by Ca$H
Nard loves me whole-heartedly.
“I want a pretty baby girl who looks just like her mama,” he’s always telling me. And I don’t have to worry about him creeping around, bringing a diseased dick home to me.
Oh, wow! Speaking of diseases; my girl Star has HIV! Three weeks ago, she called from LA crying so hard on the phone, I could hardly understand her. When I was finally able to figure out what she was crying about, all I could do was gasp, “Oh…my…god!”
What do you say to your best friend afer she tells you such terrible news?
I didn’t know what to say. But I was thinking: see what letting all those different niggaz run up in you led to. Of course I didn’t verbalize the thought.
“Gurl, I’m sorry to hear that. I really don’t know what to say, and I don’t wanna say anything that might upset you more. Just know that I’m here for you,” I managed to reply.
One Month Later
I’m waiting on Mama to finish applying her make-up; I swear, her old school butt is slower than a turtle. Nard and his mother is outside in the chauffer-driven Escalade stretch-limo, just chillin’, waiting for us, so we can make our grand entrance at Nard’s birthday party which is being held at The Atmosphere. The party has been broadcasted on the radio and the ghetto gossip airwaves for the past month, so I expect a packed club to be awaiting our arrival.
Mama comes downstairs looking damn near younger than me. The short, strapless dress that she’s rockin’ exposes her smooth thighs. “Mommie, you might mess around and catch you a young nigga tonight,” I tease.
“I know, right?” she giggles.
Star, who has moved back home from LA, is next to me on the couch, applying gloss to her lips. She winks at Mama as if to say, “You’re killing ’em, gurl!” Mama winks back.
Star is dressed to kill, oops! Bad choice of words, considering that she is infected with a deadly disease. She is glamourous, though. The honey mustard jumpsuit that she’s wearing fits every contour of her lean but shapely body like it was air-brushed onto her. Her hair is cut into a sharp bob, and the bitch is bejeweled something serious. If I wasn’t equally as glamorous myself, I might be a little jealous.
I’m wearing a soft cotton Chanel dress that leaves one shoulder bare, shows a lot of cleavage, and stops mid-thigh. The back is cut out to show the sexy curve of my back. My sharkskin stilettos match perfectly with my purse. Of course, I’m icy. Smelling so delicious is the new Paris Hilton perfume that I wear lightly.
When we get to the club, the parking lot is packed. The whips in the lot tell the story: Newark hustlaz and hustla-seeking chicks are out in abundance. We step through the door and Nard is greeted with a chorus of “Happy birthday, nigga!”
Nard gives everybody the middle finger, while a smirk is on his thuggishly handsome face.
The club is packed. Bouncers whisk us straight into the glass-enclosed VIP area, where Nard’s team and their chicks are partying like rock stars. Bitches are on the small dance floor, in VIP, grinding ass on niggaz dicks like crazy.
“They might as well be fuckin’,” Mama whispers in my ear.
“I know, right?” I laugh.
Our entourage is seated in a booth. Nard quickly excuses himself to go holla at his brother, Man Dog, and his other mans.
“Hey, gurl! That dress is definitely you!” Tropicana slides in next to me like we’re girls.
“Thanks. I like your little outfit, too.”
“Oh, this ain’t nothing. It’s what’s underneath it, boo,” she replies discreetly rubbing my thigh.
“I’m sure Quentin likes what’s underneath it,” I say, and remove her hand from off my thigh, where it had crept too damn close to my coochie.
“I bet you would like it, too, slide me your number: we can hook up without our niggaz knowing a thing. I got a tongue so long; it’ll reach your uterus.”
“Holla at me when you grow a dick,” I shut her down.
The club is poppin’. Mad young people are present so I know no one has been carded. The young niggaz are wildin’ out, smoking spliffs, pouring bubbly, talking loud over the music, and showering money down on half naked chicks. VIP is a little more laid back, but it’s poppin’ off in here too as Nard’s team flaunt their growing stature.
Mad dudes are trying to push up on Star, especially after the DJ announced her presence. What they don’t know is that the pussy they’re scheming to get will set that ass on fire.
Hol’ up! I think I see my cousin Nee Nee. Yep, that’s her. Why is this trick bitch at my man’s party? My nose flares out at the sight of her.
Bitch, you’re lucky I’m looking too cute tonight, or I would kick that ass, I think to myself.
Nard’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Yo, everybody listen up!” He stands front and center, speaking to the whole VIP room, a bottle of Remy XO in his hand; a blunt in the other. “I wanna make a toast. First, to my Mom Duke: Ma, thank you for bringing me into the world, and for raising a knucklehead into a man. I love you, baby!”
Nard takes a gulp of Remy to the head, then hits the blunt.
“I love you, too, honey. But I’ma whup that ass if you get drunk!” his mama replies, causing us all to laugh.
When the laughter quiets down Nard continues.
“To my big bruh, Man Dog: nigga, you paved the way for a beast. To Big Nasty, Quent’, and my whole team here tonight, and even to those we lost along the way, we came from the bottom, now we’re headed to the top!
Nard raises the bottle of Remy, in salute, and his team of about twenty niggaz go wild. He lets them hoot and holla for a few minutes before raising his arms to quiet them down.
“Last but definitely not least, to my lady, Tamika; baby, thanks for understanding the game; for seeing the potential in a young nigga; and for being that quiet force behind my come up.” Nard motions for me to join him in the center of VIP. I proudly stride up to his side.
Nard announces to everyone that I am carrying his child. My eyes find Mama’s; her mouth is hanging open, so is Star’s.
Nard goes down onto one knee and motions Man Dog over to us. Man Dog walks up and hands Nard a small velvet box.
On bended knee, Nard takes my left hand into his.
“Tamika, I love you. I promise to always love you, and place no one or nothing before you. I swear to you that I’ll never desire any other woman but you…if you will marry me?” He releases my hand to open the small velvet box. An engagement ring sparkles from inside.
Faces from outside, in the main area of the club, are pressed against the glassed-in encloser. I hear theVIP room take a collective gasp at the glinter of the flawless diamond when Nard slides it onto my finger.
I looked over and noticed Nee Nee and wonder, Why is your damn face pressed against the glass wearing a look of pure envy? Why?
A jumble of emotions run through my heart at once: Am I in love with Nard? Or does my heart still belond to CJ?
I look toward Mama for direction, but she just looks tipsy. So I hug Nard and say, “Thank you, baby. Of course I’ll marry you.”
Nard’s mans cheer!
When I get back to the booth, Star says, “I’m happy for you, gurl.” Tears run down her face. “Nard really loves you; I can see it in his eyes.”
Mama and my future mother-in-law hug each other. Mama’s eyes meet mine. Do you love Nard? her eyes question me. She knows that in my heart of hearts, I’ll always love CJ.
The DJ must be a mind reader because the record that he plays sums up my thoughts In my heart I’ll always be his lady…and in my mind I’ll always be his gurl, bellows from the club’s speakers. Tears slide down my face and stain the table.
Later, I’m sitting on Nard’s lap, lost in my own thoughts, when Star taps me on the arm, and mouths, “Oh shit!”
My eyes follow hers; coming through the VIP door is CJ, Eric, and about thirty more niggaz from Little Bricks. CJ approaches our booth, flanked by Eric, Snoop and Flip. His other mans post up around t
he room like the Ghetto Marines.
I immediately understand what this is all about: CJ has come to reclaim what he considers “his.” His team is with him as a show of power; CJ is letting it be known that he’s still that nigga.
Omigod! This could get ugly.
I glance at CJ’s waist as he approaches. Yep, he’s strapped. His whole team is probably strapped as well, because CJ has the clout that allows him and his people to enter clubs without having to be searched. Nard is strapped, too. I can feel his burner pressing against my hip. But Nard’s clout is not as strong as CJ’s, so he’s lucky if two or three of his people were able to bring their burners into the club.
“Mika, I need to holla at you,” CJ grits.
“She don’t wanna holla,” Nard replies for me.
“Let her answer for herself, unless you’re just itching for some beef you can’t handle, fam.”
“I’m not ya fam,” Nard shoots back.
“CJ,” I speak up before something sparks, “I’ll come and talk to you in a minute.” My eyes beg, please don’t start anything.
“Make it quick, or I’ma make it sad,” CJ turns and leads Eric and ’em to the bar area of VIP.
I go to work on Nard, pleadingly. Respectful of his male pride. “Baby,” I whisper, “ain’t no sense in there being a whole lot of drama over nothing.”
“Fuck that nigga! I go hard for mine!”
“I know you do, baby. But please, just let me run over and talk to him real fast; I’ll come right back.”
“Hell no! Dat nigaa don’t regulate shit! Unless you still wanna be with him.”
“No, Nard, I am with who I wanna be with. Baby, don’t let your ego play you out of pocket; that’s how most niggaz blow their rise.”
While I’m trying to talk some sense into Nard, Mama scoots out of the booth and storms over to where CJ is posted up. I can tell by the roll of her neck that she is giving CJ the business.
I tenderly stroke Nard’s face, “Boo, I’m your girl. Just allow me to handle this. Please.”
Nard huffs.
“Go handle ya business. If you don’t come back I’ll know that yous a fake bitch.” Steam is coming from his head.
“I will be back,” I promise.
Sitting across from CJ in a private booth, arms folded across my chest, out of the corner of my eye I can still see Nard and his peeps.
“Why did you show up here, CJ?”
“I came to reclaim my lady.”
“It’s too late for that.”
“Mika, this me. It’s never too late for us. You told me to get all of the hos outta me before I stepped back to you again. Well, I handled that. I haven’t been with anyone in more than a month; I wanted to test my own self. I’m ready to play square with you, baby. That’s my word.”
“What about the jump off you had living with you?” My eyes turn into slits at the thought of her.
“That wasn’t about shit, boo. I been kicked her to the curb.” CJ says convincingly.
“You should’ve called before now, CJ. I told you I’d come back to you; now it’s too late.” I show him my engagement ring.
“That ain’t shit! Take that mafucka off and give it back to that nigga. I’ma buy you a diamond so big I’ll have to hire mafuckaz to lift your arm up for you.”
“You so silly.” I laugh.
CJ takes my hands into his own. Looking into the windows of my soul, he asks, “Do you love that nigga?”
I swear, I see water in CJ’s eyes.
I shake my heard, “No, CJ. I don’t love any nigga but you.” Tears spill from my soul’s windows. “Still, it’s too late. I’m pregnant by Nard.” I break down in a sob.
CJ’s head drops. Our foreheads rest against one anothers, and I feel my tears wet his face.
“Don’t cry, baby doll. We can fix things,” CJ says.
“How?” I utter.
He raises his head and looks me in the eyes.
“Mika, I love you like no other, but I can’t take you back with another niggaz seed. You gotta have an abortion or it’s a wrap for us.”
The line in the sand has been drawn.
“Can I think about it?”
“No. Answer me now,” he demands.
I don’t have to think it over too long; it’s well documented that I love this nigga more than life itself.
“If I have an abortion and come back to you, do you promise not to ever throw it up in my face?”
“Yes, baby, I promise.”
“CJ, if you ever cheat on me again I’m going to cut off your dick.”
“I won’t creep, Ma.”
“And since I’m aborting my baby for you, you have to give up your half-bred children; no more visiting them or anything.” I demand.
“That’s already done,” he says. “True story.”
“CJ, don’t let me find out,” I warn.
“Trust, boo, it’s a wrap. Now, go give that nigga back that bootleg diamond ring and all those other jewels you’re rockin. That crab mafucka can’t lace my woman.”
“CJ, don’t make me disrespect him in front of all of his people. Tonight is his birthday; I owe him more respect than that.”
“You don’t owe that nigga shit! Fuck you sayin’?”
Big Nasty’s voice interrupts us as he approaches.
“Nard wants you,” he says in monotone.
“Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”
Before Big Nasty walks aways he grills CJ.
“The bigger they are, the more the casket cost,” CJ grills him back.
Once Big Nasty is gone, I say to CJ, “This is getting crazy. Somebody is going to get killed if you turn this into a battle of foolish pride.” You can’t tell a street nigga nothing, though, when he’s drunk on his own reputation.
So, no matter how I try to put it to CJ he insists that I “clown that nigga or clown me! You had no bidness getting wit’ dat nigga no way!”
This mafucka knows he’s my weakness
“CJ, I have other things of Nards, besides this ring, to give back to him. I have other jewelry and clothes, at the house, that he bought me, plus I have two hundred thousand dollars of his inside a safe deposit box,” I try to explain.
“That ain’t shit! We can give that pussy ass nigga all of that shit back tonight. No problem. I got that shit just laying around at the house,” boast CJ, with the type of arrogance that makes my pussy pulsate.
CJ waves Eric, Flip, Snoop, and Premo over to where we’re seated. “Premo, you and Flip go out to Tamika’s house and collect every stitch of clothing in her closet, shoes and all. Grab all of her jewels, too. And get that punk ass Mustang that’s parked in her driveway, and bring all of that shit back to the club. Eric, you and Snoop go to that stash house we got out in East Orange and bring me two hundred stacks. Oh, Premo, be sure to bring back one of Tamika’s mother’s gowns out of her closet.”
“A’ight, fam, wassup?” asks Premo.
“Just do it, homie,” replies CJ.
Eric asks CJ, “You gon’ be a’ight, bruh?”
“If not a lot of mamas gon’ bury sons.” His crew is still twenty-something deep up in the club after Eric and ’em leave to carry out CJ’s order.
CJ instructs me to go back over to Nard and play things on the DL until Eric and ’em return.
“I apologize for staying away so long,” I say to Nard. “Mommie, will y’all let me and Nard have a little privacy, please?”
Mama, Nard’s mother, and Nard’s mans slide out of the booth.
“Why is your face all twisted up?” I ask Nard, nervously.
“Why you clown a nigga?” I hear pain in his voice.
Remember, I made Nard into the nigga that he’s become. So I know how to pull his strings. I wouldn’t be the boss bitch that I am if I couldn’t. It takes a half hour for me to erase the frown off of Nard’s face.
CJ and his team has left the VIP room to go mingle throughout the club, so the tension inside VIP has withered away
like a mean, toothless old man. I go and let the club’s mnager know that I’m ready to present the birthday boy with his cake.
The huge cake is wheeled into VIP on a rolling table. A ten inch replica of a king sitting atop his thrown, made out of candy, adorns the single layer chocolate cake. The Bricks R URS is scrawled underneath the throne, in lemon icing.
We all watch as Nard makes a private wish, inhales, then blows out the nineteen candles that surround the king and his throne. Nard’s mother and Man Dog give him their presents first. Then I hand him the icy platinum bracelet that I bought for him.
“Happy birthday!” I say and quickly peck lips with him.
The party is poppin’ again. I’m faking the festive mood as best I can, while cringing inside at what I know will soon go down.
I wish CJ wouldn’t make me do it this way. But I have to, or I’ll lose CJ. Please Lord, I don’t call on you often, but I need you now. Do not let CJ and Nard kill each other up in here tonight.
“What’s wrong?” Nard’s voice interrupts my prayer. “That nigga ain’t on your mind, is he?”
“No.” I lie through my teeth, as we sit alone in the booth holding hands. “Nard, do you love me?”
“To da grave!”
“Don’t say that.” I shiver. “Don’t ever love me or anyone more than you love yourself. Don’t allow no one, including me, to stop your rise.” I swallow back a few tears. I do care for him.
“Say what’s on your mind, Tamika.”
“Okay. Baby, always remember that most people and most things are replaceable. If you truly love me, promise me that you’ll remember that.” A single tear drips down from my eye.
Nard looks at me quizzically.
“Promise me, Nard,” I plead.
“A’ight.”
Nard leads me to the dance floor, where we slow grind through three songs. I wonder whether or not CJ is looking. Is he some where up in Nee Nee’s face? What is Nard thinking about? He hasn’t uttered a word since we started dancing.