Nasty Girls (4 page)

I looked at him and knew he was confident with his. He
didn't seem too cocky, and he didn't stutter while he was talking to me. He knew what to say and how to say it. And he wasn't aggressive to the point where I wanted to smack him. The way he grabbed my hand—casually but not scared to touch a sista—said something about him.

I looked over at my girls, and Camille and Jade just looked back at me. Camille shrugged her shoulders and said, “We ain't goin' anywhere, Shy.”

So I walked off with Roscoe down the block, where we had a chance to talk privately, away from the loud crowd and the nosy bitches outside the club that were hating on me because I had Roscoe's undivided attention.

When we got to the corner, he said, “Your name Shy, huh?”

“I see you pick up on things,” I said.

“I pay attention to a lot of things, especially when I come across a beautiful woman. And you definitely are a beautiful woman. So, is Shy your real name or a nickname?” he asked.

“It's my middle name, given to me by my mother.”

“It's nice. I like that . . . Shy. I can get used to sayin' it out loud.”

I smiled.

When he talked, he always made eye contact. Not once did his eyes leave mine, which was a positive thing. I hate a man that talks to you, but his eyes are looking everywhere except at you, which either means he's too timid, too weak, or he's devious and you can't trust the muthafucka.

And in return, I stared right back. He was definitely eye candy. He had full lips that were—ummmm. I just wanted to suck that bottom lip so bad! He also had brown eyes and smooth brown skin. Now the bonus was that he was tall. The
brotha stood about six-one, rocking cornrows with design parts which looked freshly done. And the clothes! His gear looked spanking new.

“You got beautiful eyes, Shy.”

“Thank you,” I replied. I ain't gonna front; Roscoe was making me blush. And if a brotha can make me blush, then he was doing his job and was definitely on point with his game.

“I see you're big on eye contact,” I said.

“Always. I feel that lookin' in a person's eyes tells you a lot about that person and his or her character. And wit' women, I feel that the eyes tell what the heart is feelin', and the way you're lookin' at me right now tells me a lot.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“So what are my eyes saying?”

“Truthfully . . . that you're feelin' me somewhat, and I got my foot in the door wit' you. I'm willin' to work on the rest wit' you.”

“Are you always this cocky?”

He didn't respond to my question. He just looked at me and smiled. “I definitely wanna take you out sometime. Only you can make it happen. So, will I be leavin' here wit' a smile on my face, or are you gonna have a brotha continuously pursuin'?”

“We can work somethin' out,” I told him.

The more he talked, the more he had me open. That shit he said about the eyes, I like. He was smart, and that was another plus.

So I gave him my cell phone and my home numbers, and I rarely give out my home number. But he deserved it. He came correct with his. I gave him his moment, and it paid off.

I went back over to Camille and Jade, and you know they had a bunch of questions to ask a sista. The entire ride home to my place, I thought about Roscoe.

Our first date, Roscoe took me out of town with him to Philadelphia, where he had tickets to a Jay-Z concert, front row and everything. And then afterwards, he had a suite at the Sheraton—you know he had a sista open. I ain't no slut, but I fucked the nigga that night. I mean, who wouldn't? It was worth it.

And as our relationship grew, it was great to know that he didn't have no kids. Oh, God, that was such a bonus, knowing that I didn't have to deal with no jealous bitchy baby mamas. I had no kids, so it was great.

 

I
stood in front of the mirror naked and gazed at myself, like I do every morning. I'm not conceited—well, a little, but a sista like me got it going on. I got a petite figure, with gracefully long black hair that stops at my shoulders. Bitches in the hair salon be hating, because my shit ain't a weave like most fake sistas. My lips are pretty and stay glossed out. To the fellows, I'm known as the chocolate fine honey with the cute butt and curvaceous figure. Roscoe hates it when I walk out on the streets alone, because plenty of brothas be trying to come at me and holla. Most of 'em know that I'm with Roscoe, but they don't care. They be stressing the situation, saying my man ain't gonna find out. But I be loving Roscoe too much to fuck around with these lame-ass wannabe hustlers and gangstas. And I also know you don't shit where you eat. Roscoe do take care of me—I just wish that sometimes he would take care of me a little bit more often.

About an hour done passed since Roscoe left me alone in the apartment. And to be real, I was missing him already. This nigga had my fucking hopes up, thinking I was gonna be with my man all day, and we were going to go out shopping and have dinner at the Olive Garden and just do us all day. Instead he leaves because he claims I got him upset. Yeah, whatever.

Well, I was determined not to spend my entire day off being bored and trapped in this apartment. I was getting into something—I don't care if it was just hanging outside the projects.

I called up Jade, and as soon as she picked up the phone, I heard the drama.

Y
ou need to fuck that bitch up, Jade,” Camille said to me, looking angrier and more upset than me. “Fo' real, Jade, that bitch was talkin' mad shit the other night, talkin' about you ain't shit to her and how your man be checkin' her every night. She actin' like he ain't shit to you.”

“Where that bitch at right now?” I said. I was heated because I hate when my name is constantly coming out of a bitch's mouth, and the ho don't even know me. And now this ho that Camille is talking about claims to be fucking my man, James, on the regular. Now I know me and James ain't been on smooth terms lately, but for my man to be messing around with some dirty bitch like Tasha—yo, I swear, I'm about to get medieval on someone.

“I heard that bitch be over on Guy Brewer gettin' high and shit wit' her cousin.”

“She there now?” I asked.

“She should be; that bitch is a bum. She ain't got no place to be. You need to handle this, Jade. You know I got your back.”

It wasn't even noon yet, and here I was, getting into some drama, and Camille ain't no good, because she's a hyper bitch, ready to throw down whenever. She doesn't care with who, male or female. You disrespect her, me, or Shy, and she ready to fuck you up, anyplace and anytime.

And it's funny, because a few years ago, we both had beef with each other, ready to tear each other's hair out, and now we cool like sistas. When Shy's man got killed in '98, Camille stuck around and made sure my homegirl was all right. I gave her props for that. In '98, we both squashed our beef and kept close ties to Shy, who became like our little sista. We all became tight, best friends, damn near sistas, and there wasn't a damn thing that was gonna break us apart.

Now James, we've been together for years, and I know this nigga better respect what he got at home and recognize, because he's walking on thin ice with me. Yeah, he got a big dick, and he's fine as fuck, but a sista can't take but so much. And for him to be fucking around with Tasha, which is the rumor throughout the projects, makes me look bad.

Tasha's a dirty bird-bitch, with no class and no fucking style. She constantly walks around with a scowl on her ugly face, parading around in a dirty blond unkempt weave, thinking she cute. And the brothas be sweating her, because they know she give up easy ass and will suck a nigga's dick for a dime bag and a bowl of Froot Loops. Yeah, she's slim, with a little butt, but come on, it's style, beauty, and grace that counts, and for the brothas that be running up in Tasha, makes me think twice about them. Tasha is like one or two steps from becoming a crackhead and homeless. And if James fucked her, or is fucking her, I swear, that nigga better not bring his dirty dick around me
anymore or bring me some nasty disease he got from that dirty bird-bitch!

I looked over at Camille, and she was preparing for battle. She took off her rings and earrings, and had a multicolored scarf tied around her head.

“Jade, c'mon, I don't want that bitch to leave,” Camille said.

I threw on a pair of old sweatpants and a blue loose-fitted hoodie. I didn't have to worry about wrapping up my hair, because I sported auburn twists, and it looks so fucking good on me.

Soon as I was about ready to head out the door and go fuck this bitch up, the fucking phone rings. Camille told me not to pick it up, but I was expecting a very important phone call.

“Hello!” I answered loudly.

“Damn, girl, what's wrong wit' you?” Shy asked.

“Nuthin'. Me and Camille 'bout ready to fuck this bitch up,” I let her know.

“Who you talkin' about?” she asked.

“That dumb dirty bird-bitch, Tasha.”

“Y'all fo' real?”

“Yeah. I'm hearin' about this bitch messin' wit' my man, and you know me and James been together fo' four years now. And I'm hearin' my name keeps comin' out of her fuckin' mouth.”

“I'm comin', Jade,” Shy said.

“Nah, me and Camille got this,” I said to her. I know she was with Roscoe, because all week, she's been boasting about spending some quality time with him and how he was taking her shopping today. “Stay and keep your man company. Don't be leavin' no dick to fight some dirty bitch,” I said. Shy's my girl, and the youngest, so sometimes I had to advise her.

“Roscoe ain't even here,” she informed me.

“What? Why?” I asked.

“We had an argument, and he bounced. Talkin' about he'll be back when I calm down.”

“Why niggas be actin' up?” I asked, rolling my eyes.

“I don't know.”

“Jade, c'mon. I don't want this bitch to leave!” Camille shouted.

“Who that? Camille? Tell her ass to calm the fuck down,” Shy said, knowing Camille's temper.

I looked at Camille and muttered, “Shy is on the phone.”

“So, tell that bitch to come and help beat this bitch down!” Camille exclaimed.

“Jade, I'm coming,” Shy said, and then hung up on me.

Shy lived in the building next to mine, and we've been friends since grade school. I'm one year older, and we've both been through everything together, from trifling niggas, to hating-ass bitches, and even getting ourselves locked up a few times in Central Booking for fighting, stealing, and everything else.

Camille, she's like our mother. She's constantly gotta look out for her sistas—especially me, because I'm the shortest, smallest, whatever—being only five foot one, and 110 pounds. But what I lack for in size, I make up for in skills, looks, and my body. What I'm possessing, many brothas be wanting a piece of my sultry and desired look. I'm a bad bitch. I may be small, but I'll fuck a bitch up, quick. I got big titties and a nice little asset from behind, and I always get compliments, especially about my hazel eyes. Niggas be saying that I got them exotic and saucy bedroom eyes. Niggas be shouting out, “Damn, shorty, you got them bedroom eyes. Your little ass. You look
like you can work a nigga good in the bedroom. Wassup wit' you, luv?”

But I got James, and I let niggas that stay trying to get into my pants know it too. James been my love for four years now. And if he wanna fuck up and give up this good pussy he's been blessed with for a long time now—oh well, I got plenty of brothas who are willing and ready to take his place.

I headed out the door with Camille right behind me.

The minute we walked out my building, I saw Shy standing on the corner, ready and waiting. That's us, the dynamic trio. Everybody in South Jamaica housing knows we don't play, and we all stick together like white on rice. You fuck with one of us, you fucking with all three of us, and believe me, we'll beat you down.

I greeted Shy quickly, and then we all proceeded toward Guy Brewer Boulevard where Camille was sure that Tasha was hanging.

Of course, I spotted that bird-bitch Tasha chilling in front of the bodega on South Road and Guy Brewer, and just like Camille explained it to me, she was smoking weed with her dyke cousin, Dee—another bird-bitch.

My face tightened up the closer we got, and I clenched my fist, and was about ready to spit fire, I was so fucking mad. Tasha turned around and saw us coming, and of course, she had something smart to say when she saw me approaching her.

“Look at this short bitch here!” she shouted out, standing in front of the bodega in some tattered gray sweats, and an XXL white T-shirt that was clearly too fucking big for her.

“What you say, bitch?” I barked back.

I knew Tasha had to know we came to beat her down. I had Vaseline on, so the bitch won't be able to scratch my face, and Camille had her hair wrapped up tight. We didn't come to talk.

Her dyke cousin stepped in front of Tasha, like she trying to protect her, and said, “What? Y'all bitches think y'all ill?”

The bitch's voice was deep as shit, and she had a mustache above her upper lip, with braids, rocking a gold hoop earring and wearing baggy clothing, looking like a dick swings between her legs.

Camille, that's my girl, and she keeps it gangsta. She said no words and was the first to throw down. She stepped up to Dee, and
pow!
Caught that bitch dead in her fucking face, catching her off guard, making that dyke stumble a little.

I went for Tasha, swinging hard at that bitch. Even though she towered over me at five-seven, I still wild out on her fucking ass. I grabbed a fistful of that fake blond weave with my left hand, trying to pull out her extensions, and bent that bitch over and started pounding on her with my clenched fist, and beat that bitch in her fucking head. Shy jumped in and started kicking and hitting Tasha where there was open space for her to attack.