by Ni-Ni Simone
She should have exercised better judgment.
But nooooo! That girl’s thighs were like a set of glass doors, just sliding open for anything with a pulse and a pet rock.
Her hot pocket had more miles on it than—
Brrrring. Brrrrring. Brrrrrrrring.
Oh no, oh no, ohhhhh noooooo!
Now she was ringing my home line. And I knew it was Rich because no one else had the number to the Batgirl line, except her.
I didn’t answer.
Nope.
But in true stalker fashion, Rich kept coming—oops, heehee—I meant, calling and calling. Two times, three times, four times, then times that by three.
Ugh.
She could be obnoxiously annoying, like a bad rash that wouldn’t go away no matter how many tubes of ointment you used.
I finally answered on the fifth ring. Not saying a word. I just clutched the phone and listened to the grizzly roar.
“Hello? Hello? Spencer? Spennnnnncerrrrrr? I know you’re on the other end of the phone. I know you know it’s me calling you, trick! Don’t do me! Don’t. Do. Me!”
Click.
Last I checked, she said our friendship was over and she chose that junkie, Heather, over me, and now she wanted to call moí?
Oh, uh, no ma’am. I don’t think so! I don’t play leftovers to anyone.
Rich could kiss my sweet—
Brrrrring. Brrrrrrrring.
She rang my line again.
This time I snatched it off the receiver. “Whaaaaat?!”
“Turn up! Turn up! Tuuuuuuurn upppppp! Boom-bop-drop-it-like it’s-hot! Stop what you’re doing. I gotta bottle and some tea on fleek . . . !”
“The number you’ve dialed has been disconnected,” I said, imitating a computerized voice. “Please hang up and try your number again.”
Click.
I slammed the phone back down onto the receiver.
But being hung up on didn’t deter her. The ole pesky flea called my cell again.
“I saaaaaid, turn up! Turn upppppp!” she yelled the minute I picked up. “I got some tea to pour! Yes, hunni, yassss!”
“What tea, Rich? I told you I don’t drink that mess. It stains your teeth. But since you keep pressing me to sip with you, I’ll let you pour me a half a cup. And it better be the good juicy kind. Or I’m going to toss it back in your face. Now start pouring, girlie.”
“Wellllll, get your cup out, honey! And let me let you sip on this right quick. Honey, I just left Heather’s house, and she was prancing around in a pair of boxer shorts! Yassss, honey, yasssss! Heather is a rug chewer. Carpet Fresh all in her mouth! That girl is a fish kisser. She was bumper-to-bumper with—”
I rolled my eyes up in my head. Rich was an exhausting liar!
“Oh please, Rich. Heather is not prancing around wearing boxer shorts. That girl likes coochie-cutters, the yeast-building kind.”
“Ohhhhmygooodness, Spennnnncer! You’re so brain-dead. So stupid! So, so pink helmet special.”
I blinked. “Um. Who is this again?”
“Spennnnnnncer! Spennnnnncerrrrr! Get it together. Who do you think it is? Who else would call you a dumbo to your face? Or—wait, in your ear on the phone?”
I pursed my lips. “I don’t know. Tell me.”
She sucked her teeth. “It’s me, stupid. Rich. The only one who halfway likes you, girl. Don’t act like you don’t know me, Spennnnncer!”
“Umm, what did you say your name was again?”
“Whore, don’t play stupid with me, although I know that’s not easy for you not to do since it comes natural. You’re naturally dumb, Spencer. But I forgive you. It’s your mother’s fault.”
I bit into my bottom lip. Counted to sixteen. “Two . . . four... six... eight . . . ten . . . twelve . . . fourteen... sixteen . . . What do you want, Rich, huh? A country ham? A biscuit sopped in man gravy?”
“Ewwww! Clutching pearls! Tramp, don’t do me! I like my man’s gravy fresh out the can. Not slopped on some damn biscuit, girl. You know I’m on a low-carb diet!”
I shook my head. “Have you been drinking?”
Rich groaned. “Ohhhhhhmygod, Speeeeeeencer! What are you, my Breathalyzer now? My twelve-stepper? Get up off my tongue, girl. You are team too much right now. You stay doing the most! Yeah, I had me a little taste. So what? I’m a grown woman. And I know how to handle mine, hon.”
I clucked my tongue several times, and wondered how many times she stood in the middle of her bedroom—slathered in sparkles and wrapped in a tutu, with a giant horn propped up on her head, spinning around the room thinking she was a magical unicorn.
Mmmph. Probably every day.
I yawned. “Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Rich. Whatever. You—”
“Wait, hold that thought,” she said, rudely cutting me off. “I think that’s my man calling in.” She pauses, then says, “Oh, no. False alarm. It wasn’t him.”
“I swirled my eyeballs up and around in my head. “Which him, Rich?”
“Don’t do me, Spennnncerrrrr! My real love, girl! Justice! Who else? You know I was searching for a real love, someone I could call my own. And I have him. Big, strong, strapping chocolate. That’s the only man for me! Stop being so forgetful. You know me and my bae got that real love; don’t hate!”
“Girlie, bye.”
Click.
Oooh, that girl gives me a bad case of the cramps, I thought, eyeing my cell ring as Rich’s theme song played. I knew Rich. She would keep this up alllllll gotdiggity-dang night unless I gave in.
I sighed. “Umm, yessssss, Rich. How may I direct your call?”
“Don’t do me, Spennnncerrrrrr! So, how’s your house? Is it burned down to the ground, yet? Can I come over to assess the damages?”
“My house is just fine, chickie. And, nooo, you may not come over here to assess a dang thing. You’re not invited, or welcomed, here. Go on back over to Beverly Hills and play friends with Heather. I’m . . .”
“Well, get over yourself, Spennnncerrrrr! It’s too late! ’Cause I’m at the door.”
I blinked. “What door?”
“This door, ditsy,” she announced, swinging open the double doors to my suite. She held her phone in one hand and a leather bag in the other, while her purse dangled in the crook of her left arm. “And Heather and Knox are dating the same girl.”
She sat the bag up on one of the marble tables.
I rolled my eyes at her. “Rich, bye. What girl are you talking about?”
She sighed, plopping down on my chaise, dropping her purse to the floor. She adjusted her earpiece, kicking her heels off.
“That hooker-ho that broke up my life. Tore up my love life! Stole my man from me. Nikki, honey, Nikki! Her and Heather are—”
I eyed her, shifting my phone from one ear to the other. “Trick, please. You broke up your own life. Who’s more of a hooker-ho than you?”
Rich reached for one of her shoes and tossed it at me. But it missed, hitting a wall instead. “Bish, don’t try me!”
I eased back on my bed, watching her watching me as we talked on the phone. “Girl, face it. You’re the biggest whore in the world. You’re transatlantic. Internationally known. And how dare you call here, calling me about Heather, like I give a damn about whose carpet she’s been cleaning! Heather’s a lot of things, but she is no carpet cleaner. That girl hasn’t lifted a dustpan in her life. And it shows with all those nasty little dust bunnies all around her baseboards.” I shot her a nasty look. “So don’t come here with your lies, telling me nothing about that girl. Or I’m going to hang up and throw you out of my house. Now try me.”
She threw her other shoe. But it flew over my head, smacking up against my armoire. “Tramp, lies! I had front-row tickets to the Vagina Monologues starring Heather and that man-stealing whore, Nikki!”
I slammed the phone down on her, then hopped off my bed, pointing a finger in her face. “Get out of my house, Rich. Now.”
She ignored me, pressing a butto
n on her phone. My house phone rang again.
I blinked.
Rich tilted her head. “Oh, so you’re really not going to answer the phone, huh, Spennnncerrrr, huh?” She slapped my hand down. “You’re just going to stand there watching the phone ring, knowing I’m sitting here calling you, huh, Spennnnncerrrrrr? Fine, don’t answer it.”
“Get out, Rich.”
She ignored me again. This time her theme song started playing on my cell.
“Ohmygod, Spencer! I used to love this song, girl!” She started bopping her head, throwing her hand up and singing along. When the call went into voice mail, she called back. “Yasssss, ho, yassssss! You did that!”
I giggled, then clapped my hands and shimmied my shoulders forward and back, singing the hook. Then I said, “You stay doing ho activities, gotdang it!”
“Yassss, yassss. I love me some good ho activities. Wait a minute! I know you’re not trying to say I’m a ho, are you?”
I waved her on. “Girl, no. Ludacris is.”
“Oh, okay,” she said, getting up from the chaise, “’cause I was about to say . . .”
“I know, I know. Don’t do you,” I finished for her, giggling.
She gave a dismissive wave. “Girl, no. I was getting ready to say the grass ain’t always greener on the other side. Hoing ain’t easy.”
I blinked.
Alrighty then . . .
“Annnnnyway”—she pulled out a bottle of Ace of Spades—“get your mind right, Spennncer. I bought us some bottles to turn up with.”
She popped the cork, and I licked my lips. My mouth watered. I hadn’t sipped on my favorite champagne in weeks.
“Oh, so we friends again?” I asked, staring at the sparkling elixir as the bubbles rose to the top of our glasses.
“Until the drinks are gone,” Rich stated, handing me a flute.
I pursed my lips. “Then let’s drink up, so you can get the hell out of my house.”
We clinked our glasses.
27
Spencer
Forty-five minutes later, Rich and I were stretched out across my bed, guzzling down the second bottle of champagne. We were on our stomachs with our bare feet dangling in the air, passing the bottle back and forth.
I listened to Rich go on and on about Heather and that Nikki girl. I decided to keep my fluffy lips shut, and just take it all in.
The dirt.
The filth.
Ooh, it sounded simply too scandalous and too dang juicy to be true. But what if it wasn’t gossip? What if Heather really was a carpet cleaner? What if Rich really did walk in on Heather combing through Nikki’s rug with her tongue?
I couldn’t stand Heather. But, but, oooh, but . . . I couldn’t stand the thought of not knowing if Rich spewed lies from her hot, drunken mouth. Or if that laser surgery she’d had really had given her clearer vision, and she really did see what she claimed.
As if reading my juicy thoughts, Rich punched in the pass code to her phone, then slid it over to me. “Trick, you don’t believe me,” she said. “Then feast your eyes on tomorrow’s headlines.”
I snatched her phone up and slid a finger over the screen.
My jaw dropped open. Heather’s tongue was tied up in Nikki’s mouth.
Deargodsweetjeezus.
The truth did set me free.
I’d seen the light.
Heather Suzanne Cummings was the new Rainbow Brite.
“Seee, girrrrrrlll,” Rich slurred. “I told you Heather was a carpet cleaner, shampooing rugs with her spit and lips.”
I shuddered, then eyed Rich as she grabbed the neck of the champagne bottle. She took it straight to the head. Gulped some down her short neck. Then belched. “When that liquor gets up in me, I’m a beast, girrrrllll. These boys don’t want it with me.”
Oh, wow . . . how random was that?
See. Whore.
See. Rich.
I popped my lips. “Uh-huh. I know they don’t.” I reached for the bottle, then took two swigs of the bubbly. “But I’m so not interested in that. Rich, I’m going to ask you this four more times. And don’t you lie to me, like you’ve been doing.”
“Girrrrrrrl,” Rich garbled. “You know I don’t lie. I’ve been baptized. Saved. And born again.”
“Mmmmhmmm. Keep on lying, Rich. Now tell me the truth. Are you pregnant?”
“Whaaaaaat?! Clutching pearls! How dare you insult me, ho? I practice safe sex, hon! Except for that one time when I slipped up and gave one of my one-night stands a little taste, two years ago. But that’s been it. I use the withdrawal method. Ain’t nobody shooting water guns up in me. No ma’am. I push, push, pull out! Don’t do me. I gotta spring in my coochie! I pops ’em out!”
Ugh. Yes, yes, yessss. She was a nasty, low-down, dirty trollop. The only thing stopping her from being a good whore was the fact that she didn’t have a price on it. She just gave it away. Always running a two-for-one sale.
Just nasty.
Mmmph.
She snatched the bottle from me, and took a sip, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “So to answer your question: No, I’m not pregnant. God, Spencer. I can’t believe you’d ask me some mess like that. Not after what I went through with Knox. Being up on that table in Arizona was too much for me. No, ma’am. I learned my lesson. I’m done with being some boy’s dumping ground. Next . . .”
I craned my neck and let my gaze flutter over her wide hips, then around her pudgy waistline. I narrowed my eyes. “Okay, if you say so. Now tell me. Is that chocolate thug daddy stomping on you? Because I still remember when he put his hands on you and I had to go upside his watermelon with my nunchucks.”
“And like I told you then, Spencer. He didn’t hit me.”
“Okay. He was choking you. Same difference. He still put his hands on you. So let me know, now, so I can run up on him and crack his skull open. Then gut his kidneys out.”
“Lies! He was not! And choking and hitting are two different things. So stop dumb-thugging. It’s so not cute.”
Dumb-thugging?
“You know I’m against violence, whore!”
“Then what’s that lump upside your head? Who put it there, Justice?”
“Nooo. I was beaten by a grown man.”
I batted my eyes. “Whaat? Who was he? Tell me now,” I said getting my hype on. Now I’ll go upside her head, but no one else had better touch her. “Now who was it?”
Rich belched. Then said, “His name is Heather.”
I blinked. “Heather?”
“Yes. Heather Suzanne Cummings and her wino mother, Camille, jumped me.”
My mouth dropped. Dear God.
This girl was delusional.
Next thing I knew, I’d slapped Rich upside her face.
“Oww, bish! Why’d you hit?”
“Because you’re drunk talking and you’re lying. And you’re taking up for some boy who’s been beating on you! Heather and her mother did not lump you. That thug daddy did. So stop with your lies!”
Rich gave me an incredulous look, holding her face. “No, my man doesn’t put his hands on me! He loves me. So don’t ever accuse my man of putting his hands on me. He would never. I wish he would. Next.”
Rich flipped over on her back, then shot up from the bed. “Oh no, oh no, hooker! Not tonight you won’t! I warned you before, ho! Stay out of my business! You’re not for me. You’re against me. Then you wonder why I don’t do you. All in my panties and my relationship like you’re the next Iyanla Vanzant. Girl, bye! You can’t fix my life! Fix your own! My life is fabulous!”
“Whaaat?”
She stomped over to the chaise and snatched up her handbag. “I didn’t come here for that, tramp! I came over here to pour tea and turn up! Not be insulted by the likes of some thot!”
I blinked. Blinked again. Then had to talk myself out of running up and hopping on her, gouging her eyeballs out from the back. Oooh, she was lucky I’d changed my ways, or I would have snatched my lighter from
off the dresser and singed her dang edges off. Ooh, I had a taste for a good dang fight. But I knew Rich was no real match for me. So I dismissed the idea. No matter how sweet the thought was.
“Umm, where are you going?”
She whirled around, eyes wide, glassy, and crazed. “Home, you ungrateful skank!”
“Rich, you’ve had too much to drink. I don’t think you should be on the road. You can sleep outside in the gazebo on one of the lounge chairs.”
“Gazebo? Outside? Trick, I’m not some homeless charity case! I don’t do lounge chairs unless I’m riding cowgirl! I’m a grown woman! Kiss my—”
“And you’re drunk,” I said calmly.
“I am not! You see me stumbling? You see me tripping over my feet? No. I handles mine, boo-boo. So don’t worry about my liquor intake. Worry about your own.”
“Rich, really, you shouldn’t be behind the wheel. You don’t have to sleep outside. You can sleep in one of the maids’ quarters.”
“Whaaat? Clutching pearls! Oh, so now I’m the help! Oh no, Miss Celie. Not me. I’m out!”
She swung open the doors.
“Don’t leave, Rich.”
“Girl, bye! Now watch all this fabulousness shake out the door!”
I pursed my lips. Tilted my head.
Okay then... have it your way, booger-boo.
I grabbed my cell, then sauntered over toward the window and peered out. I waited until Rich got inside her Bugatti, revved the engine, then spun off, her wheels screeching as her rear end fishtailed around the circular driveway. She drove around in circles twice before zipping down the driveway.
A smile eased over my lips as the gates opened and she sped off.
I placed my call.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
“There’s a drunk on the road. And her name is Rich Montgomery . . .”
28
Rich
My life has gone straight to hell in a media frenzy hand-basket. I was on every freakin’ blog, gossip rag, and E! News, and for once I didn’t wanna be.
I couldn’t believe I was in jail. Jail! Picked up for underage drinking and drunk driving.
I looked at the processing officer as she handed me a clear plastic bag with my car keys and half of my jewels missing.
