“Bitch, you got a lotta fuckin’ nerve, talkin’ reckless to Tameka,” Tamia spat into the phone.
I rolled my eyes. I knew it was only a matter of time before this ho was gonna call tryna get at me. But on some real shit, I wasn’t in the fuckin’ mood.
“Bitch, get over it,” I snapped. “That shit you talkin’ happened almost two weeks ago. I ain’t even thinkin’ ’bout ya trick-ass sister. If I wanted to get at that bitch I woulda been served her, trust.”
“Yeah, whatever,” she huffed, blowin’ air into the phone. “You always tryna talk slick ’n greasy, bitch. You need ya ass beat down for real, for real.”
“Well, it won’t be that ho who does it,” I said, shiftin’ the phone from one ear to the other. “And it definitely won’t be you.”
“Whatever. You don’t really want it.”
“No, ho, you don’t want it.”
“Kat, on some real shit, I ain’t beat for ya ass, okay.” She blew into the phone again. “I swear, bitch, if this wasn’t an emergency, I wouldn’t even be fuckin’ with ya stank ass.”
“Bitch, what are you talkin’ ’bout…emergency? What the fuck happened?”
“I know you and ya moms beefin’ ’n shit, but I thought you might wanna know she left up outta here on a stretcher. I think her and that dude she’s fuckin’ with got into it.”
I blinked, blinked again, pullin’ the phone from my ear and lookin’ at it before puttin’ it back up to my ear. “Excuse me?” I asked in disbelief. “What did you say?”
“Ya moms left in an ambulance. I heard she was unconscious…”
Tamia’s voice started driftin’ as I thought about all the muhfuckas my mother let run in and outta her life; all the times I watched her balled-up, cryin’ over a nigga; saw her face all beat the fuck up, heard her beggin’ a muhfucka not to leave her. Countless times she got caught up in bullshit off-again, on-again relationships. Niggas knew she was weak, and they knew what to say to get her right where they wanted her—lost and all fucked up in the head over ’em. Muhfuckas smelled her weakness a mile away. And I hated them for usin’ her, and I hated her even more for bein’ weak and stupid enough to let ’em.
I felt like my life was flashin’ before my eyes as I half-listened to Tamia and thought ’bout all the times I ran in tryna pull a muhfucka up offa my moms, or jumped in the middle to keep the nigga from hittin’ her, or how I’d fight him, and she’d somehow always find a way to flip the script and blame me, like it was my fault the nigga was beatin’ on her ass. Like it was my fault the nigga bounced. And she’d spend days, sometimes weeks, not fuckin’ speakin’ to me, ignorin’ me, treatin’ me like I was fuckin’ invisible, takin’ her fucked-up life out on me. This is the woman I’m ’posed to feel sorry for; the woman I’m ’posed to trust and love when she always puts a muthafuckin’ nigga before me. I’m ’posed to embrace her with open arms like she really ever gave a fuck ’bout me. Yeah, well…I tried that shit. And it got me nofuckin’-where. I’ll be damned if I get sucked back into tryna save her ass from herself.
“…We all outside, and they takin’ her to Kings County,” she continued. “The police got the nigga all cuffed up ’n shit.”
I sighed. “T, thanks for callin’, but she’s on her own. I ain’t breakin’ my neck for her ass, not this time. Not ever again, real talk. I’m done tryna save a ho who ain’t tryna be saved.”
“Kat, that’s real fucked up. That’s ya moms, regardless.”
“Oh, well. Life is fucked up, and so is she. So she gets what she gets. And that’s what it is.”
“Bitch, is you fuckin’ nuts? You mean to tell me you can’t get over yourself for one minute to check for ya moms?”
I sucked my teeth. “Exactly,” I said. “Let’s be clear: I don’t give a fuck. So pump ya brakes. I don’t get up in ya relationship with ya moms, so don’t try ’n serve it up in mine. That chick, moms or not, is a grown-ass woman, and she’s responsible for her own choices, not me. So, I ain’t tryna get caught up in ’em. She’s made her choices, and I’m makin’ mine. And a bitch chooses to keep my distance from her ass.”
I didn’t give a fuck ’bout what Tamia, or anybody else, thought for that matter. I was done. At some point a bitch gotta stop lettin’ muhfuckas fuck with her head. I mean, damn…how many times a muhfucka gotta smear shit on a bitch before her ass realizes it ain’t chocolate? Give me a fuckin’ break. I don’t care how many times I try, I will never, ever, be able to wrap my mind around a chick lovin’ a nigga more than she loves herself. On some real shit, what kinda fool is she? I mean, if that’s what it takes to be loved, then I’ma be one old, lonely ass, dick-deprived bitch ’cause I’ll be damned if I ever let a nigga beat my ass, disrespect, or try ’n play me.
“That’s real fuckin’ heartless.”
“And on some real shit, Tamia, so is fuckin’ niggas raw when you know you got blisters on ya pussy, so don’t come at me, bitch.”
“Bitch,” she yelled, “Fuck you!”
“No, sweetie, fuck you,” I snapped back. “You need to check ya’self before you try ’n check me on shit, for real. I ’preciate you hittin’ me up ’n shit, but do me a favor, don’t call me again. I don’t wanna hear shit else ’bout Juanita Perez.”
I hung up on her ass. Then found myself thinkin’ ’bout my father. I hadn’t given his nonexistent ass a thought in years. And all of a sudden he popped up in my head. I wondered if he ever beat my mom’s ass, or was he too busy dissin’ her with other bitches. On some real shit, I closed my eyes and tried to see his face, tried to remember what the nigga looked like in my head, but the shit was a big blur. He was a fuckin’ invisible man to me, a faceless stranger. At this point in my life, he wasn’t much more than a figment of my imagination.
I took a deep breath, then slowly blew it out. Tamia’s ass had stressed a bitch out. I tore through the house lookin’ for a damn blunt. When I found my stash, I opened a box of Phillies, took one out, split the shit down the middle with my razor, then packed it with trees. I rolled the shit up nice ’n tight, then sparked up. The shit was good as hell. I rolled two more ’cause I knew I was gonna need ’em before the day ended.
Ten minutes later, my cell started ringin’. This time it was Chanel. “Hello.”
“Kat, girl, I just got off the phone with T. Sorry to hear ’bout ya moms. She told me how you started spazzin’ out ’n shit.”
“Don’t be sorry for her ass,” I said, walkin’ downstairs to my media room. I knew Tamia’s gossipin’ ass couldn’t wait to get off the phone so she could call Chanel. I plopped down on my butter-soft, cranberry leather sofa. “She got what she deserved. I wasn’t spazzin’ ’bout nothin’, trust. I kept shit real with the bitch, and she wasn’t tryna hear it.”
“Kat, I don’t think anyone deserves to be beat on.”
“Well, maybe not. But when you keep allowin’ fucked-up niggas in ya life, then you gonna keep gettin’ fucked over and fucked up. It is what it is. As far as I’m concerned, if a bitch can’t learn her lesson after the second or third time, then her dumb ass deserves to get her biscuit pushed in. I have no respect for a bitch who lets a man define her happiness—or worse, who she is as a woman.”
“Whether she learns or not, niggas shouldn’t be puttin’ they hands on no woman, Kat. And you know it. I don’t care how many times she chooses the wrong muhfucka.”
“Well, guess what? We can agree to disagree. But at the end of the day, a woman needs to take responsibility for her choices in men. Period. If her ass keeps choosin’ the same type of nigga, then maybe she needs to take a long, hard look in the mirror, and stop makin’ excuses. A bitch’s choices are ’bout her, not ’bout what the fuck some nigga does to her silly ass. If she doesn’t love herself, then how the fuck she gonna expect a nigga to love her? And if she doesn’t know how to love herself, then guess what? You can’t expect a muhfucka to know how to either. I don’t care what you or anyone else says, muhfuckas only gonna do what you allow ’em to do to ya.”
“Yeah, you right,” she said, sighin’. “It’s still fucked up.”
“Well, when bitches stand up and stop makin’ fucked-up choices, then maybe it won’t be that way, but it is. And it’s always gonna be that way ’cause you and I both know that there’s always gonna be a woman out here who can’t live, think, breathe, or move without a man, or a dick stuffed in her ass. We both know there are a bunch of hard-pressed bitches out there who will put up with almost anything a muhfucka dishes out to her ass.”
“True,” she said, pausin’. “So, I guess you dead serious ’bout not goin’ to the hospital, or at least callin’ to make sure ya moms is aiight?”
“I’m serious as a fuckin’ heart attack,” I said.
“Don’t you wanna know what happened to her?”
“She got her ass beat, again,” I answered, takin’ a deep toke on my blunt. I blew the smoke up into the air. “So what else is there to know?” I paused, waitin’ for her to respond. When she didn’t, I continued. “Not a damn thing. It was only a matter of time before it happened. When she gets sick and tired of bein’ sick and tired of openin’ her legs up to fucked-up niggas, then maybe she’ll wake the fuck up and make some changes in her life. But until then, I ain’t beat. ’Cause I know like you know, the first chance she gets, she’ll be right back on her knees suckin’ that nigga’s dick. And if it’s not his, it’ll be some other muhfucka’s. So, no thank you. I’ll have no part in what the fuck she does.”
It got real silent for a minute and I knew Chanel was thinkin’ ’bout what to say next, but she knew she’d catch it so she let it go. “I feel you,” she finally said, sighin’. “Anyway, listen…I was gettin’ ready to dial ya number before Tamia hit me up. Have you heard from Iris?”
“No, why?” I asked, pickin’ up this book, Get Money Chicks, I had bought at Borders a few days ago, off the glass table, then flippin’ through it. “Her dumb ass is probably somewhere mulin’ for that nigga.” I shook my head, glancing at a chapter where one of the dumb-ass chicks in the book was doin’ the same shit. Humph. These stupid bitches are e’ery where! “Bitches nowadays too busy tryna do them to give a fuck ’bout pickin’ up a phone to let a bitch know they aiight, so I wouldn’t even stress ya’self.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be if her moms hadn’t called me lookin’ for her, and Tamia hasn’t heard from her either. That’s not like her. Her moms sounded real worried. She said she hadn’t heard from her in three days, and she’s not answerin’ her cell.”
“Humph. The bitch’s probably laid up somewhere with a dick shoved down her throat,” I stated, tossin’ the book back on the table. There was no need to read shit ’bout a bunch of dumb bitches when I already knew two dumb ones up close ’n personal. I sparked another blunt, then pulled it deep into my lungs until the shit burned. I coughed.
“What, you blazin’?” she asked.
“Yep,” I said. “Straight to the muthafuckin’ head. I’ma get lifted all fuckin’ day.”
She laughed. “With ya fiend ass. Save me some.”
The call waitin’ beeped. I glanced at the number. It was my aunt Rosa. I let the shit roll into voicemail. “Why, you comin’ through?”
“Hell yeah,” she replied, soundin’ all excited ’n shit. I could almost see the bitch droolin’. “I’m throwin’ on some clothes right now. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Who’s soundin’ like the fiend, now?” I asked, laughin’.
“Whatever, ho,” she said, joinin’ in my laughter. “You need me to pick up anything while I’m out?”
“Nope.”
“Bet. I see ya in a minute.”
“Lata, trick.” As soon as I hung up with Chanel, the Kat line rang. I answered, “Yeah?”
“What’s good, pretty baby?”
I rolled my eyes. “Life,” I said. “Now tell me what I gotta do to get you outta mine?”
He laughed. “Oh, shit. That’s cold. But, if ya really wanna know, then I’ma keep shit real. Let me take ya fine ass away for the weekend so I can slide this big, black dick up in ya guts.”
Cash was one funny muhfucka. I couldn’t even get mad at the nigga ’cause I knew he was talkin’ shit. But I still had to check his ass. “Muhfucka,” I said. “I’d take two to the head before I ever let you run ya dick up in me. I don’t give a fuck how big it is. Believe that.”
“Then you need to let me eat that pussy.”
I shook my head, laughin’. As ugly as his muhfuckin’ ass was, his dick and tongue game were probably wicked. On some real shit, the nigga looked like he could tear some pussy up. The imprint of his thick dick flashed in my head. What the fuck is wrong with me, I thought, shakin’ the image outta my head. My private cell started ringin’, then my house phone. I let them shits go into voicemail.
“Wrong answer, nigga. You can’t even sniff my pantyliner.”
“Damn, you sure know how ta crush a nigga’s spirits. Let me stop fuckin’ with you. I mean, don’t get it twisted; I’d dick and tongue you down in a heartbeat, stretch that fat ass right out the box, but I know you ain’t havin’ it. I like talkin’ shit to ya nasty ass, ma.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I said. “Now, how can I help you?”
“I got some outta town work for ya.”
My phones rang again.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, goin’ upstairs to put somethin’ on before Chanel got here. I had been chillin’ in my lace panties. “Where and when?”
“Vegas. In three days.”
Even though I’d been to Vegas in February for All-Star weekend, I hadn’t really gotten a chance to take in much of the happenin’s. Besides, it was so fuckin’ packed I couldn’t really move like I wanted. So goin’ back was all good. I figured I could hit the Fashion Show Mall on the strip to hopefully buy some bangin’ shit, check out that show Zumanity at New York-New York, and maybe even gamble it up a bit.
“Cool. I’ll fly out a day or two early and chill.”
He laughed. “Why the fuck I know you was gonna say that shit?”
“’Cause that’s how I do mine. You already know.”
“Do you, ma. Just make sure you handle ya business on time. I don’t want none of that bullshit you pulled in San Diego. Matter of fact, I shoulda docked ya ass for holdin’ shit up.”
Against my better judgment, I decided to fuck with the nigga. “Cash, if you ever fuck with my money, you’ll never get any of this pussy, feel me? But if ya keep my paper flowin’ like ya ’posed to, then one day I might invite ya to slide ya tongue up in it. So if you ever wanna taste of this sweet pussy, don’t fuck with my paper.”
“Yeah, aiight,” he said, lowerin’ his voice. “Keep fuckin’ with me, Kat, and I’ma end up takin’ it, ya heard?”
“And ya’ll end up with a bullet in ya skull, muhfucka.”
“Damn, baby, you get my dick hard e’erytime you talk like that. Word up.”
“Ugh. Send me the paperwork, along with my paper, Cash.”
“You’ll have e’erything you need tomorrow afternoon.”
“Good.”
“Be easy,” he said, hangin’ up. I swear he makes me fuckin’ sick sometimes. I glanced at the clock and noticed Chanel’s ass was late as usual. It was 3:15. I figured the ho would be another hour or so, so I decided to take a quick shower.
By the time Chanel rang my doorbell two hours later, I was already on my third blunt, and a bitch was lifted lovely.
“Ho,” I snapped, swingin’ the door open, “I thought you said you was gonna be here in a half hour. You betta be glad I like ya yellow ass or you’d be standin’ outside.”
“Whatever, tramp.” She laughed, walkin’ in carryin’ a bangin’-ass, white pebbled leather Prada weekend bag. She was lookin’ all fly ’n whatnot in a slick-ass white linen jumper and a pair of strappy heels.
“I know you don’t think ya ugly ass is stayin’ the night. I ain’t runnin’ no damn ho house.”
“I can’t tell,” she said, closin’ the door behind her and followin’ me into the kitchen. “They have ya ass listed in the Yellow Pages under ‘Hoes for Rent.’” She dropped her bag by the door, then walked over to the refrigerator and opened it.
“Whatever, bitch,” I said, throwin’ my hand up in her face. I pressed the Bose remote and Me’Shell NdegéOcello’s “Dead Nigga Blvd., Pt. I” blared through the speakers.
“I’m hungry as hell. What you got to eat up in this piece?”
“Not a damn thing. You know ain’t shit domesticated ’bout me.”
She sucked her teeth. “And that’s why ya ass can’t get ya’self a man.”
“Whatever, ho,” I said, dismissin’ her with the flick of my hand. “I’m good. You worry ’bout keepin’ ya ass a man.”
“Speaking of which,” she said, closin’ the fridge door, then leanin’ on the aisle counter. I pulled out some menus from outta the counter drawer, then tossed them to her. I puffed the blunt, watchin’ her flip through each one. “Divine told me to tell ya ass ‘wassup.’ That nigga funny as hell. He started buggin’ when he saw me packin’ my overnight bag. He was like, ‘Where the fuck ya ass goin?’ Then as soon as I told him I was chillin’ with you tonight, he was like, ‘Oh, aiight.’” She started laughin’. “But let it be me tryna chill with T or Iris, and the nigga starts straight blackin’ for real. That nigga’s crazy. He really can’t stand them two.”
We each pulled out a stool and sat at the counter.
“Humph, I wonder why,” I said sarcastically. “What you wanna eat?”
“Let’s do Chinese. I want the garlic shrimp with brown rice. And two spring rolls. You treatin’, right?” I rolled my eyes, pickin’ up the cordless to call our order in. “Thanks, babe,” she said, smilin’. “And why the fuck you hoggin’ that damn blunt, bitch. Puff, puff, pass…I’m tryna get my smoke on too, greedy heifer.”
“Kiss my ass, trick,” I said, takin’ another pull, then handin’ it to her, laughin’. I started rollin’ two more.
When Me’Shell’s “Priorities 1-6” came on, Chanel closed her eyes and started swayin’. “I love this chick. She’s the fuckin’ truth.” She took another toke from the blunt, then handed it to me. I took two pulls and swayed with her.
“Yeah, she ain’t to be fucked with,” I agreed. “These weak-ass chicks in the game don’t really want it with her.”
We sliced open six more cigars, removed the tobacco, then packed ’em with weed. I watched Chanel as she expertly slid her tongue across the cigar paper like she was lickin’ the edges of a dick to moisten it, before fillin’ it with trees. She rolled the last blunt between her thumbs and index fingas, then placed it on the table with the rest of ’em.
“On some real shit, I think she’s too deep for a lotta these bitches out here. Her musical style is so damn fly to me.”
I nodded, takin’ a pull from the blunt while Chanel lit another one. I closed my eyes when “Andromeda & the Milky Way” came on. We sat in silence, smoked, and grooved to Me’Shell. The funky soul beats were so fuckin’ tight that I wanted to light candles, lay my head back, and drift into a zone.
“Would you let her eat your pussy?” Chanel asked outta the blue, fuckin’ up the mood. I almost choked.
“What?” I asked, shocked.
She repeated the question. “Would you let her go down on you?”
“That’s it, bitch,” I said, reachin’ for the blunt, “no more smoke for ya ass. You talkin’ real sideways now.”
She started laughin’ ’n shit. “I’m just sayin’.”
I raised my eyebrow, placin’ my hand on my hip. “Bitch, is there somethin’ you tryna tell me?”
“No, I’m just sayin’. I mean, she really does her thing, musically. And some of her joints got a freaky-sexy groove that be makin’ me wanna get it in.”
“Well, ho, you make sure you ain’t tryna get it in here. I don’t wanna split ya shit up for tryna get at my pussy.”
“Bitch, please,” she said, laughin’. “I ain’t on it like that. I was just askin’. Besides, you ain’t my type.”
“Mmm-hmm. Yeah, aiight. Try that freaky shit if you want.”
“Whatever…aaah, shit,” she said, jumpin’ up when the song “I’m Diggin’ You” came on. “Bitch, you need to burn this shit for me. Who made this mix for you? The shit is tight.”
“I did,” I said, watchin’ her shake her big, round ass and swing her hips. On some real shit though, if I was into chicks, I’d probably strap on a dildo and rock her ass. But I wouldn’t tongue-fuck her. That was out. This ho done had too many dicks up in her. I frowned at the thought of havin’ my face between her legs. Ugh!
My phone rang. I picked it up off the counter and glanced at the number. It was my aunt Rosa again. I sat the phone back down. Two minutes later, my cell rang, then my home line again. I turned my cell off.
Chanel looked at me, then the phones. She took a pull from the half-blunt, then exhaled the smoke up into the air. “Don’t you think you should at least check ya messages? It could be ’bout ya moms.”
I shrugged. “I ain’t beat.”
She opened her mouth to say somethin’, but I raised my brow and gave her a warnin’ look to keep her muthafuckin’ mouth shut. And she did.
Thirty minutes later we were sittin’ at the table eatin’ our food, drinkin’ and smokin’ mad trees. My phone kept ringin’ off the hook, and I kept iggin’ the shit.
Chanel set her fork down and eyed me. “Kat, you—”
“Don’t,” I warned, liftin’ my index finga to stop her.
She raised her hands up. “Okay, you got that.” She picked up her fork and started eatin’ again. In between her forkfuls of shrimp, she asked, changin’ the subject, “What’s good with you and that fine nigga Grant?”
I eyed this bitch, but kept it cute. “We been talkin’,” I offered, slowly slidin’ a forkful of vegetable lo mein into my mouth. I chewed, then swallowed. “We actually went out a few times.”
“When?” she asked, surprised. “And why am I just now hearin’ ’bout it?”
“A few weeks now,” I told her, tryna front like it was no biggie. “I didn’t say shit ’cause there ain’t shit to say. We kicked it a few times, and we’ll see what happens.”
“Please tell me you gave the nigga some pussy.”
“And why would I do that?”
She popped her eyes open, and bobbed her neck back ’n forth, makin’ suckin’ sounds with her lips. “Uh, duh, ’cause ya ass ain’t tasted dick since dick tasted you.”
I laughed. “You’re a fuckin’ nut.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, laughin’. “Somethin’ ya ass needs.” She looked at me, tiltin’ her head, then raisin’ her eyebrow. “So you went out a few times with dude, and you didn’t even grind up on the nigga.”
“Nope,” I lied. “Not yet.”
“So you don’t even know if the nigga’s packin’?”
I shook my head, shiftin’ my eyes ’round the room, then started rollin’ another blunt. On some real shit, I don’t know why I felt like I had to lie to her, but I didn’t feel like discussin’ his dick game with her, which is what the bitch would be askin’ next if I told her the truth. We always had a rule that if we were diggin’ a nigga we’d never ask the other ’bout his dick skills, but the way her hot ass was checkin’ for him at the club, I would have to watch her real close if I did decided to fuck with him. Girls or not, a bitch’s pussy tended to think for itself when it came to fuckin’ someone else’s man. Fuck what ya heard. A bitch in heat has no conscience. I sparked another blunt, took two pulls, then handed it to her.
“I ain’t on his dick like that,” I answered.
“Hmm…well, speakin’ of dick,” she said, takin’ a pull of the blunt. “Oh, fuck…” Pssssph. Pssssph. “This is some good shit.” She took another pull, then held it in her lungs before blowin’ it out.
“Bitch, will you shut ya fiend-ass up, and tell me what the fuck you was gettin’ ready to tell me.”
She took another toke from the blunt, then passed it back to me. “I fucked that fine nigga Coal.”
“Get. The. Fuck. Out! Bitch, you lyin’. When?”
She started gettin’ all amped ’n shit, tellin’ me how he called her a few days after she had slipped him her number at the 40/40 Club. She told him she wanted to fuck and he was down, but couldn’t get at her until his chick went outta town on business or some shit. And as soon as she did, he’d be ready to dig her guts out. I tilted my head and stared at her ass in disbelief.
“What? Why you lookin’ at me like that?”
“Un-fuckin’-believable,” I said, stickin’ a forkful of sesame chicken in my mouth. “I can’t believe you fucked him.”
“When have you ever known me to lie on some dick?”
“Never,” I admitted, grinnin’. I twirled my fork. “Go on…when and where did this illicit affair take place?”
“Two nights ago,” she said, dippin’ her spring roll in a plate of duck sauce, then takin’ a bite. “The nigga hit me up and told me to meet him at the Brooklyn Marriott, and that’s all she wrote. The nigga had the room for two days, and we fucked day and night. Girl, that muhfucka got an extra-thick, black dick, and can go the distance. Oh, my God, Kat, that nigga can fuck. It ain’t all that long, but when I tell you he knows how to use that shit, oh, my God. Humph. I can see how a bitch falls in love with a nigga’s dick. He fucked me so good, I started to shake.”
I laughed at her silly ass as she rapidly shook in her seat like she was havin’ a seizure or some shit.
She stopped. “Kat, that muthafucka almost had a bitch in tears.”
I shook my head, chucklin’ at the thought of Chanel’s ass boohooin’ while gettin’ dicked down. Now I’ve had my share of some good dick, but not any good enough to make a bitch break down cryin’.
“And where was Divine while you were out gettin’ ya pussy stretched?”
“In Miami doin’ him. You know if his ass is around ain’t no way I’ma be able to ride another nigga’s dick. Hell, that nigga would be tryna get some pussy as soon as I stepped back up in the house. And you know a bitch gotta give her pussy at least three days’ rest to snap back, feel me?”
I laughed. “You’se a damn fool.”
“Fuck that,” she said, handin’ me the blunt, “I might be a ho, but I ain’t a messy one. There’s three things I won’t do, and that’s let a nigga who ain’t my man go raw in me, let a nigga nut in my mouth, and fuck my man right after fuckin’ another nigga. That’s straight nasty and an absolute no-no, which is why I live by the three-day rule. So the only way I’m fuckin’ another muhfucka is when I know Divine’s ass is outta town and I got at least three days to regroup.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “And did the nigga hit you with some paper?”
“Nope,” she said. “That’s not what I wanted from his ass.”
I blinked, then blinked again. Now, I knew if the nigga was Cash’s nephew, then he was a get-money nigga. Ain’t no way Cash would have that nigga bummin’. Then again, if he fucked as good as she said he did, maybe his chick was lacin’ his ass. Nah, fuck that, that fine, black muhfucka had to be sittin’ on some ends. “Well, did you at least get a handbag or some heels outta his ass?”
“Nope,” she said, twistin’ her lips and frownin’ up her face. “That’s what I got Divine for.”
“So what happened to all that ‘I’ma be fuckin’ ya man and runnin’ his pockets before the end of summer’ shit?’”
“Oh, please,” she said, wavin’ me on with her hand, “he can keep whatever’s in his pockets. I ain’t beat.”
I stared at her ass. Now, either this bitch had changed her gold-diggin’ ways or that nigga Coal had literally fucked her brains inside out, ’cause the ho looked at me like I had snot and boogas hangin’ from outta my nose or some shit.
“Okay, so you’re sayin’ you wanted nothin’ from the nigga?”
“Not a damn thing. Just a ride on that sweet, black dick; that’s it.”
“Wait a minute, so you fucked this nigga, knowin’ he got a chick, just for the hell of it when you got a nigga who laces ya ass lovely?
“Yep,” she said, grinnin’. “And the nigga fucked me like the world was endin’.”
“Bitch, is you serious?”
“I sure am. Now, don’t get me wrong. Divine holds it down, and I dig him for it. But like I told you a while back, his dick game is real whack. Granted, the nigga can fuck nonstop if you let ’im. However, no matter how many times I try to teach him, he still insists on fuckin’ me like a damn bunny rabbit, and bustin’ off all quick. I’m sorry, but all that quick humpin’ and nuttin’ ain’t doin’ it for me. I don’t care how many times he can get it up. At the end of the day, I need a nigga who knows how to rock this pussy inside out.”
I rolled my eyes. I tell you, bitches ain’t ever fuckin’ satisfied. If they got a nigga who’s lacin’ they asses and treatin’ ’em right, it ain’t good enough. The bitch’ll still find somethin’ to complain ’bout. He can’t fuck, his dick ain’t big enough, he’s too fuckin’ borin’, he ain’t hood enough, he ain’t rough enough, blah, blah, blah. Give me a fuckin’ break!
“So you mean to tell me you’d risk losin’ a nigga who treats you right for some dick from a muhfucka who ain’t comin’ to the table with nothin’ but a hot nut and who ain’t ever gonna leave his chick for ya ass.”
She stared at me, then blinked. “Hell yeah,” she said, snatchin’ the blunt outta my hand, then puffin’. “I ain’t tryna marry the nigga. I fucked him for a tune-up. He stretched this pussy out, knocked the sides around, and now I’m good. If we hook up again, cool. If not, no biggie. I wanted to fuck ’im and I did. But a muhfucka who got a wifey ain’t someone I’m tryna check for.”
“So you sayin’ you don’t want ’im for ya’self?”
“Not hardly,” she said, twistin’ her lips up. “Why the fuck would I want that? That nigga ain’t shit for creepin’ on his chick.”
“And neither are you, ho,” I said, laughin’ while lightin’ another blunt. “For fuckin’ on a nigga who thinks he done wifed ya hot ass.”
She laughed. “Well, as far as I’m concerned, a ho who ain’t ready to be wifed is a ho playin’ house. And that’s exactly what the fuck I’m doin’.”
“Humph,” I grunted, stickin’ another forkful of lo mein in my mouth. “And it’s shit like that that causes a nigga to push a bitch’s biscuit in. You hoes need to stop playin’ niggas. Just keep the shit funky, and let the muhfucka know what time it is.”
“Yeah, whatever. Niggas stay playin’ us. It is what it is. You play or get played; you already know.”
“What I know is, you gonna end up with ya grill wrecked if you don’t get ya mind right. It’s only a matter of time before the shit catches up to you, trust.”
We passed the blunt back ’n forth for a while, sayin’ nothin’. I left Chanel in her thoughts and she left me in mine. Me’Shell NdegéOcello’s song “Faithful” came on, and I smiled, shakin’ my head. How fittin’, I thought, hummin’ along. I guess she was right when she said no one is faithful.
My house phone rang again, breakin’ the silence. I ignored it. Chanel glared at me. I rolled my eyes, suckin’ my teeth. “Aiight, aiight,” I said, pickin’ it up and answerin’ it. It was Rosa again. “Hello.”
“Kat?”
“Yeah?”
“This is ya Aunt Rosa,” she said, soundin’ outta breath. I exhaled, pushin’ my plate to the side. “You need to get down to Kings County Hospital ASAP. That nigga ya moms is fuckin’ with done beat her ass. I told her not to fuck with that punk ass, but…”
I placed the phone up against my chest, coverin’ the receiver. “Bitch,” I hissed at Chanel, mean-muggin’ her ass. “Go downstairs to the bar and fix me a hit of Rémy.” She laughed, gettin’ up from her seat. “On second thought, make that shit two hits.”
I put the phone back up to my ear.
“…he done broke her jaw and beat her face in.”
I closed my eyes tight. Bit down on my bottom lip.
“We’ve been tryna reach ya ass all damn day,” another voice jumped in. I frowned. It sounded like Patrice, but I wasn’t sure.
“Who is this?” I asked, lightin’ another blunt. I already knew this conversation was gonna turn real messy in a few minutes.
“It’s Patrice,” she said, suckin’ her teeth.
“We’re on three-way,” Aunt Rosa stated.
“Why?” I asked. Chanel came back into the kitchen with two drinks in her hand. I snatched the one she handed to me, gulped the shit down in one quick motion, then reached over and took hers from her and gulped that one down. The shit burned goin’ down.
“’Cause ya moms is in the fuckin’ hospital,” Patrice snapped. “And we’ve been blowin’ ya fuckin’ phone up, leavin’ messages ’n shit, and you don’t even have the decency to call a muthafucka back. Duh, now follow the yellow brick road, bitch.”
“Fuck you, you cum-guzzlin’ bitch!” I yelled back.
“Will ya’ll two bitches shut the fuck up,” Aunt Rosa said, “with all this back ’n forth bullshit for one goddamn minute. Kat, you need to get to the hospital.”
I rolled my eyes. “For what?”
“For what?!?” they both yelled.
“Bitch, is you serious?!” Patrice screamed.
“Didn’t you hear a word I fuckin’ said, Kat?” Aunt Rosa jumped in, soundin’ real tight. Please, like I gave a fuck. “I just told ya ass that ya moms is in the goddamn hospital and you need to get ya ass over to Brooklyn now!”
I started buckin’ my eyes and twistin’ up my lips, mockin’ her ass. Then the bitch started goin’ off on one of her tangents ’bout how she wished one of her kids would come outta they faces talkin’ shit the way I did, disrespectin’ my moms; ’bout how she can’t believe I’d come out my neck talkin’ all sideways ’n shit after e’erything my moms had done for me.
What the fuck? I thought, shakin’ my head.
“I can’t fuckin’ believe you,” she said. “I woulda banged ya damn grill out.”
“Oh, my God.” I laughed. “Aunt Rosa, please don’t tell me you back on that shit again.”
“Whaaat?!? Kat, don’t have me slap the shit outta you. My name ain’t Juanita. I’m ya aunt and all, and I love ya ass to death, but ho, I’d cut ya muthafuckin’ throat if you ever come at me like that again.”
“Rosa,” Patrice jumped in. “I told ya ass how fuckin’ disrespectful Kat is. She don’t give a fuck ’bout nobody but herself. She stay talkin’ slick ’n greasy.”
I laughed at both they asses.
“Bitch, this shit ain’t funny,” Aunt Rosa said.
“You right, it ain’t. But ya’ll tryna come at me on some tag-team shit is.”
“Rosa, I don’t even know why you bother. I already told you what it was with this bitch. Kat be on some other shit. Now you see why I don’t fuck with her like that.”
That did it. Between the drinks and all the trees, a bitch was ready to bring it to ’em. I read both of them hoes. “No, bitch,” I snapped, “I don’t fuck with you. Don’t get it twisted.”
“Kat, watch ya fuckin’ mouth,” Rosa said.
“No, you watch yours,” I said back. “You called me. I didn’t call you. And then you got the nerve to have me on fuckin’ three-way with Pat’s whore ass. So now let me tell both of you one goddamn thing. Patrice, you already know I don’t give a hot fuck ’bout you, bitch. So you can suck shit and die. And on some real shit, I’ma be the bitch to spit on ya fuckin’ grave. And Aunt Rosa, I love you too, boo. But don’t get the shit twisted. The only thing Juanita ever did was spread open her muthafuckin’ legs, and let niggas run over her. So fuck all that extra shit you talkin’. How the fuck you know what the fuck she’s done for me when ya ass stayed coked the fuck up when I was growin’ up?
“You don’t know what the fuck she’s done for me—I’m sick of bitches tellin’ me ’bout what the fuck she did for me. Poor Juanita this, poor Juanita that. Well, newsflash, bitches: Poor Juanita is a grown-ass woman who keeps makin’ the same fuckin’ mistakes. Ya’ll can go run ya happy asses down to the hospital and do whatever the fuck you gonna do. But don’t call my fuckin’ house ’bout shit ’cause I don’t wanna hear it. As far as I’m concerned, the woman who gave birth to me is dead.”
Aunt Rosa gasped. “Kat, I swear on e’erything I love, I’ma beat ya ass when I see you.”
“Well, stand in line,” I said, cuttin’ my eyes over at Chanel who was starin’ me down.
“I bet your fucked-up ass don’t even care that that nigga stomped ya mother all up in her stomach, and she done lost her baby, do you?”
“Why should I? Good for her silly ass,” I snapped, “and good for him. The nigga saved her dumb ass from fuckin’ up another child’s life.”
“You know what?” Aunt Rosa stated. “Juanita was right ’bout ya ass. You’se a fuckin’ crazy bitch.”
“Thank you very much,” I said sarcastically. “I’m glad you finally figured it out. Now, like I said, don’t call my muthafuckin’ house again.”
I hung up. Chanel was lookin’ at me in shock. She opened her mouth to say somethin’, but I shut her ass down. “Don’t open ya trap to say shit,” I warned, givin’ her ass a threatenin’ look. “If you don’t wanna get tossed up outta here, go on downstairs and bring up that bottle of Rèmy and let’s make it do what it do. ’Cause right about now, a bitch is through.”
Three a.m., I was tossin’ ’n turnin’. I sat up in bed, tryna adjust my eyes to the dark. I was sweatin’ and had a splittin’-ass headache. At first I thought it mighta been from all the drinkin’ and smokin’ with Chanel from the night before, but the more I thought ’bout it, the more I realized it wasn’t the same kinda feelin’ I usually got after a night of gettin’ lifted. It was different; one I couldn’t put my finga on. It was like I had some kinda nightmare or somethin’, but a bitch couldn’t remember dreamin’ ’bout shit.
I took a deep breath, and looked ’round the room. My blankets and pillows were all on the floor. I stretched my arms up over my head, then leaned over and turned on the lamp on my nightstand. I picked up the telephone and retrieved my messages from my home phone. I inhaled, exhaled, then listened.
“Kat, this ya Aunt Rosa. Ya mother’s in the hospital. That nigga of hers done beat her up real bad. She’s at Kings County.”
“Kat, where the hell are you? This is Rosa again. I’m tryin’ to get in touch with you. You need to answer ya damn phones. This shit’s important. Call me the minute you get this.”
“Kat, this is Patrice. You need to call us immediately. Some shit went down with ya moms, and we ’bout to bring it to that nigga. He done fucked up, puttin’ his hands on her.”
“Kat, answer ya damn phones. Shit! I know you fuckin’ see my goddamn numbers comin’ up. This is ya Aunt Rosa. Call me the fuck back, asap!”
I deleted them, along with the six other messages I didn’t bother listenin’ to. I flopped back ’cross my bed and stared up at the ceilin’. She’s still ya moms, Kat…That’s real fucked up…I bet you don’t even care that the nigga stomped ya mother all up in her stomach…He beat her face in…
I closed my eyes and fought back tears, tryna understand why she kept gettin’ her ass caught up in bullshit with muhfuckas, wonderin’ when she was gonna get sick and tired of lettin’ niggas beat her ass and disrespect her. Watchin’ my moms jump from one man to the other over the years had made me realize that women like her have a lotta emotional issues. They gotta be sick. ’Cause ain’t no muthafuckin’ way in hell a healthy bitch gonna put up with half the shit these chicks put up with from a muhfucka.
So what you gonna do, Kat? I questioned in my head.
“Not a muthafuckin’ thing,” I answered out loud. “I didn’t put her ass in that situation. So why the fuck do I have to feel some kinda way ’bout it?”
Because she’s still ya moms, I thought.
I took another deep breath, then picked up the phone and dialed 4-1-1 for the number to Kings County. “Hello, I’m callin’ ’bout Juanita Rivera,” I said when a woman answered the hospital switchboard. “She’s a patient there.”
“Okay, hold on…let me see.” She placed me on hold, then returned. “Let me connect you to her floor.” The hospital music came back on for a moment, then someone else picked up. “ICU, how can I help you?”
“Um, yes. I’m callin’ about Juanita Rivera. I was told she was in the hospital.”
“I’m sorry, information ’bout patients is strictly—”
“Ma’am,” I said, takin’ a deep breath before I cursed her ass out. “No disrespect to you, but I’m Ms. Rivera’s daughter and I wanna know how the fuck she’s doin’, please.”
I heard her gasp. “Your name?”
“Katrina Rivera.”
“Ms. Rivera,” she said, soundin’ all professional and whatnot. “Your mother is in stable condition. She has two broken ribs, her mouth is wired from her jaw being broken, and she has a fractured eye socket.”
I bit down on my lip, clenched my fists. “Thank you.”
“She’s been asking for you.”
“That’s nice,” I said sarcastically. “You can tell her I send my regards.” I hung up, wipin’ tears from my face.