Push - Softcover

Relentless Aaron lives with his family in New York where he also owns and operates Relentless Content, a publishing & video production company. The author of more than 30 previous novels, he is currently working on a new series.

"Relentless is seriously getting his grind on." --Vibe
Reginald "Push" Jackson was a good kid from Harlem. He never meant to do anyone any harm. His parents raised him better than that But then they were murdered and he was left on his own. And that's when the real trouble began

Street fights. Guns. Drugs. Push fought his way through the back alleys to become one of Harlem's most powerful players. He made a name for himself for being tough. But he was loyal, too. Push would do anything to keep his loving sister, and his baby nephew, out of harm's way--until the law caught up with him, and he landed himself in a federal penitentiary.

"Relentless is very real." --98.7 KISS FM
Fifteen years later, Push has paid his dues. Though he planned to leave the thug life behind once he got out prison, he suddenly finds himself back in the game. But this time there are new players, and the rules are more dangerous--and deadly--than ever

Chapter One

 

In less than 1 minute, Roy Washington would witness a murder. He was parked on 122nd Street, slumped down in the back seat of his glistening, jet black, wide-bodied Mercedes sedan. The car was just 3 weeks old, a testament of success, however earned. And it gave the streets a message: this particular man came up . . . he scored, he's winning. The streets were always watching cats like Roy Washington.

 

It was 9:30, early for a Friday night, when ballers, hustlers and players--Roy considered himself all of the above--were still deciding whether to live it up, or keep it on the low, play it small and intimate. This was what was on Roy's mind just now; maybe he'd take Asondra downtown to The Five Spot to catch something jazzy . . . he could swing across the East River and show her off at SugarHill in Brooklyn, or at Manhattan Proper in Queens . . . or he could bring her pretty-ass uptown to Club Carib, the swanky spot in New Rochelle. But then, of course, there was always the usual circuit here in Harlem, The Rooftop, The Cotton Club, Perk's or the Lenox Lounge. Roy let these ideas digest as he soaked into his soft, black-leather seats. There was more room to stretch out here in the back seat. And besides, the total impact of his dope hi-fi system touched him better back here. It was as if his car had become an intimate lounge in itself; a place for a man to think while he waited for his woman to get her hair done.

 

The Quiet Storm was pre-empted on Friday and Saturday nights so that the party music could butter up the minds of black folks, perhaps directing them to this club or that with those so-called "live broadcasts." The infamous "live broadcast"; it could be a radio personality standing in the corner of a club, 4 or 5 early birds with him, all of them making noise into a cell phone to simulate a much larger crowd. Indeed, a larger crowd would inevitably come, lured in by that very charade they heard over the radio airwaves.

 

The tricks they play on the radio, Roy told himself, wishing he had a piece of that scam along with those of his own. He was inspired to change the mood and reached from his relaxed position to feed a CD into the sound system. You could never go wrong with Anita Baker's Greatest Hits. And that was just the CD Roy picked. He liked how the mellow-voiced soulstress worked the scatting into the rhythm and blues.

 

"Bah-bah--bah--bwee,

 

bah bah--bah--bwoo,

 

bah bah--bah--boo--yeah."

 

He found himself intoxicated by the music, (the only right thing in his wayward world), and it had him almost slipping out of consciousness. His eyelids drooped shut in an effort to stock up on some sleep so that he'd be alert for the evening. He never could tell what might cross his path: there could be a new piece of ass he'd meet, or a fresh business prospect to pass a phone number to. There might even be an old enemy lurking. It was anybody's guess what might come along. For this was Roy Washington's life: plenty of pussy, plenty of loan-sharking to do, and plenty of enemies. It went with the territory of this jack-of-all-trades . . . someone who took those high risks. He didn't care whose feet he stepped on, just as long as he got his way. Just as long as he got paid and laid, he had it made. And speaking of stepping on folks,

 

Damn, Asondra is taking forever up in there, thought Roy.

 

Up in there, was "Mya's Place," where Mya Fuller operated an exclusive salon from her home. Hers was a 3-story brownstone here on 122nd Street where certain clients came to get their hair did or their nails done for the weekend. Roy had been up in Mya's Place a number of times in the past, for business, since she was one of his clients. But never did he have to go in there and make a scene, to reprimand Asondra for taking so long. Only now, he was swearing in his mind:

 

Women. Roy let out an exhaustive sigh. Such was the price of keeping a high-maintenance woman at his convenience. And Asondra was just that; keep her in diamonds, keep her going to Mya's, stick a hard dick up in her, and she'd keep her mouth shut.

 

Roy smiled to himself at the idea of Asondra being his . . . of being what he wanted: a perfect lady out in public, and an absolute slut in the bed. She was street-smart and sharp when it came to looking the part, creating that all-important illusion for the world to see. But Asondra could be a bitch, too. A devil. And that's when Roy had to put his foot down. He'd have to check her. It might take a good slap across her face, or he'd be extra rough with her in bed, just to remind her of who the big dog was . . . who was in charge around here. Tonight, Roy decided, as soon as Asondra came out of Mya's Place, he would let her have it. That was the problem with pretty bitches like Asondra. Let her get the best of you, even a little bit, and it was too far. Tomorrow she'd try to get away with something else. Hell no.

 

In his mind, Roy could see the whole picture: Asondra would hop in the passenger's seat and say, "You like?" All smiles and cheer casted at him.

 

And Roy would answer, "Come-eer you pretty motha-fucka . . ." Asondra would quickly turn soft, her eyes half-closed in a sexy leer since he was surely referring to her. That's when Roy would flip on her, he'd grab her face and squeeze her cheeks together with his large, boney hand. Her face would be contorted with her eyes searching his. Then, while in total control, he'd say,

 

"Bitch, if you ever keep me waiting like that again, I'll slap the shit outta you. Got me?"

 

Asondra would nod as best as she could within his grip.

 

Then Roy would say, ". . . Now put your tongue in my mouth," just to make things all lovey-dovey again. This was how it went between Roy and Asondra. This was the way it would always be while Roy Washington, the womanizer, slash, Mack Daddy, slash, loan shark, had his way.

 

Chapter Two

 

There was the sound of squeaking brakes that interrupted Anita's CD just as it was preparing for her next song. The unfriendly noise belonged to a yellow cab that stopped in close proximity to the Mercedes. All of this was captured within Roy's sleepy gaze. And furthermore, the cab was so outrageously bright against the night and the line of dark brownstones across the street.

 

There were no streetlights on 122nd, just another dark, dismal, haunting atmosphere that defined the reality of Harlem's mean and hungry jaws.

 

A man stepped out from the rear of the cab, exposing Roy to the inside, where the passenger had already paid the driver. The cab pulled away, leaving its exhaust to waft in the air, and its 6-foot-tall passenger squeezed between Roy's car and the one in front. The man's face showed itself in that fleeting instant, despite the tint of the Mercedes windshield. He had a ponytail, a mustache and goatee shadowing his redbone skin.

 

Stepping onto the sidewalk, he seemed to curse himself as he looked down and wiped himself off. So Roy guessed right, that the guy got some of that snow and dirt mixture on his pants and shoes and whatnot. Roy sighed and resumed his dream.

 

 Sleepy head wasn't the only one out there on 122nd Street. Neither was the man who disembarked from the taxicab. Reginald "Push" Jackson was waiting, out of sight, packing an automatic firearm, carrying on with his own inner dialogue.

 

There he is. Raphael, the snake. Right out in...