CHAPTER TWENTY
Music poppin’…mad sexy bitches dressed in da ill wears… battin’ da mink lashes…got da niggas havin’ hot flashes… stacked in da stilettos…jewels got da bitches shittin’ in they draws…gotta ’em shook…thinkin’ we gonna snatch they mans… gotta ’em rollin’ them eyes…we iggin’ da glares…keepin’ shit cute…Brooklyn bitches ain’t f*ckin’ wit’ no boys…but got no problem slidin’ a bitch we despise…if she wanna bring da noise…
It’s Saturday night, and I’m speedin’ up the Turnpike on my way to scoop Chanel up so we can get it in tonight. I gotta blunt fired up and Rihanna’s “Rude Boy” knockin’ outta the speakers to get me in the mood. It’s been a minute since a bitch popped ’er hips on the dance floor, so hopefully I can twirl these hips a bit and get it sweaty. I’m hopin’ they ain’t featurin’ a buncha low-budget booga bitches up in that piece. My cell rings. I glance at the screen, then answer. It’s the nigga Tone out in Cali.
“Hello.”
“What’s good, Beautiful, how you?”
“Chillin’. And you?”
“I can’t call it, ma. I had’a call you and let you know I got them papers.”
“Ohhh, shit,” I say all amped, knowin’ he passed the real estate exam. “Get da f*ck out. Congrats, muhf*cka. That’s wassup.”
“Yeah, ma. Thanks. It’s on now. Yo, you get yours?” I tell ’im no. “Well, when you do we gonna have’ta celebrate.”
“And you know this.”
“Yo, on some real shit, I been thinkin’ ’bout you, ma.”
“Uh-oh.”
He starts laughin’. “Nah, nah, nuthin’ major. I mean, yeah, you been on the brain. Shit, you mad cool, Kat. And I ain’t gonna front, you fine as f*ck.”
“And da p-ssy’s good.”
He keeps laughin’. “Yo, ma, you mad funny.”
“But am I lyin’? Keep shit real, nigga.”
“Oh, no doubt, ma. I’ma real-type nigga. Hell yeah, you got that bomb-ass p-ssy. I ain’t even gonna front on it.”
“Nigga, you can’t front on it even if you wanted to,” I say, laughin’. My cell beeps lettin’ me know there’s another call. It’s Chanel. “But, look, my girl is on the other line. Let me hit you up lata.”
“Oh, aiight. No doubt. I’ll holla.”
I click ova. “I’m like five minutes away.”
“Shit, well, hurry da f*ck up. Divine’s horny-ass tryna get some p-ssy and a bitch ain’t tryna sweat out ’er hair.”
I laugh. “Then suck da nigga off.”
“I already did. Now he tryna f*ck.”
“Poor thing. I’m turnin’ down ya street now.”
“I’m on my way out now. No need to stop, just swing da door open and I’ll jump in, then speed da f*ck off.”
I crack the f*ck up. “Bitch, you stoopid.”
BY THE TIME WE HIT CLUB EDEN, CHANEL AND I ARE SMOKED out ’n feelin’ right. The line is mad thick and there’s a ton of hoes and niggas fussin’ ’n stressin’ ’bout standin’ on line for over forty-five minutes. The bouncers are poppin’ mad shit to some’a the females, manhandlin’ them ’n shit. But I ain’t pressed. This bitch ain’t the one.
I cut my eye over at Chanel. “Bitch, I know you not expectin’ me to stand up in this shit. And you know I ain’t beat for no muhf*cka feelin’ all up on me like how that nigga’s doin’ her.”
“Girl, don’t sweat that shit. You already know,” She says, flippin’ open her cell. “I got it covered.” She lets whoever she’s talkin’ to know we’re outside. Five minutes later, this tall, brown-skinned muhf*cka waves us over to him. Chanel gives him a hug. Dude eyes me over her shoulder, givin’ me a nod. I turn my head. Act like the nigga don’t exist. Two minutes later, we are breezin’ right up to the front of the line.
“Mmmph,” I whisper, smirkin’. “Let me find out ya ho-ish ass done broke that nigga off wit’ a dose of throat action.”
She laughs. “F*ck you, ho. He’s one’a Divine’s cousins.”
“Ain’t that special. Now let’s see if them juicy dick suckas of yours get us free drinks for the night.”
She continues laughin’. “Bitch, let me find out ya high-post ass finally wit’ the program lettin’ muhf*ckas buy you drinks.”
I suck my teeth, usherin’ her toward the stairs. “Ho, walk.”
As we make our way up the steps, Juelz Santana’s joint “Back to the Crib” is knockin’ through the speakers. The idea of grindin’ up on a nigga’s cock on the dance floor makes my p-ssy twitch. I swear I hope they got some fine, sexy muhf*ckas up in this biiiotch!
Chanel and I keep it real sexy in bangin’-ass brown Gucci slip dresses that wrap ’round our dangerous curves like a windin’ road. She rocks her wears wit’ a pair of chocolate brown Chanel pumps and a beaded clutch. While I kill it in a pair of orange Jimmy Choo strappy stilettos and Judith Lieber clutch. Niggas peep our swag and do double-takes as we make our way through the crowd. I peep a few hoes tossin’ haterade in the air, which makes me pop ’n shake my hips real extra. Just enough to let ’em know what a bitch is workin’ wit under these wears.
I scan the club and peep a few muhf*ckas over by the bar who look like they might be worthy of a dance, or two, posted up bullshittin’ wit’ they boys. The club is mad packed and the beats are sick.
“I need a drink,” Chanel yells ova the music. I agree, followin’ ’er to the bar. Niggas step back, eye-f*ckin’ us—lettin’ us get through, but we pays ’em dust. I hand ’er a fifty. Tell ’er the first two rounds are on me. Of course this lush bitch orders a double shot of Rèmy and a Corona to chase it. I frown at the combo. But let ’er do ’er.
“Bitch, ya ass get drunk, you crawlin’ home.” I order the same thing, but I ain’t chasin’ shit. I’m takin’ the shit straight.
She laughs, givin’ me the finga. “Crawl on this.” We take our drinks, clink our shot glasses, then toss ’em back. She guzzles down the Corona. Muhf*ckas got they eyes on us, grinnin’ as Chanel orders ’nother ’round. We take it to the head, again.
“Damn, ya’ll pretty ladies know how to get it in,” this golden brown nigga wit’ light brown eyes says, smilin’. For some reason the nigga looks familiar, like I seen ’im somewhere before, but I don’t put no energy into tryna figure the shit out.
“That’s how we doin’ it,” Chanel says, lookin’ the muhf*cka ova.
He laughs, starin’ at me. He puts his finga up. “Yo, I know ya’ll.”
Chanel and I frown. “Nigga, you don’t know us. You buggin’.”
He smiles. “Nah, ma, I never forget a face. The Forty-Forty club. Ya’ll the two beauties who housed me ’n my man on the pool table.”
Chanel blinks at ’im. Of course her ass don’t remember the nigga. But I do. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. We spanked that ass, and walked off wit’ ya paper. Let me find out you ready to get that ass beat again.”
He laughs. “Ouch. Kat, right?”
“Yeah.”
He turns to Chanel. “I’m Bronze. And you?”
“Bored,” she says, turnin’ ’er head.
“Oh, shit. I got you, ma.”
I laugh. “Don’t pay ’er cranky-ass no mind. It’s Chanel. She gets crazy when she don’t take ’er medicine.” He laughs. “Damn, you gotta good memory. How da hell you remember my name? We mopped ya’ll asses up on that table ’bout two years ago.”
“Yo, a muhf*cka never forgets gettin’ his ass spanked by a beauty who likes to talk a buncha shit on the table. Me ’n my man, Leo, still laugh ’bout that shit. Yo, we still wanna rematch.”
I eye ’im. “Well, anytime you wanna bitch to run ya pockets ’n give you ’nother round of whoop ass, let me know.” He laughs. Asks for my number, but I tell ’im to give me his. We bullshit a few more minutes ’til Chanel’s had ’nough’a standin’ in one spot.
“Bitch, it’s hot in here. Let’s go outside.” I tell the nigga I’ll hit ’im up for that rematch, then dip. As soon as I get outta his view, I toss the nigga’s number on the floor and pop my ass out onto the rooftop.
I GLANCE AT MY TIMEPIECE. IT’S ALMOST ONE-THIRTY A.M. Chanel and I are still out on the rooftop, standin’ at the bar, talkin’ to these cats from Uptown. She’s already on her third Red Bull vodka. And we’ve already tossed back two shots of soco—uh, Southern Comfort. Something told me to keep it light, after we tossed back those two shots of Rémy earlier so I’m slow slippin’ this shit.
Cypress Hill’s “Bang Bang” is blarin’ through the speakers. I finga pop and wind it a bit, but ain’t really beat to drop it on the floor. “Girl, I’ll be back,” Chanel says, rudely spinnin’ off on the nigga she was talkin’ to. I watch her poppin’ her hips back inside.
I continue half-listenin’ to this nigga wit’ the curly ’fro, bobbin’ my head to the beat while tryna figure out why he’s out here rockin’ dark-ass shades.
“I had’a feelin’ I was gonna run into this bitch,” I hear someone say in back of me. As soon as I hear the voice, I already know it’s ’bout to be a situation. “Oh, you fly wit’ it, hunh? You can be all up in da club shakin’ ’n poppin’ ya ass ’n shit, but a bitch too good for her family ’n shit, talkin’ real slick ’n greasy to my mutha like you got it like that. Is that how you doin’ it, bitch?”
I take a deep breath. Ignore the bitch standin’ in back’a me. Look over at the nigga I was talkin’ to and say, “Do me a favor and tell that bird in back’a me to shoo.”
“Ho, shoo hell! You disrespect ya grandmutha, sign complaints on ya aunts ’n get restrainin’ orders ’n shit on ’em. Bitch, that shit ain’t cute.”
I keep my back to ’er. Let the bitch keep poppin’ shit, but in a minute I’ma ’bout to take my glass to ’er face. I keep sippin’ my drink. “How da f*ck was you gonna pull da plug on ya mutha and kill ’er baby, hunh, ho?”
I take a deep breath. Finish up my drink, then turn to face Patrice, tuckin’ my clutch under my arm. She’s standin’ in a black sequined Donna Karan scoop-neck tunic dress. Her neck, lobes ’n wrists are lit the f*ck up. I can’t front. The ho looks fabulous. But I still can’t stand her snake ass!
I eye her. She’s cut off all’a ’er hair for a short tapered do wit’ a sweepin’ bang. In another life, me and this bitch coulda been a real problem together. “Bitch,” I snap, twistin’ my lips, “step da f*ck away from me ’fore you end up pickin’ ya face up off da floor.”
“Bitch, hol’ da f*ck up,” she snaps, handin’ her bag to one’a ’er girls. A shapely brown-skinned chick dipped in low-end jewels, wearin’ a one-shoulder, black draped Jersey getup that clings to her body. I can’t figure out the designer so I decide it must be a low-end piece. I peep her burgundy Marc Jacobs leather satchel. Cute, I think, bringin’ my attention back to Patrice.
“Girl, don’t,” Miss Low End says, grabbin’ ’er arm. “This ain’t the time. We ain’t come out for all the extras tonight; let it go. You can get at this ho some other time.”
“Ho? Bitch, I will rock ya eye sockets,” I say to her, layin’ my clutch on the bar ’cause in a minute I’ma ’bout to knock this bitch in both ’er eyes. Of course Chanel’s somewhere wit’ ’er juicy ass pressed up against some nigga’s cock on the dance floor.
Muhf*ckas peep the ruckus goin’ on between this bitch and me. But I know she don’t really want it. Not out here for all to see.
“You know what. You right, girl,” Patrice says to Miss Low End. “Let’s do what we came out do; f*ck this bitch.”
I laugh. “You get a pass tonight, Sweetie,” I warn. “But, trust. There won’t be no othas.”
“Bitch, you wish.” She starts walkin’ back ova to me. I close my fist, ready to bring it to ’er face. She peeps this, keepin’ her distance. “You know what. You need to get ya mind right. All ya selfish-ass eva cares about is ya’self. You’re one hateful-ass bitch.”
“Whaaaateva, bitch. Back da f*ck up from outta my muthaf*ckin’ face.”
“I ain’t in ya face, yet, bitch. But—”
“But nuthin’, Trick.” I flick my fingas at her. “Poof, bitch, be gone!”
“You know what, ho. I’m real sick of you thinkin’ you can disrespect me. Bitch, I ain’t them hoes on da street you f*ck wit’.”
“And bitch, what you gonna do?” I ask, walkin’ up on ’er. “I ain’t one for all this yippity-yap. If you wanna make it rock up in this muthaf*cka, then let’s rock, ho!”
Before I can hook off on ’er ass, someone grabs me from behind, wrappin’ they arms ’round my waist. I spin ’round to see who the f*ck is puttin’ their hands on me. And forget ’bout takin’ it to Patrice’s head. “Yo, baby, you too fine to be out here fightin’.”
“Nigga, don’t be grabbin’ up on me like that. You was ’bout to catch it, too.”
He laughs. “Yeah, aiight, beautiful. F*ck fightin’,” he says, pullin’ me by the arm. “Come dance wit’ me.”
I bring my attention back to Patrice. “Bitch, thank this nigga for savin’ you from an ass whoopin’.”
“Whateva, bitch,” she huffs. “I’ma see you; trust.”
I laugh, lettin’ Alex pull me toward the dance floor. “Yeah, see da back of my ass, ho.”
Fabolous’s “Money Goes, Honey Stay” remix is playin’. Alex pulls me into ’im. “Yo, what was all that shit out there ’bout?”
“Nuthin’ serious; just sum lightweight bitch tryna bring it, that’s all.”
He wraps his arms ’round my waist. “Damn, ma, you look sexy as f*ck.”
I spin outta his embrace. “Nigga, just ’cause I gave you sum p-ssy, don’t start thinkin’ you can be grabbin’ all up on’a bitch like you got it like that.”
“Oh, I don’t?” he says, laughin’ ova the music. “Yeah, aiight; not yet. Yo, why you ain’t tell me this is where you were gonna be.”
I eye ’im. The nigga’s all dipped in jewels, rockin’ a black Versace silk shirt and a pair of smoke-gray slacks wit’ a black Louis belt. I step back, peep his footwork—black Louis loafers. I’m impressed. “Not eva, muhf*cka,” I say, laughin wit’ ’im.
He pulls me back into ’im. “Yeah, aiight; whatever. You still ain’t answer my question.”
“And I’m not.”
The nigga keeps his eyes locked on me, lickin’ his lips. “Yeah, aiight. Who you here wit’?”
“Damn, nigga. You tryna dance or interview a bitch? I’m out wit’ my girl, why?”
“I’m doin’ both. So fall back. I don’t wanna have’ta go in no nigga’s mouth, that’s why.”
“Oh, yeah, cocky muhf*cka. You feelin’ real ova ya’self.”
I peep Chanel’s drunk-ass ova at the bar, talkin’ to two chocolate muhf*ckas. I can’t really see what they look like. Knowin’ ’er thirsty-ass, she’s gonna run they pockets all night if they let ’er. She catches my eye, and gives me the finga. I laugh.
When Twista’s “Wetter” starts playin’, I decide to f*ck wit’ ’im. I twirl my hips real slow ’n sexy, then press my ass up on his crotch. I grind up on his dick, drop down low. He leans into my ear, places his hands on my hips. “Damn, you feel good, ma. Yo chill, ’fore you get my dick hard.” I keep grindin’ into ’im. Feel his dick start to thicken. “Yo, aiight, keep it up. You gonna have me pin ya lil’ ass up in a corner and run this dick up in ya.”
I turn to face ’im. Throw my p-ssy up at ’im. “Nigga, a bitch like me’ll f*ck ’round and have you nuttin’ in ya pants.”
He smiles. “Yo, you a real trip.”
Some oriental lookin’ bitch walks up on us, cuttin’ in on our lil’ convo. I ain’t gonna front, the bitch is servin’ it in’a sexy lil’ lowcut black one-piece. And ’er titty game is sick. Still, the bitch cuttin’ in is rude as f*ck. And I tell ’er that. She apologizes, sayin’ how she only wanted to say hello to Alex. I tilt my head. Tell the bitch she shoulda waited to speak to ’im after I was done wit’ ’im. Alex says sumthin’ to ’er, then introduces me to ’er as his girl. Tells me ’er name is Akina. I keep it cute, but decide to check ’im on tryna claim me as soon as chick bounces. But before I can, sum other ho walks up and starts dancin’ behind ’im. She slips ’er hands ’round his waist, lays her face on his back, and starts muthaf*ckin’ swayin’ and droppin’ it like it’s hot. The bitch is clearly drunk. And straight playin’ it like a real live clucker.
I keep on dancin’ like I ain’t fazed by the bitch ’cause the truth is, I ain’t. He pulls the chick’s arms from ’round ’im, then turns ’round to see who it is.
He frowns. Next thing I know he straight snaps. “Bitch, what da f*ck is you doin’? I gotta a restrainin’ order on ya stupid ass.”
“F*ck that restrainin’ order. I miss you, baby. Our baby misses you, too.”
“Bitch,” he snaps, frownin’. “That baby ain’t mine. Take ya drunk-ass on.”
I blink, blink again. Restrainin’ order? Baby? Oh, hell no! I know the music is loud ’n shit, but I know ’xactly what the f*ck I heard. I walk off, leavin’ them two goin’ at it on the dance floor.
I make my way ova to Chanel. She tries to introduce me to the niggas she ova here bullshittin’ wit’, but a bitch ain’t beat. “Ho, let’s get da f*ck up outta here. I done had ’nough drama for one damn night.”
“Drama? When? Where? Girl, what da hell happened?”
I throw a hand up on my hip. “Well, bitch, while you were in here trickin’ for drinks ’n shit, Patrice tried steppin’ to me like she was ready to make it pop up in here. I was ’bout to really take it to ’er grill ’til Alex snatched me up…”
“Alex? Who da f*ck is Alex?”
“The nigga from Allstar,” I tell ’er, glancin’ ova to where he is. I see two security niggas talkin’ to chick. She’s goin’ the hell off. The bitch looks half-crazed if you ask me. I see Alex pullin’ sumthin’ outta his wallet, they look at it, then a few minutes later, they draggin’ chick’s ass off the dance floor.
Two minutes later, I peep Alex walkin’ ova toward Chanel and me. I turn my back on ’im. He says wassup to the niggas, then says wassup to Chanel.
“Wasssup, Allstar?” she says, grill-cheesin’ all up in the nigga’s face. “So you da nigga who got my girl all goo-goo-ga-ga ’n shit. It’s ’bout damn time you stepped up. Took you long ’nough.”
He laughs. “Oh, word? I got ya girl open like that? It’s Chanel, right?”
“Oh, you remember?”
“No, doubt.” He laughs. “The way ya’ll were throwin’ shade at muhf*ckas who could forget ya’ll two.”
I suck my teeth. “Whateva.” I shoot Chanel a look. “Ho, puhleeze. I ain’t goo-goo-ga-ga’in shit. Don’t gas this nigga’s head.”
She flicks ’er hand in my face. “Whateva, ho.”
He grabs my hand. “Yo, why you walk off on me like that?”
I pull my hand back. “Nigga, you didn’t need me out there. Ya lil’ girlfriend was more than ’nough.”
“Yo, that’s one’a da broads I was tellin’ you ’bout. She’s da ho that got all nutty on a muhf*cka, tryna pin that baby shit on a muhf*cka.” He tells me the bitch’s name is Ramona, then pulls out a restrainin’ order and shows it to me. Tells me he carries it ’round wit’ ’im just in case the ho shows up somewhere. “And Akina is someone I used to f*ck wit’ ’til she put ’er hands on me, and I had’a choke ’er up.”
I blink, blink again. I shake my head. “Nigga, you got too many extras in ya life for me. I’m out.” I toss up the deuces, and spin off. “Chanel, let’s go, ho.”