Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang (29 page)

“We understand your mother had been on life support until he was delivered. And we understand the father is a person of interest in her death.”

“Yeah, that’s right. What does that have to do wit’ me, or you?”

“Well, now that he’s born we need to begin planning for—”

“Oh, no, Sweetie,” Chanel cuts in, shiftin’ ’er handbag from one hand to the otha. “We don’t need no plannin’ committee. We got this. So thanks for ya interest. But you can go hop scotch on back ova to ACS. He’s in good hands.”

“And you are?” Sam the Man asks.

“I’m his aunt.”

“Can we have your name?”

“It’s Aunt,” Chanel says fuckin’ wit’ ’em. “A-U-N-T.”

I tilt my head. “So the only plannin’ there’s gonna be is what color I’m gonna paint his room.”

“Well, here’s the thing, Miss Rivera,” Miss Sunday’s Best says.
“We’re here in the interest of the child. We’ve received several calls from concerned parties on behalf of the infant.”

“Concerned parties like who?” I ask, lookin’ ’er dead in ’er blue eyes.

“Well, I’m not at liberty to disclose who the parties are. However, we’d like to discuss with you some concerns…”

Right at this moment, I ain’t tryna hear shit this ho is sayin’. And although I wanna drag this bitch for filth, I know I gotta keep it cute. So I force myself to keep my mouth shut and pay attention. The bitch starts talkin’ ’bout allegations. Someone called in and told ’em that a bitch sells drugs and sits ’round blazin’ all day; that a bitch is aggressive and violent; that I assaulted my grandmother and attacked my aunts; that I get drunk and fuck a buncha men.

I blink, blink again.

“You wait one damn minute,” Chanel snaps, pointin’ ’er finga at ’em. “That’s a buncha bullshit.”

“And that may be so,” Sam the Man says. “But we still have to follow up with every call received. Our priority is for the safety and well-being of the child.”

“Hmmm,” I say, twistin’ my lips up. “And so it should be. So know this. I don’t have shit to hide. So you can ask me whateva you want. Bottom line, I have my own money, and my own home. I don’t sell drugs; neva have, neva will. And I don’t do ’em.” Okay, yeah a bitch blazes, but that ain’t none’a these hoes’ business. Besides, Kush ain’t no damn drug any-damn-way. I continue wit’ my story. “And in terms of bein’ aggressive or assaultive. I neva slapped my grandmother. I grabbed her arm. So what? The bitch slapped
me
.”

“Well, did you threaten her?”

“Ho,” I snap, puttin’ a hand on my hip. “What that gotta do
wit’ da baby? If I threatened ’er, then it should be the police standin’ here, not you. But since you asked. No, I ain’t threaten ’er. I warned ’er. I told ’er the next time she put ’er hands on me, I’ma forget she’s my grandmother and beat ’er old ass up. I don’t care who you are. Don’t put ya hands on me. Otha than that, I like to keep it real simple. Don’t fuck wit’ me, and I won’t fuck wit’ you. But if you bring, then I’ma sling it. And there you have it. Now go back and tell whomeva called you that I said ta fall da fuck back or get knocked da fuck back. Anything else?”

They both blink. I guess they shocked that a bitch brought it to ’em like that. These bitches got the wrong one.

Miss Sunday’s Best says, “We’re gonna have to follow up and do an investigation and background check on you.”

“That’s fine by me. Do whateva you need ta do ta rest ya minds.” I give ’em my contact info, then spin-off on ’em. As soon as me and Chanel get into the elevator and the doors shut, I snap. “Can you believe this shit?! They send out sum muthafuckin’ low-budget booga bitches to try ’n eye scan me. Bitch, puhleeze. They can investigate all da fuck they want.”

“Who da fuck you think called them hoes?”

“Who you think? Them whore-ass trick bitches Elise and Patrice. Shit, they old, crusty-ass mammy probably called ’em too; dusty bitch!”

“I know you gonna keep it cute, though?”

“Sweetie and you know this. First things first, a bitch gotta flush out these insides in case they try ’n get crafty wantin’ me to do piss tests ’n shit. Then I’ma invite them trashbag hoes into my home and serve ’em wit’ grace, okay?!”

“I know that’s right. So, I guess we ain’t rollin’ today?”

My cell rings. I fish it outta my bag, then glance at the screen. It’s Alex. I press
IGNORE
. The elevator doors open. “Bitch, puhleeze,
ain’t shit changed for today. We gonna burn down da muthafuckin’ forest all day. But come tomorrow, a bitch gotta shut shit down ’til after lil’ man is released from da hospital and I’m bringin’ ’im home.”

“That’s right. Right where da fuck he belongs.”

Bitch, how da fuck you get ya’self into this shit?

Ho, you doin’ da right thing.

Bitch, puhleeze, ya ass ain’t tryna be nobody’s mammy.

“I swear I hope a bitch can handle this shit,” I say as we exit the glass doors. “The last thing I wanna do is fuck his life up da way Juanita fucked up mine.”

“Girl, trust me. You won’t.” Chanel loops ’er arm ’round mine and we walk arm ’n arm.

I sigh, lookin’ up at the sky. For what, who knows; maybe for a sign. “Let’s hope so.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Ain’t gonna front…bitch loves ridin’ down on da nigga’s dick…nigga wanna be my daaaaddy…wanna eat it up ’n beat it up…pussy like crack…one hit…got da nigga cummin’ back…got ’im wantin’ this sticky nut-nut…got ’im whisperin’ my name…fly, buttery bitch got ’em all fucked up in da game…nigga, what?

“A
ye, yo, what’s good wit’ you?” Allstar asks, soundin’ kinda tight. Truth is the muhfucka probably is since I’ve been playin’ ’im to the left for the last two weeks. On some real shit, I just ain’t been feelin’ it. This whole baby situation gotta ho’s cage rattled. I’m startin’ to feel like I’m gettin’ into some shit way ova my head. And a bitch don’t like feelin’ like she ain’t in control of shit. Still, I don’t wanna see ’im in the system. And damn sure don’t want ’im bein’ placed wit’ Elise or Patrice. But I keep askin’ myself ova and ova, “what da fuck am
I
gonna do wit’ a baby? One voice in my head says: “Love it.” The otha is tellin’ me: “Fuck up its life.”

Real shit, that’s the last thing I eva wanna do. Give ’im a fucked up life, or mistreat ’im. Still, I don’t know if I really got it in me to love—someone else, that is. I thought I did. Howeva, now a
bitch gotta wonder. Not blazin’ the last two weeks hasn’t helped shit, either. It gotta ho on edge. And it has me thinkin’ ’bout shit. Like love and life and niggas. I’ma young, fly, beautiful bitch, got paper for days, good pussy, a sick throat game and muhfuckas tryna get at’a chick, hard. Muhfuckas sweatin’ to rock a bitch on their arms, but I ain’t beat.

When I was fuckin’ Naheem, I thought he was the muhfucka I was in love wit’. He wasn’t. I cared for that nigga, true. But I realize it wasn’t shit more than a crush, and me lovin’ the fact that the nigga helped a bitch get outta a fucked up situation. When the nigga got knocked, I really thought the achin’ I felt was from a broken heart. It wasn’t. All it was was a bitch stressed ’bout how she was gonna keep from endin’ up back in the projects—stuck and miserable.

But a bitch was able to snatch up the nigga B-Love and bubble-up lovely. But I know I neva gave a fuck ’bout his ass. I only cared ’bout makin’ sure I didn’t end up eva bein’ one’a them bottom of the barrel bitches. All I cared ’bout was that nigga’s paper. And, keepin’ shit real, I know the nigga didn’t really care ’bout me, either. The only thing he cared ’bout was havin’ me as his. Catchin’ that nigga wit’ his naked dick up in Patrice’s fuck-box, then offin’ his ass, was the best thing I coulda did. And it gave me all the fetti I needed to get on top, and stay on top.

And Grant. Well, Grant was the nigga I thought was gonna be my savin’ grace from myself. ’Cause I knew I was gettin’ too caught up and comfortable poppin’ a muhfuckas cork. But the truth is, the only muhfucka who could really save me, is
me
. Grant was only anotha escape, maybe an excuse, for me.

“Shit,” I tell ’im, walkin’ into the kitchen, openin’ up a bag of Ranch Doritos. I start crunchin’ in his ear. I know, rude; whateva.

“Oh, word? I can dig it. You home?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I see you ain’t really been feelin’ a muhfucka. I’ve called and text you and you couldn’t even hit a muhfucka back. That’s some pussy-ass bullshit, Kat. And you know it.”

“Shit happens,” I say, nonchalantly.

“So, it’s like that, right?” It sounds like this muhfucka is strugglin’ to keep it together.

“I’ve been busy. Nuthin’ personal.” I place a handful of chips on a napkin, then fold the bag closed.

“
Nuthin’ personal?
Oh, aiight. So, you play a muhfucka to da left like I’m sum kinda duck muhfucka and I’m not ’posed to take that shit personal. On some real shit, I thought we was vibin’.”

“Nigga, we was. But, shit. I got otha pressin’ shit goin’ on. So I don’t really have no time for niggas.”

“Oh, so that’s what I am, just some nigga, yo?”

“Well…uh, yeah. You ain’t my man.”

“Yo, ain’t nobody sayin’ I am. But I’ve kept shit a hunnid wit’ you; told you what it is, and what I want.”

“And I told you what it is, too. I’m not beat.”

“So fuck me, right?”

The doorbell rings. I ignore the shit since I don’t remember sendin’ out no invitations for guests. I sigh. “You know what I mean.”

“Nah, I don’t. Why don’t you tell me.”

I feel myself ’bout to spazz out on this muhfucka. But it really has nuthin’ to do wit’ ’im. A bitch is aggravated that she missed hearin’ this nigga’s voice; that his smooth baritone voice is makin’ my clit pulse. I need a fuckin’ blunt!
And a dose’a some dick, bitch!

“Look, nigga. Don’t try ’n make this out to be no more than what it’s been. We been fuck buddies; that’s it. I ain’t gonna sit here ’n front like a bitch don’t dig you ’cause I do. But at da end
of da day, we both know that shit ain’t gonna be no more than what it’s been—us fuckin’. You ain’t ready for nuthin’ more. And I don’t know if I am either. So before shit gets too hectic, it’s best if we squash this.”

“Yo, it’s best for who?”

The doorbell rings again. This time whoeva’s ringin’ it, keeps pressin’ down on my shit like they fuckin’ crazy. I glance ova at the clock on the time. 7:41
P.M
. I suck my teeth, pissed.
What da fuck! Who da fuck is comin’ here unannounced—and fuckin’ uninvited!
I think gettin’ up from the kitchen table.

“For both of us.”

“Oh, so basically you punkin’ out on me, right? You not even gonna take a chance on a muhfucka, right?”

I roll my eyes up in my head, makin’ my way to the door. “Nigga, you ain’t ready to roll da dice wit’ a chick like me, aiight? So, let’s leave it be. Go get ya gamble on sumwhere else. I told you I ain’t beat for da bullshit.” I’m so caught up in gettin’ ready to bring it to this nigga that I swing open the door wit’out checkin’ the peephole.

This muhfucka’s leanin’ up against my doorframe wit’ his cell pressed up to his ear. “And I told you, I ain’t tryna let you go that easy. So wrong answer.” I don’t know if I should be happy to see this nigga or heated that his ass popped up at my spot wit’out permission. He smiles at me, disconnectin’ our call. “Yo, you gonna let me in, or what?”

I stare ’im down, slowly shakin’ my head. “Nigga, you know you crazy, right?” I step back, openin’ the door so he can come inside. He brushes past me. “What are doin’ here?”

He lays his phone down on the coffee table. “Well, I figured since I can’t get you by phone, and you ain’t respondin’ to any of my text, I thought I should come by to make sure you aiight.”

“Nigga, you can’t be poppin’ up ova here like you King Ding Dong ’n shit. You real outta pocket now.”

He starts removin’ his chain and watch, then takes off his AF Ones. “Then I guess I might as well get outta these clothes, too.” He pulls off his Ed Hardy tee shirt, then his wife beater.

I stare at ’im. “What da fuck is you doin’?”

“What it look like? You said I’m outta pocket, so now I’m ’bout to be outta my clothes. I’m strippin’ butt-ass naked and I ain’t leavin’ this muhfucka ’til we air shit out; real talk.” He unbuckles his belt, unsnaps his jeans, then pulls ’em off.

I fold my arms, starin’ at ’im standin’ here bare-chested and in his Polo boxers.
This muthafucka is too fuckin’ extra.
“Nigga, you need to put ya shit back on.”

He steps outta his drawers. Then has the muthfuckin’ audacity to throw ’em at me. “Whatchu gonna do, throw a muhfucka out?”

I try not to glance down at his shiny black dick. Try to act like a bitch ain’t tryna slurp his chocolate ass up. He licks his lips. “Muhfucka, I ain’t playin’ wit’ you.”
Bitch, but you know ya horny ass want this muhfucka playin’ wit’
you .
So shut ya ho-ass up ’n get wit’ da damn program
.

He walks up on me. “Yo, some real shit. You gotta muhfucka feelin’ ’n actin’ like a real bitch right’a ’bout now.” He pulls me into ’im, and kisses me on the forehead, then on the tip of my nose. “You wanna know the one thing that has always annoyed da shit outta me?”

This muhfucka smells so damn good. My pussy lips ’n clit are startin’ to swell. I look up at ’im. “What’s that?”

“A whinin’, needy-ass bitch. And here you gotta muhfucka doin’ da same shit, yo.”

I smirk. “Is that what I’m doin’?”

He looks me in the eyes. “I don’t know what da fuck it is ’bout
you. I ain’t never been a sucka for good pussy. But you got a nigga’s head all fucked up, yo; true story. I keep you on da brain, heavy.” I wanna tell ’im that the shit’s mutual, but I don’t. Pride won’t let me. He kisses me on the lips. “I dogged a lotta bitches ’cause they let me, Kat. Not ’cause I was lyin’ to ’em or misleadin’ ’em. I always kept shit a hunnid. I would tell ’em from da rip what it was. That a muhfucka wasn’t lookin’ for love; that a muhfucka wasn’t beat for no extras other than good pussy, throat ’n ass. And if they caught feelin’s then that shit was on them. Not me.” He strokes the side of my face. “And a muhfucka knows I hurt a few—hell, a lot—of ’em real bad, but they opened da door to that shit, feel me?”