Gangsta Divas by De'nesha Diamond Page A

his time strolling toward the door.
    I nearly gnaw my tongue off waiting for my brother to complete his long walk out of the room.When the door closes behind him, my gaze shifts to Profit. It’s been a minute since I’ve seen him. The last time, he was laid up in the hospital after surviving sixteen rounds. He and Mason had that Superman shit down pat.
    â€œYou look like hell,” Profit croaks, looking me over.
    â€œYou’re one to talk,” I tell him, since it looks like he’s lost thirty pounds on what was already a lean six-three frame. It’s easy to see why he’s turned all the Flowers’ heads. He’s a pretty boy, complete with a butterscotch complexion, silky-wavy hair, and dimples.
    He looks nothing like Mason.
    Most know that the two weren’t really brothers, since the junkie who’d raised them was as white as the fresh driven snow and Mason was one shade lighter than crude oil. But the two were raised together and that made them brothers—and the love between them was stronger than blood.
    During my own investigation, I’d learned Mason’s real mother was an even worse junkie who’d put Mason in an oven when he was a baby. Her dealer, Cousin Smokestack, found him there and took him away from her while she was wasted on the couch. He and his girlfriend, Dribbles, laid claim and raised him as their own. But I have strong reason to believe that Mason’s real father is Smokestack’s brother, Cousin Skeet, who is none other than the Captain of the Memphis Police Department. That big secret complicates shit because it means that prior to falling into my bed, Mason had been fucking his own sister. I hope I’m wrong about that shit.
    â€œI want Python dead,” Profit says.
    I nod. “He’s a dead man walking and don’t even know it. Trust and believe.”
    â€œY’all keep talking that fat shit and nothing ever fuckin’ happens,” Profit snaps back.
    â€œLook, Profit—”
    â€œNah.You look. Y’all been gunning for this nigga for years and every fuckin’ time, he slithers away. We look like a joke to that pussy muthafucka! Hell. Him and his bitch has come at me TWICE and they’re still walking the streets. Now they done stole my brother’s body and you want to spit more promises,” he roars. “I ain’t tryna hear that shit. I want him—NOW. Don’t tell me what the fuck you’re gonna do, do the shit.”
    The more he barks, the more heated I get. “Check your tone,” I warn.
    â€œHow about you go fuck yourself?” he charges back, and then wheels his chair around with his long arms.
    â€œProfit . . .”
    He ignores me and snatches open the door.
    â€œProfit, we need to finish talking.”
    â€œI’m finished talking,” he growls. “Since y’all muthafuckas can’t do shit, I’ll handle this nigga myself.” He rolls out of the door.
    â€œThat went well,” I mumble under my breath.
    Tyrese knocks on the open door and rushes in before I answer. “Yo, man.You need to check this shit out.” He rushes to the television set in the corner and turns it on to the news.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” Bishop asks, returning to the room.
    Seeking to calm the citizens of Memphis rattled by a wave of crime last night, Mayor Wharton and his new police chief, Yvette Brown, ramped up the tough talk saying that they are going to flood the streets with police during a full-court press to combat crime.
    The city’s leaders gathered at City Hall in the wake of a violent and chaotic twenty-four-hour period in which an unprecedented fifty-two people were killed by gunfire.
    â€œWe want to make it clear that we are taking to the streets. We are going after these criminals with an intensity that has not been seen in some time. This violence will not be tolerated.”
    The footage on the screen switches to a nighttime