Bad Apple - the Baddest Chick

by Nisa Santiago

  The sisters had their 18th birthday approaching soon, and Kola wanted to celebrate her birthday big, popping bottles and looking good, the way music moguls did. She wanted the biggest club, the jamming crowd, and the best DJ their money could get them, wanting to bring in her 18th birthday like a superstar.

  She and Cross began putting everything in motion. It would be the party of the year. Kola’s birthday bash was going to be held at, Cipriani’s, a posh location in the city. She didn’t want to spare any expenses and was ready to throw the wildest party, like she was P. Diddy himself. She felt she deserved it. The year had been good to her, despite the tragic loss of her sister. She still couldn’t forgive Apple for it, and in her mind, both her sisters and mother died that day. She didn’t want any dealings with them. And, though some time had passed, the pain was still fresh in her heart.

  Apple had changed so much that the hood was saying they could no longer tell the difference between the two sisters, both of them now in the same in style of dress and with fierce attitudes. Apple used to be the nonchalant, quiet one that the neighbors liked better. Now the only way the community could tell them apart was by the cars they drove—Apple in her powder blue Benz or Kola in her BMW 5-Series. The other distinction was by their boyfriends, Kola being with Cross, and Apple with Guy Tony.

  *****

  It had been over a month since Supreme’s death, and Apple was growing tired of Guy Tony’s complaints. She thought he was bugging out, losing his mind. Every day it was the same thing with him. His conscience was eating him up inside, and he reminded Apple constantly.

  “Shit is fucked up, Apple,” he would say. “He’s haunting me, yo. He is. I can feel him coming after me.”

  At first, Apple thought the feeling would pass, but with it being October, Guy’s paranoia was becoming a problem for her. She knew he had killed before and wondered why he was suddenly bugging out over one murder.

  “Guy, he’s dead! He ain’t comin’ back! He’s fuckin’ dead!”

  “Nah, you ain’t the one that bodied him. I was. He’s pissed at me, Apple. What we did was fucked up. You knew he was like a father to me. He helped me out, and I turned my back on him. Now his spirit is after me.”

  Apple knew the only way to shut Guy Tony up was through sex. She would fuck him so good, his paranoia seemed to fade for days at a time, and he would be back to his normal self. Then the two would continue to get money through their loan-sharking and bookkeeping in Harlem and elsewhere, with Guy Tony being on point when he wasn’t going loco.

  But then a week or two later, it would be the same with him. Apple was growing tired of hearing his grievance about death, his guilt, and ghost stories. She once had the same horrid nightmares about Nichols, but with time, she had gotten better; money and power helping to relinquish the anguish.

  Now she had a business to run, and Guy Tony wasn’t making it any better with his antics. She needed him, though, because he was still her backbone, her muscle in the streets. She fed off of his reputation, while building hers.

  Apple was enjoying the fruits of her hard labor, frequenting the top clubs in the city from downtown to uptown, sitting in VIP, popping bottles, dancing with the cuties, and flaunting her wealth. With tons of cash to spend, she had the world at her feet and felt unstoppable.

  From Club Velour in midtown to the Versace Palace in downtown, Apple was the baddest chick making a name for herself. She didn’t wait on any long lines or have to deal with the security. She and her crew would just roll up to the front entrance of the clubs in their motorcade of high-end cars, sometimes with more than a dozen people, and bypass the wait to get inside the happening party that night. Apple loved the nightlife like she loved sex. She worked hard during the day, and partied even harder when the lights went out.

  She sat in the VIP section surrounded by her crew in Club Velour on Sixth Avenue, a sexy two-floored lounge housed in a candle-lit space with chocolate-brown walls and a Spanish-inspired décor, and a bar on each floor. The upstairs DJ had set the mood with ’80s- and ’90s-style hip-hop and rock. Apple had bottle service the entire night and admired the state-of-the-art technology with twenty large flat-screen TV’s.

  Apple, her long, black hair dancing around her shoulders, was dressed in a very tight Dolce & Gabbana dress that accentuated all her curves, and sported a pair of Versace shoes that seemed to give her long, defined legs six more inches.

  She sat next to Guy Tony, who seemed removed from everything going on around him. He sat back in the VIP area and took a few sips of Moët.

  “Guy, you a’ight?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I’m good,” he replied flatly.

  Worried, Apple looked at him. He hadn’t been himself lately. She was hoping he didn’t bring up Supreme’s death tonight. She just wanted to have a good time and enjoy the club scene. She downed Moët and Cristal, eyeing a few cuties that passed her way. The manager didn’t care or ask about her age. Apple knew that money talked and bullshit walked, and with the small fortune she was spending in Velour, the staff, security and management just looked the other way.

  The DJ played Drake’s “Find Your Love,” and Apple jumped from her seat, swaying her hips to the beat and singing along to one of her favorite tracks. With the half-empty bottle of Moët clutched in her hand, the seventeen-year-old showed the boys her rhythm on the dance floor as she moved to the beat, keeping up with the other girls.

  The men stood back and watched the show she put on, craving to push up on her smoothness, place their hands upon her soft thighs, and grind against her for some pleasure. But her reputation had preceded her, and she intimidated a lot of the men standing around.

  One individual quickly caught Apple’s eye in the crowded spot. She noticed him by the bar standing next to a few goons, sipping on drinks and displaying that hardened thug image. Apple hooked her eyes on his smooth, dark skin and long braids that fell behind his head like tightropes. He was tall, well-dressed in a crisp white jacket and jeans, and sporting a pair of fresh white “Ups.” From afar, the man had Apple’s undivided attention without having to say one word to her. His demeanor kind of reminded her of Cross’—unconcerned about anything or anyone because their presence was authority enough to shut things down.

  The two locked eyes, and it didn’t take long for her handsome stranger to leave his goon’s side and push his way through the crowd to approach her. Apple waited patiently for his arrival. She continued to dance, taking sips from the Moët. When he got near, she looked at him, but didn’t say a word.

  He leaned in close to her ear and asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t need a why,” he boldly spat back. “Just my question answered.”

  Apple smiled, admiring his approach. It was stern, and to the point. She knew he was hood by his conduct. He towered over her, styling with his 18-karat Rolex watch, long, sparkling diamond chain, and diamond-encrusted earrings in both ears.

  “Apple,” she said. “And yours?”

  “Chico.”

  Chico took Apple by her wrist and began dancing against her without her permission. He removed the Moët bottle from her hand and put it into the hands of a stranger next to them that dared not ask why. He moved against Apple with the same rhythm, keeping up with her flow. Apple worked her ass and hips against him, loving that he was on beat, unlike most niggas in the lounge.

  They danced tightly together for a few songs and then moved to the bar, where Chico offered to buy her anything. When he invited her to his VIP section of the club, Apple didn’t hesitate to join him, forgetting about her own section. The two hit it off right away and conversed about everything.

  Chico was from Washington Heights and was the man in the area. He was a four-key-a-week nigga with a vile crew underneath him, and he was articulate and smart.

  “So you’re into loan-sharking and bookkeeping, huh?” Chico laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Apple asked.

  “I j
ust can’t see a beautiful woman like you shaking niggas down, especially in that dress.”

  “What they say, never judge a book by its cover?”

  “Yeah, but I’m ready to turn your pages.” Chico smiled.

  “I’m not some weak bitch, Chico. I worked my way up and got mines just like the rest of you niggas out here.”

  “And I’m not mad at you, Apple. I respect that. Shit, I don’t respect a lazy broad with her hand always out for something. You understand?” he replied, seriously.

  Apple nodded.

  “So, no boyfriend?”

  “No. And yourself?”

  “Nah. Can’t find a woman able to keep up with me.”

  “And what is it that you’re looking for?”

  “The female version of me,” Chico joked.

  “You might’ve just found her,” Apple said, staring at him with meaning to her words.

  Chico chuckled. He sat back in his seat, took a swig of Cristal, and looked at Apple with eyes that showed the thug in him. And Apple matched his with her own.

  “I like you, Apple. You’re my kind of girl.”

  “I try to be.”

  Chico poured her another glass of the flowing champagne, and the two continued their talk. Apple was nestled next to him, feeling that tingling sensation between her legs as Chico spoke the sweetest things into her ear that she needed to hear. He made her pussy jump. Chico was too sexy and exciting. He had all the qualities that she desired in a man—strong, fine, confident, and powerful. She wanted to fuck him.

  Chico made Apple forget about Cross and Kola. In her eyes, Chico was better than Cross, or so she tried to convince herself. But the two men had the same qualities, and with Chico running Washington Heights with his drug crew, Apple saw the perfect business opportunity for herself. If they were to link up and become a couple, she would definitely be the queen bee in the city. Chico would become her country with an army.

  Chico admired everything about Apple and didn’t care for her age, though Apple did inform him that she had an eighteenth birthday coming up. He was young himself, twenty-three, and a woman like Apple on his arm would be the ideal match for him.

  As the night continued on, she laughed and drank with him, music blaring in their ears. Everything was all good, except for the jealous eyes that peered over at Chico as he mingled closely with Apple.

  The scowl on Guy Tony’s face was evident. He disapproved of Apple flirting with Chico and wanted to intervene, but he downed his brew and blended in with the crowd of revelers.

  With dawn looming and the lounge’s crowd slowly dwindling, Apple decided she wanted to spend the rest of the night with Chico. They were going to stop and eat at a diner. Then she would see his place in Washington Heights.

  Apple followed Chico to his cocaine-white 745 BMW sitting on polished chrome rims. Their short walk to his car was interrupted when Guy Tony called out to Apple from the exiting crowd of Velour.

  “Yo, Apple! Where you goin’?” he shouted in a not-so-friendly demeanor.

  Apple spun around on her heels and shouted back, “I’ll be back, Guy! Just chill out!”

  Chico looked at Guy Tony and figured the man would a problem later on. He’d noticed the way Guy Tony stared at him throughout the night, his eyes showing a trace of hate. Chico smirked at him and continued to guide Apple toward his car.

  “Apple, I need to holla at you!” Guy Tony called out again.

  Apple, frustrated with his nagging, spun around on her heels and shouted, “What the fuck you want, Guy? I need to talk about business!”

  Guy Tony walked up to the two, ignoring Chico and focusing his look on Apple, and said, “I need a word wit’ you.”

  Apple sighed. She then turned to Chico. “Give me a minute, a’ight?”

  Chico nodded.

  Guy Tony directed Apple away from Chico, and they walked to the corner.

  She glared at him. “What the fuck is wrong wit’ you?”

  “What the fuck is wrong wit’ you?” he barked through clenched teeth. “You goin’ to fuck that nigga?”

  “No, I’m goin’ to talk business with him.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Look, Guy, I’m a grown fuckin’ woman. I don’t need you babysitting me. I can handle my own, you fuckin’ understand me? Now let me handle my shit, and I’ll talk to you when I get back.” Apple strutted off, leaving him standing there.

  Guy Tony wanted to believe that she was actually going to talk business with Chico, but that feeling in the pit of his stomach told him otherwise. He watched her climb into Chico’s BMW, and it sped off.

  *****

  Apple found comfort in Chico’s exclusive two-bedroom apartment in Washington Heights, New York. Chico’s spot was tricked out with 46-inch flat-screens, high-end stereo system, a fine leather furniture set, granite bathroom with a sunken tub, and a king-size bed in the sizeable bedroom.

  Apple wore one of Chico’s throwback Giants jerseys, being naked underneath, and lay in his bed smoking a cigarette and staring at music videos on the LCD after the intense fuck she had with him. The dick in her couldn’t have been any better. She felt fortunate that he was packing—eight inches and better—and that he knew how to work it.

  Chico stepped out of the bathroom shirtless, parading a few tattoos on his chest and arms. His lean physique wasn’t as muscular as Cross’ or Supreme’s, but he was still able to hold his own. He removed a Newport from the dwindling pack and lit one up. He then exhaled and took a seat on the bed next to Apple.

  “Damn, I like your style.” He smiled at her. “You know how to fuck, fo’ real.”

  “I’m here to please. So what now?”

  “What you mean?”

  “I mean, am I just a fuck and a throwaway? Or you wanna make it happen?”

  Chico looked at her. “Damn! You’re blunt with it, I see.”

  “I mean, I’m not tryin’ to waste your time, and I know you ain’t tryin’ to waste mine. I’m about my business. Hopefully, you are too.”

  “So what you wanna make happen?”

  Apple snuggled close to Chico and kissed him on his back. “I want you and me to happen. I like your style too. I know we’ll go good together.”

  Chico took another drag and thought about her proposal. “I don’t even know you.”

  “You knew me well enough to bring me to your crib and fuck me.”

  He chuckled. “And if you know me, I don’t bring broads back to my crib . . . especially ones that I meet from the club.”

  “Well, I’m special like that.”

  “I guess you are.”

  Apple held him in her arms and felt the warmth of his body against hers. She ran her hands across his chest, touching him with sensitivity. He is the one, she thought. Chico was the one she needed to complete her. Kola had her Cross, the nigga that she’d loved since forever, so now she wanted and needed Chico.

  Chico continued to smoke, thinking about it. He then turned to face Apple, kindly moving himself from her sensuous touch, and looked at her carefully. “Seventeen, huh?”

  “Do I fuck like one?” she grilled back with attitude.

  Chico chuckled. “I see you’re a wild one.”

  “Then let me show you how wild I can really get,” Apple replied with a teasing smile. Dropping to her knees, she situated herself between Chico’s legs. She took a hold of his thick penis and slowly began stroking him with her firm grip. Then, without hesitation, she took his dick into her mouth.

  Chico groaned from the feel of her lips that were soft as cotton. She went down on his throbbing dick to the base, raised herself up, and toyed with the mushroom tip with her tongue.

  “Oh shit! Oh shit! That feels good,” he moaned.

  Apple continued to mouth-fuck him, massaging his nuts while doing so and going into overdrive on his dick.

  Chico clutched his bed sheets tightly with the feeling that, if he let go, he would fall from the bed. It didn’t take long for him to exp
lode, some of his semen landing on the side of Apple’s face.

  “Damn! You suck some good dick!”

  She laughed as she wiped her face clean. “Is that wild enough for you?”

  Chico knew Apple was the one that was up to his speed. From the time he’d met her in the club, he knew there was something special about her. She carried herself differently from other girls he’d met. She didn’t fear him, and she wasn’t scared to be herself. He liked that she was real and on the come-up. Chico was a rich nigga, and he needed a superstar by his side. Apple quickly proved herself to be the one.

  He lifted her off her knees and tossed her on the bed, where she bounced and giggled. “Your turn,” he stated.

  Apple smiled, spread her legs for him, and gasped as he ate her pussy.

  *****

  The next morning, Apple was fully dressed and willing to take a cab home, but Chico volunteered to drive her. She climbed into his Beamer, and they drove into the West Side of Harlem. She got out with a smile. Her business with Chico was official, and with his backing, she knew she would definitely become the queen of New York.

  It seemed like she and Kola were going neck and neck in a win-all race for Harlem, both sisters feeling like they needed to be better than the other. Kola already felt she had a big enough head start, but Apple was gaining fast.

  Apple walked through her front door early that morning, and her mother was coming home right behind her. Denise got out of a green Durango and staggered up the steps behind her daughter. She was dressed like she had come from the strip club—short mini-skirt, tight crochet halter top, shoes in her hand, and her hair in disarray, like she had just fucked the nigga in the backseat of the truck.

  She looked at Apple and asked, “Who dat in the Beamer?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Well, damn, Apple!”

  “Ma, I’m tired. Not now wit’ your shit.”

  “I was just asking.”

  Apple shouted. “Ma, just leave it alone! Damn! You don’t know how to fuckin’ close your mouth sometimes! Stay the fuck out my business!”