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He opens the door and walks out, shuttin’ it behind ’im.
I drop down on the step and sit, holdin’ my head in my hands. Relieved the nigga left up outta here before I had’a blow his head off. I lay the gun down on the step, starin’ out the livin’ room window waitin’ to see his car lights go on, then disappear outta my driveway.
When it takes the nigga longer than I think it should for ’im to roll out, I get up off the step to see what the fuck he’s doin’. As I swing open the door, I see him standin’ outside by his car, talkin’ to someone but I can’t see who it is. And it looks like he has his hands up. I flip on the outside light, then, Boom! Boom! Boom! The next thing I know, Alex hits the ground.
“Ohhhmiifuckin’god!” I race back to get my gun, then flee out the door. But whoeva it was that shot ’im, has hopped in they car and sped the fuck off. I race back in the house to get my cell phone, then run back outside, callin’ 9-1-1. “Ohhhhmiigod, Alex, can you hear me?” The nigga doesn’t respond and he’s bleedin’ real bad. As soon as the dispatcher picks up, I tell ’im what’s what, and tell ’im to hurry the fuck up and get someone here. I drop down beside Alex and try to steady his head. I scoop ’im into my arms and rock ’im, hopin’ like hell the nigga doesn’t die in my arms. “Hol’ on, Allstar…don’t you die on me, nigga. Help is on the way.”
One of my neighbors—a white man I neva fuck wit’—runs ’cross the yard ova to us, carryin’ a buncha towels. “You alright?” he asks, handin’ me towels. I tell ’im I am and thank ’im for the towels. “My wife and I saw everything,” he says, gettin’ on the otha side of Alex. He puts pres
sure on the wound. “We were on the phone with the police when the woman fired her gun.”
“He’s losin’ a lotta blood,” I say, tryna keep my composure. My hands start to shake. Nigga, why da fuck didn’t you give me that bitch’s address when I first asked you for it? This shit woulda neva went down like this.
Just as three cop cars are pullin’ up alongside the house, the nigga stops breathin’ and it takes e’erything in me not to pass the fuck out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Muhfucka dicked ova a lotta hoes…turned ’em out…then dismissed…gotta nutty-bitch pissed…’bout all da shit she took… horny ho couldn’t let go…now da nigga stretched out…wit’ bullets in da chest…nigga breathin’ done stopped…shoulda gave me da info…crazy ho coulda been dropped…coulda been next on da list…now look…
“Ma’am, can you give me a description of the shooter?” the detective—a medium built brown-skinned man wit’ big brown eyes and a thick nose—asked, flippin’ open a pad, then pullin’ his pen outta the pocket of his white button-up. I notice he has a coffee stain splashed up on the right side. He looks at me, waitin’ for me to respond. I think, try to remember what the fuck the bitch looks like.
“Yeah,” I say, glancin’ down and noticin’ there’s blood on my muthafuckin’ white Louis sneaks. I’m too through. “Give me a minute to refresh my memory.” I close my eyes and think back to the day at the salon when the ho stepped to me.
“Take your time,” he says, holdin’ his pen in his hand, pressin’ its tip to the paper.
Once her face comes to me, I say, “She’s a crazy-ass, Spanish-lookin’ bitch wit’ brown hair and brown eyes. She’s ’bout five-seven, and a buck-thirty.”
“Okay. Did you actually see her shoot him?”
I frown. “I saw someone in all black standin’ in my driveway pointin’ a gun. No, I didn’t actually see da bitch pull da trigga. But, trust me. I heard it. I seen ’im drop. And I know she did it. Alex has a restrainin’ order on ’er. And da bitch was stalkin’ ’im. That’s enough for me to know it was ’er.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Yeah, ’er name is Ramona and she—” I stop myself, rememberin’ I took the nigga’s phone to call his fam. Good thing I had the passcode to his phone; otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to contact ’em. I pull the phone outta my bag, then press in the passcode to retrieve his messages. “Here, you listen to these messages and you tell me if you think da bitch did it.” I put the phone on speaker and let him listen to ’em. He writes on his notepad, then asks if he can have the phone for evidence. I tell the muhfucka no. Tell ’im that he can get it from Allstar’s attorney. I don’t know if the nigga has one or not, but that’s what I tell ’im.
“Okay, then. Do you have a number where I can reach you in case I have any more questions?” I give ’im my digits, then warn ’im to hurry up and get that bitch off the streets before I do. He looks at me like I’m crazy. “Ma’am, I ask that you not take matters into your own hands. We’ll find whoever did this.”
I raise my brow. “Be clear. There’s a nutty bitch still out there somewhere wit’ a gun. And ’er name is Ramona sumthin’. She’s already come up on my property twice. And you heard those messages she left on his phone and da one ’bout what she was gonna do to me. So, if you think I’ma sit ’round and wait for da po-po to track ’er ass down, you done banged ya head. So as far as I’m concerned, the bitch should be considered armed and dangerous, so work it out. Get that bitch off da streets. Or I will.”
I spin-off on his ass. Stoopid muhfucka talkin’ that dumb shit. I see Allstar’s moms walkin’ toward us wit’ a tall, buffed, bowlegged older version of Allstar. I know right off the bat it’s his pops. Mygaawd, that old-head is fiiine.
I speak. “Hi, Missus Maples.”
“Hello, baby,” she says, walkin’ up to me and givin’ me a hug. “Good to see you again. Thanks for callin’ me.” She points to Allstar’s twin. “Raynard, this is Alex’s friend, Katrina. The young lady I was telling you about. Katrina, this is Alex’s father.”
I smile at ’im. “Hi, Sir, it’s nice to meet you.”
He smiles back at me. “Ohhh, so you’re the young woman my son keeps talkin’ about.” He looks me up and down. Oh no this nasty muhfucka ain’t tryna get his eye-rovin’ on. “He wasn’t lying when he said you were a beauty, and sexy, too. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Thanks,” I say, shiftin’ my weight from one foot to the otha. While Alex’s moms is talkin’ to the detective, I tell his father that he had to be rushed into surgery to try ’n stop the bleedin’. Tell ’im he was shot twice in the chest and once in the stomach. Tell ’im one of the bullets barely missed his heart.
“What’d he have to say?” Mr. Maples asks, pointin’ ova to the detective when she walks back ova to us.
“He said they’re gonna do everything they can to find that bitch. That they are puttin’ out an all-points bulletin on her crazy ass.”
I smirk, hearin’ ’er talk my kinda talk.
“Did you tell him about the restraining order?” Mr. Maples asks.
