If ya tryna play a bitch like me, ya better be ready to rock. Let me catch ya sleepin’, and ya gonna find ya’self knocked. Crabs in a barrel gonna try ’n steal yo shine, hatin’-ass hoes gonna try ’n steal ya spot…fuck what ya heard…a bitch like me will blast ya ass with somethin’ hot…before I ever let a muhfucka snatch me off top…
The shrill sound of my cell pulled me outta my sleep. The sound of the ring tone told me who it was, and which cell line it was. I glanced over at the digital clock on my nightstand, rollin’ my eyes.
“Shit,” I groaned, jumpin’ out of bed and diggin’ through my purse for my phone. I glanced at the number. Sure enough it was my moms. “Hello.”
“Is there any reason why you haven’t called me?” she asked with ’tude. No “hello.” No “it’s good to hear ya voice,” nothin’ except her fuckin’ attitude. I swear the older she gets the more evil she gets. The conversation hadn’t even gotten started and I was already ready to snap my phone shut on her ass.
I sighed. “Well, hello to you, too,” I said. “And to answer ya question, I haven’t called ’cause I’ve been busy.”
“Humph. Doin’ what? Are you workin’?”
“Yeah, I’m workin’. And before ya start tryna get all up in what I do, save it. As long as I’m not askin’ you to dig in ya pockets, what I do to make my paper is none of ya concern. Now, who pissed in ya Cheerios today?”
“Ain’t nobody piss in nothin’ of mine. I haven’t heard from you in almost two months, and I shouldn’t have to be the one to call you.”
“Uh, and why not?” I asked, sittin’ on the edge of my king-sized poster bed. The fuckin’ nerve of her!
“Because I’m your mother, that’s why. You should be callin’ and checkin’ on me.”
I rolled my eyes. “Really? Well, thanks for that news bulletin. I woulda thought as a mother you would wanna pick up a phone to see how ya only child is doin’. You know how to reach me. Anyway, now that ya got me, what’s been happenin’? Anything new goin’ on in ya life?”
“Nope,” she said, a bit too quick if ya ask me. “You know I don’t mess with too many people. Ever since I got my money these phony bitches ’round here always smilin’ and whatnot and tryna be up in my face. I’m like, ‘bitch, please, I ain’t got no time for it.’”
“Hmm. I hear ya. How’s Grandma?”
“You’d know that if ya ass picked up a phone and called her sometimes.”
I sucked my teeth. I really wasn’t in the mood for her shit. Beeeep! The call waitin’ tone signaled in my ear. Good. “Listen, I gotta go. I have another call comin’ in. I’ll be over next Saturday or Sunday.”
“That’s what ya ass said two months ago, and I still haven’t seen you.”
Beeeep!
“Alright,” I said, gettin’ agitated. “I’ll see ya on Sunday. ’Bye.”
“Well—”
I pressed the TALK button, disconnectin’ her ass. “Hello?”
“Damn, baby,” the nigga said in his silky voice. “Your voice got my shit on brick. When you gonna let a nigga see you?” It was Raynard, this cat from Long Island I had met when I was out in Vegas for All-Star Weekend in February. Humph. I knew I shoulda never given this nigga my digits.
The first night I met him was at the party P. Diddy was hostin’ at the Ice House Lounge. I was up in that piece lookin’ fabulous in a sexy Christian Dior white slip dress with a cutout back and plungin’ neckline that showed off my perfectly shaped ass, titties, and legs, and rockin’ a bangin’-ass pair of white beaded Gucci stilettos. Yes, a bitch slayed ’em in all white. I had the niggas droolin’ and every hatin’-ass bitch in that piece gaggin’.
Anyway, I was up in the VIP lounge standin’ out on the patio drinkin’ a flute of champagne when dude stepped to me tryna get his mack on. I ain’t gonna front, he was a dark-chocolate cutie—six-three, sexy brown eyes, nice thick lips, neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, with a beautiful bald head. The nigga was dipped in a fly-ass black Hugo Boss suit and it was somethin’ ’bout his swagger that made my pussy jump. But I kept it cute. I let him get his rap on, then sweetly smiled and bounced on his ass.
The next night, I bumped into him again when I was walkin’ through Caesar’s headin’ toward the Forum Shops. As I walked past him and his boys—there was like six or seven of them niggas—he stopped me and tried to get his shine on in front of his mans while them vultures swarmed around me like they were ready to eat me alive. I wasn’t pressed, though.
“Listen,” I had said. “I’d love to stand here and let you and your boys gawk at me, but I got shoppin’ to do.”
“Anything I can help you with, beautiful?”
I looked his ass up and down real easy-like, then smirked, starin’ into his eyes. “Nope,” I said, “’cause I ain’t shoppin’ for dick.”
He grinned. And his boys started laughin’. “Oh word. Well, let me get your digits then, so I can hit you up later on tonight.”
“Wrong answer,” I replied.
“Do you believe in fate?” he asked, smilin’.
“Why?”
“’Cause this is the second time I done ran into you. Outta all these heads out here, I spot you again. You dipped on me last night, but I ain’t letting you off that easy this time.”
I smiled. “So, you believe in fate, I take it?”
“Most def.”
“Good. Well, they say three’s a charm so if we happen to run into each other again, then I’ll give you my number. If not”—I shrugged—“then it wasn’t meant to be.”
I looked at him, then over at his boys. “You boys enjoy the rest of your stay. I’m out.”
He threw his big hand up over his chest, like he was clutchin’ his heart. “Damn, ma. I’m heartbroken. How you gonna leave me hanging like this?”
I grinned. “Easy,” I said, gettin’ ready to step off. But I stopped dead in my tracks when I heard one of his boys say: “Yo, Ray, I wouldn’t even waste my time on a stuck-up bitch like her. I can tell she’d be a fuckin’ headache tryna get some pussy from.”
I turned to face his wide-nosed, big-lipped ass, then let that ass have it. “Nigga, what the fuck did you just say?” I asked, steppin’ up in his face. I could tell the nigga was lit. He smelled like he’d been drinkin’ all night. But I didn’t give a fuck. Drunk or not, that nigga stepped outta pocket. In a split second I was ’bout to bring my blade to his face. “I know you didn’t just disrespect me. Muhfucka, I don’t know what type of bitch you think you talkin’ to, but I ain’t that bitch. How dare you try to come at me and you got the fuckin’ audacity to look like a muthafuckin’ cross-eyed gorilla!”
“Yo, you better go ’head ’fore you get hurt in here.”
“Go ’head nothin’. Fuck you, you crusty muhfucka. You probably the only duck-ass nigga outta ya crew who ain’t gettin’ no real pussy unless you beggin’ for it, or trickin’ ya money up for it. You done fucked with the wrong one, nigga. I’ll have ya muthafuckin’ lights smashed out before the sun comes up, fake-ass baller.” I knew if my girls were with me, we woulda tore that casino up and been hauled off to jail for stompin’ his ass.
“Yo, tell this bitch to step the fuck off before—”
“Before you what, nigga?” I said, cuttin’ him off while reachin’ into my bag to get my shit. Fuck splittin’ his shit with my blade, I was gonna ram my ice pick in his thick gut. If he kept pressin’, it’d be a bullet instead.
Dude stepped in between us, pushin’ his boy back with his forearm. “Yo, nigga, shut ya drunk ass the fuck up. Yo, ma, don’t pay his dumb ass no mind. He’s fucked up.”
I stared the drunk nigga down, then turned my attention to him. “And he’s about to get really fucked up ’cause he done came at the wrong bitch.”
“Yo, y’all take this dumb nigga outta here,” he said to two of his boys. They snatched his ass up real quick and got him the fuck away from me before I put a slug in his skull.
“Don’t no nigga talk slick and think shit’s sweet.”
“I hear you. That was some real foul shit. I apologize for how he came at you, but I’ma check him on it.”
“Yeah, you do that. But, please be clear. If I run into that crab-ass nigga again, he had better be in a position to apologize for how he came at me, otherwise you and the rest of ya crew gonna be goin’ to a funeral.”
“I feel you, ma. So, I guess tryna get ya number is definitely out now?” he asked, flashin’ me a beautiful smile.
“You got that right,” I said, leavin’ him starin’ at my ass.
Oh my God! It was live and poppin’ in Vegas that weekend and every fuckin’ night the strip was filled to capacity with niggas and bitches tryna shine in their wears. Even the white bitches were tryna get it in. But none of them pasty, weave-wearin’, frontin’-ass tramps could rock with me. And I was slayin’ them hoes every night at every damn party in all the ill shit. Long story short, I ran into this nigga in the airport, and wouldn’t you know he stepped to me, holdin’ open his BlackBerry, ready for me to program my number into his phone. And the nigga has been callin’ me ever since. Now I wish I woulda gave his ass a wrong number.
Anyway, I had to pull the phone from my ear for a minute. I swear I don’t know why I gave this nigga my fuckin’ number, I thought, rollin’ my eyes. “Nigga, you must be smokin’ dust or eatin’ mufuckin’ paint chips to come at me like that. I don’t know you like that. And to answer ya question, never. Now do me a favor and delete my number ’cause I ain’t feelin’ ya ass like that.”
He laughed. “Damn, ma, why you gotta be so hard on a brotha. I’m only fucking with ya sexy ass. I know you ain’t that type of chick.”
I sucked my teeth. “Whatever. You still might as well delete my number ’cause I ain’t givin’ you no pussy.” The Kat line started ringin’ off the hook. And I was glad. “Listen, I gotta go. Don’t call me anymore.”
“Yeah, aiight. I’ma keep callin’ ’til you stop answerin’,” he said. “There’s somethin’ ’bout ya evil ass that turns me the fuck on.”
Click. I hung up on his ass, pressin’ the TALK button on my other cell. “Yeah.”
“We still beefin’?” Cash asked, soundin’ like Barry White.
“Nah,” I said, “we straight.” For now, muhfucka, I thought, rollin’ my eyes.
“Good. I got some gigs for you. You wit’ it?”
“When?” I asked, ploppin’ down on my bed. I ran my hand through my ultra-silky hair, then twirled the ends through my fingers. “And where?”
“Everything needs to be wrapped up within a week.”
I let out a sigh of relief. I was glad I had a few days to chill. “Where?” I asked.
“Atlanta and Chicago,” he stated.
“Give me two days.”
“I’ll have everything ready for you.”
“Cool. Oh, and don’t try that shit you pulled on that last gig. I want seventy-five percent of my paper before I start.”
“Now, you know how we do. Half now, the rest later.”
“No,” I stated flatly. “That’s how we used to do up until you tried to stunt me.”
“Come on, ma. Why you tryna bust a nigga’s balls?”
“’Cause a nigga can’t be trusted,” I replied. “And, besides, I like it when I got a handful of balls in my hands, squeezin’ the nut outta it. Now, like I said, I want seventy-five percent now and the rest when I touch down.” My mental calculator started churnin’ in my head. That meant a hundred-and-fifty thousand for the price of two bodies upfront. I smiled.
“I got you,” he said, soundin’ real tight. I didn’t give a fuck. Play me, get played, sucka! He musta read my mind because he said, “You know I’d never game you.”
“Yeah, that’s what your mouth says,” I said, hangin’ up.
Later on that evenin’, I was in my kitchen heatin’ up some leftovers from the Cheesecake Factory, smokin’ a blunt, with the stereo blarin’ Nas’s Hip Hop Is Dead CD throughout the house. And I had the flat-screen TV on with the volume down. I wasn’t big on watchin’ TV ’n shit, but every now and then a bitch liked to peep the news to stay up on the comin’s and goin’s of the crazy-ass niggas and silly bitches in this fucked-up world. So while the six o’clock CBS news was on, I was just standin’ in the middle of my kitchen waitin’ for the microwave to stop, listenin’ to Nas spit his lyrics and gazin’ at the TV when a special news report flashed across the screen. I ain’t gonna front, a bitch got real curious when this Asian-lookin’ reporter chick was standin’ in front of the Delano Hotel in South Beach. The same fuckin’ spot I was a few weeks ago. And when the face of the nigga I bodied appeared, I almost fainted. I ran across the kitchen to grab the stereo remote to turn that shit down. I caught what the chick was sayin’ in mid-sentence.
“…Prominent criminal defense attorney Lyndon Blair Holmes was last seen at this world-class urban resort nestled here in the heart of South Beach three and a half weeks ago. Although the details regarding his disappearance are sketchy, hotel staff state the multimillionaire had been served at the Rose Bar around nine p.m., and was sitting alone. At ten-thirty that evening, he called housekeeping from his room for fresh towels. No one has seen or heard from him since. All of his personal items were still in his suite and his 2006 Lamborghini remained in the parking garage. His wife alerted authorities when she had not heard from her husband in two days, and he hadn’t returned any of her calls. Authorities urge potential witnesses to come forward. A one-million-dollar reward is being offered by the family to anyone with information that will lead investigators to his whereabouts. Currently there are no leads…”
’Cause his ass is dead, bitch!
His wife, a cute brown-skinned chick dipped in jewels, was sobbin’ and talkin’ into the camera. I turned that shit off. I wasn’t beat to hear her beggin’ and pleadin’ for his safe return home. I didn’t wanna hear jack ’bout her missin’ him, and how much she loved him, especially when the bitch probably had somethin’ to do with his ass bein’ slumped. A bitch was through. I put my food on a plate, then took my ass downstairs into my theater room to spark a Dutch, eat, and watch Perfect Stranger with Halle Berry.
At nine p.m. my phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID, then picked up. It was my girl Chanel. “Whaddup, ho?”
“Hey, hooker, what’s good?”
“Shit,” I said, holdin’ the phone in the crook of my neck while I spun the chamber of my revolver, making sure it was packed with a full load of heat. I placed the safety latch on it, then laid it back in its case and closed the drawer. “What’s poppin’ tonight?”
“This baller nigga, from Newark, Thug Gee, is havin’ a party tonight at Studio 9. Word has it it’s gonna be packed with long dollars and thick dick.”
“Hmmph,” I grunted. “And a bunch of dick-thirsty Wal-Mart bitches,” I said, rollin’ my eyes up in my head. I really wasn’t in the mood for bein’ around a bunch of hatin’-ass hoes, especially them Jersey bitches, ’cause I already knew that the first one who eyeballed me recklessly or said somethin’ slick outta the side of her neck, I’d have to slide her ass. But I also knew them bitches didn’t really want it.
Although me and Chanel were restin’ across the dirty-ass Hudson here in Jersey while Tamia and Iris still parlayed in Brooklyn, it had been a minute since me and my girls all chilled together. Although Tamia and Iris were my girls, Chanel and I had been friends since second grade and I’d only been friends with Tamia and Iris since junior high. So my history with them bitches was a little different from the one with Chanel. Granted, Chanel was much tighter with them than I was, but I must say, for the last six or seven years, the four of us were thick as thieves and had a rep of rockin’ the hottest wears, pushin’ the slick-ass whips, fuckin’ the finest niggas, and turnin’ a club out. However, on some real shit, it was all an illusion ’cause along with that rep came some extra shit for a few of these hoes. But I ain’t gonna pull any cards right now. So, I’ma keep it cute, and keep it movin’.
Anyway, after thinkin’ ’bout it, it was a Friday night, and I really did feel like poppin’ and droppin’ it a bit. What the fuck, I thought. “Okay, trick, what time we rollin’?”
“Eleven,” she said. “Tamia and Iris are already here chillin’ at my spot. You want us to come through and scoop you?”
I looked down at my diamond bezel timepiece. It was ten after nine. “Nah, I’m drivin’,” I replied, shiftin’ the cordless phone from one ear to the other, walkin’ into my elaborate walk-in closet laced with all the illest shit from Chanel, Emilio Pucci, Vera Wang, Gucci, Louis Vuitton, and Hèrmes. “I’ll be there quarter of. Make sure you hoes are ready.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…whatever!”
“And you cock suckas ain’t smokin’ in my shit either.”
“Love you, too,” she said, laughin’.
“See ya asses in a minute,” I said, laughin’ to myself before hangin’ up. I stared at my enormous designer collection, then, after ten minutes of shufflin’ and rustlin’ through shit, I decided to rock a black, knee-grazin’ Gucci wrap dress and a pair of Gucci stilettos. Yeah, give them broke bitches somethin’ to hate, my mind snapped as I headed toward my bathroom, thinkin’ about gettin’ my two-step on.
An hour later, I was standin’ in my full-length mirror, fully dressed, puttin’ my two-carat studs in my ears and makin’ sure my hair and face were on point. “This is why I’m hot, dammit,” I said, admirin’ the way my fifteen-hundred-dollar dress clung to my curves, lettin’ muhfuckas know just what I was workin’ with and revealin’ an ample amount of cleavage—just enough to let ’em know my titty game was right. I grabbed my black Gucci hobo bag and made my way to my garage, then opened the door to my metallic silver S550. I slid inside the butter-soft gray leather interior, pressed the garage door button, then turned on the CD player. Lil’ Kim’s “Kitty Box” blared from the speakers as I made my way to pick up my crew.
When we finally pulled into the parkin’ area, it was packed. The niggas and bitches were pilin’ outta luxury cars in droves. The thought of grindin’ my ass up against a nigga’s dick made my pussy twitch. I pulled into a parkin’ space next to a sweet-ass bronze-colored Bentley. The shit was bangin’. I wonder who’s pushin’ that whip? I thought, flippin’ down my visor. We all checked our faces and hair to make sure shit was regulated.
“What I tell ya’ll bitches?” Chanel announced all excited ’n shit in between pulls of her blunt. “I told ya’ll hoes this shit was gonna be live tonight. We ’bout to work the hell outta this spot.”
“I don’t know ’bout the rest of ya’ll, but I’m tryna run deep in a nigga’s pockets tonight. Drinks all night on his ass,” Iris replied, applyin’ a fresh coat of lip liner to her neatly painted lips.
“I heard that,” Tamia said, chucklin’. “And not that cheap shit either.”
I rolled my eyes. “I have my own paper,” I said, tossin’ my hair to the side. Bitches hated the fact that I didn’t need a weave or extensions or a perm. My shit was all natural, and I shitted on these chicks every time I let ’em know that with the toss of my head.
“And?” Iris asked, tiltin’ her head as if I’d said somethin’ foreign to her.
“And,” I said with much ’tude, “I can buy my own drinks. I’m not one of you hard-pressed bitches, lookin’ for a nigga to buy me drinks ’cause your asses are pinchin’ pennies.”
“Fuck you, trick,” Chanel said, takin’ another deep toke from the blunt, then passin’ it to Iris. She exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. Iris took two pulls, then offered it to Tamia.
“Nah, bitch, I’m good,” Tamia said. Iris handed it back to Chanel who took another hard pull, holdin’ the smoke in her lungs.
“No, tramp,” I said, closin’ my sunroof, then openin’ the door. “I’ma fuck you if you burn my seats back there, trick-ass hoes. Now, let’s roll.” Tamia and Chanel started laughin’ and chokin’, but I was serious as hell. That’s my girl and all, but I’d ram a blade in her ass real quick if need be.
There were three lines to get into the club, and each one was practically wrapped around the damn building. Around the back there was some sort of tent that led into another entrance, and that was overflowin’ and packed with niggas and bitches. Ain’t no way a bitch like me was standin’ in some busted-ass line.
“I hope one of you bitches is fuckin’ one of the bouncers ’cause I ain’t beat to be standin’ out here all night,” I said, scannin’ the area. I spotted a few thugged cuties, but nothin’ to write home ’bout. I peeped a group of low-budget bitches cuttin’ their eyes over at us, tryna take in our wears. Humph.
“No,” Iris said, grinnin’. “But I am fuckin’ one of the deejays.”
The rest of us looked at her, dumbfounded. “Bitch, then why is we standin’ out in this crab-ass line?” Chanel snapped, suckin’ her teeth.
“You know this ho gets brain-dead after she smokes a few trees,” I said, rollin’ my eyes at her simple ass. Iris had already found her first prey of the night and was standin’ to the side of us, spittin’ game to this nigga who was gazin’ into her eyes like a star-struck junkie. Hell, why wouldn’t he? On the outside lookin’ in, we were four fly bitches laced in the hottest shit, and didn’t fuck with no broke niggas, so it is what it is. I knew if his paper was long and he was spendin’, she would probably fuck him after the club, unless someone else came along with deeper pockets or a bigger dick.
Say what ya want. But, personally, I ain’t fuckin’ no nigga on the first or second night. Well, not a nigga who’s gonna live to tell about it. Let’s be clear. Yeah, I gets it in like the next bitch, but the niggas I waste don’t count ’cause ain’t none of ’em alive to kiss ’n tell shit about fuckin’ me. So I can fuck and suck and do whatever I want with ’em and never have to worry ’bout some chump-ass muhfucka tryna play me close. But if I’m straight fuckin’ a nigga on the bricks, it damn sure ain’t gonna be on the first night. I don’t care how wet my pussy gets, or how thick his dick gets. It ain’t gonna happen.
I glanced back over at Iris, then rolled my eyes. If a bitch wanna play herself, then…oh well.
“Fuck ya’ll,” Iris said, catchin’ the eye of one of the bouncers, a tall, caramel-coated nigga with a bald head and thick arms, lips, and what looked like big hands. He smiled over at her. “Hey, Len,” she said, wavin’. “Is my name on the guest list?”
“You already know,” he said, wavin’ us to come up to the front of the line. We followed Iris up the ramp, and heard teeth suckin’ and agitated grumblin’s. I looked back and smirked at the common bitches, then stepped inside the club where the beats were rockin’.
All night long, niggas were tryna get at us. Tamia and Chanel took a few numbers, but none of them niggas appealed to me. I wasn’t beat. Iris was up in the deejay’s booth with her new man toy. “I’m going over to the bar,” I yelled over the music. “You want anything?” I asked Chanel.
“Yeah, a shot of Ketel One and an apple martini,” she said. Tamia was on the dance floor, shakin’ her ass up on some buffed nigga rockin’ shoulder-length locks. The music was tight. Fabolous’s “Make Me Better” was pulsin’ through the huge speakers. I smiled at my girl slayin’ her dance partner on the floor as I made my way to the bar. I knew she wouldn’t be wantin’ any more drinks since she already sucked down her six-drink max. And I knew the bitch was lit the way she was bouncin’ and grindin’ her ass all up on dude’s dick.
While I waited for my order, I felt someone towerin’ over me, but paid it no mind. “Yo, ma, what you drinkin’?” a voice asked, leanin’ into my ear. His warm breath against my ear and the scent of his expensive cologne made my nipples harden. I slowly turned to face the nigga with the deep, panty-wettin’ voice in back of me, and parted a sly smile. The nigga was fine. He had smooth, cocoa-brown skin, big brown eyes, a thick nose, and nice, full, pussy-eatin’ lips. And when he smiled, he had straight white teeth and a sexy-ass dimple in his left cheek. I peeped the shine around his neck and wrist, and the rocks in his lobes. Yeah, the nigga was blingin’…just how I like ’em.
“Why, you payin’?”
“No doubt,” he said, grinnin’.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I got it, but I’ll buy you a drink,” I said, real sexy-like.
He smiled wider. “Nah, baby, I’m good.”
I licked my lips, roamin’ every inch of his body before lockin’ my eyes on the bulge in his pants. Although there wasn’t much light to really see what was good, there was something ’bout the way he stood that told me he was hangin’ just right. I smiled, stickin’ the tip of my tongue outta the side of my mouth. “I bet you are,” I said, brushin’ past him, leavin’ him with his tongue waggin’ as I headed back over to Chanel. Tamia was now sittin’ at the table, sippin’ on a drink.
“Bitch, where you been all this time?” Tamia asked, smilin’.
“In that long-ass line tryna get these drinks,” I said, handin’ Chanel her order.
“Thanks,” Chanel said, takin’ the shot straight to the head.
“Then this fine-ass nigga was tryna get his rap game on, but I gave him no play.”
Tamia rolled her eyes all dramatic and whatnot. “You are so fuckin’ tired with that bullshit. You’re gonna end up an old-ass maid with a dried-up, dusty-ass pussy if you don’t stop tryna be so stuck the fuck up. How the hell you think you’re gonna get some dick, actin’ all stank anytime a nigga tries to get at you?”
I flipped her the finga. “For your information, ho, I gets dick, trust. I don’t let you vultures know ’bout it.” Well, what I said really wasn’t a lie. I mean, I was fuckin’. I was killin’ the niggas afterward. Still, I was gettin’ dick, and that’s all that mattered.
Chanel giggled. “Yeah, you fuckin’ alright. Fuckin’ the skin off them damn fingas.” Tamia fell out laughin’. Just then, the nigga from the bar was comin’ toward our table, grinnin’.
“Who the fuck is that fine-ass muhfucka right there?” Chanel questioned, tossin’ her head in his direction, then sittin’ up in her seat. “My God, that nigga looks like he’s paid out the ass. I’d fuck him on the spot.”
I smirked. “I know your nasty, trick ass would. He’s the nigga who was at the bar. And I’m—”
He stepped up in our space and locked his gaze on me. “How you ladies doin’?” he asked, lockin’ his gaze on me. Everyone said their hellos, practically ready to suck and fuck him, then zoomed in on me. All eyes on me, bitches, I thought. “So can I at least get a dance since I couldn’t buy you a drink?”
I grinned, eyein’ his ass down. “That depends.” I licked my lips.
“On?”
“Whether or not you can move.”
He rubbed his chin, flashin’ his beautiful teeth again. I was one of the few bitches who hated niggas who had their grill fronts all chromed and iced out. That shit looked so nasty and country to me. And a nigga with a mouth full of teeth that looked like piano keys, or like he’s been gnawin’ on bricks, was a no-no. “I guess you’ll have to find out for yourself.”
“Then I guess I will,” I said, gettin’ up from my seat and followin’ him to the dance floor. I looked back at Chanel and Tamia, then stuck my tongue out. We found a spot on the floor and started doin’ the damn thing to Beyoncé’s “Get Me Bodied.” Before I knew it, I was poppin’ my hips and droppin’ down real low, lettin’ this nigga know what time it was. It had been so long since I’d been out that I almost forgot how good it felt to be out shakin’ my ass.
I worked up a nice sweat and when that sexy-ass Nas’s voice came over the speakers with “Let There Be Light,” I spun around real slow, then twirled my hips into his crotch and pressed my body up against his. He placed his hand on my hip, pulled me into him, and found a rhythm that matched mine, while slippin’ his thigh between my legs and grindin’ into me. I pressed back harder, lettin’ him know I was no slouch. I took my hand and ran it along the front of his designer slacks, felt the length of his dick and squeezed. Damn, this nigga holdin’ something right, I thought, tryna keep my pussy in check. But I already knew if he kept on, I’d be fuckin’ him.
The following day, I was loungin’ on my damask chaise with my leg tucked under me, listenin’ to 2Pac’s “Hit ’Em Up,” openin’ the manila envelope that had been sent by FedEx. I glanced over at the leather suitcase filled with my paper, smilin’. I pulled out two 8 x 10 photos of my next marks and the details of where I’d find ’em. I stared at the first photo, studied it carefully, taking in every aspect of the nigga’s features. He was a darker version of the ex-NBA player Jayson Williams with Jay-Z lips. My pussy twitched imaginin’ those big, juicy lips all over my clit and pussy. Yeah, fuckin’ him was gonna be a real treat. I hoped he had a big dick. For some reason, I always felt gypped when I ended up gettin’ a mark with a little-ass dick. That shit made me want to blow a hole in his head right on the spot for wastin’ my damn time. I read his stats, which were always found on the lower right corner of every picture: twenty-eight years old, six feet, two inches, 225lbs. This big nigga better be packin’, I thought, memorizin’ his information.
When I got to the second photo, I almost fell outta my motherfuckin’ chair. It was a white nigga. And the muhfucka wasn’t even fine. It was bad enough I didn’t do white dick; Cash knew that shit. Still, to hit me with a stringy-haired nigga with brown teeth was a bit much. This is some bullshit for real, I thought, flippin’ open my cell.
“What’s good?”
“You givin’ me this white muhfucka who looks like he’s been eatin’ shit, that’s what’s good. You know I don’t get down with no white niggas. And definitely none who look like this cracker.” I let my words roll off my tongue before I could catch what I had said.
He started laughin’ ’n shit. “Yo, ma, you actin’ like you tryna fuck the nigga or somethin’. What’s good?”
“What you mean ‘what’s good’? Ain’t nothin’ good, nigga.”
“Yeah, aiight.” He lowered his voice. “Listen…check this out. How you slump these muhfuckas don’t matter; only that it gets done.”
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“Whoa, pump ya brakes. It means just because I ain’t ever say shit don’t mean I don’t know how you doin’ yours. Don’t think I don’t know you freakin’ them niggas before you waste ’em.”
I pulled the phone from my ear and looked at it. I couldn’t believe what I heard. “Excuse me?” I said, shocked. For some reason, I really didn’t think the nigga knew. But I guess I’d been sleepin’ on his ass.
“On some real shit, it ain’t that serious, babycakes,” he said, causin’ the hairs on the back of my neck to stand. Babycakes? I decided to ignore it. “You like gettin’ ya nut off with them jokers and it’s all good. Actually, givin’ them muhfuckas some pussy before slumpin’ ’em is kinda hot. I always knew you was a real freak with yours.” Ugh, he made my stomach turn. “But I need you to do me this solid.” This time he started laughin’ again. Yeah, okay, I thought. This fat, nasty nigga did this shit on purpose, tryna be funny. “What the fuck’s so funny?” I snapped.
“You,” he said. “I wish I coulda been a fly on ya wall when you peeped his flick. I know that shit was priceless.”
“Whatever,” I said. “You ain’t funny. So you know, now what?”
“Do what you do best. I promise to make it worth your while.”
“So why you send this shit to me instead of one of ya dudes on the squad?”
“’Cause I wanted to line ya pockets with a little extra somethin’.”
I sighed. “Yeah, right. That’s what ya mouth says.”
He busted out laughin’ again. “And I wanted to see how you’d handle this nigga since he ain’t fuckable.”
“Fuck you, Cash. I’m glad you think this shit is funny. How long have you known?”
“For ’bout a year now,” he said. “At first, when the crew was findin’ all the niggas you slumped naked, I didn’t pay the shit no mind. But, then I peeped how every time you went on an assignment the muhfuckas would be butt-ass naked and the sheets would be removed. Shit wasn’t addin’ up. Then it hit me, and that’s when I put shit together. Like I said, I thought the freaky shit was fiyah. And the only reason I kept it on the low is ’cause at the end of the day you real thorough. And I really don’t give a fuck how you handle yours. So, you got this one or what?”
“How much you tryna line my pockets with?” I asked, usin’ the photo to fan myself.
“An extra twenty-five gees,” he said.
“Fuck that,” I snapped. Now that I knew this nigga knew, he’d be tryna clown me every chance he got if I let him. I ain’t the one. The only way to shut a nigga like him down—other than puttin’ a bullet in his skull—is by diggin’ in his pockets. “You musta banged ya damn head if you think that’s ’posed to be makin’ it worth my fuckin’ while. Come betta, Cash, or it’s a no-go. And I’m not fuckin’ around.”
“Aiight, aiight. I’ll make it another fifty gees. Just handle the dude. His wife wants his ass stretched, ASAP.”
My pussy pulled in my thong. The sound of that got me heated. “Then you need to get my seventy-five percent to me now. Otherwise, you’ll have to send someone else on this one.”
He sucked in his breath. “Damn, your little ass is really playin’ hardball these days.”
“I’ve learned from the best,” I replied, tossin’ the photo of this pasty-faced fool to the floor. “I want my money tonight.”
“It’ll be there.”
“It better be,” I said, snappin’ the phone shut.