The Banks Sisters 3 Read online

  After a few minutes, it was time to move on, not just for the chopper in the sky but for the riders as well. Rydah drove alongside the bikes for a couple of miles, cruising. When she got the signal, she sped a few blocks past all of the illegal bike riders and stopped in the middle of the intersection. Then three more cars, a Mustang (Shelby edition) GTO, ’68 Plymouth Roadrunner Hemi, and a 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle SS, followed suit, paralyzing the traffic of any pedestrians or vehicles trying to get by. The only thing the oncoming traffic could do was stop and either be amused or frustrated as the riders showcased more death-defying stunts and tricks.

  Rydah’s phone rang, but she was too consumed with watching out for the po-po and enjoying the show to answer.

  More ringing.

  It wouldn’t stop.

  Fuck!

  The annoying phone wouldn’t shut up.

  Not wanting to take her eyes off the action for even a second, Rydah picked up the jack without giving the caller ID a glance.

  She shouted into the phone, “What! This isn’t a good time!” She could hardly hear herself speak over the cacophony of screaming engines. She was in ecstasy.

  “I’ve been calling you all weekend, guurrrlll. I want to know when we doing dinner?”

  Vrrrrrooooommmm . . . Vrrrrrooooommmm.

  “What you say?”

  “Dinner!” Buffy was shouting as loud as she could. “When are we going?”

  Rydah heard nothing Buffy said. Not a word.

  “Let me call you later?”

  Vrrrrrooooommmm . . . Vrrrrrooooommmm.

  “I’m with my li’l cousins on bike patrol.”

  Buffy ignored the noise, desperately trying to get an answer to her question. “You promised that we’d sit down and talk,” she screamed, “so that I could explain. I even bought you an apology gift! I feel really bad about the other night, and I want to make it up to you! We need to talk! You been putting me off for a minute, and I feel bad and really need to talk to you.”

  Rydah had heard enough to get the gist of what Buffy was saying. “I know!” Rydah shouted back into the receiver as the bikers continued to do their thing. “I know!”

  Vrrrrrooooommmm . . . Vrrrrrooooommmm.

  She had been blowing Buffy off ever since the situation they had at the club, but she had promised to meet with Buffy for dinner. She tried to stand firm on her word, even if she didn’t feel like it.

  Vrrrrrooooommmm . . . Vrrrrrooooommmm.

  Buffy wasn’t trying to take no for an answer. “You already know you’re going to be good and hungry after all that riding. I know you could use some girl time.”

  Vrrrrrooooommmm . . . Vrrrrrooooommmm.

  Buffy added, “All that damn testosterone. Come on now, time to transform.”

  Buffy had a point. Rydah had been working around the clock at the shop, and when she got off, she stayed at work, fixing her own car. This was the fist day the Lamborghini had been on the street since it was sideswiped.

  “Are you still there?” Buffy asked after Rydah didn’t respond.

  Vrrrrrooooommm . . . Vrrrrrooooommmm.

  “Yeah! I’m here!”

  Vrrrrrooooommmm . . . Vrrrrrooooommmm.

  “So where do you wanna go?” Buffy wasn’t going to hang up until Rydah gave her an answer.

  “I’m not sure,” Rydah told her, “but we will figure it out.”

  “Okay. Then I’ll call you back later?”

  “Any time after nine. I’m going to have to go home and clean up.”

  “Cool! Talk to you later.”

  Rydah clicked off just in time to see two riders flip a four-wheeler, trying to ride it on its hind wheels. Amazingly, they weren’t hurt.

  * * *

  As the day went on, Buffy didn’t let an hour go past without calling to keep Rydah on task. Evening came fast. Hours of stunt riding, driving, and holding up traffic quickly turned into nightfall, and it was time for Rydah to say bye to her cousins and head home.

  On the way, of course, Buffy called again.

  Rydah quickly answered. If she didn’t, Buffy would just call back until she did answer. “I’m on the way home,” she said before Buffy could ask.

  “Great. Did you figure out where you wanted to eat yet?”

  All the phone calls were starting to blow her high. Rydah wanted to reschedule, but she knew she’d promised. “No. Not yet. I’ll call you back once I get home.” Rydah hung up.

  Rydah’s condo, overlooking the Biscayne Bay, was small but chic. Being home only reinforced the fact that she didn’t want to go back out. It was after 10 p.m. and she was tired. Her next thought was to call Buffy and inform her that she’d do dinner with her another day, but knew she that Buffy would not only be disappointed, but she would also keep calling her until that day came. It was probably better to get it over with, Rydah thought. On that note, she married the idea that she was going to hear Buffy out.

  Rydah was about to jump in the shower when her phone rang again. This bitch can’t be serious, she thought. Rydah picked up.

  “If you keep calling, I won’t have time to get ready,” she quickly said.

  “What are you talking about, babe?”

  “My bad.” It was Wolfe. “I thought you were someone else.”

  “I get it.” Wolfe’s voice was always low and raspy. If you didn’t pay attention, you would miss what he was saying. And he rarely got excited, even when he said he was excited. He was odd like that.

  “Are you done riding with your peoples and ’em?”

  “I just got in. I’m supposed to be having dinner with Buffy later. I’m trying to get ready now.”

  “Maybe I could come over and take a shower with you before I head up the road?” He was driving to Jacksonville take care of some business.

  “Sounds good to me.” Rydah was already hot; might as well put out the fire. “How far away are you?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll make sure the water is hot.”

  “You do that.”

  Rydah smiled. She absolutely treasured times like these, when Wolfe dropped by spontaneously to spend real quality time. It was the small things that Rydah enjoyed the most about Wolfe. Based on Buffy’s clock, Rydah knew that she didn’t have much time, but she couldn’t care less. This was about the fifth time today that she strongly felt like postponing the dinner with Buffy.

  Rydah lit the fresh cotton–scented candles that she always had around the house and then went into the bathroom, where she ran water into her oversized Roman tub. After getting the temperature just right, she added bubbles, grabbed clean towels, and put them near the tub. As the bubbled water filled the Roman tub, Rydah used the time to run to the kitchen, to her fully stocked bar, and she grabbed a couple bottles of water, a can of Coke, and bottle of Hennessy Black. She put everything on the stand in the bathroom next to a silver ice bucket and two designer champagne flutes. After arranging the items the way she liked, she cut off the piping hot water.

  The doorman rang her house phone. He asked if it was okay to let Wolfe up.

  In a flash, Wolfe was at her door, carrying an MCM studded backpack on his left shoulder. The smile was the first thing she saw, though. It was a gesture few people got from Wolfe.

  When she tried to embrace him with a hug, he quickly pulled away.

  “I stink,” he said. “I smell like the city. You know how I am about that type of shit. Let me clean up first.”

  Rydah assured him, “You know I don’t care about any of that, baby.” Rydah didn’t care how Wolfe smelled, But she also understood how he felt. She hated being around people after working on cars all day. The only thing she wanted to ever do was hit the shower and get fresh, so she respected Wolfe for that.

  He took his shoes off at the door and then peeled off his jeans and shirt and walked, naked, straight into the kitchen, where he dumped the contents of the backpack on the glass-top table. There were only three things in the bag: a pair of new Versace boxers folded
up into a small square, an EBT card, and bundles of cash. The cash covered the table.

  When Rydah walked into the kitchen behind him, Wolfe pointed to the food stamp card. “It’s like three hundred ninety-four dollars on the card now. Get some groceries. Use it tomorrow for sure. Oh, and if you remember, get me some of that water I like to drink.”

  “Don’t I always?”

  “You do.” There was that smile again. “And it’s supposed to be a fresh four hundred fifty-seven on it on the sixth of each month. The access number on that shit is 2007.”

  “It’ll definitely come in handy,” Rydah said. She stole a kiss on his cheek. She didn’t cook much, but she still liked to keep the things she liked in the fridge.

  Rydah picked up the Versace boxers. “I’m going to put these in the drawer with other ones that I washed, okay?”

  “Baby, you’re too good to me,” he called out.

  “Nope. Just good enough,” she said back. “The water is hot. Once you’re done counting your bread, come on and get in the tub.”

  “Anything you say.”

  “Yeah, so you keep telling me,” she countered back to him, knowing that that wasn’t exactly 100 percent true. Wolfe let her do whatever she wanted to do, within reason, and have whatever she wanted to have, but Rydah had no illusions about who wore the pants in their relationship. That would be Wolfe. And she didn’t mind it at all.

  While she waited for Wolfe to give her a holler that he was ready, Rydah tried to figure out what she was going to put on for her dinner date with Buffy. While standing in the closet, she yelled back into the kitchen, “Maybe you should help me pick out something to wear.”

  “Maybe you should model for me? Or maybe you should blow off the dinner date and just lay up with me?”

  “You staying in?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. That would’ve definitely been different, because Wolfe ripped and ran the streets on a consistent basis, chasing money.

  “I hadn’t planned to. But plans can change. No big deal. Money don’t get old,” he said, “but people do. If you want, I could stay for a while. Your decision.”

  It seemed like a good idea: spend the night laid up with her boo. She and Wolfe didn’t live together, so sleeping in the same bed together was always a treat. Yet she didn’t want to distract him from doing what he loved to do. She was conflicted. On the one hand, something inside of her was saying that it was a good idea. On the other hand, she didn’t want to infringe on his plans. If the tables were turned, she wouldn’t want him infringing on hers.

  Wolfe walked into the bedroom holding a handful of money. “Buy yourself something nice,” he said, tossing the stack of money onto the bed.

  “I keep telling you that you don’t have to keep giving me money. You know I’m an independent bitch, right?”

  “That’s why I fucks with you,” said Wolfe. “But I also don’t want you to want for anything. Can you juggle being an independent bitch while acepting an occasional bankroll from her dude? Besides, you do so much for me.”

  “I do what I do for you because I want to. However, I don’t want you to ever think that I’m with you for your money or what you can buy me. It isn’t like that,” she said.

  Wolfe laughed at the irony of her logic. “You make sure I’m good because you fucks with me, but I’m not supposed to do the same thing. Stop playing.” Wolfe swatted her on the butt. “Fair exchange is no robbery. That’s not just a street maxim. It holds true in relationships also.”

  Rydah knew there was no need to keep going back and forth with him, because at the end of the day, he was going to do exactly what he wanted to do. She threw her hands up in mock surrender.

  “Okay,” she said, “you win, Wolfe. Buy me whatever you like whenever you like.”

  Wolfe compromised. “We’re both winners. Another reason why I’m with you.”

  “Thank you, baby.” She smiled. “Give me two seconds to make sure everything’s straight in the bathroom.”

  He walked behind her to the bathroom.

  Rydah dimmed the lights and lit the rest of the candles.

  Sitting on the top of the commode, Wolfe unstrapped his prosthetic leg and removed it.

  Ten years ago, his leg had been removed. The amputation began just above the right knee. What would have been a disability for some people only made Wolfe stronger and so much more ruthless. Losing a leg didn’t cause Wolfe to lose any confidence or cockiness. People that didn’t know Wolfe before the amputation couldn’t tell the leg was missing. He didn’t walk with a limp. And for those who had known him over the years, he was so big and so treacherous that they simply forgot or didn’t mention it.

  Every time he took the prosthetic off, it reminded him of what had happened. As crazy as that night was, Wolfe was grateful it was only his leg. Shit, he’d trade a limb for his life any day.

  Wolfe had been in Overtown to drop off some work—two keys of uncut cocaine—to a guy called Panama Jack. Way above the ubiquitous palm trees, the sun shone brightly on blighted stucco and brick houses. It had only been 30 minutes since the sun rose, but the temperature had already reached 82 degrees. This day was going to be a smoker, Wolfe thought. And he only wanted to have his workday over and be home before noon, before the sun was at its peak.

  Wolfe preferred to make transactions with weight at this hour because the police were usually worn down from chasing the youngsters around all night. By this time, they just wanted to get off work and go home to their families in one piece.

  Panama Jack stayed in a small bungalow-type house in the bad part of the city that, like most of the houses in this neighborhood, was in need of some major repairs. The steps squeaked from Wolfe’s weight as he made his way to the porch carrying an army-green knapsack on his right shoulder. No lights were on inside the house, which was odd. Wolfe tapped the door three times then stepped back and waited. The heft of the burner resting on his waist, a 12-shot .40-caliber, pulled at his jean shorts.

  Several seconds later, a light flipped on inside the bungalow and the door swung open.

  “Aye, boy. I’ve been waiting on you. How you be, friend?” He spoke English well, but it was laced with a heavy Panamanian accent.

  Wolfe had been dealing with the dude for eight months. In that time, Panama Jack was always on time with his bread, and it was never short. Just the way Wolfe liked it.

  “I be just great,” Wolfe said.

  Panama Jack stepped to the side, and Wolfe walked inside the bungalow. The moment the door closed behind him, his instinct told him shit was rotten, and his gut had never deceived him. Wolfe knew he’d been lined up to be robbed.

  Wolfe heard a floorboard squeak in the hallway and pulled out his burner just in time to fire down on the two goons bending the corner.

  Pop! Pop!

  He hit one of them flush in the chest. The other fired back.

  Boom!

  Wolfe was sandwiched between the remaining goon in the hall and Panama Jack. The living room was tiny, with not much furniture to use for cover—an old sofa, a worn table, and a frayed chair. Wolfe dove behind the sofa and then swung the gun on Panama Jack, letting off two shots. Both shots hit home, slamming through Panama Jack’s chest and jaw. He died instantly. Wolf wished the pussy motherfucker had suffered more.

  One left.

  It only took Wolfe four shots to do it, and he had eight more left in his gun. He slung two more shots down the hallway, just to let the goon know that shit was still hot, and if he wasn’t careful, he could revisit his two partners in crime in hell.

  Pop! Pop!

  The third gunman got bold—or desperate—and advanced forward.

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  The old sofa caught two of the shots. Wolfe’s leg caught the third one. It felt like someone had stuck a hot fireplace poker in his leg, but Wolfe ignored the pain for now. He had to get the fuck out of there. Only God knew what other perils were lurking.

  Two of the last thr
ee slugs Wolfe squeezed off caught the goon in the chest. Wolfe put two more in his head, just on general principle, before leaving.

  Back in the car, his leg was in excruciating pain, but he couldn’t go to the hospital. Not if he wanted to stay out of prison, anyway. The hospital had to notify the police of all gunshot-wound victims, and the police would quickly connect Wolfe with the three dead bodies he’d left behind. So, he got drunk and dug the bullet out of his thigh on his own. Unfortunately, two weeks later, the leg got infected with gangrene. He got a friend to drive him to a hospital in Alabama, where the leg was amputated.

  Three dead bodies on the head of an already convicted felon, even with a shitload of cash, meant he wouldn’t be able to dodge that 5x5 prison cell, so considering he was able to buy the best prosthetic leg that money could buy, he considered himself blessed.

  Chapter 5

  The Big Bad Wolfe

  Rydah attempted to help Wolfe slip into the tub.

  “Please, don’t do that,” he said. “I’m not helpless.” Wolfe hated being treated like he was helpless because he lost a stupid leg. He had his life.,and that was more than he could say for the cats that took his leg. A life for a limb; he’d make that trade any day.

  “Tell me something that I don’t know, Wolfe.” She helped him anyway

  “I don’t need to depend on nobody.”

  “Except for me,” she said, holding his arm as he eased into the hot tub. Once his body was submerged, she gave him a deep kiss that got his dick hard.

  That was the thing about Wolfe: he had a major complex about people helping him or seeing him as handicapped. He didn’t expect or want folks to treat him any different because he had one leg, and he definitely didn’t want to depend on anyone for anything.

  His take on folks was: he knew that people came and went into his life, especially chicks, so he made it his business to never depend on anybody. He strived every day to do everything on his own. He put himself through a rigorous physical therapy workout every single day without fail.

  There was something about Rydah that allowed him to feel comfortable accepting her help, showing his vulnerability, but he didn’t want to slip and make it a habit.