Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang (23 page)

Muhfuckas 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; fuck 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 fuck up from outta my muthafuckin’ 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 fuck 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 muthafucka, 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 fuck 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. Fuck 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 fuck.”

I spin outta his embrace. “Nigga, just ’cause I gave you sum pussy, 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, muhfucka,” 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 muhfucka. You feelin’ real ova ya’self.”

I peep Chanel’s drunk-ass ova at the bar, talkin’ to two chocolate muhfuckas. 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 fuck 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 pussy up at ’im. “Nigga, a bitch like me’ll fuck ’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 fuck. 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 muthafuckin’ 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 fuck is you doin’? I gotta a restrainin’ order on ya stupid ass.”

“Fuck 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 fuck 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 fuck 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 fuck 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 muhfuckas 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 muhfucka, tryna pin that baby shit on a muhfucka.” 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 fuck 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.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Bitch tryna keep it on cruise control…low profilin’it…ain’t beat for a buncha shit…ain’t tryna get hood…fake bitch wanna be stylin’…talkin’ ’bout she a nigga’s baby mamma… neck-rollin’ it…tryna crank da heat…bitch wanna serve drama…it’s all good…she ’bout to get that ass beat…

A
week later, me and Chanel are at this hair salon, Nappy No More, ova in South Orange. A high-end spot plastered in all the hair magazines that she’s been pressin’ me to check out for a minute. So here we are. I won’t front. The place is real cute. I peep the mix of chicks sittin’ up in here. There’s a mixture of hoodbooga, ghetto-fab, ’n celebrity wife bitches up in this piece waitin’ to get they wigs done. Erykah Badu’s “I Want You” is playin’ low through the Bose speakers up on the walls.

Chanel’s sittin’ next to me, checkin’ ’er emails ’n textin’ back ’n forth wit’ Devine, and a few other muhfuckas. I’m flippin’ through the latest issue of
Vibe
magazine, bobbin’ my head to the music. A bitch’s chillin’. Mindin’ ’er own business, gettin’ lost in the beat when I feel someone burnin’ a hole through me.

I look up and catch the bitch. From the look she’s givin’ me
I’m not sure if she wants to cut or
fuck
me. I tilt my head. She shifts ’er eyes. I go back to readin’. A few minutes later the bitch is starin’ me down,
again
. I close the magazine, leanin’ ova toward Chanel.

“Ummm, why is da Spanish-lookin’ ho ova at da counter starin’ at me like she’s tryna get beat da fuck up?”

Chanel cuts ’er eye ova in ’er direction. “Mmmmmph, looks like she wants ta bite ya ass wit’ them big-ass teeth.” I chuckle. “Da bitch probably wants to be you when she grows up.”

“Puhhhleeeeze, that bitch could neva be me,” I state, starin’ at Trey Songz on the cover. A bitch can’t front. The muhfucka is lookin’ kinda sexy all bare-chested ’n wet. But, since he’s not my flava, I don’t spend too much time or energy into it. I go back to flippin’ through the articles in the magazine instead.

A few minutes lata, the Spanish bitch is walkin’ toward me, but I act like I don’t see ’er.

“Excuse me.”

I take my time lookin’ up at ’er. “How can I help you?”

“Were you at club Eden last week?”

I look ’er up ’n down. Of course a bitch like me’s gonna answer this ho’s question wit’ a question. “Why, who wants to know?”

“I do.”

“And you are?”

“
Ramona
,” she says wit’ a buncha stank in ’er voice.

As soon as she says ’er name. It clicks.
She’s the nut that was all up on Alex, then got dragged outta da club.
“Ohhhhkay, so you want my autograph or sumthin’?”

“Your autograph? Nooooo, Sweetie. I wanna know how you know Alley Cat. I kept staring at you because you looked familiar. Then it dawned on me. I saw you grinding all up on him at the club like you two were real familiar.”

I frown. Take a deep breath. This bitch had’a be hawkin’ me the whole muthafuckin’ night to remember me from a week ago in a damn packed club. Then, again, a fly bitch ain’t eva hard to forget. Chanel cuts ’er eye ova at me, shiftin’ in ’er seat. I shift in mine as well, crossin’ my legs. I have my body turned in chickie’s direction in case I gotta leap up on ’er ass. “Ohhhkaaaay. And if we were?”

“Then you need to watch your back because he’s a real scam artist. He’ll use you until he can’t get anything else out of you, then toss you to the side for the next.”

I laugh. “Sugah, I don’t know why you tellin’ me all that. That shit sounds real personal.”

“I’m basically advising you, that’s all.” The bitch still has a buncha stank in ’er tone, but I’m tryna overlook the shit. Still tryna keep it cute.

“You ain’t advisin’ me ’bout nuthin’, Sugah. Only stupid bitches get caught up in lettin’ a muhfucka use ’em. I ain’t da one, so move along.”

She puts a hand on ’er hip. “Move along, hell. I wanna know how long you’ve known him.”

Ohmiiiiiiiifuckin’gawd! Let me find out this bitch’s retarded
. “Look, chick. What’s up wit’ all these damn questions? Do I know you? ’Cause if not, then you need to bounce up outta my space.”

“Like I said, I saw you up at the club with Alley…uh, I mean, Alex.”

“And?”

“
And?
I’m his baby’s mother.”

Chanel toots ’er dick sucka’s up, eyein’ me. ’Cause she knows in a minute I’ma bring it to this bitch. I tilt my head. Play the bitch like I’m stupid. “Ohhhhhkay,
and?
Why didn’t you say that shit from da rip instead cummin’ at me wit’ a buncha extras?”

She igs the question, foldin’ ’er arms ’cross ’er chest. “Are you
fuck
ing him?”

I count in my head.
Keep it cute, ho. See what this bitch gotta say.
“Why?”

“’Cause we’re tryna work some things out, and he doesn’t need to have any outside distractions altering his judgment.”

I laugh. “Sweetie, you have two seconds to get to ya muthafuckin’ point.”

The bitch plants a hand up on ’er hip, and starts neck-rollin’ it. “Well, the point is this: He’s my man. And I don’t know if you’re sleeping with him or not, but if you are—from one woman to another,
stay
the fuck away from him.”

Ohhhhkay…see. This is the part where I should really get up and smack this stupid, silly-ass bitch in ’er face. But, I feel like fuckin’ wit’ the dizzy bitch, so I won’t.

“Is that a threat, Sweetie?”

“It’s a warning, but you can take it however you want.”

“Uh-oh,” Chanel says, pullin’ my handbag from me, “sounds like sumbody tryna make it pop up in this piece.”

“Girl, I don’t know what da fuck this chick tryna do, but I know she betta get movin’ real quick.”

“I know that’s right, ’cause da bitch is startin’ to get on
my
nerves.”

She laughs, glancin’ ova at Chanel. “Mind ya manners, Boo. Mind ya motherfucking manners. This is between me”—she points ’er finga at me—“and her.”

“Bitch,” Chanel snaps, “I know you ain’t talkin’ to me. I will—”

I put my hand up, cuttin’ her off. “Don’t. Let me handle this.” I scoot up in my seat. Place a hand up on my hip. “Bitch, there ain’t shit between you and me. I don’t know you, and I don’t give a fuck ’bout you.”

“Yeah, well maybe you don’t know me. But you
obviously
know my man.”