Invincible: A Novel

  This book is dedicated to my father

  and my brother. Rest in peace.

  To my mother, for instilling the love

  of books in me.

  To my wife, for pushing me forward,

  and for the energy and inspiration

  to knock it out.

  Love all of y’all.

  A NOTE FROM NIKKI TURNER

  My Dearest Readers,

  Thanks once again for all your undying support over so many years. Without you none of this would be possible. So, to give back, I feel it’s only right to continue introducing you to great new books, and let me be the first to say: This book you are holding in your hand is going to far exceed all expectations you may have.

  Styles P had already mastered the music game, so I knew his book would be a treat. I had been a fan of Styles and the Lox long before I was approached to publish his book under the Nikki Turner Presents umbrella. I knew he was a wonderful lyrical talent, but I honestly had no idea that the international rapper, artist, actor, dad, and dog breeder would put the same passion into this book that he regularly puts into his music.

  In the very early stages of work on Invincible, Styles mentioned to me that he breeds dogs, and I shared with him the tragic story of my Yorkie, Mr. Biggs, whom I’d just lost. He told me that I needed a pit bull in my life and once he found one with the right temperament, he was going to give me a puppy. I didn’t think much more about it until months later, when he called to tell me he had the perfect dog for me. I was shocked. I didn’t take him seriously at the time, nor was I really the pit bull type of girl, either. I accepted the dog, and Glitz has totally won my heart over. So, I have to thank Styles for adding such a great addition to my family.

  Now, as the process continued, I would ask Styles how the writing was coming, and he’d respond to me that he was writing—ON HIS SIDEKICK! In all my days in the writing game I’d never encountered anyone who had written a chapter on a Sidekick, let alone an entire book. I thought it was the craziest thing ever, but when he sent me the first few chapters, not only was I sucked in, but I found an entirely new level of respect for him. His story was such an amazing read, and after finishing it, I felt that Invincible is what urban fiction is really about—an action packed gangsta film with characters who stay with you long after you turn the last page.

  After you put down this book, I know you’ll agree that Styles P is an amazing talent, and you will be sitting on the edge of your seat waiting for part two.

  So, without further due, I present to you … Invincible.

  Enjoy!

  Much Love,

  Nikki Turner

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Foreword: A Note from Nikki Turner

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 - Trust No One

  Chapter 2 - Bad News

  Chapter 3 - Standing Tall

  Chapter 4 - Man Down

  Chapter 5 - Gangstas Ride

  Chapter 6 - Awake

  Chapter 7 - Plots and Plans

  Chapter 8 - Mitch and Monster

  Chapter 9 - Cheating Death

  Chapter 10 - Pure Evil

  Chapter 11 - Help on the Way

  Chapter 12 - Mary-beth’s Back

  Chapter 13 - Flying Bullets

  Chapter 14 - Bit of Truth

  Chapter 15 - Pop Off

  Chapter 16 - Can’t Run, Can’t Hide

  Chapter 17 - Gambling Man

  Chapter 18 - The Right Side

  Chapter 19 - For the People

  Chapter 20 - Back to the Beast

  Chapter 21 - Smart Men

  Chapter 22 - Small World

  Chapter 23 - Mr. Invincible

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Jake couldn’t help but feel like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. His legs had given out, and he felt like an animal being led to slaughter. The stench from the back of the cop car and the pain in his wrists and shoulders from being cuffed so tight was unbearable. What little faith Jake had in mankind had just disappeared.

  Two men robbed Kim and his store and took what was his ($$$$$), and yet he was the one in the back of the police car. Sure, Jake knew it was foolish to go and shoot the robbers, but deep down he understood that what comes around goes around, and he had done enough dirt to last for two lifetimes. The wiser thing to do would’ve been to let the robbers bounce without giving chase, but he just couldn’t control himself.

  Maybe it was his past that drove him to squeeze the trigger, but as he fired his gun and felt it kick and saw the flame from the barrel, he knew exactly where he was headed—p-r-i-s-o-n. In his world, there was no such thing as fair play—not from the thieves, not from the police, not from women, not from family or so-called friends. As far as Jake was concerned, only God could be trusted. Jake learned at an early age not to trust anyone else, a lesson he learned from the so-called closest people in the world to him: his parents. Jake’s father was a crackhead and his churchgoing mother never seemed to care what he did or which streets he ran, making Jake question her love. His uncle was cool but had introduced Jake to some shit a child shouldn’t be involved with, leading Jake to believe as he grew older that in life you’re always gonna need somebody else, but all you really have is yourself.

  The back of the cop car made it clear to Jake that he was headed back to hell and his gut feeling told him only God could help him now.

  TRUST NO ONE

  County jail dorm, January 2008

  Except for minimum activity the dorm was mostly quiet at this hour. There was no chatter among the mostly new faces, no questions from cats awaiting sentencing, no more trading war stories or survival tips—the smell was the only thing that was loud. It was a little after three in the morning and the drugs-infested, gang-riddled jail had taken on an almost serene glow when Jake dropped to his knees to pray. At times like this it didn’t matter that he felt his prayers were never answered in the past; old routines were hard to break. Jake slowly rose from his praying position, allowing his eyes to scan the dorm; most everyone appeared to be asleep. The tier gave off its usual cacophony of noises for this time of the night: loud snoring, fart trumpets, and sounds of nightmares of terror coming from some of the guys who were probably locked up for the first time and scared shitless. How the fuck did I get myself back in this position again, Jake thought. Then the realism of the situation punched him slam in the face: His lifestyle put him here. In order to make himself feel a fraction better he rationalized that everything happened for a reason and God knew better than he what those reasons were. But he still asked God the same thing he always asked when he was in a fix: “Please get me out of here,” followed by the other shit he always said: “I swear I’ll chill this time!”

  After waiting patiently for the CO to make his ring, Jake shoved his index finger into the hole he had made inside of the waistband of his boxers and fished out a neatly rolled stick of kush. He licked it, lit it, took a few quick pulls and held the smoke in his lungs as long as he could. When he finally exhaled, he got a bottle of baby powder and blew three handfuls of it into the air to cover the smell before concealing the remainder of the spliff back in its hiding place.

  Jake looked around one last time and was cool about his surroundings. He lay down in his bunk and went to sleep with one eye open!

  BAD NEWS

  “Jake Billings!” It was CO Frazier yelling from the front of the dorm. “Jake Billings,” he repeated. “Come get your mail before the garbage gets it.”

  Jake walked to the CO desk with a little pep in his step because he knew CO Frazier would do exactly what he said he would do. When he got to the desk, Frazier to
ssed the mail at him along with a do-you-want-a-problem-motherfucker look. Jake picked his mail up off the floor and kept moving; he knew better than to feed into the corrections officer’s bullshit. He didn’t need any extra problems right now. He’d been in jail for five days and hadn’t gotten in contact with anyone yet. To keep it one hundred he wasn’t expecting any mail in the first place; he was waiting on a visit from his girl so he could put her up on what he needed to get out of there.

  Sitting back on his bunk, Jake looked over the envelope he’d just gotten: no return address or name. Not really in the mood for surprises, he ripped the envelope open and read:

  Dear J.B. you don’t know me, but I know you or rather I know of you, and you can’t believe how happy I am to see you in this jail. I’m sending you this kite to let you know I am going to fucking kill you. Your best bet is to check into PC you bitch-ass nigga. You violated the wrong nigga many moons ago and what comes around goes around motherfucka. I hope you’re built for war.

  Oh and p.s.

  Praying in the middle of the night ain’t gonna help a fucking thing.

  Sincerely yours,

  Real Nigga, Same Dorm

  Internally, Jake was fucked up knowing that a nigga was not only watching him but wanted him dead, and he had no idea who that nigga was, but he wouldn’t give anything away to his stalker. Jake had mastered the art of being emotionally cold many years ago; therefore, he hadn’t a worry in the world of his expression or body language giving him away.

  The fact that an anonymous person had sent him a heads-up that they wanted him dead meant one of two things to Jake: He was stupid for tipping his hand and had no idea how dangerous Jake was, or he was the real deal and wanted to play mind games before murder games. Either way, Jake appreciated the letter for putting him on point. But he didn’t appreciate his life being threatened, or being called a bitch-ass nigga.

  Who would want to see him dead? He thought for a second, but who was he kidding—his list of enemies was as long as Broadway. He needed to concentrate on what he did know, and that was that whoever wrote the letter was more than likely watching. Jake decided to put on a show for his anonymous audience. He strolled over to the trash, crumbled the letter with a smile on his face, and threw it in the can. Satisfied with the production, he went to his bin and got out a towel, toothbrush, soap, and boxers. Then he came out of his county oranges and walked to the shower whistling, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. I can play mind games, too, he thought, as he walked toward the shower with his head up, chest out, and sneakers on.

  “Billings,” the CO yelled out. “You got a V.I. I see you about to hop in the shower so I’m going to give you five minutes to do what you gotta do before you come get this pass. Washing your ass is the smartest thing you done since you been here,” he joked. “Now hurry the fuck up.”

  Ignoring the CO, Jake stepped into the shower wondering if his bold act at the trash can was a wise one or if his pride would lead to his demise—only time would tell.

  He quickly began soaping up his 6′1″, 240-pound body. Once he felt like his body was good and clean, he soaped up his mid-brown bald head. Beads of hot water bounced off the tense muscles that made up his broad back, which was cut up from previous bids and frequent visits to the pull-up bar in the park by his crib. Jake felt he could handle himself with just about anyone, but who said it was going to be only one person when the attack came. However, the attack hadn’t come yet; no one followed him or came in during his shower so he hurried to catch his V.I.

  Jake got dressed and went and got the pass from the CO, then headed toward the electric door—waiting for the CO in the bubble to open it. While he waited, Jake took a good look around for any faces he might recognize, but the problem was that there were too many faces he’d seen before. The doors in jail revolve like a carousel from hell … same niggaz in and out with new ones always joining the ride. He would have to deal with this shit after his visit. The CO in the bubble popped the gate and Jake stepped out into the hallway.

  “Let me see your pass,” the CO working the hall asked. Everywhere an inmate went in the jail there was a CO. This was what they called controlled movement. Jake showed his pass to the CO and waited for the elevator. Right now the only thing on his mind was how come it took his girl five days to come visit him. Something ain’t right, he thought.

  Kim was running out of patience as she sat waiting in the visiting room for Jake. She knew he wasn’t in control of the time or movement in the jail, but she was still pissed off at him like it was his fault. Kim chuckled to herself. She noticed she stood out like a black sheep among a herd of white ones in the visiting room: Most of the women visiting their men had a look of stress or concern on their faces and looked tired and depressed. Kim had none of those problems. I ain’t stressed or the least bit concerned with Jake’s future at the moment, and definitely don’t look tired and depressed like these bitches. Kim felt and looked like a million bucks. Every man who walked into the visiting room couldn’t help but notice her, and every one of their girls couldn’t help but roll her eyes at her.

  Kim was 5′10″ with a mocha complexion and the body of a runner, the face of a goddess, and the mind and heart of a cold, calculated criminal. Kim had purposely waited a week before she came to see Jake. She wanted him to be uncomfortable and riled up. She wanted to ruffle his feathers for once. He always acted so cool, and she hated that about him. Kim was glad he was in jail, honestly. Now she could do all she wanted without consequence.

  Kim told herself she really did love Jake; after all, he was one of the realest men she’d ever met. But it was over between them—finally. They had gotten as far as they could as a couple and had made decent money, but the past couple of years their relationship had gotten kind of rocky and Jake was no longer fitting in Kim’s plans. So him shooting those dudes in the store was right up her alley. This is my way out. I got too much shit to do. I rode out with this nigga every other time he was locked up, but not this time. Now I’m gonna do me.

  Kim was psyching herself up to handle her business. Fuck this nigga he don’t fit in with my plans. We have different agendas, and it is time for me to move on.

  Kim once again had to chuckle to herself. It was really funny how she was planning to get away from Jake. And he only had himself to blame. He is the one who made me into the monster I am today.

  ———

  Kim and Jake had known each other practically their whole lives. They were both raised by churchgoing mothers and went to the same schools throughout elementary, junior high, and high school, but they never went out with each other until they were nineteen. It started one day when Kim was going to community college and J.B. was going to his spot to knock off his work for the day. J.B. kept a spot by the school for several reasons. One was that he didn’t like hustling crack on the same block where he laid his head, and another was that it was easy to knock off a pound of weed in about a week around there. College kids love to get high.

  Kim was about to walk by when Jake got the idea to stop her. He had been thinking about making her a proposition for a while now and today was as good as any.

  “Hey, Kim, what’s up?” he called to her. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

  “Sure, what up, Jay?”

  “I’ve been meaning to run a few things by you.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “Do you go to work somewhere after school?” he asked, already knowing the answer to his question because he had been keeping an eye on Kim for a while.

  “I wish I did.”

  “Then your wish just came true. I got some work for you.”

  Kim knew that Jake dabbled in a lot of different illegal things so when she asked what, and he told her, she responded, “I can’t sell weed, J.B.,” almost too loudly. “I wouldn’t even know what to do or say. Plus, I can’t afford to get kicked out of school.”

  Jake laughed. “You don’t have to do it in school and you don’t have to say much. T
he customer will do most of the talking.” After getting her attention with that, he gave her the rundown. “See, I have this apartment around the corner where the students come to cop from. The problem is I don’t have the time to be in there from four to ten because I have a lot of running around to do—I need some help. All you got to do is sit in the apartment and when they knock, tell them to slide the money under the door. We only sell dimes so you can figure out what to give them. I will return every day around ten P.M. to relieve you.”

  Kim stood there seriously considering Jake’s offer. God knows she could use the extra money. Her school books alone were costing her a fortune, and that was for the used ones, but she still had a few other concerns. “What if somebody tries to rob me?”

  Jake gave her a smile that said he had it all under control. “The whole transaction is made under the door,” he said. “It’s more than enough space; I had the bottom of the door shaved so that there’s no reason to ever open it up. Trust me.”

  “What about police?” she asked, covering all bases.

  Jake put his cards on the table and spoke to her earnestly. “Well that’s another story. If the police kick this shit in you’re going to jail, but you will only be in there a couple of hours. Weed ain’t no felony and being that you’re a girl the most they’ll hit you with is a fine and a warning to stay out of trouble for a year.”

  When she asked how much money she’d make, Jake knew that she was down. He told her she would make three dollars off of every ten-dollar bag that she sold.

  “How about four?” she cracked.

  Jake laughed. “The job is only worth two dollars a bag,” he said. “I’m being generous with three.”

  “Why don’t you find someone else?” she asked honestly.