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“Hmm…” Triflin’ bitch, I thought. And I hope his slimy ass got his. That was some shit. I couldn’t even imagine what the fuck I’d do if I walked in and caught my man fuckin’ one of my girls—well, uh, I do, but that’s another story for another time. Bottom line, I woulda went the fuck off, too. But I don’t know if I’da stabbed him. ’Cause unless she killed his ass, her goin’ to jail is senseless. While the world is still rotatin’ on its axis, and her ass is on lock, his muhfuckin’ ass is still gonna be out fuckin’ the next bitch. Fuck that shit, if you don’t wanna kill his ass, then slice his muthafuckin’ cock off. “Did she kill him?”
“No. But she gutted him real good. He’s up in ICU.”
“And where’s she at?”
“I think she out on bail,” she said.
“Humph,” I grunted, shakin’ my head.
Three more roaches came out to play. She saw them and started smashin’ them with her hand, cussin’.
“Fuckin’ roaches! I don’t know why the ho next door don’t fumigate her place. She’s the only bitch in the buildin’ that acts like she tryna keep ’em as pets.” She caught my facial expression. “I don’t know why you twistin’ ya face up,” she said, washin’ her hands at the sink. “You act like you ain’t ever seen a damn roach.”
She reached under the sink and pulled out a can of Raid, then started sprayin’ along the side of the cabinets, then ’round the back of the counter. The smell started to make me dizzy and sick to my stomach. I held my breath. She put the roach spray back, then started rinsin’ pots and pans. I watched her as she pulled down a bowl, rinsed it, then started crackin’ six eggs.
“Who you cookin’ all them eggs for?” I asked. Before she could answer, a caramel-colored, hairy-chested, curly-haired nigga all tatted up, came into the kitchen, wearin’ only a pair of flimsy gray sweats. He had that fresh-showered smell goin’ on. The nigga’s arms were chiseled and he had the nerve to have a damn six-pack. I peeped his long dick bouncin’ and swingin’ and knew the nigga didn’t have any drawers on. Ugh.
The muhfucka coolly walked up on my moms and planted his thick lips on hers. The nigga didn’t even speak, and I knew he saw me or at least heard us in here talkin’. I watched their tongues dart in and out of each other’s mouths, like I wasn’t even in the fuckin’ room. He grabbed her ass. How fuckin’ disrespectful was that shit? If I didn’t clear my throat the two of ’em mighta started fuckin’ right there. They stopped and he put his arm around her. My moms blushed, fixed her robe that had conveniently come untied, then said, “Baby, this is my daughter, Kat. Kat, this is Jawan, my fiancé.”
Fiancé? I almost fell outta my fuckin’ seat. I spoke to her last week and was there two months ago, and she not once said shit ’bout havin’ no damn fiancé. She held up her hand to show off her ring finga. No wonder I didn’t see it before. It was a tiny-ass, marquise-cut diamond ring ’bout the size of a pebble. What the fuck! I squinted my eyes and glared at her ass. She shrugged, then went back to fixin’ her mystery man his breakfast.
He smiled, flashin’ a chipped tooth. “So, this is my future stepdaughter. I heard a lot ’bout you. Baby, you didn’t tell me she was this fine,” he said, walkin’ over and extendin’ his hand. I stared at him real hard, then at his hand. He had a tattoo of a panther with beautiful green eyes on his forearm. He was definitely younger than her, probably ’round late twenties or early thirties, I guessed. Humph. Oh, trust. I made a mental note to find out what was really good with his ass on the streets.
“It’s Katrina,” I said, with much ’tude. “And I haven’t heard jack ’bout you.” He dropped his hand. “How long you been fuckin’ my mother?”
“Kat!” she yelled. “Don’t start ya shit today or you can get ya ass up outta here. Baby,” she cooed, like a damn silly-ass, dick-whipped schoolgirl. “Don’t pay her ass no mind. She can be a real bitch sometimes.”
He chuckled, lickin’ his lips. “Nah, it’s all good, baby. I can tell she’s a real feisty one. Ya mom and I been fuckin?
?, as you put it, for a minute.” He walked back over and planted another kiss on my mom’s lips, then looked at me and winked. He slapped her on her ass. She giggled. I twisted my face. “So I guess we’ll be seein’ a lot of each other.”
“I wouldn’t hold ya breath,” I said, rollin’ my eyes. My moms shot me an evil look that said, ‘Bitch, say one more slick thing and this muhfuckin’ hot fryin’ pan goes upside ya skull.’ She started cuttin’ and dicin’ up onions, tomatoes, and green peppers, then shreddin’ cheddar cheese.
“Your breakfast’ll be ready in ’bout ten minutes, baby. You want something to drink?”
He cut his eyes from me and turned to her. “That’s cool. Yeah, bring me some orange juice. I’ll be in the living room watchin’ TV while you and ya daughter shoot the shit.” He looked at me again, smirkin’, then walked out.
“And why couldn’t he get his own drink? He was standin’ his ass right by the refrigerator.” I spoke loud enough so the nigga could hear me. “Instead of plungin’ his dick in and outta ya, he should make his ass useful and take out that trash.”
She clenched her teeth. “Kat…don’t…start. I mean it.”
I ignored her. I tried to count the number of niggas she’s had in my head, but lost count after number fourteen. Growin’ up, e’ery six months to a year or so, she was in love with another nigga. Then when shit fell apart, she’d be somewhere balled up in a damn corner or locked up in her room cryin’ over his ass. I swore I’d never be like her.
Like a puppet, she bounced around the kitchen fryin’ up bacon ’n shit. She lowered the fire on the stove, then got a glass from outta the cabinet, rinsed it, went into the refrigerator and filled it with orange juice, then took it to him. I was too fuckin’ through!
Okay, the nigga was fine, but I didn’t give a fuck ’bout that. I didn’t like him. Somethin’ told me he was no fuckin’ good. A bitch like me could peep a no-good muhfucka from a mile away. The only thing I wanted to know is where the fuck she met him and how long she’d been with him. As pretty as my moms is, for some reason she always liked niggas who had issues. Issues gettin’ a job; issues keepin’ a job; issues with drinkin’; issues with cheatin’; issues with gamblin’; issues with child support; issues with the law; issues with keepin’ his hands off women; and the list went on. Issues, issues, issues…that’s all she ever seemed to attract. Her pussy was a wet magnet for fucked-up men. And e’ery one of the niggas she picked up off the streets, she had to carry. Movin’ his ass in, feedin’ him, puttin’ money in his pockets, cleanin’ his ass up. She’d always put a nigga and his dick before me any day. Dumb women like her really made me fuckin’ sick. Moms or not, as bad as I hated to admit it—no matter how hard I’ve tried not to—I had very little respect for her. And I was really startin’ to like her less and less.
“So tell me. How old is he?” I asked when she came back into the kitchen. “He looks young enough to be ya son. Don’t tell me you robbin’ cradles now.”
She sucked her teeth. “Shut your mouth. He’s old enough. That’s all you need to know.”
“Humph. Well, what back alley did you find this stray in, and how long he been sniffin’ around? Better yet, does the nigga work?”
“That’s none of your gotdamn business. I don’t question who you fuckin’, so don’t you dare go there with me. I’m the mother, not you. And don’t forget it.”
I took a deep breath, bit down on my bottom lip. Moms or not, I was ready to bring it to her ass. I tilted my head, raised my eyebrow. “Is that so,” I said, smirkin’.
“What the fuck you mean ‘is that so’? Bitch, don’t get beside ya’self.”
