The Kat Trap Read online

  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.

  When I got to the second photo, I almost fell outta my motherfuckin’ chair. It was a white nigga. And the muhfucka wasn’t even fine. It was bad enough I didn’t do white dick; Cash knew that shit. Still, to hit me with a stringy-haired nigga with brown teeth was a bit much. This is some bullshit for real, I thought, flippin’ open my
cell.

  “What’s good?”

  “You givin’ me this white muhfucka who looks like he’s been eatin’ shit, that’s what’s good. You know I don’t get down with no white niggas. And definitely none who look like this cracker.” I let my words roll off my tongue before I could catch what I had said.

  He started laughin’ ’n shit. “Yo, ma, you actin’ like you tryna fuck the nigga or somethin’. What’s good?”

  “What you mean ‘what’s good’? Ain’t nothin’ good, nigga.”

  “Yeah, aiight.” He lowered his voice. “Listen…check this out. How you slump these muhfuckas don’t matter; only that it gets done.”

  “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  “Whoa, pump ya brakes. It means just because I ain’t ever say shit don’t mean I don’t know how you doin’ yours. Don’t think I don’t know you freakin’ them niggas before you waste ’em.”

  I pulled the phone from my ear and looked at it. I couldn’t believe what I heard. “Excuse me?” I said, shocked. For some reason, I really didn’t think the nigga knew. But I guess I’d been sleepin’ on his ass.

  “On some real shit, it ain’t that serious, babycakes,” he said, causin’ the hairs on the back of my neck to stand. Babycakes? I decided to ignore it. “You like gettin’ ya nut off with them jokers and it’s all good. Actually, givin’ them muhfuckas some pussy before slumpin’ ’em is kinda hot. I always knew you was a real freak with yours.” Ugh, he made my stomach turn. “But I need you to do me this solid.” This time he started laughin’ again. Yeah, okay, I thought. This fat, nasty nigga did this shit on purpose, tryna be funny. “What the fuck’s so funny?” I snapped.

  “You,” he said. “I wish I coulda been a fly on ya wall when you peeped his flick. I know that shit was priceless.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “You ain’t funny. So you know, now what?”

  “Do what you do best. I promise to make it worth your while.”

  “So why you send this shit to me instead of one of ya dudes on the squad?”

  “’Cause I wanted to line ya pockets with a little extra somethin’.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, right. That’s what ya mouth says.”

  He busted out laughin’ again. “And I wanted to see how you’d handle this nigga since he ain’t fuckable.”

  “Fuck you, Cash. I’m glad you think this shit is funny. How long have you known?”

  “For ’bout a year now,” he said. “At first, when the crew was findin’ all the niggas you slumped naked, I didn’t pay the shit no mind. But, then I peeped how every time you went on an assignment the muhfuckas would be butt-ass naked and the sheets would be removed. Shit wasn’t addin’ up. Then it hit me, and that’s when I put shit together. Like I said, I thought the freaky shit was fiyah. And the only reason I kept it on the low is ’cause at the end of the day you real thorough. And I really don’t give a fuck how you handle yours. So, you got this one or what?”

  “How much you tryna line my pockets with?” I asked, usin’ the photo to fan myself.

  “An extra twenty-five gees,” he said.

  “Fuck that,” I snapped. Now that I knew this nigga knew, he’d be tryna clown me every chance he got if I let him. I ain’t the one. The only way to shut a nigga like him down—other than puttin’ a bullet in his skull—is by diggin’ in his pockets. “You musta banged ya damn head if you think that’s ’posed to be makin’ it worth my fuckin’ while. Come betta, Cash, or it’s a no-go. And I’m not fuckin’ around.”

  “Aiight, aiight. I’ll make it another fifty gees. Just handle the dude. His wife wants his ass stretched, ASAP.”

  My pussy pulled in my thong. The sound of that got me heated. “Then you need to get my seventy-five percent to me now. Otherwise, you’ll have to send someone else on this one.”

  He sucked in his breath. “Damn, your little ass is really playin’ hardball these days.”

  “I’ve learned from the best,” I replied, tossin’ the photo of this pasty-faced fool to the floor. “I want my money tonight.”

  “It’ll be there.”

  “It better be,” I said, snappin’ the phone shut.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  At eleven a.m., my flight had safely landed at O’Hare International Airport. I loved Chicago, especially downtown, and had hoped to strut along Michigan Avenue to have lunch at one of the trendy restaurants that lined the strip, then do a little shopping, but I knew that wasn’t my real purpose for being there so I decided to pick up my rental, then go check into my hotel suite. A bitch needed time to chill before it was time to do what I had come to do. The thought of this nigga with his white, clammy hands touchin’ my body made my gut turn. No wonder his bitch wants him dead. Probably gotta pencil dick, too, I mused.

  I made my way onto 90 East toward downtown Chicago, thinking about my life. At twenty-five, I had the life most bitches only dreamed about. I owned my own spot, was paid out the pussy, had e’erything I wanted, but somethin’ still felt like it was missin’. I ain’t sayin’ I was on some lonely-type shit or some other crazy mess. It felt like…uh, fuck it. Shit ain’t that serious. But in the back of my mind, somethin’ was tellin’ me I’d better get my ass outta this shit before all the shit I’d done caught up to me. A bitch in an orange or tan uniform wasn’t a good look, and I wasn’t tryna be the one. Two more bodies, I thought, makin’ a right onto Michigan Avenue, and I’m shuttin’ shit down.

  Well, for a minute. Maybe travel the world, fuck a few foreign niggas, get my pussy ate and suck a few dicks on an airplane. But I had so much blood on my manicured hands that I wondered if I really had it in me to walk away from the thrill of it all. Holdin’ a burner in my hand, pressin’ it against a nigga’s skull turned me the fuck on. Yeah, I was probably a sick, sadistic bitch, but I was paid and I’d be walkin’ away with millions stacked.

  I pulled up in front of the hotel and parked in the valet parkin’ area, then stepped out of my busted-up rental—a fuckin’ Aveo—and grabbed my satchel and carry-on bag, walkin’ into the four-story lobby of this fly-ass hotel.

  “Welcome to The InterContinental Chicago,” an attractive young woman said, smilin’ in my direction. “How may I help you?”

  “I have a reservation.”

  “Your name, please?” I told her my name, then handed her one of my fake-ass identifications. “Oh, Miss Lewis, a package came for you this morning. I’ll be right back.” She went to the back to retrieve it, then returned. I already knew what it was: the supplies I needed to carry-out my job. While I got to fly all over the U.S. to handle these niggas, Cash’s job was to make sure shit was in order. With the exception of his fat ass tryna shortchange me it was an operation that ran without any glitches. We all knew Cash was ’bout the business of killin’, and a missed body was a missed bankroll. “Here you are,” she said, returnin’ with a medium-sized box.

  I smiled. “Thanks.”

  “You’re in Suite 6201,” she said, handin’ me my room key. “I hope you enjoy your stay with us.”

  “I’m sure I will,” I stated, headin’ toward the elevators.

  Nine-thirty p.m., I was standin’ out on my balcony admirin’ the view of the Chicago skyline, wishin’ I was slumped over the railin’ with a stiff dick diggin’ my pussy out from the back. I needed some cock, and I was fuckin’ disgusted that this job wouldn’t be served up with a side order of thick dick. My private cell rang, breakin’ my thoughts.

  “Hello?”

  “What’s good, pretty lady?”

  “Who’s this?” I asked, smilin’. I knew it was the nigga from Studio 9. I’d written my number in the palm of his hand on our way outta the club. He and his mans ’n them had wanted to take us out to breakfast, but I asked for a rain check since I knew I had shit to do the followin’ mornin’. Chanel had the nerve to try ’n be swoll ’bout it, but I didn’t give a fuck. She’d get over it. He walked me to my car then I heard the chirp to that bangin’-ass Bentley parked beside my Ben
z. It was his. My pussy immediately got moist as thoughts of fuckin’ him in the backseat of his whip and suckin’ his dick while he was pushin’ it down the turnpike came to mind. I kept my cool, but could see that my girls were gaggin’. Yeah, this nigga was paid, and I was gonna see what was really good with his fine ass as soon as I got back from handlin’ my business.

  “Grant,” he said.

  “Grant, who?” I asked, fuckin’ with him.

  “Oh, it’s like that,” he said, laughin’. “Let me find out you got a stable of niggas on your team.”

  I laughed. “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “Oh, word? Well, how can a nigga like me get on your squad?” he asked, dippin’ his voice real low. I felt myself gettin’ wet.

  “That depends,” I said, matchin’ his low, sexy tone.

  “On?”

  “On how big ya dick is, and if ya know how to eat a pussy.”

  He laughed. “Well, shit, you ain’t askin’ for much. I got that covered.”

  “Is that so?”

  “No doubt. You’se a sexy thing, and I’m tryna come through and spend some time with you. Show you how a real nigga treats a woman.” Although the nigga had a street edge, he had this polished, sophisticated edge to him. That shit turned me on.

  “And how’s that?”

  “Let me come scoop you up, and show you.”

  “I wish I could,” I said, grinnin’. “But I’m outta town for few days. I’ll be home Sunday afternoon.”

  “Oh word. Then hit me up when you touch.”

  “I will.”

  “Don’t do nothing I wouldn’t do,” he said playfully.

  “Well, that may be hard since I don’t know what a nigga like you’d do.”

  He chuckled. “I feel ya, baby. Be safe.”