For The Love Of My Sisters Read online

  FOR THE LOVE OF MY SISTERS

  - A Novel Written by –

  Shameek A. Speight

  Copyright © 2012 by Shameek A. Speight

  Published by True Glory Publications LLC

  ISBN- ISBN –

  First Edition

  Email: [email protected]

  Follow on Twitter: Bless_45

  Facebook: Shameek A. Speight

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to actual events, real people, living or dead, organization, establishments, locales are products of the author’s imagination. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  Cover design/Graphics: www.mariondesigns.com

  Editor: Shawnna Robinson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying recording or by information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission from the publisher and writer.

  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  DEDICATION

  I dedicate this book to my sister’s Audrina aka ‘Nina’ and Fatima aka ‘Timababy’. Thank you for believing in my dreams and always being there for me, I love you both. I also dedicate this book to all the women that have brothers. Never doubt your brothers love for you, he will do anything For the Love of His Sisters.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  It has only been the power of God, my lord and savior Jesus Christ that I have been able to persevere through many of the trials I’ve been dealt in my life. I thank him for giving me the strength to move on.

  To my family, my beloved sisters, thank you for believing in me. To my mother, I love you very much. To my aunt, I love you. To my daughter, Niomi, I do all this for you Princess. To Shawnna Robinson, you been my right hand pushing me along the way and I love you for it, thank you so much. To all the men and women who are locked up, hold your head up and keep your faith there will be a brighter day. To my niggas in the hood, I told you I could sell books. To Antonio Inch Thomas, thank you for teaching me all about the book game. To all the fans, thank you for all your support. To my Facebook Group, Team True Glory, you’re the best, I love every one of you, we’re more than a team we’re a family.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Also by Shameek Speight

  Coming In 2013

  Chapter 1

  Shawn walks up the stairs to the third floor of the building. He stood in front of the door of apartment 3G, the palms of his hands was sweaty.

  “I have to do this for my sisters to calm the fuck down,” He repeatedly told himself over and over.

  In the twenty four years he been on this earth he never did nothing like this, but for the love of his sisters, he’ll do anything. He raises his hand and knocks on the door three times hard like he was told to do early on in the day by his boy ‘Bones’.

  “Who dat?” A voice said in a strong Jamaican accent.

  “It’s me Muscles,” Shawn replied.

  The door opens and a fat Jamaican man was standing in the doorway.

  “Muscles mon, wah gud, come enna mon.”

  Shawn or Muscles as everyone in the hood called him walks into the apartment. The fat Jamaican man locks the door behind him and they walk further into the apartment. Once in the living room, Muscles turns his head and sees two brown skin Jamaican men bagging up ounces of weed into Ziploc bags. The smell of the weed hit Muscles nose and he knew they were bagging up sour diesel.

  “Suh wah yuh want?” The fat Jamaican man said while looking at Muscles, pronouncing ‘you’ as ‘yuh’.

  Muscles always wondered why they do that. They pronounced ‘you’ as ‘yuh’ and me as ‘mi or meh’, when they lived in the U.S. for years, and half of them never even seen Jamaica. Unlike his father who was born and raised there before coming to the United States.

  “Yo I need a pound of chocolate and two ounces of haze,” Muscles replied.

  “That’s a whole heap of ganja fah yuh, wah yuh tired of wuking a regular job?” the fat Jamaican said while laughing causing the other two men on the couch to laugh in between coughing from the blunt they were smoking.

  “Nah Dread, I’m just trying to get my money right, that’s all.”

  “Ok mon, that will be $3,200 fi di chocolate an meh give it to yuh for $3,000 flat and it be $800 fi di two ounces of haze.”

  “That’s cool dread,” Muscles replied while zipping down his Northface snorkel halfway and pulls out money from his inside pocket. He removes $200 from his pocket and passes Dread the rest.

  Dread counts the money in front of Muscles to make sure it was all there, “Yuh straight mon, ah $3,800. Mi guh get wah yuh want, just wait here.”

  With that said the fat Jamaican man walks down the hall into a bedroom and shuts the door. Muscles could feel sweat dripping down from his palms. His stomach was nauseous. It was bubbling from fear, he felt as if he wanted to take a shit on himself. ‘Damn,’ he thought to himself, he never felt so nervous and scared in his life, but this has to be done. ‘I have to make this money to take care of my sisters,’ he said in his head over and over, reminding himself why he was there in the first place.

  Without thinking, his hand reaches down in his snorkel and pulls out an old rusted double barrel sawed off shotgun and aims it at the two Jamaican men that were bagging up weed on the couch. They never looked up from what they were doing. If it was anybody else in the apartment, their eyes would have never left them, but to them Muscles was harmless. They see him go to work every day when they were in the neighborhood. To them Muscles was a working nigga, not a thug. Muscles held his breath and squeezed the trigger.

  ‘BOOM!’

  The sawed off shotgun roars, ripping a hole in one of the men’s chest on the couch leaving him dead on the spot. Pellets from the blast hit the next man in the shoulder and his side.

  “Ahhh!” he howled in pain, while using his left hand to reach for the gun on his waist.

  ‘BOOM!’

  The shotgun roars again, blowing off the top of the Jamaican man’s head, leaving him slumped over and blood pouring out of him.

  Muscles works fast to take the shells out the shotgun and puts them in his pockets then reloads it.

  “Weh di bloodclot! Weh di bloodclot is gwan enna here!” The fat Jamaican man yelled from the back room. He ran down the hallway, rapid fire was set off.

  ‘BRRRRRR!’

  He swung the gun from left to right, in hopes to kill anything moving but Muscles was waiting for him. He had his back against the wall, so as soon as Dread started firing, coming out the bedroom running down the hallway into the living room he never noticed Muscles leaning on the wall right next to him, until it was too late.

  Dread looked from the corner of his eyes and sees the barrel of t
he shotgun raised to his head at point blank range.

  ‘BOOM!’ the shotgun roars and explodes Dread’s head like a melon. Muscles watch as blood and brain matter cover his face and clothes, oozing off him as Dread’s lifeless body drops. He snaps out of the daze he was in and runs to the back room of the apartment. Once he opens the bedroom door he couldn’t believe his eyes. There was no furniture in the room but a table and a chair. On the table was weed and money and on the floor were black garbage bags full of weed and money. Muscles quickly grab three heavy bags and stuff some of the money on the table in them.

  ‘Fuck it, I might as well take some more’, he said to himself getting greedy. Muscles grabbed three more heavy bags, as they were nothing for him to carry. They didn’t call him muscles for nothing. Just then the front door of the apartment was kicked in. Muscles peeps his head out the bedroom door to see three Jamaican men enter the apartment.

  “Oh shit,” Muscles whispers.

  “Mon search di crib,” the Jamaican man with the long dreads ordered.

  Muscles looked around the bedroom and noticed the window. He swiftly made his way to the window, with three bags in each hand. He places three bags down and opens up the window. He picks the bags up and starts climbing down the fire escape. He made it to the second level.

  “Weh di bloodclot!” a voice from above yelled. Muscles looks up to see a man with short dreads and his head hanging out the window looking down at him.

  The short dreads man aims his gun at Muscles and sets off two shots.

  “Oh shit!” Muscles yell as bullets whistled past his head.

  He drops three of the bags and they fall off the fire escape hitting the concrete. Muscles pulls out his sawed off shotgun and aims it up and squeeze the trigger.

  ‘BOOM!’

  The shotgun roars, sending pellets through the fire escape hitting the gunman in his hand causing him to drop his gun.

  “Ahhhh!” his scream could be heard down the block. He fell back into the apartment holding his hand crying and screaming, “Bloodclot, bloodclot, mi hand, mi hand, mi hand!”

  Just then the other two Jamaican men enter the bedroom to see their partner on the floor holding his hand screaming.

  “Mon weh is he at?” the man with the long dreads asked, but his partner won’t answer. So he walks over to him and bent down and looks at his falling soldier’s hand, what he saw sent chills down his spine, three of the fingers on his hand had been completely blown off, just leaving him with his thumb and index finger.

  “Shit mon!” the Jamaican man yelled with the long dreads as he gets up and looks out the window to see nothing but darkness. He pulls his head back in and aims his gun at his falling soldier and sends off two shots that hit him in the head and chest killing him instantly.

  “Yo mon help mi grab some of dem bags an tek dem to di apartment across di hall before batty bwoy get here,” the Jamaican man with the long dreads ordered.

  His soldier did as he was told wondering why his Boss Dwayne killed his own man. Dwayne knowing what his worker was thinking answers his question. “No one fails the Junkyard Crew,” he said in a strong Jamaican accent.

  Muscles ran for his life, jumping fences and running through backyard after backyard thinking, ‘Shit this why I love Jamaica Queens, there’s no backyards to run through like these in the projects.’ He ran five blocks using the night sky and backyards as cover holding three heavy bags in both hands. He spits on the ground because he was now out of breath. ‘Damn I need to quit smoking,’ he said out loud to himself, while leaning on the wall on the side of the house and looking at his car parked across the street. Just then an old man walking his dog walks by. Muscles eyes followed the old man until he got down the block and out of sight. He uses his elbow to push himself off the wall on the side of the house and takes off running towards his car. He opens the door to his beat up Honda Civic and throws the bags in the back seat. He never locks the doors to his car because no one would steal it, it was useless. He started the car and peels off heading home. ‘Drive slow, drive slow,’ he kept repeating to himself. He didn’t want to get pulled over, he was covered in blood and had six garbage bags full of weed and money and a shotgun with three bodies on it. Just then a blue and white cop car pulls up behind him.

  “Shit!” he yells as his palms began to sweat. Muscles look in the rearview mirror and could tell they were reading his plates.

  “Shit! My shit is good. They’ll read my plates and go on their way, I have nothing to worry about,” he said trying to calm down and make himself believe it at the same time. “Yea, I have nothing to worry about; but these guns and bags of weed in the back seat, and going to jail for the rest of my life! Dear Lord please, please let me get home to my sisters. I know what I did was wrong, but what I did was for them. Please forgive me and help me.” Muscles prayed out loud.

  Just then the cop car pulled up alongside of him and his heart raced so fast it felt as if it was about to pop out his chest. The two officers in the car looked at Muscles, then pulls off. Muscles let out a deep breath, “Thank you!”

  He drove down Guy R. Brewer Blvd. He pressed play on the CD player and Biggie came on. ‘I shot Dread in the head and took the bread and lam spread,’ Muscles rapped along with the song finally understanding it. He cut down a side block and pulls up in front of his building on 144th Ave and Rockaway Blvd.

  “Shit!” he yelled as he looks at all the blood on his coat. He removes it and wraps the shotgun in it and places it under his arm. He grabs the six heavy bags and heads for the front door of his building. His building was a small 4 family apartment, but to him it was better than the Redfern Projects in Far Rockaway.

  His apartment was a two bedroom on the second floor that he shared with his sisters. He made his way up the stairs and went inside walking fast to his bedroom. He didn’t want his sisters to come home and see him covered in blood and start asking him questions he couldn’t answer. He didn’t want them to worry over him. Once in his room, he quickly changed his clothes and put on a pair of Rocawear jeans and a tank top and wraps the bloody clothes up and puts them in a garbage bag along with his coat and shotgun.

  ‘I’ll throw that shit in the ocean in Far Rockaway tomorrow’, he told himself. Muscles took a glance at the six bags on the floor next to his bed, ‘All mines, let’s see what I got’, he said to no one in particular.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and opened the first bag and began to pull money out and count it. The money was in rubber bands in stacks of hundreds, fifties, and twenties.

  ‘Shit, $14,000, that’s a lot of fucking money!’ He pulls out clear Ziploc bags of weed and from the smell of it he knew it was purple haze. He counted 13 pounds of haze and 6 ounces all together. ‘Damn I done came off, a pound of haze go for $5,000.’ Muscles began to dig in the next bag and from the smell of it he knew it was chocolate weed inside right away. He pulls the money out first and counted $15,000, he couldn’t believe his eyes at all the money he counted. He knew the Junkyard Crew made millions, but he never really believed it until now. Muscles then pulls out pounds of chocolate weed and counted six pounds all together. ‘Shit!’ he opened the last three bags and there were pounds of white widow, orange kush and green weed. All together there were 60 pounds of weed and $70,000 in cash. Muscles grabbed the last bag and looks inside. There were small brown boxes of different sizes. He pulled one of the boxes out and opens it. Inside the box was a nickel-plated nine millimeter. He grabs it and takes out the clip to see if it was loaded. He then looks in all the boxes. There was a .45, a .44 and a 3.80, all brand new in the boxes with ammo in all of them.

  ‘Shit, if those Jamaican cats find out it was me behind that, I’m as good as dead.’ Just then he heard a noise coming from the hallway in the apartment. He looked at the clock on the nightstand it read 7:20. ‘Shit no one is supposed to be home.’ A thought ran through his head, ‘Maybe the Jamaicans followed me home.’

  He grabs the brand new nickel-plated nine millimet
er and pulls back on it making a bullet go in the chamber. Muscles walked out of his room cautiously taking one step at a time. The closer he got to his sister’s room; he realized that the noise was music. R-Kelly’s ‘I’m a Flirt’ could be heard blasting out the room. He grabs the doorknob and turns in slowly, pushing it open.

  Muscles stood in shock and in pain, as he watched this man’s dick go in and out of her while slapping his sixteen year old sister on the ass. Her head was buried down in the pillow with her ass in the air. She was moaning loud over the music while the young man pound away.

  “Yesss, yesss, oh yesss Tee!” she screamed in pleasure.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Muscles yelled above the music, breaking the lover’s concentration and causing them to look in his direction.

  They looked at Muscles who was covered in sweat and with tears in his eyes, gripping the nickel-plated nine at his side.

  “Ahhh!” his sister screams and quickly uses the sheets on the bed to cover her body.

  “Who’s this nigga?” The young thug said as he grabs his jeans and pulls them up, his eyes never leaving Muscles, grilling him.

  “That’s my brother Tee. Just get your things and go,” Sasha said while holding her head down.

  Muscles watched the young thug closely as he puts on his clothes and buttons up his jeans. Muscles noticed when the boy pulls his dick out of Sasha he didn’t have a condom on. Muscles didn’t know who he should be made at more, Sasha or the young man.

  “Listen dog, you can stop grilling me like that, this is my place and Sasha knows better than to have niggas in here fucking,” Muscles stated.

  “I’ll stop grilling you when you put away that gun,” Tee replied.

  Muscles looked down at the gun in his hand and almost forgot he had it.

  “My bad, this isn’t for you, I thought someone was breaking into the crib,” Muscles said while tucking the gun behind his back on his waist.

  “Yo Sasha I’ll get up with you later,” Tee said, but Sasha didn’t reply, she kept her head down in shame.