“The Daughters of Hustle is more than just a book, it's a cultural phenomenon that has become the voice of female "hustlers" and entrepreneurs across the world," says Morris. "This erotic, provocative and violent book series, and these enigmatic characters, will encourage you to explore an emotional side of yourself that you probably thought never existed. It will be the most influential and informative book you’ll ever read in your lifetime. You will learn to appreciate and empathize with these young girls, who are struggling to survive in the most volatile situations imaginable."
The origin of the story unfolds with Samantha Yates and Jodi Marshall, who met each other at Quantico, Virginia, where shortly after, they became close friends and joined the Marine Special Operations Regiment (MSOR).
During their service as First Battalion leaders, Samantha was approached by several female Marines, who confessed to being raped by several high ranking officers within the Corps - one of those Marines was her best friend, Jodi. Samantha decided to help her fellow female Marines by filing a petition to bring forth rape charges against ten officers. Before they could get enough signatures to prosecute the rapists, they were unlawfully discharged from duty.
Back in Lawrence, Florida, Samantha and Jodi decided to create a socially conscious organization that would organize women in the community, who were victims of domestic violence, rape and discrimination, and teach them how to fight and end the mistreatment of women. The name of the organization was called The Roses.
Six months later, Samantha and Jodi were both brutally murdered during a drive-by shooting outside Jodi’s grandmother’s house. Jodi’s younger sister, Madison, who was thirteen at the time, was shot in the shoulder and legs, including a graze across her face, while sitting in the back seat of the vehicle. Some people believe the murders were an act of senseless violence, a matter of being in the wrong place and the wrong time; others believe the murder was committed by Special OP Marines. The murders are still unsolved.
In honor of Samantha and Jodi, Madison and her best friend, Rye, 'recreated' The Roses. And although they continue to practice the original vision and ideology set forth by Jodi and Samantha, The Roses have evolved into a vicious female street gang, determined to protect themselves and their ruthless, profitable illegal merchandising business against corrupt law officers, corporate moguls, rival street gangs and suspicious parents.
The Daughters of Hustle will change your life forever.
Written by Jodi McCormick
"This groundbreaking book series exposes the shocking level of sexual abuse against women in the US military, and how the victims are ignored, their wounds left untended, and how the psychological damage festers silently, poisoning their lives, as the survivors are expected to carry on, facing their attacker on a daily basis. Beautifully written.”
- Marsha Collins
"The Daughters of Hustle defines the everyday hardship faced by teenage girls raised in America’s ghettos. It follows Morris' protagonist, Rye Pryor, as she navigates the lives of drug dealers and hustlers, prostitutes and police. Through ambition, unity and education, she starts to see a way out and begins to find new hope and fire through her "sisters." She gives us a guided tour through hell and shows us how to survive in hypocritical and murderous world."
- Juliette Sanderson
“As with “The Sopranos,” “Daughters” has plenty of guns and violence, but it prefers to find its drama in the dialogue, in the internal struggles of the characters. Here, of course, there’s a much larger Shakespearean mythology at work.”
- Mitchell Douglass
“The Daughters of Hustle is about the attempt to recreate a state of nature in the modern world. It examines families, tribes, organizations and states and looks at how distrust, individualism and selfishness have not only rotted out all of these institutions but also made it almost impossible for us to return to a state in which we do work together and trust each other as equal, free individuals.”
- Kip Dawson
“This story explores the lives of female street gangs growing up in dangerous city of Lawrence, Florida, with a broader focus on an entire generation, the children of poor-born families. More specifically, Morris portrays the generational conflict that resulted when parents “threw away” their children to the streets and hoped they would be able to survive on their own.
As the Daughters of Hustle unfolds, Morris' sociological analysis becomes more apparent and the girl’s survival consciousness emerges as they place their own life within the broader context of American psychological and survival patterns.
Several story lines underlie the many specific and sometimes seemingly random moments in the story. Morris charts the girls’ flight from societal distress to the relative emotional security of life on the street with their "new" family and friends. The girls find a sense of belonging within the non-judgmental attitude and the 'survival ideologies' of junkies, prostitutes, drug dealers and religious leaders. They attempt to escape the perils of the death and the real threat of longer incarceration by embracing the intellectual challenge of books, school, and music; this embrace leads to a time of freedom from the 'psychological chains' of the streets and a struggle with their identity and sense of “home.”
- Mary Williams
We would like to introduce eighteen year old Clarissa Humm. Look for this song to be included in the movie and soundtrack.
More information on Clarissa Humm below:
“Real men keep their word!” yells Sydney. “I fuckin’ hate you! You don’t even know who I am! You don’t fuckin’ care about me! I wish you weren’t my father! I wish you would just fuckin’ die! Please die…you fuckin’ bastard!”
It’s still an early evening in the City of Lawrence, Florida. The air is warm, the sky is light blue, and the northern mockingbirds fly furiously, as they sense night approaching.
Forty-two year old, Donald Hanna glances out the driver’s side window, as his black, ‘09 Bentley Continental GT turns right onto Macklin Road. He starts to think deeply about the conversation he just had with his seventeen year old daughter, Sydney. It’s going on nine months, since the last time he seen her. His absence has never been a problem with his twelve year old son, Richard, but he knows Sydney is growing to hate his existence as each day passes by. How can I make this better? How do I stop her from hating me?
As he sits at the red light on Murray Boulevard and Neal St., he starts to think about his earlier lunch conversation with Mildred Clark, the Director of The Lawrence Performing Arts Center. She was so relentless and judgmental in her opinions. He glides the palm of his hand across his white face and begins to think about the financial problems the center is currently facing. Why does this have to happen right now?
His mind suddenly races back to that afternoon; he helped carry his sister-in-law, Jaime, out of Black Dog Lake. He still remembers the crying sounds of her husband and their six year old daughter, Pamela. But what continues to haunt him is the sound of his wife’s screams. He still remembers her punching him in the chest and face, like it was his fault her sister drowned. Her death caused his wife to go into a deep depression, which led to an addiction to ketamine, thousands of dollars in therapy sessions and an indefinite division in their fifteen year marriage.
The light turns green and he makes a right onto Johnson Road. He drives until he gets to Park Street. He makes a left and drives into the parking lot. He finds a parking spot and kills the ignition. He takes a deep breath. What the fuck am I going to do?
Twenty year old, Kiara “Kiki” Wilson, quickly walks across the freshly cut grass and onto the gravel road. She’s wearing a peach V-neck tank top, blue denim skinny jeans and a pair of navy Nike Air Force One sneakers. She makes a left turn into the parking lot and moves her black, curly hair away from her bronzed face.
As she continues to walk through Walker Park, she looks ahead and sees her probation officer, Jeremy Joseph, standing next to the red and brown picnic table underneath a palm tree. He’s wearing a grey contemporary fit dress shirt, grey Zanella flat front wool trousers and a pair of black Kenneth Cole Venetian loafers. He adjusts his berry, Michael Kors woven silk tie, as she approaches the picnic table.
“Like I told you on the phone, I wasn’t involved,” says Kiki, pointing her finger in his face.
He pushes her finger out his face. “Here let me tell you a story…”
“Are you for real?” she responds back, rolling her eyes.
“Yes, I’m for real!”
She puts her hands on top of her hips and looks into his brown eyes.
“So, check this out…a man name Marvin Perry is watching T.V. in his bedroom around 7 p.m., right? He sees a flurry of lights through his window, accompanied by the thunder of gunfire. His five year old daughter flies through his bedroom door and screams, get down Daddy!”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah, I’m serious! Now pay attention,” he replies back, making sure his eyes are completely connected with hers. “They both dive onto the floor and stay face down on the carpet while the gunfire continues. His three year old son is in the other room, scared out his fuckin’ mind! He’s so scared, he can’t even scream. That’s how scared he is. He doesn’t know what’s going on. He doesn’t know if his father is dead! He doesn’t know if his sister is dead! He’s never experienced…”
She interrupts him and raises her voice. “Why are you trying to implicate me in random acts of violence?”
“Hold on, let me finish,” he says, moving closer to her. “Now imagine…the next morning, the Lawrence Police Department discovers fifty-five bullet holes through this man’s house. The residents at Golden Rod Apartments give statements, and a few hours later, Lawrence PD arrests a black male and a white female passenger on 13th Street and North Central Avenue in Baywater. They open the trunk and find a black Heckler & Koch 416 assault rifle and three other firearms. A MG3 and a Thompson sub, and clothing used in three recent armed robberies. ”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“You grew up in Golden Rod Apartments. That’s your old stomping grounds.”
“Ok. So what? I haven’t lived in that fucked up place, since I was twelve years old. You know about the GRA. Gunfire is a way of life,” she says.
“I know you Kiara, or should I say Kiki. I know all about how you grew up. You don’t need to remind me.”
“So you think you know me like that? You don’t know anything about me!”
“Let me tell you what I do know,” he says, moving closer. “I know you are rebellious. I know you are an emotionally scarred girl. I know you had a traumatic childhood. I know your mother was a Jamaican prostitute in Mandeville, Jamaica. I know she met your father at a bachelor party. I know your father is rumored to be a member of the Parliament of Albania. I know…”
She interrupts him and points her finger inches from his nose. “You know what? Fuck you! What the fuck does this have to do with me?”
“I’ll tell you why the fuck this has everything to do with you!” he yells back, moving her finger out his face.
She steps away and sits on top of the picnic table. He steps a few inches closer, so close; he could smell the scent of her perfume. “You want to know who the Lawrence PD stopped that night?”
“I really don’t give a fuck,” she says, looking at him, as if she doesn’t even care.
He points his finger in her face, and yells, “They arrested your fuckin’ boyfriend, Tommy Taylor!”
The lights in the living room are dim and the lavender scented candles are slowing burning on the window ledge and on the glass table. Seventeen year old, Lacey Johnson is standing in the middle of her living room, barefoot, wearing a white spaghetti strap tank top and a pair of black lace panties. She closes her eyes and starts to move her hips slowly and seductively to Sade’s, Bulletproof Soul.
She takes a slow hit from the blunt and starts lip-synching, keeping her eyes closed and continuously rolling her hips in a sensual motion. The rhythm of her hips moves sexually towards the glass table in front of her beige couch. She takes another hit of the blunt and opens her eyes. She reaches down and picks up her brown brush off the table and uses it like a microphone, as her body continues to move erotically. She starts lip-synching with more emotion: “I know the ending before the story has been told…it’s not that complicated…because you’re going to need a bulletproof soul.”
“This is my shit,” she whispers to herself.
She smiles and then takes another hit of the blunt. She opens her eyes when she hears her cell phone ringing and vibrating on the glass table. She picks up the remote off the couch and lowers the volume. She answers the call.
“Hello? What’s wrong with you?” she asks, pausing, and then listening more closely. “Ok. I gotta put on some clothes. I’ll be there in a minute. Yeah, I’ll be there.”
She ends the call and then sits down on the couch. She tosses the remote on top of the beige cushion, and then picks up her blue lighter off the table. She wraps her full lips around the blunt and lights it. She slowly inhales the marijuana smoke through her nose. What the fuck is going on now?
“Who was that?” asks Jazz.
She jumps at the sound of his voice. She turns to her left and sees him staring down at her, shirtless, and wearing a pair of gray Nike sweatpants.
“Roc,” she replies, while taking a glimpse at his chiseled abs.
“What does she want?”
“She wants me to come by her house and talk to her about something.”
Lacey takes another hit of the blunt and then stands up. She hands him the blunt and then kisses him on the lips. He takes a hit and blows the smoke in the air. “Why can’t she tell you on phone? Why do you have to go by her house?”
“I don’t know why. Some things you just don’t talk about on the phone,” she replies, walking past him. “And, why are you interrogating me, nigga?”
“I don’t want you to go,” he says, taking one last hit. He puts the blunt in the black ashtray and follows behind her, as she walks down the hallway and into her bedroom. He follows her inside. She pulls the tank top over her head and walks over to her closet.
“You need to be here with Cee-Cee,” he says while glancing down at her nicely shaped ass.
She puts on a tight, grey Oakland Raiders short sleeve T-shirt and then turns around. “You can watch her, nigga. That’s your daughter too. If I can watch her, when you out doing whatever it is you do…then you can watch her when I have something to do. That’s what good parents do, baby. And besides, she’s sleep.”
She turns back around and grabs her pair of black, Angel Brinks leggings off the hanger.
“You better be home in thirty minutes. And I ain’t playin’!” he says, with authority in his voice. He smacks her on the ass and starts to walk out the room.
“How you gonna give me a curfew, nigga?” she says, while putting her leg inside the leggings. “You ain’t my Daddy!”
“You wasn’t saying that shit this morning.”
Whatever nigga. She rolls her eyes and continues to get dressed.
Donald is standing in front of the bathroom mirror, making sure his appearance looks acceptable for his meeting. He’s wearing a navy Wallin & Bros. plaid sport shirt, blue Rock Revival jeans and a pair of brown Gucci loafers. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and begins to wash his hands. He closes his eyes momentarily and thinks about Sydney again.
“I need to call her,” he whispers.
His thoughts are interrupted when someone walks into the bathroom. “Are you Donald Hanna?”
He turns off the water and turns around slowly, flicking the warm water off his hands. He looks at the young white male dressed in a sleek and sophisticated navy suit. “Yes, I’m Donald Hanna.”
“My name is Julius Cooper. I’m Julianne Thompson’s assistant. She wanted me to inform you that she had to leave prematurely and would like to reschedule later this evening, if possible.”
Donald turns to the side and pulls the paper towel out of the machine. He begins to dry his hands.
“What’s the problem, Mr. Cooper? This meeting was scheduled over three months ago. And besides, I have other things to do tonight.”
“I understand, and my apologies, Mr. Hanna. But she wanted me to tell you that she’s sorry. She had a family emergency. Her daughter is in the hospital.”
Donald balls up the paper towel and drops it inside the tall, silver garbage can. He turns around. “The hospital? Which daughter is in the hospital?”
“Elizabeth,” replies Julius.
“Do you know what happened?”
“I only know bits and pieces. But she said Elizabeth was attacked by two girls on her way home from school. That’s all she told me.”
Donald shakes his head back and forth in dismay. He starts walking towards Julius. “Let her know, I’ll have to check my schedule and give you a confirmation on a new time.”
“That’s quite fine. But in the meantime, she wants you to meet our youth coordinator.”
“That’s fine. What’s his name?”
“Her name,” says Julius. “Is Bridgette Davis.
He opens the bathroom door, and watches Donald walk out into the hallway.
Jeremy puts his finger in Kiki’s face and yells, “He’s fuckin’ lucky that man and his children didn’t die!”
“This is not my fault! Fuck that! I’m not about to listen to this shit!” she yells back. She flips him the bird, turns around, and starts walking in the opposite direction.
“Fuck this shit,” she whispers to herself. She turns her head around and sees him coming behind her. She starts to walk faster, a thought away from running full speed.
“I know those guns were yours, Kiara!” he yells, as he starts to pick up his pace. “The Thompson Sub and the MG 3 are yours! I know about Gomez and Eli Spencer!” He finally catches up with her, seconds before she steps onto the parking lot. He reaches out and grabs her right arm, but she yanks it out of his grasp, and keeps walking. He stands still.
“Kiara, wait! If you don’t stop right now, I’m going to have you arrested!”
You can’t be fuckin’ serious. She closes her eyes, slows down her rapid pace, and then turns around. “What the fuck do you want from me?”
“I know about your connections in Miami,” he says while walking towards her. He approaches her in the middle of the parking lot and grabs her by the top of her tank top and pushes her up against a white Mustang. He turns to his right and notices a white woman and a young white girl stopping to pay attention to what’s going on. He points his finger in her face. “I know about your affiliation with the Southside Cartel in Miami.”
She pushes him in the chest with both hands, making him lose his balance momentarily. She looks down at him and yells, “Get the fuck of me! Don’t you ever put your fuckin’ hands on me!”
He regains his balance and stands upright. “Look, Kiara! I know gunshots are like fireworks to your ears! But your guns almost killed three innocent people! This kind of shit contributes to the senseless crime and violence in this city.” He points his finger in her face and continues, “And did you know, about two months ago, your fuckin’ boyfriend shot up another man’s house in East Lawrence, almost killing a sleeping five year old girl!”
She moves to the side and turns her back to him, avoiding the finger in her face. “I don’t know what you talking about! I don’t have a boyfriend name Tommy Taylor! You got me fucked up! My boyfriend is in college. He goes to the University of Miami. What I look like fucking with a man that commits felonies?”
He walks towards her and says calmly, “Because you are a girl who commits felonies, Kiara. I’m not fooled with this college student shit! You have a choice in this matter…you give me Tommy Taylor or you go to jail.”
She steps onto the grass and turns back around to face him. “You are a fuckin’ hypocrite! The police department, your bosses…you are all hypocrites!”
“Hypocrites?” he says, smiling in a sarcastic way. “We are professionals! We get up every day, putting our lives on the line to keep people safe in the community. And it’s people like you, who are destroying the community, by providing them with firearms to kill innocent people.”
“I haven’t provided the community with shit!” she responds back. She walks towards him with her fists balled up and a growing anger in her heart. “The community doesn’t believe you are trying to keep them safe. So maybe that’s why they are arming themselves. But they’re not getting the guns from me!”
“What the fuck ever!”
“And since we’re talking about guns… what about the two Lawrence police officers that murdered Lila Garcia?”
“What are you talking about?”
“What am I talking about? I’m talking about Lila Garcia. These so-called officers that wake up every morning to keep us safe murdered an unarmed girl, because they thought she was a gang member.”
“I heard about that story, but…”
“Now you heard about it? First, you have no idea what I’m talking about, and now, all of sudden you remember. Fuck that!” she yells. “The police department in Lawrence are crooked and fucked up…and you know it! And what’s even more fucked up is that you’re trying to preach to me about justice! Where’s the fuckin’ justice for Lila, huh? They shot her for no fuckin’ reason!”
“She ran from the police.”
“Is running from the police punishable by death? No, it’s not! She was only fourteen years old. And not only did they kill an unarmed teenage girl, they attacked the people who came outside to see why she was murdered. The people you worship and so highly admire shot rubber bullets into a crowd of parents and children. And they let a dog loose into the crowd that…”
“That was an accident. And none of that has to do with…”
“Accident? Really? Are you serious? So the highly trained police officers here in Lawrence, accidently let a fuckin’ dog loose? That fuckin’ dog almost dismembered a five year old boy! And then what’s even more fucked up…they arrest the father, because he killed the fuckin’ dog in order to save his son’s life.”
He stands in front of her speechless. She slowly closes her eyes and then opens them. She looks directly into his eyes, and points her finger inches away from his nose. “Fuck you! Fuck the police department! Fuck the probation office! Fuck your threats! And fuck anybody who murders innocent children in our community! Do what the fuck you have to do! I’m done.”
She pushes him out her way and starts walking towards the end of the park.
Seventeen year old, Tracy “Roc” Hall, closes her bedroom door and looks over at Lacey. “We got a problem.”
Roc is a member of the female street gang, “The 26th Street Hustlaz”. She has a dark, peanut butter complexion, with beautiful light brown eyes and medium length black hair. She’s standing in front of Lacey, wearing a plain white tank top, blue sweatpants and a pair of teal Chuck Taylors.
“What you talking about?” says Lacey.
“I talked to Katie earlier tonight.”
“What did y’all talk about?”
Roc puts a Newport in her mouth and lights it. She inhales the nicotine smoke through her nose and looks directly into her eyes. “Katie said Jazz has been calling up there non-stop for the past couple days looking for you.”
“Jazz? When did he call?” asks Lacey, with a confused look on her face.
“He called earlier tonight, last night, and a few times last week. K said he cussed her out and threaten to beat her ass if she didn’t give you the phone.”
“Why didn’t she call me?”
Roc takes another pull from her cigarette and puts her back against her bedroom wall. “She didn’t want to talk to you. She’s thinking about firing you.”
“That’s some bullshit.”
Roc’s voice changes into a more serious tone. “Look…you know what we got going on at the restaurant. And this nigga is about to fuck up our shit!”
Suddenly, there is a knock on the bedroom door. Roc glances at Lacey and then looks at the door. “Hold up, Lace.”
“Who is that?” asks Lacey.
Roc walks over to her bedroom door and opens it.
Julius opens the large, wooden door. Him and Donald quietly step inside the dance rehearsal room, and immediately hear Franz Schubert’s famous, Symphony No.8 in B minor.
Julius glances over at Donald, and then points at the young chocolate woman, wearing the black yoga pants, white Louis Vuitton printed T-shirt and black and white Pumas.
“That’s Bridgette,” he whispers.
She walks over to the table and turns up the music, unaware they are watching her. She walks back over to her nine year student, Ashley, who’s wearing a pair of pink dance tights and black ballet shoes. She says, “Close your eyes.”
“Ok,” replies Ashley.
Bridgette looks at her closed eyes and begins to circle around her. “Think about opening night, Ashley. Imagine yourself backstage warming up, getting dressed and putting on your make-up. Now think about the orchestra in the pit tuning up their instruments and the theatre opening up to the public. Think about the sound of the audience chatting before your performance.”
Julius leans towards Donald and whispers in his ear. “Remember to call me to reschedule.”
Julius opens the rehearsal room door and quietly steps out. Donald quietly closes the door behind him, so the sound won’t interrupt what he’s seeing.
“When the house lights go down and you take your place, understand you will be nervous,” says Bridgette. “But don’t let the nervousness distract you, ok?”
“Ok,” replies Ashley.
Bridgette touches her small shoulder, and continues to circle around her young student. “You have to understand that this is your moment to shine. This is your moment of glory. This moment is what you’ve spent months preparing for. The hard work, the early morning workouts, the dedication, the commitment is what you’ve endured to experience this moment. And remember, there is an eager audience, who has paid a lot of money to see you shine. Can you see it in your mind?”
“Yes I can.”
“Now…as the performance progresses, you will forget your nervousness and you will enjoy dancing. Remember our lessons about the great Josephine Baker?”
“Yes, Ms. Davis.”
Bridgette bends down in front of her and says, “What did she say?”
“She said…I’m not intimidated by anyone. Everyone is made with two arms, two legs, a stomach and a head. And remember, you are on the eve of a complete victory. You can’t go wrong. The world is behind you.”
“Excellent! You can open your eyes now. How did that feel?”
She opens her eyes and says, “It felt wonderful.” She smiles and looks to the right and sees Donald watching them. Bridgette follows her eyes and notices a white man standing against the wall watching them. She looks into Ashley’s eyes and says, “Go and get dressed. Your sister will be here soon to pick you up.”
Ashley gives her a tight hug and runs across the rehearsal room. Bridgette stands up and walks over to the table and turns off the music. She turns to her left and waits until Ashley closes the back door, leading into the dressing room. She looks over at tall white man. “So you must be Mr. Donald Hanna?”
“Yes, I am. And you must be Bridgette, the youth activities coordinator.”
Seventeen year old, Drew “Baby Dee” Baker walks into Roc’s bedroom, carrying a black, medium sized duffel bag across her shoulder. She’s wearing a green army hoodie, camouflage leggings and a pair of black patent leather military boots. She has a honey brown complexion, medium-length brown hair, and an athletic build with a mischievous smile. She’s also a member of the 26th Street Hustlaz.
“What’s up Roc?” she says, as they bump knuckles.
“What’s up Dee?” says Roc, closing the door behind her.
Baby Dee walks further in the room and notices Lacey smoking a cigarette by Roc’s bed. Their eyes connect and she notices something is wrong.
“What’s up Lace? What’s going on with y’all?”
“Nothing,” says Lacey.
Baby Dee looks at Roc and then looks back at Lacey. “Why y’all lying?”
There is a brief moment of silence and then there is another knock at the door.
Baby Dee walks towards the back of the room and sets the duffle bag on the floor against the back wall. She reaches inside her hoodie and pulls out a blunt and lights it.
Roc opens her bedroom door, and Tasha Mallory, the twenty-four year old leader of the 26th Street Hustlaz walks inside. She’s wearing a Toronto Blue Jays fitted baseball cap, cocked backwards and to the right; a blue and white Adidas logo T-shirt, black Coogi embroidered jeans and a pair of white and blue Orion Adidas sneakers. She closes the door behind her and says, “What’s up Roc?”
Roc gives her a ‘knuckle bump’ and says, “Hey Tash.”
Baby Dee looks over at Tasha from across the room and says, “What’s up girl?”
Tasha acknowledges her with a nod and then immediately walks up to Lacey and pins her up against the wall. “What the fuck is wrong with you!?”
“What you talking about Tasha?” asks Lacey.
“I’m talking about your baby daddy. He’s about to fuck up our shit!”
“What do you mean?”
Lacey wraps her lips around the cigarette again, but before she can take a pull, Tasha slaps it out of her mouth. The cigarette flies in the air and lands on the brown carpet.
“Tasha! What…” says Roc.
“Shut the fuck up Roc!” yells Tasha.
Roc stays silent and quickly walks across the room and picks up the cigarette before it burns the carpet. She puts it out in the ashtray on her desk.
“You think I’m playin’ with you!” yells Tasha. She pushes Lacey up against the wall with both hands. She moves in closer, standing a few inches from her nose, pointing her finger her face. “You know the code Lacey!”
Baby Dee turns her head towards Tasha and says, “Aye, Tasha, what the fuck?”
Tasha turns her head, and violently points her finger at Baby Dee. “Shut the fuck Dee!”