All Hail the Queen by Meesha Mink

Author:Meesha Mink
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Touchstone

10

It was mid-August and the summer heat was blazing like twenty hells combined but Naeema kept on the short black jacket she wore as she walked inside Lucky Bail Bonds. The little storefront left a lot to be desired. The brown carpet was stained, matted, and filled the entire office with the smell of mildew. Posters of wanted criminals and adverts for legal services were tacked to the fake wood paneling that made it feel like a cave. There was only a desk with two chairs in the center of the room with a dented tan metal file cabinet in the corner and a table against the wall holding a small fridge and microwave.

Willie Parker sat in one of the chairs. He eyed her from behind the veil of smoke filtering up from one of the Swisher Sweets he smoked. Or at least she assumed he did because he had on his ever-present shades. She’d bet good money they were authentic designer brand. Just like his clothes. Willie was a label whore. Always was and always would be. She also knew he still had the cardboard box with a lid that the Swishers came in. She wouldn’t doubt his money, his keys, and probably even his piece was in it.

“Stop right there, Naeema,” he said, opening the top drawer of the metal desk to pull out something.

A motherfucking Swisher Sweets box.

Naeema smiled and shook her head. Her smile faded when he flipped it open and pulled out a gun that he sat atop the files cluttering his desk. Then he reached under the desk.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Clank.

He’d locked the door.

“I ain’t trusting you worth a fuck,” he said.

Naeema felt a jolt of apprehension but she hid it well as she motioned for approval to sit in the seat by his desk. At his nod she moved closer but before she sat she opened the jacket she wore and removed her 9mm from its holster. She sat it on the desk with the barrel pointed at him before taking the seat. “If your Rick Ross—looking ass pulled up the rug in this rank motherfucker it might smell better,” she said, crossing her legs in the torn boyfriend jeans she wore cuffed with a pair of bright fuchsia heels with silver tips and heels that matched the words FU FOREVER across her T-shirt.

He didn’t say shit as he sat forward to press his elbows into the top of the desk and continue to look at her from behind his aviator shades.

“Haven’t you seen on the news that Tank is in the hospital?” she began, reaching up to trace the details of the gun with the pointed tip of her brightly covered nail.

Willie lay his hand down on his gun.

They both tensed.

Then Naeema smiled. “Tank’s doing a little better—still unconscious—but better . . . if you give a fuck,” she said.

“I don’t,” he admitted.

Naeema fought not to grip her gun and blow a hole in his gut. Neither his gun nor his locked door could stop that.

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