Cartier Cartel--Part 4

  Cartier Cartel

  Head Games

  Part 4 in the Cartier Cartel Series

  Nisa Santiago

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cartier Cartel - Part 4: Head Games. Copyright © 2018 by Melodrama Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address info@melodramabooks.com.

  www.melodramapublishing.com

  Library of Congress Control Number:2018957232

  eISBN: 978-16207810982

  1

  The Gansevoort Hotel in the Meatpacking District of New York City was the epitome of luxury. With mind-blowing 360-degree panoramic views of the city and the sunset over the Hudson River, it offered guests a retreat from the urban commotion that surrounded the hotel via 24-hour room service, spa treatments, spacious rooms, and a well-appointed bar.

  One of the guests taking advantage of the hotel amenities was a former inmate, recently released from prison. Henry “Head” Jackson lounged shirtless on the king size bed in his boxers, his tattoos and battle scars on full display. He held the remote control to the flat screen TV in one hand. His other hand held the hotel phone to his ear.

  Head wanted to devour a steak, swallow potatoes whole, and throw back some chilled champagne. He wanted to fully indulge himself and celebrate his freedom. Head had given the state his time, paid his debt to society as they said, and now it was time to live again.

  “Yeah, this room service?” he asked. “I want that rib eye steak cooked medium-rare with the buttered potatoes and some cabbage. You got that right? I need my food to come fast. How long is the wait?”

  While on the phone with the hotel’s kitchen, Head’s eyes switched their focus from the NBA playoffs to the beautiful young woman coming out of the bathroom wearing the hotel’s monogrammed bathrobe. She had just finished taking a shower, and Head would have preferred she come out naked.

  Her name was Pebbles, and she was an Instagram influencer. She had the face, the body, the personality, and she had over a million followers. Companies were paying her a substantial fee to post things like teas to flatten stomachs, indie clothing lines, and hair products. Pebbles had gifted the overnight stay at the Gansevoort. She was playing the big shot, trying to impress Head. She thought the infamous gangster whose past had been aired on numerous networks had millions of dollars hidden.

  Head was over her continually talking on her phone about upcoming business deals. She walked around the room name-dropping celebrities, and after Pebbles thought she had proven she was somebody important, she turned her attention toward him.

  She smiled at him. He didn’t smile back. He was on the phone trying to satiate his hunger.

  “Okay and do y’all have Ace of Spade champagne?” he continued. “Cool. Bring us up a bottle of that on ice.”

  Head ended the call. He could now focus solely on Pebbles. He had been released from prison early this morning and his woman, Pebbles, was there to pick him up. She had greeted him at the gates of the jail with hugs and kisses, and she was a sight for weary eyes.

  “Did you order something for me, baby?” Pebbles asked.

  “I didn’t know you were hungry.”

  “I am. Are you gonna share then?”

  “I got champagne coming up too,” was his response.

  She smiled and replied, “That’s nice.”

  Head quickly put the television on mute. “When you got in the shower and washed away your dirt, why didn’t you wash it all away?”

  The question stopped Pebbles in her tracks. “What do you mean?”

  “That makeup on your face. Why you still got it on? Who you trying to impress?”

  Cute, she thought. He’s jealous. “I only have eyes for you, bae.”

  “I told you ’bout that makeup, though,” he said. “I like my women natural.”

  Pebbles nodded and went back into the bathroom to wash it off. It wasn’t that she was insecure; she knew she was pretty. But her false lashes and perfectly groomed and penciled eyebrows gave her that extra layer of confidence. She didn’t want to think about it, but she was a little nervous. Tonight would be the first time she and Head fucked, and she wanted to feel her sexiest. She now looked like she was going to the gym.

  Pebbles wasn’t out of the bathroom for sixty seconds before she went to the dresser and picked up her smartphone to check her social media accounts. Her phone was always buzzing with alerts, and text messages, and updates, and replies.

  Head watched her like a hawk from the bed. He didn’t understand the thirst for all this exposure. People posting their every move—breakfast, yoga poses, videos of making smoothies, gym workouts—the whole nine yards. For some reason, strangers were interested—people watching other people live their lives from the Internet. Where is the thrill in that? he thought.

  Head was old school. In his era, niggas needed anonymity. A real nigga—a real hustler— made moves in silence and stayed ahead in the game. But this was a new generation, one that craved exposure and notoriety by any means necessary. Everyone wanted to be seen and heard. Everyone wanted to feel and look important, so social media became either their platform for acceptance or an escape from their mundane lives.

  While he was locked down, he read about the fools who’d murdered the rapper XXXTentacion and how they had gotten caught from posting their shit on social media—Instagram to be exact.

  “Stupid muthafuckas,” he had said to himself.

  Pebbles’ attention was on her smartphone. She seemed hypnotized by the activity happening on the small screen. Her fingers moved in a blur when she was texting.

  Meanwhile, Head felt like he was being ignored. “How long you gonna be on your phone?” he asked her.

  “Give me a few minutes, baby. I’m just trying to handle some business.”

  “You need to handle my business. You know I just got out, right?”

  Without missing a beat, she grinned his way and said, “I got you, boo,” and continued to text.

  Head sighed. He was hungry and he was horny, two of the worst things to be at the same time.

  His eyes went back to the TV, watching the Bulls try to make it past the first round in the playoffs. So far, it wasn’t looking good for them. They were down two games against Miami, and it looked like his team was on their way to being swept.

  His eyes shifted toward Pebbles again. She was a busybody. She was multitasking, working her phone, doing her hair, and going in and out of the bathroom.

  Pebbles was the youngest sister of Head’s former cellmate, Danny Boy. She was thirty, but she looked to be in her early twenties. She had two kids by two different fathers who lived with her mother. Head knew she was fucking with him for who he was and what he probably could do for her. Head was the enigma, and Pebbles wanted in. His reputation in the streets and in New York was legendary. Even if he wanted to start over, it would be difficult for him to live a low-key lifestyle. His life story had been aired on all the cable networks—BET, Bravo, and AMC had all featured his life of crime. They broadcasted reenactments of incidents from his life of crime, and Head remained relevant because he was cool with celebrities, top rappers, and a few R&B groups when he was in his prime.

  But his relevance also came with a cost, and that cost was the feds. The FBI suspected that he had hundreds of millions buried somewhere. They still had him unde
r covert investigation. What people didn’t understand was that these stories created by the government had helped bolster the agents’ status, and drug dealers played right into their hands. When interviewed for cable networks, individual agents would explain that Henry Jackson had made over a hundred million dollars pushing cocaine and heroin in the New York hoods and beyond, and he was one of the top suppliers of narcotics on the eastern seaboard. The FBI felt they had good reason to believe that the bulk of his money was buried or concealed somewhere.

  Let the feds tell it, Head had nearly fifty rival drug dealers murdered. Head knew it was an exaggeration. The number was half that. Dealers with egos would have co-signed the embellished tales, but not Head. The alphabet boys had been recycling the same rumor about buried money since the eighties. It was once the infamous Pablo Escobar’s real story. Escobar and his cartel had buried billions, but niggas in the hood weren’t burying money. They didn’t have the time to search for it and dig it up, and what about erosion? Head did amass several million, but he didn’t blow through hundreds of millions, as the media reported.

  Head watched the basketball game for a few minutes, but he couldn’t stay focused on it for too long. There was a knock at the door. Head predicted that it was room service finally arriving, but he marched toward the door and took a look through the peephole. Being from the streets, he knew you could never be too careful.

  “Cover up,” he told Pebbles and then opened the door to allow the room service attendant to wheel in the cart of food.

  Pebbles sat in a chair, crossed her legs, and folded her arms across her breasts. She made sure her goodies weren’t peeking out through the thick robe.

  The look in Head’s eyes affirmed that her actions weren’t good enough. “So you just gonna disregard my orders and sit there naked under that robe while a stranger enters our room? You think that’s legit?”

  The young man was taken aback. Orders, he thought. This is different. The female wasn’t doing anything different from what most guests did, which was get their room service in a bathrobe. This was a hotel. He shrugged it off and assumed he had just walked into the middle of a lovers’ quarrel.

  Pebbles looked down and in a low voice replied, “He can’t see anything, Henry.”

  Head looked at Pebbles with a cold, hard stare. He had practically been begging to get fucked for hours, and she was getting her rocks off giving peep shows to this little broke nigga.

  The young man went on to do his job. The champagne was in a bucket of ice. He removed the lid to the tray to reveal the meal Head had ordered. The aroma hit Head, and his anger dissipated. He was ready to eat and drink.

  “Is everything to your liking, sir?” the room service clerk asked.

  “Yeah, everything is on point.”

  Head tipped him twenty dollars. The young man thanked him and pivoted and left the room.

  Head sat by the bed and immediately attacked the steak with a knife and fork and his hands, tearing it apart like a predatory beast that hadn’t eaten in days. It had been years since he’d had food this good. The buttery potatoes were immediately devoured.

  Pebbles watched him with a side eye. “I guess I’m not hungry.”

  Head paused for a moment, “C’mon now, let’s not ruin our night.” He popped open the champagne and poured two glasses.

  Satisfying his hunger and thirst, he was ready for something special next. He fixed his eyes on Pebbles, who now had her lips poked out.

  “Yo, why you all in your feelings?”

  Pebbles didn’t know if she should speak up, but within a few hours Head had done a 180. Behind bars, the nigga was Romeo making her all type of promises. He was courteous, attentive, and complimentary. And her makeup wasn’t ever an issue. Now, he seemed cold and selfish.

  “I guess I’m wondering why food wasn’t ordered for me too. It ain’t like you paying for it.”

  “Pebbles, you think you doin’ something with this low budget bullshit?” His voice was low, measured, and had a hint of amusement. “You could have easily squashed this—whatever this is—and picked up the phone and ordered your own meal, maybe handled your business like a woman.”

  Head walked to the phone and picked it up. Seeing this, Pebbles went to stop him.

  “Nah, chill,” he said. “I got this.”

  Head ordered up a buffet of entrees, and the whole time Pebbles was about to go into full-blown panic mode. When he hung up, she began apologizing profusely. “You’re right, this is petty. I was childish. I’ll make it up to you, baby. Let’s not fight.”

  Head replied, “I don’t fight women,” before turning his attention back to the game.

  Pebbles got her room service, and then Head got his. He removed his boxers and lay back against the bed. Pebbles reached for a Magnum and popped it in her mouth and lowered it on his throbbing mushroom tip like a porn star. She then straddled him nice and slow as his thick, long penis stretched her pussy to its limit. He grunted as he felt every inch of her wet walls and reached up and squeezed her tits. As she slowly rode him, she smiled down at him and said, “You know this pussy is yours, baby. It’s all yours. I know you waited a long time for this.”

  Head was hungry for every sexy inch of her nakedness.

  “Ohhhh baby, fuck me!” she moaned.

  Pebbles bit her bottom lip as she pushed him farther in. His erection was solid and hard as it explored her. She rubbed his chest and stomach, as their bodies sexually entangled. Head’s body was muscular and smooth, and his dick was the best she had ever had. Their mouths parted, and they kissed enthusiastically. Pebbles continued to grind on his lap. Rhythmically they were one, as he was bringing her close to an orgasm. She wanted to come with him—to explode with passion together.

  “You’re so fuckin’ tight!” he cried out. “You ’bout to make me come!”

  Head continued to moan, thrusting upward into her until he finally exploded.

  After he nutted, Head was drained. Pebbles collapsed on top of his chest, and they both drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

  The following morning, while Head was still asleep, Pebbles removed herself from the bed and sauntered into the bathroom. She took a quick shower, applied some foundation and lip gloss, and then styled her hair. She wanted to take a selfie for the ’gram with her new boo—her handsome man—and the caption was going to say: I woke up like this. She eased herself onto the bed next to a sleeping Head, and she angled her smartphone just right so that she could capture herself and Head in the background. She grinned and was ready to take the picture when she heard him say, “Yo, what the fuck you doing?”

  His booming voice interrupted her moment. She stammered, “I just wanted to take a picture with you.”

  He angrily pushed her off the bed, and she went tumbling to the floor. He leaped up and scowled down at an embarrassed Pebbles. She looked like she wanted to cry.

  “It’s not that serious,” she said.

  “It is that serious. You trying to put me on blast or something? You know I don’t fuck wit’ that social media shit,” he hollered. “Don’t put me in your stupid fuckin’ world.”

  Pebbles was devastated by the outburst and wondered if she had crossed the line. She reasoned that Head was still institutionalized and not used to social media. But she saw the future and knew he’d eventually come around to seeing things her way. The more followers you had, the more addictive it became.

  “Don’t ever do that sneaky shit again. You know those peoples be watching!”

  She picked herself up off the floor. “Okay, Henry. I hear you, and I’m sorry. Let’s order breakfast and enjoy our morning.”

  Head nodded. “You do that. I’ll be back in a few.”

  He hurriedly got dressed in his sweat suit and his Yankees fitted and left the hotel room, slamming the door behind him. Downstairs at reception, he gave Pebbles a noon checkout, paid the
bill in full, and bounced.

  2

  Cartier sat behind the wheel of her Bugatti Chiron and checked her image in the visor mirror. She looked picture perfect for her man. Her lip gloss was popping, eyebrows threaded, and her eyelashes were long and curled. The outfit she wore showed just enough leg and cleavage to capture attention, but it still left something to the imagination. Cartier was still that classy boss bitch, and she dressed the part.

  The first thing she wanted to do was hug and deeply kiss Head. Cartier knew that once she wrapped her arms around him that she wasn’t going to let him go this time. A lot of time had passed, and a lot of foul things were said and done between them. She was in love with him, and she wanted to put all that behind them and make love to him until the sun came up.

  Sitting in her Bugatti, Cartier started to feel a bit nostalgic. She remembered the first time they had met, when he damn near ran her over in his black Porsche Cayenne with the music blaring. Cartier had come at him disrespectfully, looking for a heated confrontation with the driver, but Head’s calm and smooth demeanor quickly shut her slick mouth. Right away, she knew there would be strong chemistry between them.

  Cartier sighed and kept cool, but she was excited. Her past was in her rearview, and she wanted a new beginning with Head. Fuck running the streets. Fuck revenge. Fuck pushing dope and moving ki’s.

  Cartier Timmons was reformed and officially out of the game.

  Her eyes narrowed and keenly observed every Rikers Island bus that came to a stop. She watched men and women get off each bus, anticipating when he would finally arrive. But she didn’t see him.

  Isn’t this ironic? she asked herself. It wasn’t so long ago that Head showed up at her front door hoping to take her away from Hector and she shitted on him. She had made a mistake. Truthfully, she had made lots of mistakes, but those were growing pains. Her poor judgment was what allowed her to decipher what and who she wanted.

  As each inmate got off each bus, they gawked at the expensive vehicle and its occupant in awe. Cartier looked like a celebrity from a distance. Rihanna, Remy Ma, Cardi B., even Mary J. is what most thought, and she loved the attention. She was finally back. Those few licks with Apple and Kola in South Beach had put her back on her feet where she belonged. Cartier refused to ever fall off again. She looked at the wood grain, bucket leather seats, and premium technology and snorted at what her life was like just a few months ago. The thoughts seemed like an alternate universe now, as if she was in a deep sleep and had dreamt about her mundane life in Seattle.