Kismet 3

by Raynesha Pittman

  Kismet 3:

  When a Man’s Fed Up

  Raynesha Pittman

  www.urbanbooks.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue - Let Me Reintroduce Myself

  Part One - Dre

  Chapter One - The Decision

  Chapter Two - Never Saw It Coming

  Chapter Three - A Piece of History

  Chapter Four - A Pair of Queens

  Part Two - Savannah

  Chapter Five - Did You Really Think I’d Be Quiet?

  Chapter Six - Be Careful of What You Ask For

  Chapter Seven - Full-body Protection

  Chapter Eight - Stuck behind Enemy Lines

  Part Three - Dre

  Chapter Nine - Tired of All the Games

  Chapter Ten - The Line between Love and Hate just Got Thinner

  Chapter Eleven - If the Apples Are Rotten, It’s the Tree

  Epilogue

  Urban Books, LLC

  300 Farmingdale Road, NY-Route 109

  Farmingdale, NY 11735

  Kismet 3: When a Man’s Fed Up

  Copyright © 2020 Raynesha Pittman

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.

  ISBN: 978-1-6455-6049-4

  eISBN 13: 978-1-64556-050-0

  eISBN 10: 1-64556-050-3

  This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.

  Distributed by Kensington Publishing Corp.

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  Dedication

  On January 30, 2013, I was admitted to the hospital after a prenatal visit. My obstetrician said my cervix was dilated, and I would have the baby in a few hours, which was wonderful news to hear, but her timing was off. You see, I promised my readers Kismet 3 would be released under my indie publishing house, Conglomerate Ink, on the 31st, and after making them wait years for it, I had every intention of keeping my word. The only problem was, how do you self-publish a book while in labor? It hadn’t been typeset for e-book nor paperback because I was under the impression that I had at least another week before my baby was due to arrive.

  Almost instantly, the contractions started kicking my butt as I began typesetting from my hospital bed. Once a ten-minute drip of pain medicine became my best friend, I passed out, only to be woken up by my doctor, informing that my daughter’s heart was in distress, and they would induce me to push her out, or it would be off to emergency surgery I go. At 6:00 a.m. on January 31, 2013, after pushing for about... well, two minutes, which felt like the longest two minutes of my life, my beautiful daughter, Qui’Layah Chrisette, was born, and with her in my arms less than two hours after her birth, I originally self-published this book from my hospital bed as my readers congratulated the births of both of my babies on social media platforms.

  With love in mind, I dedicate this book to my daughter and the beautiful experiences that came along with her birth. I pray she doesn’t read this series until she’s legally old enough to drink and that she doesn’t mirror anyone in this book nor fall in love with anyone similar to these characters. I love you, Qui’Layah Chrisette, and this book I dedicate to you.

  Prologue

  Let Me Reintroduce Myself

  Contrary to what you may think about me, I’m not a stalker, nor am I some ho-ass nigga that’s ruled by his bitch. I agree that from the outside looking in, shit appears a little suspect on my part. That’s because I’ve remained too calm, I’ve been too quiet, and I’ve wasted too much time trying to teach a dog-ass woman new tricks believing that I could tame that ho.

  All I wanted to do was to teach Savannah how to find her worth on two feet instead of on all four. She was more than a cute smile and a good fuck, but I don’t think she knows that. She was on that women empowerment, black girls rock, independent women, I am woman hear me roar-type of shit and had convinced herself that dick was the only thing she needed from a man but only after she realized she wasn’t getting the kind of nut she was looking for from the women she was fucking. Her freaky ways and drive for success had her out here hoeing without a pimp and a corner, but in her mind, what she was doing in her bed was no different than what we men were doing... getting nuts and move on to the next.

  Savannah was a lost cause, and I was probably the only donor willing to volunteer time into her charity because I could see her potential. It was buried deep inside of her, but it was there, and I’ve never been a believer of the saying, “You can’t turn a ho into a housewife.” I’ve always looked at it like the niggas who went around saying it didn’t have what it took to tame the girl they were pursuing, so it was easier for them to come up with a slogan than to have to admit to their shortcomings. In truth, they didn’t have the right recipe, or they were missing a few ingredients on molding the woman into what he needed her to be. I thought that with the right amount of love, teachings, and if she showed potential, that any ho could change for the better.

  Then I fucked around and met Savannah’s trifling ass, and she had me questioning it. She opened my eyes to a new breed of woman that resembled the crazed survival actions of a vicious female dog. Savannah wasn’t going around eating her puppies like a dog, but the way she threw my daughter away for her own selfish reasons and destroyed the lives of others like she was a demolition crew wasn’t any better. At times, I can’t believe how I just sat back and said nothing while the dumb shit happened around me. That’s the main reason why I felt the need for this reintroduction.

  You get one shot to make a first impression, or so I’ve been told. Well, in this case, I’m asking for a do-over, because there’s one thing about me you don’t know yet....

  My name is Andre Burns, and I’m addicted to hoes.

  Those twelve-step classes say the first step is admitting your addiction, so I’ve just accomplished Step One. Where’s my chip? This ain’t a cop-out, nor is it an excuse I came up with for making bad choices in women. I’m being real. The same way people get addicted to drugs or gambling by doing it once and enjoying the shit too much, that’s how I got addicted to hoes. My addiction didn’t just start when I met Savannah, either. On reflecting, I’ve always had this addiction. I just didn’t recognize it for what it was until now.

  Thinking back, it started when I got my first piece of the forbidden fruit. I had chosen a chick whose fruit had rotted and been damaged from excessive handling. In other words, I lost my virginity to a chick that had been run through by every high school-aged boy in Nashville’s city limits. The list of handlers included a few of my close homeboys and a few niggas I didn’t like. I knew she was letting everybody have it, but at sixteen years old, I didn’t care. All I cared about was what I had heard about her, which was that she was a thick-legged cheerleading freak, and after a few hits of the blunt, she’d let you kill her throat and beat her cat. As a weed- and dope-selling virgin, I couldn’t wait to get sentenced for murder one on her esophagus and a cruelty to animals’ charge. I’d happily plead guilty to both crimes.

  My closest partner back then and to this day, Mike had invited me to come flip her with him. He had been using his cousin’s apartment on the eastside to hang out during school hours whenever the pressures of eleventh-grade s
chooling became too much. For Mike, this seemed to be every day. He went to Stratford High School with the chick, and they had been ditching school all week to start Mike’s new side hustle.

  Mike had always been an entrepreneur with a get-rich-quick scheme, so it didn’t surprise me when he decided to make her his new hustle. Mike saw her spreading her legs for free and thought about all the money he could be making as her manager. He didn’t like the word “pimp.” It made him feel like a Memphis nigga, and everyone knew Nashville and Memphis niggas didn’t get along. He started charging virgins and anybody else with items to barter, like Nintendo and Sega games, to have sex with her.

  Being supportive of my friend’s endeavors, I hopped the gate at Pearl-Cohn High School out west with my condom and twenty dollars in hand, ready to lose my virginity like all the other virgins my age had done. I had to catch two city buses and walk three miles just to get to her. I remember walking those three miles nervous as fuck, dick already hard, and thinking, she’d better be worth it.

  When I saw the girl, my love for hoes was born as I instantly started plotting on getting her away from my boys to clean her off and shine her up to keep for myself. She was beautiful. She had her long hair pushed back out of her face so that you could know that hands down, her face was her best asset. I’m not knocking her body, but at sixteen years old, girls were either pretty or ugly. There was no in between, and that was judged from the neck up. Her skin was the color of roasted almonds, which went perfectly with her big, dark brown eyes. She did have a pig-shaped nose, but it was cute and made you want to pinch it if her lips would release your attention long enough. Everything about her mouth said, “Kiss me and fall in love.” That’s why her heart-shaped lips fit perfectly above her rounded chin. To top it all off, she had the Lexus car emblem on a charm around her neck, a true sign of luxury. I had never seen a bitch so bad in my life, and I knew I was going to step to her and make her mine. I don’t have to tell you how it turned out in the end. Some folks are just comfortable in their own skin, no matter how funky and foul it is.

  It’s been fifteen years since I made that mistake, and I haven’t learned my lesson yet. I’m sure you were hoping I’d leave Savannah’s ass alone when I found out she gave my daughter away, and I was planning to. To be honest, I was done with her after she gave the police the letter I wrote her with my plans of turning myself in. Even though I wanted her to snitch on me so it could buy me a couple of days of freedom to get my affairs in order, there was a piece of me hoping Savannah would prove me wrong and hold on to the letter. But she didn’t, so I said, fuck her and her good pussy.

  Being in jail without a piece of mail coming in besides updates on my son from my mama made me think about her. Thoughts of her began to help me get though the day, so I sent my nigga, Ryan, lurking for me... and look at what he found out. Savannah was pregnant and hiding her pregnancy from the world. I wasn’t sure if it was mine or not because baby girl was a freak, but she was ordering my favorite foods daily. I wanted to know and sent a letter to find out.

  She wrote me back in her own fucked-up way to let me know that she had given birth to my daughter and given her away to the highest bidder like a car being auctioned. I read that part of the letter at least ten times a day until I was released, and although it’s been years since I received it, I remember verbatim what she wrote. It said:

  I am not a caring person. My only concern is me and what’s best for me. Your beautiful eight-pound daughter, who looked just like you, will never know either one of us. I hired an out-of-country adoption agency to ship her off to her new parents two days after she was born. I know you don’t believe me and will play a detective again, and that’s fine, but the next time one of your goons finds me, they will see me alone without a child. I have destroyed all the records of the birth and my pregnancy to prevent you from trying to get her. You told me how you would have tried to get custody of your son, so I had to make sure I didn’t leave you the option of getting her. If you still don’t understand what I’m saying to you yet, let me make it simple. I am well paid and only use men for sex. Fuck a relationship, love, marriage, the white picket fence, and fuck the dog too. That shit ain’t for me, and neither are you or your child.

  Man, Savannah is hell for that one! She lied about the out-of-country shit, but she did find a way to make it damn near impossible to track my daughter down. How I allow her the right to have life in her worthless body amazes me too. Even after all of the blood, sweat, and tears she’s caused me to shed, my hands still couldn’t cause her pain. After snooping some more for signs of the whereabouts of my daughter, I realized Savannah was hurt and living with pain from her past. She wasn’t born to be the bitch that she is. The life she was dished made her that way. And being the save-a-ho nigga that I am, I made getting my daughter and healing her heart my number one priority.

  That’s why I’m in the situation I’m in now. Since I haven’t slapped the shit out of Savannah or snatched my daughter up and bounced, I’m out here looking like a pushover. What did y’all expect me to do, beat on her? Well, I can’t. Hitting a woman ain’t me. I’ve had a thought or two about wrapping my hands around her neck and not letting go, but that just means I’m human. I’ve even thought about snatching her scandalous ass up and shaking the shit out of her, but where would that get me besides back in jail? After all the bullshit I’ve allowed this woman to put me through, I still got hope I can make her change her ways, which is a true sign of my addiction.

  You see, there is some meaning behind the shit I do and take from Savannah, so it isn’t the addiction alone that has me biting my tongue. Please believe that I’d break a nigga’s jaw for half the shit I’ve let Savannah fix her mouth to say to me. And if it were any other bitch, I’d have been gone, but there’s something about Savannah’s wretchedness that I can’t shake. I’m stuck to her in a fucked-up way like a therapist to a seriously hurt patient. In the beginning, it was her looks that caught my eyes, her fast words that kept my attention, but above all, that goodness she got in between her legs with the vacuum suction head sealed the deal. I’ve never felt nothing like it.

  I don’t know why I’m always listening to my dick. It’s the worst influence in my life. It always leads me in the wrong direction, like it’s got a “nothing-ass bitch” GPS attached to it. When the head on my shoulders tells me, “Aye, Dre, she’s a ho,” the one in my pants says, “So what? Don’t kiss her in the mouth and strap up, my nigga.”

  That’s bad, and I know it is. The shit ain’t safe, and that’s sloppy living on my part, but I can’t get my dick to listen. Hoes make it too easy. I don’t have to wine, dine, or court anymore. I don’t even have to spend cash on or time with them. All it takes is a show of interest, whether it’s real or fake, and them legs go flying open. I ain’t no mentor, so I’m not passing out self-esteem speeches. If it makes you feel better to hear me say, “Damn, baby, that pussy is good” than to hear me say, “Damn, baby, you’re smart,” that’s some shit you’ll have to work on by yourself.

  I wouldn’t say that I’m easily whipped. I’m just weak. I have a weakness for pretty things, and when I get them, I get addicted. Like any other man or boy, I like big, pretty trophies that say “first place.” When I met Savannah’s beautiful ass, it felt like I had caught a fifteen-foot, 700-pound marlin with my bare hands. I wanted to take a picture with her standing next to me, hooked to show off my prize-winning catch. I knew instantly that I was in the presence of the Most Valuable Player trophy, and I had to make her mines. If baby needed a little polishing up, I didn’t mind giving her a spit shine.

  It must have been all the weed smoke clouding my vision, though, and throwing my psyche off, because Savannah ain’t shit. I should have checked out her shoes. One quick glance down, and I would’ve realized she was walking on toilet tissue and not the red carpet.

  Baby has the potential to be priceless, but she prefers to have no value. I know it sounds backward, but that’s how it is. Savannah walks
around like the world is in debt to her, and she can do whatever she wants. It’s time I show her that I don’t owe her ass shit. Every move I’ve made has been on the strength that I love her. I thought if I showed her what love is and hit every spot that those random niggas she was fucking had missed, I could change her. I thought that with some home training and a display of Southern family morals, I could mold her into what I wanted her to be. I thought if I could get her to build a relationship with God, my daughter would have her mama, and I’d have my wife. That’s what I get for reading a children’s book on life. This shit ain’t no fairy tale. But maybe there is still a chance for our happily ever after.

  Part One

  Dre

  Chapter One

  The Decision

  “Open the fucking door, Savannah!”

  I couldn’t have been talking to myself, and I doubt the bitch went deaf after asking me to identify who I was as I knocked. The door never opened once I told Savannah that it was me, nor did I get a response from the other side of it. All I heard in return was my heavy panting from the workout I was getting from trying to get in that room.

  I didn’t know what else to do, so I kicked the door twice flat-footed with my back turned to it like a donkey, hoping to get a response. The sole of my booted foot stung and caused my toes to tingle from the impact of both kicks. The act backfired and left me irritated from the self-induced pain. I turned to face the door again, grabbed the doorknob, and twisted it as if it would magically unlock. But who was I kidding? I knew before I touched the knob it wouldn’t open. It just felt like the right thing to do next.