Taboo 2:. Yoshe

Sierra! After all we’ve been through, you have the nerve to ask me am I really doin’ overtime? What about all the times that you snuck Messiah to see his father?”

      “Now where the hell is that comin’ from?”

      “It’s comin’ from your insecurities, that’s where!”

      “My insecurities? I don’t have any insecurities!”

      “Yes, you do! First of all, you’re always throwin’ Monique in my face when I already told you that after I found out that she was my half sister, I was disgusted with myself for havin’ sex with her. After all that you come in here talkin’ that mess about how I fucked her in the control room! I let it go, so why can’t you?”

      “I’m not gonna argue with you, Lamont. Just be where the hell you say you’re gonna be and we won’t have a problem. It isn’t like we never had a problem with you lyin’ to me before!”

      “There you go again!” Lamont walked to the door.

      “Just go to your post, Si, because this is not the time or place to be arguin’, okay? I’ll see you when I get home.”

      “It’s not the time or place to argue but it’s the time and place to fuck me, huh?”

      Sierra folded her arm across her breasts and pouted. She didn’t want to leave the office on bad terms with her sweetheart.

      “I’m sorry, Lamont,” she said, and tried to hug him. Lamont’s body stiffened up.

      “Yeah, all right. Just go back to your post, Sierra. I’ll talk to you later.”

      Lamont opened the door for her and she walked out. Sierra turned around to say something else, but he closed the door in her face.

      Chapter 3

      India

      Fraternal twins India and Asia Charles were gorgeous women, to say the least, and their names fit their facial features to a tee. India was an olive-complexioned beauty with long, dark hair and high cheekbones. Her prominent features also included her straight nose and prominent jawbone, bearing a strong resemblance to a black Pocahontas. Her twin, Asia, was the color of French vanilla ice cream, with a pie-shaped face and slanted eyes. With her jet-black hair and pink, pouty lips, she looked like an Asian princess.

      Born and bred in Bedford-Stuyvesant, they were raised in poverty by a single mother. They could recall standing in long cheese lines with their mother, Khadijah, and playing with their bald Barbie dolls on the dirty floors of many welfare centers. On the other hand, Khadijah was always a hustler. She begged, borrowed, and stole from wherever and whoever to make sure that her daughters was taken care of. She also taught them never to trust men and to use them, if necessary. She taught them to use what they had to get what they wanted.

      “Twins, y’all know that the game don’t change for no one,” Khadijah would say to her eleven-year-old girls while sitting at the kitchen table of their sparsely furnished Section Eight apartment on Jefferson Street. She would have a glass of Remy Martin in one hand and a Newport cigarette in the other.

      “Y’all see your mama? I make sure that y’all have food on this table, clothes on your back, and a roof over your head. You wanna know how I do that?” Khadijah asked, taking a puff of the Newport and a sip of her drink. “I take, shake, and bake, if I have to.”

      India, who was the spitting image of her mother and the more inquisitive twin, had a confused look on her face. “What is take, shake, and bake, Mommy?”

      “I will take whatever I have to, I will shake my ass if I have to, and I will bake me a crack pie and sell it just to feed me and my babies if I have to. I don’t give a fuck about what I have to do to make sure that me and my babies are good, and you girls shouldn’t either. As for these triflin’ ass men out here? They ain’t good for nothin’ but some sex and some dollars. Love don’t live here anymore, babies,” Khadijah said, blowing smoke through her pointy nose.

      India and Asia giggled. They loved when their mother talked like that. Not only did it make them knowledgeable before their time, but they incorporated their mother’s attitude through their adolescence and adulthood as well.

      When they became teenagers, it was nothing for the twins to be in the streets as late as they wanted to be. Khadijah was their best friend, never giving them any boundaries. She treated her daughters as if they were her equal. The twins had no regards or respect for anyone else but their mother. They became superficial and materialistic, not knowing how to be anything else. Khadijah had raised them to be this way.

      Although the Charles twins were two physically beautiful girls, they had character flaws. Their ghetto mentality and their incessant need for drama stunted their growth and maturity. They turned into refined thieves at fifteen, and then at eighteen, they began living it up by stealing the identities of innocent, hard-working people. They used this hustle to their advantage by hitting up department stores all over the East Coast and ruining the lives and credit of others.

      During this time, they bypassed urban labels like Rocawear and Baby Phat, and opted for high-end designers, such as Marc Jacobs and Azzedine Alaïa. Asia and India committed these crimes with no thought of how it affected people, as long as they kept themselves decked out in the hottest couture items and kept their pockets lined with cash.

      It was only after their best friend, Tamir, was murdered that they both decided that it was time for them to finally get their acts together or become a statistic. Tamir was found dead in Nassau County, Long Island, off Exit 18 on the Southern State Parkway. She had died at the hands of Tyquan Williams, a resident thug, who eventually met his own demise a month or two after Tamir’s death.

      Surprisingly, the twins’ mother was equally spooked by Tamir’s murder, and finally came to her senses. She decided that she didn’t want to lose her daughters to the streets. After this scare, and at the beckoning of Khadijah, the twins made the decision to turn their lives around. India and Asia decided to take a few civil service tests for city jobs.

      The first one to call them was the New York City Department of Correction, and they happily accepted the positions of correction officers. Even the Charles twins had to laugh at the irony of the career path that they chose. The only question was did they really change for the better? Only time would tell.

      India sat in the spacious living room of the two-bedroom apartment she shared with Asia. While she sat on the couch, painting her toenails, Asia stepped out of the shower with only a towel wrapped around her curvaceous body.

      “I was thinkin’ that we should have been had a job like this, girl,” India said. “We’re makin’ good money and still got bitches hatin’ on our swag.”

      “I know, right?” replied Asia while applying lotion to her body. “That’s because we be comin’ to work every day lookin’ fly as shit. What I can’t understand is how these broads are makin’ all that money and still be lookin’ half-assed! Those uniforms are an upgrade for them!”

      India had other things on her mind. She wasn’t worried about any female officer except for one, and that was Sierra Howell.

      “Speakin’ of half-assed broads, I’m really ready to get at that chick, Sierra,” India said, blowing on the candy apple red nail polish on her toes. “I don’t like that bitch.”

      Asia laughed while she stood in the doorway of the bathroom, lotioning her nude body. “Don’t you see her at work every day?”

      “No, I don’t see her every day. If only she knew that I was Tamir’s friend, she would probably have a fit.”

      Asia waved her sister off. “Well, she doesn’t know that we’re Tamir’s friends, India. She doesn’t even know that we exist.”

      India fell back on the couch in her living room. “You’re right, but it’s about to be on. I can’t believe that I ended up in the same facility with the bitch.” India looked over her painted toes. “I just miss Tamir so much.