Hustlin' Divas by De'nesha Diamond

just rolls his eyes.
    That’s when it hits me. The odd smell I’m picking up is the scent of burning flesh. One hand comes off my weapon as I press a finger against my nose in a weak effort to block the stench. “What happened here?” I bark at the kid.
    His face immediately twists in disgust. “What? I ain’t no snitch, bitch.”
    A few of his friends, all young with old faces, snicker in support. “Yeah, bitch. We ain’t snitches!”
    â€œWhat the fuck did I tell you?” O’Malley leaps forward, acting like he’s ready to knock one of the boys off their bikes.
    â€œEasy, O’Malley.” I roll my eyes. This Rambo wannabe muthafucka is going to get our asses blazed up on this damn street. I know every one of these niggas is packing more heat than the U.S. Army out here. I glance around the street. Just then, two backup patrol cars blaze onto the scene.
    Our backup exits their cars, weapons drawn.
    The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention as my eyes shift to one of the houses that has a yard full of people with music blaring. At the fence, an army of brothers stand with their arms crossed and their gazes daring me to walk my ass over to them. The whole scene makes me nervous, but they have it twisted if they think that Detective Melanie Johnson is some weak-ass bitch who can’t do her fucking job. I’ve earned my badge, and I’m not afraid of no muthafucka.
    To prove my point, I holster my shit and stroll over to the fence with my chin up. About a hundred sets of eyes follow me to the fence. “Anybody want to tell me what the hell happened here?”
    No one moves. Not even so much as an eye twitches.
    â€œSomebody saw something,” I press.
    Silence.
    â€œMaybe we should call in a few wagons and haul everyone down to the station and ask our questions there?” My gaze shifts to each face on the front line. “You all look like fine, upstanding citizens. I’m sure none of you have any outstanding warrants or anything like that.”
    Finally, a few gazes shift around.
    â€œAin’t nobody seen nothing,” a deep, gravelly voice says from behind the front line.
    People shift and then part like the Red Sea.
    Python steps up with a stony expression. “You’re wasting your time here.”
    I draw a deep breath and cock my head. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” A long glaring contest ensues. The only reason I’m the first to break the eye contest is because the dueling blares from the approaching fire truck and ambulance catch my attention.
    â€œAnything?” O’Malley asks, walking up beside me.
    â€œOf course not,” I answer. “As usual, everyone hears no evil and sees no evil.”
    A corner of Python’s lips curl as his eyes rape my curvy frame. “Don’t forget ‘speak no evil.’”
    I stop my lips from kicking upward. “Smart-ass.” I turn away from him and mumble under my breath, “I’m sick of this gang bullshit. Go ahead and destroy this city. Why the fuck should I care?”

7
Ta’Shara
    T he Douglases are cool people. After a lifetime of bouncing around from one shitty foster home to another, the man upstairs finally did the Murphy sisters a solid and brought Reggie and Tracee Douglas into our lives. The middle-class couple lives in a two-level, beige and gray stone craftsman bungalow on the edge of picturesque midtown. The lawn is green, the house is clean, and the neighbors are freakishly friendly.
    The first biggest thrill when I first moved in was that I had my own room—mainly because LeShelle had been still walled up in a girls’ home. Those first two years were like a dream as the childless couple rained money on everything from clothes to the latest computer gadgets. In the beginning, I resisted letting the Douglases buy my love. I kept waiting to peek out their hustle. I wasn’t stupid.