Daddy Long Stroke (36 page)

 30 

A week later, I'm over at Pops' spot—up in my room chillin', shufflin' through mail and puffin' on a L while flippin' through TV channels tryna find sumthin' to watch.
Ain't shit on this bitch
, I think, tossin' the remote over on the other side of the bed.
Pay all this fuckin' money for a buncha hot garbage
. I turn on my laptop and wait for it to boot. I hear the doorbell ring, but don't give it much thought since I know Pops is somewhere in the house. I click on Internet Explorer, then hit up my Yahoo account. The minute I log on, it chimes, alertin' me I have new messages; eighty-seven, to be exact. As I'm goin' through 'em, a buncha IM's start poppin' up. Of course I ain't beat for any of 'em today. I don't know why I don't make myself invisible, knowin' this is the kinda shit I gotta deal wit' e'erytime I sign on. These thirsty bitches stay tryna get a taste of this chocolate stick. I ignore 'em all.

My cell rings. It's Akina. I decide she can leave a message. She calls again. I let the call roll into voicemail, again. Five minutes later, she's callin' back. I pick up. “What's good?”

“You need to check your messages,” she says, soundin' tight. “Ya voicemail's full.”

“Oh, aiight,” I say, loggin' off Yahoo. “So what's poppin'?” I hit up my BlackPlanet page, then Myspace and Facebook pages, readin' and deletin' notes and ignorin' friend requests.

“Why is it the only time I hear from you is when you want
some pussy, ya dick sucked, or you need me to do something? Other than that, I'm the one always calling you.”

“Ohhhhkay, ya point?”

“Muhfucka, the
point
is it would be nice if you took time outta your day to hit a bitch up to say, ‘Hey, I was thinking about you. I don't need or want nothing; just wanted to see what's good with you.' Hell, it's not like I'm looking for you to come outta ya pockets 'cause we both know ain't shit in them bitches, except lint, any-damn-way…” This bitch tryna make it sound like I'm some bum-ass nigga. I frown, but keep my mouth shut and let her go on. “…I'm sick of feeling like I'm being used.”

On some real shit, I'm kinda surprised she's comin' at me like this. Outta all the chicks I've smashed, she's been the one I kept 'round the longest 'cause she's never tried to stress a nigga. I mean. E'ery now and then she might get on some bullshit, tryna question me or some other shit, but she's never come at my neck. We had an understandin' that we do what we do and get up when we get up. At least that's what the fuck I thought. Man, listen…I don't know why the fuck bitches can't stick to the muthafuckin' script. Things would run so much smoother if they played their fuckin' positions instead of tryna turn shit into sumthin' extra. Damn, we only FUCKING!

I shake my head. “Yo, hol' up,” I say, gettin' up off the bed, “you must be PMS-in' real bad to be comin' at me all sideways 'n shit. But, I'ma tell you what. Take that shit somewhere else 'cause I ain't beat for it. Not today, baby, real talk.”

“You know what, Alley Cat. Kiss my motherfucking fat ass, for real,
baby.
You ain't never beat. Every time you don't like how something's being said to you, you wanna dismiss a bitch, like that shit's supposed to mean something. Fuck you, nigga! All them bitches you fucking and got sucking your dick ain't ever gonna
have your black-ass back the way I've had it. But it's all good 'cause I'm done with ya dumb ass.”

I sigh. “Yo, check this out. Where the fuck is all this comin' from?”

“Ask ya motherfucking boy, Ron, nigga.”

“What?
Ron?
What that nigga got to do wit' how you comin' at me?”

“I saw him at Divas last night all drunk up 'n shit. That nigga was tryna press up real hard 'n shit and ride all up on a bitch.” For some reason, I feel myself gettin' tight hearin' this shit. Not 'cause I got some claim on her, but 'cause that nigga knows what it is wit' me and her. And he straight disrespected that.

“Okay, so he was tryna get at you. And? You still ain't said what that got to do wit' how you talkin'.”

“The nigga told me all about your stay in Atlanta. You know. The motherfucking trip I FUCKING paid for! I asked you straight out if you went there to see some other bitch on my dime, and you told me no. But come to find out, you were out there fucking some big-faced, handicapped bitch in a wheelchair or some shit. At my FUCKING expense! That shit is foul as hell. It's one thing for you to have another bitch's pussy all dried up around your funky-ass balls while I'm sucking your dick. And it's another to take my hard-earned money and go see some other bitch, then lie about it. Nigga, I don't think so!”

Ain't this some shit?! That hatin'-ass, bitch-ass nigga! I always knew he was diggin' her, but I didn't think the pussy-ass nigga would try 'n snake me to get at her. I'ma confront his ass. But, instead of goin' in his mouth, I'ma let 'im think he got that off. And the next time his girl comes at me on some slick shit, tryna wet this dick, I'ma fuck the dog shit outta her ugly, knotty-headed ass. I'ma wipe this nut all over her big-ass dick suckas. Straight
disrespect her ass on the strength of how that muhfucka tried to play me, word up. I might even take a few snapshots and post 'em up on Facebook. The crazy part is I never told the nigga 'bout that ep. The only person I said anything to was Gee's dumb ass.

“I thought we already had this conversation, and I told you what it was. I also told you I'd give you your money back, but you didn't want it.”

“No, nigga, I wanted the truth.”

“And I gave it to you.”

She sucks her teeth. “Yeah, muhfucka, your version of it.”

“So you mean to tell me, after three years of us kickin' it, you gonna believe some muhfucka you don't even know over me? You gonna let some drunk-ass nigga get all up in ya head. Damn, I thought you was bigger than that.”

“Muhfucka, don't go there. Ain't nobody get up in shit. If
you
was bigger than that, we wouldn't be havin' this conversation. Dude seemed to know what the hell he was talking about. Why would the nigga wanna lie on you, if he's ya boy 'n shit?”

“That nigga ain't
my
boy. He's a muhfucka I chilled wit' on the strength. Obviously, the nigga wanna smash or beat ya throat up.”

“Whatever. The only thing that nigga can do is beat it. He can't do shit else for me.”

“Yeah, but you believin' what the fuck comes outta his mouth. What kinda shit is that?”

“It's me thinking that maybe the nigga spoke the truth since I was kinda doubting ya lyin', sneaky ass any-damn-way. Your freak-ass probably was fuckin' some crippled bitch. Who knows what the fuck you be doing.”

“Yo, get real, what the fuck a big-dick nigga like me look like fuckin' some disabled bitch in a wheelchair? That shit don't even sound right. I'd rip her fuckin' box out the frame. But since you
wanna believe some crazy-ass shit like that, then go 'head. Do you.”

“Muhfucka, don't try that reverse-pyschology bullshit with me. I know your kind, nigga. And I think there's some truth to what that nigga told me. So you can say what the fuck you want. As far as I'm concerned, you're real fucked up for it.”

I sigh. “I see you wanna beef, so I'ma let you go.”

“Yeah, nigga, you do that!”

“Peace,” I say, disconnectin' the call, then tossin' the phone onto the bed. I feel a muthafuckin' headache comin' on. And I'm all outta blunts.
Fuck!
I swing open the bedroom door and head downstairs to get sumthin' to drink. All the lights are out and the house is quiet.
Pops musta dipped over to Moms',
I think, walkin' into the kitchen. I grab a glass from outta the dishwasher, then open the 'fridge and pour myself some cranberry juice. I take the bag of Cool Ranch Doritos off the counter and head back into the livin' room.

I flop on the sofa—still heated. I can't believe that crab-ass nigga told Akina that bullshit, tryna fuck up my groove. Got her comin' at my neck all crazy 'n shit, like she's 'bout to dismiss a nigga. She's straight trippin', for real. Aiight, aiight…what I did was fucked up, but that nigga had no muthafuckin' business runnin' his muthafuckin' mouth tellin' her shit. I can't front on the chick, though. Akina's always had my back. No matter what time of the day or night it is, anytime I've called her, she's always been Johnny on the spot. Not that she was sittin' 'round waitin' on me to get at her. She just seems to always make time for me when I do. But now this fake muhfucka done went and tossed salt in the game.

I grab the remote off the coffee table, turnin' the TV on.
Nigga, what in the hell you sittin' here trippin' for? She ain't ya girl. If she
wanna bounce, then tell her bounce. You had a good run. The shit wasn't gonna last forever. Eventually, she was gonna be out anyway. So, fuck it!
I think, flippin' through the channels. I contemplate callin' Gee's dumb ass and blastin' 'im for runnin' his muthafuckin' mouth, but decide to get at 'im the next time I see 'im, or the next time he hits me up. I tell u, muhfuckas gotta always be on some extra shit.
I'ma give her a few days to cool off, then get at her to see where her head is.
“Hopefully, back in this lap,” I mumble, chewin' on a mouthful of chips. I take a long gulp of juice to rinse 'em down. As usual, ain't shit on the television. I'm relieved to catch
Dexter
on Showtime. Yo, this dude is one sick muhfucka; a muthafuckin' serial killer workin' for the police department. That's some shit right there. Although I've missed most of the season's episodes, I make a mental note to purchase the DVD when it comes out.

Ten minutes into the show, my cell rings. I suck my teeth. It's Akina callin' back. I consider iggin' the shit, but I don't. “Where are you?” she asks the minute I answer. She doesn't sound as tight as she was earlier, but there's still a sharp edge to her tone.

“I'm at the crib, why?”

“I need to see you.”

“For what?”

She huffs. “I'm on my way over. I'll get into it then.” She hangs up before I can respond. I sigh, shakin' my head.

Twenty minutes later, she's at the door wit' her face all twisted up. I open it and let her in. “I hope you ain't come over here to beef 'cause if so, you coulda did that shit over the phone, word up.”

She rolls her eyes, brushin' past me wearin' a brown three-quarter leather coat and a pair of knee-high boots. “Nigga, ain't nobody come here to beef with you,” she says, unfastenin' her coat. “I'm here to set the record straight. And get shit out in the open, once and for all.”

I stare at her shiny lips. They have me thinkin' 'bout havin' 'em wrapped 'round the head of my dick. I wanna grab my shit, pull it out, but don't. She squints her slanted eyes at me. She knows my mind is startin' to wander. Knows I'm startin' to become preoccupied wit' sexin' her. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She has a strand of hair swooped over her face and it makes her look sexier than she already is.

She removes her coat and wraps it over her arm. She smells good as hell. I inhale, tryna figure out what she has on. I can't front, like so many of the other broads I fuck—okay, okay…and fucked over—this bitch is bad as hell. She'd definitely be a good woman for someone, just not me. For me, she's only good for fuckin'.

“You want me to take that?” I ask, reachin' for her coat.

“Nope,” she says as she walks over to the sofa. I peep the way her designer jeans wrap 'round her ass like an extra layer of skin, and feel my dick jump. She sits down. “I won't be here long.”

“Oh, word? So what you gotta say to me in person that you couldn't say over the phone?”

“Look, let me be clear on something. I know what it is…I mean, what it was, between us—absolutely nothin'. The only thing we've been is fuck buddies. And I've been cool with that. But what I'm not cool with is you tryna play me as some dumb-ass chick. That does not sit well with me.”