Nasty Girls

NASTY GIRLS

 

  

 

Also by Erick S. Gray

MONEY POWER RESPECT
GHETTO HEAVEN
BOOTY CALL

ERICK S. GRAY

St. Martin's Grifin
New York

 

 

 

Rest in peace
My beloved cousin
Tarshish “Toot Toot” Massey
August 1974–January 2004
A coward took your life, but he
Didn't take away your love and spirit.
We love you.

NASTY GIRLS
. Copyright © 2006 by Erick S. Gray. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Gray, Erick S.

Nasty girls : an urban novel / Erick S. Gray.—1st ed.

       p. cm.

ISBN 0-312-34996-3
EAN 978-0-312-34996-7

1. Female friendship—Fiction. 2. African American women—Fiction. 3. City and town life—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3607.R389N37 2006
813'.6—dc22

2006040801

First Edition: May 2006

10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2  1

First, I thank God for the talents He blessed me with. It's my gift from Him. Now what I do with it, is my gift back to Him. I'm blessed with this. With every book I'm getting better at it.

Second, I got to give love to my daughter, my true love, heart, and soul. Emari Gray I love you, girl. You know Daddy is in this to win.

Third, I thank God for the parents He blessed me with, Alinda and Spencer Gray; they keep me standing strong with the courage to carry on. They watched me grow, and when I was about to buckle and fold, they were the ones who came along, prayed for me, and unfolded the one they love.

Before I go on, Lauren Hamilton, thank you for your love and support.

I can't forget, got to show love to my sisters and brothers, Tanya, Terry, Pat, and Vincent. We recently lost one—rest in peace, Corey L. Gray—but as a family we're still strong, and our younger brother still lives on through us, as we continue to carry on the family name.

Also, I thank Mark Anthony for all he's done for me, and the Q-Boro family. You're blessed with Q-Boro, a company meant for great things. You inspire me and others to keep reaching for their dreams.

Danielle Stallings, my home girl from Connecticut, I love your honesty and assertiveness; keep that fire in you beautiful. I had to show you love, too.

Special thanks to Monique Patterson, Emily Drum, and the people at St. Martin's Press for helping me put this book together.

Nakea, my home girl from Philly—city of brotherly love—thanks for being a friend, a listener, and a great publicist to us all. You, Mark, and the rest all make up an excellent team.

My peoples who I've known forever, David Beaumont, K.T., Ryan, Sean, Hasheem, Jamel Rice, my cousin Jamel Johnson, Lovey, Michael Thompson, Jerry A.K.A. Law, James, Bryant, Lanise, Tania, Kay, and Gregory G. Goff (rest in peace). Thanks for holding it down.

Okay, this next statement is going to take a minute, so bear with me as I shout out, Linda Williams, Tasha, Herman, K'wan, Jay, Anthony Whyte, Brandon McCalla, Tracy Brown, August, Ebony Stroman, Denise Campbell, T.N. Baker, Kashamba Williams, Ed Mcnair, Hickson, Asante, Thomas Long, Mo Shines, Dejon, Kiniesha Gayle, K. Elliott, Anna J., Joe-Joe, Al-Saadiq Banks, Crystal Lacey, Jihad, Treasure E. Blue, Vonetta Pierce, Danielle Santiago, C. Rene West, Azarel, Shannon Holmes, Ike Capone, Carl Weber, T.L. Gardner, Gerald K. Malcom, Gayle Jackson Sloan, Dynah Zale, Tu-Shonda Whitaker, Zane, Brenda L. Thomas, S.A. Sabuur, Deborah, and many more in this game. Let us continued to blow up this genre. If I missed you, I didn't forget about you.

I got to thank Coast 2 Coast and the ARC book club for them online chats. Y'all know I'm always looking forward to them. But thank you for helping put us authors out there in the market and keeping us on the map.

And last, I'm shouting out myself, for getting things done. I'm thankful for everything, even for my downs, because it all made me a stronger and better person today. And I thank my fans and readers for showing me love and support. Thank you.

If y'all wish to get at me, you can reach me at Bootycall2099 @yahoo.com or [email protected]. Peace.

 

 

 

Y
ou little bitch! Who the fuck you talkin' to like that!” Mr. Anderson shouted at his fifteen-year-old daughter when he heard Shy scream, “I fuckin' hate you!”

“Don't you know I will come over there and smack the black off your little ass?” Mr. Anderson continued to shout at his daughter, who stood in the corner of their two-bedroom apartment, crying her eyes out. Her father was furious, cursing up a storm. He had a quick temper, especially lately—guys had been calling the apartment asking for Shy at any time of the day or night.

“You got these little knucklehead muthafuckas callin' my home at three o'clock in the fuckin' morning, askin' fo' your fast ass,” he shouted. “You out here fuckin' these young boys, Shy? You spreadin' your legs fo' these horny drug dealers?” He turned over a leather chair, his eyes boiling with fury.

“Daddy,” Shy managed to say, but fear engulfed her quickly. Her father was up in her face, glaring at her, disapproving of her promiscuous ways and her wardrobe, and ready to kill any nigga that touched or did his daughter wrong. It was a hot July day in
the projects, and Shy had on some tight Daisy Duke shorts, a tight tank top, and some ankle socks and Nikes. She had her hair in two long pigtails, and for a fifteen-year-old girl, she had a body well-developed in all the right places, getting her the attention of many young boys in the hood.

Mr. Anderson hated seeing his daughter growing up so fast and dressing like some hoochie on the block. Shy was a beautiful young girl, but she was moving too fast. Mr. Anderson dreaded seeing his baby girl end up like her mother had—in the streets and hooked on drugs, selling her body for a quick high. He wanted his daughter to have something better going for her, and he knew Shy was smart, but he saw in her what he saw in her mother when they first met—they both were attracted to that fast, get-money, flashy lifestyle. Mr. Anderson knew his daughter was enthralled by the bad boys, the thugs, and the drug dealers. Mr. Anderson knew that no decent young man would call a young lady's place at three o'clock in the morning, and sounding straight street. He had picked up the phone, agitated at the late hour, and heard a young thug say, “Ay, yo—is Shy home?”

Mr. Anderson lost it and cursed and threatened the guy, shouting, “You little knucklehead muthafucka! Don't you be callin' here no three o'clock in the fuckin' morning, askin' fo' my daughter. Nigga, is you fuckin' crazy! Come around my daughter and I'll fuck your ass up!” And then he hung up.

Oh, Shy heard her father's mouth the next day, and they both went at it. But with his temper, she knew that if her father had really known anything about the young man who called, he would be at his front door right now, fighting him. Shy didn't disclose the caller's name or location and instead took the verbal abuse from her father.

“You little bitch!” he continued. “I swear, if you come to my home pregnant by one of these drug-dealing niggas, you're gone, Shy. Go ahead—be just like your fuckin' mother, selling pussy in the streets fo' drugs, and end up naked in an alley somewhere with a bullet in your fuckin' head.”

Shy didn't want to hear about her mother's death—the pain was still fresh, even though it had happened three years ago.

“Fuck you! Why you gotta talk about Mama like that?”

That smart remark caused her to get a hard right-hand smack across her face.

“You whorin' bitch! You gonna end up just like her, if you keep dealin' wit' these young hardheaded niggas out here,” he said.

Shy pushed her father away and ran out of the apartment. She hated how he always brought up her mother's death, trying to scare her into leaving the streets alone.

“Shy, get back here!” Mr. Anderson shouted from the apartment door. “Shy, you get your fast ass back into this apartment, or don't you ever come home again! I swear, Shy, you and your mother are a fuckin' joke sometimes!”

Shy ignored her father's words and ran down the building's pissy staircase with tears streaming down her face. She reached the middle of the steps and noticed two figures sitting at the bottom, their backs to her. She slowed down and stared cautiously at them. One was a lady whose hair was in disarray, and the second was a young man. They were flicking a lighter as they sat closely together, concealing something. To Shy's eyes, it appeared that they were doing drugs—they were hidden away from the public and concealed in the depths of the project staircase, where there was enough privacy to smoke crack. Shy walked
down the stairs slowly. When she was up on them, they both turned around and looked up at her.

“Oh . . . ,” the woman said. She stared up at Shy, and they recognized each other. “Hey, Shy,” the woman said, gripping a long crack pipe in her hand. Her eyes looked drowsy, her movements sluggish.

“Hey, Melanie,” Shy said, her voice low.

It was an uncomfortable situation for both of them. Shy had never seen Melanie like this before. Melanie was two years older than Shy, and they had both attended high school. Melanie had been the most popular, best-dressed, most outgoing girl in the school. She had been voted “Most Likely to Succeed.” Now, she looked like she didn't have a pot to piss in. Next to Melanie was her boyfriend, Ray. He was holding a lighter and looking around nervously. Ray used to be a cute guy and one of the young dealers on the come up. Shy remembered when Ray used to sell drugs outside her building when she was younger. He had always been dressed in Adidas and big gold chains and had money to burn. Then he got hooked on his own product a year ago and couldn't let go.

“You tryin' to get by, Shy?” Melanie asked, looking impatient.

“Yeah,” Shy said.

Melanie and Ray moved against the wall, allowing Shy to pass. As she passed by them, Shy looked Melanie hard in her face and saw the damage crack had done. Melanie turned away quickly, diverting her eyes to the floor, ashamed that Shy had to see her like this. Shy said nothing else. She darted out of the building and into the streets.

Shy wanted to escape her father. She didn't want to go back home, but she was fifteen and had nowhere else to go. She
missed her mother dearly, but she also knew that she would never end up like her or like Melanie, sucking hard on that glass dick, and sucking and fucking niggas for crack. Shy always knew that she was too smart for that. She wasn't going to let drugs fuck up her life and screw up her lovely body.