July 8, 1997 12:03 am
His heart, which once pumped at a feverish and manic speed, had suddenly began to calm to a normal pace. His forehead, once slick and drenched with the perspiration that leaked down into his eyes, began to dry. Come to think of it, he was a lot more relaxed now. Finally his mind could take a moment at ease. Perhaps it was the breeze from the ceiling fan he’d just switched on that brought forth this sudden comfort. The cool air was rather refreshing, serving its purpose well.
They called him Flash, and the name fit him perfectly. If anyone lived in the fast lane it was the man given the title Eli Jamison at birth. An arrogant son of gun with a cunning way of the street, he defined “hustler” in all aspects of the term. Since the age of eighteen he couldn’t recall a moment that nearly resembled that of brokeness. He wouldn’t allow it. Sure, Flash still kicked it in the hood, but he stayed fly long before the rappers made a song about it. To make sure he never bottomed out to “po-man” status, he was constantly out on the grind, participating in whatever carefree scandal the situation called for — all for the lust of the money.
The Native of Detroit, Michigan was born on October 22, 1969 into a life of strife and poverty. Loathing damn near every minute of it, Flash vowed to never deal with the financial burdens he watched his family endure. The man carried no memory of his mother who died as a result of a heroin overdose. And his cowardly father … well that was someone he could never speak on because it was someone he never met. Therefore, he could never love, respect, or even hate the man. Bless the hearts of his grandparents, whom showered him with all of their love, doing their best to raise a young boy destined for a life of dealing, danger, and death.
No way they should take the blame for what he’d become. And if anyone were to blame it would be this fucked up society we lived in — the government at both the federal and local level — corporate America — The Man. At least that’s how Flash viewed it. The bleak ghetto environment he was confined to as a child made it more acceptable for him to be influenced by the local thugs, pushers and addicts. And after more than ten years in the life, the crafty veteran had mastered the drug sector to the point where he could package the game up in a comprehensive format and resell it an 8-week learning course. But despite all his knowledge and craftiness, Flash couldn’t shake the unavoidable cons that came with being a big time drug dealer.
“Fuck is going on?” Flash moved from the chair to the bed, and dropped his head in frustration, assuming a position similar to the one he’d been in for the last 30 minutes.
The room was as elegant as they come — for a cheap motel that is. The nightly rate was an astounding fee of just twenty five dollars. Jack, the owner of the establishment, called it the V.I.P. Suite — a living quarters fit for the king who demanded the finest in motel accommodations. A semi-clean leather sofa, black and white TV, and queen-sized bed occupied the small space. That was it.
Not necessarily Flash’s style, but it would have to do. He was on the run from the streets. The last place the enemy would expect to find a baller of his character was a rundown motel in the worst area of Las Vegas. At least he hoped.
Accompanying Flash on the quilted covers of the bed was the nine millimeter Beretta, the troubled piece that like so many other components, played a significant part in the current shit he found himself in. The number of lives the weapon claimed had become outrageous, to be frank. So many scalding bullets had traveled the barrel, so many rounds the piece could bear no more.
Maybe all the activity was the reason for the gun’s malfunction. Following the initial shot, it seized, leaving Flash standing with an expression of bewilder and unadulterated fright. The gun’s disposal was now mandatory. A glitch like that could get him killed out here. Not to mention the legal aspect and all those bodies metaphyscially attached to it. Shit could get him a lot of years in there.
“Me and you Mary.” Flash took a huge puff and revived the stogie that almost fucked around and died on him. The tightly rolled joint seemed to burned for what seemed like an eternity, and he hoped the slow burn would continue. Had it not been for the marijuana buzz, he may have bitched up and placed the gat to his temple. But the smoke was dwindling and in a few short puffs, it would be gone — adios. That didn’t sit well with Flash at all.
Never the one to run out of bud (normally), but this hectic evening led him to dump the last of his stash into the Wizard rolling paper and twist up a spliff that would make the Rastas in Jamaica plenty proud. But there was a solution. Flash looked up and noticed the bottle of gin sitting on top of the television. He managed to form a short grin as the clear liquor poured slowly over the ice cubes in the square shaped glass.
“If that don’t relax you, I know what will.”
Her voice startled him. To be honest, he didn’t even hear her come in the room, and with the shit he’d gotten himself into, that wasn’t good at all. Flash had to be more alert, but how could he? His nerves were rattled to hell — too much noise in his ears to think. He could barely focus on anything. The man was suffering from intense paranoia and it was now obvious that it had become detrimental to his well being.
A set of wet red lips planted themselves on his cheek — soft and inviting. Then came a moist tongue over the back of his neck — slow and tantalizing. She then placed her hands upon his naked, broad chest. Caressing slowly, her touch was quite sensual and a bit soothing despite the circumstances. But as Flash was coming to learn, the woman was cold as ice, and this concerned him greatly, especially considering the situation. He had been on edge ever since escaping that clusterfuck at the warehouse, and no one could be trusted now — especially Candy.
“Much better,” he admitted after depositing the crippled roach into the ashtray. Flash gulped the liquor and indulged as the cold liquid slid down his throat. He couldn’t deny — Candy’s soft kisses and subsequent massage had him feeling rather nice. Damn near carefree. She had that whip appeal. The gift of gab, a knockout body, and set of angel eyes made for a combination powerful enough to wrap any man around her finger — almost any man.
But Flash knew the game, ya see. After all, Candy was a key component in this scheme. The bitch who helped him realize and seize his financial freedom. The same bitch who devised the trap that would leave her man dusted and disgusted — who was the same man alleged to be a notorious Cuban drug lord. That was the factor that put such a fucked up twist on everything.
Candy took a sip of the gin and asked, “What’s the matter, bay? You should be gloatin’ in glory right about now. You about to be the most powerful man in the Midwest. Play ya cards right and I bet you’ll strike a million in no time.” Her voice carried an eerie arrogance, one that irritated Flash to core.
Funky bitch. How could she be so confident? So … carefree. After hearing Flash summarize the violent ordeal, she responded with enthuse, like the scene of bullets, blood, and brains made her pussy wet.
“Hopefully this don’t get in the way of my session. You owe me some tonight.” Candy got up and stood in front of Flash, giving him a full glance of her glorious five-foot frame. When famished, she could eat her weight in steak, shrimp, and fried chicken. But you could never tell by looking at her. Candy’s stomach was smooth and flat, making her the envy of several less fortunate women. Hell, she was so small, you might think a strong wind could carry her down the street. Still, you couldn’t let the slim waist fool you. She turned around and revealed a plump ass — round, ripe, and ready to go, thong splitting a pair of pare shaped cheeks up the middle. That near-perfect bottom had landed many a man in hot water and now, it looked like Flash was the latest victim.
“Gimme that dick.” It had been weeks since the two had been intimate and engaged in what they coined the “damn thang”. She’d been deprived long enough. The time to have her needs fulfilled had arrived. She reached down to the crotch of Flash’s pants to release his manhood. At first she was offended as handling a soft penis was unexpected. But as her touch stimulated, Candy’s magic worked up a stiff response in her lover. She then gave it a light squeeze while gently rubbing the swollen head.
Now under ordinary circumstances, Flash would’ve dug in and seized the moment. He was a downright freak — down for the bed, the floor, the bathroom — usually just about anywhere. But this was anything but the usual scenario. Shit had got thicker than a hot plate of biscuits and gravy. At the moment, his mind flipped like the pages of an old, wrinkled book. Flash just hoped the gangster they called Antonio Valdez wasn’t the author of this novel.
Why fuck Tony? Shit, Flash couldn’t offer a viable answer — only excuses. The Cuban man had been so humble. So generous. He befriended Flash immediately, placing an unbelievable amount of trust in the stranger all on the strength of one’s word. Just went to show that even the most thorough thoroughbreds could suffer from a lapse in judgement. They could have become the perfect duo, but now they were more susceptible to becoming bitter rivals. And with Tony’s clout in the street, who knew how long the feud would last?
Flash’s stomach commenced to churn as he recalled what was easily the biggest mistake of his life — so big, that he could go on and call it “fatal.” Unable to function in the freak department, he pushed Candy away, took a deep exhalation of intoxicated oxygen, and began to replay the incident from earlier this evening.
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