Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang

“And I’m tryna be all over you, but you wanna be on some ole other shit.”

I walk into my closet, pullin’ out a red long-sleeve Gucci tee and a pair of pencil jeans. “Mmmph; if you say so.” I decide to pick the nigga’s brain to see how he feels ’bout kids. “Would you eva deal wit’ a chick wit’ kids?”

“I don’t know. I’ve fucked chicks wit’ kids, but I ain’t neva wanna wife any of ’em. I’m not sure if I would wanna be dealin’ wit’ a chick wit’ ’em on some exclusive shit unless she doesn’t have a buncha baby daddy issues. A muhfucka ain’t beat for that. Why, you got some kids you ain’t tellin’ me ’bout?”

“Maybe; maybe not.”

“Yeah, aiight.”

“Well, what if I did?”

“Well, hypothetically, if you did. How many you talkin’ ’bout? One, two?”

“One,” I tell ’im, slippin’ a pair of socks on my feet. He tells me one is cool. But since it’s me, two is aiight, too. Then he tells me as fine as I am I could have twenty and he’d still wanna rock wit’ me on some solo-type shit as long as my pussy stayed right.

“Then again, that shit could be wide as an ocean and I’d still wanna wife you. You’d just have’ta let me beat that asshole up e’ery night.”

I laugh. “Nigga, you a real fool, you know that, right? You know damn well you ain’t runnin’ that big ass dick in my ass e’ery damn night.”

“Then we’ll rotate that shit,” he says, laughin’ wit’ me. “One night in ya throat, the next night in ya ass.”

My doorbell rings. It’s showtime, I think, peekin’ outta the bedroom window. I peep the state car in the driveway. Let’s get this shit ova wit’. “Yeah, whateva. Listen, I gotta go. Call me lata.”

“I got you, baby.”

I suck my teeth. “Muhfucka, what I tell you ’bout callin’ me that?”

“Yo, chill out wit’ that dumb shit. I call you what I want. You know you Daddy’s baby.”

“Nigga, suck my ass and daddy on this,” I say, disconnectin’ the call and headin’ down the stairs to greet these state hoes.

Alex sends me a text: Yo, u got my dik hard wit’ that shit.

I text back: Whateva.

I hope these bitches don’t say nuthin’ slick and have me flippin’ da fuck out. I swing the front door open, pastin’ a phony-ass smile up on my grill. “Hi, glad you made it. Come on in.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Shoot ’em up…bang-bang…Glock cocked…ready to pop… muhfucka thought he could run ’n hide…nigga done ran outta time…thought he was gonna get away way wit’ da crime… ain’t got no clout…justice ’bout to be dished out…gonna show ’im what revenge’s ’bout…bum-ass nigga…and it’s a ruthless bitch who’s ’bout ta pull da trigga….

“Yo, pretty baby, wasssup? We found da muhfucka you were lookin’ for. Holla back. Oh, yeah, and a muhfucka’s still waitin’ for you to come through wit’ anotha pair of them panties. A muhfucka’s tryna get his sniff on. Take care of that, pronto.” He laughs into the phone. I delete the shit, rollin’ my eyes. This fat muhfucka, I think, hittin’ ’im back.

“Yo, you get my message?”

I suck my teeth. “Nigga, why else would I be callin’ ya black ass? Geesh, you dumber than you look.”

“Yeah, aiiight. Keep talkin’shit, and get ya fronts knocked, Kat.”

“Cash, listen carefully…” I pause. Wait ’til it gets quiet on the otha end. “You listenin’?”

“Yeah, wassup?”

“Nigga, kiss my ass. That’s wassup. Now, what you got for me?”

He laughs. “Yo, ma, you funny as fuck. You betta be glad a muhfucka fucks wit’ you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Now let’s cut da shit. Where’s this bum-ass nigga at?”

“The muhfucka’s been hidin’ out down south in some small-ass country town in North Carolina called Como.”

What da fuck kinda place is that, I think, twistin’ my lips up. Do they even gotta airport? “Where?” he repeats the name. “Mmmph. Corny-ass nigga had to run off to some backward-ass part’a the country. Do you know how he’s livin’? Is he down there wit’ someone?”

“Yeah, he’s there wit’ some chick stayin’ up in one’a them trailer homes.”

Probably some country-coon trash he done bagged on da run. Now I gotta think how I’ma get at this nigga wit’out drawin’ heat to myself. “Listen. I need’a fava.”

“I got you, wassup up?” I tell ’im I need ’im to handle the arrangements. Set up the hotel shit and have my items I need to dust this nigga’s top sent down like old times. I tell ’im I need’a report of how the nigga moves, a list of his comin’s and goin’s.

“You got that. You need anything else? A disposal crew?”

A part of me wants the nigga to be found wit’ his eyes rolled back up in his head and his brains splattered. Then anotha part wants it to look like the nigga done got ghost all together. I decide I want the nigga to disappear, for good.

“Aiight, bet. I’ll have a crew on standby. When you tryna get it in?”

Shit, I gotta go up to da hospital. And I got these ACS and court bitches I gotta deal wit’. I tell ’im to give me a few days to handle some things, then disconnect.

I stare at myself in the mirror hangin’ on the wall in my foyer. “Bitch, after you put a bullet in this nigga’s head, this gotta be da last time you pull da trigga on another muhfucka.” Ho, you gotta get ya mind right, quick. There’s a baby you gotta start thinkin’ ’bout.

E’vry since his birth, he’s been on my brain, heavy. Sittin’ up at the hospital e’ery day, watchin’ ’im cling on to life, fightin’ to get stronger, has been wrackin’ my nerves. It hurts me. A bitch’s heart fills wit’ guilt e’erytime I look at ’im. I am so fuckin’ scared, but I gotta do right by ’im. I gotta try to give ’im what Juanita was neva able to give to me—love. Doin’ that nigga has to be it for me.

I take a deep breath, glancin’ at my watch. It’s eleven o’clock. I grab my keys and pink Gucci clutch bag, then race out the door to make my way to the Family Courthouse in Brooklyn. I am finally gonna handle the paperwork to get legal custody and guardianship of Juanita’s baby, and make this shit legit.

When I’m done filin’ all the necessary paperwork, I drive ova to the hospital to see the baby. The last few days I’ve been tryna come up wit’ a name for ’im. I wanna give ’im a name otha muhfuckas ain’t pushin’ heavy. For some reason, the names that I’m really diggin’ are Zion and Zaire.

I take the elevator up to the neo-natal unit. As I’m walkin’ down the hall, a bitch’s ’tude shoots from zero to a hunnid when I see Patrice’s ho-ass standin’ at the window lookin’ into the unit, wipin’ tears. I wanna snap and tell the bitch to bounce, but I decide to let shit play out. I swallow my ’tude, walkin’ up on ’er.

She snaps ’er neck in my direction. “Before you stop poppin’ shit, I ain’t here to beef wit’ you,” she warns, turnin’ ’er attention back to the baby. “I’m here to see my lil’ nephew, then I’m out.”

“Good,” I say, shiftin’ my handbag from one hand to the otha. “No need for you to linger any longer than you have’ta.”

She turns and stares at me. “Kat, answer me this. Why do you have so much hate in you? What happened to us?”

“You fucked my man; that’s what happened to us. I trusted you. And you shitted on me.”

“Ohmiimuthafuckin’god, let that shit go, Kat. That shit happened years ago. And da nigga’s dead. When you gonna get ova it? We done fought ova his ass twice and—”

“No, boo, we didn’t fight ova that nigga. We fought ova you tryna play a bitch. Big difference; don’t get it twisted.”

She shakes her head. “And you let some dick come between us. I can understand if you wanted to be pissed