CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Tossin’ ’n turnin’…buncha shit spinnin’ on da brain…stirrin’ up emotions…long gone ’n forgotten…gotta bitch’s heart burnin’…tryna ig da pain…pissed…been dismissed…knowin’ there ain’t gonna be no apologies…’cause da neglectful bitch ain’t returnin’…
A bitch couldn’t sleep last night. I stayed tossin’ ’n turnin’ all f*ckin’ night. I wasn’t beat to get lifted, and I didn’t wanna toss’a bottle back. I needed to be sober; needed to have my mind clear. So I laid on my back, starin’ up at the ceilin’, tryna remember if I ever saw Juanita smile; if I had any recollection of her kissin’ me or wrappin’ ’er arms ’round me. I stared up into space, tryna count. Count the number of niggas Juanita had in ’n outta ’er life; the number of times she’d shut her bedroom door and lock herself in; the number of times I heard ’er headboard slappin’ up against the wall or ’er balled up in a corner or curled up on ’er bed bawlin’ her eyes out. It was all too much to remember ’n count; it required too much thought for a bitch. So I focused on sumthin’ that didn’t require much thought; sumthin’ where countin’ wasn’t a difficult task. How many times did the bitch tell me she loved me? I closed my eyes. Searched my damn brain, then opened my eyes. None.
So why I’m sittin’ up at this hospital at two in the muthaf*ckin’ mornin’ beats the hell outta me. But I am. The nigga DeAndre is on duty, so he let me come thru. I’m sittin’ here lookin’ at Juanita, shakin’ my head. I don’t know this woman. Never have. Even if the bitch didn’t wanna be a mother, I wish she woulda been the kinda chick who woulda at least had my back. A bitch I coulda vibed wit’. I’d wanna know what made the bitch tick. I’d wanna know what made ’er so damn needy; why she felt like she needed a man. I’d really wanna know why this bitch was so damn dick hungry ’n stupid.
“You are such a stupid bitch,” I say, rollin’ my eyes at ’er. “I’m so f*ckin’ mad at you for not knowin’ how’ta be a gotdamn mother. Shit, ho, a big sista woulda worked. But, you couldn’t even be that. Mmmph…I always thought you were jealous of me. I still think that shit. I think you hated da fact that I was e’erything you wanted to be. Truth is I think you secretly hated me. But you wasn’t no real bitch, so you woulda neva admitted to da shit. Still, I know you did. ’Cause on some real shit, I hated me, too. I hated myself for bein’ so f*ckin’ stupid thinkin’ you would eva be a mother to me. I hated myself for thinkin’ shit woulda gotten betta between us; that you would one day wake da f*ck up and finally see…me.”
I stand up, and look ’er ova as if I’m gonna see sumthin’ different from da last time I stared at ’er. But I don’t. She’s still dead; still pregnant. Still a bitch who I’ll neva know. And I’m still wonderin’ why the f*ck I’m really here.
I stare at ’er stomach. It’s a baby, Kat!
I pull back the sheets. It’s a f*ckin’ baby, bitch!
Sumthin’ comes ova me, and I place my hand on ’er stomach. I keep it there for a few minutes, then quickly snatch it off when I think I feel sumthin’ move. I wait a few seconds, then place my hand back on ’er stomach. This time I rub it. It’s the first time I’ve eva touched ’er, that I can recall. I try to remember the last time—hell, the first time—she touched me. I can’t. There are no memories of bein’ touched by this woman. No hugs. No kisses on the forehead or cheek. Not one muthaf*ckin’ lovin’ gesture. I feel myself gettin’ angry lookin’ at ’er ass and feel like bangin’ the bitch in ’er stomach. I fold my arms, glarin’ at ’er.
“That little guy inside of your mother is a fighter.” I snap my neck ’round to see who’s standin’ in the doorway. It’s DeAndre. He walks in the room and stands beside me. His arm brushes against me. “The longer he stays inside of the womb, the stronger he gets and the greater his chances are for survival.”
Nigga, you think I care? I move ova. “How do you know it’s a boy?”
“From the last ultrasound.”
I keep my eyes locked on ’er stomach. “Hmmm.”
“He’s going to need a lot of love and support when he gets into this world.”
Good luck, I think, shiftin’ my weight from one foot to the other.
“Children are such an amazing gift.” Why da f*ck is this nigga tellin’ me this shit? I peel my eyes from Juanita and turn to look at ’im. “I have three of my own.”
“And you’re tellin’ me this because?”
He shrugs. “I felt like sharing.”
“That’s nice,” I say, turnin’ my attention back to Juanita.
“She hurt you.” He says knowin’ly; maybe the shit’s accusin’ly. Still, hearin’ it come from outta his tit sucka makes the hair on the back of my neck raise.
I don’t look at ’im. I stare straight ahead. “What makes you say that?”
“It’s in your eyes. The way you look at her. It’s in your tone. The way you speak about her. Your energy is filled with hate toward her.”
I turn to look at ’im. “So what’a you, sum kinda psychic witch doctor?”
He laughs. “No. But I am a man who knows hurt and pain and disappointment when I see it. I can spot it and feel it a mile away. Besides, we’ve all had our share.”
“So is this where you offer me a buncha self-help tips? ’Cause if so, I’m not interested.”
“No, but I would like to offer you some advice if I can.”
“You can’t. Not interested in that, either. So do me a favor. Let it go.”
He smiles, puttin’ his hands up in the air in mock surrender. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Oh, trust. I’m not upset; just not interested.” I glance at my watch. It’s already three in the mornin’. The thought of drivin’ back to Jersey gives me a headache. I decide I’ma wake Chanel’s ass up and stay the night at ’er spot. I shift my attention back to Juanita. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to finish havin’ my private moment wit’ my mother before I leave.”
He smiles. “Miss Rivera, you’re a very beautiful woman, but this hate you have in you is eating away at your soul. Let it go.”
I take a deep breath. Slowly turn my head in his direction. “Oh, trust. I will.” I turn my head back to Juanita. “As soon as I pull da plug.”
TWO DAYS LATER, I PULL OUT THE KAT LINE TO SEE IF THERE ARE any updates, but before I can turn it on, my otha cell starts ringin’. It’s another 347 area code. I sigh. This crazy bitch!
“Bitch, why da f*ck is you still callin’ me? Didn’t I stomp ya ass once already?”
“Bitch, this ain’t Rosa. It’s Patrice. And you ain’t shit for how you been movin’ ho.” Sounds like she’s cryin’, but I don’t pay it no mind.
“Ohhhhhkay, thanks for ya kind words. Now why is you callin’ me?”
“Bitch, not that you give’a f*ck, but I thought you should know Rosa was killed last night.”
Good. One less bitch I gotta deal wit’, I think sittin’ on the edge of my bed. I was wonderin’ when Cash was gonna put that work in for me and put that bitch down. My mouth starts to water wit’ anticipation wantin’ to know all the details of how she got put down. The freaky bitch in me wants to slip ’er hands down in ’er panties in play in my p-ssy as Patrice gives me the details. “What happened to ’er?”
“She was on ’er way home. They think somebody tried to rob ’er, but when she didn’t have shit, they shot ’er in da head.”
“Did she suffer?”
“No, police found ’er dead at the scene.”
That’s it?! That’s all you gotta say? I wanna know if there was blood and brain splattered e’erywhere. Was the bitch sprawled out on the concrete? Were ’er eyes rolled up in ’er head?
I keep my morbid thoughts to myself. “Anything else?”
“No,” she pauses, soundin’ like she’s snifflin’ ’n gettin’ all emotional ’n shit.
“Poor thing,” I say, all nonchalant. “Well, thanks for that news bulletin. Now if you’ll ’scuse me, I have more pressin’ things to deal wit’.”
She screams into the phone. “Bitch! I’ve lost two f*ckin’ sistas back to back. Ya moms and aunt, and that’s all you have’ta say. ‘Thanks for da news bulletin’? Bitch, are you f*ckin’ serious? They are ya blood!”
“Sweetie, be clear. Those are your losses; not mine. So I ain’t sheddin’ no tears, and I ain’t passin’ out no sympathy cards. So if that’s what da f*ck you lookin’ for you betta call Hallmark.”
“Bitch, ain’t nobody call ya ass for no muthaf*ckin’ sympathy. I don’t even know why da f*ck I called ya f*cked-up ass, anyway.”
“And neither do I. But I tell you what. You might wanna hol’ off on buryin’ ’er ’til after I pull da plug on Juanita. This way you can dump both trash bags down in da same ditch. No sense in havin’ to go through all that shit twice.”
I disconnect the call, then check my messages on the Kat line. There are two.
“Yo, I wanna ’nother pair of them panties, ma. I swear, Kat, I wanna beat that ass up one good time wit’ this dick.” I shake my head, laughin’. Nigga, puhleeze. You’ll get a bullet to da head ’fore I eva let you stretch these walls. I delete the message, then listen to the next one.
“Yo, that clean up job you needed is done. It was swift and straight to da point. You should have no further problems.” Swift and straight to the point is code for a sharp shooter poppin’ ’er dome ’n droppin’ ’er in one shot. Good, I think, tossin’ the phone ova on the bed, grinnin’. That’s what da bitch gets. Bitch shoulda stayed in ’er lane and left me da f*ck alone. One down, and one more to go. You can run, but you can’t hide nigga. The Kat Trap is comin’ for ya.
“Yeah, muhf*cka, you betta hope da police find you before I do,” I say out loud, walkin’ into my closet to pull out a dildo and one’a my vibratin’ butt plugs. A bitch wanna celebrate Rosa gettin’ bodied wit’ two holes stuffed. Knowin’ she’s on ice got my p-ssy steamin’.
I step outta the closet wit’ my gadgets in hand, makin’ my way into the bathroom. I squeeze my ass, alternately slappin’ my ass cheeks, makin’ ’em pop ’n bounce wit’ each smack. I am so f*ckin’ horny. I bend at the knees, squat down low, then lean ova the sink. I slap my ass harder; got the shit stingin’, causin’ my p-ssy to snap open and shut. It needs to be feed and stretched and worked over by sumthin’ long, black and thick.
I slide my right hand between my thighs ’n massage the front of my p-ssy, lightly brushin’ my *. “Bitch got dropped…skull got popped…ooooh, yes, slumped that ho…”
I work myself into a frenzy, turnin’ on the vibratin’ butt plug, then slidin’ it into my ass. I keep playin’ wit’ my *. The vibrations in my a*shole gotta bitch’s p-ssy creamin’. I shift gears. My murderous thoughts go to the nigga, Jawan.
“Yeah, muhf*cka…you like beatin’ on women?” I ask, starin’ at myself in the mirror, pretendin’ I’m talkin’ to Juanita’s nigga. “You wanna stomp baby’s outta bitches? Well, I’ma stomp ya nut out, muhf*cka. Open wide, bitch-ass muhf*cka. I’ma ’bout to shut ya lights.”
The thought of havin’ that nigga butt naked, then pullin’ off my disguise ’n lettin’ the nigga look me in the eyes makes me moan. I wanna see shock ’n fear in the nigga’s face when I cock back my piece. “Mmmmmm…aaaaaaah…”
I slip my dildo into my gushy hole. Pop, pop, pop! “Uhhhhh, welcome to da Kat Trap, muhf*cka,” I grunt, pumpin’ ’n windin’ my hips. I grind down on my dildo, squeeze my ass cheeks together, then lift my left leg up onto the counter and f*ck myself into a delicious trance, yellin’ ’n screamin’ ’n moanin’ out shit I can’t even remember ’til my cream squirts outta me, and coats my dildo. I pull it out, then greedily suck on it while still workin’ the butt plug in my ass. I push the dildo back into my p-ssy, then nut all ova again.