by Ca$H
If I were to attend a meeting while on tour, and word leaks out, the rumors will start up again. I need Raheem on tour with me. He was only able to stay with me three days when he flew into Charlotte after I had passed out on stage, then he had to return to Atlanta to run the clubs and do another party for some celebrity. The success of the party he did for Josh Smith has others calling him to hook them up. I’m happy that things are going well for Raheem, but I still wish that he was here with me. Absolutey no one can comfort me the way he can.
Adding to the stress that I’m already under, Preston is pressing me and Scare to play up the rumor that we are a couple.
“It’ll boost interest in the label,” he predicts.
“I feel you on dat,” Scare agrees with him.
“The label is already bubblin’! Our concerts are sellouts, and our faces are everywhere. I’m not playing my man like that,” I vehemently protest.
“Sparkle, fans wanna see a star with another star, not with an average Joe. No disrespect to Rah,” responds Preston, only concerned with the label, obviously.
So I go off!
“Dude, it is disrespectful to my man! I’ll give up this shit, walk away from it all, before I give up my man. Before I prostitute myself for your damn label! Raheem was there when none of the fame existed for me; when the only people who was a fan of mine was crack dealers! Raheem gave me the name ‘Sparkle’…gave me my sparkle back. So you can take this career that I now have and flush it down the damn toilet for all I care. I’m not Scare’s woman, I belong to one man only…Raheem!” I stand up from the table at the steakhouse, where the three of us are having dinner, and stormed out.
“Take me to the hotel!” I snap at the limo driver.
Alone, again, in my hotel room, a thousand miles away from my boo boo—and Mama is back in Jersey—the urge comes over me to do something that I have not done in over four years.
TWENTY-SEVEN
TAMIKA
Dayyum! I thought that I had seen it all when my girl Star parlayed being a ghetto ho into becoming a star in the porn industry. Uh, excuse me. Let me correct myself, adult film industry, as Star likes to refer to it. But porn by any other name is still porn, right?
I thought so.
As I was saying, I thought that I had seen it all. Now basehead Kayundra is an R&B star. Lord, what is this world coming to? And the bitch got the nerve to call herself Sparkle!
First, a jump off dyke sucks dick, and fucks her way to fame, now a fiend is on the cover of The Source? I could see if that fiend was Whitney, but Kayundra! Just a few years ago, she was selling pussy for crack fumes, now she’s all on BET, in magazines with a nigga so thugged out and fine if he was to hold her hand and walk down the street, you’d swear he was walking his dog.
The rap nigga Scare Me, who is rumored to be fuckin’ Kayundra (I’m not calling her no damn Sparkle!), is all of dat. Like LL, Pac, and Tyrese rolled into one. I guess if the rumors are true, Kayundra has kicked Rah to the curb now that she’s a big star.
I’ll keep it real, the dope fiend bitch can sing, and her CD is butta. Now people in the hood are acting like they’re a star just because someone from Little Bricks has made it. All I can say—and this ain’t hatin, it’s the truth—is that Kayundra ’bout to have enough money to smoke crack until her heart burst
“Don’t be so cynical,” Danyelle admonishes me. Me and big cuz are on the phone talking about Kayundra.
“I’m not. I’m just calling a spade a spade and a crackhead bitch a crackhead bitch,” I say.
Danyelle can’t help but to laugh.
“I predict that within two years the bitch will be back in the projects, on crack again, sucking dick for a rock.”
“Girl, you’re crazy! I’ma talk to you later.” Danyelle laughs.
“Bye.”
Speaking of rocks, the other day CJ bought me a diamond so clear I could see through it. And it’s the size of a grape. I still refuse to move back in with him, though. Why should I? He’s still married to the streets and all that comes with it, including other bitches. So I’m doing me. I’ve accepted that I can’t stop his ass from creeping no matter how much good coochie and slow neck I give him; no matter how hard I ride for his ass. Bottom line: he’s a ho.
A bitch ain’t just sitting around twiddling her thumbs while CJ runs up in different bitches. I got myself a young sweet dick nigga on the side.
Yep, it’s Nard, the one I was hollerin’ at. His eighteen-year-old dick can stay up long and strong, but hard dick and bubble gum ain’t never been enough for a bad bitch like myself, even if it’s just side-dick. Nard has a little something going on over on Dayton, where he’s from. Nothing major but he’s on the come up. I hit him off with a couple of kilos that I stole from CJ to help him bubble.
I’m the flyest bitch his young ass has ever gotten some holla from. My hood diva style, the fly whip I push, and the sexy clothes I wear had him sprung from the jump. Like every nigga in Newark, Nard has heard of CJ; in fact, he worships him without even realizing it. Once he found out that I’m CJ’s wifey, he wanted some of this hood celebrity pussy so bad he would’ve shot Obama had I told him to.
A thorough bitch like myself has too much game to give up the punanny easily to a baby face nigga whose pockets are lightweight. I knew that he was dying to run up in this then run and brag to his friends, “I fucked that nigga CJ’s broad, yo!”
I wasn’t about to clown CJ or myself like that. Besides, I had to train Nard from the start or he would be impossible to train later.
“If I said that I am a boss bitch, would you disagree with that?” I posed the question to Nard one day we were kicking it on the phone.
“Naw, shorty, you as boss as they come,” he’d quickly agreed.
I dial toned his ass.
When he called back I said, “Listen up, boo: call me back when you learn that my name is not ‘shorty’.” Another dial tone.
I was going to instill in Nard so much respect for me that he’d damn near be calling me “ma’am” by the time I let him hit this. I ignored his calls for a week before deciding to end his suffering. I made him apologize but I didn’t chump him. I’m molding a man not a mice. I’m going to turn him into a boss hustla and the average ho’s dream, while keeping him looking up to this bitch. Much like it used to be with CJ before money, power, and all the other shit changed him.
Don’t get it twisted, I know I’m still CJ’s wifey, and it’s not like he’s dragging a bitch. Trust, he keeps me designer down to the thong. But I’m not CJ’s everything anymore, like when he used to stand outside slangin’ rocks in below zero weather, tryna come up; knocking on my door so that he could step inside and warm up. Then it was back on the grind, getting it up so that he could keep me happy.
Back then if CJ wasn’t on the grind, he was chillin’ with me. I was second to nothing.
I’m training Nard to see a bitch in that regard. I had him on probation for three months; even set certain standards Nard had to hustle up to before I could take him seriously.
“Any nigga in his right mind would want to fuck me. Most wanna claim and possess me, buy me things and show me off. Few deserve to do either, and only one has earned the right to do them all,” I told him.
“I guess you talkin’ ’bout CJ. Yo, I get tired of hearing about that nigga!”
“I give CJ props, Nard, because he has earned that. Only a trifling ho fails to acknowledge what’s real. Imagine how you would feel if you did all the things for a chick that CJ has done for me, and the bitch acted like what you did for her wasn’t nothing,” I explained in order to repair the damage done to a man’s pride when you throw another nigga up in his face; a superior nigga at that.
“I feel you,” Nard humbled down.
“If you’re the nigga that I believe you are, one day I’ll speak your name with that same respect. And the streets will, too. Just remember, behind every major nigga there’s a woman. She may play the background, or just stay at hom
e and make sure that everything is butta when her man comes out of the streets and needs the comfort of her touch to relieve the stress that the game puts on him, but she’s necessary to his success.
“The streets don’t know it, but without me CJ wouldn’t be running things; he’d be in prison, waiting for me to send him commissary money,” I explained.
Me and Nard were chillin’ at his brother Man Dog’s crib in East Orange that day. Man Dog, who is five years older than Nard had started kicking it with my girl Lemora; the two of them were in the bedroom making the bed creak. I wasn’t giving Nard the pussy; I was giving him something more valuable: I was giving him game.
“Why you even hollerin’ at me? I can’t give you shit compared to what CJ gives you,” Nard replied, sounding discouraged.
“That’s where you’re wrong, baby,” I said, kissing him softly. “You can give me devotion, which CJ does not.”
And that wasn’t game.
First, I had to help Nard grow his bank up, because a devoted nigga with small stacks can’t please a bitch. Nard eyes did a double-take when I hit him with two whole kilos the next day.
‘Handle yo’ business, baby. Just don’t shit on a bitch.”
It took Nard about a week to flip the kilos. Once he was ready to re-up, I hit him with with another two. After that I encouraged him to find a connect, which he did.
So now I’m going to give Nard a little reward.
I pick Nard up from Man Dog’s place and we get a room at a hotel way out in South Orange.
At the hotel, Nard is anxious to get what I’ve been denying him for the past three months.
“Slow down, baby,” I say as he tears out of his clothes.
I take in his physique as I slowly peel off my tight Capri pants.
Packing about eight inches…that’ll work, six pack, nice chest. Okay, we can do this.
When I’m naked I turn around to place my clothes on the dresser and to give Nard a shot of this phat ass. I make it wiggle for him.
“You like that?” Talking over my shoulder.
“Mmmhmm,” he replied walking up behind me and rubbing my booty.
I reach back and stroke his dick.
“Wrap up, baby, I’m ready for some of this,” I coo.
I allow Nard to fuck me hurriedly. I understand that I’m the bitch of his dreams so he’s excited. I knock his young ass out cold, with a bomb shot of this good pussy of mine. Then I wake him up with a lot of spit on his dick. I spend the next two hours teaching him how to please me.
“Every woman is different. What turns on one chick might turn off the next, so you have to learn to listen to my body talk; it’ll let you know what it likes,” I tell him as I wrap my thighs around his head.
Nard isn’t CJ, but, naked with my eyes closed, I hardly know the difference by the time I finish teaching him how to take me there.
Lemora and Man Dog aren’t kicking it anymore, which is cool because I have begun to see envy in the bitch. Bottom line: she resented the fact that I had schooled Nard so well that Man Dog now works for him. Lemora can’t stand seeing me with the money-nigga, while she gets the lieutinent. She now knows that CJ is my man and she’s envious of that, too. I should’ve known that I can’t become cool with a bitch; they are just too damn petty and envious.
I pull up over Lemora’s crib, going to pick up the five hundred dollars that I loaned the bitch two weeks ago.
“Whud up, girl,” Lemora greets me, letting me into her apartment.
“Nothin’, just came to pick that up.”
She grabs my hand and admires my new rock.
“Nard?” she asks.
“Of course not! His money isn’t grown enough to be able to afford this. CJ bought me this,” I say.
“You must lick that niggaz ass to get him to cop you jewels like that,” Lemora cracks.
“Nah, bitch, I do what those that don’t know can’t tell you, and those of us who do know, won’t tell you.” I shut her down.
The envy in her eyes is as thick as bifocals.
“Anyway, let me get that so I can bounce.”
“Oh, I don’t have it all,” the bitch claims.
I let out an exasperated sigh. “How much you got?”
“Seventy-five.”
“Seventy-five! Bitch I know you’re kidding.”
“Nope, that’s all I got,” she says, hands on hips.
I’m tempted to slap the ho silly but instead I just say, “Lemora, you’re a jealous-hearted bitch! By right, I should be all up in your shit about my money, but five-hundred is not even worth breaking my nails over. So keep that shit; and try to buy some game with it, ’cause you’ll never bag a money-gettin’ nigga until you learn not to hate on the next bitch!”
I leave the bitch standing there with her hands on her hips, wishing that she was me.
TWENTY-EIGHT
STEPHANIE
Things have reached the point to where CJ is going to have to decide if he wants to be a part of Loran and Leron’s lives or not. I will not continue to beg him to come visit his children nor will I continue to allow him to pop in and out of our lives at his convenience.
It’s been almost a year since I went to New Jersey, with the twins in tow, and confronted CJ’s woman with the evidence that CJ had fathered my children. I had found out where CJ lived by going through his wallet. Maybe I was wrong for that, but I was tired of CJ hiding us from Tamika as if our existence meant less to him than his relationship with her did. Which I see is true, because since the incident CJ has only visited the twins once.
I’ll call Raheem up; maybe he can talk to his boy.
I get right into the gist of my problem as soon as Raheem answers his cell.
“Raheem, I hate to bother you with my problems but this situation with CJ is really sad. I can’t get him to call or visit the twins with any consistency and it’s having an adverse effect on Loran and Leron.”
“Steph, I don’t know what to tell you. I’ve talked to CJ over and over again about that, but I can’t make a man do what he doesn’t wanna do. I was hoping that he was just mad at you, and that he would visit the children more often once his anger dissolved. But…I guess that’s not the case.”
“I’m going to demand that CJ set up a visitation schedule where he’ll visit the twins every other weekend and call to speak with them at least twice a week. If he does not agree to that, I’m not going to allow him to see them at all,” I say as my emotions get the best of me, and I begin crying. “How can CJ just act as if the twins don’t exist? What type of man does that?” I sniffle.
“I don’t know what to say, Steph,” Raheem replies, and I find myself getting upset with him. Of course I have no reason at all to be upset with Raheem; he has always given me a shoulder to cry on, and he is a wonderful “uncle” to my babies.
“You don’t have to say anything, Raheem,” I say. “Just listening to my problems is enough. I’m sorry, how is Kayundra doing? I don’t get to see her much now that she’s a big star.”
“She’s good. Still on tour.”
“I’m so happy for you guys. Well, I’m going to call CJ and see if we can come to some type of agreement concerning his visiting the twins.”
“A’ight. Steph, don’t make it seem like a confrontation, or CJ will call your bluff,” Raheem advises me, but I am so done with catering to Mr. CJ’s ego.
“I won’t be bluffing,” I say with conviction.
“Good luck.”
It is time for CJ to realize that being a parent is an every day responsibility. The little bit of love that he shows for our children, sporadically, never fills them up, it only teases them. Just when the twins were getting accustomed to their daddy visiting and calling, he just stopped. I try to fill the void but Loran and Leron aren’t always appeased.
“Mommie, I want my Daddy!” cried Loran yesterday.
“Where’s Daddy?” Leron chimed in.
How can any parent claim to love their children and not even
pick up the phone and check on them for months?
What really melts my butter is when CJ, after months of neglecting the twins, pops up out of the blue with a carload of clothes and toys for them, like he’s fucking Santa Claus.
My children don’t need Santa Claus in their lives, they need a father, all year around.
I have given up trying to encourage CJ to get out of the streets before it’s too late; something that, yes, I’ve tried to do in the past. CJ thinks that he’s invincible. I hate to say it because he’s the father of my children, but CJ’s demise is imminent, and I predict that when it happens it’s not going to be pretty. CJ believes that he can outrun fate; that he does not have to reap what he has sown.
I beg to differ.
I love CJ and I hate him. I love him for what he could be, and I hate him for what he is. Not the “drug dealer” part of him; I knew what he did for a living from the start, so I can’t put him down for it now. It’s his arrogance and his lack of devotion to our children that I despise.
I guess, in the back of my mind I believed that I could get CJ to love me and the children; a challenge that I have obviously lost. CJ does not love us, he never has. Who and what he loves is manifested in where he spends his time: the streets and his street woman, Tamika, is what and who he loves. Every time the children cry for their daddy, and I call or text him and get no answer, I hate CJ more and more.
This time, when I call he answers his phone.
“Sup?”
What’s up? After ignoring my calls for weeks…no months...he asks “what’s up?”
Instantly I lose it!
“What the fuck do you think is up, CJ? YOUR FUCKING CHILDREN!” I scream.
“Fuck you cussin’ at?”
“Who am I talking to!?” I snap.
“You need to ask yourself that question,” he counters, and I imagine a smug look is on his damn face.
“I want to know why haven’t you called to check on Leron and Loran? They could be sick, kidnapped, anything! I bet you know where Tamika’s at and how she is doing.”
