The Kat Trap (4 page)

“This baller nigga, from Newark, Thug Gee, is havin’ a party tonight at Studio 9. Word has it it’s gonna be packed with long dollars and thick dick.”

“Hmmph,” I grunted. “And a bunch of dick-thirsty Wal-Mart bitches,” I said, rollin’ my eyes up in my head. I really wasn’t in the mood for bein’ around a bunch of hatin’-ass hoes, especially them Jersey bitches, ’cause I already knew that the first one who eyeballed me recklessly or said somethin’ slick outta the side of her neck, I’d have to slide her ass. But I also knew them bitches didn’t really want it.

Although me and Chanel were restin’ across the dirty-ass Hudson here in Jersey while Tamia and Iris still parlayed in Brooklyn, it had
been a minute since me and my girls all chilled together. Although Tamia and Iris were my girls, Chanel and I had been friends since second grade and I’d only been friends with Tamia and Iris since junior high. So my history with them bitches was a little different from the one with Chanel. Granted, Chanel was much tighter with them than I was, but I must say, for the last six or seven years, the four of us were thick as thieves and had a rep of rockin’ the hottest wears, pushin’ the slick-ass whips, fuckin’ the finest niggas, and turnin’ a club out. However, on some real shit, it was all an illusion ’cause along with that rep came some extra shit for a few of these hoes. But I ain’t gonna pull any cards right now. So, I’ma keep it cute, and keep it movin’.

Anyway, after thinkin’ ’bout it, it was a Friday night, and I really did feel like poppin’ and droppin’ it a bit.
What the fuck,
I thought. “Okay, trick, what time we rollin’?”

“Eleven,” she said. “Tamia and Iris are already here chillin’ at my spot. You want us to come through and scoop you?”

I looked down at my diamond bezel timepiece. It was ten after nine. “Nah, I’m drivin’,” I replied, shiftin’ the cordless phone from one ear to the other, walkin’ into my elaborate walk-in closet laced with all the illest shit from Chanel, Emilio Pucci, Vera Wang, Gucci, Louis Vuitton, and Hèrmes. “I’ll be there quarter of. Make sure you hoes are ready.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…
whatever!”

“And you cock suckas ain’t smokin’ in my shit either.”

“Love you, too,” she said, laughin’.

“See ya asses in a minute,” I said, laughin’ to myself before hangin’ up. I stared at my enormous designer collection, then, after ten minutes of shufflin’ and rustlin’ through shit, I decided to rock a black, knee-grazin’ Gucci wrap dress and a pair of Gucci
stilettos.
Yeah, give them broke bitches somethin’ to hate,
my mind snapped as I headed toward my bathroom, thinkin’ about gettin’ my two-step on.

An hour later, I was standin’ in my full-length mirror, fully dressed, puttin’ my two-carat studs in my ears and makin’ sure my hair and face were on point. “This is why I’m hot, dammit,” I said, admirin’ the way my fifteen-hundred-dollar dress clung to my curves, lettin’ muhfuckas know just what I was workin’ with and revealin’ an ample amount of cleavage—just enough to let ’em know my titty game was right. I grabbed my black Gucci hobo bag and made my way to my garage, then opened the door to my metallic silver S550. I slid inside the butter-soft gray leather interior, pressed the garage door button, then turned on the CD player. Lil’ Kim’s “Kitty Box” blared from the speakers as I made my way to pick up my crew.

When we finally pulled into the parkin’ area, it was packed. The niggas and bitches were pilin’ outta luxury cars in droves. The thought of grindin’ my ass up against a nigga’s dick made my pussy twitch. I pulled into a parkin’ space next to a sweet-ass bronze-colored Bentley. The shit was bangin’.
I wonder who’s pushin’ that whip?
I thought, flippin’ down my visor. We all checked our faces and hair to make sure shit was regulated.

“What I tell ya’ll bitches?” Chanel announced all excited ’n shit in between pulls of her blunt. “I told ya’ll hoes this shit was gonna be live tonight. We ’bout to work the hell outta this spot.”

“I don’t know ’bout the rest of ya’ll, but I’m tryna run deep in a nigga’s pockets tonight. Drinks all night on his ass,” Iris replied, applyin’ a fresh coat of lip liner to her neatly painted lips.

“I heard that,” Tamia said, chucklin’. “And not that cheap shit either.”

I rolled my eyes. “I have my own paper,” I said, tossin’ my hair to the side. Bitches hated the fact that I didn’t need a weave or extensions or a perm. My shit was all natural, and I shitted on these chicks every time I let ’em know that with the toss of my head.

“And?” Iris asked, tiltin’ her head as if I’d said somethin’ foreign to her.

“And,”
I said with much ’tude, “I can buy my own drinks. I’m not one of you hard-pressed bitches, lookin’ for a nigga to buy me drinks ’cause your asses are pinchin’ pennies.”

“Fuck you, trick,” Chanel said, takin’ another deep toke from the blunt, then passin’ it to Iris. She exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. Iris took two pulls, then offered it to Tamia.

“Nah, bitch, I’m good,” Tamia said. Iris handed it back to Chanel who took another hard pull, holdin’ the smoke in her lungs.

“No, tramp,” I said, closin’ my sunroof, then openin’ the door. “I’ma fuck you if you burn my seats back there, trick-ass hoes. Now, let’s roll.” Tamia and Chanel started laughin’ and chokin’, but I was serious as hell. That’s my girl and all, but I’d ram a blade in her ass real quick if need be.

There were three lines to get into the club, and each one was practically wrapped around the damn building. Around the back there was some sort of tent that led into another entrance, and that was overflowin’ and packed with niggas and bitches. Ain’t no way a bitch like me was standin’ in some busted-ass line.

“I hope one of you bitches is fuckin’ one of the bouncers ’cause I ain’t beat to be standin’ out here all night,” I said, scannin’ the area. I spotted a few thugged cuties, but nothin’ to write home ’bout. I peeped a group of low-budget bitches cuttin’ their eyes over at us, tryna take in our wears. Humph.

“No,” Iris said, grinnin’. “But I am fuckin’ one of the deejays.”

The rest of us looked at her, dumbfounded. “Bitch, then why is we standin’ out in this crab-ass line?” Chanel snapped, suckin’ her teeth.

“You know this ho gets brain-dead after she smokes a few trees,” I said, rollin’ my eyes at her simple ass. Iris had already found her first prey of the night and was standin’ to the side of us, spittin’ game to this nigga who was gazin’ into her eyes like a star-struck junkie. Hell, why wouldn’t he? On the outside lookin’ in, we were four fly bitches laced in the hottest shit, and didn’t fuck with no broke niggas, so it is what it is. I knew if his paper was long and he was spendin’, she would probably fuck him after the club, unless someone else came along with deeper pockets or a bigger dick.

Say what ya want. But, personally, I ain’t fuckin’ no nigga on the first or second night. Well, not a nigga who’s gonna live to tell about it. Let’s be clear. Yeah, I gets it in like the next bitch, but the niggas I waste don’t count ’cause ain’t none of ’em alive to kiss ’n tell shit about fuckin’ me. So I can fuck and suck and do whatever I want with ’em and never have to worry ’bout some chump-ass muhfucka tryna play me close. But if I’m straight fuckin’ a nigga on the bricks, it damn sure ain’t gonna be on the first night. I don’t care how wet my pussy gets, or how thick his dick gets. It ain’t gonna happen.

I glanced back over at Iris, then rolled my eyes. If a bitch wanna play herself, then…oh well.

“Fuck ya’ll,” Iris said, catchin’ the eye of one of the bouncers, a tall, caramel-coated nigga with a bald head and thick arms, lips, and what looked like big hands. He smiled over at her. “Hey, Len,” she said, wavin’. “Is my name on the guest list?”

“You already know,” he said, wavin’ us to come up to the front
of the line. We followed Iris up the ramp, and heard teeth suckin’ and agitated grumblin’s. I looked back and smirked at the common bitches, then stepped inside the club where the beats were rockin’.

All night long, niggas were tryna get at us. Tamia and Chanel took a few numbers, but none of them niggas appealed to me. I wasn’t beat. Iris was up in the deejay’s booth with her new man toy. “I’m going over to the bar,” I yelled over the music. “You want anything?” I asked Chanel.

“Yeah, a shot of Ketel One and an apple martini,” she said. Tamia was on the dance floor, shakin’ her ass up on some buffed nigga rockin’ shoulder-length locks. The music was tight. Fabolous’s “Make Me Better” was pulsin’ through the huge speakers. I smiled at my girl slayin’ her dance partner on the floor as I made my way to the bar. I knew she wouldn’t be wantin’ any more drinks since she already sucked down her six-drink max. And I knew the bitch was lit the way she was bouncin’ and grindin’ her ass all up on dude’s dick.

While I waited for my order, I felt someone towerin’ over me, but paid it no mind. “Yo, ma, what you drinkin’?” a voice asked, leanin’ into my ear. His warm breath against my ear and the scent of his expensive cologne made my nipples harden. I slowly turned to face the nigga with the deep, panty-wettin’ voice in back of me, and parted a sly smile. The nigga was
fine.
He had smooth, cocoa-brown skin, big brown eyes, a thick nose, and nice, full, pussy-eatin’ lips. And when he smiled, he had straight white teeth and a sexy-ass dimple in his left cheek. I peeped the shine around his neck and wrist, and the rocks in his lobes. Yeah, the nigga was blingin’…just how I like ’em.

“Why, you payin’?”

“No doubt,” he said, grinnin’.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I got it, but I’ll buy
you
a drink,” I said, real sexy-like.

He smiled wider. “Nah, baby, I’m good.”

I licked my lips, roamin’ every inch of his body before lockin’ my eyes on the bulge in his pants. Although there wasn’t much light to really see what was good, there was something ’bout the way he stood that told me he was hangin’ just right. I smiled, stickin’ the tip of my tongue outta the side of my mouth. “I bet you are,” I said, brushin’ past him, leavin’ him with his tongue waggin’ as I headed back over to Chanel. Tamia was now sittin’ at the table, sippin’ on a drink.

“Bitch, where you been all this time?” Tamia asked, smilin’.

“In that long-ass line tryna get these drinks,” I said, handin’ Chanel her order.

“Thanks,” Chanel said, takin’ the shot straight to the head.

“Then this fine-ass nigga was tryna get his rap game on, but I gave him no play.”

Tamia rolled her eyes all dramatic and whatnot. “You are so fuckin’ tired with that bullshit. You’re gonna end up an old-ass maid with a dried-up, dusty-ass pussy if you don’t stop tryna be so stuck the fuck up. How the hell you think you’re gonna get some dick, actin’ all stank anytime a nigga tries to get at you?”

I flipped her the finga. “For your information, ho, I gets dick, trust. I don’t let you vultures know ’bout it.” Well, what I said really wasn’t a lie. I mean, I was fuckin’. I was killin’ the niggas afterward. Still, I was gettin’ dick, and that’s all that mattered.

Chanel giggled. “Yeah, you fuckin’ alright. Fuckin’ the skin off them damn fingas.” Tamia fell out laughin’. Just then, the nigga from the bar was comin’ toward our table, grinnin’.

“Who the fuck is that fine-ass muhfucka right there?” Chanel
questioned, tossin’ her head in his direction, then sittin’ up in her seat. “My God, that nigga looks like he’s paid out the ass. I’d fuck him on the spot.”

I smirked. “I know your nasty, trick ass would. He’s the nigga who was at the bar. And I’m—”

He stepped up in our space and locked his gaze on me. “How you ladies doin’?” he asked, lockin’ his gaze on me. Everyone said their hellos, practically ready to suck and fuck him, then zoomed in on me.
All eyes on me, bitches,
I thought. “So can I at least get a dance since I couldn’t buy you a drink?”

I grinned, eyein’ his ass down. “That depends.” I licked my lips.

“On?”

“Whether or not you can move.”

He rubbed his chin, flashin’ his beautiful teeth again. I was one of the few bitches who hated niggas who had their grill fronts all chromed and iced out. That shit looked so nasty and country to me. And a nigga with a mouth full of teeth that looked like piano keys, or like he’s been gnawin’ on bricks, was a no-no. “I guess you’ll have to find out for yourself.”

“Then I guess I will,” I said, gettin’ up from my seat and followin’ him to the dance floor. I looked back at Chanel and Tamia, then stuck my tongue out. We found a spot on the floor and started doin’ the damn thing to Beyoncé’s “Get Me Bodied.” Before I knew it, I was poppin’ my hips and droppin’ down real low, lettin’ this nigga know what time it was. It had been so long since I’d been out that I almost forgot how good it felt to be out shakin’ my ass.

I worked up a nice sweat and when that sexy-ass Nas’s voice came over the speakers with “Let There Be Light,” I spun around real slow, then twirled my hips into his crotch and pressed my
body up against his. He placed his hand on my hip, pulled me into him, and found a rhythm that matched mine, while slippin’ his thigh between my legs and grindin’ into me. I pressed back harder, lettin’ him know I was no slouch. I took my hand and ran it along the front of his designer slacks, felt the length of his dick and squeezed.
Damn, this nigga holdin’ something right,
I thought, tryna keep my pussy in check. But I already knew if he kept on, I’d be fuckin’ him.

The following day, I was loungin’ on my damask chaise with my leg tucked under me, listenin’ to 2Pac’s “Hit ’Em Up,” openin’ the manila envelope that had been sent by FedEx. I glanced over at the leather suitcase filled with my paper, smilin’. I pulled out two 8 x 10 photos of my next marks and the details of where I’d find ’em. I stared at the first photo, studied it carefully, taking in every aspect of the nigga’s features. He was a darker version of the ex-NBA player Jayson Williams with Jay-Z lips. My pussy twitched imaginin’ those big, juicy lips all over my clit and pussy. Yeah, fuckin’ him was gonna be a real treat. I hoped he had a big dick. For some reason, I always felt gypped when I ended up gettin’ a mark with a little-ass dick. That shit made me want to blow a hole in his head right on the spot for wastin’ my damn time. I read his stats, which were always found on the lower right corner of every picture:
twenty-eight years old, six feet, two inches, 225lbs. This big nigga better be packin’,
I thought, memorizin’ his information.