Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang (22 page)

“Nigga, I ain’t tryna be ya experiment. Go get some practice playin’ boyfriend somewhere else before comin’ at me.”

“Yo, go ’head wit’ that silly shit. I don’t need to practice shit. I already know what it is.”

“Muhfucka, when you come to me, you betta come correct. And be ready to man up. Don’t come pushin’ up on me tryna bag a bitch, knowin’ you still stuntin’.” I walk ova to my nightstand. Open up the bottom drawer, pullin’ out two guns, my Colt Python and a Beretta Storm 9mm. “’Cause trust ’n believe”—I turn, aimin’ ’em at ’im—“I will take ya face off.”

He jumps back. “Oh, shit. You wildin’; for real, yo. Put that shit up.” I keep ’em aimed at ’im. I don’t blink. And neither does he. “Yo, Kat for real, yo. Put that shit up.”

“Alex, Alley Cat, Daddy Long Stroke and whateva else they call you on da bricks. This gun right here”—I raise the Python—“I use to play in my pussy so it ain’t da one I’d use to splatter ya skull. But make no mistake, this one right here”—I raise the KelTec chrome—“is da one I will use to light fire in ya skull if you play me.” I drop ’em on the bed, walkin’ back ova to ’im. I can tell I done spooked the nigga, but he keeps it cool.

“Yo, that was some foul shit, pullin’ guns out on a muhfucka like that.”

“And I hope I don’t eva have’ta again. Soooooo, before you start comin’ at me any more ’bout tryna wife me up ’n shit, you need’a think long ’n hard ’bout what you sayin’. Now hurry up get ya boots on ’n bounce.”

The nigga steps up in my space. “I ain’t no pussy, yo. And I ain’t no confused muhfucka. I know what I want. And it’s you.” He snatches me up and starts tonguin’ me down. And I ain’t gonna
front. A bitch’s pussy starts to pop. We kiss for a few minutes, ’til he unlocks his lips from mine and backs away. “Save ya bullets, baby, ’cause you ain’t usin’ ’em on me.”

I smirk, followin’ ’im down the stairs. “We’ll see, muhfucka.”

“Yeah aiight.” He leans in and gives me some more tongue, grabbin’ a chunkful of ass wit’ his hands. “You really think I’m bullshittin’ don’t you?”

“Nigga, what I
think
is you wanna get me wrapped ’round ya finga, but you see I ain’t lettin’ it go down.”

He laughs. “Yo, you funny bad. You know what, let me get some-thin’ to write wit’ ’n some paper.” I walk off through the dinin’ room and he follows behind me to the kitchen. I hand ’em a note-pad and pen. He writes sumthin’ down, tears the sheet of paper off’a the pad, then hands it to me.

I glance at it. It’s a buncha numbers ’n passwords. “What’s this?”

“It’s my passwords to e’erything.” My mouth drops open. This nigga done gave me the codes to his cell, Myspace, Blackplanet and Facebook accounts. “You don’t trust a muhfucka. You don’t think a muhfucka can be all ’bout you. You think a muhfucka still gonna be on some extra shit. Cool. Check da shit for ya’self, whenever you want.”

“Mmmph. I don’t need this.” I hand it back to ’im. “You givin’ me this shit means nuthin’.”

He sits the paper on the table, then opens the door. “Well, guess what, ma. For a muhfucka like me, you da first, so it means e’erything. If you can’t see that, then shame on you.”

He blows me a kiss as he walks out, beboppin’ it toward his whip. I stand in the doorway and watch ’im get in, backin’ outta the driveway before closin’ the door.

I scoop up the paper wit’ all his passwords, then take the steps two at’a time to log into the nigga’s shit to see what’s really good.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Music poppin’…mad sexy bitches dressed in da ill wears… battin’ da mink lashes…got da niggas havin’ hot flashes… stacked in da stilettos…jewels got da bitches shittin’ in they draws…gotta ’em shook…thinkin’ we gonna snatch they mans… gotta ’em rollin’ them eyes…we iggin’ da glares…keepin’ shit cute…Brooklyn bitches ain’t fuckin’ wit’ no boys…but got no problem slidin’ a bitch we despise…if she wanna bring da noise…

I
t’s Saturday night, and I’m speedin’ up the Turnpike on my way to scoop Chanel up so we can get it in tonight. I gotta blunt fired up and Rihanna’s “Rude Boy” knockin’ outta the speakers to get me in the mood. It’s been a minute since a bitch popped ’er hips on the dance floor, so hopefully I can twirl these hips a bit and get it sweaty. I’m hopin’ they ain’t featurin’ a buncha low-budget booga bitches up in that piece. My cell rings. I glance at the screen, then answer. It’s the nigga Tone out in Cali.

“Hello.”

“What’s good, Beautiful, how you?”

“Chillin’. And you?”

“I can’t call it, ma. I had’a call you and let you know I got them papers.”

“Ohhh, shit,” I say all amped, knowin’ he passed the real estate exam. “Get da fuck out. Congrats, muhfucka. That’s wassup.”

“Yeah, ma. Thanks. It’s on now. Yo, you get yours?” I tell ’im no. “Well, when you do we gonna have’ta celebrate.”

“And you know this.”

“Yo, on some real shit, I been thinkin’ ’bout you, ma.”

“Uh-oh.”

He starts laughin’. “Nah, nah, nuthin’ major. I mean, yeah, you been on the brain. Shit, you mad cool, Kat. And I ain’t gonna front, you fine as fuck.”

“And da pussy’s good.”

He keeps laughin’. “Yo, ma, you mad funny.”

“But am I lyin’? Keep shit real, nigga.”

“Oh, no doubt, ma. I’ma real-type nigga. Hell yeah, you got that bomb-ass pussy. I ain’t even gonna front on it.”

“Nigga, you can’t front on it even if you wanted to,” I say, laughin’. My cell beeps lettin’ me know there’s another call. It’s Chanel. “But, look, my girl is on the other line. Let me hit you up lata.”

“Oh, aiight. No doubt. I’ll holla.”

I click ova. “I’m like five minutes away.”

“Shit, well, hurry da fuck up. Divine’s horny-ass tryna get some pussy and a bitch ain’t tryna sweat out ’er hair.”

I laugh. “Then suck da nigga off.”

“I already did. Now he tryna fuck.”

“Poor thing. I’m turnin’ down ya street now.”

“I’m on my way out now. No need to stop, just swing da door open and I’ll jump in, then speed da fuck off.”

I crack the fuck up. “Bitch, you stoopid.”

B
Y THE TIME WE HIT CLUB
E
DEN, CHANEL AND
I
ARE SMOKED
out ’n feelin’ right. The line is mad thick and there’s a ton of hoes and niggas fussin’ ’n stressin’ ’bout standin’ on line for over forty-five minutes. The bouncers are poppin’ mad shit to some’a the females, manhandlin’ them ’n shit. But I ain’t pressed. This bitch ain’t the one.

I cut my eye over at Chanel. “Bitch, I know you not expectin’
me
to stand up in this shit. And you know I ain’t beat for no muhfucka feelin’ all up on me like how that nigga’s doin’ her.”

“Girl, don’t sweat that shit. You already know,” She says, flippin’ open her cell. “I got it covered.” She lets whoever she’s talkin’ to know we’re outside. Five minutes later, this tall, brown-skinned muhfucka waves us over to him. Chanel gives him a hug. Dude eyes me over her shoulder, givin’ me a nod. I turn my head. Act like the nigga don’t exist. Two minutes later, we are breezin’ right up to the front of the line.

“Mmmph,” I whisper, smirkin’. “Let me find out ya ho-ish ass done broke that nigga off wit’ a dose of throat action.”

She laughs. “Fuck you, ho. He’s one’a Divine’s cousins.”

“Ain’t that special. Now let’s see if them juicy dick suckas of yours get us free drinks for the night.”

She continues laughin’. “Bitch, let me find out ya high-post ass finally wit’ the program lettin’ muhfuckas buy you drinks.”

I suck my teeth, usherin’ her toward the stairs. “Ho, walk.”

As we make our way up the steps, Juelz Santana’s joint “Back to the Crib” is knockin’ through the speakers. The idea of grindin’ up on a nigga’s cock on the dance floor makes my pussy twitch.
I swear I hope they got some fine, sexy muhfuckas up in this biiiotch!

Chanel and I keep it real sexy in bangin’-ass brown Gucci slip dresses that wrap ’round our dangerous curves like a windin’ road. She rocks her wears wit’ a pair of chocolate brown Chanel
pumps and a beaded clutch. While I kill it in a pair of orange Jimmy Choo strappy stilettos and Judith Lieber clutch. Niggas peep our swag and do double-takes as we make our way through the crowd. I peep a few hoes tossin’ haterade in the air, which makes me pop ’n shake my hips real extra. Just enough to let ’em know what a bitch is workin’ wit under these wears.

I scan the club and peep a few muhfuckas over by the bar who look like they might be worthy of a dance, or two, posted up bullshittin’ wit’ they boys. The club is mad packed and the beats are sick.

“I need a drink,” Chanel yells ova the music. I agree, followin’ ’er to the bar. Niggas step back, eye-fuckin’ us—lettin’ us get through, but we pays ’em dust. I hand ’er a fifty. Tell ’er the first two rounds are on me. Of course this lush bitch orders a double shot of Rèmy and a Corona to chase it. I frown at the combo. But let ’er do ’er.

“Bitch, ya ass get drunk, you crawlin’ home.” I order the same thing, but I ain’t chasin’ shit. I’m takin’ the shit straight.

She laughs, givin’ me the finga. “Crawl on this.” We take our drinks, clink our shot glasses, then toss ’em back. She guzzles down the Corona. Muhfuckas got they eyes on us, grinnin’ as Chanel orders ’nother ’round. We take it to the head, again.

“Damn, ya’ll pretty ladies know how to get it in,” this golden brown nigga wit’ light brown eyes says, smilin’. For some reason the nigga looks familiar, like I seen ’im somewhere before, but I don’t put no energy into tryna figure the shit out.

“That’s how we doin’ it,” Chanel says, lookin’ the muhfucka ova.

He laughs, starin’ at me. He puts his finga up. “Yo, I know ya’ll.”

Chanel and I frown. “Nigga, you don’t know us. You buggin’.”

He smiles. “Nah, ma, I never forget a face. The Forty-Forty
club. Ya’ll the two beauties who housed me ’n my man on the pool table.”

Chanel blinks at ’im. Of course her ass don’t remember the nigga. But I do. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. We spanked that ass, and walked off wit’ ya paper. Let me find out you ready to get that ass beat again.”

He laughs. “Ouch. Kat, right?”

“Yeah.”

He turns to Chanel. “I’m Bronze. And you?”

“Bored,” she says, turnin’ ’er head.

“Oh, shit. I got you, ma.”

I laugh. “Don’t pay ’er cranky-ass no mind. It’s Chanel. She gets crazy when she don’t take ’er medicine.” He laughs. “Damn, you gotta good memory. How da hell you remember my name? We mopped ya’ll asses up on that table ’bout two years ago.”

“Yo, a muhfucka never forgets gettin’ his ass spanked by a beauty who likes to talk a buncha shit on the table. Me ’n my man, Leo, still laugh ’bout that shit. Yo, we still wanna rematch.”

I eye ’im. “Well, anytime you wanna bitch to run ya pockets ’n give you ’nother round of whoop ass, let me know.” He laughs. Asks for my number, but I tell ’im to give me his. We bullshit a few more minutes ’til Chanel’s had ’nough’a standin’ in one spot.

“Bitch, it’s hot in here. Let’s go outside.” I tell the nigga I’ll hit ’im up for that rematch, then dip. As soon as I get outta his view, I toss the nigga’s number on the floor and pop my ass out onto the rooftop.

I
GLANCE AT MY TIMEPIECE
. I
T’S ALMOST ONE-THIRTY A.M
. Chanel and I are still out on the rooftop, standin’ at the bar, talkin’ to these cats from Uptown. She’s already on her third Red
Bull vodka. And we’ve already tossed back two shots of soco—uh, Southern Comfort. Something told me to keep it light, after we tossed back those two shots of Rémy earlier so I’m slow slippin’ this shit.

Cypress Hill’s “Bang Bang” is blarin’ through the speakers. I finga pop and wind it a bit, but ain’t really beat to drop it on the floor. “Girl, I’ll be back,” Chanel says, rudely spinnin’ off on the nigga she was talkin’ to. I watch her poppin’ her hips back inside.

I continue half-listenin’ to this nigga wit’ the curly ’fro, bobbin’ my head to the beat while tryna figure out why he’s out here rockin’ dark-ass shades.

“I had’a feelin’ I was gonna run into this bitch,” I hear someone say in back of me. As soon as I hear the voice, I already know it’s ’bout to be a situation. “Oh, you fly wit’ it, hunh? You can be all up in da club shakin’ ’n poppin’ ya ass ’n shit, but a bitch too good for her family ’n shit, talkin’ real slick ’n greasy to my mutha like you got it like that. Is that how you doin’ it, bitch?”

I take a deep breath. Ignore the bitch standin’ in back’a me. Look over at the nigga I was talkin’ to and say, “Do me a favor and tell that bird in back’a me to shoo.”

“Ho,
shoo
hell! You disrespect ya grandmutha, sign complaints on ya aunts ’n get restrainin’ orders ’n shit on ’em. Bitch, that shit ain’t cute.”

I keep my back to ’er. Let the bitch keep poppin’ shit, but in a minute I’ma ’bout to take my glass to ’er face. I keep sippin’ my drink. “How da fuck was you gonna pull da plug on ya mutha and kill ’er baby, hunh, ho?”

I take a deep breath. Finish up my drink, then turn to face Patrice, tuckin’ my clutch under my arm. She’s standin’ in a black sequined Donna Karan scoop-neck tunic dress. Her neck, lobes ’n wrists are lit the fuck up. I can’t front. The ho looks fabulous. But I still can’t stand her snake ass!

I eye her. She’s cut off all’a ’er hair for a short tapered do wit’ a sweepin’ bang. In another life, me and this bitch coulda been a real problem together. “Bitch,” I snap, twistin’ my lips, “step da fuck away from me ’fore you end up pickin’ ya face up off da floor.”

“Bitch, hol’ da fuck up,” she snaps, handin’ her bag to one’a ’er girls. A shapely brown-skinned chick dipped in low-end jewels, wearin’ a one-shoulder, black draped Jersey getup that clings to her body. I can’t figure out the designer so I decide it must be a low-end piece. I peep her burgundy Marc Jacobs leather satchel.
Cute,
I think, bringin’ my attention back to Patrice.

“Girl, don’t,” Miss Low End says, grabbin’ ’er arm. “This ain’t the time. We ain’t come out for all the extras tonight; let it go. You can get at this ho some other time.”

“Ho?
Bitch, I will rock ya eye sockets,” I say to her, layin’ my clutch on the bar ’cause in a minute I’ma ’bout to knock this bitch in both ’er eyes. Of course Chanel’s somewhere wit’ ’er juicy ass pressed up against some nigga’s cock on the dance floor.