So I usually steer clear of they ass and they steer clear of me. In the last three months I ain’t seen them but twice and that’s two times too many. But today I’m making it my business to go straight to them. It’s time to shake a few trees and see what the fuck falls out.
I take a quick shower and grab a silver Baby Phat sweat suit to put on. I pull my hair into a ponytail and skip my usual makeup. This casual thing wasn’t me but my mind is stuck on doing what I got to do.
Maleek gave his parents the loot to buy a small house in his father’s hometown of Newman just twenty-five minutes outside of Atlanta. This is straight country: cows crossing the road at any minute, damn deer dashing back and forth into the woods. Ditches. No stop lights. Juke joints. Dirt yards. Woods for miles with God knows what in it.
Some real bullshit.
I grab my shades and my Gucci hobo. It was mid-March and the Atlanta weather is warm during the day so I don’t bother with a jacket. I leave my apartment and pause at the sound of children, loud TVs, and God knows what else coming from apartment 3B down the hall from me. Lexi. Humph. I thought she was a goody-two-shoes wife but look like the bitch back fucking Junior.
All them fucking kids? She needs to sit her hot ass down somewhere and be glad somebody married her.
Focus, Aisha. I walk down the hall and out the door. As soon as I step out the building I eye this bitch name Reema sitting on the hood of her red Honda Civic with her two flunky friends Kelly and Jase.
I’m well aware that Reema think she can steal my shine with her ghetto booty and well-known deep-throating ass. She actually thinks she bangin’ enough to replace me with Maleek. Dumb bitches think dumb things.
I look at all three of ’em like they shit on a pair of my Manolos as I unlock my car. All together the three of ’em probably have on a hundred dollars’ worth of clothes. These broke bitches don’t get enough of that cheap-ass It’s Fashion store.
“I can’t stand that stuck-up bitch.”
Reema’s voice is intentionally loud enough for me to hear. The parking lot is kinda crunk and there ain’t no way I’m letting this bitch play me. I open the door and slip my blade from my purse. These bitches tryna flex and I just happen to be dressed to give a beat-down? Cool wit me.
“And I can’t stand jealous-ass, tricking-ass, welfare-ass, stank-ass bitches!” I say loud as hell, already moving back toward them with my hand on my blade in the pocket of my sweat jacket.
People in the parking lot are already stepping closer at the smell of a girl fight.
“Dayum!” Somebody yells out.
I can see the look in Reema’s eyes that she is shame and her two cronies are looking scared.
“Your man like this ass,” Reema says, hopping off the hood to turn her ass to me to shake before she taps it twice.
“I like that ass, too.”
That sounds like Junior’s no-good ass but I don’t even pay none of these niggas ’round me no mind.
Two steps and I yoke that bitch up by her neck and throw her on the hood of her own shit. BOOM! I know that shit is dented. Before she can blink I got my blade to her throat. Her two cronies jump the fuck back. Way back.
The lot got quiet as shit.
I feed off the fear in this bitch’s eyes as I stick my fucking face in hers. “Don’t fuck wit me, bitch. Don’t fucking play yourself and get fucked up.”
I grab a fistful of her hair and slam her head down on the hood. “My man wants your ass? Huh, bitch? Huh? Tell me that fucking lie now. Tell me that damn lie. I dare your ass.”
“Stop playin’, Aisha,” she whispers nervously, looking up at me scared as shit. This bitch knows I have her life in my hands.
“No, bitch, you stop playing,” I spit at her, edging my blade closer to her throat until the tip presses into her flesh just enough not to break the skin. One wrong move and her ass is grass.
“Ya’ll children break that up ’fore I call the police.”
I know that’s one of the two old ladies who live in Building 220. They stay in them two chairs by the door of the building from morning to night and never miss shit. I ain’t had no doubt they would call 5-0.
I jump off Reema and stick my blade back in my pocket. “Don’t make me have to fuck you up,” I tell her, reaching out to nudge that bitch in the face one last time before I turn with no fear of retaliation and walk back to my whip.
I ain’t even look back as I pull out Bentley Manor with a squeal of my tires. When these bitches gone learn?
I turn my car into the driveway of Maleek’s parents’ house. It’s been over a year since I last visited with Maleek but wasn’t a damn thing different. Same dull brick house with the yellow shutters. Same dogs running loose in the dirt yard. Same broke-down cars in the backyard. Same-o-same-o.
As soon as I step out the car the front door opens and big Hassana steps onto the porch looking a hot mess in a t-shirt with no bra. The nipples of her sagging titties are down by her fat belly. I can tell by the look on her face she ain’t any happier to see me than I am to see her.
“Whassup, Hassana? Your momma here?” I walk up the wooden steps.
“Well, well. Miss High Saddity comes for a little visit.”
“Sure did. Running a little errand for Maleek.”
She rolls her eyes and turns to walk back into the house. The screen door nearly knocks me in the face. Now see, I’d hate to have to flip her big ass on her back.
The house smells of soul food. I have to admit that Mr. Cummings can throw down in the kitchen.
“Queen Aisha’s here,” Hassana calls out with a nasty tone before she shoots me one last nasty glance and strolls into her bedroom slamming the door behind her.
Mrs. Cummings comes out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a dish towel. She’s a hard-looking bitch, like she lived too much and seen too much. They say Mr. Cummings — who is a sexy older version of his son — is a bad motherfucka with the ladies and that’s why they moved back out to the woods. Heard he was in Atlanta runnin’ straight buck wild and fuckin’ out of both his pants legs. She smiles at me but I know it’s fake as hell. “How you doin’, Aisha?”
“I’m good. I saw Maleek yesterday. He wanted me to stop by and see if you needed anything,” I lie, laying out the bait.
Her smile becomes a little more genuine. Money always makes these motherfuckas nicer. “No, we don’t need a thing but thanks for checking up on us. You remember Hassana and me going to see Maleek next Saturday?”
“Yes ma’am,” I say, but my mind is stuck on her turning down my offer of money. That means she has her hands on some.
We both are still standing. No offer was made to sit down and I made no move to sit down either. “Yeah, he told me yesterday the lawyer needed another twenty thousand with the trial coming up.”
Mrs. Cummings damn near sways off her feet and she moves to sit in a leather recliner. “Well we have —”
Hassana’s door flies open. “We don’t have nothing. Use my brother’s money for something besides clothes and shit.”
“Hassana!”
“Excuse my language, Momma, but she only came here to see if we got some of Maleek’s money.” She turns on me with hostile eyes.
Now I’m pissed. “Hassana, why don’t you mind your business? Ain’t nobody talkin’ to you.”
She steps closer to me. “But I’m talkin’ to you.”
I step up too. “And? And? And?” I have my arms stretched out like I dare her to touch me.
Mrs. Cummings moves in between us. “Just go on home, Aisha.”
I’m ready to straight knock Hassana the fuck out but I’m not gonna disrespect Maleek by fighting in his momma’s house.
“If she know like I know she better go home.”
I walk to the door. “I’ll see you another time, Hassana,” I tell her with pure threat in my tone.
I leave before she can say something else. One of their dogs comes sniffing around me. I raise my foot and nudge it away from me hard bef
ore I climb into the car.
Nothing went down the way I want but I’m pretty sure they have money. Questions are: How much? And how do I get my hands on it?
I back out the yard and pull away with a soft purr of the motor. My cell phone is buzzing with a voice mail message.
I dial it and steer the car with one hand.
“This Aisha. Holla at your girl.”
Beep.
“Aisha. Call me. I need you. The police just came for Nasir talkin’ ’bout he raped some white girl. I don’t know what to do, Aisha. We can’t leave him in there. What we gone do?”
My stomach feels tight as I listen to my mother. She’s hysterical. My brother’s locked the fuck up. Rape? No way.
My mother’s words echo even as I speed back to Atlanta.
“What we gone do?”
We. That’s the story of my life.
11
Devani
I’m not a stalker.
I’m just keeping a closer eye on what belongs to me — and Tyrik’s fine ass belongs to me. That bullshit move he pulled on Valentine’s Day last month proved to me that Momma (and I hate to admit this) is on the right track on how to get this nigga on lock. I don’t know who he was fuckin’ that night and I didn’t ask because a lie ain’t nothin’ for a nigga to tell.
I just have to tighten the reins.
I filed my income tax early and received eight hundred dollars back from my small stint at Ford Motor Company before they shut down the plant. With that money I put a down payment a ’02 Toyota Corolla from one of those buy-here, pay-here dealerships. For the record: yes, I owe more than the car is worth — but the end justifies the means.
With a car my ass can do a roll-by or drop-by any damn time I feel like it. I already had to put a few bitches on blast. However, Tyrik insists the girls were there for his cousin, Rufus.
Rufus. Four hundred plus-pound Rufus?
Nigga, please. Do I have “Boo-Boo the Fool” stamped on my forehead? So I had to check his ass, too. He takes the shit because I’ve discovered how to make Tyrik’s dick gush like Niagara Falls whenever I deep-tongue his tight asshole.
Say what you want, but this bitch is gettin’ the fuck up out of Bentley Manor one way or another.
Tyrik isn’t complaining either. I’m sexing his ass so good I had that nigga sucking my motherfuckin’ toes last night. My chomp change has been upgraded to my very own platinum card, and in addition to my Corolla, as of yesterday, Tyrik bought me a brand-new, shiny, silver Lexus. Of course, I’m not a dumb bitch like that Aisha Cummings and roll my tight ride in front of a bunch of crackheads and two-bit hustlers. I plan on keeping my shit. I keep the Lexus at Tyrik’s and ride the Corolla to Bentley Manor.
Of course, I pulled a few down-low moves, too. I stole Tyrik’s house key, made a copy and returned it before he even knew it was missing.
My one problem? Tyrik won’t fuck me without a condom. Period. No matter how hot I get him or how inconvenient it is to stop and look for one. I’ve tried and said everything I can think of to get him to change his mind. “‘Don’t you want to feel every inch of my good pussy?’ or ‘Oh, Baby. It just doesn’t feel the same.’”
He isn’t having it.
Apparently the National Football League actually teaches players about the pitfalls of running into women like me. Which goes to show you there is always someone hatin’ on your game.
“I swear you’re one dumb-ass bitch, Devani,” Momma says after stuffing the grand I just handed her down into her bra.
“Word.” Koolay chuckles, flashing only one front tooth since Momma knocked the other one out his mouth.
“You’re welcome,” I say, more than a little annoyed that she acts like she’s accustomed to getting a thousand dollars on the regular.
“I mean it,” Momma says, setting up the card tables for their Saturday night Bid Whist tournament. Something tells me that my little donation is going to be funding the alcohol and hot wings. “If the nigga won’t do it without a condom then give him a condom.”
“Why in the hell would I give him a condom? He has an endless supply in the nightstand drawer.”
This comment apparently warrants a pop upside the head because that’s exactly what my momma gives me. “Ow. What the hell was that for?”
“Think,” she barks. “Give him a special condom.”
At this point I’m afraid to ask what the hell she means in fear that I’ll loose a tooth as well. And that shit would really fuck up my game. “A special condom,” I repeat, stalling for time, but then I finally hop aboard the same train. “A defective condom.”
“The easiest thing to do is punch a tiny hole in that motherfucker. Do it tonight and you may still be able to get a Christmas baby.”
I can’t help but smile at that shit. As I walk out of my mother’s apartment I’m still smiling and even agreeing that I am a dumb bitch for not having thought of this sooner.
As I march over to the Corolla, I see Smokey’s ass looking as if he’s been sucking on that glass dick again. He’s twitchin’ and eyeballin’ Aisha’s Benz. Word on the street is her man can get ten years or worse — which means no protection — which means she needs to watch her back and that motherfuckin’ Benz.
“Hey, Smokey,” I say, distracting him from fuckin’ up — especially under the eagle eyes of Miz Cleo and Miz Osceola. “Whatcha know good?”
He jumps as if I’m a cop but then gives me a nervous smile when he recognizes me. “Oh, hey, Devani.” He scratches his head as if he has a rash of fleas embedded in his dusty braids. “Ain’t nothin’ going on. You know — not since Keisha and the kids left.”
“No shit? She left?” Well, there goes my old hairdresser. Now I get my hair whipped and buttered out in Buckhead.
“Fuck her.” Smokey shrugs and waves the question off. “She’ll be back. She always comes back after her sistah gets tired her of her big mouth.”
The sad part about what he’s saying is that it’s true. Keisha has jumped ship before, but she always boomerangs back. “Well, all right, then.” I say pulling out my car keys and walking toward my car. “Keep your head up.”
“Fo’ sho. Fo’ sho,” Smokey says, strolling up behind me. My hands instantly dive back into my purse and wrap around my 908S Smith & Wesson pistol in case some shit is about to go down. “When you gonna break my bro off a piece?”
The question surprises me and I jerk a glance over my shoulder. “What?”
“You know he likes your fine ass, girl. Have him spinnin’ all that poetry shit.”
“What?” I’m still stunned…and flattered. “Shakespeare has been writing poetry about me?”
“C’mon, girl. Don’t front. Dat nigga gots tons of journals he keeps on lock about how he wants to git wit you. Lately, he keeps talkin’ about some book dat’s gonna get you and him up out of this joint, but his game must be whack if he ain’t hittin’ dat by now.”
“Ain’t none of these country Negroes hittin’ this,” I inform him, swinging open my door and nearly scraping the paint of Aisha’s Benz.
“Ha. Careful. You don’t want Aisha to beat that ass.” Smokey chuckles, starting up another frenzy of scratching.
“I ain’t stuttin’ Aisha’s ass.” I slide behind the wheel and start up the car.
Smokey’s persistent ass leans down into the car when I roll down the window. “Yo, Dee. You got twenty dollars? I’ll hit ya back when my income tax check comes in.”
Now I must really have “Boo-Boo the Fool” stamped on my forehead. Smokey ain’t never had a job so how in the hell is he gettin’ some refund? “Nah, man. You know I ain’t working right now.”
“C’mon now. Everybody knows you fuckin’ Junior’s cousin. That nigga got mad money. He got to be breakin’ you off somethin’. Ain’t those real diamonds in your ear?”
And I thought those two old birds across the street were bad. “I gotta go, Smokey.” I hit the window’s power button and Smokey jumps back.
“
I know you got some money, gurl,” he hollers, smiling and scratching as I pull out of my parking space. I just roll my eyes and jet down the cracked street to the security gate. At the corner, Shakespeare is strolling up from the Circle K and I take another good look at him.
He’s fine, no doubt — but broke as a joke. And I ain’t havin’ that shit. “Writing a book, my ass.” I hang a right and happily cruise out to the suburbs.
After a bomb meal at Ruth’s Chris Steak House, Tyrik and I got our groove on at The Compound nightclub. I’m wearing the hell out this red silk dress with a neckline that plunges straight to my navel. My titties are taped in place but every nigga in here is waiting to see whether they fall out.
Being on the arm of a pro athlete, I’m given the star treatment. But it isn’t long before these booty-poppin’ chickenheads start crowding my man and I have to check them.
“Excuse you.” I stab one girl with my acrylic French tips. “You want to back the fuck up?” The bitch turns and wouldn’t you know it’s that same Latino J-Ho wannabe I had to beat down at Tyrik’s party. “What the fuck?”
I launch before thinking and take the first swing. When my fist connects against her jaw, it’s like sweet music to my ears. But the bitch is quick and she manages to draw a long scratch across my jawbone.
“Yo le mataré, Puta!”
“Dee — Elsa. Break it up,” Tyrik plants himself in between us. A few dudes from his entourage jump and pull Elsa out of the way.
“What the fuck she doing here, Tyrik?” I challenge him. “You two still got somethin’ going on?”
“Calm down, Dee. Calm down.”
“Answer me, goddamn it. How come every time I turn around there this bitch is, huh? What the fuck is going on?” I press my hand against his forehead and push his big watermelon head back, daring him to jump some shit off.
Desperate hoodwives: an urban tale Page 8
