CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Crazy bitch shoulda stayed in ’er lane…tryna set it off wit’ a bitch like me…ho shoulda opened ’er eyes…she woulda known a bitch don’t take lightly to threats…don’t live wit’ a buncha regrets…trick bitch…welcome to ya demise…
“Detective Samuels, speaking.”
I clear my throat. “Detective Samuels, this is Katrina Rivera. I’m callin’ regardin’ my mother, Juanita Rivera. She’s the pregnant woman who was beaten up, and is on life support.”
“Yes, I know who she is,” he says wit’ a lil’ too much ’tude for my likin’. But I let it slide. “How can I help you?”
“Well, it’s my understandin’ you’re one’a the detectives assigned to the case.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, I was wonderin’ if you have any leads yet.”
“Not at the moment. However, there is the boyfriend that we are still trying to locate.”
“Is he a suspsect?”
“No, but he is definitely someone of interest we’d like to bring in for questioning.”
“Well, have you at least been able to track down his whereabouts?”
There’s a moment of silence, then rustlin’ of papers or some other shit. “We’re still search—”
“So basically that means ya’ll muhf*ckas ain’t doin’ shit, but sittin’ on ya asses,” I interrupt, lookin’ outta my bedroom window. I peep a big-ass U-Haul truck ’cross the street, movin’ someone in.
“Miss Rivera, I understand your—”
I disconnect the call, hopin’ I get at that snake-ass muhf*cka before they locate his ass. I see someone called and left a message while I was on the phone. I check the voicemail, shakin’ my head.
“Watch ya back, bitch. I’m outta jail, ho. You knock my f*ckin’ teeth out. Break my nose. Lie to them muhf*ckas talkin’ ’bout I threw a brick through ya window. Bitch, you know you did that shit. Then you have me arrested. Bitch, I’m gonna gut ya face. You think I give’a f*ck ’bout a muthaf*ckin’ restrainin’ order, or goin’ to jail. Bitch, I’m from da streets. You really crossed da god-damn line this time, ho, disrespectin’ ’n threatenin’ my mutha and comin’ at me all reckless. So watch ya face ’cause when I’m finished wit’ ya ass, da only thing you gonna be good for is da circus.” I save the message, decidin’ to be finished wit’ this bitch for good. I’m done f*ckin’ ’round wit’ this crack-head bitch.
I walk ova to my handbag and pull out my other phone. I turn it on, then press open the call history. I place the call. Wait for the nigga to answer. “Yo.”
“I need’a hire a crew,” I tell ’im, wishin’ I didn’t have’ta call this fat-nasty muhf*cka, again. But’a bitch done worked my last nerve, and—aunt or no f*ckin’ aunt, I need ’er ass handled. I know I promised myself I would never body a muhf*cka for personal reasons unless they were tryna play me. And I definitely said I would neva body children or chicks. But, I ain’t the one pullin’ the trigga, so it’s whateva. Rosa has got ta go. I need this bitch outta ’er misery and outta my damn space. The sooner, the betta. She’s the type’a bitch who’ll try ’n bring it e’ery chance she gets. One or two times, cool. But that ho will fight to the death. So I need’a take ‘er down, and keep ’er down—swiftly.
“Damn, you really know how’ta make a nigga’s dick brick. Two calls in da same week, I think I’ma nut on myself.”
I suck my teeth. “Muhf*cka, get a grip. Ain’t nobody tryna hear that dumb shit. I got more pressin’ shit ta do.”
“Yo, chill out. I’m only f*ckin’ wit’ you, ma.”
“Well, take that shit ova to da next bitch. I need sum work put in.”
The nigga changes his tone. “Aiight, what kinda work order you need done?”
“I need’a jack gone bad,” I tell ’im, sittin’ on the edge of my bed. It’s the code for makin’ a murder look like a robbery gone wrong.
“Aiight, cool-cool.”
“How much?”
“It’ll be on da house,” he says.
This crusty muhf*cka thinks he’s slick, tellin’ me some shit like that. He’d be turnin’ ’round tryna stress a bitch for some extra shit. And I ain’t havin’ it. “Nah, nigga, I know you. How much?”
He starts laughin’. “Nah, baby girl, I got you. No extras. You my peoples. So if sumthin’s gotta be mopped up, then it’s done; no questions asked. That’s on e’erything I love, ma.”
“Mmmph. And you ain’t gonna be pressin’ me for some p-ssy?”
He keeps laughin’. “Yo, I’ma always wanna get in them drawers. You keep a muhf*cka’s dick bricked. So what’s good? You finally gonna let a muhf*cka stretch ya seams?”
I frown. “You still fat?”
“Yo, a muhf*cka ain’t fat. Just gotta lotta meat to go wit’ all this bone.”
“Mmmph…I’ll take that as a yes. You still black?”
“All muthaf*ckin’ day ’n night, baby.”
“You still ugly?”
“As eva.”
“Then ain’t shit changed, nigga. Ya fat, black, ugly ass will neva stretch shit on me, muhf*cka.”
He laughs. “Yo, you real funny, ma. But, damn…I’m sayin’. Can a muhf*cka at least smell them drawers? Let me bust this nut in them panties. Help a nigga out, ma. You already know what it is.”
“Nigga, I know you can kiss my fat ass, so get da f*ck ova ya’self. Now can you handle this shit for me or not?”
“Aye, yo, slow ya flow, fam. I told you I got you.”
“Then let’s wrap this shit up, and get back down to basics. I want this shit done, like now. It’s been a messy situation for longer than a bitch can stand. I need it cleaned up quickly.”
“Say no more. Any birdies need’a go down with this mess?
“No. They can keep flyin’, for now. I’ll deal wit’ ’em as needed.”
“Cool. You remember da spot?”
“Yeah; when you wanna meet?”
“When you free?”
I glance at the digital clock. It reads: 11:47 a.m. “I can be there at two.”
“Bet. See you then. Oh, and that other situation. I’m still researchin’. My squad should have a location in a few more days.”
I smile. “Perfect.” We disconnect.
Threaten me, bitch, I think, walkin’ into my walk-in closet. I don’t think so. You just sealed ya fate. I press a button hidden under the right side corner of the mahogany island that sits in the middle of my closet. A wall panel opens up. I step in, then press in the code, then place my two fingas on the finga print recognition panel to my Paragon safe. It unlocks itself. I pull the door open, inhalin’ rows of paper. I count out a twenty-five pack, packin’ the stacks into my Michael Kors python satchel. I decide I ain’t beat for a free ride. So I’ma hit Cash wit’ twenty-five gees, then be on my merry way. I don’t want that nigga eva thinkin’ I owe ’im shit. I shut the safe door, then step outta my panties and remove my bra.
I grab my titties and start squeezin’ ’n tweakin’ ’em. The idea of Rosa’s lights bein’ shut, gotta bitch’s * twitchin’. Bitch, you ain’t shit to me…after tonight, ya ass’ll be a long gone memory.
I pull out an eight-inch vibratin’ dildo and harness, then strap it to my stool. My p-ssy is on fire, knowin’ a bullet is gonna pop Rosa’s skull open. Oh yes, bitch, I think climbin’ up on the stool. Ya muthaf*ckin’ ass is gonna be eatin’ dirt before the sun rises. I pull my ass cheeks open, lower my hips down on the tip of the dildo, then slowly wind down on it. Oh, yes…they gonna blow that bitch’s head off… I slam my p-ssy all the way down on the base, grind my pelvis, press on my * and moan. “Ohhhhhhh, yesssss, bitch…they ’bout to take it to ya muthaf*ckin’ dome…uhhhhh…aaaaaaah…”
I toss my head back, close my eyes. See blood and brains and skull splattered on the concrete, splashed up against the wall. E’erything in me starts to shake. My p-ssy tightens “…ohhhhhhhhhh…yesssssss, biiiiiiiitch…you ’bout to go down…”
I cum.
I scream.
I cum again.
And again.
And again. In rushin’ waves, a bitch’s p-ssy explodes and crashes and gushes and floods the space between my legs. I keep grindin’ ’n windin’ ’n buckin’ my hips ’til the room starts to spin, ’til e’ey last nut spurts outta me, and a bitch’s ready to collapse.
AT EXACTLY TWO P.M. I AM WALKIN’ INTO THE SPOT I HAD HOPED I’d neva have’ta see again. I keep it real cute in a black Stella McCartney mini and a pair of black Christian Louboutin flannel, over-the-knee boots wit’ gold military buttons runnin’ all’a way to the knee. I have my bubble-gum pink lambskin Balenciaga work bag wit’ the chunky gold studs hangin’ in the crook of my arm, holdin’ the satchel filled wit’ the fetti for the job in my right hand. Muhf*ckas do double-takes as I walk through.
On the surface the shit looks like a reputable auto body ’n detail spot. And on the real, it is. Cash owns two shops and has clients from all ova comin’ through to get their cars piped out ’n customized. So anyone comin’ from off the streets walkin’ in would have no idea that down in the basement, or the dungeon—as it’s called, the real dirty work pops off. This is where Cash manages his hire-to-kill organization. This is where a bitch has collected stacks of paper, literally hundreds ’n thousands of dollas for bodyin’ muhf*ckas. Yeah, blood money.
I take a deep breath, walkin’ through an office that has a reception area. The yella-crayon lookin’ bitch sittin’ at the desk, looks up from the book she’s readin’ ’n eyes me.
“Ummm, ’scuse me, can I help you?”
“No, I’m here to see Cash,” I tell ’er, walkin’ by the desk. “He’s expectin’ me.”
She jumps up. “Well, you can’t just walk into—”
“Sweetie, beat it. I do what da f*ck I want.” I push open the door to Cash’s office, shuttin’ it in ’er face. This nasty muhf*cka has porn playin’ on the 46-inch flat-screen hangin’ on the wall. And he’s stretched back in his leather chair wit’ his big-ass feet stuffed in a pair of white Gucci sneakers propped up on his desk. It looks like the nigga has his hands down his sweats. I suck my teeth. “Nigga, you nasty. Turn that shit off.”
He laughs, sittin’ up in his chair. “Only you will walk up in a muhf*cka’s office wit’out knockin’.”
“Nigga, whateva. You knew what time I was comin’ through.” He eyes me, lickin’ his lips. I roll my eyes. “For real; turn that shit off, nigga.”
He grabs the remote and puts the shit on mute. “Yo, check this shit out, ma…you still fine ’n shit, and a muhf*cka missed ya evil ass. But, on some real shit, da only reason I haven’t broken ya f*ckin’ jaw for slick-talkin’ a muhf*cka is ’cause I dig ya mean ass. And you da only bitch that keeps a nigga’s dick hard e’ery time he sees ya sexy-ass. But don’t get da shit twisted. You ain’t runnin’ shit, ya heard? This is my muhf*ckin’ office. You don’t wanna see da shit I’m watchin’, don’t look at it.”
“Nigga, that shit you talkin’ don’t move me. It’s whateva, muhf*cka. And you know this.”
He smiles, shakin’ his head. “Yo, you still a crazy-ass bitch.” He smirks. “But you got my shit hard as hell, poppin’ that extra shit.”
“Nigga, yuck. You so f*ckin’ nasty.”
He laughs. “Yo, a muhf*cka missed f*ckin’ wit’ you on some real shit, Kat.”
“Well, I ain’t missed f*ckin’ wit’ ya ass.”
“Yeah, aiight. What you got for me?” I slide ’im the info, along wit’ a pic of Rosa. I tell ’em I want this shit handled the minute that ho bails outta jail. Yeah, her ass is locked the f*ck up for comin’ up to my spot tryna bring the noise. I got that bitch for trespassin’ ’n smashin’ in my window. And for a bonus, I got to knock that ho’s fronts out. He stares at the photo, then looks up at me. “Yo, what’s good wit’ this? I thought you weren’t down wit’ hits out on bitches ’n shit.”
“No, I’m not down wit’ bodyin’ ’em myself. But I ain’t eva say shit ’bout not havin’ a bitch bodied if da ho tries to serve me. So this particular bitch needs ta go.” I open up my satchel and dump out the money onto his desk. “And here’s payment for da service.”
He looks at the stacks, then back at me, shakin’ his head. “I told you, it’s on da house.” I tell the nigga no thank you. Tell ’im I ain’t eva gonna be a bitch that owes his ass shit, or be made to feel like I do. He stands up, straightenin’ out his wears. Looks like he’s lost some pounds. I peep the Gucci emblem on the nigga’s sweats, and the thick-ass lump in the front of his pants. Ohmiiiiiigod, this nigga gotta big-ass dick. I shift my eyes, actin’ like I ain’t peep the shit. Nasty muhf*cka probably stood up on purpose so I can can get’a eyeful of cock. This nigga’s dipped ’n paid ’n got dick for days, but that damn face…ugh! It hurts a bitch’s eyes.
I blink.
He grins, shiftin’ his dick in his sweats. I frown. He starts laughin’. “Yo, cut that shit out, ma. I see you lookin’ at all this dick.”
I ain’t gonna front. A bitch wants to see the shit live and direct. The freak nasty me wants to f*ck wit’ the nigga. Watch ’im beat his shit off. I decide to keep the shit a hunnid. If the opportunity presents itself, I’m get the muhf*cka to pull the shit out.
“So what if I was? Nigga, I’m sittin’ down. And you standin’ up wit’ ya crotch all in my face, of course I’ma look. And?”
He smirks. “Yo, don’t play. You already know what it is wit’ this big-ass dick.”
“Yeah, that a big dick don’t mean shit, muhf*cka.”
He walks ’round his desk and goes ova to the door and locks it. A bitch ain’t stressin’ it. Although I don’t think the nigga would actually try ’n rape me up in this bitch, I slide my hand down in handbag; just in case.
“Yo, you a real problem for muhf*ckas,” he says, walkin’ back ova to his desk. He sits on the edge of it. “You know that, right?”
I tilt my head, raisin’ my brow. “Why you say that?”
“C’mon, ma. You da muthaf*ckin’ truth. You fine as f*ck, mad sexy, and ruthless as hell. That shit is a problem. You could have a muhf*cka’s head all twisted up in da game.”
I shrug. “Then I guess muhf*ckas should stay away from me.”
“Nah, that only makes a muhf*cka wanna get at you more.”
“Well, that shit’s on his dumb-ass.”
“Yo, Kat, so what’s good, ma? You lookin’ mad sexy. Wassup?”
I frown. “Whaddaya mean ‘wassup’? Wassup is you handlin’ that job for me, muhf*cka.”
“Yo, f*ck all that, baby girl.” He grabs at his dick. “Real talk, ma, a muhf*cka’s mad horny. I wanna—”
I jump up outta my seat. “Nigga, I know you ain’t tryna get no p-ssy.”
He rubs his dick. “Nah. I ain’t on it like that. I ain’t takin’ shit you ain’t tryna give freely. I’m just sayin’…”
“You ain’t sayin’ shit, nigga. So what da f*ck you really sayin’?”
He glances ova at the paper on his desk, then cuts his eyes at the TV screen. The muhf*cka lowers his voice. “Yo, take that money back. I don’t want that shit. I want them panties you got on; real talk, ma. I wanna wrap my dick up in ’em, then bust off. That’s all the payment I want.”
“That’s it?” I stare the nigga down. He nods. “Muhf*cka, you crazy as hell.”
“True story, ma; let me get them panties.”
Bitch, you need’a get ya ass up outta here. Leave well ’nough alone.
F*ck that. Ya nasty ass been wantin’ see the nigga’s cock, so get it ova wit’. Besides this muhf*cka’s been comin’ at you sideways for years.
You, nasty bitch, you know you wanna feel that muhf*cka’s snake in ya hand.
I smirk. I stand up, plop my bag up on his desk, then pull up my dress and slowly slide my panties down. I keep my eyes locked on this nigga, imaginin’ myself puttin’ a bullet in his dome. Instantly, my p-ssy starts to moisten. I step outta my panties, rub my p-ssy wit’ ’em, then sniff ’em.
“Mmmm, this p-ssy smells good, nigga.”
The muhf*cka licks his lips. “Yo, that’s wassup.” He leans back on his desk. The gigantic lump in the muhf*cka’s sweats is sick. Yeah, a bitch needs to see this nigga’s dick once and for all.
I twirl my panties ’round on my finga. “You want these panties, muhf*cka? You wanna sniff this sweet p-ssy?”
“C’mon, ma. You already know what it is.” He grabs at his dick.
“Pull ya dick out. Let’a bitch see how you hangin’.” He unties the drawstring, then stands up and pulls the front of his sweats down and pulls his dick outta his Polo boxer briefs. It’s black as coal, long ’n thick. I fight to keep my mouth from waterin’. Keep remindin’ myself of how ugly this muhf*cka is. Bitch, you know you wanna touch da shit.
F*ck all’a his ugliness, seein’ this nigga’s monster cock has a bitch on fire. I toss ’im my panties. “Nigga, I wanna watch.” I sit my ass back in my seat, cross my legs, pinchin’ the swellin’ in my *. And wait for the freak show to begin. “Stroke that shit, muhf*cka…”