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Chanel blinks at ’im. Of course her ass don’t remember the nigga. But I do. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. We spanked that ass, and walked off wit’ ya paper. Let me find out you ready to get that ass beat again.”
He laughs. “Ouch. Kat, right?”
“Yeah.”
He turns to Chanel. “I’m Bronze. And you?”
“Bored,” she says, turnin’ ’er head.
“Oh, shit. I got you, ma.”
I laugh. “Don’t pay ’er cranky-ass no mind. It’s Chanel. She gets crazy when she don’t take ’er medicine.” He laughs. “Damn, you gotta good memory. How da hell you remember my name? We mopped ya’ll asses up on that table ’bout two years ago.”
“Yo, a muhfucka never forgets gettin’ his ass spanked by a beauty who likes to talk a buncha shit on the table. Me ’n my man, Leo, still laugh ’bout that shit. Yo, we still wanna rematch.”
I eye ’im. “Well, anytime you wanna bitch to run ya pockets ’n give you ’nother round of whoop ass, let me know.” He laughs. Asks for my number, but I tell ’im to give me his. We bullshit a few more minutes ’til Chanel’s had ’nough’a standin’ in one spot.
“Bitch, it’s hot in here. Let’s go outside.” I tell the nigga I’ll hit ’im up for that rematch, then dip. As soon as I get outta his view
, I toss the nigga’s number on the floor and pop my ass out onto the rooftop.
I GLANCE AT MY TIMEPIECE. IT’S ALMOST ONE-THIRTY A.M. Chanel and I are still out on the rooftop, standin’ at the bar, talkin’ to these cats from Uptown. She’s already on her third Red Bull vodka. And we’ve already tossed back two shots of soco—uh, Southern Comfort. Something told me to keep it light, after we tossed back those two shots of Rémy earlier so I’m slow slippin’ this shit.
Cypress Hill’s “Bang Bang” is blarin’ through the speakers. I finga pop and wind it a bit, but ain’t really beat to drop it on the floor. “Girl, I’ll be back,” Chanel says, rudely spinnin’ off on the nigga she was talkin’ to. I watch her poppin’ her hips back inside.
I continue half-listenin’ to this nigga wit’ the curly ’fro, bobbin’ my head to the beat while tryna figure out why he’s out here rockin’ dark-ass shades.
“I had’a feelin’ I was gonna run into this bitch,” I hear someone say in back of me. As soon as I hear the voice, I already know it’s ’bout to be a situation. “Oh, you fly wit’ it, hunh? You can be all up in da club shakin’ ’n poppin’ ya ass ’n shit, but a bitch too good for her family ’n shit, talkin’ real slick ’n greasy to my mutha like you got it like that. Is that how you doin’ it, bitch?”
I take a deep breath. Ignore the bitch standin’ in back’a me. Look over at the nigga I was talkin’ to and say, “Do me a favor and tell that bird in back’a me to shoo.”
“Ho, shoo hell! You disrespect ya grandmutha, sign complaints on ya aunts ’n get restrainin’ orders ’n shit on ’em. Bitch, that shit ain’t cute.”
I keep my back to ’er. Let the bitch keep poppin’ shit, but in a minute I’ma ’bout to take my glass to ’er face. I keep sippin’ my drink. “How da fuck was you gonna pull da plug on ya mutha and kill ’er baby, hunh, ho?”
I take a deep breath. Finish up my drink, then turn to face Patrice, tuckin’ my clutch under my arm. She’s standin’ in a black sequined Donna Karan scoop-neck tunic dress. Her neck, lobes ’n wrists are lit the fuck up. I can’t front. The ho looks fabulous. But I still can’t stand her snake ass!
I eye her. She’s cut off all’a ’er hair for a short tapered do wit’ a sweepin’ bang. In another life, me and this bitch coulda been a real problem together. “Bitch,” I snap, twistin’ my lips, “step da fuck away from me ’fore you end up pickin’ ya face up off da floor.”
“Bitch, hol’ da fuck up,” she snaps, handin’ her bag to one’a ’er girls. A shapely brown-skinned chick dipped in low-end jewels, wearin’ a one-shoulder, black draped Jersey getup that clings to her body. I can’t figure out the designer so I decide it must be a low-end piece. I peep her burgundy Marc Jacobs leather satchel. Cute, I think, bringin’ my attention back to Patrice.
“Girl, don’t,” Miss Low End says, grabbin’ ’er arm. “This ain’t the time. We ain’t come out for all the extras tonight; let it go. You can get at this ho some other time.”
“Ho? Bitch, I will rock ya eye sockets,” I say to her, layin’ my clutch on the bar ’cause in a minute I’ma ’bout to knock this bitch in both ’er eyes. Of course Chanel’s somewhere wit’ ’er juicy ass pressed up against some nigga’s cock on the dance floor.
Muhfuckas peep the ruckus goin’ on between this bitch and me. But I know she don’t really want it. Not out here for all to see.
“You know what. You right, girl,” Patrice says to Miss Low End. “Let’s do what we came out do; fuck this bitch.”
I laugh. “You get a pass tonight, Sweetie,” I warn. “But, trust. There won’t be no othas.”
“Bitch, you wish.” She starts walkin’ back ova to me. I close my fist, ready to bring it to ’er face. She peeps this, keepin’ her distance. “You know what. You need to get ya mind right. All ya selfish-ass eva cares about is ya’self. You’re one hateful-ass bitch.”
“Whaaaateva, bitch. Back da fuck up from outta my muthafuckin’ face.”
“I ain’t in ya face, yet, bitch. But—”
“But nuthin’, Trick.” I flick my fingas at her. “Poof, bitch, be gone!”
