Real Wifeys: Get Money

by Mink, Meesha

  My eyes widened and my body got stiff as Erin started dancing on me, her hands rubbing up and down my body. She danced around me and pressed a kiss to my neck before she brought her hands up to press against the sides of my breasts. She thrust one knee between my thighs.

  “Grind on it,” she whispered up to me.

  Okay, listen. I felt awkward as a motherfucker and my mind was spinning like “Erin is gay!”

  “Grind!” she said again, raising my arms up to the sky.

  I circled my hips as she pressed her fingers against my waist and then down into the front of my bikini.

  I swallowed and fought not to make a face.

  “Oh shit!” the owner said. He had stopped laughing.

  And when I looked out the bartender and DJ were staring at us too.

  The music ended and I went weak with relief when Erin stepped back away from me.

  “A team? Huh?” the owner asked, rising to his feet slowly.

  “That’s right,” Erin said, motioning with her eyes as she smiled.

  Still shell-shocked, I gave him a stiff smile that I knew looked dumb as hell.

  “Tomorrow. Noon,” he said over his broad shoulder before walking away.

  “We’re in,” she said, giving me her fist to pound.

  I eyed her. “Are you gay?” I asked.

  Erin made a face. “Hell no. There is nothing a woman can do for me but introduce me to her brother or her man,” she said, strutting offstage in boy shorts and a bikini top.

  I still stood there.

  She stopped and turned, rolled her eyes, and pressed her hands to her thick hips. “You wanna make this money or not?” she asked, arching her brows.

  I nodded, but on the real, I was more scared of Erin turning me into a dyke over stripping . . .

  It took a while for me to realize that she didn’t want me and that everything we did onstage was an act. And we made money together. Slick Rick moved us to the night shift in no time, and the tips was damn good. Dudes was loving the combo of the thick white chick and the cute black girl. Ebony and Ivory. I can’t lie that plenty of alcohol and Ecstasy pills got me through pseudo-dyking with my friend onstage.

  After a while, the stripping and partying caught up with me and my grades fell. I lost my scholarship and eventually fell out of school. Once my parents cut me off, I kept stripping, but then Erin got lost in a crazy meth addiction and quit. Then it was just me trying to keep going at it.

  Humph. Slick Rick put my ass right back on day shift. I was used to Erin doing all the work, and the best I could do was these ass tricks that were good but not good enough to go up against freaky bitches who was selling pussy on the side. I wasn’t even fucking around with that tricking shit. I was selling fantasies, not ass.

  “I made a pan of my peach cobbler, just for you,” my momma was saying as I came back to the present.

  “Thanks, Ma,” I said.

  “Harriet, I haven’t seen you in a while. You’re all grown up.”

  I turned just as my parents’ next door neighbor Mr. Alvarez came down the steps. He was tall and thin, with more gray hair than I remembered since the last time I saw him years ago.

  “Hi Victor,” my mother said with a friendly smile.

  He reached out to squeeze my shoulder and I fought the urge to flinch or box his hands away. I couldn’t stand a touchy-feely person and his hands looked like crow’s feet.

  “How’s Sophie?” I asked, even though I truly didn’t give a fuck.

  His daughter, Sophie, and I were best friends growing up. We even planned to go to the same college, but once we were on campus, Sophie kept up the good-girl routine and my ass was living la vida loca. Eventually we were passing each other in the dorm hallways and barely spoke.

  “Here she comes,” he said, sliding them skeleton-looking hands in the front pockets of his slacks as he looked over his shoulder at his front porch.

  Sure enough, there was Sophie, closing the front door and coming down the steps in a navy blue pant suit and a pair of shoes I remembered seeing in Gucci last week. She didn’t look very different from the pretty, long-haired Latina girl that I used to think of as a sister. She still had that whole J.Lo thing going and walked like her shit didn’t stink.

  “Suga,” her father called out to her by her nickname as she continued right on to a pale gold convertible Volvo parked on the street in front of her father’s house.

  Like she didn’t see us standing there.

  She threw her hand up and waved briefly before opening her car door.

  “Suga!” Mr. Alvarez said again sharply, before turning his head to give us a smile.

  I thought I could smell liquor on him, and then I remembered from when we was little that he did used to drink. Once Sophie and I thought his brown liquor was tea and threw up the little bit we swallowed from our teacups.

  I hadn’t seen him much in the year since I moved, and I hadn’t seen my old friend Sophie at all.

  Sophie closed the car door and walked over to us. “Sí, Papi?”

  “It’s Harriet, your childhood friend,” Mr. Alvarez said.

  Sophie looked at me with eyes of a stranger. “That was a long time ago.”

  I felt my mom stiffen beside me, and I knew I wasn’t imagining this bitch’s rudeness. “Maybe not long enough,” I said, eyeing her like, Bitch, just blink at me too hard and I will drop-kick you in your throat.

  My mother grasped my wrist hard and pulled me up the stairs behind her. “It was good seeing you, Victor,” she called over her shoulder.

  In the few seconds just before my mother pulled me into the house and closed the front door, I turned to see Mr. Alvarez still standing in the street, watching us.

  My Rick Ross ringtone sounded off as I drove my Jag toward the Twelve50. I glanced down at the caller ID. My insider.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “I got some info on your girl and for this you owe me big-time.”

  I turned the car into the parking garage as I gripped my phone tight as hell. “Scale of one to ten?” I asked, my voice not filled with any hint of playing as I pulled into my reserved parking spot.

  “Oh, this shit is a ten. Trust and believe that.”

  “Give it to me,” I demanded, excited to finally have something to take Goldie’s ass down. The thought of that shit had my mouth watering and my clit throbbing like I was ’bout to bust a damn nut.

  “Goldie booked me for a photo shoot in Puerto Rico with that rapper Big Gunnaz, and one of ’em came at me ’bout staying in Puerto Rico and spending the weekend with him—”

  I rolled my eyes and clenched my fist so tight the skin over my knuckles stretched. “And?” I asked, trying not to sound too much like Bitch, hurry the fuck up!

  “Damn, Luscious, chill the fuck out and let me tell the fucking story. Dayum!”

  “I’m paying for info on Goldie’s no-good ass and not to sit here and listen to which whoring rapper wanted to sex you for the weekend,” I snapped.

  “You really letting this Goldie shit get to you. That bitch ain’t even that serious. Straight up.”

  Frustrated as fuck, I let my head fall back against the headrest as I pounded my fist against the steering wheel. “The money I’m paying you is crucial though, right?”

  “Oh, so like I was saying. I turned him down all polite like and shit. So when Goldie called to check on the shoot, I mention that shit to her for giggles and shit, but peep this. The bitch kinda sorta asks me—without really asking me—what I think about escorting with famous dudes—”

  I sat up straight in my driver’s seat. Escorting?

  “Yo, I think that bitch tryna feel me out to trick for her. I’m a find out what it pay.”

  Well, I’ll be damned. “So you think Goldie is a madam?”

  “I don’t know nothing about her being no madam, but I think the bitch is a female pimp. Hell yeah, I can read between the lines. I don’t give a fuck, she was feeling me out . . . seeing where my head at. You k
now?”

  I wanted to have some top-notch shit like this on Goldie’s ass . . . but how the fuck can I trust somebody who doesn’t know that a female pimp and a madam is the same fucking thing? Still, if my informant was right . . .

  “Get me proof. Get me some fucking hard-core proof and I got an extra grand for you on top of what I been paying you,” I said, climbing out the car and sidestepping like R. Kelly’s “Step in the Name of Love” played around me. If this snitching bitch was right, then Goldie’s high yella ass was grass and I was the motherfucking lawn mower.

  “That’s the problem, Luscious: I’m gonna deliver something that can get Goldie locked the fuck up,” said my informant. “This more than ‘send me pictures of her house,’ and ‘tell me do she talk about me,’ and ‘find out her secrets’ type of shit. I did all that . . . but helping you put the bitch behind bars is gone take more money to fill the pillow to make it comfy enough for me to sleep on that shit. Straight up.”

  Bitch, please. She didn’t care for Goldie any more than I did.

  “Get the proof and we’ll talk numbers,” I said.

  “Done deal.”

  My snitch ended the call and I dropped my cell into my bag as I beat my heels against the concrete toward the door. Goldie went from being a handler for strippers to pushing pussy? Slick bitch.

  “What’s up, Luscious?”

  I froze and looked up from searching in my purse for my crocodile sunglass case. Stepping out of the darkness of the parking garage were two big dudes dressed all in cliché black. I couldn’t see their faces because of the ski masks they wore.

  I can’t front. I felt sick as shit. I had been so caught up in that Goldie bullshit that I slipped the fuck up. That all-important fear had been lost in the heat of my revenge. Shit. Shit. Shit. Goldie’s tricking ass was still causing trouble for me.

  “Make$ want the money you stole from him,” one of them said.

  My eyes darted down to take in the billy club he was holding in his gloved hand. I frowned a little bit. Since I heard Make$’s little ass was out of jail, I knew he would get at me about the cash I took from the safe-deposit box at the bank. I didn’t know he would send out goons. Punk bitch.

  Make$ called me just once about the missing money. Just once. Almost a year ago. I denied taking it. He threatened me. I hung up on his ass. He never called me again . . . but I knew it wasn’t over.

  There was close to fifty grand in that box. He’s lucky I only took ten grand.

  “I don’t know what he’s talking about,” I lied, my voice low as my eyes shifted between the two of them.

  “Shut the fuck up, you lying bitch,” one of them said, his voice more irritated than angry. “You thought you was going to get away with thirty grand?”

  Thirty grand? Huh? What? Say how much?

  One of them bum-rushed me and grabbed me around my arms. My hand was still in my bag and now gripping my gun . . . but I couldn’t draw, and that felt like losing a winning lottery ticket. The air left my body as he tightened his arms around me and then pressed my body back against one of the beams of the garage.

  I hollered out at the top of my lungs and the other dude slapped me across the mouth. Hard. The lower half of my face stung like it was on fire. Tears filled my eyes.

  The tears wasn’t from the pain. I was scared as fuck wondering what these motherfuckers were going to do to me. How far had Make$’s punk ass told them to go to teach me a lesson? I thought about the video of Peaches getting the girl from the club jumped. I thought about him covering up crimes. I didn’t trust him. That’s why I put up my guard once I knew he was back on the streets. I figured Missy was right. Anyone willing to cover up major crimes might be willing to commit a few of his own. No, Make$ was not to be trusted. Fuck that.

  “Shit, she fine as fuck,” the one holding me said, his breath smelling like pure unwashed ass. I almost gagged as I twisted my head to the side.

  I felt a hand going under my dress. “HEEELLLLPPP!” I screamed, feeling fear and disgust fill my throat.

  WHAP!

  Another slap and then a gloved hand covered my mouth tight as hell.

  I wasn’t no gangsta bitch used to that bang-’em-up, shoot-’em-up type of shit. I’d never really been around any thugs except them clowns Make$ used to hang around—and of course the two holding me hostage at the moment. I could talk shit, but bloody violence wasn’t a must in my life like I was trying to be a mafia princess or some shit. But I knew right then it was just me up against two dudes and I would most definitely fuck both their worlds right on up with the gun in my bag.

  I relaxed my body, forcing myself to fight my nerves.

  The goon loosened his hold on me.

  I cocked my gun inside my handbag, ready to shoot through the monogrammed Louis Vuitton leather and into his belly if I had to.

  “Where my money, Luscious?”

  With the gloved hand still over my mouth, my eyes shot over to see the rear window of a parked Tahoe lower and show the face of Make$ sitting in the back. It had been over a year since I’d laid eyes on the man I’d hoped to love forever. Happily ever after. Forever and a day.

  Humph, now this motherfucker sat there and watched his goons handle me? Just another damn slap in the face from this asshole. Really, Terrence? Really?

  Shaking my head to unsuccessfully free the hand on my mouth, I tried to talk and it came out as mumbling.

  Make$ climbed out the Tahoe, his figure slender in a black suit and shirt. His head was clean-shaven, his shades were in place, and there was a new tattoo on his cheek. He slid his tattooed hands into the pockets of his pants as he walked over to where they had my ass hemmed up with my high heels dangling in the air.

  “Let her down,” Make$ said, looking down at the ground as he licked his lips.

  They released me in an instant and I dropped to my feet. Fucking flunkies.

  “Did you spend my money?” Make$ asked, pulling a toothpick out of his pocket to unwrap and stick in his mouth.

  “Listen, I didn’t take thirty grand out that safe-deposit box,” I said, moving my pocketbook up to my chest and crossing my arms so that it didn’t look so suspect with my hand stuck in my purse. There was no way I was letting my grip on this gun go. No way in hell. I didn’t think they would kill me, but they wasn’t going to beat me up, either.

  Make$ shook his head and laughed. “You think I’m stupid? I checked the box as soon as I got out,” he said, his voice hard and rising.

  “If you checked it yourself, then you would know I didn’t take thirty grand of your money. Sure Peaches or one of your flunkies didn’t gank your ass?”

  He rushed over to me and grabbed me by the neck so hard I couldn’t swallow. “Keep my mother’s name out your fucking mouth,” he bit out, his mouth so thin with anger that it looked white around the edges.

  Enough was enough of this bullshit.

  I undid my arms and used my left hand to push him hard as I held my bag against my chest. I must have surprised his little ass because he stumbled back, freeing my throat. I stepped back and pulled my gun, pointing it at him and then at Goon One and Goon Two. “Let me see some armpits. Hands up,” I said, eyeing all three of them.

  Make$ chuckled as he barely raised his hands above his shoulders.

  “Higher, please,” I said sarcastically.

  He barely obliged.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you what,” I said. “How about you three hold hands.”

  They all started complaining in unison and it was hard to tell who said what.

  “What?”

  “I’m not holding no dude’s hands.”

  “You out your ass.”

  I lowered the gun to Make$’s crotch with a lift of my brow. “Do it,” I said simply. There was no need to yell; the power was in my hand and not in my voice.

  I giggled as Make$ reached out and grabbed each of them nigga’s hands. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you play ring-around-the-rosy or some shit like that
. But I think it’s time you and I discussed real business, Terrence,” I told him, steadily backing up toward my car.

  “You know I was good to you,” I said with a shrug. “Even after your cheating ass fucked me over I still didn’t try and take you out. I went in your safety-deposit box, but I only took ten grand.”

  He tilted his head back and flexed his shoulders.

  “See, I felt like the least you owed me was six months rent to get back on my feet,” I told him, my gun targeted to burn one in his heart even though I knew I could never shoot this motherfucker. “I damn sure didn’t deserve you wanting to dump my ass on the street because you got locked up behind your side-ho.”

  Make$ looked over at me. “Nobody dumped you—”

  “Shut your ass up,” I snapped, feeling my anger rising and reaching for it. Welcoming it. “You wanna play hardball, send goons for me, threaten me? You on some fake-ass mafioso-type shit? Then watch how gutter I get.”

  “What you got, Luscious?” he asked.

  I sat my bag on the trunk of my car and then dug in it with my free hand to finally grasp my keys. “I’ll tell you what I got. A little DVD showing this certain little big-mouth fool popping off just before showing the evidence of a brutal beating that will send her right where you going.”

  I saw him stiffen.

  “So now, motherfucker, I want fifty thousand deposited in my account—all the info is the same—or that DVD will be hand-delivered to the Newark Police Department,” I told him, popping the trunk and dropping my pocketbook inside before I unlocked the door.

  “Where the fuck I’ma get fifty thousand to just give you?” Make$ asked, breaking his hold of the goons’ hands.

  Just five feet separated us.

  I raised the gun and leveled it at his head. “I don’t give a fuck. Just get it,” I told him with complete thoroughness as I backed up to the driver’s door and opened it from behind.

  “Oh, and if you even thinking of sending some goons my way, I have given copies of that DVD to several people and told them to get it to the police ASAP if anything happens to me. So fuck with it.” I climbed into my car and slammed the door.