Married to the Shooter Read online

  Married to the Shooter

  Ms. Michel Moore

  www.urbanbooks.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue - The Game Makes the World Go Round

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five - Kapri

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven - Kapri

  Chapter Eight - Kapri

  Chapter Nine - Kapri

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven - Kapri

  Chapter Twelve - Kapri

  Chapter Thirteen - Nolan

  Chapter Fourteen - Nolan

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen - Kapri and Nolan

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six - Kapri

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight - Popcorn and Snoopy

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Urban Books, LLC

  300 Farmingdale Road, NY-Route 109

  Farmingdale, NY 11735

  Married to the Shooter

  Copyright © 2020 Ms. Michel Moore

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

  ISBN: 978-1-6455-6069-2

  eISBN 13: 978-1-64556-070-8

  eISBN 10: 1-64556-070-8

  First Trade Paperback Printing August 2020

  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

  MW–MW

  12/28/15

  Long live love—What was still is

  Big as the world is round

  Acknowledgments

  As I have crafted numerous novels throughout the years, the list of people that support me has continued to grow. I’m so very thankful. And beyond all, I’m often humbled. Sometimes, it all seems like a wonderful dream being blessed to do what you love. I started this incredible journey back in 2005, and when my first release titled Say U Promise made the Essence Magazine Bestseller List, I thought it could get no better. But it did. I now have over fifty various projects to smile about and am still counting.

  To my husband, best friend, and rock, Author Marlon PS White. You’ve been holding me down behind the scenes since 1999. Now, you have stepped out of the shadows and are doing ya own thing in this book industry. (Young and Hungry, I Can Touch the Bottom, Goodfellas, Around the Way Girls 10, Caged Passion, The Other Part of the Game, Detroit Black Bottom Gangster, On Parole, and The Penitentiary Raised Me) I love you big as the world is round and support your endeavors just as you’ve done mine. What was still is.

  My mother, Ella Fletcher, has had my back in each and every way a parent should. She has stood by me and supported my dreams. She believed in me even when I didn’t believe in myself. I know I don’t say it enough, but I love you.

  My daughter, Essence Bestseller, Author T. C. Littles is a writing machine in her own right. She has been here to see my visions and assist me in making them a reality. We have spent numerous hours on the phone plotting and scheming how we can take over the world. One day, we just might make it happen (smile). Thanks for my grandkids, Jayden and Lil Ella.

  My brother Dwayne Fletcher and cousin Othello Lewis, it’s always love. Rita Fletcher, continue to RIP. I miss you still. At Aretha Franklin’s funeral, Jesse Jackson was posted beginning to end and never left her or the family’s side. I remarked, “I wish I had a friend like that.” Truth be told, I do. My best friend, Dorothea Lewis, is and has been my road dawg for decades. I love ya, sis! Even when you clown, I will pull out my red nose and clown with you (smile). My homeboy for life, Thomas Walker, aka Bone Capone. Man, we have been through the trenches for years. We are always gonna be family. One Love!

  Several folks in this industry have made my journey more than interesting, and each I hold in high regard. K’wan Foye was the first author that I considered my friend. Also, the first author to sign his novels at my bookstore. Nikki Turner prayed for me when times were hard. Carl Weber blessed me with a deal and constant advice. Karen Mitchell and George Denard are like true family. Jeff Dumpson and Jewels, Chelle, and Jada’s cousin (smile). When the chips were down, Faye Wilkes, K’wan Foye, Danielle Green, and Blacc Topp stepped all the way up. I will never forget the love you showed me and mines. We appreciate you—nothing but respect and gratitude. People talk shit all day long, but these four backed it up. If you want to know the definition of loyalty, look no further.

  To Monique S. Hall, Racquel Williams, Spud Johnson, Ty Marshal, Danielle Bigsby, Avery Goode, Joe Awsum, and, of course, my li’l hometown soul sista for life, India-Johnson Williams… Collectively, y’all have had my back, shown love, and been nothing short of one hundred from day one. In this industry, that’s rare.

  A special thank-you to Tonya Woodfolk, Johnnay Johnson, Stacy Jabo, Papaya, Jenise Brown, and Ne-c Virgo for always traveling to my events. And to Qiana Drennen, you created something great. DRMRAB was legendary. That book club and all its chapters impacted the paperback world in ways unimaginable. I salute you for that. To the other Detroit-based book clubs that rock with me, The Plot Seekers and EyeCu, thanks for the continued support.

  Lastly, to the Hood Book Ambassadors, Trina Crenshaw, Yolanda McCormick, Nia Smith, Krystal Robinson, Jay Knox, Desiree Bailey, La Kiesha Wright, Renita Walker, Chanelle Patton, Eurydice Lofton, Martha Falconer, Tina Brown, Vickie Juncaj, Passion Beauford, Margaret Waleed, T. C. Littles, you are the greatest book club and moral support a girl could ever have. I salute you all. We stay rocking that blue and orange at the Detroit Hustle & Grind Book Fair. Ain’t nothing betta than my HBA family!

  God bless you reading this. Make sure you check out the following titles:

  Coldhearted & Crazy

  Ruthless and Rotten

  No Home Training

  Tick Tick Boom

  A Product of the System

  The System Has Failed

  Homeless

  Testify

  I Can Touch the Bottom

  Young and Hungry

  Say U Promise Saga

  Full Figured 9

  Around the Way Girls 10

  Get It How Ya Live

  Girls from da Hood 13

  Married to the Shooter

  A Big Girl’s Revenge

  Kingpins Detroit

  Hustle Bag

  When You Cross a Crazy Bitch

  Stage Hustle

  and many more . . .

  Prologue

  The Game Makes the World Go Round

  Pimping ain’t easy. And it shouldn’t be. Sellin
g drugs is even harder. That’s a fact. And finding any true honor among thieves is worse than both of them combined. It had to be. That was the way it was set up to be a long time ago. The game was, is, and would always be what it was in Detroit . . . the motherfucking game. Harsh as they may be at times, some street rules and specific regulations couldn’t be broken or taken advantage of. That part was always consistent if you were selling pussy, heroin, crack, or bottled water on the corner in the hood.

  Today, in the basement of a stash house, was another part of playing that game that was consistent as well—retribution for your sins. Thick tension filled the air, as it should have. Somebody had fucked around and broken a rule and had to pay. Lines had been clearly drawn. Unfortunately, now those lines had been blatantly crossed. Sometimes, “sorry” or “my bad” didn’t work out in the real world when dealing with real-life gangsters. Like the hood saying goes, “God forgives.... The streets don’t.”

  The keyword for playing the game was consequences. And there would always be some based upon your actions. And the sobering follow-up was if you were ready to suffer behind them. In that crucial time, some men stood tall—some folded. But in the end, there was still an ultimate price to pay for fucking up or running off on the plug. If your character was that of a snitch at that dreaded crossroads, all bets were off as well. The true colors of your manhood would start to show, no-holds-barred.

  Chapter One

  It never failed. No matter how much you’d try to be fair and give a person a chance, they’d fuck it up. No matter how many times they promised to make shit right, chances are, they never did. That meant if you were the boss, doing what had to be done. Nolan was known for being all of the above, but when pushed to his limits, he would snap. Not just curse you out or raise-your-voice snap, but all-the-way-out-there-and-back—full-blown snap. It didn’t matter if it was gunplay or a nigga caught them hands, Nolan had time for it. There would be no turning back, and his vicious disposition couldn’t be tamed. No ifs, ands, or buts. He was an animal—a wild one at that. This time was no different.

  Joe Brezzy-Bey had fucked up. Once, twice, three times, or more. It was like the fool had a death wish or just didn’t give a shit. He kept testing the water and coming up short. Now, unfortunately for Brezzy-Bey, the worker was in the middle of getting taught a life lesson he’d never forget. Nolan was heated, and “Nigga, you got me fucked up” school was in session. His bright yellow skin was fire engine red, and each moment that passed, he grew angrier.

  “Nolan, come on, dawg. Hold up. Wait, I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe, pleeeas—”

  “Shut the fuck up! You can’t say nothing else to me. I warned you over and over again. I tried my best to be reasonable. But, naw, you wouldn’t let that shit be.” Clenched fist, Nolan beat on his chest with his free hand. He was madder than he’d been in weeks, maybe months. “You think I’m a joke, like a clown or some shit? Like I’m soft? Is that what you think?”

  “Naw, dawg, wait. Let me explain.” The effort to explain was real but did no good. Joe Brezzy-Bey’s frail frame was lightweight work for Nolan.

  “Naw, guy, I’m tired of repeating myself. I said I wasn’t gonna tolerate no more of that ‘short money’ bullshit. Now, here you go for the hundredth time, bringing me a gang of change. I told you shitting on me was gonna be bad for your health. So now, it’s whatever. You asked for this, not me.”

  Temporarily, Nolan let go of Brezzy-Bey’s throat. Removing his shirt, the winter-white wife beater Nolan had on underneath was snug fitting, showing off his prison-chiseled body. Cracking his knuckles, he was ready for round two. The pain he’d inflicted on his worker so far was only the warm-up. There would be no more leniency extended.

  “I warned you I wasn’t to be fucked with. But you out here shaking my goddamn bag like it’s yours. Making up the damn rules as you see fit.”

  “I know but—”

  “But what, guy? Besides the damn change, from what I counted so far, it’s maybe four less than the ticket supposed to be.” Nolan then strong-arm yoked his worker up even more. They knocked a card table over where a paper bag sat filled with pennies, nickels, and dimes. The change scattered across the basement floor. Momentarily, Nolan stared at the change on the ground. It gave him a ghastly flashback memory of his childhood. Knowing the past was what it was—the past—he quickly shook off those thoughts. But not before socking Brezzy-Bey a few good times in the stomach. Then he grinned as Brezzy-Bey slumped over in pure agony.

  Nolan didn’t usually wake up with murder on his mind. He had a good heart . . . buried deep within. He attempted to keep a smile plastered on his face even when he was ready to pull the trigger. That trait made a soon-to-be victim not sure what or when they’d see death. For the most part, his emotions were tame since his youth. He’d found out early on that if a person thought they could hurt you, they would, be it physically or mentally. So, after learning those things the hard way at the hands of his parents, Nolan shut down. Once he linked up with Kapri, she was the only one he confided in. And that was when he felt she could handle the hellish demons he fought that tormented his soul. The young killer tried to keep those feelings embedded, not bringing them to the surface.

  After receiving a text, Nolan was reminded he had other business on the floor across town. There was no more time to waste. Hastily, he got back to the task at hand. He continued where he’d left off, beating the brakes off of his worker. His victim could only count his blessings, knowing at least he hadn’t got a bat against the head like Nolan usually did to random fuckups. This form of torture was slow and deliberate, leaving Brezzy-Bey to think he might have a chance for some small bit of compassion. However, taking several quick hits to the face changed that notion as he grimaced, urinating on himself.

  “Wow, I know you ain’t piss on ya damn self. Stop being a little pussy. You earned this ass kicking, period.” Unhinged, Nolan’s fury continued. Every move the penitentiary-raised beast made was cold and calculated. His mind-set was on violence and doing great bodily harm. So he did just that. Using one hand, he roughly pressed his thumb inward on the center of the man’s throat.

  “But wait, please, hold up, fam.” Brezzy-Bey’s eyes bucked as he struggled to speak. Fumbling over his words, he felt as if his windpipe were being crushed. He tried to explain himself. He wished an aggravated Nolan would just see things from his perspective. The worker knew had it not been for his cousin’s homeboy, he’d be out in the alleys collecting discarded bottles or old scrap metal. But Joe Brezzy-Bey accepted he was dead wrong as he tried his luck with his boss just the same.

  “Listen up and hear me good, you piece of garbage motherfucker. I ain’t ya fam. We ain’t cool. We ain’t hanging out nowhere or nothing like that. You understand me?” Having gone to the gym earlier in the day, this had become a second full workout for Nolan as his biceps bulged in size.

  The untrustworthy worker attempted to nod, showing that he understood what was being said, but it was hard doing so. His entire body was under attack and suffering from the countless blows. It could barely tolerate any more. The basement walls seemed to be closing in on him. Brezzy-Bey wanted to try to get away but knew that was impossible. Taking the ass whipping was the only thing he could do, or risk possibly taking a bullet in the spine if he made a run for the stairs. In those moments, he regretted that he’d come over to the stash house in the first place with the remaining short-ticket money. Nolan was right. He had been warned repeatedly, but the monkey on his back had other plans that won out.

  “See, boy, you’s a bitch-made worker, and I’ma boss. You get headaches, I give the motherfuckers. You think ’cause ole girl cool with me from way back when ya crack-smoking life matters? You got shit twisted.” Sweat was starting to soak through the rear portion of Nolan’s wife beater. And the fuck boy he was beating’s blood from a busted nose decorated the front. But none of that slowed him down. He was and always had been trained to go. “It’s like I said, you think I’m so
me ho or something. And I know damn well you old enough to know better. You just like these young niggas,” Nolan agitatedly snarled.

  “No, but—” Defeated, he still was trying to take a cop. Yet, his sorrowful pleas fell upon deaf ears. There was no answer to his desperate prayers. He’d have to ride this wave out the best he possibly could. This was one of those dreaded consequences in the game if caught stealing.

  Nolan was nearing the end of his rope. Hiring the generic, off-brand nigga was a favor for a childhood friend from the West Side. She once did a solid for him, so, in return, Nolan gave her cousin a job when he came home from doing a bid for breaking and entering. That charge alone should have been a red flag to putting Brezzy-Bey on a bag, but Nolan tried to give people a chance and let them hang themselves. But back in the day, friend loyalty or not, something had to give to ensure the ticket would be correct moving forward. The favor he’d done was quickly costing him money on the regular. And besides his wife, there was nothing the smooth street menace loved more than money.

  Seeing that ole boy was gagging, about to black out, Nolan eased up some on the pressure he was applying. His muscular frame could easily do some serious damage if he allowed things to get all the way out of control. So he fell back. However, his wrath was far from over. He wanted to teach Brezzy-Bey a lesson about stealing from him, not kill the bum. A dead worker would bring no revenue at all. But sending one to a receiving hospital to prove a point would.

  Wrapping both hands around Joe Brezzy-Bey’s neck, Nolan lifted him off his feet. Fed up with all of his excuses, Nolan continued the punishment. Nolan then slammed him against the wall several times. Amused at his strength, Nolan watched a few pieces of peeling paint fall from the ceiling and onto the floor. The utter fear in his victim’s eyes motivated Nolan in what he was about to do next. In a series of full-drawn back punches to the jaw, which caused more blood to leak from Brezzy-Bey’s mouth, then a few midsection kidney blows, Nolan topped those off with punching his worker dead in the Adam’s apple.