The Streets Keep Pulling Me Back

  Brittani Williams

  www.urbanbooks.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue - July 2019

  Chapter One - Summer 1991

  Chapter Two - Summer 1991

  Chapter Three - May 2018

  Chapter Four - 1995

  Chapter Five - 1995

  Chapter Six - June 2018

  Chapter Seven - July 2018

  Chapter Eight - July 2018

  Chapter Nine - 1997

  Chapter Ten - 1998

  Chapter Eleven - September 2018

  Chapter Twelve - Late September 2018

  Chapter Thirteen - 1999

  Chapter Fourteen - 2000

  Chapter Fifteen - October 2018

  Chapter Sixteen - October 2018

  Chapter Seventeen - 2001

  Chapter Eighteen - January 2019

  Chapter Nineteen - January 2019

  Chapter Twenty - February 2019

  Chapter Twenty-one - February 2019

  Chapter Twenty-two - February 2019

  Chapter Twenty-three - March 2019

  Chapter Twenty-four - April 2019

  Chapter Twenty-five - April 2019

  Chapter Twenty-six - April 2019

  Chapter Twenty-seven - July 2019

  Epilogue - One Year Later

  Urban Books, LLC

  300 Farmingdale Road, N.Y.-Route 109

  Farmingdale, NY 11735

  The Streets Keep Pulling Me Back

  Copyright © 2022 Brittani Williams

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

  ISBN: 978-1-6455-6336-5

  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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  Prologue

  July 2019

  “Ay, yo, this shit lit than a muthafucka, boi.”

  “Man . . . Hell yeah, my nigga. Money on top of money.”

  “Yo, you got everybody in Miami up in this bitch.”

  “You already know, boi. Ain’t no other way to do this shit. Welcome to Club 305.” He nodded, feeling like a giant.

  Tank looked through the two-way mirror in his office at the dance floor below, seeing how packed it was. The deejay was playing some of the latest bangers blaring through the first- and second-floor speakers. The sight of all the people dancing in his club, packed wall to wall, brought a smile to his face because he knew a lot of money was being made.

  There wasn’t much room for folks to walk around on either floor. But that’s precisely how he liked it. Girls were being wild, blaming it on the liquor, showing off their bodies, and shaking their asses. And where the hoes were, the niggas weren’t too far behind. They were all over, thirsty as hell, trying to get the attention of any broad who would look their way. The bar was packed, and the bartenders were busy making money. And all of this was because of Tank.

  On a hot July night, just about every club on the strip was getting lit, but Club 305 was on a whole other level. It was a four-alarm fire. Martaveous Young a.k.a. Tank had made it happen all on his own. He was definitely reaping the rewards of all his hard work.

  At the age of 32, he had accomplished what many had only dreamed about. He had gone from being a corner boy on the block to one of the most prominent entrepreneurs in the city. No matter where you went, “Tank” was coming out of somebody’s mouth, from corner boys to the mayor. Everyone knew him, and yet, everyone didn’t.

  Tank was a modern-day hustler. Once upon a time, he was a club promoter which was how he came to find himself opening his own club. He managed some of the dopest artists in the city and was always looking for spots to get them to perform. What better way than at his club? He could make money from both ends.

  Martaveous Young was the epitome of the successful Black man. The Black man that you acknowledged and talked about in business meetings and conferences for being a mogul. The Black man that mothers would want their daughters to marry. The Black man that white men wondered how he became so successful. But there was another side to Martaveous. The side that the streets knew . . . Tank. Tank was a straight hustla. He was a notorious kingpin. He had the streets of Miami on lock when it came to the work. Any and everybody in Miami that was on the block damn near was working for him. Other niggas that considered themselves hustlas envied him and tried to get at him but never could. He was the kind of man mothers tried to keep their daughters from and tried to take down one time. He wanted to leave that life one day and go legit, but it was all he knew for now. However, eventually, Tank would have to get out of the game. After all, how many kingpins do you know that can retire? None. But he was determined to be the first. He would use his dirty money to get clean and get out. He promised to make his foster mother proud, and he always kept his promises—always.

  He had been on his shit since he was 11 years old. His folks were gone, and if he had any family, they weren’t looking for him, which was cool. He had his foster mother the latter part of his life, and that was fine for him. She was the one woman that could get to his heart. But that’s how she was. She could befriend Satan and make him rethink his ways. She taught him love was possible. But love could get you killed, and that’s why he remained coldhearted. He could move and not answer to nobody.

  Simply put, he was fucking untouchable. He had to learn the hard way. The streets made him. Nobody else taught him anything. He had to learn on his own. Now, he was the boss. Nobody made a move without his say-so. Music. Promo. Drugs. Whatever it was, he had a hand in it. This club opening up was the latest cash cow to add to his long list of successes.

  Looking out at the crowd, he nodded and smiled at his genius. This club was going to bring in so much money. He could feel it. He could practically smell it.

  He turned around and looked at a few of the niggas counting and bagging work in the corner. To his left, some of his close right hands worked the machines, counting his money. The club would serve many purposes for him. He threw some of the hottest parties, and it allowed him to have his artists perform. But the biggest thing was moving his work unnoticed. At least, for the time being. He was trying to get out of the game, and this was the best way that he could think to do that without unnecessary attention. He knew he had eyes on him, and he needed to figure out how to move. Pushing his weight through the club, he could keep a watchful eye. Nobody was taking shit from him. They could try, but it would be over his dead body.

  He continued to look out over the damn near 2,000 people in the club as the sound of the money machine buzzed in the background, counting the racks of cash he had just flipped.

  He was watching the bartenders busy at their stations trying to fulfill multiple orders at a time when he saw a tall girl with the longest legs walking through the club. She made her way through the crowd, and every person that she passed turned and stared. Tank’s eyes were also glued to her. It was as if she were floating.

  Her skintight liquid catsuit hugged her body so tight that it looked as if that bitch were painted on. Long Peruvian bundles hung down her back in loose body wave curls, and her makeup was done up to accentuate her gorgeous face. He could see her long, red nails that could pass for a weapon.

  “Damn,” he said to himself, watching her the entire way.

  She made her way up the stairs, and a few minutes later, someone knocked at the door.

  He grinned, looking at the video monitor on one of the big screens, and nodded to his security that it was cool for entry.

  The door opened, and in walked the beautiful poison that he had his eyes on. She stepped in, and the door closed behind her.

  “Hey, baby,” she purred, walking over to him.

  “Hey,” he said, sizing her up and down, grabbing a handful of her ass, and pulling her to him before kissing her.

  Lucky for her, the room was packed; otherwise, he would have peeled her out of that catsuit right there and fucked her all over his office. He really wanted to, considering he wouldn’t get the opportunity after tonight, but he had business to tend to. And she was a part of that business.

  “Nine hundred fifty thousand,” his boy Fendi spoke up, interrupting his conversation with the woman.

  He turned to look at him and quickly let her go, a frown forming on his face before making his way toward Fendi and the machine.

  “How the hell it’s only $950,000?” he snapped. “That shit supposed to be one mil even, partna.”

  Fendi looked at Tank and shook his head. “Yo, I’m telling you that’s what it’s showing,” he told him. “I counted it twice to be sure.”

  Tank sighed, rubbing his temple.

  “Nah, man,” he mumbled, pacing the floor for a few minutes before finally stopping. “Run it through again. That shit ain’t it.”

  Fendi nodded and went back to the machi
ne to do what was asked. He didn’t dare argue with Tank. Not when he was pissed off. He was supposed to be celebrating the night, but he had some shit come up that none of them saw coming, and it was about to be handled.

  “Is everything okay?” the woman spoke.

  Tank ignored her and watched Fendi restack the bills.

  “Yeah, count that shit again,” he said. “I’d hate to have to put this dumb-ass nigga in the ground for tryin’a play me.”

  Fendi nodded, already going through the third recount, knowing shit was vital.

  Tank watched him put stacks of cash in the machine as it sorted through the bills mechanically at a rapid pace. He leaned back against the wall and stared.

  Niggas think shit is a game, he thought to himself, feeling his blood start to boil. Game over, muthafucka.

  As long as he had been hustling, only a handful of times had anybody ever dared to cross him. With all the shit that had been going on lately, he knew it was only going to be a matter of time before he had to show somebody just who the fuck Tank was. He just wasn’t expecting tonight to be the night.

  Chapter One

  Summer 1991

  “Man, how you gon’ say Kareem Abdul-Jabbar is the better player? Everybody knows it’s Jay T.”

  “What? Jay T? Man, naw. Jay T is just a newer version. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar is the man,” a young Martaveous bragged.

  “Yeah, the man that needs to sit in the stands. He ain’t been doing nothing for years. But Jay T is killing it,” Ty insisted.

  “Yeah, right. Kareem done played more seasons than Jay T, done had more playoffs than Jay T, more all-star games, and he done scored way more points than Jay T,” Martaveous argued.

  “So? The only reason he got more points is ’cause he played so old,” Ty argued. “But Jay T is the leading scorer in points and steals, and he averages more points a game. Plus, you don’t see nobody rocking no Air Kareems. They rocking them Jay Ts!”

  “But you ain’t,” Martaveous said, pointing to his friend’s shoes.

  “I will, though,” Ty shot back. “When I get in the NBA, I’m gonna be just like Jay T. And I’ma have all the J’s.”

  “Don’t nobody care. Yo’ ass ain’t going in the NBA anyway,” Martaveous grumbled.

  “Man, whatever. My game is better than yours.”

  “That’s because you like eight feet tall,” he pointed out.

  Martaveous and his friend Ty were outside playing on the basketball court at the park, talking trash to each other. You would think they hated each other the way they argued back and forth. Despite their bickering, they were really close. They had been best friends for the last few years. For Martaveous, Ty had been his only friend. At 9 years old, they were active, like most typical kids their age. Their life was consumed with basketball, toys, the occasional video game, and having fun. The only thing that was different regarding their childhood is that they were in the system.

  Both Martaveous and Ty had met in foster care. Martaveous had been in longer than Ty, however, and his situation was a little different. Martaveous’s mother was a drug addict who, right after birth, bailed, abandoning him in the hospital. He remembered hearing one of his many caseworkers talking to a coworker on how she read that his mother didn’t even stick around twenty-four hours. She slipped right on out of the hospital undetected, and he was alone. God only knew where his father was, so Martaveous immediately became a ward of the state. For as long as he could remember, he was passed from group home to group home and from foster house to foster house. He dreamed that one day he would wake up and someone would come and get him and tell him that his father had been found and wanted him, or that his mother was clean and was ready to take her baby home, but sadly, it never happened. Nobody wanted him.

  Ty, on the other hand, had a glimpse of what a typical family was like. His mother didn’t leave him at birth. He wouldn’t be in the system if it weren’t for her fatal car accident when he was 5 years old. His father was like most niggas who were hitting females raw . . . ghosts. His grandmother had dementia, so the state had no choice but to put him in a group home.

  The two stayed at the same foster home for a while and became friends when an older kid was trying to pick on Martaveous. Ty came to his rescue. At first, Martaveous thought that Ty was going to pick on him too. He was much taller than Martaveous, and he looked like he could lay somebody out. But lucky for him, they became best friends, with Ty looking out for him.

  They were thick as thieves, but they were separated and placed with different foster families when their foster mother was arrested for welfare fraud. Ty was seven miles away with a nice family, so he would catch the city bus to see Martaveous on weekends, and they would play and catch up on stuff that happened during the week or complain about their foster families.

  Martaveous looked forward to Ty coming over. He could at least relax then. Ty never really experienced the things that Martaveous did. That’s why Martaveous was so jealous of him. Martaveous felt like God didn’t care about him because of what he was going through. He couldn’t stand being in his current foster home because of his foster dad, Mr. Tyeone.

  Mr. Tyeone was one of them niggas that basically just tried to live his life through his kids because his own life sucked. He was tall and had a medium complexion with a bald spot in the middle of his egg-shaped head. He was always wearing tight shirts like he was fit, but his stomach overlapped. He hadn’t worked in months, so that was part of the reason why he had taken Martaveous in like most foster parents . . . to get the money.

  Martaveous knew the minute he got in that house that his new foster father was all about the money and didn’t give a fuck about him. How he managed to become a foster parent was beyond Martaveous. He had three kids, two of which lived with his ex-wife, but his son, Kevin, lived with him and irritated the fuck out of Martaveous. He made it his mission to pick on poor Martaveous. Kevin was twice his size and had light skin. Martaveous was scrawny, short, and had dark skin. Kevin would always talk trash about Martaveous no matter what was going on. He would call him “Blacula,” “Midnight,” “Monkey,” and everything he could think of to make him feel bad about how he looked. Kevin would tease him about his birth mother being a crackhead and how he was so ugly that even a crackhead didn’t want him. He would tell him that he looked like beef jerky with nappy hair. Telling Mr. Tyeone was pointless because the young boy was always told to “man up” and stop acting like a little bitch. To say that he hated being in the house would be an understatement.

  Every chance Martaveous got, he would leave just so that he wouldn’t have to deal with it. He figured that as long as he stayed out of everyone’s way, that he would stay off the radar and wouldn’t have to worry about being the object of ridicule, and for the most part, it worked.

  “Ay, let’s go to the store,” Martaveous said suddenly as they continued to take turns taking shots.

  “You got some money?” Ty asked him.

  “Yea.” Martaveous nodded, bouncing the ball before taking a shot. “I snuck into Mr. Tyeone’s room and took some money off the top of his dresser.”

  “And he didn’t see you?” Ty said, surprised, running to catch the rebound.

  “Nope. He was drunk and lying in the chair,” Martaveous bragged. “So, while he was doing that, I snuck into the room and took it.”

  “Whoa.” Ty nodded, impressed. “Well then, let’s roll.”

  “Yeah, let’s go get some Now and Laters,” Martaveous suggested.

  “Yeah. Ooh, and some of those Push Pops,” Ty added.

  They played basketball for a little longer, talking about what they would get from the store and arguing about who the better basketball player was. Then they spent the next several hours loading up on candy and ice cream before they headed back to the house.

  By the time they made it back to Mr. Tyeone’s, both of them were hyper and bouncing all over the place.

  “Let’s play Nintendo,” Martaveous suggested, already running to the console to turn it on.

  They sat down on the couch and picked up their controllers. Next to his friend and basketball, playing Nintendo was the only thing that Martaveous really liked doing. He felt like a normal kid then. That was all he ever wanted. But he never really got what he wanted.... Something he was sadly all too used to.