Which is why I had no problem lookin’ her dead in her busted-up eyes and tellin’ her flat out that I wanted nuthin’ else to do wit’ her, then slammin’ my door in her raggedy-ass face. I meant that shit on e’erything I love. And that ain’t much, trust.
Anywaaaaaay, enough ’bout all that shit. For the last two years, I’ve been doin’ me. Lovely, I might add. So, fuck what ya heard. I’m stayin’ away from fucked up family, niggas, and guns. Well, uh…shootin’ ’em that is. ’Cause I still gotta few pieces I keep in my personal collection.
Waaaaait one muthafuckin’ minute! Why the fuck did I spend the last ten minutes explainin’ myself to you bitches? Uh, fuck that! I bodied the nigga, I ain’t fuckin’ wit’ my family; period! So, let’s save all that shoulda- coulda-woulda bullshit for the next bitch. It’s a waste’a time ’n energy for a fly, butter bitch like me. A bitch is back, ohhhhhhhhkaaaaaaaay?! And that’s all you need to know. I got shit to do, peoples to check, and paper to spend. So, let’s get this shit poppin’, muhfuckas.
CHAPTER THREE
I’m dressed in my wears zippin’ down I-580 East in my rental, a slick-ass XK convertible Jag, toward Oakland. It’s bright skies and sixty-eight degrees out, and I’m chillin’ wit’ the top down, lettin’ the cool breeze whip through my hair as I make my way down the highway. If I were in Brooklyn right now chillin’ wit’ Chanel we’d be blazin’ and poppin’ mad shit to niggas tryna push up on us. But, I’m here, and it’s me on some solo type shit—for now.
Anyway, I’m on my way to meet up wit’ this nigga Tone—a tall chiseled nigga who reminds me of a browner version of that sexy-ass Boris Kodjoe—for a hot meal. I met the nigga in one of my real estate classes I took a few months back. Uh…yeeeeeah, a bitch’s been in school. And I’ve completed all’a my coursework; just waitin’ to take the exam for my broker’s license. Thank you very much. What? Ya’ll thought a bitch was layin’ low, trickin’ up my paper on wears ’n trips ’n dumb shit? Bitch, puhleeze. I’m tryna make power moves. I’m sittin’ on stacks, and I’m tryna clean that shit up. So far, I’ve been fortunate not to have heat wit’ the Feds or IRS, and I’m tryna keep it like that. So while I’ve been out here I decided I might as well do sumthin’ constructive to occupy my time. Shit, there’s only so much shoppin’ and travelin’ a bitch can do ’fore that shit gets played, anyway. Besides, I’m always gettin’ at Chanel ’bout doin’ sumthin’ wit’ her life, so I figured I needed to be a true bitch and step shit up a notch and do the same. The way I see it, I can get a Cali license, then go back to New York or Jersey and get my papers there, too. There’s fetti to be made and I’m tryna get at it on both ends. And if Chanel decides to get her mind right, I’ma put her on, too. That’s what real bitches do!
Anyway, this nigga Tone finally convinces me to meet up wit’ ’im at this spot called Soul’s Restaurant. Actually, it wasn’t that he talked me into shit. The nigga caught me at the right time. I was bored, and wanted sumthin’ to do. So that’s what it is. He claims the shit is bangin’, so we’ll see. Although I’m not really feelin’ him on any extras—aside from the fact that he’s mad young; like twenty-four, he’s a cool nigga. Partly ’cause he’s a Jersey head and he got swagger and he’s also tryna make moves, still…
My cell rings. I peep the number, and pick up. It’s him. “Wassup?”
“Yo, ma, you left yet?”
“Yeah,” I say, quickly glancin’ at the GPS. “I’m actually gettin’ ready to turn onto MacArthur Boulevard.’
“Oh, aiight. You almost here. I’ll be outside waitin’ for you.”
“Aiight, peace.” I disconnect, tossin’ my cell onto the passenger seat. Five minutes later, I’m pullin’ up into the restaurant’s parkin’ area. I spot Tone leanin’ up against the passenger side door of a black S550, talkin’ on his cell. He hangs up when he sees me pullin’ up toward him. I park two cars down, shut off the engine, rake my fingas through my hair, then step out like the fly bitch I am in a pair of stone-washed jeans and a brown pullover and a pair of six-inch light brown python Gucci platform pumps. My Gucci jungle tote hangs in the crook of my arm. The nigga watches and grins as I sashay over to him. His eyes lock on the sway of my hips. I bet the muhfucka thinks I’m throwin’ the pussy at ’im. Niggas!
He’s rockin’ a black True Religion long sleeve tee wit’ the front tucked inside a pair of True Religion Joey jeans. He tops his wears off wit’ a bangin’-ass pair of black Mark Nason square-toed boots and belt. The tee is clingin’ to his muscles.
He smiles wider. “Damn, ma, you lookin’ good.”
“Oh, so what you tryna say?” I tease. “I’m usually busted?”
“Nah, nuthin’ like that. I’m sayin’…you always do ya thang, but to finally get you outside of classes, you the truth, fo’ sho. So can I get a hug?”
I smirk. “I guess. But don’t be tryna press up on me too hard. I don’t wanna have’ta slice ya grill.” He laughs, pullin’ me into his arms. He gives me a quick, but strong, manly hug and kisses me on the cheek. It’s been a long time since a bitch felt a nigga’s arms ’round her. I almost forgot what the shit felt like. I inhale his cologne. The nigga got the nerve to be wearin’ one’a my favorites. My pussy twitches. “OhmyGod, I can’t do this wit’ you. You killin’ me wit’ that
He frowns. “Damn, too strong?” he asks, soundin’ disappointed, liftin’ his arm and smellin’ himself. “My bad, ma.”
“
“Oh shit,” he says, smilin’, “then in that case let me go put on some more.”
“Don’t push ya luck, muhfucka.”
He laughs, takin’ me by the hand and leadin’ me toward the restaurant’s entrance. Surprisin’ly I let ’em get that. Even though I said I wasn’t feelin’ him on any extras, a bitch might need to take a moment to rethink that.
Once inside, we’re immediately seated. Five minutes later our waiter comes to the table to take our orders. I order the mac ’n cheese, collard greens, turkey wings and cornbread stuffin’. He gets the steak and shrimp combo wit’ the same sides as me. We both order large pink lemonades. My stomach growls the minute the waiter returns and sits a basket of corn muffins on the table.
“So what do you think about that property management class?” he asks once the waiter dips from the table.
I shrug, placin’ a muffin on a plate. “It’s aiight, I guess. I’m not really interested in managin’ properties. I’m tryna own ’em, ya feel me?”
“Oh no doubt. I’m with you on that. I already have a few properties; I just wanna understand the management side of things.”
“Same here,” I say to ’im. He tells me how he owns two houses in Jersey, a townhome in Delaware, and another spot out here. All this and the nigga’s only twenty-four. When I ask ’im how he was able to make his moves, he tells me used the money and house his grandmother had left ’im in her will. I can’t front, I’m impressed. And I tell ’im so.
“Thanks,” he says, reachin’ for a muffin, then bitin’ into it. He swallows, then says, “By the time I’m forty, I’m tryna be set for life.”
For some reason, my clit twitches. I’m not sure if it’s ’cause e’ery time the muhfucka licks his lips I imagine it’s my clit he’s lickin’, if it’s ’cause the nigga’s on his grind, or ’cause I’m mad horny and he happens to be the only
