A Gangsta's Chick 2

Leo Sullivan

Sujets

• Urban Books

Informations

• Publié par: Sullivan Group Publishing, LLC
• Date de parution: 06 septembre 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781946789570
• Langue: English

Extrait

Contents



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Dedication


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

And It Continues…


To Be Continued…

Acknowledgments

About the Author

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This is a work of fiction. The authors have invented the characters. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Compilation and Introduction copyright © 2012 by Leo Sullivan
Sullivan Productions, Films and Literacy, LLC
PO Box 1342
Decatur, GA 30031-1342
www.Leolsullivan.com
Cover Design/Graphics: Marion Designs
Author: Leo Sullivan


Printed in the United States of America
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Dedication



IN LOVING MEMORY OF MY MOTHER
EVETTE L. SULLIVAN
AUGUST 7, 1947 – JUNE 9, 2006
May your beautiful soul rest in peace and the legacy of your loving grace live on.


Dear Mama,
I never had a chance to say goodbye,
to tell you just how much I love you.
My mind still refuses to accept the fact that you are gone.
This is the most difficult writing I’ve ever had to incite
Through misty eyes, my pen flows ink in tears.
God only knows how many times I’ve attempted to write this…
It’s hard Mama.
Some say my mother died from malpractice,
a hospital’s negligence.
Some say she died from an internal illness…
I am sure my mother died like millions of other Black women,
from a lack of love, loneliness and a broken heart.
I, her only child, should have been there for her.
1

Monique lay on the ground in a heap, lungs on fire, depleted of oxygen as the formidable shadow towered over her. His breathing was labored like that of a pack-a-day smoker as he gasped for air. Hunched over her, he pulled back to swing the baseball bat, his face grimacing with malice, intent on doing serious bodily harm.
Suddenly, an ardent light shined across the parking lot.
A woman’s voice screamed, “Bo, hurry!”
The voice belonged to Tatyana as she called out to her accomplice. The other had already jumped back inside the truck.
Rasheed’s car headlights illuminated Monique’s body as she lay there. She screamed just as the car came to a halt. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was like a living nightmare; his woman being attacked by a white man.
Rasheed hopped out of the car and rushed over to her. The redneck swung the bat, causing it to whistle just inches from Rasheed’s head as he ducked and rushed the big man. Rasheed swung wildly and connected with an overhand right that caught the redneck on the bridge of his nose, sending him spiraling backward. The baseball bat fell to the ground.
Bo threw one punch, nearly falling.
Rasheed was up on Bo as he rained blows down on his face and mid-section, opening up a deep gash on the white man’s pale forehead, and another, as Rasheed drew back, striking with all his might. For some reason, the white man would not cover his face.
A truck sped up behind Rasheed in an attempt to run him over.
Monique screamed a warning.
Rasheed dived out of the way in the nick of time and rolled on the ground near the bumper of his car.
Punch drunk, Bo was barely able to stagger over to the truck to get in, his face a mess. The truck sped away, burning rubber, leaving behind a trail of smoke.
“Are you okay?” Rasheed asked Monique as he got off the ground, winded.
She saw blood on one of his knuckles. “My arm hurts, bad. I think it may be broken. When I fell, I hurt my ankle,” she said, biting down on her bottom lip, making a feeble attempt to hold back her tears, as her body became racked with sobs.
He looked at his woman and it felt like a part of him was dying. It was unbearable to see her in so much pain.
She tried to sit up, but winced.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” he cursed, enraged, as he balled up his fists.
He sat on the ground beside her. His heart was a river of emotions about to overflow its banks.
“Ba … baby, I’ma hafta pick you up and carry you to the car so I can get you to the hospital,” he said in the voice of a broken man. He was failing miserably at keeping the hurt out of his voice.
She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed deeply. In the distance a siren blared. In the sky, a lavender dawn was starting to peek over the starry horizon; morning’s attempt to steal the night away.
“Oh Lord, Game!” Monique shouted as she suddenly remembered she had come to her rescue once again. “Ra, you gotta go check on Game. She’s hurt bad, please,” Monique cried pungently as tears fell down her cheeks.
He frowned as he looked at her. “Baby, who you talkin’ about?”
“Game, my friend. She’s hurt real bad. You gotta help her.”
Monique pointed with a trembling finger as she wailed.
Rasheed strained his eyes in an attempt to locate who she was talking about. Vaguely he could see a figure sprawled out on the pavement.
Monique tugged his shirt. “Rasheed, you gotta help her!” she pleaded.
He stood, eyes still focused on the spot in the distance. He took off running.
Game lay on the ground in a pool of her own blood, her body in a grotesque position, like a discarded baby doll that had been slung to the ground. Rasheed wasn’t a doctor, but he knew instantly something was terribly wrong.
She looks familiar, he thought to himself. It then dawned on him – it was the flirtatious girl from the club. He swallowed the lump in his throat as he timidly crouched down to check on her. He could tell from the bubble of blood that rose from her nose that she was breathing. He rubbed at the back of her head to find the source of the pool of blood.
“Damnit man!”
She had a hole in the back of her head about the size of his fist. He pulled his hand away. It was covered in blood.
She was dying.
“I got to get her help. The girl is almost dead. It looks like her neck or somethin’ is broken,” he said to Monique as she sat on the concrete cradling her arm.
She grimaced in pain. “Mmm, my cell phone is dead, but Smitty the janitor should still be in the club,” she said, panting, swaying back and forth in an attempt to find the fortitude to deal with the pain.
“I’ll be back,” Rasheed said. This time he headed for the club.
Moments later he was banging on the glass door. After Rasheed told the old janitor what happened to the girls, Smitty called the authorities.
2
Rasheed & Monique

The police arrived in large numbers, enough so that they instantly made Rasheed nervous, the way they did lots of young black men. Monique sat in the passenger seat of Rasheed’s car. Her arm was bruised black and purple. It had already started to swell.
The sirens blared a raucous symphony in her ears as a sea of police cars surrounded them in the parking lot. For a fleeting second she thought she saw fear in Rasheed’s eyes.
“What happened here?” an authoritative voice asked.
He looked to be in his late fifties. He was of medium height with salt and pepper hair. His long nose was crooked as if it had been broken before. His blue eyes were hard to read, like a man who had been on the force a long time.
Monique did all the talking, but for some reason, the cop’s eyes stayed on Rasheed. The atmosphere was quickly turning into pandemonium. The mighty roar of a police helicopter reverberated in the sky.
Rasheed couldn’t help but notice that all the medical attention was being focused on Game. Sure, the white girl needed it, but so did Monique. Off to his right Rasheed could see old man Smitty, the janitor, talking to a plain-clothes officers. The old man pointed in his direction as one of the officers jotted down something on a note pad.
“You say two white males and a female approached you in the parking lot, and it was over there that one of the white males struck you with the baseball bat?” the officer asked with one eyebrow arched.
“One of them picked her up,” she pointed at Game, “and slammed her head on the ground,” Monique said.
It was evident that she was in serious pain as she attempted to talk. At one point, it looked like she was about to pass out.
As Rasheed looked on, he was disturbed as once again like another day in the life of a Black man, he was confronted with one of his deepest fears, like some damn phobia—white men in blue suits. He pulled in a deep breath as what seemed like a thousand eyes bore through him with lingering suspicion.
The officer said, “Young lady, could you repeat that again?” His icy cold blue eyes continued to dart back and forth between them. It was all but evident that he was not buying her story.
Monique looked up at him with a wrinkled forehead as she held her arm.
Rasheed looked around helplessly.
On the other side of the parking lot, three amb