The Kat Trap (3 page)

He was sittin’ at the bar when I walked over to order me a drink.
Fightin’ that ho had a bitch’s throat dry. “Yo, ma, I dug how you handled ya’self out there,” he had said, eyein’ me real hard, lickin’ his lips like he was tryna suck my panty liner.

“Oh word,” I responded real easy-like. But in the back of my mind I was thinkin’:
Why the fuck is this crusty, black muhfucka lickin’ his lips at me? I know this beast don’t think he’s L.L. or some shit.

He smiled, showin’ a top row of big teeth and big red gums. I yanked my neck back, tryna check my frown. “Yeah. You stomped chick’s back in.”

“Next time I’ma slice the bitch’s throat,” I snapped, tossin’ my fresh-to-death wrap—compliments of this Dominican spot up in the Bronx—and lookin’ him dead in his frog eyes. “Ain’t no bitch gonna talk greasy ’n shit, then think shit’s sweet. I got somethin’ for that ass.”

I really wasn’t beat for all the chit-chat. I just wanted to wet my throat, get my dance back on, and chill with my girls. But, he insisted on tryna lean in my ear. “I hear ya, ma,” he replied, rubbin’ his chin. “I’ve been checkin’ ya all night. You seem like a real thorough chick. Where you rest?”

“Brooklyn,” I said with much ’tude. “Why?”

“How ’bout I buy you a drink, and we find us a spot to politic.”

I twisted my lips. “Nigga, I know you ain’t thinkin’ a drink is gonna get ya black ass some pussy.”

He laughed. “Chill, ma. I ain’t on it like that. Don’t get me wrong, you some real eye candy and I’d love to tap that ass inside out and all. But this is on some strictly legit shit.” I twisted my lips. He flagged the bartender. “Get this beauty whatever she’s drinkin’.”

I smiled. Obviously, the nigga didn’t know just how deep my throat was. I ordered me two double-shots of Ròemy, peeped my girls gettin’ their drop ’n pop on out on the dance floor, then
followed dude to a corner table. As soon as we sat down, he got right to the point.

“Dig, how you feel ’bout makin’ some real cheddar?”

I tossed my drink back. Although I was already sittin’ on cake thanks to a sudden windfall, a bitch was still boostin’. It was cute and it kept me laced, but that shit wasn’t pullin’ in no real paper. I wanted more. A chick like me, bein’ an opportunist, needed to step her game up and stack some real cheese, but pushin’ or holdin’ or transportin’ somebody’s weight wasn’t ever gonna be it.

“What ya talkin’?” I had asked, raisin’ my naturally arched eyebrow.

He leaned in real close, wrapped his thick arm around the back of my seat, then spoke into my ear. He said again he was diggin’ my style, then told me ’bout a “work-for-hire” operation he ran, and how he was lookin’ for a thorough chick to be on his team.

“Hmmm,” I said, takin’ my second drink to the head. I studied dude’s swagger. He was ugly as fuck, but was dipped and paid. The nigga smelled like real money. And I wanted in. I peeped his Rolex, smilin’. “Order me another round, then let me sleep on it. A bitch don’t like to make any decisions when I’m gettin’ my drink and smoke on.”

He grinned. “Yeah, you definitely the real deal. Here’s my card. Hit me when you ready.” He slid me his business card, then turned to step. He turned back around. “Yo, ma, you gotta name?”

“Katrina,” I said. “Kat for short. And you?”

“Kashmir. But the streets know me as Cash.”

When the bartender returned with my drink, I smiled, liftin’ my glass. “I’ll get at ya.”

“Do that,” he replied, walkin’ off. I watched him give a few niggas pounds, then disappear out the door.

A week later, I called his ass and we spoke briefly. Then, the
next day, we met for dinner at Junior’s in Brooklyn to discuss and finalize his offer. The paper was right, and it sounded sweet. Now, here I am, four years later, still fuckin’ with his slimy ass. Usually he was on point, but lately the nigga had been slippin’ and I really wasn’t feelin’ it. I didn’t give a fuck who he was, or how he got down for his. As far as I was concerned, the muhfucka could get it, too.

There were fifteen of us on this nigga’s money clip, and he received anywhere from five to twenty contracts a month, sometimes more. And he got paid
well
for the delivery of services; services that we carried out. The blood from my work was on my hands, not his. He had better recognize who kept him sittin’ his stankin’ ass up on his throne.

The longer he kept me on hold, the more heated I got. Dude was caked the fuck up and was on some real bitch shit tryna pinch corners with my paper. I’m sorry, but I was not diggin’ it at all! I was gonna have to make a major move, and soon, before I ended up shuttin’ his lights out.

“Yo,” he said, yankin’ me from my thoughts, “I’ma have that for ya in ’bout an hour. You know where to go.”

“Yeah, muhfucka,” I said, suckin’ my teeth.

“Oh, and check this out. The next time you come at me like that, I’ma forget I don’t put my hands on bitches and knock ya fronts out, ya heard?”

“Don’t fuck with my money, then,” I warned.

“You heard what I said,” he said, lowerin’ his voice. It almost sounded like his nasty ass had his hand down in his pants playin’ with his shit. The thought made me sick to my stomach. “Watch how the fuck you come at me. You work for
me,
not the other way around. Don’t get the game fucked up.”

I knew I was playin’ with dynamite comin’ at his neck like that.
This muhfucka was a real shiesty-type nigga. I knew that the moment I jumped on his team. I also knew he could be real shady if pressed, and had no problem settin’ that ass up lovely if he felt disrespected or played. But, at the moment, I didn’t give a fuck!

“And I’m the one out here puttin’ heat to these muhfuckas, so don’t hit me with that bullshit. I ain’t the one. Play ya position, cowboy, and have my shit. I deliver ya bodies on time, and I expect my paper delivered on time, in full. And I ain’t tryna hear shit else. So
don’t
try ’n dry-fuck me.”

“I done warned you,” he snapped, “and you still yappin’ ya fuckin’ jaws. You’se a crazy bitch.”

“Whatever, nigga,” I said, snappin’ the phone shut on his ass. “I’ll be glad when I’ve stacked enough money to get the fuck outta this shit once and for all,” I said out loud, slippin’ into a pair of sweats and a hooded shirt.
I need a fuckin’ blunt,
I thought, searchin’ for my stash.
Fat muhfucka got my nerves rattled
. I lit the blunt, then took a long drag, inhalin’ deep, allowin’ the smoke to flow through my nose and mouth simultaneously.
I really hate fuckin’ wit’ these snake niggas,
I thought, takin’ another deep, long pull before puttin’ it out.
I’ll smoke the rest of this shit later.
I grabbed my purse and headed out the house to collect my loot.

Forty minutes later, I was back in the same spot I’d started out from, watching the money counter count and total the rest of my money. Twenty thousand. I smiled, placin’ it in the floor-to-ceiling safe with the rest of my paper. It was like Bank of America up in this bitch. And I was lovin’ it. I stood there and stared at the rows of bills neatly stacked. The smell made my snatch tingle. I just wanted to fuck, and rub my pussy over every single bill. I pinched my clit, then clamped my legs shut before slidin’ my hand between my legs and slowly rubbin’ my pussy. A bitch was in heat. I needed
to be fucked, deep, long, and hard. But there wasn’t one nigga on my roster who I wanted to come through and slay me. I wanted some new dick. I sucked my teeth, then walked into a smaller walk-in closet and opened up a chest full of sex toys. I pulled out a ten-inch dildo, then climbed up on my king-sized bed, spread open my legs, and slid it in and out of my hungry hole, deep-fuckin’ myself until my cum-soaked pussy dripped a stream of hot, sticky juice down the crack of my ass. My pussy lips flapped around the width of my manual dick as I used my other hand to press on my swollen clit, pullin’ the dildo out of me e’ery so often to lick and suck my sweet cum juice off my rubber companion. I want some dick! I screamed in my head. “Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!” is the last thing I remember chantin’ and screamin’, before I closed my eyes and fucked myself into a deep, well-needed sleep.

T
he shrill sound of my cell pulled me outta my sleep. The sound of the ring tone told me who it was, and which cell line it was. I glanced over at the digital clock on my nightstand, rollin’ my eyes.

“Shit,” I groaned, jumpin’ out of bed and diggin’ through my purse for my phone. I glanced at the number. Sure enough it was my moms. “Hello.”

“Is there any reason why you haven’t called me?” she asked with ’tude. No “hello.” No “it’s good to hear ya voice,” nothin’ except her fuckin’ attitude. I swear the older she gets the more evil she gets. The conversation hadn’t even gotten started and I was already ready to snap my phone shut on her ass.

I sighed. “Well, hello to you, too,” I said. “And to answer ya question, I haven’t called ’cause I’ve been busy.”

“Humph. Doin’ what? Are you workin’?”

“Yeah, I’m workin’. And before ya start tryna get all up in what I do, save it. As long as I’m not askin’ you to dig in ya pockets, what I do to make my paper is none of ya concern. Now, who pissed in ya Cheerios today?”

“Ain’t nobody piss in nothin’ of mine. I haven’t heard from you in almost two months, and I shouldn’t have to be the one to call you.”

“Uh, and why not?” I asked, sittin’ on the edge of my king-sized poster bed. The fuckin’ nerve of her!

“Because I’m your mother, that’s why.
You
should be callin’ and checkin’ on me.”

I rolled my eyes. “Really? Well, thanks for that news bulletin. I woulda thought as a mother
you
would wanna pick up a phone to see how ya only child is doin’. You know how to reach me. Anyway, now that ya got me, what’s been happenin’? Anything new goin’ on in ya life?”

“Nope,” she said, a bit too quick if ya ask me. “You know I don’t mess with too many people. Ever since I got my money these phony bitches ’round here always smilin’ and whatnot and tryna be up in my face. I’m like, ‘bitch, please, I ain’t got no time for it.’”

“Hmm. I hear ya. How’s Grandma?”

“You’d know that if ya ass picked up a phone and called her sometimes.”

I sucked my teeth. I really wasn’t in the mood for her shit.
Beeeep!
The call waitin’ tone signaled in my ear.
Good.
“Listen, I gotta go. I have another call comin’ in. I’ll be over next Saturday or Sunday.”

“That’s what ya ass said two months ago, and I still haven’t seen you.”

Beeeep!

“Alright,” I said, gettin’ agitated. “I’ll see ya on Sunday. ’Bye.”

“Well—”

I pressed the
TALK
button, disconnectin’ her ass. “Hello?”

“Damn, baby,” the nigga said in his silky voice. “Your voice got my shit on brick. When you gonna let a nigga see you?” It was Raynard, this cat from Long Island I had met when I was out in Vegas for All-Star Weekend in February. Humph. I knew I shoulda never given this nigga my digits.

The first night I met him was at the party P. Diddy was hostin’ at the Ice House Lounge. I was up in that piece lookin’ fabulous in a sexy Christian Dior white slip dress with a cutout back and plungin’ neckline that showed off my perfectly shaped ass, titties, and legs, and rockin’ a bangin’-ass pair of white beaded Gucci stilettos.
Yes,
a bitch slayed ’em in all white. I had the niggas droolin’ and every hatin’-ass bitch in that piece gaggin’.

Anyway, I was up in the VIP lounge standin’ out on the patio drinkin’ a flute of champagne when dude stepped to me tryna get his mack on. I ain’t gonna front, he was a dark-chocolate cutie—six-three, sexy brown eyes, nice thick lips, neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, with a beautiful bald head. The nigga was dipped in a fly-ass black Hugo Boss suit and it was somethin’ ’bout his swagger that made my pussy jump. But I kept it cute. I let him get his rap on, then sweetly smiled and bounced on his ass.

The next night, I bumped into him again when I was walkin’ through Caesar’s headin’ toward the Forum Shops. As I walked past him and his boys—there was like six or seven of them niggas—he stopped me and tried to get his shine on in front of his mans while them vultures swarmed around me like they were ready to eat me alive. I wasn’t pressed, though.

“Listen,” I had said. “I’d love to stand here and let you and your boys gawk at me, but I got shoppin’ to do.”

“Anything I can help you with, beautiful?”

I looked his ass up and down real easy-like, then smirked, starin’ into his eyes. “Nope,” I said, “’cause I ain’t shoppin’ for dick.”

He grinned. And his boys started laughin’. “Oh word. Well, let me get your digits then, so I can hit you up later on tonight.”

“Wrong answer,” I replied.

“Do you believe in fate?” he asked, smilin’.

“Why?”

“’Cause this is the second time I done ran into you. Outta all these heads out here, I spot you again. You dipped on me last night, but I ain’t letting you off that easy this time.”

I smiled. “So, you believe in fate, I take it?”

“Most def.”

“Good. Well, they say three’s a charm so if we happen to run into each other again, then I’ll give you my number. If not”—I shrugged—“then it wasn’t meant to be.”

I looked at him, then over at his boys. “You boys enjoy the rest of your stay. I’m out.”

He threw his big hand up over his chest, like he was clutchin’ his heart. “Damn, ma. I’m heartbroken. How you gonna leave me hanging like this?”

I grinned. “Easy,” I said, gettin’ ready to step off. But I stopped dead in my tracks when I heard one of his boys say: “Yo, Ray, I wouldn’t even waste my time on a stuck-up bitch like her. I can tell she’d be a fuckin’ headache tryna get some pussy from.”

I turned to face his wide-nosed, big-lipped ass, then let that ass have it. “Nigga, what the fuck did you just say?” I asked, steppin’ up in his face. I could tell the nigga was lit. He smelled like he’d been drinkin’ all night. But I didn’t give a fuck. Drunk or not, that nigga stepped outta pocket. In a split second I was ’bout to bring my blade to his face. “I know you didn’t just disrespect me.
Muhfucka, I don’t know what type of bitch you think you talkin’ to, but I ain’t
that
bitch. How dare you try to come at me and you got the fuckin’ audacity to look like a muthafuckin’ cross-eyed gorilla!”

“Yo, you better go ’head ’fore you get hurt in here.”

“Go ’head nothin’. Fuck you, you crusty muhfucka. You probably the only duck-ass nigga outta ya crew who ain’t gettin’ no real pussy unless you beggin’ for it, or trickin’ ya money up for it. You done fucked with the wrong one, nigga. I’ll have ya muthafuckin’ lights smashed out before the sun comes up, fake-ass baller.” I knew if my girls were with me, we woulda tore that casino up and been hauled off to jail for stompin’ his ass.

“Yo, tell this bitch to step the fuck off before—”

“Before you what, nigga?” I said, cuttin’ him off while reachin’ into my bag to get my shit. Fuck splittin’ his shit with my blade, I was gonna ram my ice pick in his thick gut. If he kept pressin’, it’d be a bullet instead.

Dude stepped in between us, pushin’ his boy back with his forearm. “Yo, nigga, shut ya drunk ass the fuck up. Yo, ma, don’t pay his dumb ass no mind. He’s fucked up.”

I stared the drunk nigga down, then turned my attention to him. “And he’s about to get really fucked up ’cause he done came at the wrong bitch.”

“Yo, y’all take this dumb nigga outta here,” he said to two of his boys. They snatched his ass up real quick and got him the fuck away from me before I put a slug in his skull.

“Don’t no nigga talk slick and think shit’s sweet.”

“I hear you. That was some real foul shit. I apologize for how he came at you, but I’ma check him on it.”

“Yeah, you do that. But, please be clear. If I run into that crab-
ass nigga again, he had better be in a position to apologize for how he came at me, otherwise you and the rest of ya crew gonna be goin’ to a funeral.”

“I feel you, ma. So, I guess tryna get ya number is definitely out now?” he asked, flashin’ me a beautiful smile.

“You got that right,” I said, leavin’ him starin’ at my ass.

Oh my God! It was live and poppin’ in Vegas that weekend and every fuckin’ night the strip was filled to capacity with niggas and bitches tryna shine in their wears. Even the white bitches were tryna get it in. But none of them pasty, weave-wearin’, frontin’-ass tramps could rock with me. And I was slayin’ them hoes every night at every damn party in all the ill shit. Long story short, I ran into this nigga in the airport, and wouldn’t you know he stepped to me, holdin’ open his BlackBerry, ready for me to program my number into his phone. And the nigga has been callin’ me ever since. Now I wish I woulda gave his ass a wrong number.

Anyway, I had to pull the phone from my ear for a minute.
I swear I don’t know why I gave this nigga my fuckin’ number,
I thought, rollin’ my eyes. “Nigga, you must be smokin’ dust or eatin’ mufuckin’ paint chips to come at me like that. I don’t know you like that. And to answer ya question, never. Now do me a favor and delete my number ’cause I ain’t feelin’ ya ass like that.”

He laughed. “Damn, ma, why you gotta be so hard on a brotha. I’m only fucking with ya sexy ass. I know you ain’t that type of chick.”

I sucked my teeth. “Whatever. You still might as well delete my number ’cause I ain’t givin’ you no pussy.” The Kat line started ringin’ off the hook. And I was glad. “Listen, I gotta go. Don’t call me anymore.”

“Yeah, aiight. I’ma keep callin’ ’til you stop answerin’,” he said. “There’s somethin’ ’bout ya evil ass that turns me the fuck on.”

Click
. I hung up on his ass, pressin’ the
TALK
button on my other cell. “Yeah.”

“We still beefin’?” Cash asked, soundin’ like Barry White.

“Nah,” I said, “we straight.”
For now, muhfucka
, I thought, rollin’ my eyes.

“Good. I got some gigs for you. You wit’ it?”

“When?” I asked, ploppin’ down on my bed. I ran my hand through my ultra-silky hair, then twirled the ends through my fingers. “And where?”

“Everything needs to be wrapped up within a week.”

I let out a sigh of relief. I was glad I had a few days to chill. “Where?” I asked.

“Atlanta and Chicago,” he stated.

“Give me two days.”

“I’ll have everything ready for you.”

“Cool. Oh, and don’t try that shit you pulled on that last gig. I want seventy-five percent of my paper before I start.”

“Now, you know how we do. Half now, the rest later.”

“No,” I stated flatly. “That’s how we
used
to do up until you tried to stunt me.”

“Come on, ma. Why you tryna bust a nigga’s balls?”

“’Cause a nigga can’t be trusted,” I replied. “And, besides, I like it when I got a handful of balls in my hands, squeezin’ the nut outta it. Now, like I said, I want seventy-five percent now and the rest when I touch down.” My mental calculator started churnin’ in my head. That meant a hundred-and-fifty thousand for the price of two bodies upfront. I smiled.

“I got you,” he said, soundin’ real tight. I didn’t give a fuck.
Play me, get played, sucka!
He musta read my mind because he said, “You know I’d never game you.”

“Yeah, that’s what your mouth says,” I said, hangin’ up.

Later on that evenin’, I was in my kitchen heatin’ up some leftovers from the Cheesecake Factory, smokin’ a blunt, with the stereo blarin’ Nas’s
Hip Hop Is Dead
CD throughout the house. And I had the flat-screen TV on with the volume down. I wasn’t big on watchin’ TV ’n shit, but every now and then a bitch liked to peep the news to stay up on the comin’s and goin’s of the crazy-ass niggas and silly bitches in this fucked-up world. So while the six o’clock CBS news was on, I was just standin’ in the middle of my kitchen waitin’ for the microwave to stop, listenin’ to Nas spit his lyrics and gazin’ at the TV when a special news report flashed across the screen. I ain’t gonna front, a bitch got real curious when this Asian-lookin’ reporter chick was standin’ in front of the Delano Hotel in South Beach. The same fuckin’ spot I was a few weeks ago. And when the face of the nigga I bodied appeared, I almost fainted. I ran across the kitchen to grab the stereo remote to turn that shit down. I caught what the chick was sayin’ in mid-sentence.

“…Prominent criminal defense attorney Lyndon Blair Holmes was last seen at this world-class urban resort nestled here in the heart of South Beach three and a half weeks ago. Although the details regarding his disappearance are sketchy, hotel staff state the multimillionaire had been served at the Rose Bar around nine p.m., and was sitting alone. At ten-thirty that evening, he called housekeeping from his room for fresh towels. No one has seen or heard from him since. All of his personal items were still in his suite and his 2006 Lamborghini remained in the parking garage. His wife alerted authorities when she had not heard from her husband in two days, and he hadn’t returned any of her calls. Authorities urge potential witnesses to come forward. A one-million-dollar reward is being offered by the family to anyone with information that will lead investigators to his whereabouts. Currently there are no leads…”

’Cause his ass is dead, bitch!

His wife, a cute brown-skinned chick dipped in jewels, was sobbin’ and talkin’ into the camera. I turned that shit off. I wasn’t beat to hear her beggin’ and pleadin’ for his safe return home. I didn’t wanna hear jack ’bout her missin’ him, and how much she loved him, especially when the bitch probably had somethin’ to do with his ass bein’ slumped. A bitch was through. I put my food on a plate, then took my ass downstairs into my theater room to spark a Dutch, eat, and watch
Perfect Stranger
with Halle Berry.

At nine p.m. my phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID, then picked up. It was my girl Chanel. “Whaddup, ho?”

“Hey, hooker, what’s good?”

“Shit,” I said, holdin’ the phone in the crook of my neck while I spun the chamber of my revolver, making sure it was packed with a full load of heat. I placed the safety latch on it, then laid it back in its case and closed the drawer. “What’s poppin’ tonight?”