Birdie continued to curse and carry on while she collected her shit. She was all in her feelings, and she wanted Touch to pay for her humiliation. The audacity of this nigga to use her—to put that humongous dick of his inside of her, and she took it, and now he was kicking her out with nothing monetary to compensate her for her time.
“I’m a fuckin’ star! Only bitch-ass niggas kick out some good pussy.”
Touch had four levels of emotions—charming, quiet, angry, and deadly. With Birdie, he already had done charming, and he was now quiet while she ranted and raved inside his room. He wished she would wrap this up.
When Birdie couldn’t get Touch to react in any way toward her tantrums, it pissed her off even more. She charged toward him and slapped his face angrily. He didn’t even flinch. Immediately, Birdie knew she had gone too far. Touch’s cavalier demeanor transitioned into outrage, and he charged at her, grabbing a chunk of her long weave. He dragged her to the door in her bra and panties and tossed her out. Birdie kicked and screamed as he tossed her clothes behind her. Birdie found herself almost naked in the hotel hallway. One would think that she would be embarrassed and get dressed so she could tiptoe to her room and forget about the whole ordeal. Not Birdie. Her adrenaline was raging, and her ego was bruised. She banged, screamed, and cursed at Touch’s door so loudly that she could have woken up the dead.
The hotel guests were aghast at what they saw—a bitter and angry and nearly naked celebrity in the hallway. It was scandalous shit for sure. Hotel security had been called, and they had to eventually drag Birdie away.
By the next morning, TMZ, The Shade Room, and many other social media websites had footage of Birdie screaming like she was a mad woman. Some details were correct; she had been kicked out an unidentified man’s room half-naked.
3
Apple sat on the back porch with an ice-cold Corona beer in her hand. She watched her daughter Peaches playing in the backyard with Sophia and Eduardo Jr. They were in their swimsuits, splashing around in the pool with Kamel, who was giving them swimming lessons. Kola stood not too far away, making taco burgers on the grill. Apple had been there a few hours, and Kola said little; she was distant, her miscarriage still weighing heavily on her mind. Apple watched her sister. The way her eyes would squint low whenever she was in deep thought, or her nostrils would flare, spreading her thin, straight nose whenever angered were identical to her movements. Kola’s body, from her size six feet to her toned thighs, was like having a living mirror in front of her who was similar in every way except her mind. The two never thought alike. Apple had to admit that having Peaches spread her waist and fattened her ass somewhat, but their differences paled in comparison to their similarities.
Kola’s Westchester home was an active construction site. Kamel had hired several undocumented, unlicensed contractors to redesign the basement against Kola’s wishes. The two consistently argued over the strange men coming and going each week. Kamel wanted to flip houses to supplement their income, finally tired of living off of Eduardo’s money that was siphoned to his wife each month, and their home was his crash course. Apple knew her sharp tongue had played a significant role in him wanting to exert his independence again. Kola fretted about her husband filling the shoes of a general contractor—a position he had no experience in—and worried. She could afford to hire the best that money could buy, but he pleaded with her to allow him to do this his way. So she did.
The drywall, live wires, and exposed pipes gave her pause—the power tools, load-bearing walls, and gas lines made it seem like someone other than random men that Kamel picked up at the local Home Depot parking lot should be overseeing this project.
“Here,” Kola offered her sister a slider and took a seat next to her in the wicker wingback chair. “You got any weed?”
“On me?” Apple smirked. “Nah. You should have told me you wanted to light up. I would have copped you an ounce.”
Kola shrugged. “It’s all good.”
“Hey, what’s wrong wit’ you? You seem down.”
“I’m fine for now,” she explained. “But I think it’s time for you to take Peaches to live with you.”
“What? Why?”
Kola exhaled. “Because she’s your daughter and she misses her mom.”
Apple’s eyes narrowed as she got defensive. “She has a mom! And a good one, Kola, you know that! But it’s not fair to rip her away from Sophia and Junior. Let her stay throughout the year and then she’ll be ready to come home next summer.”
Kola was calm. “This isn’t a negotiation. Peaches has to go.”
“And those kids that aren’t even your blood get to stay? How is that fair to Peaches?”
“I want them gone too.”
Apple’s eyes widened from panic. Something bigger than Peaches was going on with her sister. “What do you mean you want them gone? You’re their mom.”
“I’m not, though.”
Apple wanted to scream at her sister, but she knew she couldn’t keep causing dramatic scenes. She needed to get her adult on if she wanted to help solve whatever problem Kola was dealing with.
Calmly, she replied, “Kola, all three of their parents are rotting away in Colombian prisons. You and Kamel are their guardians. If you don’t want them, where would they go? And don’t look to me.”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead, but I don’t want any children in my household. I’ve done my part, and I can’t do much more. And maybe if you stop being selfish, you could take them for a year or two, at least until I figure this out.”
Apple gasped. “Me?”
“We’re all we got.”
“Kola, what’s really going on? I can’t help if I’m in the dark, sis.”
“First, I shouldn’t have to explain to you why you need to take back your child. She’s your daughter, Apple. I don’t have to make that make sense to you. But if you really must know, since I got back from South Beach, I’ve been on meds.”
“What the fuck?”
“Relax,” Kola advised. The last thing she needed was Apple making her situation harder. The residue of losing Koke was still there at the surface of her heart. She couldn’t brush it off, because she felt doing so would be to push away her son’s memory. “I had too many bad days in a row, not able to get out of bed or stop crying. I want my son, Apple, and the pain was too much for me to endure. My therapist feels—”
“Therapist!”
“She feels that having the children around might be hindering my progress—triggering negative thoughts,” Kola tried to explain her position. “And also, the medication I’m on has made me a shell of myself. Like, I’m here, but I’m not, and the kids are picking up on it.”
“What’s Kamel doing to help you?” Apple was already shifting the blame.
“Kamel isn’t complaining. He’s trying to be understanding, but I’ve hardly been a wife lately. My sex drive is gone.”
“TMI, bitch.”
“It is what it is.”
Apple was silent. She felt terrible for Kola, she did, but this breakdown had come at the worst time possible. Apple had gotten used to visiting Peaches and had slept peacefully at night knowing that her daughter was in a loving two-parent home growing up with children who also spoke fluent Spanish. What could Apple offer? And she sure wasn’t ready to take on that responsibility times three.
Apple nodded and allowed the silence to change the subject for her. Not that she didn’t want her daughter, she just felt as though she should have some time to get South Beach out of her system. Apple still had pent-up energy and rage that needed to dissipate so she could be there for Peaches the way a mother should. She still hadn’t processed the death of Nicholas the way she wanted, nor had she come to terms with not seeing the life drain from Citi’s eyes. Apple was a warrior, and warriors wanted war. You can’t just click a switch and be content with soccer runs and PTA me
etings. And she hated to mention the obvious, but it was still summertime in one of the greatest cities in the world.
“I hear you, Kola.” Apple felt that would wrap up this miserable discussion. “Before I forget, I went to see Corey Davis in Dannemora.”
Kola gave her a quizzical look.
“He’s Nick’s dad.”
Kola quickly understood why. “That was fucked up how he went out, but you can’t blame yourself.”
Apple shrugged. “I do, though. My nights are lonely as fuck, and I want my man back. I want his strong arms to hold me once again . . . his presence was enough, I had what I needed, and selfishly I pushed him to give me more.”
“You did. It’s who you are, but that’s the beauty of growth. You can change and become a better, more thoughtful person, and it starts with you being a better mom to Peaches.”
“Didn’t I say that I would take my daughter soon?” That last line sent her over the edge. Apple gathered her things so she could exit. She screamed, “Peaches! Grab your things!”
“Huh, Mommy?” Peaches screamed from the pool. “Mommy, I didn’t hear you.”
Kola played right into Apple’s hands. “Leave her here for now, Apple. I don’t want you to take her while you’re this upset. I’ll manage my pain and place the kids first, but you should start looking for a three-bedroom apartment. Peaches starts school next year, so make sure it’s in a top school zone.”
“I live in SoHo. Even the public schools are tens. And what’s wrong with my two-bedroom?”
“Sophia and Junior?”
“You were serious?”
“What the fuck have I been saying? You think mental illness is not to be taken seriously?”
“What I know about that, Kola? All I can do is be here for you, so I will take the children until you get back on your feet.” Apple stood up and quickly embraced her sister. “But just not today.”
Apple polished off a couple more sliders, played with the kids, and bounced. She told Kola to give her a couple weeks to get her affairs in order, and then they could continue this discussion.
“Two weeks,” Kola warned.
Apple left Kola’s Westchester County home and headed south toward New York City. She merged onto the West Side Highway, which had become thick with bumper-to-bumper traffic. No way could she ride this out until she reached SoHo. Apple sat and waited in what looked like a parking lot from W148th Street to where she ultimately exited on W135th Street. The icy cool of the air conditioner was a needed comfort. It was so hot outside that Apple felt she would melt if she had to walk anywhere in this heat.
She steered her Maserati onto the inner-city blocks, and immediately, her sleek hundred-thousand-dollar vehicle was stirring up attention as she slowly cruised through her old stomping grounds: the projects. Not too many pricey cars came around this part of town. The drug dealers would push Beamers, Lexuses, Benzes, and SUVs, but a Maserati was on another level, and this was her second one.
As Apple slowly rolled down the block with all eyes on her, she noticed a dark blue Tesla Roadster exiting the project parking lot across the street. Behind the wheel of the luxurious vehicle was a young woman with wild pink-and-blue hair and equally wild eyes. The woman noticed the Maserati, and she pumped her brakes to get a closer look at the driver—another fly bitch. Both ladies stared at each other aggressively, and there was an exchange of negative energy between them. The woman smirked, and then she simply went on her way.
Apple stared at the Roadster until it turned off the block. She wondered who the bitch was. Not seeing any recognizable faces in her hood, she headed home.
The next morning, Apple woke up in a foul mood. Her two-bedroom apartment was hardly kid-friendly. Her modern tables with their sharp edges and do-not-sit-on furniture were scarcely conducive for raising three active, loud children. Fuck, this sucked. Apple turned on NY1 news and was reminded that Harlem Week was still in effect. She hadn’t attended the festivities since she was in her late teens. Maybe she was clinging to a time before she was a mom or feeling nostalgic about a time when there were fewer decisions to make, but she went. Apple had roughly two weeks to act a fool before she had to transform herself into mommy material. It was her turn. Kola had been holding her and Peaches down for years, so this was the least she could do.
Apple’s hair was loose today, flowing past her shoulders. She wore a short, gold, Betsey Johnson dress that hugged her curves and gold gladiator sandals. Knowing that most streets would be closed off this afternoon, she hopped on the A-train to Harlem. Forty minutes later, she was on 135th street. As soon as she climbed the subway stairs, she felt at home. She could already hear loud music coming from the street level above, car horns, bus engines revving up, people hollering—life. The smells and sounds were invigorating. Apple stood at the top of the subway steps and inhaled the aroma of roasted nuts, sauerkraut, and onions. People were bustling around enjoying the festivities.
Harlem Week was flooded with thousands of people on the city blocks temporarily restricted from vehicular traffic. There was people, food vendors, and booths everywhere. There was also what could be described as a car show on one block where there was a Porsche, a red Ferrari, a yellow Lamborghini, a few Bentleys, a Maserati, and several Range Rovers. The ballers came out in droves to showcase their exotic cars and hug the crowded block with their swag. All the get money bitches were swarming around the hustlers and cars like bees buzzing around flowers. The stickup kids were out too, preying upon the weaker links with dozens of cops patrolling the event for everyone’s safety.
As Apple snaked through the crowd, she ignored the catcalls, and it didn’t take her long to spot a couple familiar faces in the fray. IG and Hood were posted up on the corner directly across from the blocked-off avenue. Suddenly Apple felt a little insecure without her expensive whip. Quickly, she looked down at her clothing—yeah, she looked great.
“Oh, shit!” she heard. “Apple, is that you?”
Hood did a slow jog toward her and picked her up into a tight bear hug. He spun her around like they had history and then animatedly expressed how he missed her.
“Yo, I ain’t seen ya ass in a minute.” His grin was wide as his hands made many gestures. “You gon’ live a long fuckin’ time, yo.”
Apple could smell the weed. “What you smokin’ on?”
Hood grabbed her by her hand like they were boo’d up and walked her over to the corner where IG and Tokyo sat.
“Apple!” she heard.
“Apple, que pasa, mami!” IG yelled.
“What’s up, y’all?” Apple replied. She knew everyone from Lincoln projects but hadn’t seen Tokyo since she was a preteen. Tokyo was a few grades under her. Hood was the oldest, and IG grew up around her and Kola.
“Y’all smokin’ out here in the open like that? Five-oh ain’t doing shit?” Apple asked.
IG took a long pull and then passed his blunt to Apple. “Nah, they cool. They always chill each year as long as we keep the peace. Anyway, this shit ’bout to be legal.”
Apple nodded. Things had changed from when she used to come strolling through. Everyone would smoke and drink, but you had to hide it or else you were getting dragged to the precinct.
“What brings you around here?” IG asked.
“I missed my hood,” said Apple.
“Fo’ real? We glad you back. We heard about that shit in South Beach. You and Kola and that bitch from Brooklyn ain’t no fuckin’ joke. Y’all bitches know how to put in work.”
“We ain’t gonna be called too many bitches ’fore shit get personal,” Apple sternly warned him.
“My bad. No disrespect to you, Apple, but from what we heard y’all got busy.”
“You already know how we get down.”
“True, true,” IG agreed.
“Anyone else got the munchies?”
“I got you.” Sho
wing off, Hood handed Tokyo a C-note and told her to get them some snacks.
Apple felt right at home. She was posted on the hood of Hood’s hooptie, enjoying her life. She was continually receiving praises, love, and respect by men and women, young and old. She deserved it. With the work she’d put in over the years and the people she had looked out for, it was good to know that her neighborhood hadn’t forgotten about her.
4
Touch pulled back the throttle of his black-and-gold Ducati motorcycle, opening up the engine and accelerating to 85mph. The bike thrived on the highway; the thick tires were hugging the asphalt at high speeds with Touch in complete control. He crouched forward, his eyes focused ahead. His body leaned into a curve on the road as if his bike were an extension of him. He downshifted when he merged into traffic or a sharp corner, and then zigzagged between cars like a thoroughbred horse or NASCAR driver, hitting just the correct throttle to perfect a turn. The strong wind smacked against Touch’s helmet as he accelerated. It was exhilarating. He felt alive on his Ducati—just him and his bike, the world zooming past him. Touch rode toward the festivities of Harlem Week, jumped his Ducati onto the sidewalk, and came to a slow stop in front of a residential building on 132nd Street. Touch killed the engine, removed his helmet, and climbed off before tucking his gun in his waistband.
He wore black cargo shorts, a We Built This Joint For Free t-shirt that hugged his slim, muscular physique, a pair of fresh Jordans, and a Yankees fitted. At thirty years old, Touch was eye-candy to the ladies with his smooth brown complexion; low-cut soft hair; a thick, shapely mustache and beard; and his deep, baritone voice. Most of the time, he was an introverted person, not allowing anyone to get too close. His issue stemmed from when his mother left his father, Jorge, when he was seven years old for his father’s younger brother, and there were kids during the affair. So there were half brothers and sisters somewhere in the States who were also his cousins. The romance between his uncle and his mother was embarrassing to him, so he rarely talked about it. The awkward incident had cost him most of his childhood friends and affected his ability to commit to any woman.
Baddest Apple Page 3
