Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang Read online

  Waaaaait one muthafuckin’ minute! Why the fuck did I spend the last ten minutes explainin’ myself to you bitches? Uh, fuck that! I bodied the nigga, I ain’t fuckin’ wit’ my family; period! So, let’s save all that shoulda-coulda-woulda bullshit for the next bitch. It’s a waste’a time ’n energy for a fly, butter bitch like me. A bitch is back, ohhhhhhhhkaaaaaaaay?! And that’s all you need to know. I got shit to do, peoples to check, and paper to spend. So, let’s get this shit poppin’, muhfuckas.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Silky hair; pretty face…first glance…got ’em thinkin’ a bitch’s outta place…too soft for da streetz…gotta bitch ice-grillin’ ’n talkin’ slick…tryna punk’a fly chick…wrong move…it ain’t neva that deep…now a bitch gotta knuckle up ’n creep up… trick-bitch gotta get put ta sleep…One, two…I’ma shatter ’er jaw…three, four…slide da whore to da floor…five, six…da bitch’ll need ’er face fixed…seven, eight… puttin’ a bullet in da stupid bitch ain’t neva too late…

  I’m dressed in my wears zippin’ down I-580 East in my rental, a slick-ass XK convertible Jag, toward Oakland. It’s bright skies and sixty-eight degrees out, and I’m chillin’ wit’ the top down, lettin’ the cool breeze whip through my hair as I make my way down the highway. If I were in Brooklyn right now chillin’ wit’ Chanel we’d be blazin’ and poppin’ mad shit to niggas tryna push up on us. But, I’m here, and it’s me on some solo type shit—for now.

  Anyway, I’m on my way to meet up wit’ this nigga Tone—a tall chiseled nigga who reminds me of a browner version of that sexy-ass Boris Kodjoe—for a hot meal. I met the nigga in one of my real estate classes I took a few months back. Uh…yeeeeeah, a bitch’s been in school. And I’ve completed all’a my coursework; just waitin’ to take the exam for my broker’s license. Thank you very much. What? Ya’ll thought a bitch was layin’ low, trickin’ up my paper on wears ’n trips ’n dumb shit? Bitch, puhleeze. I’m tryna make power moves. I’m sittin’ on stacks, and I’m tryna clean that shit up. So far, I’ve been fortunate not to have heat wit’ the Feds or IRS, and I’m tryna keep it like that. So while I’ve been out here I decided I might as well do sumthin’ constructive to occupy my time. Shit, there’s only so much shoppin’ and travelin’ a bitch can do ’fore that shit gets played, anyway. Besides, I’m always gettin’ at Chanel ’bout doin’ sumthin’ wit’ her life, so I figured I needed to be a true bitch and step shit up a notch and do the same. The way I see it, I can get a Cali license, then go back to New York or Jersey and get my papers there, too. There’s fetti to be made and I’m tryna get at it on both ends. And if Chanel decides to get her mind right, I’ma put her on, too. That’s what real bitches do!

  Anyway, this nigga Tone finally convinces me to meet up wit’ ’im at this spot called Soul’s Restaurant. Actually, it wasn’t that he talked me into shit. The nigga caught me at the right time. I was bored, and wanted sumthin’ to do. So that’s what it is. He claims the shit is bangin’, so we’ll see. Although I’m not really feelin’ him on any extras—aside from the fact that he’s mad young; like twenty-four, he’s a cool nigga. Partly ’cause he’s a Jersey head and he got swagger and he’s also tryna make moves, still…

  My cell rings. I peep the number, and pick up. It’s him. “Wassup?”

  “Yo, ma, you left yet?”

  “Yeah,” I say, quickly glancin’ at the GPS. “I’m actually gettin’ ready to turn onto MacArthur Boulevard.’

  “Oh, aiight. You almost here. I’ll be outside waitin’ for you.”

  “Aiight, peace.” I disconnect, tossin’ my cell onto the passenger seat. Five minutes later, I’m pullin’ up into the restaurant’s parkin’ area. I spot Tone leanin’ up against the passenger side door of a black S550, talkin’ on his cell. He hangs up when he sees me pullin’ up toward him. I park two cars down, shut off the engine, rake my fingas through my hair, then step out like the fly bitch I am in a pair of stone-washed jeans and a brown pullover and a pair of six-inch light brown python Gucci platform pumps. My Gucci jungle tote hangs in the crook of my arm. The nigga watches and grins as I sashay over to him. His eyes lock on the sway of my hips. I bet the muhfucka thinks I’m throwin’ the pussy at ’im. Niggas!

  He’s rockin’ a black True Religion long sleeve tee wit’ the front tucked inside a pair of True Religion Joey jeans. He tops his wears off wit’ a bangin’-ass pair of black Mark Nason square-toed boots and belt. The tee is clingin’ to his muscles. Goddamn, I think, flashin’ him a smile, I mighta been sleepin’ on this young nigga. This muhfucka got body for days. He’s lucky I ain’t a bird. Otherwise he’d be pluckin’ tail feathers tonight.

  He smiles wider. “Damn, ma, you lookin’ good.”

  “Oh, so what you tryna say?” I tease. “I’m usually busted?”

  “Nah, nuthin’ like that. I’m sayin’…you always do ya thang, but to finally get you outside of classes, you the truth, fo’ sho. So can I get a hug?”

  I smirk. “I guess. But don’t be tryna press up on me too hard. I don’t wanna have’ta slice ya grill.” He laughs, pullin’ me into his arms. He gives me a quick, but strong, manly hug and kisses me on the cheek. It’s been a long time since a bitch felt a nigga’s arms ’round her. I almost forgot what the shit felt like. I inhale his cologne. The nigga got the nerve to be wearin’ one’a my favorites. My pussy twitches. “OhmyGod, I can’t do this wit’ you. You killin’ me wit’ that Bora Bora.”

  He frowns. “Damn, too strong?” he asks, soundin’ disappointed, liftin’ his arm and smellin’ himself. “My bad, ma.”

  “Too strong,” I grin. “Nigga, you tryna get ya’self some pussy wearin’ that shit ’round me.”

  “Oh shit,” he says, smilin’, “then in that case let me go put on some more.”

  “Don’t push ya luck, muhfucka.”

  He laughs, takin’ me by the hand and leadin’ me toward the restaurant’s entrance. Surprisin’ly I let ’em get that. Even though I said I wasn’t feelin’ him on any extras, a bitch might need to take a moment to rethink that. Damn, he got some big hands. I peep how his jeans fit his ass and lick my lips wit’out thinkin’. Shit, fuck what ya heard. A bitch is horny! I want a warm, hard body to get it in wit’. A bitch’s tired of fuckin’ these fingas and a buncha dildos. And the muhfucka gotta nice ass, too. I imagine sinkin’ my nails into his plump, juicy ass, pullin’ ’im deep into this pussy. I quickly shake the thought.

  Once inside, we’re immediately seated. Five minutes later our waiter comes to the table to take our orders. I order the mac ’n cheese, collard greens, turkey wings and cornbread stuffin’. He gets the steak and shrimp combo wit’ the same sides as me. We both order large pink lemonades. My stomach growls the minute the waiter returns and sits a basket of corn muffins on the table.

  “So what do you think about that property management class?” he asks once the waiter dips from the table.

  I shrug, placin’ a muffin on a plate. “It’s aiight, I guess. I’m not really interested in managin’ properties. I’m tryna own ’em, ya feel me?”

  “Oh no doubt. I’m with you on that. I already have a few properties; I just wanna understand the management side of things.”

  “Same here,” I say to ’im. He tells me how he owns two houses in Jersey, a townhome in Delaware, and another spot out here. All this and the nigga’s only twenty-four. When I ask ’im how he was able to make his moves, he tells me used the money and house his grandmother had left ’im in her will. I can’t front, I’m impressed. And I tell ’im so.

  “Thanks,” he says, reachin’ for a muffin, then bitin’ into it. He swallows, then says, “By the time I’m forty, I’m tryna be set for life.”

  For some reason, my clit twitches. I’m not sure if it’s ’cause e’ery time the muhfucka licks his lips I imagine it’s my clit he’s lickin’, if it’s ’cause the nigga’s on his grind, or ’cause I’m mad horny and he happens to be the only muhfucka out here I’ve given any real convo to in a minute. Whatever the reason,
I wanna fuck! I press my thighs together tryna pinch off the achin’ in my clit. I am relieved when the waiter returns to the table wit’ our orders.

  While we’re eatin’, I peep Tone checkin’ me on the sly, but I play it off ’cause I’m checkin’ him, too. He grins. “What? Why you grinnin’ like that? Is there sumthin’ hangin’ from my lips?”

  He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m diggin’ your style. You real cool peeps, Kat.”

  I smile. “Yeah, I bet you say that to e’ery chick you out wit’.”

  “Nah, not at all. I been out here for almost two years, and you the first real dime I’ve come across. And the fact that you from Jersey is a big plus.”

  I frown. “Nah, nigga,” I state with much ’tude. “I’m from Brooklyn. I rest in Jersey. Don’t get it twisted.”

  “Oh, my bad, beautiful. I stand corrected. And you feisty as hell. That shit’s a turn on, ma.”

  “Oh, so that’s what I’m doin’?” I ask, starin’ in his eyes. “Turnin’ you on?”

  “No doubt.” He stares at me for a quick minute, then switches up the convo, askin’ if I gotta man out here. He seems surprised when I tell him no. “Damn. And how long you been out here?”

  “I’ve been back ’n forth for a minute. But I been playin’ it real heavy here for the last six months.”

  “And no one’s tried to snatch you up?”

  “A muhfucka can’t snatch what I’m not givin’ out,” I tell him, sippin’ my drink. “Besides, I ain’t lookin’. What about you?” He tells me he’s been on some solo shit for the last few months, but had been fuckin’ wit’ some chick that started wildin’ out. States she was a real ghetto-bird. So he dipped on ’er. “Any baby mommas?”

  He frowns. “Hell, no. I ain’t ready for that. One day, though.” He pauses as his foot brushes up against mine. “Listen…so, what’s your deal, ma. You don’t have a man, and you’re not lookin’ for one. Is it because you don’t get down with ’em like that? You know you…you dig the ladies? Or you’ve been hurt real bad?”

  I laugh. “Oh, trust. I’m all ’bout the dick, baby. And no, I ain’t been hurt. The fact is I was fuckin’ wit’ someone for hot minute, but things didn’t work out so that situation deaded.”

  “Oh damn. Sorry to hear that. What happened?”

  I sigh, placin’ my elbows up on the table, then claspin’ my hands together. “He got murdered.”

  “Wow,” he says, shakin’ his head in disbelief. “That’s crazy. I’m sure that fucked you up.”

  “You have no idea,” I tell ’im, slowly shakin’ my head while placin’ my hand up to my chest. I know. Theatrics; oh well. “It tore me up. But, life goes on.”

  “So, how’d he get bodied, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “A bullet to the head.”

  As he opens his mouth to speak, he’s interrupted by this brown-skinned, thick in da hips chick wit’ burgundy hair, stompin’ up to our table wit’ major ’tude. Cute girl, though. Kinda reminds me of a ghetto version of Jill Scott wit’ a tore up weave.

  “Ohhhhhh, hellllllllll naw. So, this is why you ain’t been picking up your phone the last two weeks. You traipsing ’round town with some other ho. And then you got the nerve to bring the bitch to my hood.”

  I blink, take a deep breath. Say a quick prayer, hopin’ I don’t have’ta come from outta chill mode and bring it to this bitch’s face. He checks her. Tells her to step the fuck off, but the bitch ain’t havin’ it.

  “Oh, so fuck me, right? You got me swallowing your babies and now you wanna break new. Nah, that ain’t how we do it ’round here, homie. You think you gonna flaunt some bag ho…”

  Bag ho? Oh, she must see my work, I think, glancin’ over at my thirty-eight-hundred dollar bag. Or is that some corny-ass west coast slang she’s usin’? I peep the bitch’s grill piece and wanna throw the fuck up. Ohmymuthafuckin’God! This Bama coon got a gold tooth in her mouth. What a late bitch!

  Now, I done heard how these Oakland hoes get down, so I really ain’t beat for fightin’ a buncha gorillas today. But, I tell you what…this amazon is ’bout to catch it Brooklyn-style real fast. I shift in my seat. Turn my head and stare out the window. Make the ho invisible as she’s yappin’ her gums at Tone, talkin’ all greasy. I stick my hand down into my bag and slyly slip my blade into the palm of my hand in case I need’a bring it to her face. I sit my bag up on my lap, pullin’ it close to me. She says sumthin’ else, this time directed at me.

  “Ho, how long you been bobbling him?”

  “Yo, Shelly, word up. You need to get the fuck up outta here wit’ that dumb shit.”

  I finally turn my attention to ’er. Stare the bitch down. Tilt my head. Tone catches how I’m grillin’ this bitch. I peep she has a lil’ fan club wit’ ’er—three hood-booga bitches.

  “What, you deaf, ho? I asked you a question.”

  I don’t respond. I count to ten. Play this shit out in my head. Take a deep breath, then slowly exhale. I’m tryna keep it cute, but I already see I’ma have’ta turn it up a notch.

  Now she’s eyein’ me, and I’m eyein’ her right the fuck back, darin’ the bitch to bring it. She shifts her stare back to Tone. “Yo, go ’head with the dumb shit, Shelly. Ain’t nobody tryna hear this crazy shit today, yo. For real.”

  She slams her hand up on her hip. “Go ’head nothing, mother-fucker.” The bitch is gettin’ amped now, bringin’ a buncha unnecessary attention to our table. I decide this is my cue to exit. A bitch ain’t tryna be caught up in nobody’s domestic shit.

  “Look,” I say, gettin’ up, slippin’ my bag on my arm. “Obviously ya’ll have some unfinished business to deal wit’ so I’ma let ya’ll handle this wit’out me.” I toss a Ben Franklin on the table. “Thanks for the meal, but I ain’t sign up for the extras,” I add, gettin’ ready to step off.

  She smirks. “Oh, so the ho does speak. Mmmph.”

  He quickly stands, snatchin’ the money from the table. “Nah, fuck that. It’s on me,” he says, handin’ the money back. “You don’t have to leave. Just hol’ up. Give me one sec…please.” I can tell the muhfucka’s embarrassed that this bitch done stepped to him all sideways. I twist my lips, shakin’ my head.

  “Nah, I’m cool. Holla back when you handle ya situation.” Now instead of this bitch keepin’ the heat on him, she starts tryin’ it on my time; callin’ me dumb shit like: Beezy, Bopper, Bootie Crack Corn, and some other shit that was definitely some Bay area lingo. A definite no-no. Now I’m ready to light her ass up. I guess the dusty bitch thought she was chasin’ me up outta here. I stop in my tracks.

  “Bitch,” I snap, droppin’ my bag down on top’a the table. “Speak English. Or invest in Rosetta Stone. A bitch like me don’t understand bama-ass lingo. So what you betta do is step da fuck away from this table. Trust, I ain’t tryna ride this nigga’s dick, so whatever beef you got wit’ ’im, you keep that shit between you and ’im. Don’t pull me into it.” I sit back in my seat, cross my legs, starin’ this bitch down.

  “Well, if you’re sittin’ here with him, then you get it, too.”

  “Shelly, will you go the fuck on,” he says, lettin’ out a frustrated sigh. “I’ll call you later, aiight. Damn.”

  I smirk, shakin’ my head. This retarded bitch! “Don’t tell that bitch nuthin’. Let ’er keep standin’ here talkin’ shit.”

  “And then what?” she asks, glancin’ back over at clique like I give a fuck.

  I raise my brow, leanin’ forward in my seat. “You know what, sweetie. I wasn’t gonna fuck this nigga ’cause I wasn’t feelin’ ’im like that. But, the more you standin’ here poppin’ shit, the hotter my pussy is gettin’. And, trust…a hot, wet pussy has no conscience. So guess what? Now I’ma fuck ’im. And I’ma nut all over his muthafuckin’ tongue, so that the next time you think ’bout kissin’ ’im, you’ll be tastin’ me. Trick-ass bitch!”

  The crazy bitch tries to lunge at me, but Tone grabs her. She pushes him back. I remain in my seat, smirki
n’. Finally a manager decides to rush over and tells her to take that shit outta here before he calls the police on her retarded ass. Reluctantly, the bitch backs down as her girls decide to pull her away. Mmmph, I wouldn’t be surprised if this low-budget bitch’s on probation or some shit.

  “Girl, c’mon,” one’a the booga bears says. “Fuck this square-ass motherfucker and his stank-ass bitch. We’ll catch ’em.”

  I clap my hands. “Catch me now, boo. You ain’t said nuthin’ but a word.”

  “Ho, I will break your fuckin’ jaw,” Booga One says.

  I laugh, tossin’ my hair to the side. “Sweetie, don’t let this pretty face and long hair fool you. You do what you do, and keep it da fuck movin’, okay?”

  “Yeah, let’s get the fuck outta here. But don’t think I’m done wit’ you, nigga,” the Shelly bitch hisses at Tone. “I got something for you and that Boss Head you with.”

  I wave, tauntin’ her. “Bye, bye, sweetie. Get the fuck outta here wit’ that nappy ass weave, you raggedy-ass bitch. And, on ya way out the door, make sure you think ’bout me while I’m fuckin’ what you can’t have tonight; toodles.”

  I purposely say this to set her off more. And it works. She starts yellin’ and screamin’ a buncha extras while bein’ pulled by the arm. I watch as she’s bein’ dragged outside.

  Tone immediately starts apologizin’, leanin’ up in his seat. “Yo, I’m sorry ’bout all that. That broad is fuckin’ crazy; that’s why I stopped fuckin’ with her. If I woulda known she was gonna be up in here I wouldna met you here.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” I say, watchin’ her exit the buildin’. “That bitch don’t really want it wit’ me, trust.”

  After e’erything settles down, the waiter comes back askin’ if we want anything else. I decide I wanna have dessert. That lil’ ruckus done gave me the munchies. I order a peach cobbler. I watch as the waiter walks off, then asks, “So she’s the bird you were guttin’?”