Ten minutes later, Slam came back out into the dayroom dressed in nothing but a towel and his brown state boots, headed towards the shower before the time came for everyone to lock in for the count. Inmates wore their boots to and from the shower just in case they had to protect themselves en route. It was an absurd idea, that didn’t protect men once they got into the shower wearing shower shoes. He flexed his pecs for Ms. Kittles to see as she conversed on the telephone. She turned her head away from the unit and looked out at the rotunda in the middle of the four D1 units as if she didn’t see him.
Seconds later, before the unit inmates’ eyes, two inmates rushed into the shower that Slam occupied. One of them called out Slam’s name, who was slipping, with soap in his face.
“Who that?” Slam asked, trying to wipe soap from his eyes.
“Nigga, it’s somebody you really don’t want to see,” the smaller one of the two yelled, wildly swinging a jailhouse knife.
After waiting for two minutes to go by, the CO screamed, “Going down! Going down!” into her walkie-talkie. “Lock it down,” she yelled to the uninvolved inmates, as she waited for more officers to get to the unit.
Slam swung punches blindly in an attempt to defend himself, but the two men kept at their attack. All of the other inmates slowly walked to their cells, watching as Slam’s blood leaked out of his body, mixed with the water, and moved down the drain. Both attackers’ arms moved like tattoo guns. There were determined not to slow up. When the other officers finally reached the blood-bath, the men were still sticking Slam, who laid in the shower, having gone into shock. The officers maced both of the soaking wet attackers, dragged them out of the shower, and slammed them before cuffing them. Slam, on the other hand, was taken to medical where he was air lifted to the hospital.
CHAPTER 33
At eleven the next morning, Lamar and Amilli stepped off of an Amtrak train at Baltimore’s Penn Station. The weekend commuter crowd was low, and they exited the station with smiles on their faces. Lamar was giddy shifting his weight from foot-to-foot, waiting to hop into a cab to be taken to a hotel. He was consumed with hope and optimism concerning his future with Amilli. He had outgrown Nikia and was prepared to move on. He just hadn’t gotten around to telling her that.
Amilli carried her overnight clothing in the Louis Vuitton bag that Lamar had given her. She looked excited, smart, and dangerously desirable. More than usual, if that was possible. She wore a white blouse, jeans that stopped at her ankles and showed off black pumps. Men and women looked at her. They normally did.
Before the cab pulled up, they kissed passionately. Their bodies as one, forcing her to drop the bag. Their eyes opened and they locked on one another.
“I’ve never been taken out of town,” she said before he opened the taxi door for her.
“I’m not your average,” he said, hopping in behind her. To the driver, he said, “Hyatt Hotel on the waterfront, please.”
“At the Baltimore Harbor, you mean,” the cabbie asked.
“Yeah, whatever,” Lamar replied deadpan.
The cab took off and she held his hand. She wanted to be alone with him and away from the Philadelphia drama.
“We’re going to have a good time. You’ll be happy with me over the next two days.”
“Oh, your first promise to me, huh?” she teased him.
“Yup, more to come,” he said, smiling.
He rubbed his thumb over her hand, planning to never let her go. “The promise looks like this: lunch at Moe’s Seafood, a play at The Hippodrome, dinner at Phillips with a table right on the water. That’s how Saturday’s are with me. Saturday night includes a little dancing at a reggae club, and then back at the hotel when the real bumping and grinding begins.”
EXTREMELY ANXIOUS AND nervous, they returned to the hotel room after a full day of bliss, locking the door behind them. They were safe and nothing was going to happen to them but their continued assault to connect with one another.
He pulled Amilli close to him and unbuttoned her shirt. She went for his jeans, unbuckling his belt buckle, unbuttoned his pants and stuffed her hand into his boxer briefs. He was so hard that it hurt, but she stroked him and felt on his taut stomach. Stepping back, he said, “Take all of that off.” She complied. He did the same with her eyes on him the entire time.
Again they were locked tightly before he kissed her forehead, then each of her breasts. He squeezed her nipples with his lips, circled them with his tongue. Laying her down he kissed from her ankles up her legs, and then her center. She arched her back and ran her fingers through his dreads. She moaned, gasped, and smiled brightly. Hungrily, she pulled him up so that he could mount her. Wrapping her legs around his waist, her feet on his buttocks, she nibbled on his shoulder near his clavicle causing him to shiver.
“I want you,” she said, gliding her hands up and down his sides.
He was on fire. Pumped full of fuel, he entered her for the first time. Slowly, but as deeply as she allowed him. His heartbeat rapidly progressing, sinking all the way inside Amilli. She inhaled deeply, digging her nails into his back, nibbling on his earlobe. They rocked magically and erotically, realizing they were where they belonged.
CHAPTER 34
After clearing his head in Baltimore, Lamar had set the trap for Slam and his crew. Each of them had a date with death, carefully planned by Lamar Dunken. Slam’s welcome home party was in full swing Sunday night with Lamar, Trap, and Hamma outside, strategically waiting for their conspirator to exit.
The only thing that outshone Amilli, who entered the party richly decorated in a Yves St. Laurent gown, expensive jewels, and red heels was the extravagant ballroom hosting the party. Amilli didn’t get out often, so it had been awhile since she’d saw so many gorgeous black folks in one room. It looked like the casting call for a scene to be shot for a Denzel Washington movie, not a welcome home party for a paroled murderer. The things black people celebrate.
Her date, Gunna, handed her a champagne flute and smiled at her teammate. He donned a rented tuxedo and exorbitant shoes purchased at Nordstrom Department Store. He had one mission: kill Mossberg, to show Slam they meant business. He’d let Slam live tonight, but the message would be clear. Slam would die!
Smiling, their arms interlocked, Amilli and Gunna, walked slowly around the function. “Let’s find our guy,” she said. “Where the hell is he?”
“Don’t worry. He’ll be here any minute. We won’t be able to miss him. He’s balding and still wearing braids,” Gunna said, shaking his head.
“Sad. Yeah, he has to go,” said Amilli, sipping her champagne. “This is good.”
“It should be. It’s Dom Perignon White Gold. Forty thousand dollars a bottle.”
“You two aren’t on a date,” Lamar said, cutting into their conversation through the tiny earpiece transmitters in their ears. They were the size of a pencil eraser, and impossible for anyone to detect.
Gunna laughed and put his arm around her waist, letting his hand curve over the top of her ass. She didn’t move. He said, “I know we’re not on a date. We’re acting like we are, though.” He gave her ass a squeeze. “Ain’t that right?”
“Yup,” she said, and then added, “remember I’m armed, too.” She sipped her champagne. “The art in here is beautiful.”
