CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Decisions, decisions, decisions…what’a bitch gonna do?…Tell da nigga it’s a wrap…that a bitch is thru…dead it ’fore he gotta get jacked ’n slapped…nigga poppin’ sum good shit, though…still…a bitch ain’t tryna be played like she type-slow…
“Yo, why you actin’ all funny ’n shit? You actin’ like I did some shit to you. What’s good, yo?” Alex asks two days after that shit went down wit’ his whip. Today’s the first time I’m f*ckin’ wit’ ’im since the shit happened. And the nigga sound mad tight, too.
“Muhf*cka, I’m still tryna figure out why ya shit got housed on my muthaf*ckin’ property and what bitch you done pissed off and got tailin’ ya ass to my muthaf*ckin’ spot. That shit ain’t it, nigga.”
“Yo, you act like I know who da f*ck did it. I ain’t f*ckin’ wit’ no one. I told you. I cut all them birds off a minute ago; true story.”
“Well, maybe you did; maybe you didn’t. I don’t know what da f*ck you’ve done. But I do know this: whoeva da f*ck it is, the bitch f*cked up, bringin’ that shit here. So ’til you find out who da f*ck it is, ya black ass ain’t comin’ here.”
“Aiight, cool. Then you can come down and chill at my spot.”
I frown. “Nigga, you done got the shit twisted. I ain’t ’bout to be ridin’ up ’n down da parkway for a muhf*cka who gotta buncha shit wit’ ’im. You need ta handle them bitches you been f*ckin’ first.”
“Yo, stop sayin’ that shit. I told you, I ain’t f*ckin’ no one. Damn.”
“Then one’a them needy bitches ain’t tryna let go. Either way, I ain’t feelin’ da shit; especially since you done brought the shit up to my doorstep.”
“Yo, I ain’t bring it to ya door.”
“Nigga, puhleeze. Obviously da bitch followed you here. So, as far as I’m concerned, you brought da shit here. Say what da f*ck you want.”
“Yo, you actin’ like I got control over what da f*ck some nuttyass bitch does. What you want me to do?”
“Muhf*cka, you know what, don’t do shit. Just keep on doin’ what you do, but leave me outta it. A bitch got more pressin’ things to deal wit’ than to be wrapped up in a muhf*cka wit’ a buncha drama.”
He lowers his voice. “Yo, c’mon wit’ that bullshit. I ain’t beat for da drama, either.”
I huff. “Nigga, I can’t tell.”
“Yo, I’m tellin’ you.”
“Yeah, and what you tellin’ me don’t mean shit. All of a sudden out da blue ya shit sittin’ on da ground and all tatted up wit’ paint. Nigga, puhleeze. That’s the handiwork of some ho you done pissed off. You need’a handle that. And I ain’t f*ckin’ wit’ you ’til you do.”
“I ain’t tryna hear that shit, yo.”
“Well, too bad. It is what it is. So get ova it.”
“Nah, f*ck that. I don’t have nuthin’ to hide from you. I gave you all my passwords and shit, so you can see for ya’self. What da f*ck I gotta lie for? Why da hell would a muhf*cka give you access to all of his shit if da nigga wasn’t tryna be on the up ’n up wit’ you? C’mon, Kat, give a muhf*cka some credit, damn, yo. Have you checked the shit?”
Mmmm, da nigga gotta point. Still… “Yeah, I checked da shit once,” I admit, steppin’ outta my panties, then walkin’ into the bathroom. I turn the shower on. The same day he gave me the shit I went upstairs and ran all through his shit. Read his messages, emails and the shit on his Blackplanet guestbook. The nigga has thousands of naked-ass hoes up on his shit, throwin’ the p-ssy at ’im. It was mad extra. I even read notes and emails he sent. But, nuthin’ really popped out to make me think the nigga was tryna be on some playground shit.
“And?”
“And, there wasn’t shit to see.”
“Aiight, then. That should tell you sumthin’.”
“Nigga, that don’t tell me shit. All it says is that day there wasn’t shit to see—that time. That doesn’t mean that next week or week after that that some extra shit ain’t gonna pop off.”
“Yo, then keep checkin’ da shit anytime you want.”
“Nigga, my name ain’t Inspector Gadget. I ain’t da kinda bitch whose gonna keep investigatin’ shit. Only dumb-ass, dick-whipped bitches do that stupid bullshit. I’m good.”
Me and this nigga go back ’n forth for anotha ten minutes wit’ ’im tryna convince me that ain’t shit extra goin’ on on his end. That he’s kept it funky wit’ me from the rip. I wanna believe the nigga, but I know how crafty and slick muhf*ckas can be. I start zonin’ out on the nigga ’cause the shit’s startin’ to cramp my a*shole. “Look, I ain’t beat for this convo. So you either change it, or hang up,” I tell ’em, puttin’ the phone on speaker. I step into the shower.
“Yo, what…you in da shower?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, word? What you gettin’ ready to get into?” I tell ’im I got business to handle. The fact that I got these child welfare hoes comin’ up to my spot to complete their background investigation ain’t really none’a his concern. Nor is tellin’ ’im that I’m goin’ up to the hospital to sit wit’ a baby that I’ma be raisin’. I get knots in my stomach just thinkin’ ’bout it. If I decide to keep this nigga in my space, then I’ll eventually tell ’im what’s really good. I know it’s not sumthin’ I’ma be able to keep from ’im. But for now, he only needs to know the basics. Not much. Shit, takin’ on a baby is gonna be mad responsibility. Shit, I don’t even know if I’ma be beat for. So the last thing I need is to be f*ckin’ wit’ a nigga who’s gonna come wit’ a buncha distractions. “What time you gonna be done?” I tell ’im not ’til late. Tell ’im I might be stayin’ in Brooklyn. “Wit’ who?”
I suck my teeth. “Damn, nigga, wit’ Chanel.”
“Yeah, aiight, yo.” The nigga gets quiet. “Dig, if you ain’t beat to f*ck wit’ a nigga, let me know so I can fall back before a muhf*cka’s head gets all f*cked up.”
“Nigga, puhleeze. Ya head’s already f*cked up. You know you ain’t ready to let go’a this p-ssy heat.”
“Whatever, yo. Who else you lettin’ hit that?”
I shake my head, steppin’ outta the shower. “No one at da moment. But, trust. That can change at any time. Right now a bitch is chillin’.”
“Yeah, aiight. Let me find out ya biscuit head givin’ out Daddy’s goods.”
I laugh. “Ohhhhhhhmigod, you so f*ckin’ ova ya’self.”
“And I’m tryna be all over you, but you wanna be on some ole other shit.”
I walk into my closet, pullin’ out a red long-sleeve Gucci tee and a pair of pencil jeans. “Mmmph; if you say so.” I decide to pick the nigga’s brain to see how he feels ’bout kids. “Would you eva deal wit’ a chick wit’ kids?”
“I don’t know. I’ve f*cked chicks wit’ kids, but I ain’t neva wanna wife any of ’em. I’m not sure if I would wanna be dealin’ wit’ a chick wit’ ’em on some exclusive shit unless she doesn’t have a buncha baby daddy issues. A muhf*cka ain’t beat for that. Why, you got some kids you ain’t tellin’ me ’bout?”
“Maybe; maybe not.”
“Yeah, aiight.”
“Well, what if I did?”
“Well, hypothetically, if you did. How many you talkin’ ’bout? One, two?”
“One,” I tell ’im, slippin’ a pair of socks on my feet. He tells me one is cool. But since it’s me, two is aiight, too. Then he tells me as fine as I am I could have twenty and he’d still wanna rock wit’ me on some solo-type shit as long as my p-ssy stayed right.
“Then again, that shit could be wide as an ocean and I’d still wanna wife you. You’d just have’ta let me beat that a*shole up e’ery night.”
I laugh. “Nigga, you a real fool, you know that, right? You know damn well you ain’t runnin’ that big ass dick in my ass e’ery damn night.”
“Then we’ll rotate that shit,” he says, laughin’ wit’ me. “One night in ya throat, the next night in ya ass.”
My doorbell rings. It’s showtime, I think, peekin’ outta the bedroom window. I peep the state car in the driveway. Let’s get this shit ova wit’. “Yeah, whateva. Listen, I gotta go. Call me lata.”
“I got you, baby.”
I suck my teeth. “Muhf*cka, what I tell you ’bout callin’ me that?”
“Yo, chill out wit’ that dumb shit. I call you what I want. You know you Daddy’s baby.”
“Nigga, suck my ass and daddy on this,” I say, disconnectin’ the call and headin’ down the stairs to greet these state hoes.
Alex sends me a text: Yo, u got my dik hard wit’ that shit.
I text back: Whateva.
I hope these bitches don’t say nuthin’ slick and have me flippin’ da f*ck out. I swing the front door open, pastin’ a phony-ass smile up on my grill. “Hi, glad you made it. Come on in.”