The Kat Trap

by Cairo

  A week later, B-Love was bein’ buried. The church was packed. Bitches and niggas were e’erywhere. His poor mother cried and passed out. His sister fell into his coffin and had to be dragged up outta there. Oh, it was a mess. Some of his niggas swore on their seed’s head that they would bring it to whoever murked him. Chicks he fucked and was still fuckin’ before I smashed his lights out were all hysterical ’n shit. And that fuckin’ ho, Patrice, even had the nerve to show her face. I guess the bitch thought I wouldn’t turn it up at a funeral. Please. The minute I saw her ass up at the coffin, I jumped up and charged her. And me and this ho rocked.

  “Bitch!” I screamed, “I told you be ready to fight whenever I saw your slutty ass.” We were gettin’ it in right there in front of his casket. Funny thing, neither one of us spit out our razors to use on the other. Humph…go figure! “You still want him, bitch?” I yelled, slappin’ and punchin’ the shit outta her. We turned the church out. B-Love’s nephews and a few of his boys had to pull us apart. “Get that bitch outta here ’fore I kill her!” I screamed, before fallin’ down to my knees. I broke down cryin’. If that wasn’t an Academy Award–winning performance, then dammit, I don’t know what was.

  His body wasn’t even in the ground good, and I was already back at our spot packin’ my shit. Besides the money, jewels, and furs, I walked outta there with e’erything that wasn’t glued or nailed down, never lookin’ back.

  Although a lotta niggas in the hood was sayin’ B-Love was set up, the cats in blue had already figured it was an inside job. But they didn’t invest much time or energy into tryna track down his killer—the bitch who had sat right in front of ’em with snot and spit flyin’ e’erywhere. Although I wasn’t a suspect, they called me in for questionin’ again, but nothin’ came of it, so they had to let it go. As far as they were concerned, B-Love was just one less dealer on the streets, destroyin’ lives and bringin’ down the community. They would eventually close the case as another murder unsolved. And a bitch like me would get away with slumpin’ a nigga—again.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Okay, since you know how I get down, you can see slumpin’ muhfuckas comes easy to me. My first two bodies were strictly personal ’cause a bitch felt wronged. As far as I was concerned, they deserved what they got. Not only for me, but for anyone else they fucked over. But a bitch ain’t on that revenge shit anymore.

  I ain’t gonna front. A bitch was mad nervous the first time I had to actually body a nigga that hadn’t disrespected me, or tried to play me close. I mean, blastin’ a nigga who fueled my anger was one thing, but killin’ a muhfucka who I had no beef with, was a whole ’nother situation, feel me? But trust. I promised myself that I would never murk anyone else for personal reasons. Well, okay, not at the moment. ’Cause on some real shit, if a muhfucka tried to play me again—I just might have to take his head off. I really can’t say I wouldn’t slump his ass, feel me?

  Anyway, no matter what type of beef I might have with another bitch, I will never, ever, push a slug in her ass. I’d either fight the ho with my hands, or slash her ass up with a blade. But killin’ another chick was and will always be a no-no. Well, that is, unless the bitch is tryna body me, then it’s open season for an all-out slaughter. And I’m definitely not fuckin’ with political figures. That comes with too many risks—well, at least for me.

  Anyway, I had made this very clear to Cash when I agreed to work with him. No chicks, no children, no niggas caught up in politics. And I meant it. Anythin’ else was fair game.

  Call me what ya want, contract killer, hit man—or in my case, the hit bitch. The only difference between me and the others in the murder game is that I added my own twist to the shit. As you already know, I fuck the niggas first. Twisted or not, I don’t give a fuck. As far as a bitch like me is concerned, ain’t no sense in takin’ a nigga’s life without givin’ him a taste of pussy for the last time. Call it mercy fuckin’. I mean, on some real shit, the nigga’s already ’bout to catch it, so why not fuck ’im, feel me? Hell, it’s the least a bitch who loves to fuck could do. In the end, I get to get my fuck on without niggas tryna put my shit on blast, and get paid in the process. A bitch can’t beat that.

  On some real shit, though, this fuckin’ world is so gotdamn goddamn crazy. And there are some really sick muhfuckas out here who have no problem puttin’ a hit out on someone for their own personal, political, or professional gains. From silencin’ witnesses to eliminatin’ rival drug leaders, gang leaders, or politicians who refuse to take bribes; from bitches and niggas lookin’ to collect on insurance policies or estates to someone who just wants out of a fucked-up relationship but is bein’ forced to stay—someone is always ready to pay out the ass for a hit, and it ain’t ’bout race. These white muhfuckas and bitches are real gangsta with theirs. And the shit that really cracks me the fuck up is the fact that most of these fools really think just because they’ve hired someone else to do their dirty work that their dumb asses still can’t be linked to the murder; that they can’t go down for the shit too if one of us gets knocked. Uh, hello…ya ass ordered a body to go, duh!

  It doesn’t matter whether ya ass got an airtight alibi ’bout bein’ outta the country or in some spot where many people see ya ass and can verify ya whereabouts. You still can catch the heat, trust. Yeah, I mighta pulled the trigger, but at the end of the day, it was the customer who paid for the shit, so his or her ass can be found guilty, too. Don’t get it twisted. Yes, a bitch did her homework before gettin’ all caught up in this. And I’m aware of the legal shit that comes with what I do. Still, there’s somethin’ ’bout bein’ on top of a nigga, ridin’ his dick, anticipatin’ puttin’ a slug in his head that turns a bitch on.

  Anyway, dependin’ on the needs of the person puttin’ out the hit, some of our hits are obvious murders, while some are staged as either suicides or accidents. Others, the only ones I take, are the hits where, after the muhfucka’s been slumped, the bodies are destroyed so that it looks like a disappearance instead of an actual murder, feel me?

  Although a bitch like me is considered a professional killer, I typically only like the hits where there is not much danger involved. Fuck what ya heard. A bitch ain’t tryna get caught up in no shit way over my head. I like my hits simple. My motto: fuck ’em and slump ’em. No hassles, no drama, no damn confusion.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A bitch is in heat…come stoke this fire…got a nigga lustin’ with desire…got a bitch’s pussy poppin’…spark a blunt, got that chronic liftin’ ya…as I sit ’n spin on ya dick…fat ass clappin’ ya, deepthroatin’ ya…neck snappin’ ya…got ya knees shakin’…bust ya nut, nigga…sexy bitch with the slanted eyes…deep, wet pussy makin’ ya weak…got ya eye on the prize…fuck what ya heard…I’m a hustler baby, a bitch from the streets…

  Seven a.m., the Kat line started ringin’. I let out a disgusted sigh. I was too fuckin’ beat to be bothered, so I let it roll into voice mail. A few seconds later, the beepin’ started to let me know the caller had left a message. I turned over in my bed, yankin’ the covers up over my head. A few minutes later, the shit started ringin’ again. Again, I let it go into voice mail. This time the caller didn’t leave a message. It rang again. “What the fuck!” I screamed, jumpin’ outta bed, then snatchin’ it off the dresser. Next time I’ll put this bitch on vibrate, I thought as I opened it. “Yeah.”

  “You get my messages?”

  “Messages? I got the one from last night,” I said, yawnin’ and stretchin’. “I haven’t checked my phone for any others. I was gonna call you when I woke up. So why is you callin’ me so fuckin’ early in the mornin’?”

  “’Cause I wanted to hear ya sexy voice,” he said, laughin’. I let out a disgusted sigh. He got the hint. “Nah, on some real shit. I need to know ASAP if you in on this next gig before I send someone else.”

  I really wasn’t feelin’ up to it, but since I’d never been to San Diego before, I decided to go, do a little sightseein’, and see wh
at was really good there. Mmm, I could really use some dick. “When?” I asked, slippin’ on my silk robe, then slidin’ my feet into my slippers. I opened up the glass door to the balcony, then stood in the middle of the doorway and let the cool mornin’ air rush in. My nipples hardened under my robe.

  “Like yesterday.”

  “Send me the paperwork. And if I accept, I want my money—”

  “I know, I know. I got you.”

  “Humph,” I grunted. “Make sure you do, Cash. I’m really not beat for cussin’ ya black ass out again.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, keep talkin’ nasty. You know that shit gets my dick hard.”

  I rolled my eyes and igged his ass. But I had heard his ugly ass had a long, thick, juicy, black dick, though. Ugh. The thought of that fat, nasty nigga smashin’ me down into a mattress, smotherin’ me and sweatin’ and gruntin’ on top of me, made my stomach turn. But the freak-nasty bitch in me wanted to see the nigga’s dick. I shook away the thought.

  “Expect ya package sometime this afternoon,” he said. “Then hit me back when you look the shit over.”

  “Aiight,” I said.

  “Right back,” he snapped.

  “I heard you, damn!”

  “Oh, aiight…One!”

  “Later.” I said, disconnectin’ the call.

  I went downstairs and fixed myself two scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese, four slices of turkey bacon, then sliced some cantaloupe and strawberries. When e’erything was ready, I pulled out a stool and sat at my counter, then dug in while flippin’ through my latest edition of Sister 2 Sister. I thought ’bout sparkin’ a blunt, but decided it was too early in the day to get lifted. Besides, I needed to cut down on smokin’. That shit was startin’ to fuck my memory up. And a bitch can’t have that.

  Three hours later, my package arrived and just as I was gettin’ ready to go through it, my private line rang. I looked at the number and smiled. It was Grant. “Hello,” I answered, tossin’ the envelope on the counter. I’ll get to this shit later.

  “Yo, what’s good, pretty baby? Can a nigga get some love today? I’m tryna come through and scoop you.”

  “Oh yeah, and do what?” I asked.

  “Come on, ma. Don’t play. You already know.”

  “What, you tryna get ya dick wet or somethin’? ’Cause if ya are, I ain’t the one.”

  He laughed. “Nah, baby, I ain’t on it like that. I’ma grown-ass man; if a nigga wanna get up in some pussy, I’ll tell ya straight up.”

  “Hmm. Yeah, okay. So, where ya tryna take me, ’cause ya ass ain’t sittin’ up in my spot.”

  “Let’s start with dinner. Let me get ya address and I’ll be through around six.”

  “Where you comin’ from?” I asked, tryna decide if I wanted him all up in my face tonight. It was bad enough I never called him when I got back from Chicago, and I didn’t pick up when he called back last night. I can be real funny-style when it comes to niggas. Besides, once ya ass is always accessible to a muhfucka, he starts expectin’ the shit. I ain’t the one. I learned never let a muhfucka know he got ya ass on lock, otherwise he starts takin’ ya ass for granted. Then I gotta dump a clip in his ass. Besides, he seemed like the type who liked for chicks to be all up on his nuts. Well, that’s cute ’n all. But a bitch like me ain’t beat for sweatin’ no nigga’s balls.

  “Newark,” he said. I pursed my lips. Hmm, I thought. What the hell. I gave him my address and directions to my spot. “Bet. I’ll see ya at six, sharp.”

  “I’ll be ready. But if ya a minute late, it’s a wrap. A bitch like me don’t wait on a nigga for nothin’.”

  “I hear ya, baby. But be clear. A nigga like me ain’t tryna have ya wait.”

  “Yeah, that’s what ya mouth says.”

  “And that’s what it is. Oh, and wear something sexy.”

  I laughed. “Oh, what…you ain’t know? Nigga, I was born sexy.”

  “Oh, my bad,” he said, laughin’. “I forgot who I was fuckin’ with.”

  “Exactly,” I responded. We said our good-byes, then I ran my ass upstairs to figure out what the hell I was gonna wear. It was a little after eleven, so I had seven hours to show this nigga how a sexy bitch rocks it. I made a quick phone call to my girl Gabby’s salon in SoHo to get my hair done, along with a mani and pedi. Thank God she was able to fit me in. There was nothin’ worse than a chick tryna be fierce with chipped fingernails and man hands and a pair of gorilla feet. I grabbed my keys and bounced out the door.

  At exactly six p.m., my doorbell rang. I checked myself in the wall mirror and winked. My cinnamon skin was flawless. No need for makeup; just a splash of lip gloss to accentuate my already pillowy-soft lips. And my silky, naturally long hair hung past my shoulders. I opened the door, smilin’. I ain’t gonna front. The nigga was finer than I remembered. He was dipped in a bangin’ black Versace button-up and black slacks that hung just right and clung in all the right spots. I peeped the bulge behind his zipper and grinned. I was glad I decided to wear a black Yves Saint Laurent jersey halter set—fortunately for me, my titties didn’t sag or flop all over the place so I could go braless—with a pair of black Louis Vuitton six-inch stilettos. I started to rock one of my diamond necklaces, but decided against it. I didn’t wanna overdo it. So I kept it cute, and stuck in my diamond hoop earrings. The nigga stood in my doorway, droolin’. “Is this sexy enough?” I asked, slowly turnin’ around, givin’ him a nice front and back view of my bangin’ body. Yeah, I was teasin’ the nigga, oh well. “Can you put this on for me?” I asked, handin’ him my tennis bracelet.

  “Hell yeah,” he said, takin’ the bling and claspin’ it around my wrist. “You killin’ it, baby.”

  “Good,” I said, throwin’ my hips and bouncin’ my ass—just enough to let him know what was poppin’ underneath my wears as I walked toward my dinin’ room table. “I just need to get my bag, then I’ll be ready to bounce.” I felt his eyes on me as they followed the outline of my hips, trailed along the humps of my juicy ass. I grabbed my black and white Dooney & Bourke, set my alarm, then followed him out the door.

  “So, where you takin’ me?” I asked, slidin’ into the passenger seat of his Bentley Arnage RL. The smell of fresh money filled the car’s cabin and made my nipples harden. I immediately pressed my legs together to keep my pussy from suckin’ in my thong. A nigga caked up always got me wet. Still, although I was impressed with the nigga’s whip, I kept it cute and acted like I’d been ridin’ in one all my life. I learned a long time ago to never let a nigga think he’s schoolin’ you on shit. Just sit back ’n act as if ya was born to live it. Yeah, this nigga was paid. But the beauty of it all was that a bitch like me didn’t need his paper. I smiled. I had come a long way from the days of needin’ a nigga.

  “Sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride, baby,” he said, flashin’ his sexy smile. He started the engine, then backed out of my driveway. “No need for a bunch of questions. Let a real nigga show you how it’s done.”

  I did what I was told, sat back, and got comfy in my seat. I smiled when Teedra Moses’ “Take Me” came on. “What you know ’bout Teedra?” I asked, shiftin’ my body toward him. I was impressed. “A lot of peeps are sleepin’ on her.”

  “Yeah, she’s kinda dope,” he said, glancin’ over at me.

  I smiled. “I’m surprised.”

  “’bout what?” he asked.

  “That a rugged nigga like you digs her,” I answered. “You don’t seem like the type that would know anything ’bout her.”

  “Wow,” he said, laughin’. “Well, stick with me, baby, there’s a lot more surprises in store. ’Cause I ain’t ya average cat. Don’t get me wrong. I can rock it hardcore with the best of ’em, but every now and then I wanna hear that soft, sexy shit, feel me?”

  I laughed. “I feel ya, daddy. I ain’t mad. I guess it doesn’t hurt that she’s also pretty.”

  “Yeah, she is. But she can’t hold a candle to you, baby.”

  “Good answer,” I
said, smilin’.

  I leaned back in my seat, then sang along quietly to “You Better Tell Her” when it came through the stereo. I felt him stealin’ glances at me while he drove, but I kept my eyes straight ahead, starin’ at the road and swayin’ to the music. E’ery now and then I gave him sideways glances on the low, tryna figure out what was really good with this nigga’s flow.

  “So what kinda niggas you into?” he asked, lookin’ at me as we stopped at a red light.

  I stared back at him. “Why, you puttin’ in an application?”

  He chuckled. “If I want the position, I’ll just take it. So answer the question.”

  I grinned. “To answer ya question, I’m into niggas who ain’t scared of pussy; a nigga who knows how to eat it up and beat it up.” He laughed. “Real talk,” I continued. “I hate a nigga who can’t fuck, and don’t eat pussy.”

  “I can dig it. On some real shit, though, you talkin’ like you know how to take a dick and suck a dick.”

  “I ain’t scared to put the work in, if that’s what ya askin’.”

  “Okay, so what else you look for in a cat?”

  “He gotta know how to keep shit real,” I stated. “I can’t stand a lyin’-ass muhfucka, or a nigga who thinks I’m some weak chick he can mind-fuck. That’s when the bitch comes out, and I gotta bring it to him. Anyway, I’m into a nigga who knows how to keep his dick in his pants and who ain’t easily impressed by a bitch tryna offer him some pussy. A nigga who ain’t beat for creepin’ with the next bitch. I’m into a nigga who knows how to hold it down in and out of the bedroom; a get-money type nigga who handles his business without bringin’ that street drama up in my space.”