Lipstick Diaries Part 2 Read online

  “What the fuck are y’all still standing here for?” Cyrus said to Tee’s girls. They headed back to the lounge.

  Paris started to walk off.

  “Where’s your bike.”

  “I walked.”

  “You walked all the way here by yourself?”

  “My house isn’t far from here.”

  “It’s dark as hell.”

  “I’m not afraid of the dark.”

  “The dark is the least of your problems out here at night.”

  “I can handle myself.”

  “Yeah, I peeped that. I never saw a chick hit another chick that hard and so many times.”

  Paris picked up her pace.

  “Hold up, let me give you a ride home.”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  Cyrus ran to his truck; he pulled up along side her. “Hop in.”

  “I said I’m good.”

  “C’mon now, I’m not going to let you walk home in the dark.”

  Paris stopped walking.

  “I’ll drop you off and breakout, no funny stuff.”

  She opened the door and climbed in.

  “I heard you used to live here.”

  “I used to.”

  “Is that why people flock around you?”

  “People don’t flock around me.”

  “Sure they do. The kids hang out at your house, people who never stepped foot in Neal’s bookstore, are now in there half the day kicking it with you. You’re like a hometown girl who left, became a famous movie star and then came back.”

  Paris laughed. “You’re funny.”

  “I’m dead serious. I’ve been watching you. I recognize real when I see it.”

  “You’re so full of shit.”

  “See, that’s what I’m talking about, realness. You don’t bite your tongue and from what I saw back there, you definitely don’t hold back any punches. You would fit in just fine with my Albany team.”

  “Albany team…?”

  “That’s where I’m from. I run all of downtown.”

  “So why are you here in this small town?”

  Cyrus took one hand off the steering wheel and rubbed his thumb and first two fingers together. “Opportunity… And now I’m offering you one.”

  “Not interested.”

  “I can take care of you.”

  “I take care of myself, been doing it for years.”

  “Well, maybe it’s time for you to let someone else take over that responsibility,” he said pulling up to the curb in front of her house.

  Paris opened the door and got out. “The next time someone from your crew pulls a gun on me, you’re going to see just how real I can get.”

  Cyrus smiled. “I like your style, mommy.”

  Paris slammed his truck door. Cyrus pulled off as she headed up her steps.

  “You okay?”

  Paris turned around. “What are you doing here?”

  Neal walked up the steps. “Jerry called me from the lounge, he said Tee and some girls were trying to roll on you. When I got there, I saw you hopping in Cyrus’s truck.” He saw the light bruise that Tee’s punch left on Paris’s cheek. He tried to touch it.

  “It’s nothing,” Paris said, turning her head.

  “You don’t have to act tough all the time.”

  “Who said I was acting?” She didn’t move when he touched the bruise. She could see the anger and hurt in his eyes. The last thing she wanted him to do was go get himself into trouble.

  “You want to come in for a while?” she offered.

  “It’s kinda late,” Neal said.

  “Do you have a curfew?” she asked.

  “You’re something else, you know that?”

  They headed inside.

  “Just so you know,” Paris said, as she took off her jacket, “you ain’t getting no pussy.”

  “What about some head?”

  She threw her jacket at him. She disappeared into the bathroom and came back with an ice pack for her cheek. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  Neal was in the living room looking at the pictures on the wall. “I’ll take a beer.”

  Paris grabbed two bottles of beer out of the fridge and entered the living room. She handed him one. “Thank you,” she said.

  “For what…?”

  “For coming to check on me,” she smiled.

  “I’m going to have a long talk with Cyrus. His clique is getting out of control.”

  “That won’t be necessary. Cyrus and I had a little chat on our way here.”

  “He has to hear it from me, as well.”

  “And why is that?”

  “He has to know that I’m not just going to sit back and watch you being fucked with.”

  “That’s so sweet,” she said grabbing his hand. “But don’t get yourself killed on account of me.”

  “Cyrus’s not going to put a hand on me.” His face softened. “So which of these is you?” he said, pointing to the pictures.

  “That one right there,” she said.

  “Oh shit.”

  “What?”

  “You were an ugh-mug.”

  “Fuck you,” she said, pushing him. He grabbed her arms as he stumbled back. He fell on the couch; she fell on top of him. Paris didn’t move, Neal didn’t say a word. Neal’s body was hard and warm. Paris felt her temperature rising. She stood up.

  “I’m not ugly, anymore.”

  “No…you’re not,” he said sitting up. He studied a picture on the wall.

  “What?”

  “He stood up and walked to the picture. “That’s Scratch.”

  Paris looked at the picture of the 8 year old. “That is him.”

  Neal studied the rest of the pictures more closely. “I know a lot of these kids. Most of them are still here in town.” He was studying the pictures so hard that he didn’t notice Paris standing on the side of him, staring at him with lust in her eyes. She reached out and touched his lips. He turned to her. He grabbed her hand and kissed her fingers. She closed her eyes.

  “Neal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember what I told you earlier about not getting any pussy?”

  “Yeah...”

  She pulled her hand away. “I wasn’t playing.” Neal stared at her, smiling. He kissed her on the forehead.

  “I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

  “I’m off tomorrow and Sunday,” she smiled.

  “Well, then I’ll see you Monday,” he said walking out the door without looking back. When he shut the door, Paris exhaled.

  Monday morning, Paris stepped out of her house she saw the newspaper on her welcome mat.

  “What the hell is wrong with this boy,” she said, referring to the paperboy.

  She told him on three different occasions that he kept dropping the paper at the wrong house. She picked it up and headed next door. “Good morning, Miss Belle.”

  “Good morning, Emma,” Miss Belle said, as she rocked in her rocking chair.

  “No, Miss Belle, I’m not Emma, I’m Paris.”

  “Paris is a good girl. Give her some time, she’ll come back, you’ll see.”

  “Miss Belle, Emma’s gone.”

  Miss Belle looked at her. “Paris will be back, you’ll see.”

  Paris laid the newspaper on Miss Belle’s lap. “I have to go to work; I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Okay, Emma.”

  Paris walked away and hopped on her bike. “That was creepy.”

  When Paris walked into the bookstore, Neal was holding his head.

  “Neal, what’s up?”

  “You didn’t hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  He shoved the Albany Times Union to her.

  Jermaine Thomas A.K.A. Scratch, age 13, was gunned down in the Arbor Hill section of Albany last night, in gang retaliation. Jermaine escaped from a DFY facility 2 years ago and hadn’t been seen since. The names of the other teens involved are being withheld until their guardians are contacted�
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  Paris dropped the paper on the counter.

  “That’s fucked up,” Neal said.

  “That’s fucked up,” she said, pointing to Cyrus’s Tahoe parked in front of the diner. “He drove them kids to Albany to do his dirty work. Now, they’re dead and he’s having breakfast like nothing happened.” She walked off.

  “Paris, where are you going?”

  She walked across the street and barged into the diner. The look in her eyes silenced everyone in the eatery.

  As she walked toward Cyrus’s table, Ramel stood up. “What’s up?” She pushed past him. “Yo.”

  He grabbed her by the shoulder. Paris spun around and banged him in the face with a left, then a right, another left, and a right, then an uppercut. He hit the floor face first and didn’t move.

  Cyrus stood up, eyes wide. Tee, Ramel’s girl shook off the shock of seeing her man getting knocked out by a chick and charged Paris. She ran into a left jab and a right hook. She screamed and grabbed her coochie after Paris kicked her in the crotch with a steel-toed boot.

  Cyrus yoked her from behind. Paris struggled to break free. She stomped on his feet, kicked him in his shins, clawed at his arms, but Cyrus refused to break the hold.

  The sheriff ran through the door with Neal on his heels. The sheriff grabbed Paris while Neal held Cyrus back.

  “This fucking bitch is crazy!” Cyrus shouted.

  “You’re a murderer!”

  Paris broke free and charged him. Neal got caught in the middle of the blows coming from both sides.

  A deputy ran in, grabbed Paris and wrestled her to the floor. He handcuffed her and dragged her off to his cruiser.

  Paris sat on the cot in the holding pen staring out the window when the sheriff approached the cell.

  “I’ve talked to the young man and woman you assaulted. They don’t want to press charges.” He opened the cell. “I advise you to slow your roll. Next time, you may not be so lucky.” He walked her to the curb. “Hey. Why don’t you do everybody a favor, sell Emma’s house, take the money and go back to where you came from.”

  Paris walked off on him and headed to the bookstore to retrieve her bike. Neal walked out the bookstore when he saw her.

  “You okay?”

  Paris hopped on her bike. Neal put his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off and started her bike.

  “What are you going to do?”

  She peeled off, leaving him in a cloud of burned rubber.

  Paris sat in her living room staring at the pictures on the wall. The old woman’s words from next door replayed in her head. Why me Emma? Why leave me this house? She looked out the window when she caught light reflecting off of something shiny. She dived to the floor as the guns went off. Glass shattered all around her as she crawled out of the living room and into the bedroom. Moments later, she heard tires peeling off into the night.

  The deputy looked up from his note pad.

  “And you didn’t get a look at who shot at your house?”

  “No.”

  He flipped his note pad shut when he saw the sheriff approaching. Paris stared at him as he stared at her back pack.

  “Going somewhere?”

  “I’m taking your advice.”

  The sheriff looked around before spitting out a glob of chewing tobacco.

  “I’ll follow you to the town limits and make sure you get out safely.”

  The sheriff followed her a little past the town limits before slowing down and swinging a U-turn. Paris rode into Clifton Park and got a motel room.

  She threw her back pack on the bed and pulled out her cellphone. She scrolled down to the number she wanted and stared at it. She knew once she made this call, there was no turning back. Paris closed her eyes and thought about Scratch, then she hit dial.

  “Talk to me,” the voice on the other end said.

  “Sid…I need you.”

  “Where are you?”

  Paris gave her the name of the motel and the room number.

  “And Sid, bring the family.”

  Four thirty in the morning, a black Dodge Charger drove up into the motel’s parking lot and stopped in front of room 103. The Charger’s passenger side door swung open and out stepped Sid, all six-foot, two hundred and twenty pounds of her. She wore her black trench closed, fitted cap just above her eyes and Timbs laced to the top. She walked up to room 103. Before she had a chance to knock, Paris opened the door. Paris looked up at her and couldn’t stop smiling. Sid could tell that she had been crying. She hugged her and stepped in.

  “Who we got to kill?” she asked, shrugging off her trench and tossing it on the bed. She stood in the middle of the floor, clenching and unclenching her hands.

  Paris stared at the Kevlar vest and .45 tucked in Sid’s shoulder holster. “Where’s the rest of the family?”

  The hotel door banged open. “Be careful what you wish for,” Mimi said. She ran in and hugged Paris. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  Twelve more women walked in behind Mimi and hugged Paris.

  “Jamie?” Paris said, looking at the last girl to walk in.

  Jamie pulled up her sleeve and proudly flashed her COLD BLOODED tattoo snaking all the way up her arm. “I’m family, now.” Paris ran to her and hugged her tight.

  “So, who we gotta kill…?” Precious asked. She was all business, no play.

  Paris gave them the rundown. “There’s this kid out of Albany who calls himself Cyrus. He’s got half of Albany on lock and he’s expanding his enterprise into my town; and he’s killing the children.”

  “Killing the children?” Mimi mused.

  “He’s using them as soldiers to knock off his competition. Two nights ago, four teens from my town were shot and killed up in Albany in what the papers are calling gang retaliation.” Paris started to tear. “He’s got to go.”

  Precious folded her arms. “And how did this become our problem again?”

  “This motherfucker is killing kids,” Paris said.

  Precious pulled up Paris’s sleeve. “This is what we are,” she said, pointing to the tat. “Kids die everyday, get over it.”

  “Precious is right,” Sid said. “This has nothing to do with us.”

  “Yes it does. This is what we’re about,” Paris said.

  “Getting paid by any means necessary is what we’re about,” Precious said.

  Paris looked to Sid. “I ran away from this town when I was fourteen to find my mother. I had nothing but the clothes on my back. I hooked up with some bikers and…I did what I had to do to survive. And one night when I was being passed around like a blunt, in a shit house bar, in busts this six foot, big bitch and kills the head of the bikers with her bare hands.”

  Sid looked at Mimi who was crying. “Those motherfuckers left Mimi for dead in that dumpster. It was only a matter of time before they did the same to you.”

  “You and the family lit that bar up. Only three of them got away that night.”

  “And we hunted their asses down,” Mimi said. “And they paid for what they did to me, and for what they did to you.”

  “What was the family’s motivation, back then?” Paris looked around the room. “All of us have a horror story to tell. Me and Mimi gang raped by bikers, Jamie raped for years by different foster parents, and you…” She walked up to Precious.” You were only 6 years old when your crack head mother started prostituting you out to support her habit.”

  “Fuck you,” Precious whispered.

  “And you, Sid. You were kidnapped by your boyfriend’s connect when he couldn’t come up with the fifty thousand he owed him. Instead of him hustling up the loot that he owed, he left you for dead. How long did they keep you down in that basement, chained to the radiator? Ballers from all over the neighborhood paid a king’s ransom to come down in that basement to fuck and sodomize the ex Queen of Philly.”

  Sid slapped her. Paris continued staring her in the eye. Sid slapped her again. Paris didn’t flinch.
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br />   “My little biker chick, tough as shit,” Sid said looking around at her crew. “Ladies, I don’t know about y’all but just thinking of putting my .45 in this motherfucker’s mouth and pulling the trigger has gotten my pussy dripping.” Everyone started laughing. Sid grabbed her trench off the bed and put it on. “Let’s do this.”

  Neal looked out the window when he heard Paris’s bike. He did a double take when she walked in. She was wearing a tank top, jeans, and Timbs. As she approached the counter, he could see the COLD BLOODED tat swirling up her arm.

  “Paris?”

  “Where can I find Cyrus?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Neal, we’re cool and everything, but don’t fuck with me. Where is he?”

  Neal turned to the window when he saw three black Yukon’s pull up.

  “Neal,” Paris whispered, “just tell me what I need to know. They won’t ask nicely.”

  “I’m not a snitch, Paris.”

  Paris looked toward the window and shook her head. The doors on all three trucks flew open. Sid and the rest of Cold Blooded swarmed into the bookstore like a nest of angry hornets. Neal backed up against the wall when Precious leaped over the counter and pressed her gun against his forehead.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you.”

  Cyrus and Ramel were in the living room smoking a blunt and watching TV when the front door almost flew off its hinges.

  “What the fuck?” Ramel reached for his gun on the table. Precious had her .38 in his mouth before he got to it.

  Cyrus ran out the living room, toward the backdoor. He opened it and caught the butt-end of Jamie’s shotgun with his mouth. He fell on his ass.

  Paris walked in and kicked him in the face. “Get your punk ass up,” she said, kicking him in the stomach. He got up and limped back to the living room. Paris shoved him to the couch.

  “Scratch would be alive today if it weren’t for you.”

  “Scratch knew what he was getting into.”w

  “He was only 13. Don’t you feel anything over his death and the other kids who died with him?”

  “It’s all part of the game.”

  “You just made doing what I have to do that much easier.”

  “And what are you going to do?”