Booty Call *69 (16 page)

“Shana, why you trippin? Is it because of that fool’s death?”

“It might be…you tell me,” I say folding my arms across my chest.

“You think I was the one that smoked him, don’t you?” Tyrone says turning off the car.

“Well the way you beat him down the other night was a clear sign that you two didn’t get along.” I turn away from him and look out the window, watching a few kids play- wrestling on someone’s front lawn.

“Shana, look at me…look at me!” he shouts. I slowly turn back around to face him and look into his eyes. “I didn’t smoke Terry. Believe me, yo. And if you’re thinking that I did, then get the thought of it out of your fuckin’ head,” he says.

“Well, if
you
didn’t, then who did?”

“I don’t fuckin know! That niggah had enemies.”

“Terry?”

“Shana, let me tell you something about your boy: Yeah, he owed me money, and didn’t pay up. But he owed a lot more money to people who are far more vicious and dangerous than me. Why da fuck do you think he got up and just left for North Carolina—to get out of paying his debts. Yo, your boy Terry was foul!”

I don’t believe him. Terry wasn’t that kind of person. He was an honor student for God’s sake! He was one of those pretty boys who got manicures, shopped more than me and got his haircut twice a week. I remember one time he got pulled over for speeding, and was so nervous speaking to the police that he started stuttering.

“Shana, why you trippin’ over his death anyway? Ain’t like y’all was still together.”

“That’s not the point. He was my friend. How much did he owe you anyway?”

“Yo, Shana, I don’t wanna discuss that sorry mutha-fucka’s debt right now. Let it be.”

“Why?”

“Shana, just let it be!”

I hate when he omits vital information about himself, his life and his experiences. I mean, I’m fuckin’ him; the least he can do is open up some. And if he
didn’t
do it, I’m sure he knows who did. Tyrone knows almost every thug, killer and hood in Queens and Brooklyn.

I peer over at him. I know he knows something; he just isn’t saying. I don’t know what it is with him. I just can’t figure him out…maybe he isn’t meant to be figured out.

“Shana, look, I’m falling in love with you, and I would never do anything to hurt you,” he says leaning forward, placing his hand on my thigh.

He presses his lips against mine, trying to pry my mouth open with his tongue. I feel his hand deep in between my legs. “Tyrone, not now,” I beg, slowly moving his hand away.

“What’s da matter? You don’t want me?”

“It’s just that I got a lot on my mind right now, Tyrone. I just need to be by myself for a while.”

He slowly moves back into his seat. “Shana, don’t be stressing over your ex’s death. I’m sayin’, life moves on, and I wanna move on with you,” he says taking my hand in his. I know this is a side of Tyrone that people rarely see—a sweet, loving and romantic Tyrone—not the usual, shoot‘em-up hood roughneck. I’m now starting to believe every word he’s said to me. He leans forward again to try to give me another kiss. I go along with this one. His phone goes off, breaking the spell. He looks at the number and places the phone back on his hip. He gives me a quick peck on the lips.

“I gotta go, Shana, this is important,” he says restarting the car. “I’ll give you a call some time tonight.”

I step out of the car and watch him pull off. The temperature has dropped rapidly. I’m shivering and wonder if this is a sign. I run back into the house, where I will remain for the rest of the night.

It’s been two weeks since Terry’s wake, and my escapades with Tyrone are becoming more frequent. I’ve even stayed a few days over at his place. He has the gift of gab; he could talk the panties off of a nun. He makes me dinner,
takes me shopping and even eats my pussy out for hours.

I’ve stopped asking questions about Terry’s death. It’s obvious that Tyrone isn’t ever going to break and say anything anyway, so why keep trying? I’ve taken his advice and gotten over it.

After several more days pass, I go out shopping with Naja and Latish. We’re looking for outfits to wear to a party tonight. Tyrone gave me five hundred dollars. We head out to Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. When we’re done shopping, the girls and I decide that it would be best for everyone to get dressed over at my place.

By evening, we’re all buggin’ out, talking and watching
Boyz N the Hood
on cable in my room when Latish asks, “So Shana, what’s going on with you and Tyrone? I mean, y’all been pretty tight these past few days....”

“We’re doing our thang,” I reply.

“So, is it really over between you and Jakim?”

“No, he’s still my boo.”

“Shana, you know you’re playing with fire, right!” Naja says shaking her head.

“Please, Naja, I got the heat under control. And like I said before, Jakim and I are not officially together again, so I can spread my legs for whoever I want to,” I say, laying back on the bed and parting my legs.

Latish starts laughing. “G-i-r-r-l, you crazy!”

As I prop myself back up into a sitting position, the doorbell rings. The girls look over at me. I shrug my shoulders; I’m not expecting company.

“Could it be Tyrone’s sexy ass?” Latish teases.

I go to see who’s at the door. I look out the window and see Jakim’s car parked outside. I sigh and slowly open the door.

“What’s up?” he says stepping inside the front door.

“Why you here?” I ask.

“I’m sayin’, I ain’t been through in a minute,” he replies taking off his coat and leaning forward to toss it onto the arm of the couch like I’ve asked him to stay.

“Well, me and the girls are about to go out tonight, so you can’t stay long.”

He probably wants some pussy tonight. He got a little taste of it again and wants seconds. I know he’s horny; I can see it in his eyes…antsy muthafucka. He moves in close to me, placing his arms around my waist and tries to kiss me on the neck. I pull away from him, smelling the liquor on his breath.

“What’s da matter? A brotha can’t get no love from the woman he loves?”

“Jakim, you’re drunk. Go home.”

“I’m not drunk, boo.”

I grab his coat off the couch and pass it to him. He comes toward me again with open arms. I push him back. Hearing laughter coming from my bedroom, he quickly turns his head in that direction. “Who you got in there with you?”

“My friends, Jakim.”

He moves past me, hurrying toward my bedroom. I follow him. He pushes open my bedroom door and sees Naja and Latish sitting on my bed, half-naked and getting ready for the party tonight. Startled, Naja runs and covers herself with a towel hanging over the back of a chair, but Latish remains seated on the bed in her panties and T-shirt.

“Sorry, ladies,” Jakim says.

“Hi, Jakim,” Latish says with a broad smile on her face.

“Jakim, get out of here!” Naja screams out, embarrassed that he saw her with nearly nothing on.

“Jakim, can you please leave!” I yell.

He walks back into the living room, stands by the door and says, “I’m sayin’, Shana, when you and me gonna really get together and hook up again?”

“I don’t know, Jakim.” He starts to say something but thinks better of it and walks through the door. I lock it behind him and go back to my bedroom with the girls.

“G-i-r-r-l, he got it bad for you. You need to let the brotha be,” Latish says laughing.

“Let’s just forget everything and get ready for this fuckin’ party tonight,” I say.

It takes each of us two hours to get dressed. Naja spends nearly an hour in the bathroom, and Latish takes more time applying her make-up and doing her hair. We finally leave my house at ten o’ clock.

We arrive at the Executive around ten-forty. The Executive is a popular club in Queens located on Linden Boulevard. Every Saturday night there’s something going down there. Famous rappers and other celebrities frequently stop in to get their party on. The line is getting long, so Naja hurries to park her four-door, blue Pontiac.

It’s our night, and we’re dressed like divas. I’m wearing a blue, belled Lurex herringbone mini skirt, knee-high boots and a cream turtle-neck sweater. Latish is wearing a mini, too, but not as fly as mine. Naja is wearing a denim skirt and a pair of knee-high boots, similar to mine.

We step up to the line, and it seems like every male is breaking his
neck to howl and whistle at us. And of course, once again, the bitches are hating.

Once inside, we hear the speakers blasting Biggie. The club is nearly filled to capacity. “I’m at da bar,” Latish says.

Naja and I stand around for a moment. One guy blows me a kiss. I don’t catch it. It was probably tainted with his chapped lips. I know he’s heard of ChapStick.

Beside the sprinkling of a few ugly men, there are a number of cuties in the place. One guy with a bald head catches my attention. He’s looking too good. As I’m eyeing him, a guy with a fucked up bowl cut and bucked teeth walks up, trying to holla at me. He offers me a drink. I refuse his offer. He smiles. I shoot him down with an ice cold stare. Then he tries to talk to Naja, and she turns his ugly ass down, too. Now he has the nerve to try to talk to Latish. She’s nicer to him than Naja and I were. He buys her two drinks, and then she tells him to fuck off.

I go crazy when my jam,
Lifestyles of the Rich and Shameless
by Lost Boyz, starts blasting over the speakers. I love this song. I grab the nearest cutie and start grinding up on him. The muthafucka doesn’t have any rhythm, so I dismiss him and move on to the next fine man who isn’t cursed with having two left feet.

“My name’s Charlie,” he whispers in my ear. I give him a strange look; I don’t care to have his name. I just want to dance. “So, what’s your name, beautiful?”

I look at him and say, “Goodbye!” and move on to the next guy. Naja is laughing, as she and Latish saw everything.

The third guy is really cute. He has curly hair, brown eyes, a goatee and a nice build. We’re grooving together nicely. He’s real smooth, and
he keeps his mouth shut. My joint comes to an end, and I need to take a breather. We head to the bar, and he offers to buy me a drink. He doesn’t say anything; he just uses hand gestures.

“Damn, boo, don’t hurt nobody tonight,” some idiot shouts as he passes by. I just ignore him.

I give the bartender my order. Then I take a seat on one of the stools next to my male company. He’s definitely fine. He pulls out a wad of hundreds to pay for my drink. I wonder why he isn’t talking. I mean, now when I want a guy to talk, he doesn’t say a word. I smile at him and sip on my drink. “So what’s your name?” I finally ask.

“C-Cory.”

“You’re not getting yourself a drink, Cory?” He shakes his head no. “So, Cory, you not gonna ask me for my name?”

He hesitates to speak. “Wh-wh-what…i…i…is…yo-your…name?” he finally stammers out.

I cover my mouth with my hand.
Holy shit!
It took him almost a minute to ask me my name. He just looks at me as I start to chuckle, with tears of laughter forming in my eyes. He’s cute and all, but the speech impediment ruins it. I gulp down the remainder of my drink.

“Ca-ca-ca-ca-can—I—I—b-b-b-b—buy—yo-you—

a-a-a-an-an-another—one?” he asks.

The lady sitting next to me is cracking up. I shake my head no. I don’t even tell him my name…. Oh-my-God! The cutest guy in the place, and he has a serious speech problem.

“Shana,” I blurt out. I’ve decided to be nice.

“H-huh?”

“Remember you asked me for my name? Well, my name is Shana,”
I say.

He is so fine; he deserves to know my name, even though he can’t talk for shit. Latish and Naja come over, admiring Cory. They stare him down, looking all in his grill. “Damn, he’s fine!” Latish whispers in my ear, unaware of his little flaw.

I kind of still want to get with him; what he lacks in words, he makes up for on the dance floor. I pass Cory my home phone number and he passes me his. Then I give him a kiss on the cheek and whisper in his ear. “I’ll call you and we’ll hook up later, aiight?” He smiles.

Latish is drunk as usual. She’s slumped over at the bar as Naja gets her groove on with some fine brotha with dreads. I go on a search for the ladies room. “Fuckin’ bitch!” I hear someone say after bumping into me as I make my way through the tight crowd. I can’t see who said it; I’d scratch their fuckin’ eyes out. I blow it off and continue to look for the bathroom.

Three ladies enter as I’m running the comb through my hair in the bathroom mirror. I pay them no attention, and I begin to freshen up.

“Your name’s Shana?” one of the girls walks up behind me and asks. By her reflection in the mirror, I see that she’s about my height, with chinky brown eyes, cornrows and an attitude. She’s beautiful—almost as stunning as me.

“Why? Who wants to know?” I say turning my head slightly.