by Cairo
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 sa
id 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.