Jessica's New Life Ch. 11

He had been angry - even after all these years he still got angry when he thought about his mammy. He'd taken his revenge - when he'd taken their girl-friends, their neighbours, their daughters. Then they'd surely felt something...

The young woman was sobbing next to him, her face a picture of despair. Looking at her, so beautiful and so distraught, you could almost imagine that she did have a soul. But the Masta Playa knew better than such foolishness - he knew what had to be done, he'd done it so many times before that it came almost as second nature even after all these years.

He put his arm round her shoulders as she sobbed. "Daddy will help the pain go away," he crooned in a low voice and reached in his pocket for the two pills.

She took them in her hand and swallowed them with a swig from his flask. They were powerful stuff - about as strong as you get. The girls eyes dulled and her head lolled back. Masta drove back to the corner where he'd seen Beretta beating his street whore.

He checked the girl - her breathing was regular. He let her slide so her head slipped slowly into his lap. With one hand he gently smoothed her hair as he looked down at her. She was remarkable, truly remarkable, on an aesthetic basis. But it would all be routine now. Take her down the road to have Beretta's brand put on her, give her some more 'medicine' and then have her working by tomorrow night. Switch her to meth after a few days to lengthen the spells of activity between hits and then it'd be plain sailing. First escorting, then the parlors. She'd make serious money those first couple of years before the drugs started to show beyond concealing. Then out on the streets until the life there broke her body or her mind beyond repair. But he'd always be there with her 'medicine' and she'd feel so good all the way down.

She looked so peaceful - like an angel.

"Gimme my money ho - you see what I did to Lola." It was Beretta waving that damned coat hanger at another of his girls, a Black girl this time.

The Masta Playa seethed with sudden rage. These young men - they had no professional pride. To beat a ho like that when you could control her so easily other ways. Like a jockey using an electric prod on his horse - it might work but it wasn't the way to treat your livestock. They lived and died and made you money - there was no cause for unnecessary brutality.

He looked down at the woman again. She was about the best that had ever passed through his hands and he felt contempt for the idea of giving an ignorant nigga like Beretta a girl like this. It would be an outrage, an insult, for the Masta Playa to be reduced to that.

Then there was Taylor - she hadn't got his permanent mark but the Playa knew from Romeo that she was hooked up with them over in the city. Ignoring that little tag in her ear would come with a price. Did he really want to start trouble with Taylor just so that Beretta could fuck up managing a prime piece of white ass?

Playa shook his head. She would have been a definitive final capture - the perfect end to a great career. But it wasn't to be...

***

A few hours later Jessica woke in her car. She immediately felt a terrible head-ache but couldn't remember much. She was in a car park in her own city. She looked at the back of her hand. Written in careful penmanship was -

'Take my song. Come back and you can get to live it all.'

She shuddered to her core. Now she remembered a little, and a little was more than enough. She knew there was one man that she never, ever, wanted to see again.

Sending a Message

The Masta Playa woke suddenly. Something wasn't right. He looked to his right and saw glass, a bottle. He sat up in his bed and checked it out. A bottle of wine on the pillow beside where his head had been. He looked at it and realised that this was a very fine vintage, also a very expensive vintage. That was all very well but what the fuck was it doing there. What did he have staff and security for?

Next to the bottle was a piece of paper -

'Accept this in appreciation for the safe return of my property. Remember how good it is to be retired. T.'

The Playa scowled - all very polite but the message from Taylor was clear enough. If he hadn't returned the goods then it would have been different. In his mind's eye he saw his fine home in flames - shadowy figures standing outside listening to his screams.

One thing in that note was true - he had come to treasure his comforts in retirement and it was probably best he stayed out of the game.

Playa thoughtfully considered the bottle and then carefully examined the cork. It looked OK but he still shook his head. He opened a window and threw the bottle out so that it smashed on the concrete parking-bay below.

The Masta Playa had survived so long by being careful - he wouldn't change that policy now.