Naeema didn't bother to change the old woman's mind because hers was already set. "Have the police said anything?" she asked.

"Haven't heard from them in a while. Last I know they were thinking some boy Brandon stole a cell phone from might have did it, but they brought him in for questioning and let him go."

Yet another lead? The copy of the report she had was months old and this tidbit of news wasn't in it. So much was coming at her at one time. She didn't know whether to feel blessed for the knowledge or overwhelmed by so many roads to be tracked for the truth. What if I follow the wrong lead and the murderer gets away? "Can I have some coffee? I need to get home and I don't know if I can make it back across town like this," she said. "Shit, I don't know how the hell I made it here."

Ms. JuJu stood up and began moving about her neat kitchen. "You are going up to Brandon's old room and sleep off that drunk before you leave here. And maybe . . . you can look around his room and you can stop hurting from your guilt long enough for me to tell you more about him. If you want," she added gently.

Naeema had first known Ms. JuJu as the woman volunteering at the group home. She came every day with a homemade dessert and was sure to call each one of the troubled teens "sugar" "love" or "baby." And when she got news one of them misbehaved, she would chastise them in a way that evoked guilt and a desire to make her proud. With her came a love that made those who were able to receive it feel warm and welcomed.

During her three months at the group home, Naeema had found herself really looking forward to the few hours a day Ms. JuJu was there. The woman discovered that Naeema loved her banana nut bread and once a week she brought a loaf just to give to Naeema, along with a sweet smile and a soft pat on her rounded belly. And when Naeema found out that the nice older woman from down the street, who she would see from her bedroom window walking to church every Sunday morning, didn't have children of her own, Naeema figured they could help each other.

The one and only time Naeema had been in Ms. JuJu's house was the day she brought Brandon to her and asked her to raise him fourteen years ago. She had been so relieved when the woman had reluctantly agreed to take care of him. Not even when she called to tell her of his death had Naeema come to her home-Brandon's home. "I want that and . . . and thank you. Thank you, Ms. JuJu . . . for everything," she said.

7.

One week later

Naeema squatted low and raised her balled fists to protect her face before she jumped up and kicked toward Tank's rock-hard midsection. He blocked her move like it was nothing. Just thorough as hell.

"Good," he said, his bared upper body dampened in sweat. "Again."

Naeema brushed her sweat back with her forearm before she took her position again on the mat of the empty gym. She kicked. Tank blocked it.

"Again," he ordered.

Kick. Blocked.

"Again."

Kick. Blocked.

"Again."

This time Naeema paused and quickly changed plans. She raised the same leg to kick but then jumped down on that one and leveled her other leg toward his side sharply.

Tank caught it just before it landed against his body. He jerked it forward, knocking her off balance, and then dipped low to swing his foot around to knock her other leg from under her. Naeema landed on her back on the mat with an umph. One second later he was on top of her and pinning her arms and legs to the mat. He still looked impressed as he smiled down at her. "You woulda fucked up a lesser motherfucker," he said, his face just above her as they both breathed deeply.

"A lesser motherfucker almost did get fucked up," she shot back, trying not to let the feel of his dick pressing against her hip fuck her up.

It wasn't even hard and she was catching hell ignoring it.

"Lesser than who? Your man?" he asked.

Naeema didn't say shit.

"Oh, I mean your imaginary man, Mr. Don't Exist," he teased.

Naeema still didn't say a word.

"Your body soft as a pillow everywhere, Na," Tank whispered as his eyes was all over her face. "Except your nipples. I can feel them pressing against my chest."

Her pulse raced.

"Why I love fucking you so much?" he asked.

Her clit swelled with life and she bit her bottom lip to keep from answering his question.

"Why your pussy so good, Na?" Tank lowered his head and pressed kisses on her neck, his tongue licking her pounding pulse.

She gasped and released a shaky breath before she turned her head and closed her eyes. Shit. He just did it for her. Sex wasn't their problem. Never was. It was looking like it never was going to be.

Tank freed her hands and brought his hand down to turn her face back toward him. The first feel of his tongue stroking her mouth made Naeema wet. With a moan she opened her lips and sucked the tip of it. His dick got harder and longer against her hip and she felt her legs spreading wider so that she could wrap them around his waist.

Once again it's on.

He got up from her body long enough to push her sports bra up above her breasts. He moaned as he sucked one tight brown nipple.

"Lick it," she demanded softly.

And he did, with quick back and forth flickers.

"Shit," she swore, bringing her hands up to lightly dig her nails into his back.

The Jaws theme ringtone on her burner cell phone sounded off. Her body went stiff, she knew it was Bas.

Pressing her hands against Tank's shoulder, she tried to free her nipple from his mouth. "Hold up one sec. I got to get my phone," she said.

"Man, fuck that phone."

She freed herself from him and raced across the small garage he'd converted to a gym, to dig the cheap flip phone out of her purse.

"Hello," she said as she pulled her bra down over her breasts and stepped outside the garage into the heat, remembering to use that playful and simple tone to her voice that the crew knew.

"Whaddup, stranger? How's life treating you?"

"Better now," she said.

"Oh, you missed me?" he asked.

"Sum'n like dat," she said.

He laughed. It was low and husky and cocky as shit. "Keep playing with the snake and you gon' get bit," he warned.

"A snake ain't shit once it fall in the right hole," she shot back-and then wondered if that was too quick on her feet for the role of innocent and naive Queen who just wanted to belong.

"I hear you, Queen," he said. "Come to the spot at ten."

She turned to find Tank standing in the open doorway, his hard dick still hard and fighting to be freed from his jogging pants. "A'ight," she said, before closing the phone and moving past him to reenter the garage.

Tank grabbed her waist and pulled her body up against his. "Who was that?"

Naeema pulled back to eye with lots of attitude. "When I called you and some bitch was in the background, did I ask you about her? Did I give a fuck about her when you was getting this pussy that same night?"

She brushed his hands off her waist and stepped past him. "Won't you try not giving a fuck?"

Tank reached for her wrist. "That's hard to do when you the one always calling me for help . . . for dick."

"I'll make it my business to help you and forget your number," she said. "'Cause if you think I can't, you got me fucked up, playboy."

"Whateva, Na. Keep acting like you so hard and you don't need nobody in this fucking world. Keep believing that shit," he snapped, walking past her to start punching the heavy bag hanging in the corner.

"I wanted to lose weight and working out with you was always good exercise," she said, hoping the piss-poor excuse would ease his suspicion.

"Lose weight where?" he protested, pausing in hitting the bag to look over at her.

She turned and gripped both of her ass cheeks before jiggling them. "So you not gonna help me?" she asked, now standing there with her arms crossed.

"You don't need me, remember?" Tank called over to her as he continued to pound away on the bag.

But she did need his ass.

She was out there confronting people and chasing down her son's killer and she couldn't just rely on her gun. Every situation didn't call for that. Sometimes she just needed to yoke somebody up, and Tank could train her to do that well-or at least well enough not to get hurt.

And she needed him because she knew he would always love her just like she would always love him.

Naeema walked around the mat on the center of the floor and came over to pull the heavy bag out of his reach. Tank dropped his fists and eyed her with those sexy eyes. "What?" she asked softly, pushing the bag toward him.

He easily leaned his upper body out of its way. "That's it for today, Naeema," he said, his voice hard.

She knew he was dead-ass serious.

Coming over to stand in front of him, she tried to wrap her arms around his waist and he blocked her from doing it. Feeling challenged, she stripped before him, tossing her sports bra and leggings aside to stand before him naked. Turning, she wrapped her hands around the chain attaching the bag to the ceiling and pulled her body up, wrapping her legs around it. She had barely done two twerks of her fleshy ass before she felt Tank's hands guiding his hard dick up inside her pussy. She moved down lower on the bag until her arms strained, but the snug fit of all of him inside her pussy was worth it.

"Shit," they both swore hotly as he rocked the bag to guide her back and forth on his hard inches.

The feel of his hard body pressing her body against the leather of the bag as he fucked her was intense. She let her head fall back as she fought not to let go of the chains. "Fuck me, Tank," she begged.

He pressed kisses to her shoulder blades as each of his hard thrusts made her ass jiggle against him. "It's so tight," he moaned against her back.

Naeema pulled up on the chain just enough to swivel her hips as she continued to swing back and forth on the bag. "Oh my God, your dick got harder," she gasped, pressing her face against the bag as she bit her bottom lip in pleasure.

She felt one of his hands move up her spine to tightly grip the back of her neck as his strokes deepened, sending his hard curved inches against the tight and wet walls of her pussy.

Back and forth on the dick.

"Yes, yes, yes," she cried out as his grip on her neck tightened and he reached down to alternate between a gentle push of the bag and a slap of her round buttocks.

"You want this nut?" he asked thickly.

"Please," she begged, letting her head fall back to rest on one of his strong shoulders.

As the thrusts of his dick got deeper and faster, Naeema let the chain go and her upper body fell back on him while he continued fucking her. "I'm cumming," he moaned against her neck.

"Mmmmmm," she sighed, bringing her hands up to tease her own nipples and massage her soft breasts as her nut exploded, sending her to a world where nothing else fucking mattered at all. She felt each pump of his dick as he filled her with his cum.

She was still shivering when he wrapped his arms around her and turned her body to hold her close. She felt so emotional that she pressed her face against his neck to keep from getting caught up and telling him how much she still loved him.

"We can't keep doin' this, Naeema," he told her.

She knew what he said was money.

They couldn't live with each other but it was clear as day they couldn't do without each other either. And that was the realest shit ever.

"What did you do with your money, Queen?"

Naeema looked over at Bas sitting wide legged in an old office chair, his brown eyes locked on the small television broadcasting video surveillance of their secret entrance into the church. She was the first to arrive and, like he would for the others, Bas had unlocked the door to let her in.

Bas was a thug but he didn't look shit like what most people assumed a thug should be. His hair was cut into a low fade that emphasized the strong lines of his lean face and his full eyebrows. He looked like a model in a fashion magazine. Even now he was dressed in khakis and a white polo shirt with a rich-looking brown leather belt and matching deck shoes. She wouldn't doubt they were Gucci or some other high-end brand. He could've been heading off to a day at college, work at a retail store in the mall, or even church.

But Naeema made no mistake that the fine-ass man sitting in that chair was ruthless. Bas was tall, with the slender but muscular frame of an athlete, but his temper was short. He was one of those motherfuckers that skipped the arguing and just straight put hands on someone challenging him.

Did Brandon piss him off? Did the boy far too young even to be in the company of a twentysomething crowd of thieves become a nuisance to their shit?

Did you kill my son?

She looked away from him as her hand itched to grab his throat and choke the truth out of him. Chill, Naeema.

"Nothing yet," she said, sipping from the shot of Henny he had poured for her into a plastic cup.

"You still scared?"

She glanced over at him. "I wasn't scared," she said.

He laughed and even that sounded laid back. "Oh, you was scared as hell and you still scared but don't worry. We won't get caught. I'm too smart for them motherfuckas."