Real Wifeys: Get Money

by Mink, Meesha

  My BlackBerry vibrated in my left hand while I steered with the right. “It’s the lawyer,” I told Peaches, while I answered the call and pulled over to park in front of a homeless shelter.

  “Hurry up and answer,” she snapped, sitting tense as hell in the passenger seat decked out in twelve shades of blue.

  Shut the fuck up! “Mr. Levitz, I’m putting you on speakerphone.”

  “Mr. Gardner just had his bail hearing and there was no bail set—”

  Peaches cried out and then slumped down in the seat so low that I thought she passed out completely. I ignored the bitch.

  “Also he failed a drug test and I already spoke with his Essex County probation officer. She plans to immediately notify the courts that he has violated the conditions set by his probation. She will be requesting a revocation of his supervised release because of the failed drug charges and the seriousness of the Philadelphia charges—”

  Peaches came back to life, sat up straight, and hollered out again.

  “Hand me that bottle of water, Eve,” Michel mumbled from the backseat.

  “Peaches . . . please,” I stressed, shooting her a serious hard stare.

  “Anyway . . .” He cleared his throat. “As I was saying, there’s really no need to come to Philly. You won’t be able to see him until he’s finished being processed, and depending on what happens in Essex County, he might get shipped there.”

  Make$ was staying in jail. Humph. See how much pussy you find up in that bitch, I thought, even as I turned in my seat to face Peaches. “What do we do?” I asked, forcing my eyes to fill with tears as I pretended to let my hands shake like I was nervous. Like I gave a fuck.

  Peaches reached over and grabbed my hand. “Wait to hear from him and do what he say,” she said.

  I fought not to get her touch off of me. After the shit Make$ did to me—the disease plus fucking Goldie and God know who else—maybe a little time sitting in jail would help him get his mind right about what was important. But it meant more wifey duties for me: weekly visits, care packages, high-ass phone bills, and making sure he got everything he needed in there. But I would do it for him—and continue to do for myself while he was in there. It cost to be a prison wifey. Fuck the dumb shit.

  I dropped my BlackBerry in my bag as I turned the car around and headed back to Jersey.

  I stayed quiet while Peaches made her phone calls, cussing and carrying on like she had the power to talk him free. My thoughts?

  Where was Goldie’s snake ass, and what really went down?

  I pulled up in front of Michel and Eve’s apartment building. I used to live here, but I felt so far from it. This used to be my world when my parents cut the strings and left me on my own. Nothing had changed. There was mad people sitting on the stoop and in metal chairs in front of the building. Music blared from one of the windows. Some had box fans in them; a few were lucky enough to have an air-conditioning unit, but most were just open and letting in the summer heat.

  I double-parked the Jag and everyone on the block had eyes on us as I climbed out to let Michel and Eve out of the backseat.

  “You cool?” Michel asked, pulling me close for a tight hug.

  “I’m good,” I assured him.

  “Free Make$!” someone screamed from one of the windows above.

  I didn’t bother to look. I was too busy thinking that Make$’s arrest had already hit the news . . . or the blogs . . . or the streets. Same damn difference.

  “I’ll call you later,” Eve said, squeezing my wrist before she walked away in her heels.

  I climbed back into the driver’s seat. “You going home, Peaches?” I asked as I checked the mirror for oncoming traffic and checked the street ahead for a child about to dash out before I pulled off.

  “If you don’t mind,” she said politely.

  That shit made me raise an eyebrow. That was the most manners she’d ever shown. To top if off, she said absolutely nothing during the whole trip across town to her small brick house—the rent was a gift from her son.

  Maybe she’s worried about Make$.

  I shrugged, just happy as hell for the silence.

  Later that night I was lounging in the living room watching a marathon of The First 48. My attention wasn’t focused on the TV, though. I was too busy thinking over all of the shit I was discovering about the man I used to hate. I always knew he treated me different when he was on the road, but just what the fuck was really going on during this touring? Just how clueless was I? Did it matter at this point?

  I would never love Make$ again. Never. But I needed to know just how dumb I’d been during this relationship.

  I picked up my BlackBerry from the end table. I had a bunch of missed calls but I wasn’t worried about those. Those calls were all about asking me questions. I needed answers.

  I scrolled through my contacts and stopped at Missy’s number. I hadn’t talked to her since that night at Club 973. Biting my bottom lip, I called her. I took a deep breath that didn’t do shit to calm my nerves as the phone rang.

  “Luscious. So I only hear from you when you know Make$ fucked up, huh?” Missy asked, answering her phone after the first ring.

  Her attitude made me lean back a little bit.

  “I ain’t surprised at all he got arrested,” she said.

  That made me lean back a little more. “What happened on the road, Missy? I need to know,” I admitted, my voice soft.

  “Why are you still with him, Luscious? Seriously?” she asked.

  Something in her voice let me know that she felt sorry for me. “What happened?” I asked again.

  “I was only on the road with them for like two weeks but, Luscious, that nigga out there living life. Groupies. Threesomes. Partying. Living it up,” Missy said. “You deserve better than that. It’s too much diseases and shit out there for that nigga to be wildin’ out like that.”

  So all my fears and gut instincts about Make$ were true. I felt my face get hot as fuck as I remembered the STD he gave me and how I actually believed him when he said he must have caught it before he met me.

  “So you not with Goldie no more?” I asked, pretending all these emotions wasn’t building up in my chest.

  “Fuck Goldie’s scandalous ass too. She’s just as dirty as a motherfuckin’ dude,” Missy said. “You know what? After the way she stabbed you in the back I shoulda known Goldie was on some selfish bullshit. I knew she loved making money, but I didn’t know she’d sell her fucking soul for some cash.”

  I didn’t say a word as she told me in detail about the night in Atlanta when one of Goldie’s dancers was assaulted and almost raped by one of Make$’s crew. Make$ paid the dancer off with five thousand dollars . . . and Goldie convinced her to take the money.

  I felt a chill to my bones as I flashed back to his crazy-ass mother having that girl beaten and his assuring me that he would “take care” of it.

  He was in jail now for trying to help the dude who raped Goldie get off.

  And now I’m hearing about this shit.

  This was Make$’s M.O. He felt like him, his family, and his friends could float above the law on his dime.

  I shook my head at the shame of it all.

  “This shit with Goldie is some wicked-ass karma and I hope her ass think about that slick shit she pulled with Kerri.”

  “Kerri?” I asked, still feeling numb.

  “That’s the girl that was assaulted. She used to dance as TipDrillz. Matter of fact, she was with me the night of Goldie’s party.”

  I remembered her. “How is she?”

  “The same. I don’t even know if she really realized what happened to her. You know? She just took the five grand went home and went shopping. She blew the money and now she living with her sister in a run-down apartment on Clinton Avenue.”

  I shifted my eyes to look out the window at the night sky. It was starting to feel like all this info was more shit dropped on my shoulders that I couldn’t hold up under.

  “I’
m telling you all this, Luscious, for you to know you need to get the fuck away from that nigga. You know what I mean? I feel bad knowing that I know what they did to her and said nothing, but I’m respecting what she wants. He knows the same shit I do and paid to keep his rapist-ass friends free. Like it’s okay for them to rape. Shit, who’s next? You?”

  I didn’t say anything else. I didn’t have anything else to say. I was too busy swallowing down the truth.

  6

  My phone was ringing nonstop and I was sick of repeating what little of the story I knew. The news didn’t reveal Goldie’s identity and neither did I. I couldn’t help but wonder what the bitch was feeling after everything Missy told me about Kerri/TipDrillz. And now her ass was dealing with the same shit she fucking minimized for another one. Humph. This bitch didn’t deserve no sympathy.

  See, the unjust don’t prosper, I thought as I began moving all of Make$’s shit into the guest bedroom. I was busy planning how to make the apartment all mine while the diseased cheater was on lock and trying to keep his asshole from getting plugged. I can use all that closet space.

  Was I wrong for skipping through that bitch without a care in the world? No. Hell to the no. I did all my crying and worrying all those nights his ass was on the road forgetting about me—or saying “fuck me” while he fucked my friend and God knew who else.

  Goldie.

  I turned with a stack of Make$’s jeans in my arms and looked in the mirror. I was pretty girl. I grew up with the whole “you’re pretty for a dark girl” or “you’re a pretty black girl.” Why the need for pointing out my deep chocolate skin tone? Who the fuck knew? But it was always there, like I accomplished some big-ass thing being dark-skinned and pretty. Some of her dancers thought that was the reason Goldie was so popular with all that good “real” hair and light skin bullshit. They thought a dark-skinned chick had to be more freaky, have bigger ass and titties, and wild out to get the same attention as a light-skinned chick with less body.

  I never really got caught up in that skin tone bullshit.

  But . . .

  Goldie and I looked so different. Did Make$ believe that all pussy looked the same in the dark, or was he fulfilling some fantasy having a redbone, half-breed bitch like Goldie in his bed? Was that why he claimed to love me but cheated on me with my friend . . . because fucking Goldie was worth the risk?

  My cell phone blasted off from the kitchen counter and I dumped the thirty pairs of jeans in my arms onto the made bed before rushing out the room to snatch up the BlackBerry. It was a number I didn’t recognize. The last call I took from an unknown or private number was some asshole saying he didn’t want to get like a nigga sitting up in jail because he protected rapists—a joke about Make$’s hit single “Get Like Me.”

  Humph, I hung up on him even as he laughed like he was watching Kevin Hart do stand-up. I promised myself if I got another prank call I would change my number. To hell with childish shit. I couldn’t care less that Make$ let his “relationship” with Goldie get his ass in jail, but if niggas had jokes, they needed to go visit him in county.

  I used my thumb to send the call to voice mail. I poured myself a shot of Patrón. Two. Hell with it.

  Wincing at the feel of the liquor going down my throat, I picked up the phone, put it on speakerphone, and called my voice mail inbox.

  “This is Luscious. Leave a message.”

  Beep.

  “Hi, Luscious, this is Ursula Stevens from—”

  I frowned. Ursula Stevens ran one of the most notorious gossip sites ever. She didn’t give a damn about what she posted or what she said. She was infamous, and lots of entertainment people hated her snooping ass.

  “I have it on good authority that your connection to the arrest of your boyfriend Make$ is something I should look into, and we wanted to offer you an exclusive interview on the site telling us about your connection to the alleged victim. You used to dance for her, right? Anyway—”

  My heart pounded. How this chick know all our business?

  “Of course we can offer compensation for your time. Call me back at 1-800—”

  I ended the call. I didn’t want any part of giving an interview on a gossip site. Nothing. A few other chicks had taken that route. I still gagged at the memory of one ex-chick of a rapper actually allowing the posting of pictures of her miscarried fetus in the toilet. What the fuck? If only curiosity hadn’t made me click the link to those photos.

  Nah, I’m good. Something that obvious would be too big a slap across Make$’s narrow face. I wasn’t that bold. Not when he was still paying my bills. The world would see nothing but the perfect wifey holding her man down while he did a bid. That’s all.

  Bzzzzzz . . . Bzzzzzz . . . Bzzzzzz . . .

  I had just set my BlackBerry back down on the counter when it vibrated with a text message. I picked it back up and my heart pounded to see it was from Has.

  HEARD ABOUT UR BOY. JUST

  CHECKING ON U? U GOOD?

  I leaned against the counter as I hit him back:

  I’M GOOD . . . BUT I’LL B BETTER IF U

  CAN CUM THRU 2DAY.

  It was time me and Has got back down to it. Make$ was looking at at least a year if the judge sent him back to jail for his probation violation alone.

  Bzzzzzz . . . Bzzzzzz . . . Bzzzzzz . . .

  I opened the text:

  CUM THRU OR CUM IN U?

  I smiled as I texted him back:

  ONE LEADS TO THE OTHER.

  Bzzzzzz . . . Bzzzzzz . . . Bzzzzzz . . .

  SHOW ME SUM’N GOOD.

  I hurried out my skintight jean leggings and lace thong bikinis to squat over my phone, spreading the lips of my hairless fat pussy to make sure the photo captured everything inside and out for his sexy ass. I took the photo and then attached it to a text with the message:

  CUM & GET IT!!!!! (OR GET IT & CUM.)

  LOL.

  Bzzzzzz . . . Bzzzzzz . . . Bzzzzzz . . .

  “Whooaaaa,” I said, leaning back as a picture of his big dick lying across his lap filled the screen. It wasn’t even hard and it made Make$’s shit look like a toddler’s dick.

  WE’RE ON THE WAY.

  I licked the screen, already feeling my pussy warming up for a workout. “Come and get this pussy. Come and get this pussy,” I sang like it was a club joint, dancing my way into the master bedroom. “Gimme dat dick. Gimme dat dick. Gimme gimme dat dick.”

  I brushed my hair up into a cone around my head and tied it with a silk Vuitton scarf before I stripped naked to hop my sexy, ready-to-be-sexed chocolate ass into a bubble bath scented with my favorite L’Occitane Honey and Lemon Bath Bubbles. I loved the French bath and body products ever since Goldie introduced—

  I froze at the thought and my mouth twisted in distaste. Goldie gave me the bath set from the French company for my birthday. The devil is a lie.

  I emptied the tub, rinsing out every honey-and-lemon-scented bubble before I dumped the entire basket of goodies in the trash. Shit probably rooted or some shit. I wanted no part of nothing concerning Goldie’s conniving ass. Nothing.

  Well, except Has, I thought as I poured three capfuls of the Bath & Body Works White Citrus Bubble Bath from the gift basket my moms gave me the same night of my birthday party at the Key Club. I didn’t even open it because I was so excited about Goldie’s gift basket—stuck all up in her shit like she was my fucking god or idol or some shit. Just being dumb as hell.

  That shit made my stomach burn and my heart harden.

  I thought back to the night of my party when I walked outside to find her and Make$ chitchatting. My eyes shifted over to the mirror to check my reflection. Is that when their shit started? At my fucking party?

  I had to give myself a ten count to keep from ramming my fist against the mirror. Even long after I slipped beneath the hot depths of the water, it took a minute for my body to relax, and even longer for my mind to slow down.

  In some ways Goldie’s betrayal burned my guts hotter t
han Make$’s. A man was hardly ever to be trusted but you always hoped the chick you called a friend would have your back when the man fucked up . . . and not be the cause of the fuckup. Lying bitch. I hate an untrustworthy ho. Bitches like that deserve to get they shit shook.

  I was just standing up to rinse the bubbles from my body under the oversize showerhead when the phone rang. I shut the water off and grabbed a plush towel to wrap around my body as I stepped out the tub. I picked up the cordless phone on the wall by the commode.

  “Hello.”

  “You have a collect call from a correctional facility—”

  Make$. The collect calls began. I didn’t give a fuck as long as he made sure the accountant continued to pay the bill.

  I pressed all the right buttons to accept the call.

  “Whaddup, Luscious?” Make$ said, his voice sounding like he just woke up.

  I rolled my eyes as I grabbed a bottle of shea butter from my tray of toiletries on the counter. “Oh my God. How are you?” I asked, proud of how sincere I sounded. Maybe I should go into acting?

  “Listen, let’s cut through the bullshit, a’ight?”

  I sat up straight and stopped smoothing lotion on my legs at his tone.

  “My lawyer is telling me this shit ain’t looking good for me, Luscious, and I got to look out for myself while I’m in here—”

  Okay, I sat up a little straighter until my back was flat as a wall. “So what you saying?” I asked, keeping my voice soft even as I felt my pulse racing so hard that I was light-headed.

  “With the year I have to do for my probation violation and then my attorney is pushing a plea deal for at least three years for that rape bullshit . . . I know that’s a long time to ask any woman to put the pussy on lock—”

  My eyes squinted and my asshole got tight. “Soooo what are you saying, Terrence?” I snapped. Fuck it. I had no time for games.

  “I’m not gone pay the bills while some other nigga fucking my chick. Period.”

  Has. He knew about Has? Did he know about Has?

  I thought about leaving Peaches alone in my car with my bag and cell phone when I dropped Michel and Eve off. Did that bitch see the text Has sent me? “What other nigga? What the fuck are you talking about? You cheated! Not me?”