by Meesha Mink
Shit. This is what I get for daydreamin’.
At the sight of Junior’s ugly-ass hoopty rolling up the drive, I relax and thank my lucky stars. It’ll be a lot easier lying to Junior than Tyrik. I turn around and rush out the bedroom. By the time I reach the top of the stairs, Junior is coming through the door and flashing me a smile.
“If it ain’t my favorite ghetto princess.”
“What the fuck you doing here, Junior?”
“Told cuz I’d drop off my new demo in the mailbox. What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’ve pussy-whipped my cuz into lettin’ you hang in his crib while he’s gone.” His annoying smirk irritates me, but then I notice how his dark gaze roams over my body.
“What’s going on between me and your cousin ain’t none of your business.” I start down the stairs and try to brush pass Junior on his way up.
He grabs my arm. “Wait now, li’l ma. Where you runnin’ off to?”
This nigga’s moves are so tired. “Let go. It ain’t gonna happen.”
His lips curve like he knows something I don’t. “There you go, acting all bougie and shit. I’m just tryna be friendly and get to know ya, li’l ma.” He moves closer and is even bold enough to put his hand against the curve of my ass. “How come we ain’t never hooked up?”
“Because you ain’t got shit I want.”
This stupid nigga just laughs. “Is dat right?”
“Yeah. That’s right.”
Junior jams me up against his lean body and slow grinds his big-ass dick against my pussy. “What if I tell you dat you have something I want?”
I swear I can’t think straight. How in the hell did I forget the anaconda this motherfucker is packin’?
“C’mon. I want to see dat pretty li’l kitty you showed me a while back. You still got dat Mohawk?”
As he’s talking my eyes lock on his thick, juicy lips. I swear his slow grind is gonna make me cum even though we’re both fully dressed.
“Ooh, yeah. I bet you still got it.” He leans forward and whispers. “I bet dat motherfucker taste good, too.” His wet, warm tongue suddenly traces the shell of my ear and I shiver.
My voice trembles like a motherfucker, “I-I gotta go.”
“Ain’t nobody here but us. Cuz ain’t getting out of service fo’ a while. Dat’s plenty of time for me to pop dat pussy.”
“What about your wife?” The question surprises me. Why the fuck should I care about his wife?
“My wife ain’t here. It’s just you, me, and opportunity.”
Why the fuck am I considering this shit?
“C’mon now. You don’t need to put your shit on lock. I love my cuz and all but you know he fuckin’ plenty of bitches.”
And there it is.
“C’mon,” he begs softly, taking my hand and slipping it through his open zipper.
His big dick is still as hard and smooth as marble, just as I remembered. As I begin to stroke him, my clit begins to ache. My brain is screaming “no” but my body has a mind of its own.
“C’mon,” he begs again. “I ain’t gonna tell nobody.”
This time he slips his hand between the band of my sweatpants and then dives into my panties. “Aw, shit. This pussy is sloppy wet, too.”
He easily glides two fingers inside of me. I nearly come unglued while he pumps his finger for a few strokes. He removes his fingers when they’re good and covered with pussy juice and then put them in his mouth.
“Hmm. Hmm. Hmm. Finger-lickin’ good.”
Our eyes meet and I know right then and there: I’m fucking this nigga.
He knows it, too.
16
Lexi
April in Atlanta is almost like summer anywhere else. The weather’s nice. Hot but not too hot. Mid-seventies. But it’s enough to draw people out their houses like they’re thawing out from winter.
And Bentley Manor is no exception.
You never really know how many people live in the complex until it gets warm outside. And what a sight some of my neighbors make.
After work, I make baked spaghetti for dinner and change into a pair of jean capris and a tank top. WooWoo didn’t get off work until five so I take myself right out there with Miz Cleo and Miz Osceola.
I like hanging out with the ladies. They know any and everything that goes on in Bentley Manor. Plus they’re funny and wise. They remind me of my nana.
“This place sure has changed over the years, ain’t it, Cleo?” Osceola asks, her light-complexion skin speckled with flat moles and freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her t-shirt reads: BUSH—No More Years, and she smokes a Marlboro cigarette with one hand and cracks the shells of boiled peanuts with the other.
“You ain’t never lied, Osceola.” Cleo’s skin is smooth, dark, and tight like she’s straight from the motherland.
“And these men. I ain’t never seen so many during the day. In between nine to five I don’t want to look in no man face ’cause that mean he ain’t working.” Osceola pitches the emptied shells into a plastic bag by her feet before tossing a few peanuts into her mouth on that one.
I wince from the sun as I look around at the parking lot. There are a lot of men loitering about to say it’s just after three in the afternoon. I didn’t say anything, though. When you sat with these ladies you usually didn’t have to. They have enough conversation for anybody.
I reach down beside me for the big glass of sweet tea I brought downstairs with me.
“Especially all these men running ’round here hooked on that stuff,” Osceola adds. “That dang-on Smokey make me sick, always ’round here begging people for money.”
Cleo shifts in her seat. “Yeah, and looking like he’ll snatch your bag in a hot second.”
Osceola drops her bag of peanuts into her lap and reaches down beside her to pick up her bat. “I triple dog-dare him to snatch mine.”
Cleo laughs as she holds up her own bat. “I think he got enough of these,” she jokes.
The ladies tap their bats together and it reminds me of the Wonder Twins’ powers activating. We all just laugh and laugh.
“A lot of these no good men ’round here could use a good whack in the head and on the behind.” The ice in Osceola’s jelly jar of water rattles as she takes a deep drink of it.
These women sat in these chairs at the end of the U-shaped complex from early morning until just before the sun starts to set. It’s the best position to see every car that turns into the lot, everybody coming and going from building to building, every dang-on thing going down in Bentley Manor. From a secret look between two people creeping, who got new furniture, whose furniture got repossessed, who got served papers by the police, who got thrown out of Bentley Manor, who moved in, who bought drugs and who sold drugs to even who farted and which way the wind sent it floating.
They are the living and breathing Atlanta Journal-Constitutions. I have no doubt that when they speak they have a story or two to back up what they saying.
I hear the school bus pull up outside the front of the complex. Just moments later about twenty kids noisily come around the curve from the gate. My eyes scan the crowd counting the heads of mine. I frown when I see all but two.
My littlest one, six-year-old Imani, comes flying at me first. “Mommy. Mommy.”
“Ooh, Momma, Monique carried her hot self to the store,” Danina, my ten-year-old, says, ever the tattle-tell.
“Trey went to get her.” That’s from Imani as she squints through her round glasses.
“Did ya’ll speak?” I ask, even as I gather up my keys and cup.
“Hello, Miz Cleo and Miz Osceola.”
“Hi, babies,” they respond.
Montel, my seven-year-old, finally walks up dragging his book bag behind him and looking like he touched everything dirty in school with his shirt and jeans.
“Ya’ll sit here with the ladies ’til I come right back.”
“I wanna go, Momma,” one of them whines. I look over my shoulder with the momma
stare and keep on walking.
Molly steps out the building just as I near it. She frowns as soon as she sees me. I just roll my eyes heavenward.
I’ve always felt the tension from her. If she wants a reason not to like me I can give her one. Like the nasty picture her husband sent me of his dick, or him trying to jack off in front me on Valentine’s Day, or the fact Junior bragged to me he didn’t get her nothing for Valentine’s Day but two forties of malt liquor.
I have my own memories of a Junior Valentine’s Day, so even though I don’t like her ass I did feel sorry for her. I know firsthand that a man’s betrayal hurt extra worse on Valentine’s Day.
Hell, even though Luther got off late from work he came right on through with a new bracelet for me.
“Molly,” I say kind of short.
“Lexi,” she answers even shorter.
Whatever. I keep on moving. Usually I didn’t have no problems out my kids, but Monique know I don’t allow them to go to the store alone. So I’m on my way to show her just who the boss is, since she obviously had a lapse in memory. I can’t let go of my kids to the streets, especially Monique. Every so often I see that same wildness that reminds me of her father. A wildness that scares me.
Nineteen ninety-seven. I was on the grind working in housekeeping at a hotel and trying my best to raise my two children. After the way he played me Valentine’s Day I finally had Junior out of my system. That was partly due to Evan Wiggins.
I met him when he came to my apartment to hook up my cable. And I do mean hook up, since he immediately tried to holler at me and gave me all the premium channels for the price of basic. He was just my style. Tall and slim with that deep-set eyes and high-cheekbone look. And I liked that he was an older guy—thirty-seven. He had seventeen years on me and after dealing with Junior’s immature self I got to thinking an older man was just the thing I needed.
We started out talking on the phone. Two weeks after that I was sending my kids to my nana so he can spend the night. Three months later he was living with me. Life was good. When I found out I was pregnant I was stressed out a little bit. Did all the coulda, woulda, shouldas but Evan had been happy as all get-out to have a child.
I was about six months pregnant when things started to change. He started to change. He got home from work later and later every night. The money he used to give me every Friday got shorter and shorter until he had nothing but excuses of why his check was short. We began to argue more and more. Hell, I had two kids, was pregnant with my third, and wasn’t looking for a fourth in the shape of a grown man. Soon his late nights out on the weekends became him disappearing completely from Friday until Sunday.
Life around apartment 4C became hectic as hell. I spent many a night crying over the mess I got myself into. But that wasn’t even the half.
I came home from work early one day. This pregnancy was the worst ever. I was always sick. My legs were beginning to swell and my back was always aching like crazy. I just wanted to take a hot bath and lay across my bed to rest before I had to get my kids from the babysitter. I didn’t even care if Evan didn’t show his face.
As soon as I opened the door the smoke escaped and swirled out into the hallway like it was just waiting to be freed. The smell was like burning rubber and it stung my eyes. “Evan, what the hell is burn—”
The sight of my man— my man —sitting there hitting the pipe shocked the rest of the words from my mouth. He looked up at me with his lips still wrapped around the pipe and I didn’t know this man. The ashen and sweaty face. The red and glassy eyes. His lips white and chapped. I was having a baby for damn Pookie from New Jack City.
“Get the fuck out!” I started yelling, dropping my purse to the floor as I stormed over and knocked the pipe out his mouth. It flung and hit the wall, shattering to pieces.
He jumped to his feet and whirled on me. His eyes were crazed and I backed up from him. For a moment I thought of the headline: “Pregnant Woman Killed by Drug Addict Boyfriend.”
I put one hand on my round belly and stretched the other out to him. “Just leave, Evan. Just get your shit and go,” I told him, my voice low because I didn’t have the strength or the will to yell and argue. I was tired. I was sick and tired of being sick and tired.
The look on his face changed. It softened. He reached for me. “I’m sorry, Lexi.”
I stepped back. “You damn right you sorry. You smoking dope. You got to go. I’m not gone have that around my kids.”
He reached for me again and I moved past him to pick up the crack rocks on the glass coffee table. I headed toward the bathroom and suddenly felt his arm around my neck. I gagged for air as he wrestled the tiny Ziploc from my hand. When he released me I slipped down to the floor crying, “Get out, Evan. I’ll swear to God I’ll call the police. Get your shit and get the fuck out!”
I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t.
I sat on the floor for a long time. Long after he begged me to forgive him. Long after I begged him to leave. Long after he finally did.
It was hours later when I made myself get up. I cleaned every inch of that apartment with bleach. I couldn’t have my kids touching on crack residue. So I cried and I cleaned until my hands and my insides were raw.
I packed his clothes, shoving them into garbage bags. Him leaving them let me know he thought he was coming back. Wasn’t no coming back. And I meant that. I would drop his shit to his momma’s house.
I wasn’t putting up with no damn crackhead.
I didn’t realize until I was about to leave to pick up my kids that the junkie bastard took my pocketbook when he left.
After I make sure the kids and Luther are all fed, washed and in bed, I take a long hot bath scented with the Brown Sugar & Fig bubble bath from a Bath & Body Works gift set I got from a booster today. After I had to snatch up Monique’s behind and remind her with a switch who laid down the law, I need a little me time. I don’t really like to spank my kids but my nana always told me you whup them now and you don’t have to worry about the police whupping them later.
So I do what I have to do to make sure the environment we live in doesn’t snatch up my kids. “I did what I had to do,” I repeat out loud to myself like I’m getting it straight in my own head.
After my bath I take my time cleaning up the bathroom and wrap a towel around my body to walk to our bedroom. Luther’s in his boxers propped up on pillows in the middle of our full-sized bed watching television. “I didn’t think you was ever coming out there,” he said, sounding distracted as his eyes stay on the TV screen.
In the mood for a stress reliever I lock the door. ESPN just isn’t going to do it. I step in front of the TV.
“Move, Bay, I—”
I drop my towel.
His eyes start from my toes up to the smile on my face and he doesn’t miss a thing in between. His dick gets hard and tents his boxers. I try not to notice that, even hard, his dick is just six inches strong.
I walk to the bed and straddle his face. “Damn this pussy smells good.” His words brush against my exposed flesh.
“Hungry?” I ask.
Luther strokes the tip of his tongue against each of my lips before he circles my clit.
My ass jiggles as my body jerks and I bite my mouth to keep from hollering out.
Yes, my man can eat my pussy until I pass out and that’s why I climbed in his face before he can try to climb in me. Sure, I’m gonna give him some, but first I want to make sure I cum. I’m not in the mood to instruct him how to sex me right. I just want to enjoy him pleasing me.
I circle my hips on his face as he sucks my clit and sends a jolt through my body.
He will cum in this pussy before the night is over but first I’m going for mine.
17
Aisha
Desperate times. Desperate fucking measures, right?
I take another long drag of my blunt—a nice Hawaiian blend wrapped in the peach-flavored skin of a Philly. “No big deal,” I say to myself. “Boom.
Bam. Fifteen…twenty minutes tops and it’s a wrap.”
“Are you okay in there?” he asks through the solid door.
I roll my eyes. “Be right out,” I call back in this fake saddity voice as I sit down on the commode.
I stand up and drop the end of the blunt into the toilet. It hits the water with a hiss. I avoid my reflection in the mirror. Not that I’d recognize myself.
I want to fit in—or at least look like I fit in—with the classy bitches strolling through or chilling in the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton. The Chetta B print silk-jersey dress, Ferragamo peep-toe pumps, Gucci tote, and my hair long and pressed straight with light makeup all said this is a rich black bitch that belongs.
The whole getup had drew him to me just like I wanted.
Now here we are.
I undress until I’m standing among the luxury of the suite’s bathroom in not a damn thing but a silk teddy that showed everything I have—especially my wide hips and make-a-nigga-moan ass.
“A’ight. Let’s make this money,” I tell myself as I open the bathroom door.
The bedroom of the suite I insisted he purchase (nothing but the best, fuck dat) is lit the hell up. Guess he doesn’t want to miss a thing. My eyes dart around the room. A bottle of champagne and two flutes on a tray. The fireplace lit and popping although it’s damn near seventy outside. And him laying his white ass in the middle of the plush bed naked as the day he was born. His condom-covered dick is already hard and he licks his lips like he’s damn starving as he peeps the tits-and-pussy print in my teddy.
I force a smile as I walk to the foot of the bed and crawl my way up between his open legs. I try to ignore the way his hairy-ass balls are reddish and laying against the bed like they will drop to his knees when he stands up. This motherfucker has to be about sixty, but who cares? The room can look as romantic as it fucking please but this is straight business.
I straddle his hips and grind my dry pussy against his erection. Not bad for a old white dude, I’m thinking. Motherfucka probably on Viagra or some shit.
