Sexual Healing Read Free

and try to reason with the muthafucka who wouldn’t let go of an old grudge. But Cruze knew better than to believe he could negotiate with a killer.
    Surrendering to his fate, he slowed his stride, and he wasn’t surprised when the footfalls behind him sped up. His luck had finally run out. Surprisingly, instead of fear, he felt an odd sense of relief. And acceptance.
    The looming presence was directly behind him and Cruze braced himself for a bullet to the back of his dome.
    â€œYou know what it is, man, gimme your watch,” the voice behind him demanded. “Give it up, and . . . and don’t try nothing, either. Oh, yeah, reach in your pockets and gimme your money . . . and your phone, too.”
    I’ll be goddamned. This isn’t a hit . . . it’s a fucking stick-up! Cruze almost laughed, but he was too infuriated to crack a smile. Quick as lightning, he pulled his piece and wheeled around and came face-to-face with a big bruiser who was almost as tall as Cruze, and as wide as he was tall. Chubby cheeks and a youthful face revealed an overgrown kid, seventeen or eighteen. Maybe younger.
    The chubby-faced teen gawked at the gleaming Glock that was aimed in his face, and then his gaze drifted downward at the metal pipe in his own hand.
    Cruze cocked the gun. With a simmering rage, he fixed hard eyes on the juvenile. “What’s wrong with you, young nigga? You ain’t got nothing better to do than try to rob hardworking muthafuckas, huh, fuck boy?”
    In Cruze’s darkened eyes, the would-be robber glimpsed a chained beast that was so angry and frightening; the youth couldn’t help taking several steps backward. “Yo, man, I was only fuckin’ with you. I ain’t tryna rob nobody.” Proving his harmlessness, he smiled dumbly and unfurled his fingers. The metal pipe, as ineffective as a water pistol, rolled out of his hand and clattered to the pavement.
    In swift motions, Cruze grabbed the pipe and struck the teen in the kneecaps. The oversized boy pitched forward with a loud groan and then stumbled backward, hitting the ground with the force of a massive tree.
    Cruze leapt on him. He pistol-whipped the boy unmercifully before pressing the gun against his forehead. “Your punk-ass is a few seconds from dying . . . was it worth it, stick-up boy?”
    â€œNah, it wasn’t worth it. Don’t kill me, Mister. Please. I’m sorry,” the youth cried through bloodied lips.
    Cruze fingered the trigger and then caught himself. What the fuck am I doing? This fool ain’t nothing but a dumb-ass kid. He stood up, cursing as he returned the Glock to his waistband.
    Looking down, Cruze noticed blood on his Air Yeezys. With renewed anger, he kicked the boy in the ribs. “That’s for bleeding on my shit, bitch-ass fuck-boy!”
    Leaving the bungling thief wallowing on the ground in pain, Cruze took off through the park. When he reached his nondescript rental car, he sparked a blunt before pulling off. As he merged into traffic, the calm that came over him quieted his pounding heart. But the violent altercation with the young punk had awakened something that weed couldn’t appease. Feeling strangely energizedby the murder he’d almost committed, Cruze made a sudden U-turn.
    It was crucial that he got out of New York and returned to Philly, but the stirring in his groin was relentless, demanding that he make a pit stop, first. There was a long list of candidates to choose from, but Laila Stanley was the closest in proximity.
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    Head down to obscure his face, Cruze trotted up the steps of the Brooklyn brownstone and rang the bell. The door cracked open, and he flashed a smile that displayed the set of deep dimples that were sure to melt away any resentment Laila might have harbored against him.
    â€œHey, baby,” he said in a low, sensual tone.
    Eyes wide, Laila gasped, covering