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I blink, blink again. Restrainin’ order? Baby? Oh, hell no! I know the music is loud ’n shit, but I know ’xactly what the fuck I heard. I walk off, leavin’ them two goin’ at it on the dance floor.
I make my way ova to Chanel. She tries to introduce me to the niggas she ova here bullshittin’ wit’, but a bitch ain’t beat. “Ho, let’s get da fuck up outta here. I done had ’nough drama for one damn night.”
“Drama? When? Where? Girl, what da hell happened?”
I throw a hand up on my hip. “Well, bitch, while you were in here trickin’ for drinks ’n shit, Patrice tried steppin’ to me like she was ready to make it pop up in here. I was ’bout to really take it to ’er grill ’til Alex snatched me up…”
“Alex? Who da fuck is Alex?”
“The nigga from Allstar,” I tell ’er, glancin’ ova to where he is. I see two security niggas talkin’ to chick. She’s goin’ the hell off. The bitch looks half-crazed if you ask me. I see Alex pullin’ sumthin’ outta his wallet, they look at it, then a few minutes later, they draggin’ chick’s ass off the dance floor.
Two minutes later, I peep Alex walkin’ ova toward Chanel and me. I turn my back on ’im. He says wassup to the niggas, then says wassup to Chanel.
“Wasssup, Allstar?” she says, grill-cheesin’ all up in the nigga’s face. “So you da nigga who got my girl all goo-goo-ga-ga ’n shit. It’s ’bout damn time you stepped up. Took you long ’nough.”
He laughs. “Oh, word? I got ya girl open like that? It’s Chanel, right?”
“Oh, you remember?”
“No, doubt.” He laughs. “The way ya’ll were throwin’ shade at muhfuckas who could forget ya’ll two.”
I suck my teeth. “Whateva.” I shoot Chanel a look. “Ho, puhleeze. I ain’t goo-goo-ga-ga’in shit. Don’t gas this nigga’s head.”
She flicks ’er hand in my face. “Whateva, ho.”
He grabs my hand. “Yo, why you walk off on me like that?”
I pull my hand back. “Nigga, you didn’t need me out there. Ya lil’ girlfriend was more than ’nough.”
“Yo, that’s one’a da broads I was tellin’ you ’bout. She’s da ho that got all nutty on a muhfucka, tryna pin that baby shit on a muhfucka.” He tells me the bitch’s name is Ramona, then pulls out a restrainin’ order and shows it to me. Tells me he carries it ’round wit’ ’im just in case the ho shows up somewhere. “And Akina is someone I used to fuck wit’ ’til she put ’er hands on me, and I had’a choke ’er up.”
I blink, blink again. I shake my head. “Nigga, you got too many extras in ya life for me. I’m out.” I toss up the deuces, and spin off. “Chanel, let’s go, ho.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Bitch tryna keep it on cruise control…low profilin’it…ain’t beat for a buncha shit…ain’t tryna get hood…fake bitch wanna be stylin’…talkin’ ’bout she a nigga’s baby mamma… neck-rollin’ it…tryna crank da heat…bitch wanna serve drama…it’s all good…she ’bout to get that ass beat…
A week later, me and Chanel are at this hair salon, Nappy No More, ova in South Orange. A high-end spot plastered in all the hair magazines that she’s been pressin’ me to check out for a minute. So here we are. I won’t front. The place is real cute. I peep the mix of chicks sittin’ up in here. There’s a mixture of hoodbooga, ghetto-fab, ’n celebrity wife bitches up in this piece waitin’ to get they wigs done. Erykah Badu’s “I Want You” is playin’ low through the Bose speakers up on the walls.
Chanel’s sittin’ next to me, checkin’ ’er emails ’n textin’ back ’n forth wit’ Devine, and a few other muhfuckas. I’m flippin’ through the latest issue of Vibe magazine, bobbin’ my head to the music. A bitch’s chillin’. Mindin’ ’er own business, gettin’ lost in the beat when I feel someone burnin’ a hole through me.
I look up and catch the bitch. From the look she’s givin’ me I’m not sure if she wants to cut or fuck me. I tilt my head. She shifts ’er eyes. I go back to readin’. A few minutes later the bitch is starin’ me down, again. I close the magazine, leanin’ ova toward Chanel.
“Ummm, why is da Spanish-lookin’ ho ova at da counter starin’ at me like she’s tryna get beat da fuck up?”
Chanel cuts ’er eye ova in ’er direction. “Mmmmmph, looks like she wants ta bite ya ass wit’ them big-ass teeth.” I chuckle. “Da bitch probably wants to be you when she grows up.”
“Puhhhleeeeze, that bitch could neva be me,” I state, starin’ at Trey Songz on the cover. A bitch can’t front. The muhfucka is lookin’ kinda sexy all bare-chested ’n wet. But, since he’s not my flava, I don’t spend too much time or energy into it. I go back to flippin’ through the articles in the magazine instead.
A few minutes lata, the Spanish bitch is walkin’ toward me, but I act like I don’t see ’er.
“Excuse me.”
I take my time lookin’ up at ’er. “How can I help you?”
“Were you at club Eden last week?”
I look ’er up ’n down. Of course a bitch like me’s gonna answer this ho’s question wit’ a question. “Why, who wants to know?”
