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I set my oversize Balenciaga bag up on the counter.
“Oooh, girl, that bag is sharp. I noticed it when you walked through the door. Is it real?”
I see this bitch wants me to punch her in her throat! I raise my brow. “Miss Girl, don’t do me, sugah boo. You gonna have me reach around and slice you. You know better.”
She laughs. But I don’t see shit funny. “You know I’m only messing with you. I know how you do it, girl. All I can say is, for someone who doesn’t work, you always stay fly.”
“What you mean, I don’t work? I work. Shit, I’m still raisin’ seven kids. Trust me. That’s a job-in-a-half, boo.”
“You’re definitely right about that. Still, I always wonder how you maintain your lifestyle.” She leans in, looks around, then lowers her voice to almost a whisper. “You still doing those credit cards?”
See. Now this bitch’s crossin’ the line. Let me tell you about Miss Messy, she’s a silent hater. Always has been, always will be. But the bitch covers it up with fake smiles and sugary compliments, then tries to slip in some kind of slick remark like I don’t peep the shit. So do you really think I’d tell this nosey ho if I was or wasn’t? No. The only things she and I can ever talk about are shoes, handbags, and dick sizes. Oh, and salon gossip. That’s it.
I glance up at the clock. It’s 10:54 A.M. My appointment was at ten-thirty. Pasha should be walkin’ in any minute.
Felecia leans up on the counter. “Ooooh, wait. I knew there was somethin’ I wanted to ask you. Chiiiiiiiiiiile, have you been up on Facebook lately?”
I blink. I don’t mean no harm here. I like Miss Felecia. I really, really do. But this bitch is too goddamn gossipy and nosey. She loves runnin’ those big, dick-suckin’ lips of hers. And those kinda bitches you have to watch with both eyes open, at all times. Still, we cool! Bottom line, she knows if I ever catch her wrong, I’ll beat her ass right.
“Miss FeFe, I haven’t been up on that shit in weeks. Why?”
“Chile, more Alicia and Shuwanda drama. Alicia been fuckin’ her man behind her back . . . ”
I frown. “Wait. Not that niggah, Melvin, with them big, ashy-ass lips?”
She nods. “Girl, the one and only.”
“Mmmph, these bitches have no standards; just fuck any ole niggah.”
“Girl, tell me about it. And they say he has one of them big, long, ashy dicks with all that extra skin hangin’ from it.”
I twist my face up. “Ugh!”
“Tell me about it. And now the two of them done got into it. It’s all up on Facebook. Honeeeey, they slinging mud at each other like it’s nobody’s business.”
“Well,” I say, pullin’ out my cell as it vibrates, “I’ve never featured them hoes any way. Both of ’em fuckin’ triflin’ if you ask me. By the end of next week, them bitches will be right back drinkin’ and sluttin’ around together.”
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I glance at the screen, rollin’ my eyes. It’s a text from Marcellus, one of my thick-dicked baby fahvers. This niggah’s Baby Daddy Number Three. And fahver to my seventeen-year-old son, Marquelle. More about this six-foot-five, two-hundred-forty pound niggah some other time. I open the message. IM GONNA P/U QUELL FROM SKOOL 2MORROW
“Mmmph, you’re probably right. When I heard they had a three-some I knew it was gonna eventually be a problem. It always is.”
I text back. IS HE STAYN DA NITE?
I look up from my phone, shakin’ my head. “Them bitches deserve each other.”
“Cass, girl, you haven’t even heard the best part. Chile, they’ve been lickin’ each other’s pussies on the low.”
“Nothin’ those bitches do surprise me.”
She frowns. “Still, that’s some nasty shit.”
“How you know it’s nasty? Have you tried it?”
“Hell, no. I don’t get down with that.”
I shrug. “Well, Boo, different strokes for different folks. They grown ass women so if that’s what they do, then that’s what they do. Why you care?”
