father, but each time he returned, there was a remarkable change in his behavior for days. He acted funny, looked funny, and walked funny. Heck, sometimes Hattie thought Brandon even smelled funny after such visits.

“Dang, Nanny, why you all up in my bizness?” Brandon wiped crumbs from his mouth with a paper towel before tossing it to the table. The tone of his young voice suggested irritation.

Hattie raised a brow. “Boy, at seven, you don't have no business.” She couldn't control her kids' lives, but if she could convince Neema to move to a better environment, meet a nice young man and settle down, maybe Brandon and Raynita might have a chance. True, Topps Jackson was the children's biological father, but it didn't give him a right to exploit them. It also didn't give him the right to contribute to their budding delinquency.

“I'll just say this. Your father might be crazy, but I know he ain't that crazy, to be letting you try drugs. I better not hear something like this again, I know that.”

“I said, it's my bizness, Nanny. Know what I'm saying?”

Brandon looked upset enough to fight, but it didn't stop Hattie. If there was something she needed to know, she planned to find out one way or another.

“That's it. Maybe you need to take time out to work on your attitude. Get yourself on in that bedroom.”

For a few seconds, there was a stand-off, two contorted faces glaring. Hattie couldn't believe how defiantly the child was behaving. She must have been getting soft because when her own kids were coming up, it wouldn't take much for her to go get a leather belt or a switch from her peach tree out back and get busy. “Did you hear me, Brandon?”

He still didn't move.

Hattie stepped closer. “Boy, I am not playing with you. I said, get yourself into that bedroom. Now!”

Without another word, Brandon got up and stomped from the room.

“Lord, give me strength. I'm getting too old for this mess.”
Hattie forced herself to calm down. “Nita, what's your mama's cell phone number? I have it around here somewhere, but don't feel like searching for it.”

“Uh…I don't know. She didn't tell me her new number.”

“What new number?” Grandmother or not, she needed to find out when Neema would be picking the kids up. The sooner she came back, the sooner she could get back to her peaceful existence. “When did she get a new number?”

Raynita stuffed the last of her cookie into her mouth. “Daddy bought her a new phone yesterday. He took her old phone and threw it away. He bought me and Brandon a phone, too, but I think I lost mine. I don't know Mama's new number.”

“Oh, that's just great.” Hattie blew out a weary breath. “No way to reach your mother in case of an emergency.” Hattie shook her head. She didn't understand it. A lot of the young mothers of today were certainly a different breed from when she was coming up. “Oh, well…” She sighed. “Maybe she'll call later tonight to check on you two.”

As much as she hated the idea of it, she would have to wait it out. Knowing Neema, it could be days before she even called to see what was going on. And then again, she might not call at all. Hattie knew one thing—when she did hear from that girl, she planned to have a serious talk with her about Brandon and his visits to his father's house. Topps Jackson shouldn't have been allowed to have unsupervised visitation with stray puppies. Neema would probably say it was none of her business how she raised her kids, but Hattie didn't care. When it came to her grandkids, she planned to make it her business.

“Y
o, boo, you working that dress.” Topps Jackson smiled in appreciation the second Neema opened his front door and stepped inside his house. He clutched his cell phone tighter while his free hand did a slow massage of his shirtless chest, before finding its way down to his groin area. “Yeah, man. I'm still here.”

“You like?” Neema threw her head back seductively and deliberately ran her tongue along her red lips. She catwalked over to the white leather sofa where he sat and placed her oversized Gucci bag down. Slow-motion-like, she spun her body around, only to stop to give him an ample view of her high and perfectly rounded “asset.”

“Hell yeah, boo. I like it a lot.”

Good, she had his attention. Nothing turned Topps on more than watching what he often referred to as her “bubblelicious” behind. Neema made her lips look pouty as her hungry eyes caught the stirring in his sweatpants. “And no panties to get in the way,” she whispered to keep from being heard by the person he was talking to on the phone.

“Is that right?” Topps was licking his lips with mounting excitement. “Check it out. My little freak of the week is here. Yeah, I'm feeling you big time.”

Neema sat down next to him and began rubbing his wide chest,
marveling at the results of what four days per week of pumping iron could do. Washboard abs felt like hard rubber beneath her manicured fingers. “Did you miss me?”

“Slick…man, hold up a fucking minute.” Topps took the cell phone away from his ear. “Hell yeah, I did. What took you so damn long to get here? You know I hate to wait.”

“Baby, I know you do, but I had to wait for him to get the money from his safe, and then he started counting it and talking about nothing. I got here as fast as I could.” Neema rubbed one of her hardened nipples to keep his mind focused on the pleasure they would be having later.

“The hell you did, but that's alright. Check this; let me finish handling my business and I'll deal with you as soon as I'm done. Know what I'm saying? Matter of fact, make yourself useful and go make me a sandwich real quick. Don't forget to wash yo' hands first.”

“Excuse me? Make you a what?” She knew better. One look at his twisted sneer confirmed that her response jumped off incorrectly.

“Bitch, did I stutter? You heard me. I said, I'm hungry and for you to go make me a damn sandwich!”

A few seconds of defiance flashed in Neema's big eyes before she came to her senses.
Oh, damn. What the hell am I thinking
? Disobedience was a no-no. Topps Jackson was a man who hated to be told no. At thirty-five, he was twelve years her senior but looked younger. A young face that belonged to an old spirit. If Topps told you to do something, regardless of what the task was, you sucked it up and you did it. End of story.

“Sure, Daddy.” She sniffed and stood up. “What kind of sandwich would you like?”

“Try using your brain for a change and surprise me.” His words had come out more like an insult. Too bad. He watched her walk
away, knowing that he had to hurry up and wrap up his business so he could deal with her. “Lucky bitch.”

He smiled to himself. He could name a slew of freaks waiting to take her place. Neema happened to be the flavor of the week. When he got through with her luscious behind, she wouldn't be able to walk straight for weeks. The thought made him grin. He put his cell back to his ear. “Yeah, man, like I was saying, that area is ours and we don't back down. Hell, send some soldiers out to pop their asses. Every last one.”

In the large room, Neema could barely contain herself. “What an asshole,” she mumbled, looking around the state-of-the-art kitchen. Topps had owned the three-thousand-square-foot home for all of two years and she still wasn't used to it. Each time she paid him a visit, her top-of-the-line, expensive surroundings in the split-level dwelling nearly took her breath away.
Ooh wee, and just think, this could all be mine one day. Mrs. Topps Jackson
. Hell yeah. That shit had a good ring to it.

She popped her fingers and danced herself over to the sink with the intention of washing her hands. “Forget him. Germ-crazy bastard.” She reached under her dress and rubbed her hands back and forth over her pussy. “There. Eat some good-coochie germs, nigga.” She then walked over to the wide Sub-Zero refrigerator. Imported tile and marble were everywhere she looked. Everything was tastefully done with a mere hint of a woman's touch; thanks to the services of a professional interior decorator.

Quiet as it was kept, Neema felt that she could have done a better job, but Topps had acted funny every time she had broached the subject; even going so far as to joke, “Yeah, and then you'll be moving yo' shit in.” More than once he'd made it clear that he wasn't ready for cohabitation; at least not with her.

“Whatever,” she mumbled. She didn't need to be underneath him twenty-four-seven anyway.

She pulled out plastic containers filled with assorted deli meats and cheese and got busy.

Fix me a sandwich. Count this money for me. Pick my package up. Neema, do this, and Neema, do that
. She didn't like it. The way he talked to her sometimes, his quick temper, nor the way he treated her when his so-called cronies were around. Just because he was the father of her two kids didn't mean he owned her. Topps Jackson was arrogant and demanding. She couldn't say that she loved the man, but the love of his money, and the lifestyle he provided, remained solid.

“Must think I'm his damn maid or something.” Neema had known from the beginning that their relationship would be a difficult one. They had met over seven years ago at The Pink KittyKat over on Slauson and Overhill Drive where flashing fake IDs had gotten her and her running crew in. Flashing big bank practically all night, Topps had ended up buying them a truckload of drinks. Chillin' like a big-baller, Topps had even shared news about an off-the-hook party. He had singled her out with his sexy smile and suggestive eye contact, and she had enjoyed every minute of his attention; sucking it up like a sponge absorbs water.

They met, they clicked, and less than a week later, he was dick-ing her down good. Good friends with benefits. On the real, Topps treated her better in the beginning. Still, she stayed because she loved that new Range Rover he'd bought her and spending his money. Having access to drugs and being his baby's momma, his first lady, was the icing on the cake.

“Nigga, yo' azz need to learn how to treat a woman. That's what you need to do.” Neema was putting the finishing touch on
a monster sandwich. She turned around to find a plate for her culinary masterpiece and there he was. “Oh!” She jumped, startled. “Dang, Topps. Don't be sneaking up behind me like that. You scared me.” Damn. She hadn't even heard him come into the room. He was like that sometimes; quiet and sneaky like a cat. “Baby, you ready to eat?”

Her query was about food but the look in Topps' eyes suggested something else.

“Hell, yeah, I'm ready. I'm starving.” He grabbed the sandwich and bit into it, but after a few bites tossed it aside. “Guess that takes care of one appetite.”

“Hey. Thought you said you were so hungry. I took my time with that sandwich.”

“For real? Guess that means I have to take my time with you. But first, did you take care of that business for me? Took yo'ass long enough. You know I hate waiting.”

Like he had to ask. “Don't I always?”

“You have my money, right?”

“Don't be silly. Of course, I have your cash.” Topps was standing so close that she could smell the soapy scent from his recent shower. Thick hair from his chest brushed against her arms. “Baby, you know I'm always on target.” She moved her body closer into his for a long, hard kiss. Tongues battled for position before someone had to come up for air.

“Damn, girl, you always excite the hell outta me. You know that, right?”

She moaned. “Umm, and that's a good thing. What say we take this to the bedroom?”

He hefted her body up to straddle his like she was as light as a feather. Her clingy, red dress rode up and over her hips to expose her “bare asset.”

“Hell, yeah. But you know how I am? Cleanliness first.”

Too caught up with kisses to her neck and nibbles to her sensitive earlobe, Neema knew exactly what he was hinting about. Topps was a man who enjoyed a good tongue-probing between her honey-brown thighs, but such a treat always followed a bath or steamy shower. Always!

“Ahh, baby, let's just do it. Live on the edge.”

Still straddling his body, Neema allowed him to carry her into the spacious master bathroom where he eased her meaty rear end onto the marble countertop. His tongue was practically down her throat as his hand fondled the sweet and delicate pink between her womanly folds. Neema was about to explode with her first release before he abruptly stopped.

“I'll turn the shower on for us.”

Damn,
Neema thought.
Here he goes again with that mess.
“Baby, I'm already squeaky clean. I took a long bath before I dropped the kids off at my mom's.” She planted a few gentle kisses on his neck. “And you smell good already; like you just showered.” She grabbed the rim of his sweatpants and playfully tugged. “Let's get naked and get busy.”

He smiled at her, but something about his eyes took away from it. “I showered a couple of hours ago, waiting for you. Now take that shit off.”

“Topps, I told you. I don't need another shower. I'm good.” Her tone was firm.

“Bitch, how many times I have to tell your ass about giving me a hard time?”

He walked over, grabbed a clutch of her hair, and pulled her, screaming and all, over to the marble shower stall where he cut on the water, adjusted the temperature, and pulled her into the stream. They were wedged between two large potted palms that graced the large shower area.

“Topps, stop it! I don't want my hair wet. Stop it now! I'm not playing.”

“Shit, neither am I!” He pulled the ruined wet garment up over her head and flung it to the floor.

Before she could protest more, he had his body pressed hard into hers. All six feet of man, complete with a six-pack and a half. Neema squirmed and wiggled but he was a brick wall that couldn't be moved. Warm water pounded flesh as he nuzzled his lips against her neck with her still trying to assert rejection.

Topps reached for the bottle of liquid soap. “Here,” he said, passing it to her. “You wash my back, and I wash yours.”

Stubborn at first, she took it and began the process. His back, his buttocks, tight like a drum, the back of his legs. He turned around to face her, his dick pressed against her wet thighs.

“Damn you, Topps. You be tripping.” One minute she had been ready to claw out his eyes, but such aggression rolled away when his mouth locked onto hers. “Look at my hair,” she swooned, coming up for air. “It's all jacked up now.”

“Yeah, but don't I make it worth your while?” He took the mango-scented soap from her hands. “Don't be mad, girl. Spread them pretty damn legs.”

“Nigga, you didn't have to ruin my dress.” She turned her back to him, but that had never stopped him before. It was always Topps' way or no way. His hands lathered soap onto her perfect rear like a professional waxing an expensive vehicle.

“You still feeling mad at me?”

“Ooh, Daddy, no. That feels so good.” She moaned as his hands soaped between her legs, slowly lathering her delicate spots, fingers slipping in and out of wet warmth. She could feel him using the handheld showerhead to rinse the places he wanted to get to.

He kissed her before placing the showerhead back on its cradle,
then pulled her down onto the thick, rubber-matted shower stall that was large enough for four bodies to lay side by side. He was a comfortable fit, and felt her shiver as he kissed the inside of her thighs, his tongue tasting sweet nectar.

“Love how you taste, boo.”

“And I love how you taste me.”

The thrill of his warm tongue between her legs, the lukewarm water cascading down on them, made her back arch and welcome every sensual second of it.

“What's up now? Still mad about yo' hair?” he asked, rising up on his knees to slide ten inches into her.

The sounds of pleasure filled the room, mixing with the patter of water hitting their tangled bodies.