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Fuck! “Oh, that’s too bad. It’s been a minute since I saw you. What time you get off on other days?”
“I’m usually outta this box ’round seven-thirty, why?”
“’Cause we need to plan to hook up for drinks ’n shit. My treat.” I was really gassin’ her ass. Ain’t no way I’d ever be caught dead anywhere with this hoodrat, with her tired and late wears. Now I had to consider how I wanted to get at her. Either bum-rush her ass at the front desk, then drag her through the fuckin’ office, or wait for her slutty ass to come out the door, then straight-rock her grill in. Bottom line, I wasn’t gonna go up in the projects to fight chick; even if it was where we were both from. The difference was she still lived there. I didn’t. No, a bitch needed to get at this ho off grounds, on neutral territory.
“Now you talkin’,” she said, soundin’ all excited ’n shit. I could see the drool runnin’ outta the sides of her raggedy mouth. The bitch was a straight-lush. “That’s wassup.”
“Most def. Oh, one more thing…”
“What’s that?” she asked.
I smiled, flippin’ the script. “Watch ya face.”
“Excuse you?”
I repeated myself. “I said, watch ya face.”
“Bitch, you tellin’ me to watch my face for what?”
Now, on some real shit, I coulda just caught the ho on the low, but that’s not how I get down. I’m the type of bitch who’s gonna let you know from gate what it is. I want you to be ready to rock. I want ya ass to be constantly lookin’ over ya shoulder. I wanna keep a bitch on her toes ’cause ya never gonna know when I’m gonna come at ya.
“’Cause I’ma bust you in ya muthafuckin’ mouthpiece when I catch you for flappin’ ya jaws ’bout my moms comin’ through.”
“Oh, fuck that. You got the wrong one, bitch. My name ain’t Tamia. Don’t get it fucked up. This hood bitch will beat ya little ass the fuck down if you even think about tryna bring it. Now try it if you want.”
I laughed at her low-budget ass. “Like I said, watch ya face, bitch. And that’s what it is.”
I pressed the end button on her ass, savin’ her number in my phone, then flippin’ it shut. Sooner than you think, I thought, walkin’ into the kitchen. I glanced up at the clock. It was 11:30 a.m. I decided to fix myself breakfast, then lay ’round the house for the rest of the day. I wasn’t gonna get at the bitch today ’cause she’d be expectin’ it. So I was gonna let the ho do her for a minute, then rock her snotbox open the minute I caught her ass slippin’. But knowin’ Tameka’s ass, she was already on the phone with Tamia poppin’ shit, and would be tryna figure out a way to bring it before I did. Funny thing, a bitch like me would be ready—whenever, wherever, however. Believe that!
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Dangerous and unpredictable…swift on her feet…silent in her tasks…got no time for hustlin’ backward…that’s a bitch like me…have ya doin’ shit you’d never do to ya chick…have ya beggin’ to slay me with ya dick…you ain’t ready for a bitch like me…cool, calm, collected…I gave ya a run…but now ya finished…it’s lights out, muhfucka…ya lifelines been disconnected…
Summertime in New York is always what’s poppin’. Harlem, Brooklyn, the Village, SoHo, you name it. There was somethin’ for e’eryone to get into. The streets were live. And a bitch could get caught up in its heat. There were niggas dipped e’erywhere, straight flossin’. Stereos blastin’ the hot beats from the sickest whips; dick-thirsty hoes on the stroll; packs of bitches stuntin’; homeless pushin’ carts; young cats wildin’ out; street vendors tryna get their hustle on. Anything ya want…whatever ya lookin’ for,
find a block, and find ya pleasure. New York was alive!
The energy and excitement was enough to make a bitch forget ’bout bullshit niggas and stress. Today was no different as me and Chanel made our way through mad traffic up the West Side Highway to One Hundred fifty-fifth to see what was poppin’ off at the courts. We were two fly bitches posted up in a slick-ass whip, rockin’ some of the illest wears. Oh, yes, today Ruckers Park was the hot spot. And we were ’bout to see what was what.
At first I wasn’t really beat for takin’ the ride, but Chanel twisted my arm by tellin’ me she wanted to go to show her support for the Sean Bell All-Star team, which was formed in memory of the young cat Sean from Jamaica, Queens, who was gunned down for no damn reason by the muthafuckin’ cops. Fifty fuckin’ shots fired, ugh! E’ery time I thought ’bout that shit it made a bitch wanna squat up on a rooftop and start pluckin’ muhfuckas off.
Anyway, before I knew it I was scoopin’ her ass up and we were on our way, blazin’ trees and talkin’ mad shit and laughin’. My God, the park was overflowin’ with frontin’-ass and hood-rich niggas! Ballers, brawlers, and shot-callers were all over the place, and the streets were jammed with cars. Music was blarin’ e’erywhere. And niggas and bitches were gettin’ their party and dance on. Even I felt like poppin’ it a bit, but I kept it cute and just bopped my head a few times, and threw a few extra shakes in my ass.
We was lookin’ all fly ’n whatnot in our wears. I had on a pair of denim short-shorts and a cute white sheer pullover blouse with a plungin’ neckline over a white lace bra, and a pair of black fuck-me pumps that made my smooth, pretty-ass legs look more shapely. I snickered at the bitches whose faces cracked as I walked by with my black Hèrmes Lindy bag hangin’ in the crook of my arm. I had them bitches gaggin’ and droolin’. And Chanel kept it cute ’n sexy in a short white halter dress that showed off her thick thighs. She had on a bangin’ pair of tangerine-colored Dolce & Gabbana strappy sandals and rocked a fly-ass tangerine handbag. We both had our hair pulled up off our faces so the sun could hit the ice in our ears just right as we sauntered through the crowd, killin’ ’em.
A bitch’s pussy got real moist when I peeped Nas’s sexy ass, standin’ on the sidelines. Fat Joe—well, he ain’t so fat anymore—was out on the scene as well. And I spotted a few other hip-hop shakers ’n movers mixin’ and minglin’. Hunc Records was givin’ away prizes for makin’ free throws and different jump shots around the court. Of course, Sean Bell’s name was announced over the loudspeaker several times and folks cheered as his team slayed muhfuckas on the court. There was so much goin’ on ’round the court that a bitch had a hard time stayin’ focused. There was dick and body out for days! And there was also a slew of vultures waitin’ to swoop down on some hard cock. I had to pull out my binoculars so I could scan the sights without missin’ a damn thing.
Ugh! I let out a disgusted grunt when I spotted Cash’s ugly ass standin’ over by the fence talkin’ to a group of flossed-out niggas. I can’t even front, ugly or not, the nigga was dipped in a bunch of ice and had a bangin’-ass pair of black shades on his busted face. Crazy thing, I kept my eye on him longer than I shoulda, watchin’ him grab at his dick while he talked. I swear I thought I seen a big-ass lump danglin’ up in them designer sweats. For a split second, I wondered what the nigga’s dick game was really like since I had heard the muhfucka could fuck like a stallion. Oh, my God, the heat and the blunt I had smoked on the way up had a bitch buggin’ for real. I shook away the thought.
“What’s wrong?” Chanel asked, lookin’ ’round to see what I was lookin’ at.
“Nothin’,” I said, glancin’ at my watch. “What time is this shit over?”
“Why?” she asked, rollin’ her eyes. “You got a date with some dick or somethin’?”
I sucked my teeth. “No,” I shot back, “you my date, you sexy-ass ho.”
She chuckled. “So, then answer me this, smart-ass: why is two fly bitches sittin’ down instead of tryna see what’s good?”
