on point. You classy, beautiful and I can tell a feisty one. And that’s what my son needs—someone who won’t put up with any shit. But I’ma tell you like this, don’t fuck him over, or you and I will have to take it to the streets.”
Believe it or not, a bitch was taken aback when she said that. But I kept it cute. The only thing I could do was smile ’cause on some real shit she brought it to me how a real bitch should—straight to the damn point.
“So, all that said, you tryna make it pop wit’ da nigga or what?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m chillin’.”
“You
“I don’t need shit. And I definitely don’t need ’im. Not for anything serious; that’s for sure. The nigga is too extra for me.”
“Mmmph, if you say so. Well, have you at least fucked ’im?”
I smirk. “Sumthin’ like that.”
She drops ’er fork in ’er plate. “Ohmiiiigod, you dirty whore. Since when you start holdin’ out on’a bitch? That’s da first thing that shoulda been cumin’ outta ya cock washas. Fuck goin’ to meet his mammy. Spill it. Is the nigga’s stroke game right?”
I laugh. “No comment.”
She sucks ’er teeth, rollin’ ’er eyes. “Well, answer me this. How many times you fuck ’im?”
“Twice,” I tell ’er, liftin’ my glass in toast.
She laughs. “Say no more. Da dick’s good, and you diggin’ his ass.”
I grin. “What makes you say that?”
“’Cause I know ya kind, boo.”
I chuckle. “Oh, bitch, puhleeze. You think you know so damn much.”
“Well, am I wrong?”
“Ho, finish eatin’ ya damn food.”
“Tramp; just what I thought.”
“Fuck you, Booga,” I say, gettin’ up from the table to get another bottle of Cuervo.
She bursts out laughin’. We spend the rest of the afternoon, blazin’ and drinkin’ ’til we’re both so damn lit we can’t see straight. And as usual, Chanel’s drunk-ass ends up stayin’ the night.
“Who da fuck’s bangin’ on ya door like that?” Chanel asks, standin’ in my doorway in ’er bra and panties wit’ ’er hair all ova her head. She pops ’er hips in my room, walkin’ into my closet to get a robe. I glance at ’er. The bitch’s body is bangin’.
“Beats da hell outta me,” I say, rollin’ ova on my left side and pullin’ da covers up ova my head. “Go down and see.”
She walks outta the room, goes downstairs. I hear the alarm chirp when she finally opens the door, then wonder what the fuck is takin’ ’er so long to come back upstairs.
A few minutes later she comes up and says, “Kat, girrrrrl, you gotta real problem.”
There’s more bangin’. Then pressin’ down on my doorbell. I snap up in bed. “What? Who da fuck is on my doorbell like that?”
She shakes her head. “Baaaaaaby, you might wanna boot up. It’s ya Aunt Rosa.”
My eyes buck in surprise. “Whaaaat?! Rosa’s at my muthafuckin’ door?”
“In da damn flesh. And girlfriend looks like she’s ready to make shit pop.”
I run into my closet, snatch’a Baby Phat sweatsuit off’a hanga, then hurriedly put it on. I boot up; tie my laces tight. “I’ma break this bitch’s face,” I say, brushin’ past Chanel. She follows behind me as I race down the stairs, then peek outta the livin’ room window to see what kinda work I gotta put in.
“Kat, maybe you should call da police,” Chanel says, slippin’ into a pair’a sweats. She pulls ’er hair into a ponytail. “You said there’s a restrainin’ order, right?”
“Oh, I’ma call da police alright.
“I got you.”
I decide to go out the back door and run ’round to the front to catch this ho by surprise. I tell Chanel to open the front door to distract ’er. I grab two bricks from off’a the patio table, then race ’round to the front. I hit the bitch in the back of the head wit’ one brick and throw the otha through my front window to make it look like the bitch was the one who tossed it.
She grabs ’er head. “Aaaaaah! Pussy bitch! You wanna sneak a bitch?! You wanna fight dirty?!” She charges me, but I got the ho dazed.
I grab ’er by the hair. “Bitch!” I snap, swingin’ ’er onto the ground, then draggin’ ’er by her scalp. “You come to my muthafuckin’ home like you wanna get it in, then let’s.”
“Bitch!” she yells, tryna pry my hands outta ’er hair. “Let my muthafuckin’ hair go and fight me like a real bitch.” I don’t let go ’til I yank’a handful of ’er hair out.
“Get da fuck up, bitch. You wanna rock wit’ da hands, then let’s.” I wait for the bitch to get up; hands balled in tight fists. Give ’er a moment to get ’er thoughts in check, then we bang it out. We go at it like two bitches who have hated each other for years. She’s punchin’. I’m punchin’. My fist connects wit’ the side’a ’er face. Hers connects wit’ the side’a mine. We go blow for blow. I hit ’er dead in ’er grill. She stumbles backward. “I’m so fuckin’ sick of you. I wish you’d die, bitch!” I punch ’er again. “I want you dead!”
She runs toward me, and kicks me in the stomach. I stumble back. “I’ma fuck you up, Kat, for all da pain ya ungrateful ass caused my sista, for disrespectin’ ya grandmutha, and for comin’ at me like I’m some gutter bitch.”
“Suck’a crack pipe, slut,” I snap, punchin’ ’er in ’er throat, then kickin’ the bitch in ’er bad knee—the one I’m sure she thought I forgot ’bout—wit’ my steel toes. “You are a gutter rat.” She falls to ’er knees. “Get up, bitch! Let’s finish this shit once ’n for all.”
She gets up and, then in one swift motion, the bitch whips out ’er blade and swings it, slashin’ into the air. I jump back. She swings ’er blade again. Slashes the air again; attempts to bring it to my face. But I am smart enough to know not to get too close to ’er crazy ass.
Right now, I am too fuckin’ mad to be concerned if the bitch cuts me or not, I want ’er ass dropped. I charge ’er. “Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch, I hate you!” I knock ’er backward into a tree, grabbin’ her by the wrist, then twistin’ ’er arm ’til she drops the blade. I flip ’er onto the ground, then jump on top’a ’er. We roll ’round in the grass, slappin’, punchin’ and clawin’ each other ’til I reach for the brick that’s beside me and start rockin’ the front of ’er face wit’ it. Blood gushes out. And it only entices me; gets a bitch’s juices flowin’ and makes me wanna crack this ho’s skull open. Right now, I wanna smash ’er brains in. I bang in ’er mouth, again.
I hear Chanel scream. “Ohmiiigaaaawd, nooooo, Kat!”
Someone must have called the police. I can hear the sirens in the background, but I don’t give’a fuck. I let go of the brick, drop it on the ground, then get up, leavin’ Rosa lyin’ on the ground busted ’n bloody.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
