Biker Chick Read online

  Biker Chick

  Dakota Knight

  www.urbanbooks.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Part One - The Seed

  Chapter One - Once Upon a Time . . .

  Chapter Two - I thought my dreams came true . . .

  Chapter Three - And a love was born . . .

  Chapter Four - A love that would not be denied . . .

  Part Two - Growth

  Chapter Five - Life was the wish I wanted . . .

  Chapter Six - But I knew every wish couldn’t be granted . . .

  Chapter Seven - I knew that the clouds in my life could bring rain . . .

  Chapter Eight - But I realized that the sun would shine again . . .

  Chapter Nine - And the light would brighten my spirits along the way . . .

  Chapter Ten - I felt a love that I thought could conquer all . . .

  Part Three - Chrysalis

  Chapter Eleven - And still I waited for that happily ever after . . .

  Chapter Twelve - I waited for something solid and sure . . .

  Chapter Thirteen - But clouds could only hold me for so long . . .

  Chapter Fourteen - And my descent would be far from gentle . . .

  Chapter Fifteen - But I stayed despite the pain . . .

  Chapter Sixteen - Before too long I began to recognize my mistake . . .

  Chapter Seventeen - And I hoped for my sake that I didn’t realize it too late . . .

  Part Four Metamorphosis

  Chapter Eighteen - For with each winter comes a spring . . .

  Chapter Nineteen - But with promises of renewal comes rain . . .

  Chapter Twenty - Rain showers pour that can flood the mind . . .

  Chapter Twenty-one - And carry your thoughts away . . .

  Chapter Twenty-two - So I knew to hold on until the wetness dried . . .

  Chapter Twenty-three - And I could touch the ground again . . .

  Chapter Twenty-four - Because nothing feels better than something solid and sure . . .

  Chapter Twenty-five - I need a base that allows me to grow . . .

  Part Five

  Chapter Twenty-six - Show me the way and I will flourish . . .

  Chapter Twenty-seven - And don’t underestimate my potential to succeed . . .

  Chapter Twenty-eight - Because love comes to all in many forms . . .

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - As does its enemy hate . . .

  Chapter Thirty - When I decided to face my troubles . . .

  Part Six - Flight

  Chapter Thirty-one - To gather my strength from the depths of my soul . . .

  Chapter Thirty-Two - The darkness gave way to the light . . .

  Chapter Thirty-three - And I knew there was a chance for happily ever after . . .

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  I learned a valuable lesson when I turned eighteen. Something that would define who I am and who I’m meant to be for the rest of my life. See, I figured out that I feel best when I ride something big and hard between my thighs. My girls used to think I was crazy, so I told them to try it out just so they’d understand. Because there are times when I feel the vibrations running through my body, and it makes my panties wet. I’m like a crack addict, hooked and beyond redemption.

  I’m a biker chick. Not one of those honeys who hang on the back of motorcycles with their arms wrapped around some random man. Not me. I like to take the bull by the horns, ride it freestyle. When I drape my legs over the broad body of my favorite steel, a black and silver Ninja 900R, I feel like I can rule the world. How can I explain it? That’s the feeling I get when the wind flows all around me, being in control of something dangerous and beautiful. There’s nothing on this earth like having your own steels, your own crew, and living like you want to live. Believe me though, it doesn’t come easy.

  Getting to the place I am now wasn’t a piece of cake. I had my share of trials and tribulations. People see me and wonder how a ghetto girl from the hood could come up as strong as me. I figure if the story has to be told, I’ll tell it my way and on my terms. They say the best way to start a story is with an introduction, so here’s mine: I’m Crystal Sells, known on the streets as Silver Fox, and I’m the baddest bitch on two wheels. Take a seat and enjoy the ride.

  Part One

  The Seed

  Trust No One Even Yourself Mirrors Have Been Known To Lie

  —Highlights from The Hustler’s Handbook

  Your money or your life? The question is not as easy to answer as you think. But don’t come strong unless you can respond.

  —Highlights from The Hustler’s Handbook

  Chapter One

  Once Upon a Time . . .

  Like most things that end in trouble, it all started with a party. Well, three parties, to be exact. The first one wasn’t your typical shindig, with streamers and balloons, cake and ice cream. It was in a living room full of women of all shapes, sizes, and colors. I knew most of them. And I knew they all wanted the same thing. There was Carmen Hampton, a heavyset, dark-skinned woman with micro-braids who lived across the street. She always needed her fix.

  “I want ’em all,” Carmen would say in her loud, husky voice.

  “You got the cash, I got the pass,” I would tell her.

  Then there were the twins, Rachelle and Raquel. They were as yellow as the sun with long, straight hair. I’m sure they had to deal with their fair share of jealous ladies over the years. Interesting thing is, they still dressed alike even though they had to be at least forty years old. They were still single too. Go figure. They would peruse my goods silently, mumbling in their little twin language. But they wouldn’t make a purchase unless I had the same thing for both of them. And I always made it a point to satisfy.

  There was Sheila, a sister who was always trying to get a discount, like I ran a dollar store or something. I had to tell her that I don’t even “count” change. She knew she had to come to me with the exact amount, or should I say, the total amount, or leave. I never played games with money. But that didn’t stop her from trying.

  “You can’t hook a sista up?” Sheila would ask me.

  “Are you a worm?” I would reply.

  Too much beer didn’t enhance comprehension. “Whatchu say?” Her face wrinkled and her voice slurred.

  “I don’t fish, Sheila. If you want the goods, you have to pay. No sales. No returns. Got that?”

  She would frown and pull out her wrinkled bills, which always smelled like the Newports she smoked constantly. Not that stinky greens ever stopped me from getting paid.

  “You wrong for that girl. You too young to stiff folks. You supposed to be helping your people.”

  I would take her money and put it in my pocket for safekeeping. “I’m helping you right now by giving you what you want. I can only help one person at a time. So, thanks for your business,” I would say as I passed on the goods. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “Whatever.”

  I would smile, confident she would return to my mother’s living room the next time I had a party, just like the other thirty or so girls and women who made it a point to visit me on my party days. I knew it was hard to resist my wares.

  See, I’m a Hustlette. A female hustler. Born to make cash fast. Even then, four and a half years ago during that first party a week before my eighteenth birthday, I knew I would always be in business for myself. Or so I thought at the time.

  I wasn’t a “by any means necessary” type. I loved money, but I had my limits, meaning I didn’t get into the drug game. I can’t lie, it was tempting. Most of the dudes in Greenland Meadows, the apartment complex near my neighborho
od, were already selling weed and crack or they were runners. I didn’t know many girl dealers, and I wasn’t trying to change the game. In fact, I didn’t have to. My parents told me that everyone has a vice, some void they try to fill with material things. For some, it’s food. For others, it’s drugs. But the majority of people need entertainment. They need the fantasy. Anything to take them away from their miserable lives, even if it’s for a moment.

  So, even though I wasn’t into drugs, I’d sell a bootleg DVD, CD, or purse in a minute. My cousin Cutter got me into the game, hooking me up with his Arab supplier. I started having purse parties in my house. I would sell knock-off Louis, Prada, Burberry, Dooney, and Coach to teen girls and women alike. My momma was so proud, she only took fifteen percent of my profits. I might have gotten her down a bit more, but she did provide the refreshments, so I couldn’t complain too much.

  “Crys, we’re out of beer. Go up to Cam’s and get some,” Mom told me the day of my party.

  “I need to watch my stuff,” I said, eyeing the females in front of me as they examined my selection of purses on the tables set up in the living room. It didn’t matter that I was in my own place. I knew for a fact that any one of those bitches would steal my stuff from right under my nose . . . given the chance.

  “Gal, I got you,” she said, holding out her hands, “Just give me the number and hurry up. It won’t even take you fifteen minutes.”

  I scowled. I didn’t want to go when I needed to handle my business. But Mom didn’t play around. She wasn’t the kind of woman you said no to, unless you were prepared to deal with the consequences.

  “Here,” I sighed, handing her my money, “We have sold five already.”

  Mom fingered the money, shuffling the cash like a deck of cards. Her eyes danced as she counted the proceeds, and I knew she was working out her cut. She pulled a twenty from her hand.

  “Take this,” she said, “Get me a case of Bud and some Newports.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Just get your motor going. We got purses to sell.”

  Over the crowd, I noticed my two best friends, Dymond and Lala, standing in one of the corners of the room near Mom’s crystal collection. They were my backup, making sure the customers didn’t get too touchy-feely with the purses. I motioned for them to come toward me. They complied. Not to worry though; once they left their position, two of Mom’s friends took their place. I wouldn’t have to worry about a thing.

  “What you need?” Dymond asked.

  “Beer run,” I said, holding up the cash, “Let’s go.”

  They both nodded. We slipped out of the front door and headed to Cam’s.

  I lived in a neighborhood called Maryland Heights, a working class area on the east side of Columbus. I wasn’t rich or anything but we did okay. Dymond and Lala lived in the Meadows, which were located about four blocks away. I had lived there myself until three years before, when we moved to the Heights. It’s funny how two places so close together could look so different.

  The Heights was dominated by small one-story houses and neat lawns. The Meadows, on the other hand, wasn’t a housing project, but it might as well have been. Most of the people I knew were on Section 8 and lived on food stamps. Government assistance was a way of life. It was tough, but living in the Meadows was better than being on the street. There were worse places in Columbus to lay your head at night.

  Dymond and Lala were my down chicks. I had known them since our elementary days and we stuck together like Elmer’s. In school, we were known as the “Trio” because we were always together. We even dressed alike sometimes, matching shirts, skirts or jeans, and shoes. However, our personalities were totally different.

  Dymond was the outgoing one. She could talk to anyone about anything. She was a varsity cheerleader and it didn’t hurt that she had a nice smooth, mocha face and a pretty smile. Girl ain’t never had a pimple or anything. She was by far the most popular girl at our high school. The great thing about her was even though she had it going on, she was humble—well, for the most part.

  Lala, on the other hand, was the quiet one. She was the only girl I knew who had actually lived out on the streets, and by that I mean, been homeless. During the year of troubles, when shit was bad for the Trio, Lala’s mom got strung out on crack and lost her apartment in the Meadows. They left in the middle of the night like thieves. Lala later returned a couple of months later to stay with her aunt, and we could all tell she had changed. Her eyes were hollow and she was withdrawn. I later found out she saw things no child should ever see. In order to support her crack habit, Lala’s mom used the old beat up Ford Explorer they were living in to turn tricks. She would tell Lala to go play, but she always knew what was going on in the SUV. Her mom finally landed in jail and at least Lala got out of that situation.

  We called Lala “EW” sometimes because she looked like Every Woman. No one could tell if she was black, mixed, Latina, or what. Her mom was black, for sure, but I never knew her daddy and unfortunately neither did she. Lala had caramel skin, with long, silky, black hair. But her most striking feature was her almond-shaped icy blue eyes. People would meet her and just stare at her. She never made too much noise about it, but I know she knew she looked good.

  As for me, I was the cool one. Dymond and Lala called me “the Brain” from that cartoon Pinky and the Brain because I was always coming up with some hustle. Dymond would tell me, “One day, girl, you are going to rule the world.” And I would respond, “Or die trying.”

  I can’t lie, I was methodical at times. Mom and dad taught me the hustle was the only way to go. Even then, I knew I could never work for anyone else. I had to get mine’s on my own. My last name says it all, “Sells.” If I had to sell on my own so I wouldn’t have to be up under no one else, than so be it. Hmmm . . . it’s funny how circumstances can change your perspective on things.

  “Looks like you gonna make some cash today,” Dymond said as we walked along Allegheny Avenue. “Those women were going crazy over those purses.”

  “That’s because we got a whole new selection in,” I said, inhaling a good dose of flower-scented spring air.

  I saw Jonathon, the street vendor who handled my other goods, peddling as usual. I waved at him, but didn’t cross the street to talk to him. It wasn’t payday yet.

  Following the success of my purse gig, I got into DVDs and CDs. Movies would come out on Friday, and I would have them in my house the next day. Same for CDs, except they would come out on Tuesday and I would have them by Wednesday. When it was going real good, I could get my merchandise before it hit the screens or the stores. My supply was A+. My purses were a half-step below the originals, the DVDs were clear (there weren’t any folks walking across the movie screens in them) and the audio on the CDs was top-notch.

  I consigned my audio and video to Jonathon who would sell my stuff along with his in a parking lot everyday. I gave him a cut of everything he sold, while I did the minimum amount of work, so it worked out great for me. I also consigned some of my goods to Cam’s, but they took too much of a cut. I wasn’t drowning in cash or anything, but it was nice to have some extra ends to buy real clothes (meaning, no knockoffs for me) and reinvest in my enterprise.

  So life was good and I was looking forward to turning eighteen. I was finally going to be an adult. Me, Dymond, and Lala were planning a party at the Extreme Games Arena at Easton. Everyone hung out there anyway, so I figured we might as well have the party there. I wasn’t trying to act like those rich snobbies on that MTV show, but I did want my party to be nice.

  “Girl, you gonna get you some hair from Cam’s?” Dymond asked as we walked slowly to the convenience store. Not only was Cam’s the spot to quench thirst and hunger, but it also had all kinds of hair, wigs, and hair care products, in addition to all sorts of cheap stuff for a dollar. And, of course, my very own DVDs and CDs.

  “Naw,” I responded. “I think I’m just gonna let Dee handle my do.” Dee was my hair stylist at The Art of B
eauty Hair Salon. My hair was shaped in a shoulder-length style that framed my face, but I wanted something longer and flowing for my birthday. I only trusted Dee to do it right.

  “You still sporting that Prada dress for your b-day?” Lala asked softly.

  My momma had found a strapless red Prada dress a couple of weeks before. I could tell by the feel and thickness of the fabric that it was real Prada and not the usual knockoff. I didn’t ask where she got it; and, yes, I was definitely going to wear it.

  Just as I was going to respond, I heard rumbling behind me. At first, the noise was so loud, it sounded like a jet engine. But then, I knew . . . the sound of motorcycles. A sound as familiar as my own voice and as comforting as a mellow jam. My heart skipped a couple of beats as I thought about the rides. The noise grew louder. The motorcycles were coming directly for us.

  Chapter Two

  I thought my dreams came true . . .

  We all turned around and looked at the motorcycles as they roared toward us. “It’s the Phantom Cruz,” Dymond said excitedly, her voice just loud enough for me to hear over the noise of the engines.

  The Phantom Cruz was a group of about forty guys from the east side. They did more than ride, though. They controlled the drug flow into the city’s east side for some kingpin everyone knew as Dennis the Menace. The Meadows was just a part of their territory. If you couldn’t tell the Cruz by all the noise they made, then the metallic white ghost face on each of their motorcycles would leave no doubt as to who you were dealing with. They rarely all traveled together, and on that day, there were only seven of the Cruz riding down Allegheny Avenue.

  As they rode past us and into the parking lot of Cam’s, I stared at their steels. Of course, the Cruz had all of the top of the line models—well-known names like Kawasaki, Honda, Yamaha, and Suzuki. When the last of the Cruz glided past my line of sight, Dymond grabbed my arm. “C’mon girl, let’s hurry up and get to Cam’s. I wanna talk to some of the Cruz,” she said as she dragged me along. She drove me crazy sometimes, always wanting to ride on the back of one of the Cruz’s steels.