Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang Read online

  “One,” I tell ’im, slippin’ a pair of socks on my feet. He tells me one is cool. But since it’s me, two is aiight, too. Then he tells me as fine as I am I could have twenty and he’d still wanna rock wit’ me on some solo-type shit as long as my pussy stayed right.

  “Then again, that shit could be wide as an ocean and I’d still wanna wife you. You’d just have’ta let me beat that asshole up e’ery night.”

  I laugh. “Nigga, you a real fool, you know that, right? You know damn well you ain’t runnin’ that big ass dick in my ass e’ery damn night.”

  “Then we’ll rotate that shit,” he says, laughin’ wit’ me. “One night in ya throat, the next night in ya ass.”

  My doorbell rings. It’s showtime, I think, peekin’ outta the bedroom window. I peep the state car in the driveway. Let’s get this shit ova wit’. “Yeah, whateva. Listen, I gotta go. Call me lata.”

  “I got you, baby.”

  I suck my teeth. “Muhfucka, what I tell you ’bout callin’ me that?”

  “Yo, chill out wit’ that dumb shit. I call you what I want. You know you Daddy’s baby.”

  “Nigga, suck my ass and daddy on this,” I say, disconnectin’ the call and headin’ down the stairs to greet these state hoes.

  Alex sends me a text: Yo, u got my dik hard wit’ that shit.

  I text back: Whateva.

  I hope these bitches don’t say nuthin’ slick and have me flippin’ da fuck out. I swing the front door open, pastin’ a phony-ass smile up on my grill. “Hi, glad you made it. Come on in.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Shoot ’em up…bang-bang…Glock cocked…ready to pop… muhfucka thought he could run ’n hide…nigga done ran outta time…thought he was gonna get away way wit’ da crime… ain’t got no clout…justice ’bout to be dished out…gonna show ’im what revenge’s ’bout…bum-ass nigga…and it’s a ruthless bitch who’s ’bout ta pull da trigga….

  “Yo, pretty baby, wasssup? We found da muhfucka you were lookin’ for. Holla back. Oh, yeah, and a muhfucka’s still waitin’ for you to come through wit’ anotha pair of them panties. A muhfucka’s tryna get his sniff on. Take care of that, pronto.” He laughs into the phone. I delete the shit, rollin’ my eyes. This fat muhfucka, I think, hittin’ ’im back.

  “Yo, you get my message?”

  I suck my teeth. “Nigga, why else would I be callin’ ya black ass? Geesh, you dumber than you look.”

  “Yeah, aiiight. Keep talkin’shit, and get ya fronts knocked, Kat.”

  “Cash, listen carefully…” I pause. Wait ’til it gets quiet on the otha end. “You listenin’?”

  “Yeah, wassup?”

  “Nigga, kiss my ass. That’s wassup. Now, what you got for me?”

  He laughs. “Yo, ma, you funny as fuck. You betta be glad a muhfucka fucks wit’ you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Now let’s cut da shit. Where’s this bum-ass nigga at?”

  “The muhfucka’s been hidin’ out down south in some small-ass country town in North Carolina called Como.”

  What da fuck kinda place is that, I think, twistin’ my lips up. Do they even gotta airport? “Where?” he repeats the name. “Mmmph. Corny-ass nigga had to run off to some backward-ass part’a the country. Do you know how he’s livin’? Is he down there wit’ someone?”

  “Yeah, he’s there wit’ some chick stayin’ up in one’a them trailer homes.”

  Probably some country-coon trash he done bagged on da run. Now I gotta think how I’ma get at this nigga wit’out drawin’ heat to myself. “Listen. I need’a fava.”

  “I got you, wassup up?” I tell ’im I need ’im to handle the arrangements. Set up the hotel shit and have my items I need to dust this nigga’s top sent down like old times. I tell ’im I need’a report of how the nigga moves, a list of his comin’s and goin’s.

  “You got that. You need anything else? A disposal crew?”

  A part of me wants the nigga to be found wit’ his eyes rolled back up in his head and his brains splattered. Then anotha part wants it to look like the nigga done got ghost all together. I decide I want the nigga to disappear, for good.

  “Aiight, bet. I’ll have a crew on standby. When you tryna get it in?”

  Shit, I gotta go up to da hospital. And I got these ACS and court bitches I gotta deal wit’. I tell ’im to give me a few days to handle some things, then disconnect.

  I stare at myself in the mirror hangin’ on the wall in my foyer. “Bitch, after you put a bullet in this nigga’s head, this gotta be da last time you pull da trigga on another muhfucka.” Ho, you gotta get ya mind right, quick. There’s a baby you gotta start thinkin’ ’bout.

  E’vry since his birth, he’s been on my brain, heavy. Sittin’ up at the hospital e’ery day, watchin’ ’im cling on to life, fightin’ to get stronger, has been wrackin’ my nerves. It hurts me. A bitch’s heart fills wit’ guilt e’erytime I look at ’im. I am so fuckin’ scared, but I gotta do right by ’im. I gotta try to give ’im what Juanita was neva able to give to me—love. Doin’ that nigga has to be it for me.

  I take a deep breath, glancin’ at my watch. It’s eleven o’clock. I grab my keys and pink Gucci clutch bag, then race out the door to make my way to the Family Courthouse in Brooklyn. I am finally gonna handle the paperwork to get legal custody and guardianship of Juanita’s baby, and make this shit legit.

  When I’m done filin’ all the necessary paperwork, I drive ova to the hospital to see the baby. The last few days I’ve been tryna come up wit’ a name for ’im. I wanna give ’im a name otha muhfuckas ain’t pushin’ heavy. For some reason, the names that I’m really diggin’ are Zion and Zaire.

  I take the elevator up to the neo-natal unit. As I’m walkin’ down the hall, a bitch’s ’tude shoots from zero to a hunnid when I see Patrice’s ho-ass standin’ at the window lookin’ into the unit, wipin’ tears. I wanna snap and tell the bitch to bounce, but I decide to let shit play out. I swallow my ’tude, walkin’ up on ’er.

  She snaps ’er neck in my direction. “Before you stop poppin’ shit, I ain’t here to beef wit’ you,” she warns, turnin’ ’er attention back to the baby. “I’m here to see my lil’ nephew, then I’m out.”

  “Good,” I say, shiftin’ my handbag from one hand to the otha. “No need for you to linger any longer than you have’ta.”

  She turns and stares at me. “Kat, answer me this. Why do you have so much hate in you? What happened to us?”

  “You fucked my man; that’s what happened to us. I trusted you. And you shitted on me.”

  “Ohmiimuthafuckin’god, let that shit go, Kat. That shit happened years ago. And da nigga’s dead. When you gonna get ova it? We done fought ova his ass twice and—”

  “No, boo, we didn’t fight ova that nigga. We fought ova you tryna play a bitch. Big difference; don’t get it twisted.”

  She shakes her head. “And you let some dick come between us. I can understand if you wanted to be pissed for a few weeks, even a few months, but to be draggin’ this shit out for years, Kat; that’s some real ’xtra shit. That nigga didn’t give’a fuck ’bout you, or me. All da nigga saw was some young, hot pussy.”

  “Well, guess what. Maybe da nigga didn’t care ’bout me, but I cared ’bout ya trick-ass. I loved you like a fuckin’ sista, bitch. And you hurt me.”

  “I watched my moms bury two of my sistas in da same month, Kat,” this bitch says, changin’ the subject. “And you didn’t even have da decency to show up to ya own moms’ funeral. Why?”

  I tilt my head. “I had my funeral for that bitch a long time ago, so that shit ya’ll had for ’er was only a formality.”

  She frowns at me. “I feel sorry for you.”

  “Oh, no, Boo. Don’t feel sorry for me. Betta yet, don’t feel nuthin’ for me. I’m good; trust.”

  “Okay, if you say so. I know I’m not.”

  “Well, that sounds personal,” I say, surprised that I’m still standin’ here entertainin’ this ho. After all these
years, this is the first time we’ve talked wit’out the otha snappin’ off.

  “Life is too fuckin’ short for da bullshit,” she says, turnin’ ’er attention back to the nursery. “In da grand scheme of things, this corny-ass beef you got wit’ me is a fuckin’ waste of energy. So, trust, sweetie. On e’erything I love, I’m done beefin’ wit’ you. Movin’ forward I’m not gonna get into it wit’ you ova dumb shit. I have a beautiful lil’ nephew my sista left behind. You and ’im are da only links I have left to ’er. You wanna stay hurt, stay hurt. You don’t wanna have shit to do wit’ ya family, then don’t. But…”

  Okay, now a bitch is ready to bring it to this ho and tell ’er to suck the shit outta my ass ’cause she ain’t gonna eva get ’er hands on that baby. But I know a real bitch gotta know when to play it smart. She gotta know when to keep ’er mouth shut and let’a bitch keep flappin’ ’er cum trap. And, in listenin’ to this ho rattle on, the one thing a bitch is finally certain of is that that baby layin’ up in there wit’ all them tubes in ’im, ain’t goin’ no-muthafuckin-where but wit’ me. And if I gotta make sure e’ery last one’a them hoes gets bodied to make that happen, I will.

  “…that baby in there is gonna be surrounded by his family. And we will raise ’im and love ’im, no matter what.”

  Okay, bitch, it’s time to spin-off on this ho, I think, glancin’ at my watch. You’ve heard’a ’nough of this shit. “Well, listen. You do what-eva you feel you gotta do.”

  “I plan to,” she says, glancin’ ova at me.

  I smirk. “Bitch, you’re delusional. But good luck.”

  A WEEK LATER, I’VE LANDED AT NORFOLK INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, and now I’m pickin’ up my rental to take the hour-and-a-half drive to Ahoskie, North Carolina. It’s where Cash booked my hotel room. It’s also a few miles away from the town Como. A bitch is amped to get at this nigga swiftly, then be on the next thing smokin’ back to Jersey. But shuttin’ his lights is gonna pose a problem since the nigga only leaves his spot at night. So a bitch gotta lay low and work the area for a few days ’til I can run up on ’im. Cash hipped me to these spots called Shot Houses—homes of muhfuckas who sell drinks ’n shit. Where they play music, cards and shoot pool and whatnot.

  I get into my rental, pullin’ out my Tom-Tom GPS system, typin’ in my destination. Ahoskie? I can only imagine what kinda shit I’ma see when I get there. I pull outta the airport, and turn onto Azalea Garden, then Military Highway.

  My cell rings. It’s Chanel.

  “What’s good, hooker?”

  “Shit. A bitch is bored as fuck.”

  “Poor thing,” I say, mergin’ onto US 13 South toward I-264 West. Then outta nowhere a bitch has this crazy idea to bring Chanel down here to help me work these country coon-muhfuckas ova. I quickly shake the shit outta my head. This ho ain’t built for puttin’ in this kinda work, I think, glancin’ at my reflection in the rearview mirror. “Sounds like you need some dick?”

  She laughs. “Fuck you.”

  “Where’s Divine?”

  “He’s on his way home.”

  “Then let that nigga be da one fuckin’ you. Wit’cha freak-ass.”

  “Whateva. I’m comin’ to Jersey to chill for a few days. You home.”

  “Sorry, sweetie, I’m outta town.”

  She sucks ’er teeth. “Figures. When ya ass comin’ back?” I tell ’er in a few days. She grunts. “Mmmph, you always dippin’ on a bitch.”

  “Awww, let me find out you feelin’ all salty ’n shit,” I tease. “You know I love you, Sugah. But get ova ya’self. I need you to do me a fava.”

  “Wassup?”

  I tell ’er I need ’er to go up to the hospital to spend time wit’ the baby ’til I get back. I tell ’er I finally came up wit’ a name for ’im. “Girl, you know I got you. What you gonna name ’im?” I tell ’er I decided to go wit’ Zaire. “Ohhhhkaaaaay now. I like.”

  “Me too,” I say, smilin’.

  “So who you outta town wit’, Allstar?”

  It dawns on me that I haven’t heard from the muhfucka in’a couple’a days. I’ve been so sidetracked wit’ my own shit that I hardly noticed ’til now. Mmmmm, that’s strange. Da nigga must be real busy. “No, I ain’t heard from da nigga.”

  “Realllllly? Ya’ll still cool, right?”

  “I guess. Like I said, I ain’t heard from ’im.”

  “Hmmm, da nigga must be preoccupied.”

  “Whateva. Da nigga ain’t my man.”

  “I feel you, boo. Da only man you gonna need in ya life is Zaire. Fuck’a Allstar or any otha muhfucka.”

  “And you know this, trick,” I say, laughin’. She asks how my visit went wit’ them CPS bitches. “You know I kept it real cute wit’ them hoes. They gonna do a corny-ass background check on’a bitch, but I ain’t sweatin’ it.”

  “I know that’s right. Then what?”

  Then a bitch gonna eitha sink, or swim, or die muthafuckin’ tryin’. I swear I don’t wanna be one’a them hoes you read ’bout in the news who tosses ’er baby outta a window, or leaves it locked up in a closet. I start feelin’ fucked up knowin’ a bitch ain’t have a mother to show—or teach—’er how to be a mother.

  “Then a bitch gonna be sittin’ up in somebody’s parentin’ class,” I tell ’er.

  “And I’ma be right there wit’ ya, boo.” I smile. Tell ’er how much I love ’er freak-ass. Tell ’er how much ’er friendship means to me. “Ho, let me find out ya ass gettin’ all sappy on a bitch.”

  I suck my teeth. “Bitch, puhleeze.”

  “Well, I know ya stank-ass ain’t tryna get no pussy. Or are you?”

  “Bitch, you must be tryna get ya fronts knocked.” She starts laughin’. “Hahahaha hell, tramp. You done said this a few times. So keep shit real. You a twat muncha?” She tells me no. Tells me she’s fantasized ’bout it, but hasn’t done it—yet. Tells me Divine wants to have a threesome wit’ ’er and anotha chick. I frown at the thought of that nigga rabbit-fuckin’ two bitches. But, keep my trap shut. A bitch ain’t tryna get reeled into any of their sex fantasies, so I cut the shit short. “Mmmph, do you, boo. Look. Let me get up off this line. I’ma hit you up when I touch Jersey.” We go back and forth poppin’ shit a few more minutes, then disconnect. I decide to hit up Allstar up to see what’s good wit’ his ass. He answers on the fifth ring.

  “Hey wassup?” he says, soundin’ all nonchalant ’n shit.

  I frown. Wassup? Is this nigga serious? I ain’t heard from this muhfucka in almost four days and ‘wassup’ is all the muhfucka can say?

  I can’t front. A bitch is feelin’ some kinda way. I grunt. “Mmmmph. You aiight?”

  “Yeah, I’m cool. Kinda goin’ through some shit right now, but it’s all good.”

  “Anything you wanna talk ’bout?” I ask, mergin’ onto I-664 headin’ north.

  “Nah, I’m cool; gotta handle a few things.”

  “Oh, aiight, then. Well, I haven’t heard from you in a few days, so I thought I’d check in on you.” There’s silence. “Hello?”

  “Yeah, I’m here,” he says, soundin’ all down ’n shit. “I ’preciate you checkin’ in on me.”

  “You sure you aiight?”

  I sigh. “Yeah. Got some family shit I gotta handle.”

  Mmmph. Fuck this nigga. You already know what it is. Put da muhfucka on ignore ’n keep it movin’. “Look, go do you. Hit me up when you beat to talk.”

  “Nah, baby, it’s not like that. I’m just really goin’ through it right now. But a muhfucka keeps you on da brain real heavy, ma.”

  Then why da fuck you ain’t been callin’ me? “Is that so?”

  “True story, baby. As soon as I can handle this shit, I’ma make it up to you, aiight?”

  “That’s on you. Look, let me go. I’m in da middle of some shit myself.”

  “Oh, word? You home?”

  “No, outta town,” I tell ’im, mergin’ onto US-58. It gets quiet on the otha end. I can tell the muhfucka wants to k
now more, but I don’t give ’im shit ’xtra.

  “Yo, all shit real, ma. A muhfucka’s been stressin’ hard, but I’ma handle it. Then I wanna take ya fine-ass away somewhere, aiight?”

  “That’s what ya mouth says.”

  “That’s what it is, baby. Give me a minute to tie up this shit. And I’m all yours; real talk.”

  “Mmmph, we’ll see.” We talk a few more minutes, then end our call. Fuck that nigga. He wanna be on some funny-style shit, cool. His dog-ass is probably somewhere laid up wit’ some dusty-ass bitch, anyfuckin’-way. I dismiss the nigga outta mind. Strike two, muhfucka!

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Hotter than fiiiyah…da object of a nigga’s desires…usin’ this pussy for bait…nigga wanna knock it from da back…wanna test out da dick ridin’ skills…’bout to have ’im poppin’ Viagra like Tic-Tacs…nigga betta run ’fore it’s too late…dumb muhfucka ’bout to get had by a bitch who kills…

  After two muthafuckin’ days stuck down in this dusty-ass town, my mark has finally come out to play. My pussy snaps, ’crackles ’n pops at knowin’ this muhfucka is finally gonna get it to the dome. I’m in one’a the local shot houses tucked up in the cut way back in the woods, shootin’ pool and poppin’ shit wit’ one’a the muhfuckas up in this piece. I’m keepin’ it cute in a white five-pocket Gucci mini-skirt and sexy silk jersey halter top. I’m standin’ in a pair of four-inch high-heeled ankle strap clogs, posin’ for all the admirers. I’m surrounded by a buncha thick, hamhock ’n biscuit-eatin’muhfuckas buzzin’ all ’round a bitch. And they all look like they got some big-ass country cock.

  That’s right, muhfuckas…all eyes on me! The booga bitches up in here roll they eyes or suck they teeth, but you know a top-dolla bitch ain’t pressed ’bout no shit like that. This is my third round on the table housin’ muhfuckas. Although a bitch is ready to get outta this costume—the curly bob wig, green contacts, and wire-framed glasses—I’m enjoyin’ the fact of knowin’ I’ma finally be able to get at this nigga.

  “Eight ball, corner pocket,” I say, bendin’ ova the table just a taste to give ’em all a sneak peek of my fluffy ass cheeks. I hear a few niggas mumble shit when I stand or bend in front of ’em as I go ’round the pool table.