All Hail the Queen by Meesha Mink Page B

the corner by the stairs.
    As she took in the small bathroom missing the door he used upstairs to divide the kitchen from the living room, she said a prayer he at least used the toilet and not a fuckingbucket or some shit.
    Even his clothes—either military or work uniforms—were stacked inside a large plastic bag sitting on the secondhand dresser and not inside the drawers. She rolled her eyes and threw her hands up in the air when he didn’t open the door to the fridge but instead bent to open a dingy cooler and pulled out a can of beer. She shook her head.
    â€œSarge, why are you still living like you’re on the street?” Naeema asked, as he leisurely scratched at his raggedy silver beard before repeating the action on his ass.
    â€œMe and mines,” he said.
    In the corner was a small tent. A fucking tent .
    â€œWhat’s that, your guest room?” she snapped.
    â€œYou and yours,” he said, pointing upward before he opened the can and took a deep sip.
    She fought the urge to fire a bullet dead through the middle of the can. Her aim was that damn good.
    As he released a satisfying sigh and a small belch, Naeema turned and crossed the basement and stomped up the stairs. “I can put you out, old man,” she said over her shoulder.
    Sarge just chuckled, knowing she didn’t mean it.
    His cell phone rang.
    She paused on the stairs.
    â€œLooking right at her,” Sarge said.
    Tank.
    â€œShe did what now?” Sarge exclaimed before he released a howl of laughter. “No shittin’?”
    Naeema continued up the stairs.
    â€œWhat we gon’ do wit’ her?”
    â€œNot a damn thing,” she called down the stairs before she smiled as she entered the kitchen and closed the door.

    Naeema heard the roar of her motorcycle as she sat inside the rear of the Sprinter. She knew it well. Just like a mother knew her baby’s cry.
    She arched her brow and lowly slid the robe she wore from her body, as she looked straight through the tinted windshield at Tank turning onto her drive. His face was lined with annoyance.
    She moved her nude body to the front just long enough to flash the headlights of the vehicle against his body. He just sat there with the motor still running and stared straight into the windshield.
    Can he see me? Can anyone see me?
    Naeema moved back deeper into the van as she glanced up and down the street.
    Shit. I don’t care.
    Tank climbed his big sexy ass off the bike and continued to stare into the Sprinter as he walked up the drive and along the side to open the passenger door and climb inside. His eyes widened a bit at her sitting there naked as all get out with one foot propped up on the back of the plush leather seat to the left of her. His view dead up the middle aisle of the seats was clear.
    And so was hers.
    Anger still creased his fine-ass face. Humph.
    She propped her other foot up onto the seat to the right of her and eased her hands down her legs to gently press her knees wider apart before she shifted them down to spread her lips and free her clit.
    Tank averted his eyes.
    She arched her back, pushing her breasts forward as she watched him through half-closed lids with a moan.
    â€œWhere’s my fucking keys, Naeema?” he asked, ignoring her and climbing over into the driver’s seat.
    She knew this man that she spent the last eight years of her life loving—maybe not consistently living with—but always loving. Just as surely as she knew he was the man to call to bury a body and get rid of a gun, she knew he would bring her motorcycle back; she knew he was not as mad as he put on; and she knew he would not deny her anything—including his dick. Especially that.
    â€œThat’s fucked up what you did, Na,” he said, rising up out of the seat just enough to pull another set of keys from his pocket.
    Naeema stiffened. “Are you mad about this van or your bitch?” she asked.
    He started the