The Ex Factor: A Novel (17 page)

“It's not every day that your sister asks if her husband can live with you,” Monica snapped.

“I never asked for him to live with you.”

“Well hell, I can't tell; he's at my house every day!”

“Wooo, wait a minute—” Sharief held up his hand for Monica and Celeste to come to a halt.

“You know what? This is soooo for the birds, fuck both of y'all,” Monica snapped.

Without thinking twice, Sharief snatched Monica by the arm. “Sit yo' ass down and stop running all over the place. Now, if y'all can't get along then fine, but this is about your mother and Red, not the two of you.”

“This is about a buncha bullshit! I'm outta here!” Monica screamed.

Sharief squinted. “Sit yo' ass down and have a drink. What you want, a beer or what's that new drink you like? A Perfect Ten? Celeste, what you want? White wine?” Sharief took his fist and tapped on the bar to get the bartender's attention. “The ladies will have a Perfect Ten, a glass of Chardonnay, and I'll have a rum and Coke.”

Celeste looked at Sharief. “You'll have a what?”

“A rum and Coke. I just need to breathe for once. That's it.”

“I don't think that's a good decision.”

“Damn, Celeste,” Monica complained, “he's not your son, shit. Loosen up.”

“You need to mind your business.”

“This
is
my business.”

“C
OME ON
,
MA, talk to me.”

Imani leaned back in the butter-soft gray leather front seat in Kree's Excursion. The
Proud to Be Puerto Rican
decorative CD that hung from the rearview mirror spiraled as Kree drove, reflecting streaks of light as he passed cars by. Imani stared at the side of Kree's face. He licked his lips and took a sip of his leftover Heineken. “You sleepy?” He put his beer back down and peeked quickly to the side.

“No, not really.” She flipped the visor's mirror down and saw that Jamal had fallen asleep in the backseat. She pushed the visor back up and sighed. “I was just thinking.”

“About what?” Kree asked, pushing his truck to almost ninety-five miles per hour up the dark turnpike. He had at least another hour left to drive from Celeste's house back to Brooklyn. Imani had been surprised when he'd asked if he could take her home. She'd agreed because it was right up her alley considering she wasn't speaking to Monica, couldn't stand to hear her girls' opinions about Walik, and everybody else was spending the night. And as far as Imani was concerned, spending the night was out of
the question. Especially since she didn't know where Walik was and who he was with. Spending the night would've only made her restless, miserable, and sick to her stomach. All Imani really wanted was one phone call from Walik. Whether it was filled with lies or not, she needed it to at least sound legit. All she wanted to hear was,
I was sleep, ma, I didn't hear my phone ring, and I been at your crib this whole time.
Was that too much to ask? Her stomach was doing flips because she knew she'd been gone too long and didn't know what mood Walik would be in when she called him early in the morning. Or how he would feel about hanging out with her all day, since he had more than enough time to make up an excuse why he couldn't fuck with her too tough. For once Imani wanted to feel safe: as if all was well with the world and that Walik going to prison and coming home had somewhat changed him. After all, she'd stayed by his side the entire time, playing in her pussy and the whole nine, never fucking another niggah. In fact she'd only been with one other man, besides Walik, and that was when she was twelve and lost her virginity, but now that she was twenty-three she no longer wanted that to count. Besides, she'd lied to Walik and told him that he'd been her first and only one.

“So that's really ya man, huh?” Kree asked Imani. “What's up with that?”

“Why are you asking me all of these questions? I got one for you.”

“What?”

“I ain't never met a Puerto Rican named Kree. What the hell happened to Rico Suave?”

“Oh no, you didn't say some stupid shit like that to me.” Kree frowned.

“How is that stupid?”

“Why can't I be Puerto Rican and be named Kree? Now, if I flipped that shit and said something dumb to you like why is your name Imani and not Shanay-nay or Bey-Bey you would have an attitude. For your information my name is Kree Fernando Rodriquez.
And I'm a full-blooded bronze-colored Puerto Rican. Don't be confused.”

Imani felt stupid. “I didn't mean any harm. I'm sorry, I didn't expect you to get offended.”

“It's good, ma, I checked you. Now we can move forward.” He smiled. “But if you say something crazy again, then I'ma be convinced that that's a description of who you are.”

“Are you calling me crazy?”

“I'm calling you tomorrow if you can act like you have some sense.”

Imani couldn't help but laugh. “Ai'ight, Kree, you got that. So what's with you? You gotta girl?”

“I got some jump-offs that hang around, but I'm single.”

For some reason Imani looked at his left hand.

“So how long have you been with ole boy?” he asked her.

“Since I was thirteen.”

“Damn, that's a long time. So what's up with him? Why you play him the other night at the club?”

“It's a long story but we made up. Anyway do you hang out at NV a lot?”

“I DJ there on Saturdays.”

“Oh, I didn't know that,” she said, smiling.

“That's wassup.”

“Wait a minute…Kree? Kree from Hot 97, rap, reggae, club and soca mix, that's you? I love to listen to that! Oh, you da bomb, boo. Aww shit, let me find out you Fat Joe on the low.”

Kree laughed. “There go that mouth again.”

“I'm just playing, big head.”

“I know, baby.” He blushed. “I guess I'm just not on my DJing shit like that. I do it because I love it.”

“Damn, sweetie. I'm proud of you.”

“You don't even know me to be proud of me.”

“But you feel like my brother.”

“Oh hell no.” Kree smirked. “Don't even start that
brother
shit,
'cause I will commit incest. So stop it. Stop it right now. I'm too fine to be your brother.”

Imani mushed him playfully in the head. “Punk.”

“Don't you see me driving, girl?” Kree took a sip of his beer.

“I also see you sipping a beer, so hush.”

“Ai'ight, ai'ight,” Kree said, putting his beer down. “Yo, do you watch
Being Bobby Brown
?”

“Do I? That shit is off the hook. It's cracked-out love at its finest.”

“Look, boo.” Kree snickered. “Remember this?” He started singing, making fun of a line from the show:
“These work for me? These work for you? These work for me? These work for you?”

“Hell yeah.” Imani hunched her shoulders like she was doing the Cabbage Patch and started singing along, but instead she said,
“Crack work for me, crack work for you, crack work for me, crack work for you…”

Kree looked at her. “Whitney gon' bust yo' ass, sayin' some shit like that.”

“Well hell, it's my prerogative.”

“You funny as hell, girl.” Kree laughed.

By the time they finished singing, talking, and laughing they were pulling in front of Imani's apartment building. Kree double-parked his Excursion. “You know, you're a decent broad.”

Imani playfully balled up her fist. “Oh no, you didn't call me a decent broad.”

“What do want me to say, that you're not decent?”

“Just hush.” Imani smiled. “I had a lot of fun with you. Thanks for making me feel better.” She opened the truck's door.

“Well damn, it's a wrap? No kiss, no
I'll see you tomorrow
, no nothing?”

“I wanna kiss you. I do.” She slid her hands down his cheeks, her palms meeting at his goatee. “But I have a man.”

“Ai'ight, ma. You got that.”

“Let me see your phone,” Imani said to him, closing the door.
Kree handed her his phone. “Now”—she smiled—“my number is programmed. Call me.”

“Later, baby. Let me help you with Jamal.” Kree jumped out of his truck and opened Imani's door, then walked to the back door and woke up Jamal. “Come on, li'l man.”

Jamal was groggy.“Where's my Imani?” He stretched.

“Right here,” Imani said, helping him out of the backseat.

“We home?” Jamal asked.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I wanna get in the bed.”

“Ai'ight li'l man and li'l mama.” Kree hopped back in his truck.“I'll catch y'all another time.”

“Bye, Kree.” They waved.

Imani practically dragged Jamal upstairs. He was holding her leg as tight as he could. They rode the elevator to their twelfth-floor apartment.“Come on, boy,” Imani said.

As she approached the apartment door, she heard the television playing. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Walik's here. Now I'ma go off because where the fuck has he been.
Before putting her key in the door Imani became pissed: she knew Walik was smoking a blunt because she could smell the weed floating underneath the door.
I'ma cuss his ass out! He knows I don't like that shit around Jamal.

As soon as Imani opened the door, she spotted Walik sitting on the couch, sucking on the tip of a blunt. Jamal was so sleepy that he didn't even notice Walik. He walked directly to his room and fell out across the bed. Imani walked in behind him and pulled his pants off.

“What the fuck?” Imani screamed at Walik as she came out of Jamal's room.“What the hell I tell you about smoking if Jamal is home!” She knocked his feet off her coffee table and picked up the two empty bottles of beer he had sprawled on the floor. As she walked in the kitchen to place the bottles in the trash, she looked around and saw that the place was a mess: dishes in the sink and dirty plates on the table.“Damn, Walik, you couldn't clean up?”

“Your fault, humph,” she said sarcastically, walking back into the living room. She threw her keys across her glass coffee table and looked at the clock, which read four am.“So where have you been all day?” she asked Walik.

“Goddamn, you walk in the door fuckin' naggin'.” “Walik, I asked you a question.” “And I asked you to stop stressing me.” He mashed his blunt in the ashtray.“Damn.”

“Damn what?” She frowned. “You know how many times I called you. I know you got my messages. You couldn't call me back?”

“I didn't hear my phone ring.” He put his feet back on the coffee table.

“It's awfully funny how you never miss a call when I'm around.”

“I been in prison for two years, you ain't been around like that.”

“And from what I can see,” Imani said, “you still the same grimy-ass niggah you were when you went in there.”

“I was waitin' on it and there it is.” “What?” She placed her hands on her hips.

“That bullshit.” He sat up and pointed his finger at her.

“You just a fuckin' naggin' ass.”

“So what, suck ya dick and stop flappin' my lips?” she said sarcastically.

“Basically.”

“Fuck you!” “Naw, I'll pass. Anyway, how you get home?”

Imani quickly blinked.“My mother—my sister, brought me home.”

“Which one?”

“Celeste—Monica.”

“Why you lyin'?” He cocked his head to the side.“I can't stand to be lied to.”

“What?” She sucked her teeth.“What the hell I gotta lie to you for… and don't try and turn the shit around on me. Where the fuck you been? I been calling you all fuckin' day! You saw my number, you knew I was calling you, and you couldn't even call and say you're okay?”

“Yo.” Walik got off the couch. “I should slap the shit outta you for standing in my fuckin' face lyin'! I saw your niggah drop you off a minute ago.”

“What?”

“You heard me!” he yelled. “I saw that punk bitch drop you off and you had my son in the car!” He walked over to Imani and grabbed her around the neck.“I should knock your fuckin' head into the wall! This is exactly why I don't fuck with you for too long, fuckin' whore! You lie too much. I just got home from a bid and already I gotta put my hands on you.” He took his hands from around her neck.

“Walik, it wasn't even like that!”

“Shut the fuck up! You stressing me. Y'all jumping me and shit all because I called some bitch, but then yo' niggah drops you off and you lie to me? I should break yo' face, yo'. I knew you was fuckin' his ass!”

“I wasn't fuckin' him. I don't even know him like that!”

“Imani, you was practically riding his dick in the club. When I asked you then how you knew him you should've been like,
This is my friend. You was gon' for two years
, yadda-yadda, and maybe, just maybe I would've understood.”

“Are you serious? I've been more than faithful to you.

” “Beat it, 'cause I'm not beat for it.”

“It was a coincidence,” she insisted. “He just happened to be the DJ at my mother's wedding. As a matter of fact, he DJs at NV and he's a DJ for Hot 97, the Friday-night nine o'clock rap, reggae, and soca mix.”

“Why is you spittin' this niggah's résumé at me? You tryin' to
throw that shit in my face? What, I ain't good enough for you no more, Imani? Now you got to have the local DJ.”

“Oh…my…God!” Imani couldn't believe it.“What are you talking about? You probably made more money on the street than Kree has seen in a lifetime.”

“So that's his name? Kree? What kinda bitch-ass name is Kree? What the fuck is that? Bitch ass!” Walik kicked the glass coffee table over, causing the glass to shatter all over the floor.

“Stop it!” Imani yelled.

“You know Jamal is sleeping.” “You know what?” Walik picked up his wallet off the floor and stuffed it in his back pocket.“I'm sick of yo' fat ass!”

“I ain't fat. Shante's ass is fat. Yo' ass is fat, motherfucker!”

“She might be fat but at least she knows what to do.”

“What to do? Do about what? All y'all fat asses can do is make sandwiches.”

“Lyin' bitch!”

“You the liar, Walik.”

“Kiss my ass, bitch!”

“What? You kiss my ass, open it up and lick the pink inside of it!”

“Imani!” Jamal ran into the room, wearing his white tuxedo shirt and Spider-Man underwear. His thighs were chubby and rubbed slightly together.“What is going on in here? I'ma call nine-one-one this time!”