Trap House (13 page)

Tiffany hesitated for a second until she saw that the undergarments were new, with the tags still
attached. “This is nice,” she said, holding up a bra and thong set.

“Go on and put it on,” Wanda said, beginning to shed her own clothes to put on the set she
selected.

Tiffany watched in awe as Wanda came out of her clothes. More fascination than lust had
Tiffany stuck in her place.

Wanda caught it but didn’t react. She’d hoped to get to sex the girl herself, but she wasn’t sure
if Tiffany would be up for it.

Tiffany finally caught herself and went to her room to change. She admired herself in the mirror
for a second before going back out. “Well?” she asked, holding her arms out for inspection.

“Lemme see. Turn around,” Wanda said, coming closer. “Oh, this is nice,” she said, fondling
Tiffany’s breast under the guise of adjusting her bra.

Tiffany blushed again as she soaked the thong from Wanda’s touch.
I...am...not...gay
, she told
herself firmly, confused by her reaction to the woman’s touch.

Wanda caught the reaction and pulled back.
Be easy
, she warned herself, feeling moisture seeping
into her boy shorts. “Lemme show you a few moves,” Wanda said, hitting the replay button on the
CD player. She ran Tiffany through a regiment of stripper moves. She showed her how to make
her ass cheeks clap, shake it like a salt shaker, get down and get her eagle on, and an assortment
of other seductive dances.

The women were so engrossed in their revelry that neither heard the door open behind them
while they danced. Mike stood there watching in silence until Tiffany caught a glimpse of him. She
announced his presence with a shriek and took off down the hall.

“Girl, that’s Mike!” Wanda called behind her, laughing.

“Who dat?” Mike demanded, not bothering to hide his interest nor needing to.

“That’s my little get-high partner,” Wanda said, pressing her body against his.

“She dance?” he asked, still staring down the empty hall.

“Not yet, but gimme a sec. You know how I do,” Wanda boasted.

“You know dem tricks love dem some young broads,” Mike said, finally looking at Wanda.

“
Dem
niggas, huh?” Wanda teased, grabbing his manhood through his pants.

“Oh, Ima keep it 100 percent real. I wanna hit dat too,” Mike admitted eagerly.

“Shit, me too, but we gotta go slow. Shawty green,” Wanda said, still stroking him.

Tiffany returned a short time later, fully dressed and partially embarrassed.

Wanda made the introduction, giving Tiffany the opportunity to get a good look at Mike.

Mike stood a hair over six-two and had the solid build of an athlete. His smooth, bald head was
an interesting contrast to the neatly trimmed full beard adorning his face. He looked, dressed, and
smelled like money. To Tiffany, he resembled a darker version of Suge Knight, minus the gut.

“Wanda tells me you’re looking for a job,” Mike said, staring into Tiffany’s eyes—in fact, past
her eyes and straight into her soul.

“Um, yeah, but I don’t dance. We was just playing,” she said, feeling the need to explain
herself.

“That’s fine. I got plenty of dancers. What I need is a good hostess,” Mike offered.

“What I gotta do?” Tiffany asked cautiously, as she was unfamiliar with the term.

“Check ID, take admission fees. You may have to help serve erry now and then, but you get tips
when you do,” he explained. “It pays $200 a night,” Mike said, sealing the deal.

“I’ll take it!” Tiffany practically shouted at her good fortune. “When can I start?”

“I’ll bring her tomorrow,” Wanda interjected, cozying back up to Mike.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Mike. Ima leave you guys alone now,” Tiffany said before
retreating.

“Okay. Nice meeting you. See you tomorrow,” Mike replied, watching her backside as she left.
“Lil mama is a goldmine!” Mike exclaimed. “I can’t wait to smash that.”

“Well, until then, you need to come and smash this,” Wanda said, placing his hand on her ass.

Tiffany instantly missed her showerhead as the sounds of lovemaking drifted through the thin
walls. She lit what was left of the blunt she’d started at home as she listened. The couple stopped
making love and began to straight-out fuck. Not only could she hear Wanda’s moans and Mike’s
growls as he pounded in and out of her, but the rhythmic sound of the headboard slamming into
the wall as their bodies collided. The sound of skin slapping together echoed in the silent room.
She wasn’t even aware that her hand slipped into her panties until she felt a tingle shoot through
her body. It wasn’t much longer before the three of them all came together.

CHAPTER 11

M
arcus sat behind the wheel of another stolen car with Pony riding shotgun. Big Zo and
another fellow junkie called Smokey took up the rear. The car was completely silent, each
man consumed with his own thoughts. Getting high was the common theme, and just how to do it
was what each man was pondering separately. Every once in a while, one of them would share his
harebrained plan to get some money.

“Fuck it! I say we just run up in Walmart and run out with flat-screens,” Smokey announced
desperately.

“That’s the dumbest shit I heard all day,” Marcus spat, even though it had crossed his mind as
well.

“We can hit ShopBrite. Red’ll pay for meat,” Big Zo pleaded eagerly.

“That’s some ol’ crackhead shit,” Marcus said, his voice dripping with disgust.

“We crackheads!” Smokey said seriously.

“I ain’t no crackhead,” Pony shot angrily as the realization that he was indeed a junkie finally
sank in. It wasn’t supposed to be like that. He smoked a primo here and there with his best friend,
and now he sat with that same friend scheming about what to steal. Pony looked over at Marcus
in utter disgust. He instantly transferred all the blame to him.
Fuckin’ wit’ dis nigga
, he thought
inwardly.

“What?” Marcus demanded, catching Pony’s glare. “You got a better idea?”

“Naw, nigga, and I ain’t robbing nobody,” Pony shot back, rejecting the only idea Marcus
suggested.

“Y’all fuck niggas is scared,” Marcus fumed.

The men were all highly offended by the slanderous remark, but none felt like having Marcus
point his gun at them, so they let it pass.

“Fuck it. We gonna hit the Walmart,” Marcus commanded. “Big Zo, you make a commotion
while Smokey hit up the DVDs. That should get us started.”

No one made mention of the fact that Marcus had shot down this same plan minutes before.
They knew the proceeds from the petty theft wouldn’t quench the thirst of four heavy smokers, but
desperation was sitting in.

* * *

Alonzo was recognized immediately upon entering the store. The manager instructed security
to follow him while he called the police. They had enough surveillance footage of Big Zo ripping
them off to put him away for a minute.

Smokey, with his classic junkie swagger and attire, was watched as well. Security cameras
rolled as he loaded his clothes with loot. His description was passed along to the police officers
who were en route to the location of the crime.

“Uh oh,” Pony said as a cruiser pulled to an abrupt stop at the store entrance. “Let’s push!” he
said, nearly panicked.

“Be easy, nigga. It may not even be ‘bout them,” Marcus said, disgusted with the display of
cowardice.

The words were barely out of his mouth when Smokey and Zo came bolting out of the store
in a full run. Smokey was throwing the DVDs from his clothes at the pursuing guards. He was so
focused on the guards behind him that he slammed head-on into the police officer responding to
the call. The force of the impact sent them both sprawling on the ground, knocking the officer’s
weapon from his hand.

The officer scrambled for his gun, but Big Zo scooped it up before he could reach it. A second
officer pulled to a stop just as Zo came up with the gun. For reasons no one will ever know,
Zo pointed the weapon at its former owner and pulled the trigger. The heavy forty-caliber slug
knocked the officer’s hat off when it came out the back of his head. Alonzo then turned toward the
second officer, closed his eyes, and began firing wildly.

When the shooting stopped, both Zo and Smokey, along with the cop, lay dead. The stray bullets
that missed their mark killed a soccer mom who was there buying cleats for her boys.

“Go! Let’s go!!” Pony shrieked, sounding more like an eight-year-old girl than a man.

This time, he got no argument from Marcus. “Man, did you see that shit!?” Marcus exclaimed
excitedly. “Them niggas is dead.”

“That’s fucked up,” Pony said, genuinely saddened by the loss of life.

“For real tho’,” Marcus agreed, pissed because he wanted to kill something. “Man, how we
s’pose to get high now?” Marcus said, getting back to more pressing matters. “Oh, I know!” he
said, making a quick turn onto I-20. He was headed to P.I.G.’s with a plan to get credit. Everyone
knew P.I.G. was addicted to drama, and having the inside scoop on what was sure to be make
national news would be enough to gain entry. At the very least, Marcus was sure they’d be able to
smoke as they recounted the night’s events.
Hell, with a little acting, it might even warrant a little credit.
Truth be told, Marcus was thirsty enough to sweep up if he had to.

* * *

When P.I.G. took the call, his first instinct was to turn Marcus away, but since he’d just hung
up from Tiffany, he changed his mind. Being the drama king he was, he decided to stage a little
production of his own. “Hey, fellas,” P.I.G. said so genially that everyone looked up curiously.

“Oh, man! Did you hear?” Marcus began animatedly.

“Zo dem dead!” Pony jumped in, as rehearsed.

“Yeah, and dey kilt a po-lice. We had to shoot our way out of there,” Marcus said.

“Wit’ like ten cops,” Pony embellished.

“Ten, huh? Sho nuff?” P.I.G. asked dubiously.

“They dead, man. They dead,” Marcus said sadly, plopping down next to Mojo, who just
happened to be loading his shooter.

Pony thought the display of remorse was a good look and adopted it as he laid out the fictionalized
version of what went down.

“Damn. Sorry to hear that, fellas,” P.I.G. said plainly.

“Worst part is dem niggas had the money we was gon’ spend with you,” Marcus said, setting
the stage.