Wifey Status Read online

  Wifey Status:

  Renaissance Collection

  Racquel Williams

  www.urbanbooks.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgment

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Urban Books, LLC

  300 Farmingdale Road, NY-Route 109

  Farmingdale, NY 11735

  Wifey Status: Renaissance Collection

  Copyright © 2017 Racquel Williams

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-6228-6616-8

  ISBN-10: 1-62286-616-9

  eISBN-13: 978-1-6228-6617-5

  eISBN-10: 1-62286-617-7

  This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.

  Distributed by Kensington Publishing Corp.

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  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to my three sons: Malik, Jehmel, and Zahir. You guys are the sole reason why I get up every day and push forward for greater things. I know we had a rough patch, but it only strengthened our bond. Thanks for loving me unconditionally. I love you guys eternally.

  Acknowledgment

  First and foremost, I want to give all praise to Allah for seeing me through all trials and tribulations and for his continuous blessings.

  To my mom Rosa, words cannot explain the gratitude that I feel for you. Thank you for being there unconditionally for me and the boys.

  To Leon Mcken, thank you for being there when I needed you the most. I’m forever grateful.

  To my husband Carlo Brownlee, three years ago Allah brought us together for reasons beyond our understanding. I’m blessed to have you as my partner as I journey through this life. I love you.

  To my bestie Sophia Newsome, it’s been twenty-six years of solid friendship. Thanks for having my back through thick and thin, good or bad. I love you, girl.

  To my brothers and sister: Shaun, Marvin, Martin, Rohan, Chris, and Tiana, I love you, guys—just wished we lived closer to each other.

  To my father Martin Williams, thank you for making the effort to play a role in my life. You proved it’s never too late to make a wrong right. Let’s keep moving forward.

  To the Trice family: Ma, Keisha, Bo, Shaun, and June, thanks for accepting me into your family. Love you, guys.

  To my grandma Rosalee, thank you for making it possible for me and my family to have a better life. We owe you big time. I love you.

  To my BOP family, guys, y’all have walked the walk with me. We cried together, laughed together, now let’s celebrate together. I made it.

  To Latoya Foote, girl, thank you for all those hot meals that you cooked me after a long day of writing. I’ve found a friend for life.

  To Christopher Lee, thank you for being there at the lowest point in my life when I needed a friend. I will always have your back for life. Stay down; your day’s coming to get your shine on.

  To the ladies at Danbury FCI and all my homies in the feds, I learned that the race is not for the swift, but for those who can endure it. Stay down, stay focused. Allah has the final verdict.

  To all my family and friends in Jamaica, Canada, and the UK—too many to name but you know who you are—I love you, guys. Thank you for your love and support. Now get out there and support your girl!

  To Annemarie, Dana, Angie, Vanessa, Shuan, Tamirra, Shunetta, Christina, Dora, Darece, and all the ladies that I met along my journey through the feds, thank you for touching my life some way or another. I love you, guys.

  To Treasure Blue, my mentor and big bro, thank you for being there when I needed advice on turning my dream into reality. I am forever grateful.

  I want to say thank you to Hood Chronicles, Chrishawn Simpson, and the W.H.A.T! family for all their love and support.

  I want to shout out all the authors that supported me on this journey. Y’all too much to name, but I am grateful.

  Special shout-out to all my readers and supporters, I will forever be grateful.

  To everyone that I failed to mention, charge it to my head and not my heart.

  Chapter One

  Sierra Rogers

  “A closed mouth doesn’t get fed.” That’s the motto which I lived by daily. A chick like me was hungry for the glamour life that regular bitches only dreamed of. I knew I was from a different caliber the second I, Sierra Rogers, entered this wicked world.

  I was born and raised in Creighton Court Projects in Richmond, Virginia. My hood was known as one of the grimiest hoods on the city’s East End. The niggas that repped Creighton were known for wreaking havoc all over the city of Richmond.

  There were three types of folks that were eating well in my hood: the hustlers slinging them rocks, the stickup kids that were robbing the drug dealers, and the whores that were selling their pussy.

  Life was hard from the get-go; I had to fend for myself at a young age. I got hip to the fact that Momma was a certified crackhead from the terrible things the kids would say to me on the playground and also hearing the dope boys cussing her out for their money.

  I was a little over seventeen years old when Momma decided she’d had enough of being a sorry-ass parent. I remembered coming home from school and seeing two garbage bags packed with all the clothing she owned. I didn’t bother to ask no question; this had become a regular stunt. She’d disappear for a few days, and then pop right back up without explanation. I winched as she planted a kiss on my forehead.

  Somehow, tears welled up in my eyes, and I opened my mouth to say, “Momma, don’t go,” but the sounds never came out. Who was I fooling but my damn self? I couldn’t wait for that no-good bitch to get on about her business. Then I could finally get some peace and quiet in my tumultuous life.

  As I think back on how much I hated that bitch, it made my stomach turn. Lately, she was getting on my damn nerves with all that pacing back and forth that she did when she was geeking off that crack. And I was definitely sick of all the different tricks she’d brought home every night. I’d put my head underneath the pillow, trying my best to block out the disturbing sounds. The thin wall that separated our bedrooms wasn’t enough to shield my tender ears from being exposed to hearing all the fucking and sucking that was taking place in the next room. That goes to show the little respect that Jeanette Rogers had for her teenage daughter.

  * * *

  This time was different though, ’cause it’s been five years and four months, and Momma was still MIA. I couldn’t help but wonder what the fuck happened to her. Then again, the bitch didn’t give a flying fuck about her only seed, so fuck her!

  I became a sole survivor; didn’t have the guidance and structure that a young female growing up in the project neede
d. I made a mental note that I was going to get mines at any means necessary. I was blessed with a banging body. Five foot five, 143 pounds, proportioned out in all the right angles, skin as smooth as a newborn baby’s ass, and a cute face. People say I resemble Nia Long, the actress. I believe my most valuable asset is my apple bottom ass. It’s like a Bam! in your face kind of booty. Hmm . . . I hate to sound conceited, but I’ll be the first one to tell you, I’m every nigga’s dream and every bitch’s nightmare.

  I wasn’t attracted to the younger heads. I’ve been around them long enough to know their MO. All they wanted was to hit and run and tell their boys. I skipped over the flunkies and headed straight to the top niggas in charge; they had nice rides and long pockets. With my sexy body and my sharp mouthpiece, I had no trouble reeling them into my life. This popping pussy got me not one, not two, but three high-paid sugar daddies taking care of me financially.

  See, the thing with an older hustler, if you are a chick with a tight pussy and you are fucking and sucking him the right way, he has no limit on how much money he spends on you. That’s just a way of securing the pussy so you won’t fuck the next baller that’s trying to get in.

  * * *

  As I got older, I knew that even with a nice body like mines, I would need something to back it up. See, pussy was like an elastic band; after a little wear and tear, it loses its grip. Plus, I didn’t want to become a statistic—young, black female knocked up having four or five different baby daddies. Hell, nah! I was striving for the top spot—wifey—it was that simple.

  I enrolled in Johnson’s Beauty School on Second Street, and eighteen months later, I got my beautician’s license. It didn’t take long to secure me a chair at one of Richmond’s most elite spots, International House of Beauty. It was a full-line salon. I knew the owner, Charley. He was also from Creighton, so he happily took me under his wing.

  I took my skills to the shop and started killing it, from finger waves to Chinese buns and quick weaves. I even had something for the guys too. Living in the projects had its upside because bitches stayed broke all week, but always managed to trick the money up to get their wig fixed on the weekend, just in time for the club.

  Alijah Jackson

  I was born a hustler. Since the age of two, I was hustlin’ Mom-dukes for five dollars to takin’ bottles to the shop for the refund money. I even hustled the old heads for ice-cream money.

  I knew that I had unique skills growing up, ’cause when boys my age were out playing soccer or baseball, I’d be pushing a handcart filled with mangoes to the nearby market. I’d get my grind on. It didn’t matter that I was missing out on hanging with my homies, ’cause after a long day at the market, I headed home with a pocket filled with money. I’d hit Mom-dukes off, then placed the rest underneath my mattress.

  * * *

  I was born and raised in Tivoli Gardens in Kingston, Jamaica. Most refer to this area as “Tha Garden.” Don’t be fooled. This name didn’t come about because all the flowers that were planted there; it’s more like all the bodies that were droppin’ due to the brutal murders that were taking place.

  Crime became part of our everyday living. Murders and robberies became regular news in the community. A lot of people lost hope a long time ago; some turned into bums, while others turned to drugs and alcohol. The younger heads turned to selling drugs or slinging guns.

  * * *

  My mom happened to be one of the lucky ones that didn’t become a victim of her environment. See, Mom-dukes ain’t no slouch. She wanted more outta life for us, so with the help of family, we moved to the land of freedom—the Great USA. We moved to Mount Vernon, New York. Life was a lot different from back home. My mom got her a job which allowed us to keep a roof over our head and save a little for a rainy day.

  However, crime was the same. The corners were crowded with the thugs tryin’a get their hustle on, and I became fascinated with the niggas that were slinging dope and driving flashy rides and getting all the bitches. I knew that’d be me one day. I dropped out of school and started working on my illegal mentality. I saved my allowance up, and at sixteen, I copped my first eight ball of crack for a buck twenty-five. I got cool with Darryl, an older cat that lived in my building. He was already a vet in the game, so he schooled me on how to cut and bag up dimes of crack. It didn’t take long for me to get the hang of things. I went from copping eight balls to ozes in no time.

  I was shocked at how much paper we were making in that small-ass town. We became partners and had Third Street and Fourth Avenue on lock. We found us a connect in Harlem that supplied us with that butter crack that had fiends running back for more. We became hood superstars overnight. Biggie ain’t never lied when he said, “Mo’ money, mo’ problems.”

  Niggas started hating on us. We got into beefs about who controlled what turfs. I wasn’t trying to hear that shit, and knowing I wasn’t no stranger to gunplay, I laid a few of them niggas down. Other problems came about. Niggas started to snitch, and since I wasn’t no fool, I knew jakes (police) would be in pursuit real soon.

  * * *

  I was knee deep in the game and wasn’t ready to stop just yet. I made the move from New York to Richmond, Virginia. It turned out to be a blessing, or more so a curse. Cats kept coming up top bragging ’bout how much paper they were making down South. I brought it to my boy’s attention, and when the opportunity presented itself, we jumped on it.

  I put a couple of niggas down with us, including two cats I knew from the Bronx, Chuck and Dre. They’re cousins from Edenwald Project. Before I put them on my team, they were creating havoc all over the streets of the Bronx. They’d robbed and killed just to get their points across. Then there was Markus; he’s the quietest outta the crew. He isn’t no killer; he’s more of a Wall Street-type cat. He kept my paper straight, and he was loyal to the cause.

  My intention was to make this my town. I kept my eyes and ears opened to the street. That’s how a star player like me rolled. The South turned out to be everything that was said, and more. I kept Julio as my connect and was killing the streets with that no-bake crack.

  A lot of cats tried to holla at me, but if I wasn’t feeling them or knew of them, I wouldn’t give them no play. Bitches also tried to get in the mix, but I was fully aware of dudes getting set up by a sexy bitch. I would converse and trick a little, but once they started to ask all the damn questions, I’d turned ghost on their ass.

  Chapter Two

  Sierra Rogers

  I strongly believed in destiny. When I met Alijah Jackson in 2006, it came as no surprise; our paths were already in the making. I met him one night at my job. I’d just finished on my last head of weave, tired as hell. As I looked in the mirror, I thought to myself I couldn’t wait to get home and soak in some bubble bath . . . but before I could finish my thoughts, I heard someone push the door open.

  I turned around to face a tall, sexy, chocolate brotha standing in front of me. I began to ask, “How’d you get in here?” but I was stuck on his appearance. Furthermore, it was my fault; I left the door unlocked.

  “Hello, may I help you?” I spoke, looking this stranger dead into his seductive, bedroom eyes.

  “Look, ma, I’m tryin’a get my hair braided.”

  “I’m sorry, hon, we’re closed. Would you like to make an appointment fo’ tomorrow?”

  He stepped closer to my face. I felt like he was invading my space, so I took a step back.

  “No disrespect, ma; I’m tryin’a get it done now!”

  I wondered who the fuck that nigga thought he was. He got me fucked up.

  “I said we’re closed, so could you get yo’ ass on out, so I could close up and head the fuck on home,” I spat. I turned to walk to the door hoping he’d be in pursuit, but I be damned. This ignorant-ass nigga took a seat.

  Yo! Truth be told, there was something about his in-control attitude that I was turned on by. After minutes of arguing back and forth, I finally gave in to his demand. I didn’t bother to inquire what s
tyle he wanted, which I knew was unprofessional, but I didn’t give a fuck at the time.

  “Yo, I’m charging you fifty for the hair and fifty fo’ my aggravation.” I stretched my arm out, the whole time mean mugging him, but he didn’t flinch.

  “Bet!” he said without hesitation. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a stack of cash. After counting out four crisp fifty-dollar bills, he handed them to me. It was more than I asked for, but I wasn’t complaining.

  After several moments of complete silence, he spoke up and asked me my government. I didn’t want to come off ignorant, so I told him my name. He told me his name was Alijah. I didn’t want him to think I was pressed for his conversation, so I left it at that.

  It took me ’bout thirty minutes to finish braiding his thick, long hair. I couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like to run my fingers through his hair while he did me on the sofa. That’s when the little voice in my head said, “Bitch, stop trippin’.”

  I handed him a mirror, and that was that! He seemed satisfied as he thanked me and walked out. There was something about this dude that caught my attention. I noticed his swag, and he walked with cockiness. I walked over to the door and locked it this time. I pretended like I wasn’t watching him, but I saw when he jumped into a truck with chrome rims on it. My curiosity got the best of me. I couldn’t wait to find out who the fuck he was.

  As I got in my car, I thought, Boy, I’m beat. I cut the radio on to Power 92 FM, Richmond’s hottest radio station. They were playing some old-school reggae. My thoughts switched real fast to ole boy. I was feeling him. I peeped the way he was dressed. He had on a Coogie outfit and was iced out in a matching chain and bracelet. I know I was being nosy, but I could smell money from a mile away. I also sensed that he wasn’t from around here either. His accent sent chills up my spine when he spoke. It was sexy as hell. Shit, I might be his future baby mama. Lmao.