you fuck wit’.”
“And bitch, what you gonna do?” I ask, walkin’ up on ’er. “I ain’t one for all this yippity-yap. If you wanna make it rock up in this muthafucka, then let’s rock, ho!”
Before I can hook off on ’er ass, someone grabs me from behind, wrappin’ they arms ’round my waist. I spin ’round to see who the fuck is puttin’ their hands on me. And forget ’bout takin’ it to Patrice’s head. “Yo, baby, you too fine to be out here fightin’.”
“Nigga, don’t be grabbin’ up on me like that. You was ’bout to catch it, too.”
He laughs. “Yeah, aiight, beautiful. Fuck fightin’,” he says, pullin’ me by the arm. “Come dance wit’ me.”
I bring my attention back to Patrice. “Bitch, thank this nigga for savin’ you from an ass whoopin’.”
“Whateva, bitch,” she huffs. “I’ma see you; trust.”
I laugh, lettin’ Alex pull me toward the dance floor. “Yeah, see da back of my ass, ho.”
Fabolous’s “Money Goes, Honey Stay” remix is playin’. Alex pulls me into ’im. “Yo, what was all that shit out there ’bout?”
“Nuthin’ serious; just sum lightweight bitch tryna bring it, that’s all.”
He wraps his arms ’round my waist. “Damn, ma, you look sexy as fuck.”
I spin outta his embrace. “Nigga, just ’cause I gave you sum pussy, don’t start thinkin’ you can be grabbin’ all up on’a bitch like you got it like that.”
“Oh, I don’t?” he says, laughin’ ova the music. “Yeah, aiight; not yet. Yo, why you ain’t tell me this is where you were gonna be.”
I eye ’im. The nigga’s all dipped in jewels, rockin’ a black Versace silk shirt and a pair of smoke-gray slacks wit’ a black Louis belt. I step back, peep his footwork—black Louis loafers. I’m impressed. “Not eva, muhfucka,” I say, laughin wit’ ’im.
He pulls me back into ’im. “Yeah, aiight; whatever. You still ain’t answer my question.”
“And I’m not.”
The nigga keeps his eyes locked on me, lickin’ his lips. “Yeah, aiight. Who you here wit’?”
“Damn, nigga. You tryna dance or interview a bitch? I’m out wit’ my girl, why?”
“I’m doin’ both. So fall back. I don’t wanna have’ta go in no nigga’s mouth, that’s why.”
“Oh, yeah, cocky muhfucka. You feelin’ real ova ya’self.”
I peep Chanel’s drunk-ass ova at the bar, talkin’ to two chocolate muhfuckas. I can’t really see what they look like. Knowin’ ’er thirsty-ass, she’s gonna run they pockets all night if they let ’er. She catches my eye, and gives me the finga. I laugh.
When Twista’s “Wetter” starts playin’, I decide to fuck wit’ ’im. I twirl my hips real slow ’n sexy, then press my ass up on his crotch. I grind up on his dick, drop down low. He leans into my ear, places his hands on my hips. “Damn, you feel good, ma. Yo chill, ’fore you get my dick hard.” I keep grindin’ into ’im. Feel his dick start to thicken. “Yo, aiight, keep it up. You gonna have me pin ya lil’ ass up in a corner and run this dick up in ya.”
I turn to face ’im. Throw my pussy up at ’im. “Nigga, a bitch like me’ll fuck ’round and have you nuttin’ in ya pants.”
He smiles. “Yo, you a real trip.”
Some oriental lookin’ bitch walks up on us, cuttin’ in on our lil’ convo. I ain’t gonna front, the bitch is servin’ it in’a sexy lil’ lowcut black one-piece. And ’er titty game is sick. Still, the bitch cuttin’ in is rude as fuck. And I tell ’er that. She apologizes, sayin’ how she only wanted to say hello to Alex. I tilt my head. Tell the bitch she shoulda waited to speak to ’im after I was done wit’ ’im. Alex says sumthin’ to ’er, then introduces me to ’er as
I keep on dancin’ like I ain’t fazed by the bitch ’cause the truth is, I ain’t. He pulls the chick’s arms from ’round ’im, then turns ’round to see who it is.
He frowns. Next thing I know he straight snaps. “Bitch, what da fuck is you doin’? I gotta a restrainin’ order on ya stupid ass.”
“Fuck that restrainin’ order. I miss you, baby. Our baby misses you, too.”
“Bitch,” he snaps, frownin’. “That baby ain’t mine. Take ya drunk-ass on.”
I blink, blink again.
I make my way ova to Chanel. She tries to introduce me to the niggas she ova here bullshittin’ wit’, but a bitch ain’t beat. “Ho, let’s get da fuck up outta here. I done had ’nough drama for one damn night.”
“Drama? When? Where? Girl, what da hell happened?”
I throw a hand up on my hip. “Well, bitch, while you were in here trickin’ for drinks ’n shit, Patrice tried steppin’ to me like she was ready to make it pop up in here. I was ’bout to really take it to ’er grill ’til Alex snatched me up…”
“Alex? Who da fuck is Alex?”
“The nigga from Allstar,” I tell ’er, glancin’ ova to where he is. I see two security niggas talkin’ to chick. She’s goin’ the hell off. The bitch looks half-crazed if you ask me. I see Alex pullin’ sumthin’ outta his wallet, they look at it, then a few minutes later, they draggin’ chick’s ass off the dance floor.
Two minutes later, I peep Alex walkin’ ova toward Chanel and me. I turn my back on ’im. He says wassup to the niggas, then says wassup to Chanel.
“Wasssup, Allstar?” she says, grill-cheesin’ all up in the nigga’s face. “So you da nigga who got my girl all goo-goo-ga-ga ’n shit. It’s ’bout damn time you stepped up. Took you long ’nough.”
He laughs. “Oh, word? I got ya girl open like that? It’s Chanel, right?”
“Oh, you remember?”
“No, doubt.” He laughs. “The way ya’ll were throwin’ shade at muhfuckas who could forget ya’ll two.”
I suck my teeth. “Whateva.” I shoot Chanel a look. “Ho, puhleeze. I ain’t goo-goo-ga-ga’in shit. Don’t gas this nigga’s head.”
She flicks ’er hand in my face. “Whateva, ho.”
He grabs my hand. “Yo, why you walk off on me like that?”
I pull my hand back. “Nigga, you didn’t need me out there. Ya lil’ girlfriend was more than ’nough.”
“Yo, that’s one’a da broads I was tellin’ you ’bout. She’s da ho that got all nutty on a muhfucka, tryna pin that baby shit on a muhfucka.” He tells me the bitch’s name is Ramona, then pulls out a restrainin’ order and shows it to me. Tells me he carries it ’round wit’ ’im just in case the ho shows up somewhere. “And Akina is someone I used to fuck wit’ ’til she put ’er hands on me, and I had’a choke ’er up.”
I blink, blink again. I shake my head. “Nigga, you got too many extras in ya life for me. I’m out.” I toss up the deuces, and spin off. “Chanel, let’s go, ho.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A week later, me and Chanel are at this hair salon, Nappy No More, ova in South Orange. A high-end spot plastered in all the hair magazines that she’s been pressin’ me to check out for a minute. So here we are. I won’t front. The place is real cute. I peep the mix of chicks sittin’ up in here. There’s a mixture of hoodbooga, ghetto-fab, ’n celebrity wife bitches up in this piece waitin’ to get they wigs done. Erykah Badu’s “I Want You” is playin’ low through the Bose speakers up on the walls.
Chanel’s sittin’ next to me, checkin’ ’er emails ’n textin’ back ’n forth wit’ Devine, and a few other muhfuckas. I’m flippin’ through the latest issue of
