The Kat Trap Page 2

  Anyway, I’ma tell ya some foul shit. A part of me thinks my moms knew what time it was, but she wanted to act like she was stuck on stupid or some shit and ignore it. Sometimes I thought I saw it in her eyes when she looked at me. Guilt. The fact that she was tryna pimp me, her only child. Maybe it was regret I saw. Maybe it was just my fucked-up imagination. Well, whether or not there was ever any truth to it—not that she would ever admit it—is neither here nor there. I handled the nigga my way by lurin’ his ass into a darkened stairwell for some pussy, then shootin’ him in his head. His eyes were wide open and filled with shock and panic when his brains splattered against the cement wall. I looked down at his lifeless ass with a smirk on my face, then left him lyin’ in a pool of blood. I was fifteen. At that moment, somethin’ in me changed. It opened my eyes to the power of pussy, and showed me just how far a nigga—young or old—would go to feel it, taste it, and try to possess it. And a bullet to his head is the only thing that would stop his muhfuckin’ ass from tryna claim it.

  So, hell the fuck no! I didn’t choose this life—this muhfuckin’ life chose me. I was pushed into this shit. As a result, it has become my callin’, a way of life that has evolved into a way of bein’ for a bitch like me. Don’t get it twisted. I ain’t makin’ no excuses, and I ain’t lookin’ for no sympathy. I accept life for what it is: unfair, with a set of fucked-up rules you either live or die by. And no matter how many dreams a bitch dreams, ain’t shit comin’ true unless ya get on ya grind and make shit happen ’cause life don’t give a fuck ’bout you or no whack-ass fairy tales.

  I stepped off the elevator, strutted through the lobby of the Marriott, then quietly slid out the revolvin’ glass doors, unheard and unnoticed. When I reached my rental—a blue Ford Taurus—and was safely behind the steerin’ wheel, I pulled off my wig, took out the blue contact lenses, then flipped open my cell, pressed speed dial, and waited for the voice on the other end.

  “Yo, what’s good?”

  “I know why the caged bird sings,” I stated, startin’ the car, then pullin’ out of the parkin’ lot and onto the highway. It was the code I used to let him know when a job had been completed.

  “That’s what it is. I’ll get at you.”

  “Same spot?”

  “No doubt. One.”

  Click. I pressed the END button and disconnected the call, along with my emotions.

  I drove in silence. I didn’t wanna hear shit. The only thing I wanted was a hot shower, some sleep, and to be back on that plane first thing in the mornin’, headin’ to Jersey. I couldn’t wait to get home to collect the remainin’ half of the hundred gees I had comin’ to me for smokin’ that nigga back at the hotel. Not bad for a day’s work, I thought, headin’ to my hotel suite on the other side of town. Murkin’ these crab-ass niggas is as easy as snatchin’ candy from a baby.

  The followin’ afternoon, I was home chillin’ in my two-story condo in the suburbs of Jersey, standin’ at the mahogany island in the middle of my walk-in closet, waitin’ for the whir of the countin’ machine to finish totalin’ my money. Snoop Dogg’s “For All My Niggaz & Bitches” blared through my Bose surround sound system. Oh, hell naw. Somethin’ ain’t right, I thought. But I knew what I saw. It totaled my paper at forty thousand dollars. I knew shit wasn’t wrong with the machine, but I recounted my money anyway. Nothin’ changed. I stormed outta the closet, snatchin’ up the cell on my nightstand. I punched in his number and waited. The deep voice answered on the third ring. “What’s good?”

  “My motherfuckin’ money, nigga!” I snapped, turnin’ down my stereo. “That’s what the fuck’s good. Now where’s the rest of my shit?”

  “Yo, chill, ma,” he said, lowerin’ his voice. “I got you.”

  “Nigga, chill my ass. I want my motherfuckin’ shit. And I want it today. And I want another ten for you tryna finger-fuck me.”

  “Whoa, whoa,” he said, soundin’ like he was ready to raise up. “You buggin’ for real, ma. I said I got you. And that’s what it is.”

  “Buggin’ hell, muhfucka! I tell you what, bring me my shit and the extra or we got problems. And that’s what it is. This is like the third time you tried some bitch shit on me, and I’m not the one. So, you betta buy a vowel and get a fuckin’ clue. Now what’s it gonna be, ’cause another body don’t mean shit to me.”

  “Aye, yo. You tryna write a check you ain’t gonna be able to cash, baby girl. So watch how you come at me. I said I got you.”

  I wasn’t tryna hear shit he had to say. I paced the floor, burnin’ a hole in my white Persian rug while clenchin’ my fist. On the real, this nigga really had me swole. My mind was made up. If this fat, black muthafucka didn’t have my money by day’s end, I was gonna stretch his ass. I didn’t give a fuck how many goons he had in his camp. I’d just lie in wait until the right time—I didn’t give a fuck if it took weeks or years. I would smoke his ass, real talk. There were two things you didn’t fuck over: my money, and my pussy. Try it if you want, and you got hell to pay.

  I screamed on his ass. “No, nigga! You watch how you handle ya business. I ain’t one of them sucka-ass bitches you fuck with. My name ain’t Wonder Bread, and ain’t shit soft on me but my ass. Now, like I said, I want my shit…today!”

  “Hold da fuck on,” he snapped. I pulled in a deep breath, then counted to ten. I heard muffled sounds in the background as he attempted to cover the mouthpiece of the phone. I welcomed the momentary silence. I knew the nigga really didn’t wanna beef with me. I was the best thing on his squad. Bein’ the only female on his team, as far as I was concerned I was his most valuable asset. And one of the baddest killers he had. Not only was I sexy as hell, I was reliable, dependable, and with the promise of a good fuck and dick suck, I seductively lured my marks into the Kat Trap, then served them the heat—clean and swift. Of course the fuckin’ was a perk he acted like he wasn’t aware of because he’d never confronted me about it. But I knew he knew what time it was. Bottom line, no one suspected a chick like me was capable of slumpin’ muhfuckas. But I was. And I had no problem killin’ again, so dude had better play his position real quick, or he’d be next on the list to get earthed.

  This fat, black, six-foot-three, three-hundred-and-thirty pound grizzly bear’s name is Cash. I met his ass at that spot the Brooklyn Café back in ’03. The nigga approached me after peepin’ me mop a bitch’s ass across the dance floor for tryna shine on me in front of some niggas. Wrong move!

  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.

  CHAPTER THREE

  If ya tryna play a bitch like me, ya better be ready to rock. Let me catch ya sleepin’, and ya gonna find ya’self knocked. Crabs in a barrel gonna try ’n steal yo shine, hatin’-ass hoes gonna try ’n steal ya spot…fuck what ya heard…a bitch like me will blast ya ass with somethin’ hot…before I ever let a muhfucka snatch me off top…

  The 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 Che
erios 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.