The Banks Sisters (6 page)

If it wasn't for her mother's mother, Me-Ma, Simone would've been homeless.

Make no mistake about it, Simone loved and appreciate, herself some Me-Ma. Growing up, Me-Ma, was always generous, caring, and gracious. It was so sad, but true that Me-Ma was the closest thing to a mother figure Simone ever had. And besides a little more gray hair and a few more wrinkles, Me-Ma hadn't changed a bit. But Simone had. She was a mature, educated, grown woman whose father had worked hard so that she would always be taken care of, even after he was gone. And now her stepmother manipulated everything and left her with nothing.

It took every fiber of restraint and humility for Simone to answer Marjorie's question. She took a deep breath; slowly, inside inhaled counted to ten before exhaling.

At that point, she decided why not? What did she have to loose? It was simple, it was either yes or no.

Calmly, she said, “I wasn't here to ask for money but I could use some. I do need money right now. For the basics . . . gas and food. And I'm going to need to buy a new phone.” Doing a few calculations in her head, she figured she needed about seven or eight hundred to get by, but settled for the bare minimum. “Do you think you can give me five hundred?”

The room, smelling like fresh paint and money, was a pin drop quiet for a few beats. Out of nowhere, Marjorie cackled like a witch with a black cat up her sleeve. The irritating bewitching laughter went on for a while. Finally, she stopped.

“So, you
need
me, huh,” she said. “Where's your mother in your time of need?”

This was a low blow even for Marjorie,
thought Simone, bringing up Deidra.

“Wait don't answer,” she said, “let me guess. M-I-A as always.” Marjorie added, “Besides pushing you out of her pussy that woman had never given you anything. It's just mighty funny how she's never around when you need her.”

She was right. Deidra, Simone's mother, had never done a thing for Simone, except pass her beautiful looks on to her, which she was grateful for.

Simone bit her tongue, literally, ignoring Marjorie's childish attempt to make her loose her cool. Simone knew what Marjorie was trying to do. If Simone, snapped on her, Marjorie would use it as an excuse not to give her the money.
Nice trick, but that won't work on me bitch,
Simone thought.

Marjorie, after not getting the results she'd hoped, scurried off toward the family room, the bottom of her robe including the fur trim flapping in the wind. Simone assured Marjorie was going to get the money she'd asked for. A few seconds later, Simone heard voices coming from the room Marjorie had just went into. She couldn't make out the words but recognized that the tone of it was Marjorie and Maria, the housekeeper, who had worked for her father for years.

Nevertheless, Simone couldn't make out what they were saying. Simone walked into the foyer taking a seat in a newly purchased high back chair, so that she was closer to the door.

Her thoughts drifted, off to a conversation she'd had with her father, in this very spot, when she was sixteen, about what time she was expected to be back home from her first real date. She'd made it home, thirty minutes before curfew.

The trip down memory lane ended as suddenly as it had had begun. “Here!” It was Marjorie, pushing a crumple up a piece of paper into her palm.

Twenty dollars.

No, that bitch didn't?
The disrespect burned at the lining of Simone's stomach like a shot of cheap liquor. “What I'm supposed to do with this?” She held the twenty-dollar bill by two fingers as if it was a solid dagger. Now Marjorie was just toying with her. She had never felt so belittled in her life.

Marjorie, judging by the twisted smile and the spark of delight simmering in her eyes, made no effort to conceal the joy she felt at Simone's expense. “Darling . . .” she said, bubbling with self assertion, “you need to take that, twenty and run along. “I have a date”—making an exaggerated gesture of checking her watch—“and I've waste enough time with the likes of you.”

Simone and Marjorie had never really liked each other, they tolerated one another for the sake of Simon. Growing up, Simone had always gave the respect she gave to all adults, like she was taught. But Simone quickly learned that respect wasn't something to be given, it had to be earned. And this trick hadn't earned a damn ounce of anything.

Simone decided to take Marjorie's advice, and get the fuck away from her. As she get up from the high back chair, Marjorie, adding insult to injury, said, “No more freebies here.” And she didn't stop there. “You've freeloaded your whole life—Ohhh . . . daddy's little, precious girl. Well, that shit is over.” She raised her voice, “Done! Finito! Your daddy's gone and that twenty dollars is the last thing you're ever going to get from me.” The smile off glee was replaced by one of unadulterated hate. “You will never see another penny of your father's money. I'm gonna see to that little girl. And what are you gonna do about it? Nothing! That's what.” Marjorie went on, “Because I have the best lawyer in the state and you don't have shit . . . not a gotdamn thing! Good luck with that in probate court. Now if you don't mind, get the fuck outta
my
house and try to figure out how you're going to feed your grown-ass self.”

Simone seriously considered cracking Marjorie upside her poorly done surgically-enhanced joker face, but she wasn't a violent person. The last fight she'd been in was the third grade with a girl named Charlotte. Charlotte, a white girl, had told another girl that Simone dad looked like the monkey Curious George from the book the class had to read. After Simone was done wearing Charlotte's butt out on the playground by the sandbox, Charlotte would never even say the word monkey again.

“How dare you,” Simone said with disdain of her own. “You have the unmitigated gall to tell me, that I need to work while your selfish-ass is running around spreading me and my father's hard earned money like its going out of style.

“You mean my hard earned money,” said Marjorie, hands on her wide hips. “You haven't the slightest clue to the shit I had to put up with.”

Simone gave Marjorie a sideways look as if she was crazy.

Unapologetic, Marjorie said, “I not only had to play mother to your spoil-ass, acting like I actually give a fuck if you win this pageant or that you have the nicest dress for the many proms and homecomings. Chile please. If that wasn't enough, I also had to deal with your dear daddy's tiny-ass dick. That alone should be worth all the tea in China, having to fake, having to fake orgasms and please myself for twelve, long years. That man's dick was smaller than a two year old baby's.”

Before Simone had realized it, she'd smacked Marjorie so hard sparks came from her face. The skin—so tight from surgery—nearly ripped to pieces. Yet, the expression on her face never changed.

Simone had no idea what had come over her, but she wasted no time taking advantage of Marjorie's temporary shock. Simone cocked back as far as she could and blasted the witch one more time just because. It felt so good. One of Marjorie's fur slippers heel's wobbled, lost her balance, and busted her ass on the marble floor.

“You bitch.” Marjorie threw the broken shoe at her. The shoe hit Simone on the arm, a nail, where the heel should've been, breaking the skin and drawing blood.

The site of the blood trickling from her forearm, coupled with everything else built up inside of her, was more than she could take. Besides, she thought, it was time to teach this hag a gotdamn lesson.

She had had enough.

Marjorie was trying to stand up on shaky legs when Simone caught her with a well-timed uppercut. The punch tagged Marjorie's chin like an unwanted tattoo. Marjorie fell back to the floor, kicking, and started squeezing. She wanted to choke some manners into Marjorie, and if Marjorie croaked in the process, so be it. Then maybe all her father's things would revert back to her anyway.

Marjorie eyes looked for an escape. She made a funny noise—“Ooukkk-o-wokkk,” that sounds like she was sucking a dick. In a morbid sort a way, it was noise to Simone's ears.

In third grade, when Simone was tearing a mud hole in Charlotte's little racist-ass, it had taken two teachers to get Simone off of her that was one of the reasons, Simone had avoided fighting from that point on, she'd nearly killed Charlotte.

It wasn't until Marjorie's face had turned a funny—not ha-ha funny, but oh my God funny—shade of purple before realizing what she was doing. Marjorie's eyes, where the irises had been, were now white.

Simone stopped squeezing, releasing the grip from Marjorie's neck.

Desperate for air, Marjorie inhaled—as hard as she could—before blowing out the lung-full of oxygen that kept her alive. With her hand around attack, she took a few more precious breaths.

The second Marjorie had a breath to spare, she said, “Get out, bitch! Get the fuck out of my house, before I call the police.”

Simone knew Marjorie wasn't bluffing about the police, “I wouldn't expect your no class wannabe-ass to do anything else, but call the police.” Simone lured her back, opened the front door, and walked out of her father's house feeling better than she'd felt in a few months. Whoever coined the phrase, “Violence never solved anything,” was wrong. So, so wrong. . . .”

Simone was about to get into her car when she realized it was gone. In the driveway, in the exact spot she'd parked, was a Dodge Neon.

Simone stormed back into the house like Hurricane Katrina, nearly knocking the door off of its hinges doing so.

Marjorie had somehow managed to pull herself off the floor and was sitting in the high back chair leaning most of her upper body up down on her legs. Her head jerked up as the door open. Her eyes, looking as if she wished she'd locked the door.

“Where in the hell is my car, bitch?”

Unable to look Simone in the face, Marjorie said, “Your car is outside.”

She put her hand on her hip and said, “I drive a fucking Mercedes and the only thing in the driveway is a gotdamn Neon.”

Marjorie clutched a lamp. Simone figured Marjorie intended to use the lamp for a weapon, if she needed it. “You don't own shit. The title to that car, registration, license tags, they were all in Simon's name, which means I own it now,” she spoke in a tone a little above a whisper, “all mine.”

Simone wished she'd choked the bitch out when she had the chance. She probably could've beat the case if she had: self defense, crime of passion or temporary insanity. She'd learned about the different criminology defenses.

Marjorie, holding the lamp with one hand and fixing her hair with the other, got bolder by the second. “I'm the spirit of fairness, the title and the keys to the Neon are in the glove box. You have about ten more days to get it registered. Be grateful.”

“Grateful?” Simone questioned.

Simone had no clue where the phone in Marjorie's hand came from.
She must have pulled it from her ass
, thought Simone. Marjorie dialed 9-1-1. She told Simone, “Now get the hell out of my house.” Then into the phone, “Hello, police. I have an intruder inside my home.”

Simone walked closer, leaned down, got right up in her face, close enough to smell the scotch on Marjorie's breathe. “Listen to me,” she said. “No more Mrs. Nice Girl. You hear me? You better, make sure every I is dotted and every motherfucking T is crossed. That you're papered up with every document you can forge because I promise you on my daddy's grave.” Then she coughed up a mouth full of saliva and spit right in Marjorie's face, just because and said, “I'm coming for you.”

As soon as Bunny pulled off from dropping Simone at the bank, her phone rang. The sound of the phone made her heart smile. The ring tone alerted her it was Spoe, the love of her life, she answered right away.

“Hey baby,” she said.

“Everything okay?” he asked, wanting to genuinely make sure that Simone was good.

“I honestly, don't know,” she sighed, “I'm really worried about her. I just dropped her to her car and she was to pieces.”

“Naw, man,” he said concerned in disbelief.

“Yup, I'm leaving from over here by the bank and this place looks like Hurricane Katrina went through here. They got blocks blocked off from the chase. It just doesn't make any sense, the damage that was done.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yup. And I'm not even talking about the damage done to Mone.”

“I thought she was good.”

“I mean she good on the outside, but fucked up on the inside.”

“What could we do to help, babe. Anything?”

“I offered her some bread.”

“That's what's up, you know whatever we can do. We got her.”

“Yeah, I know we do, but you know she was on that goody-too-shoes, I don't want to take no dirty money-type shit.”

“Yeah, but shit if she need help. And if she not going back to the bank and her peoples cut her off. Fuck she gone do?” Spoe asked then gave his two cents. “Trust me that shit going to change real quick.”

“I don't know,” Bunny said, then changed the subject. “So what's up with you?”

“Everything good, I'm just making sure you and the fam okay that's it.”

“Well, I'm about to swing by Me-Ma's and give this money to Tallhya and tell her to give it to Simone. She may take help from Tallhya rather than me.”

“Good idea baby.”

“Well, when you get done, let's go to that restaurant I told you about, and catch a movie or something.”

“You know I'm always up for quality time with the love of my life,” she said to him.” She could feel his blushing through the phone.

“I can't wait.”

“Babe, that's right.” She snapped her finger, just remembering what she needed to run by Spoe. “I keep forgetting to ask you, do you think we could hook Gina up with Tariq?”

Spoe sucked his teeth, “Baby, that's a negative. He's out there right now, doing him,” he hesitated. Spoe wanted to make sure that he chose his words wisely, “And you know I don't really think that's wise for us to turn Gina onto him no way. Shit, that's a disaster waiting to happen.”

“Damn baby, you act like my girl, chopped liver or something.”

“Come on now baby, I'm not saying that but, you already know. He's not ready. He's on a different time than I am. Maybe a couple years from now, he might be ready. But right now, he just having fun enjoying the single life.”

“Maybe he needs to settle down,” she snapped back, almost taking his analysis of Tariq personal. “Because that life he's living ain't really cool babes.”

“By who standards tho'?” he asked, not being intimidated by her views, and then added, “Different strokes for different folks.”

“You need to talk to your boy, before one of them chicks catch him slipping and next thing you know, he's in love with a stripper,” she started harmonizing that song by T-Pain.

Spoe chuckled, at Bunny. She was right, but it was still none of their business.

Tariq was his business partner and a hell of one, too. They went back a longs way, he had principles, heart, and was trained to go at any time. But most importantly just like Spoe, he was about that money.

“You crazy babe, but I'm going to run Gina pass him when I talked to him and see what he says,” he said, just to shut Bunny up. He knew she'd keep going on and on like the Energizer Bunny.

“Can you call him now, please? Because I been told Gina I was going to see what's up.”

“I'm waiting on him to call me back, I've been calling him all morning and he ain't hit me back yet.”

“Sure you don't . . . the way y'all keep tabs on each other, I can't believe you don't know his exact location.”

Spoe knew Tariq was probably up to his normal, but at the end of the day, that was his life and he was a grown man, free to do whatever it is he wanted. But still, Spoe needed him to call him back.

“It's almost noon, and I don't know where the hell that nigga at.”

Tariq walked out of the bathroom in the nude, over to where his clothes lay. He had stayed far past his normal time, he thought as he picked up his Polo boxers shorts and slipped into them.

Damn, time flies,
he thought to himself.

Tariq glanced over to the king-sized bed, where the gorgeous Tiffany Rolay laid on top of his white high thread count sheets. The sleeping beauty looked too peaceful to be awakened. Tariq took his time and lotion down his body, and then slipped into his clothes from the night before. As he bent over to tie his Air Jordan sneakers, the sun shined through the windows, which provided him the light he needed to tie his shoes.

Tariq walked over to the bed and sat down and ran his finger over Tiffany's soft succulent lips. Her eyes popped open immediately as if she had just dosed off and didn't know where she was. A smile appeared on her lips when she seen Tariq's face, “Good morning handsome! How long you have been up? And why you didn't wake me?” she asked.

“You were in here, knocked the fuck out.” He rubbed his hands over her exposed nipple.

“A bitch was tired! Dealing wit ya ass, on your wanna fuck all night, shit. You beat this pussy up, boo-boo! I'm soooo sore down there,” she said in a girlish giggle.

“You know how I get down, you knew what it was hitting for when you got up here last night.” He smiled and stoked his own ego, “Major dick-slinging shorty. Now get dat ass up and let's figure out some breakfast.”

“Waffle House?” she questioned.

He nodded with a smile. “That's cool.”

“A'ight then give me a few minutes. I need to get in the shower and get myself together first.”

“Well hurry up then, I ain't got all day, my stomach growlin' like a motherfucker.”

“Damn! Okaaaa. Work with me, baby! Perfecting this beauty don't come in seconds, but I'm going to make it quick tho, just for you,” she replied then flicked the sheet off her body and rolled out the bed.

Tiffany stood up and looked back at him, making eye contact with him placing a seductive smile on her face. She walked away swinging her hips, making her backside move like water.

He smiled at her.

Tiffany was a getting money kind of chick. Though Tariq met her when she first started working at, Treats Gentleman's Club, in his mind she wasn't the average kind of stripper that he was use to. He couldn't put his finger on it, but it was just something different about Tiffany. Normally he didn't even try to rationalize why the dancers he usually hooked danced in the first place. But Tiffany . . . he couldn't figure out why a woman of her caliber would even let men play in her pussy for a few dollars.

Not only was she drop dead gorgeous; she was cultured. The beauty spoke fluent Spanish, French, and some Arabic. Taking away the fact that, she took her clothes off for a living, Tiffany was a definitely a classy chick, owning the best of everything.

Outside of the club, she wore only the best and latest of gear. Her purses were fierce, high fashion in the first degree, Hermes, Chanel, Louis, just name a few. But her shoe game could give even Emalda Marcos a run for her money.

Tiffany drove a Mercedes SL-65, limited edition and had a plush condo. Tariq had only stopped by one time just to see how she was living, but it was against his principals to stay or visit any chick. He would never get caught slipping at the hands of a female. It would be irony at its best.

Anytime that Tiffany had Tariq's attention for more than a few days, her swag and sex appeal had to be on point. And everything about her was, everything that he liked . . . almost too good to be true.

 

 

Tiffany stopped at the bathroom door and bent over and touched the floor, then looked through both of her legs at him and started dancing as if she was in club, giving him a show. That lasted for a couple of minutes and then she continued into the bathroom.

Tariq laid back and placed his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.

Damn! Tiff bad as a muthafucker. She got that good ole snappa, too. I would hit that shit again, but naw I got shit to do in an hour. Matter of fact, fuck that breakfast, I'ma grab something on my way. Damn, this bitch stay soakin' the fuckin' sheets with that wet-ass pussy she got squirting everywhere
. He thought to himself as he looked down at the wet spot in the middle of the bed.

Twenty-five minutes later, Tiffany walked back into the bedroom wrapped in a huge white towel and smiled at Tariq. “You want some more of this good, good?” she cooed.

“We gotta get outta here, Tiff, later on we could go at it. I got some shit to take care of.”

“So, we going to spend some time again later on?” she coyly asked with a smile and a raised eyebrow. Tiffany was excited because she liked spending time with him.

He let out a smirk, “You sound surprised?” he teased knowing why, but wanted to hear her take on what was going on.

“Well, you know the word around the club is . . .” she said, wondering if she should tell him or not.

“I'm listening . . .” he shot back interested in hearing what the scoop was on the stripper-mill.

“You know me and you done got real cool, like real, real cool over the past couple of weeks.”

“And we have,” he had to agree.

“Well, the word is you kind of like variety. You are like a different woman literally every day kind of dude.”

“Is that right?”

Tiffany gave him a playful hit, “You already know. The girls in the club like you because you got a big dick and you will give them a couple a dollars, but they know you not fucking the same chick two days in a row.”

“That sounds about right.”

“So the fact that we've been fucking, and chilling. Seems like I broke the record.”

“You have,” he couldn't deny it.

“I must be special,” she got ahead of herself trying her hand.

“You are cool, mad cool. But I know your life, and your work, so I already know what it is.”

“Meaning?” she asked.

“Meaning you got niggas and you do your thing, which I don't knock. After all I know where I met you at.”

“I don't have to have them, like that. In fact, I like you. I really do.” She looked in his face and said, “I really like you and I want us to be cooler than cool.”

“Really?” he questioned.

“Seriously,” Tiffany looked in his eyes.

“Time will tell, you just gotta prove it.”

“And I will.”

“Okay,” he dryly, said.

“Look, I know you think oh, I'm a dollar ho. About my money and all that.”

“I do and I don't knock you for that.”

“But, it's definitely more to me than meets the eye.”

“I don't doubt that either.”

She tried to pour her heart out to him. “It's more to me than just being on a pole and I hope you take the time to get to know me.”

“Maybe I will. But for now, we are going to take it one day at a time. Everyday seems like I learn something new about you, but no expectations okay.”

“Okay, baby. I won't apply any pressure. But just know that I like you a lot and really feel like we could do anything.”

“I feel ya,” he said rubbing on her, then changing the subject. “Well, I gotta take a rain check on that breakfast,” he said as her phone rang. “And seems like you need to get caught up on returning your calls, because they trying to catch up with you. . . .“Duty calls.”

Tiffany let out a laugh, “Rain check given! Just know I do collect on those.” She smiled as she checked her phone.

“Oh, that's how it is, huh?” Tariq smirked.

“That's right boo. But in other news, I got some news that you could use. . . .”

“Go ahead, shoot.”

“Well, I know how you and ya man Spoe get down.”

“What you talking about?” he asked as if he was surprised.

“Come on now, the whole Richmond knows. . . .”

Prying into his business, immediately messed up his vibe, “You say that to say what?”

“Well, I know this nigga that's papered up like a muthafucker. Real flashy dude, not in the dope game, but got this other crazy scam going on. I been to his mini mansion before and it's nice as shit.... I mean really nice, no corners cut.”