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“Why?”
“Maybe a muhfucka’s tryna see you,” he says, dippin’ his voice real low ’n sexy.
“Nigga, puhleeze. You tryna stalk a bitch. That’s all that is.”
He laughs. “Negative. Never that, baby.”
“See, there you go wit’ that baby shit again.
“My bad, ma. I can’t help myself. I wanna make you my baby.”
I grunt. Ugh, gag me.”
“I wanna do that, too,” he says, laughin’.
I suck my teeth. “Nigga, puhleeze.”
“So, you gonna tell me where you at, or what?” Why I tell ’em is beyond me. But I do. “Oh, word? That’s wassup. So am I. What part?”
“Sausalito,” I tell ’im, then ask ’im where in Cali he’s at. He says LA. Then I ask ’im what he’s doin’ there and he tells me he’s chillin’ wit’ his peeps. I laugh. “Unh-huh. I bet. Ya’ll fuckin’ and she’s lacin’ you, right?” He laughs. “Just what I thought.”
“So where’s Salsa-lito at?”
“It’s Sau-sa-lee-toe. And it’s in the San Francisco area, right on the other side’a the bridge, why? You tryna take a road trip?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Impress me, punk,” I tease.
“Yeah, I got ya punk aiight. Yo, you need to stop frontin’ and let a muhfucka really get to know you.”
Another call beeps through. It’s Chanel’s ass again. “Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. But for now, ya times up. My girl’s on the other line, so I’m out.”
“Damn, ma. It’s like that?”
“Yup, bitches before niggas.”
He laughs. “Sounds like we got sumthin’ else in common.”
“Nigga, peace out.” I say as he continues laughin’. I click over, then snap, “Bitch, what the fuck you keep callin’ me for?”
CHAPTER SIX
Lonely bitch…dick stuntin’…sac garglin’…lettin’ no-good nigga’s run all up in ’er back…gotta bitch wildin’ out like she’s stuck on crack…got ’er chasin’ fake muhfuckas who ain’t tryna get caught…got da dumb trick countin’ all da bitches she fought…forgettin’ da tears she done shed…too scared to open ’er eyes…’til one day da bitch ends up stretched out dead…
“Kat, girl, I just got off the phone wit’ Tamia—”
I frown. Now she knows damn well I don’t get down wit’ that bitch anymore. Once I peeped how triflin’ her dirty-ass was, it was a wrap. I don’t wanna be associated wit’a bitch like her. Especially one who was stuntin’ like she was a top-of-the-line bitch, then come to find out that fake-ass trick was rentin’ all her handbags and shoppin’ in consignment shops. Bitch, please! I don’t rock wit’ fraudulent bitches, and I damn sure ain’t gonna get it in wit’ no ho poppin’ Valtrex, okay? That bitch is toxic waste! “Umm, sweetie,” I snap, cuttin’ her off, “why the fuck you callin’ me ’bout her ass? You know I don’t wanna hear shit ’bout ya convo wit’ her.”
“Kat, this is serious. You need to come home, now.”
“Come home for what?”
“Ya moms in the hospital. Patrice tracked down Tamia tryna get ya numbers to call you.”
“And?”
“She gave me Patrice’s number to give to you.”
