Dirty Dealing(Book 1 Baptiste Family Trilogy)

By: Jade King



Yes, she could have killed me and went back to a lavish lifestyle in the city, but she chose to hold onto a man who would eventually be the demise of them both. It's really funny how a woman can lose her life in a man. If it’s one thing I learned it’s after that nut, a mother fucker will forget how badly they had to have you and turn their back on you like you ain't good enough to even be on the bottom of their shoe. See my mother was weak and vulnerable back then and my father had made her that way, but I respected her because she kept me, he threw me away.

My father thought that he was a big shot. All of his black power and fuck the white man speeches but he had put is dick in the wrong place and got him a baby that he was ashamed of. They say a girl’s father is supposed to be her first love. Well I never had that privilege, my father was my first enemy. You could say that was where my male trouble began. I always saw them as competition, not equals, always lesser.

My mother’s drug habit was taking her down and all the drug dealers and pimps knew my mother as White Julean. She was the only prostitute on the streets that had curly black hair and grey eyes. She was beautiful, but never knew how much power there was in a pretty face and good pussy.

Pussy is a weapon if you learn how to use it. My mother learned but not well enough to be a threat to anyone other than herself. For as long as I could remember, my mother was always a free spirit; it wasn’t until after my father was killed that she began to really lose herself.

I grew up without any friends and no family. I lived in abandoned houses, not in a loving home with a family and a fireplace. I didn't know what a family was. As I said, my father was a homewrecker by day and a robber and militant by night. He could never keep a steady job, so he turned to the streets for money just to keep some ends in his pockets. He would steal car stereos and even cars if he could get his hands on a good one. I guess he decided to steal the wrong one’s shit.

My mother finally begged her way back into his arms when I was about 2 years old. It was like he just couldn’t get enough of the white devil. My mother was now trying to be a good little housewife, even though she knew that my father would never marry her. She was cooking dinner, and cleaning up. She was high, and had put me down on the kitchen floor. It was about twelve noon, and my father came busting in. his eyes were wide and frightened and he was drenched in sweat. My mother approached him to ask what was wrong, but he just guarded the door and peeped out the peep hole.

“Jamaal, what’s wrong?” my mother asked.

“Get the baby and go into the room, lock the door and don’t make a sound?”

My mother had always trusted what he told her, so she scooped me up and ran into the room. Seconds later, there was a banging on the door and my father spoke through the crack in the door.

“I told you not to bring this shit to my house Paulo.” My father’s voice was faint.

“You steal from me, you black piece of shit.”

Those were the last words I heard before gunshots rang out inside our tiny loft apartment. My father had instructed my mother not to come out, but as everything got quiet my mother snuck out into the living room, where she fainted next to my father's body. It was propped against the door, his eyes wide, blood coming from his mouth. His body bursting with holes that dripped blood, his insides oozing out.

I don't have that many memories of my father, but I do remember that day he was murdered. He had taken it upon himself to still from the Italians, and they had taken his life. My father could always keep my mother in line, after all, he was her first pimp. Once my father was out of the picture my mother started to hang with drug dealers and hustlers because she knew that they had coins.

She developed a sick fetish for black men with power, and would do anything for the men she fucked, even trade her eight-year-old daughter to them for a little bit of pleasure. My mother never had any more children. I was the only one cursed to be under her sick, twisted supervision for the years that I was. Right after my father was murdered, my mother met a man named Big Lo. He was a pimp and a drug dealer. My mother would soon become one of his hoes. She worked for Big Lo until I was seven and then he threw her ass out on the streets because he had gotten her addicted to ice. With an ice addiction and a child who had no clothes or food, my mother went to find another pimp and another pipe.

I vaguely remember the first day I saw my mother turning a trick. That’s just something that I didn’t want to remember, because for an eight-year-old who already had no innocence it implanted a permanent image of what it took to get a man to love me. I was eight, and my mother had brought me along because there was no place to stash me, and the old Puerto Rican lady who used to babysit was sick of not getting paid to watch me.

My mother couldn’t leave me alone, because child welfare had already been called once because I missed so many days of school. She hid me in a closet and told me not to make a sound and I did just that.

"Stay in here and don't open your fucking mouth." My mother threatened.

I sat there and waited and listened for the time that she would come and get me. She never came, and after I had grown tired of waiting I cracked the door to the closet and peered out into the room. I remember seeing my mother on top of some man, while another one stroked her long bleached-blonde hair and shoved his shaft into her mouth. I heard the man began to groan, and then spread his thick liquid into my mother’s hair. I eased back into the closet, and sat down in the corner. I was scared; being a child I thought that they were harming my mother. I didn't know that in some sick way she enjoyed the pain like it was pleasure.

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