Wifey Status: Renaissance Collection

Wifey Status: Renaissance Collection

by Racquel Williams

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781622866168
Publisher: Kensington
Publication date: 11/28/2017
Pages: 384
Sales rank: 1,278,299
Product dimensions: 4.10(w) x 6.70(h) x 0.90(d)

About the Author

Racquel Williams was born in Kingston, Jamaica, and came to the United States in 1992. Struggling to support her sons as a single mother, she chose the wrong path and ended up sentenced to 37 months in prison on drug charges. Upon her release, she moved to Atlanta, Georgia, where she lives with her two sons. She is pursuing a degree in psychology and has self-published several novels.

Read an Excerpt


Sierra Rogers

"A closed mouth doesn't get fed." That's the motto which I lived by daily. A chick like me was hungry for the glamour life that regular bitches only dreamed of. I knew I was from a different caliber the second I, Sierra Rogers, entered this wicked world.

I was born and raised in Creighton Court Projects in Richmond, Virginia. My hood was known as one of the grimiest hoods on the city's East End. The niggas that repped Creighton were known for wreaking havoc all over the city of Richmond.

There were three types of folks that were eating well in my hood: the hustlers slinging them rocks, the stickup kids that were robbing the drug dealers, and the whores that were selling their pussy.

Life was hard from the get-go; I had to fend for myself at a young age. I got hip to the fact that Momma was a certified crackhead from the terrible things the kids would say to me on the playground and also hearing the dope boys cussing her out for their money.

I was a little over seventeen years old when Momma decided she'd had enough of being a sorry-ass parent. I remembered coming home from school and seeing two garbage bags packed with all the clothing she owned. I didn't bother to ask no question; this had become a regular stunt. She'd disappear for a few days, and then pop right back up without explanation. I winched as she planted a kiss on my forehead.

Somehow, tears welled up in my eyes, and I opened my mouth to say, "Momma, don't go," but the sounds never came out. Who was I fooling but my damn self? I couldn't wait for that no-good bitch to get on about her business. Then I could finally get some peace and quiet in my tumultuous life.

As I think back on how much I hated that bitch, it made my stomach turn. Lately, she was getting on my damn nerves with all that pacing back and forth that she did when she was geeking off that crack. And I was definitely sick of all the different tricks she'd brought home every night. I'd put my head underneath the pillow, trying my best to block out the disturbing sounds. The thin wall that separated our bedrooms wasn't enough to shield my tender ears from being exposed to hearing all the fucking and sucking that was taking place in the next room. That goes to show the little respect that Jeanette Rogers had for her teenage daughter.

This time was different though, 'cause it's been five years and four months, and Momma was still MIA. I couldn't help but wonder what the fuck happened to her. Then again, the bitch didn't give a flying fuck about her only seed, so fuck her!

I became a sole survivor; didn't have the guidance and structure that a young female growing up in the project needed. I made a mental note that I was going to get mines at any means necessary. I was blessed with a banging body. Five foot five, 143 pounds, proportioned out in all the right angles, skin as smooth as a newborn baby's ass, and a cute face. People say I resemble Nia Long, the actress. I believe my most valuable asset is my apple bottom ass. It's like a Bam! in your face kind of booty. Hmm ... I hate to sound conceited, but I'll be the first one to tell you, I'm every nigga's dream and every bitch's nightmare.

I wasn't attracted to the younger heads. I've been around them long enough to know their MO. All they wanted was to hit and run and tell their boys. I skipped over the flunkies and headed straight to the top niggas in charge; they had nice rides and long pockets. With my sexy body and my sharp mouthpiece, I had no trouble reeling them into my life. This popping pussy got me not one, not two, but three high-paid sugar daddies taking care of me financially.

See, the thing with an older hustler, if you are a chick with a tight pussy and you are fucking and sucking him the right way, he has no limit on how much money he spends on you. That's just a way of securing the pussy so you won't fuck the next baller that's trying to get in.

As I got older, I knew that even with a nice body like mines, I would need something to back it up. See, pussy was like an elastic band; after a little wear and tear, it loses its grip. Plus, I didn't want to become a statistic — young, black female knocked up having four or five different baby daddies. Hell, nah! I was striving for the top spot — wifey — it was that simple.

I enrolled in Johnson's Beauty School on Second Street, and eighteen months later, I got my beautician's license. It didn't take long to secure me a chair at one of Richmond's most elite spots, International House of Beauty. It was a full-line salon. I knew the owner, Charley. He was also from Creighton, so he happily took me under his wing.

I took my skills to the shop and started killing it, from finger waves to Chinese buns and quick weaves. I even had something for the guys too. Living in the projects had its upside because bitches stayed broke all week, but always managed to trick the money up to get their wig fixed on the weekend, just in time for the club.

Alijah Jackson

I was born a hustler. Since the age of two, I was hustlin' Mom-dukes for five dollars to takin' bottles to the shop for the refund money. I even hustled the old heads for ice-cream money.

I knew that I had unique skills growing up, 'cause when boys my age were out playing soccer or baseball, I'd be pushing a handcart filled with mangoes to the nearby market. I'd get my grind on. It didn't matter that I was missing out on hanging with my homies, 'cause after a long day at the market, I headed home with a pocket filled with money. I'd hit Mom-dukes off, then placed the rest underneath my mattress.

I was born and raised in Tivoli Gardens in Kingston, Jamaica. Most refer to this area as "Tha Garden." Don't be fooled. This name didn't come about because all the flowers that were planted there; it's more like all the bodies that were droppin' due to the brutal murders that were taking place.

Crime became part of our everyday living. Murders and robberies became regular news in the community. A lot of people lost hope a long time ago; some turned into bums, while others turned to drugs and alcohol. The younger heads turned to selling drugs or slinging guns.

My mom happened to be one of the lucky ones that didn't become a victim of her environment. See, Mom-dukes ain't no slouch. She wanted more outta life for us, so with the help of family, we moved to the land of freedom — the Great USA. We moved to Mount Vernon, New York. Life was a lot different from back home. My mom got her a job which allowed us to keep a roof over our head and save a little for a rainy day.

However, crime was the same. The corners were crowded with the thugs tryin'a get their hustle on, and I became fascinated with the niggas that were slinging dope and driving flashy rides and getting all the bitches. I knew that'd be me one day. I dropped out of school and started working on my illegal mentality. I saved my allowance up, and at sixteen, I copped my first eight ball of crack for a buck twenty-five. I got cool with Darryl, an older cat that lived in my building. He was already a vet in the game, so he schooled me on how to cut and bag up dimes of crack. It didn't take long for me to get the hang of things. I went from copping eight balls to ozes in no time.

I was shocked at how much paper we were making in that small-ass town. We became partners and had Third Street and Fourth Avenue on lock. We found us a connect in Harlem that supplied us with that butter crack that had fiends running back for more. We became hood superstars overnight. Biggie ain't never lied when he said, "Mo' money, mo' problems."

Niggas started hating on us. We got into beefs about who controlled what turfs. I wasn't trying to hear that shit, and knowing I wasn't no stranger to gunplay, I laid a few of them niggas down. Other problems came about. Niggas started to snitch, and since I wasn't no fool, I knew jakes (police) would be in pursuit real soon.

I was knee deep in the game and wasn't ready to stop just yet. I made the move from New York to Richmond, Virginia. It turned out to be a blessing, or more so a curse. Cats kept coming up top bragging 'bout how much paper they were making down South. I brought it to my boy's attention, and when the opportunity presented itself, we jumped on it.

I put a couple of niggas down with us, including two cats I knew from the Bronx, Chuck and Dre. They're cousins from Edenwald Project. Before I put them on my team, they were creating havoc all over the streets of the Bronx. They'd robbed and killed just to get their points across. Then there was Markus; he's the quietest outta the crew. He isn't no killer; he's more of a Wall Street-type cat. He kept my paper straight, and he was loyal to the cause.

My intention was to make this my town. I kept my eyes and ears opened to the street. That's how a star player like me rolled. The South turned out to be everything that was said, and more. I kept Julio as my connect and was killing the streets with that no-bake crack.

A lot of cats tried to holla at me, but if I wasn't feeling them or knew of them, I wouldn't give them no play. Bitches also tried to get in the mix, but I was fully aware of dudes getting set up by a sexy bitch. I would converse and trick a little, but once they started to ask all the damn questions, I'd turned ghost on their ass.


Sierra Rogers

I strongly believed in destiny. When I met Alijah Jackson in 2006, it came as no surprise; our paths were already in the making. I met him one night at my job. I'd just finished on my last head of weave, tired as hell. As I looked in the mirror, I thought to myself I couldn't wait to get home and soak in some bubble bath ... but before I could finish my thoughts, I heard someone push the door open.

I turned around to face a tall, sexy, chocolate brotha standing in front of me. I began to ask, "How'd you get in here?" but I was stuck on his appearance. Furthermore, it was my fault; I left the door unlocked.

"Hello, may I help you?" I spoke, looking this stranger dead into his seductive, bedroom eyes.

"Look, ma, I'm tryin'a get my hair braided."

"I'm sorry, hon, we're closed. Would you like to make an appointment fo' tomorrow?"

He stepped closer to my face. I felt like he was invading my space, so I took a step back.

"No disrespect, ma; I'm tryin'a get it done now!"

I wondered who the fuck that nigga thought he was. He got me fucked up.

"I said we're closed, so could you get yo' ass on out, so I could close up and head the fuck on home," I spat. I turned to walk to the door hoping he'd be in pursuit, but I be damned. This ignorant-ass nigga took a seat.

Yo! Truth be told, there was something about his in-control attitude that I was turned on by. After minutes of arguing back and forth, I finally gave in to his demand. I didn't bother to inquire what style he wanted, which I knew was unprofessional, but I didn't give a fuck at the time.

"Yo, I'm charging you fifty for the hair and fifty fo' my aggravation." I stretched my arm out, the whole time mean mugging him, but he didn't flinch.

"Bet!" he said without hesitation. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a stack of cash. After counting out four crisp fifty-dollar bills, he handed them to me. It was more than I asked for, but I wasn't complaining.

After several moments of complete silence, he spoke up and asked me my government. I didn't want to come off ignorant, so I told him my name. He told me his name was Alijah. I didn't want him to think I was pressed for his conversation, so I left it at that.

It took me 'bout thirty minutes to finish braiding his thick, long hair. I couldn't help but imagine what it would feel like to run my fingers through his hair while he did me on the sofa. That's when the little voice in my head said, "Bitch, stop trippin'."

I handed him a mirror, and that was that! He seemed satisfied as he thanked me and walked out. There was something about this dude that caught my attention. I noticed his swag, and he walked with cockiness. I walked over to the door and locked it this time. I pretended like I wasn't watching him, but I saw when he jumped into a truck with chrome rims on it. My curiosity got the best of me. I couldn't wait to find out who the fuck he was.

As I got in my car, I thought, Boy, I'm beat. I cut the radio on to Power 92 FM, Richmond's hottest radio station. They were playing some old-school reggae. My thoughts switched real fast to ole boy. I was feeling him. I peeped the way he was dressed. He had on a Coogie outfit and was iced out in a matching chain and bracelet. I know I was being nosy, but I could smell money from a mile away. I also sensed that he wasn't from around here either. His accent sent chills up my spine when he spoke. It was sexy as hell. Shit, I might be his future baby mama. Lmao.

Without further delay, I got out of the car and hurried into my apartment. I quickly undressed and jumped into the shower. The water felt so damn good on my tired body. After a thorough wash in Oil of Olay body wash, I felt like a brand-new woman. I got out of the tub and grabbed a towel, but before I could wrap up, I caught a glimpse of my body. I rubbed my hands across my 38DD breasts. I wondered what his hands would feel like over them. I hadn't been with a man in over a year. I was well overdue for some good loving.

I put on a Victoria's Secret boy shorts set, made me some hot chocolate, and got into bed. Picking up the remote, I thought maybe I could catch an episode of Forensic Files on Court TV.

Alijah Jackson

It wasn't no coincidence when I rolled up in the salon. I had my eyes set on one of the stylists up in there. A week ago, while riding down Nine Mile Road, I peeped shorty. She was standing outside. The first thing that caught my eyes was her phat ass. I had to make a U-turn to make sure my eyes weren't deceiving me, and sure enough, it was there in front of me. She was a little cutie too. I scoped her out from head to toe. She was a bad bitch from what I could see. I wanted to pull over and holla at her, but I was riding dirty, and I couldn't risk getting torn off in the name of a chick. I watched as she walked back inside, where I assumed she worked 'cause she had the little apron on.

A few days went by, and I couldn't get this chick off my mind. I rolled over to Fairfield Projects to rap with my homeboy, Saleem. He's a Muslim cat from Harlem. He moved to Virginia a few years ago and was doing pretty well for himself. He had Fairfield Projects on lock with heroin and coke.

If anyone could tell me what I needed to know, it'd be him. He was standing outside when I pulled up.

"Whaddup, son," I greeted him as I pulled up beside him.

"Peace, my brotha," he said, stretching his hand out. We exchanged daps.

"Good, get in; lemme rap wit' you real quick."

He got in without hesitation.

"Yo, B, let's get sump'n to grub on. I'm famished."

"Dats what it is then," he agreed.

As I made my way uptown, we didn't converse much; we were both lost in our own thoughts.

Saleem has always amazed me with his laid-back demeanor, but underneath, I knew he was capable of doing some serious damage.

As we entered the restaurant, I walked toward the back to holla at my boy Country, the owner. I then went back out front and placed my order. Saleem already placed his order, which was always seafood. I respect the brotha didn't eat no meat, but, shit, I sure love me some meat. I ordered a large rice and peas and oxtail. The order was on the house, so we got our food and left.

As we headed back to the East End, we discussed a little business. We both had the same plan to take over Church Hill, the city's most profitable drug area. We decided to put our minds together and get shit accomplished.

"Yo, Saleem, fuck these country-ass muthafuckas. We goin' try talkin' to the nigga in charge, at least try to work sump'n out. You feel me?"

"Brotha, that sound good, but we might have to strong-arm the spots and be ready fo' war," Saleem bragged.

"B, I'm ready fo' whatever."

"Alijah, this is a new ball game. Keep in mind you are not on your turf. Be careful, my brotha. Trust no one and always go with yo' first instinct." He placed his arm on my shoulder and then continued to rap.

"You're like a brotha to me. I would hate for anything to happen to you. Don't fall victim to the game," he said, and then removed his hand.

"Word, I feel what you sayin', son, but you kno' me; I'm on top of my game."

He didn't respond. Instead, he turned his head toward the street. I turned on his block to drop him off. Dang! I almost forgot my reason for the visit.

"Yo, B, I need a favor too."

"Spit it out."


Excerpted from "Wifey Status: Renaissance Collection"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Racquel Williams.
Excerpted by permission of Urban Books, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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