Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang Read online

  “Wasssup, Allstar?” she says, grill-cheesin’ all up in the nigga’s face. “So you da nigga who got my girl all goo-goo-ga-ga ’n shit. It’s ’bout damn time you stepped up. Took you long ’nough.”

  He laughs. “Oh, word? I got ya girl open like that? It’s Chanel, right?”

  “Oh, you remember?”

  “No, doubt.” He laughs. “The way ya’ll were throwin’ shade at muhfuckas who could forget ya’ll two.”

  I suck my teeth. “Whateva.” I shoot Chanel a look. “Ho, puhleeze. I ain’t goo-goo-ga-ga’in shit. Don’t gas this nigga’s head.”

  She flicks ’er hand in my face. “Whateva, ho.”

  He grabs my hand. “Yo, why you walk off on me like that?”

  I pull my hand back. “Nigga, you didn’t need me out there. Ya lil’ girlfriend was more than ’nough.”

  “Yo, that’s one’a da broads I was tellin’ you ’bout. She’s da ho that got all nutty on a muhfucka, tryna pin that baby shit on a muhfucka.” He tells me the bitch’s name is Ramona, then pulls out a restrainin’ order and shows it to me. Tells me he carries it ’round wit’ ’im just in case the ho shows up somewhere. “And Akina is someone I used to fuck wit’ ’til she put ’er hands on me, and I had’a choke ’er up.”

  I blink, blink again. I shake my head. “Nigga, you got too many extras in ya life for me. I’m out.” I toss up the deuces, and spin off. “Chanel, let’s go, ho.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Bitch tryna keep it on cruise control…low profilin’it…ain’t beat for a buncha shit…ain’t tryna get hood…fake bitch wanna be stylin’…talkin’ ’bout she a nigga’s baby mamma… neck-rollin’ it…tryna crank da heat…bitch wanna serve drama…it’s all good…she ’bout to get that ass beat…

  A week later, me and Chanel are at this hair salon, Nappy No More, ova in South Orange. A high-end spot plastered in all the hair magazines that she’s been pressin’ me to check out for a minute. So here we are. I won’t front. The place is real cute. I peep the mix of chicks sittin’ up in here. There’s a mixture of hoodbooga, ghetto-fab, ’n celebrity wife bitches up in this piece waitin’ to get they wigs done. Erykah Badu’s “I Want You” is playin’ low through the Bose speakers up on the walls.

  Chanel’s sittin’ next to me, checkin’ ’er emails ’n textin’ back ’n forth wit’ Devine, and a few other muhfuckas. I’m flippin’ through the latest issue of Vibe magazine, bobbin’ my head to the music. A bitch’s chillin’. Mindin’ ’er own business, gettin’ lost in the beat when I feel someone burnin’ a hole through me.

  I look up and catch the bitch. From the look she’s givin’ me I’m not sure if she wants to cut or fuck me. I tilt my head. She shifts ’er eyes. I go back to readin’. A few minutes later the bitch is starin’ me down, again. I close the magazine, leanin’ ova toward Chanel.

  “Ummm, why is da Spanish-lookin’ ho ova at da counter starin’ at me like she’s tryna get beat da fuck up?”

  Chanel cuts ’er eye ova in ’er direction. “Mmmmmph, looks like she wants ta bite ya ass wit’ them big-ass teeth.” I chuckle. “Da bitch probably wants to be you when she grows up.”

  “Puhhhleeeeze, that bitch could neva be me,” I state, starin’ at Trey Songz on the cover. A bitch can’t front. The muhfucka is lookin’ kinda sexy all bare-chested ’n wet. But, since he’s not my flava, I don’t spend too much time or energy into it. I go back to flippin’ through the articles in the magazine instead.

  A few minutes lata, the Spanish bitch is walkin’ toward me, but I act like I don’t see ’er.

  “Excuse me.”

  I take my time lookin’ up at ’er. “How can I help you?”

  “Were you at club Eden last week?”

  I look ’er up ’n down. Of course a bitch like me’s gonna answer this ho’s question wit’ a question. “Why, who wants to know?”

  “I do.”

  “And you are?”

  “Ramona,” she says wit’ a buncha stank in ’er voice.

  As soon as she says ’er name. It clicks. She’s the nut that was all up on Alex, then got dragged outta da club. “Ohhhhkay, so you want my autograph or sumthin’?”

  “Your autograph? Nooooo, Sweetie. I wanna know how you know Alley Cat. I kept staring at you because you looked familiar. Then it dawned on me. I saw you grinding all up on him at the club like you two were real familiar.”

  I frown. Take a deep breath. This bitch had’a be hawkin’ me the whole muthafuckin’ night to remember me from a week ago in a damn packed club. Then, again, a fly bitch ain’t eva hard to forget. Chanel cuts ’er eye ova at me, shiftin’ in ’er seat. I shift in mine as well, crossin’ my legs. I have my body turned in chickie’s direction in case I gotta leap up on ’er ass. “Ohhhkaaaay. And if we were?”

  “Then you need to watch your back because he’s a real scam artist. He’ll use you until he can’t get anything else out of you, then toss you to the side for the next.”

  I laugh. “Sugah, I don’t know why you tellin’ me all that. That shit sounds real personal.”

  “I’m basically advising you, that’s all.” The bitch still has a buncha stank in ’er tone, but I’m tryna overlook the shit. Still tryna keep it cute.

  “You ain’t advisin’ me ’bout nuthin’, Sugah. Only stupid bitches get caught up in lettin’ a muhfucka use ’em. I ain’t da one, so move along.”

  She puts a hand on ’er hip. “Move along, hell. I wanna know how long you’ve known him.”

  Ohmiiiiiiiifuckin’gawd! Let me find out this bitch’s retarded. “Look, chick. What’s up wit’ all these damn questions? Do I know you? ’Cause if not, then you need to bounce up outta my space.”

  “Like I said, I saw you up at the club with Alley…uh, I mean, Alex.”

  “And?”

  “And? I’m his baby’s mother.”

  Chanel toots ’er dick sucka’s up, eyein’ me. ’Cause she knows in a minute I’ma bring it to this bitch. I tilt my head. Play the bitch like I’m stupid. “Ohhhhhkay, and? Why didn’t you say that shit from da rip instead cummin’ at me wit’ a buncha extras?”

  She igs the question, foldin’ ’er arms ’cross ’er chest. “Are you fuck ing him?”

  I count in my head. Keep it cute, ho. See what this bitch gotta say. “Why?”

  “’Cause we’re tryna work some things out, and he doesn’t need to have any outside distractions altering his judgment.”

  I laugh. “Sweetie, you have two seconds to get to ya muthafuckin’ point.”

  The bitch plants a hand up on ’er hip, and starts neck-rollin’ it. “Well, the point is this: He’s my man. And I don’t know if you’re sleeping with him or not, but if you are—from one woman to another, stay the fuck away from him.”

  Ohhhhkay…see. This is the part where I should really get up and smack this stupid, silly-ass bitch in ’er face. But, I feel like fuckin’ wit’ the dizzy bitch, so I won’t.

  “Is that a threat, Sweetie?”

  “It’s a warning, but you can take it however you want.”

  “Uh-oh,” Chanel says, pullin’ my handbag from me, “sounds like sumbody tryna make it pop up in this piece.”

  “Girl, I don’t know what da fuck this chick tryna do, but I know she betta get movin’ real quick.”

  “I know that’s right, ’cause da bitch is startin’ to get on my nerves.”

  She laughs, glancin’ ova at Chanel. “Mind ya manners, Boo. Mind ya motherfucking manners. This is between me”—she points ’er finga at me—“and her.”

  “Bitch,” Chanel snaps, “I know you ain’t talkin’ to me. I will—”

  I put my hand up, cuttin’ her off. “Don’t. Let me handle this.” I scoot up in my seat. Place a hand up on my hip. “Bitch, there ain’t shit between you and me. I don’t know you, and I don’t give a fuck ’bout you.”

  “Yeah, well maybe you don’t know me. But you obviously know my man.”

  I laugh. “Ya man? The nigga gotta restrainin’ ord
er against ya dumb-ass, so how da fuck is that ya man? Define that for me?”

  “Bitch,” she snaps, raisin’ the volume, “I don’t have to define shit for you. Stay the fuck away from him or we gonna have some problems.”

  Chanel gasps, coverin’ ’er mouth wit’ ’er hand.

  I keep laughin’. “Sugah, you’se a real clown thinkin’ you standin’ here pumpin’ fear in a bitch like me wit’ that yip-yap. What you betta do is go do ya homework. Or end up flatlined.”

  “No, you better go do yours. That nigga is usin’ you. You don’t know the first thing about loving a man like Alex. I’m the only woman he’ll ever love. He’s never going to love you, like he loves me.”

  I laugh. “Med check, med check. Bitch, did you just escape from da Looney bin or sum shit? Get da fuck away from me. That nigga don’t give a fuck ’bout ya trick-ass.”

  A cute brown-skinned chick wit’ shoulder-length locks hurries ova to us from the back area. “Ramona, you need to take that mess on up outta here. You know Pasha ain’t playin’ this shit up in here. If you got beef, take that shit outside.”

  “Oh, no, we cool, Felecia. She and I were just having a friendly chat. I’ve finished schooling her so I’m out.”

  “Bitch,” I snap, tossin’ the magazine ova at Chanel, “don’t get it fucked up.” I stand up. “You ain’t schooled me on shit. I don’t know how you Jersey bitches do it, but be clear. I will rock ya muthafuckin’ sockets, so don’t let the wears ’n the pretty face fool you. I asked you nicely to bounce up outta my space da first time. And you still wanna stand here yippty-yappin’. So, now I’m fuckin’ tellin’ you, step da fuck on. Or step outside to get ya ass beat. Take ya pick. You know what.”—I pull out my phone, then press open my call history—“Since you wanna school a bitch, let me call ya man, right now, and school ’em on how’ta eat my pussy ’n ass out. ’Cause guess what, bitch? I’ma fuck da muhfucka tonight and tomorrow night, too. Stupid bitch!”

  As soon as Alex picks up, I put ’im on speaker. “Yo, what’s good, Beautiful?”

  “Shit. Chillin’. I’m at this hair spot ova in Orange wit’ Chanel and ya BM’s up in here poppin’ a buncha ying-yang?”

  “My BM? Yo, what you talkin’ ’bout? I told you, I ain’t got no baby momma.”

  I cut my eye ova at this Ramona bitch. “Well, obviously this bitch here didn’t get da memo. So you need’a remind this ho—”

  “Yo, ma, who you talkin’ ’bout?”

  “This silly-ass Spanish ho who’s ’bout to get beat da fuck up.”

  “Bitch,” she says, walkin’ up on me. “You ain’t gonna beat shit. But, if I catch you near my man again—”

  Before she can get the rest of her words out, I run up on ’er and bash the bitch in ’er muthafuckin’ face.

  “OHMIIIIIGOD,” CHANEL SAYS, PASSIN’ ME THE BLUNT, CRUISIN’ down Old Short Hills Road toward the Mall at Short Hills. After that incident back at the salon, a bitch needs to do a lil’ shoppin’, then get home and play in my pussy. Poppin’ that ho in ’er snot box got my snatch hot. “I’m so glad you shut that ho up. Took ya ass long enough. I was ’bout ready to bring it to ’er bubble head my damn self. But you delivered, boo. Broke that ho’s nose lovely.”

  I open ’n close my swollen hand. “I think I sprained my hand fuckin’ wit’ that silly bitch.”

  “Well, da ho got what she deserved.”

  “I swear I didn’t wanna have’ta go there, but that ho kept tryna serve it up. So I had’a take ’er down.” After I hit that bitch in ’er mouth, she fell backward onto the counter and I pounced on that ass, splittin’ the side’a ’er face wit’ my 18-karat gold ’n platinum diamond and emerald Jean Schlumberger Pave X ring. It took Chanel and two other chicks to pull me off’a ’er. And the bitch was still poppin’ shit. Talkin’ ’bout how shit ain’t ova; that she’s gonna fuck me up the next time she sees me; just talkin’ a buncha off the wall shit that don’t mean me no neva mind. “I don’t know what da fuck is in da air. Seems like e’erywhere I turn some bitch is tryna serve me da extras.”

  “Sounds like you a walkin’ magnet for drama these days.”

  “Well’a bitch is tired. All I wanna do is fuckin’ chill; that’s it.”

  “I hear you. So what da fuck was her deal?”

  “Fuck if I know. Some disgruntled bitch Allstar”—Chanel’s nickname for Alex—“used to fuck wit’. He dumped ’er. Then da trick-nasty ho got all desperate and tried pinnin’ a brat on ’im. But da shit backfired on ’er ass, and came back not his.”

  She cuts ’er eye ova at me. “You sure it ain’t his?”

  “He said it’s not. Da nigga has no reason to lie to me. But, on some real shit, I don’t give’a fuck if it is or not. He’s not my man.”

  “Mmmph, not yet,” she mumbles.

  “Ho, I heard that. You actually think I’m tryna fuck wit’ a nigga who has hoes tryna get at me on some dumb shit? When you know me to be fightin’ a bitch ova some dick?”

  She shakes ’er head. “I haven’t.”

  “Exaaactly. And I’m tryna keep it like that.”

  “I hear you. So how da fuck da bitch connect you to AllStar?” I tell ’er how she came up on ’im at the club, grindin’ ’er pussy all up on the back of ’im; how they went at it, and I walked off. “Mmmph. So, what’s up now, you axin’ da nigga?”

  “Shit, after this, I need to.” I take another hit off the blunt, then pass it back to ’er. I pull out my cell as soon as it starts to ring. “Hol’ up…speakin’ of da nigga, this’s ’im now. Wassup?”

  “Yo, what da fuck happened? All I heard was a buncha screamin’ ’n scufflin’ ’n shit, then ya phone went dead. Then, when I tried callin’ you back, it kept goin’ into ya voicemail.”

  “What happened was ya bitch—”

  “Yo, that’s not my bitch, so stop sayin’ that shit.”

  “Whateva. I don’t give a fuck who she was to you. All I know is da bitch stepped to me tryin’ it on my time, poppin’ a buncha shit and I cracked ’er muthafuckin’ nose open.”

  “How da fuck she know who you was?”

  “From da club.”

  “Da club? From last week?”

  I suck my teeth, feelin’ myself gettin’ aggravated wit’ this nigga. “Yeah, muhfucka, what otha club were we eva at together?”

  “Yo, why you snappin’ on me?”

  “Muhfucka, let me tell you sumthin’. I’m not wit’ bitches comin’ at me ’bout no muthafuckin’ nigga; especially one I ain’t fuckin’ on a regular, okay? And, right now, that whole situation gotta bitch real hot.”

  “I feel you. But you actin’ like I caused da shit. I haven’t fucked wit’ that crazy bitch or seen ’er in over a year.”

  “Whateva. All I know, I betta not catch that bitch again.”

  “Yo, listen, fuck that bird. You aiight?”

  “Yeah, I’m good, nigga. A bitch like me is gonna always be aiight. All that lil’ shit did is get my pussy wet.”

  “Oh, word? You want me to come through and handle that for you?”

  “Unless you comin’ through wit’ that bitch’s address, no thank you.”

  “Damn, you’d rather have that crazy ho’s address instead of gettin’ a dose’a Daddy’s dick?”

  “Nigga, fuck all that daddy shit. I want that bitch’s address.”

  He lowers his voice. “And Daddy want some more’a that juicy pussy.”

  “Nigga, get real. You ain’t my fuckin’ daddy.” Chanel cuts ’er eyes ova at me. I ig the ho.

  “Yeah, aiight. Not yet.”

  “Not eva, muhfucka.”

  He laughs. “Yo, I can tell you fired up. And I ain’t tryna beef wit’ you, ma. I’m gettin’ ready to scoop my moms up and take ’er out to eat, so I’m hit you up later.”

  “Bye, nigga. Have fun,” I tell ’em, takin’ the blunt from Chanel. I take two long pulls, then toss it outta the window. “And I still want that ho’s address.”

  He laughs, but I�
�m dead-ass. I’m ready to stomp that bitch’s skull in for even thinkin’ she could step to me and bring it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Silly of me…silly of you…gotta muhfucka all up in my space… talkin’ ’bout he wanna change…bitch knows what she gotta do…but still lettin’ da nigga hit da drawz…ain’t tryna catch feelin’s though…nigga don’t know…fuck me ova…bitch’ll blow off ya muthafuckin’ ballz…

  This nigga Alex and me are layin’ in bed; both starin’ up at the ceilin’ sweaty and breathin’ heavy, passin’ a blunt ’n back forth. We’ve been kinda in this zone for almost thirty minutes or so. I told myself I wasn’t gonna fuck ’im again, but I haven’t been able to keep the muhfucka outta my dome, so when he showed up here lookin’ ’n smellin’ all good, a bitch decided to fuck ’im, again—this time for the last time.

  You can’t get all caught up in this nigga, Kat.

  Trust, I’m not. I already know what it is.

  Bitch, it ain’t like you gotta line of dick beatin’ down ya door or pussy.

  Meshell Ndegeocello’s playin’. I turn my head toward the nightstand, glance at the clock. This nigga’s been here laid up in my bed for over four hours, and we’ve fucked at least six different times. I can’t front. A bitch’s well-fucked.

  I can’t lie. Lyin’ here wit’ this muhfucka feels…different. He’s the first nigga since Grant who I’ve actually chilled wit’. But I ain’t dumb wit’ it. I already know what it is. I’m usin’ the nigga, and I’m sure the nigga’s usin’ me. I take another pull from the blunt, then pass it back to ’im. I shift my body to face ’im. Take in his smooth, chiseled body, gaze at his dark nipples, then allow my eyes to travel down to the ripples of muscle that become his stomach. “This nigga’s trouble,” I keep tellin’ myself. “You have no business fuckin’ wit’ his ass.”

  But e’ery bitch needs a bad boy rockin’ ’er bed e’ery now ’n then.

  Bitch, fuck this nigga…get yours, and go!

  You said you already know what it is, so what da fuck you pressin’ it for. Keep it cute, ho…fuck ’n go!