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“Yeah, well maybe you don’t know me. But you obviously know my man.”
I laugh. “Ya man? The nigga gotta restrainin’ ord
er against ya dumb-ass, so how da fuck is that ya man? Define that for me?”
“Bitch,” she snaps, raisin’ the volume, “I don’t have to define shit for you. Stay the fuck away from him or we gonna have some problems.”
Chanel gasps, coverin’ ’er mouth wit’ ’er hand.
I keep laughin’. “Sugah, you’se a real clown thinkin’ you standin’ here pumpin’ fear in a bitch like me wit’ that yip-yap. What you betta do is go do ya homework. Or end up flatlined.”
“No, you better go do yours. That nigga is usin’ you. You don’t know the first thing about loving a man like Alex. I’m the only woman he’ll ever love. He’s never going to love you, like he loves me.”
I laugh. “Med check, med check. Bitch, did you just escape from da Looney bin or sum shit? Get da fuck away from me. That nigga don’t give a fuck ’bout ya trick-ass.”
A cute brown-skinned chick wit’ shoulder-length locks hurries ova to us from the back area. “Ramona, you need to take that mess on up outta here. You know Pasha ain’t playin’ this shit up in here. If you got beef, take that shit outside.”
“Oh, no, we cool, Felecia. She and I were just having a friendly chat. I’ve finished schooling her so I’m out.”
“Bitch,” I snap, tossin’ the magazine ova at Chanel, “don’t get it fucked up.” I stand up. “You ain’t schooled me on shit. I don’t know how you Jersey bitches do it, but be clear. I will rock ya muthafuckin’ sockets, so don’t let the wears ’n the pretty face fool you. I asked you nicely to bounce up outta my space da first time. And you still wanna stand here yippty-yappin’. So, now I’m fuckin’ tellin’ you, step da fuck on. Or step outside to get ya ass beat. Take ya pick. You know what.”—I pull out my phone, then press open my call history—“Since you wanna school a bitch, let me call ya man, right now, and school ’em on how’ta eat my pussy ’n ass out. ’Cause guess what, bitch? I’ma fuck da muhfucka tonight and tomorrow night, too. Stupid bitch!”
As soon as Alex picks up, I put ’im on speaker. “Yo, what’s good, Beautiful?”
“Shit. Chillin’. I’m at this hair spot ova in Orange wit’ Chanel and ya BM’s up in here poppin’ a buncha ying-yang?”
“My BM? Yo, what you talkin’ ’bout? I told you, I ain’t got no baby momma.”
I cut my eye ova at this Ramona bitch. “Well, obviously this bitch here didn’t get da memo. So you need’a remind this ho—”
“Yo, ma, who you talkin’ ’bout?”
“This silly-ass Spanish ho who’s ’bout to get beat da fuck up.”
“Bitch,” she says, walkin’ up on me. “You ain’t gonna beat shit. But, if I catch you near my man again—”
Before she can get the rest of her words out, I run up on ’er and bash the bitch in ’er muthafuckin’ face.
“OHMIIIIIGOD,” CHANEL SAYS, PASSIN’ ME THE BLUNT, CRUISIN’ down Old Short Hills Road toward the Mall at Short Hills. After that incident back at the salon, a bitch needs to do a lil’ shoppin’, then get home and play in my pussy. Poppin’ that ho in ’er snot box got my snatch hot. “I’m so glad you shut that ho up. Took ya ass long enough. I was ’bout ready to bring it to ’er bubble head my damn self. But you delivered, boo. Broke that ho’s nose lovely.”
I open ’n close my swollen hand. “I think I sprained my hand fuckin’ wit’ that silly bitch.”
“Well, da ho got what she deserved.”
“I swear I didn’t wanna have’ta go there, but that ho kept tryna serve it up. So I had’a take ’er down.” After I hit that bitch in ’er mouth, she fell backward onto the counter and I pounced on that ass, splittin’ the side’a ’er face wit’ my 18-karat gold ’n platinum diamond and emerald Jean Schlumberger Pave X ring. It took Chanel and two other chicks to pull me off’a ’er. And the bitch was still poppin’ shit. Talkin’ ’bout how shit ain’t ova; that she’s gonna fuck me up the next time she sees me; just talkin’ a buncha off the wall shit that don’t mean me no neva mind. “I don’t know what da fuck is in da air. Seems like e’erywhere I turn some bitch is tryna serve me da extras.”
“Sounds like you a walkin’ magnet for drama these days.”
“Well’a bitch is tired. All I wanna do is fuckin’ chill; that’s it.”
“I hear you. So what da fuck was her deal?”
“Fuck if I know. Some disgruntled bitch Allstar”—Chanel’s nickname for Alex—“used to fuck wit’. He dumped ’er. Then da trick-nasty ho got all desperate and tried pinnin’ a brat on ’im. But da shit backfired on ’er ass, and came back not his.”
She cuts ’er eye ova at me. “You sure it ain’t his?”
“He said it’s not. Da nigga has no reason to lie to me. But, on some real shit, I don’t give’a fuck if it is or not. He’s not my man.”
“Mmmph, not yet,” she mumbles.
