Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang

though.”

“I know, baby…”

“Nigga, stop callin’ me that.”

“Kat, fuck what you say, ma. I’ma be ya man. And you gonna be my baby, so you might as well get used to it.”

“Nigga, you still delusional I see.”

“I know I shoulda been callin’ you, ma. On some real shit, yo, I’ve had a lot on my mind da last few weeks. Did you get all the flowers I been sendin’ you?”

“Yeah, I got ’em. Thanks. Still a phone call coulda worked, too.”

“You right. That’s definitely my bad. I really fucked up on that.”

“Trust me. It’s all good. I wasn’t beat to be ya lil’ experiment any-damn-way, so you can keep doin’ what you doin’.”

“My experiment? C’mon, Kat why would you say some shit like that? That’s what you think you’ve been?”

“Nigga, you tell me. One minute you sweatin’ a bitch all hot ’n heavy, tryna be all up in ’er space and face, poppin’ a buncha ooeygooey shit in ’er ear ’bout how you wanna wife ’er and be ’er man ’n shit. Then the next minute you get ghost. It don’t take a rocket scientist to figure out ya ass got some otha shit goin’ on. So do me a favor, delete my number from ya phone ’cause I ain’t da fuckin’ one, okay. I told you da first time I think you tryna play a bitch, I was gonna dead shit.”

“YO, what da fuck?! I ain’t tryna hear that shit, yo. I told you I’ma tryna sort some shit out. I know it was fucked up for me not to still get at you, but shit’s been hectic, Kat. I promise you, once I get this shit handled, it’s me and you, ma.”

See. I wasn’t gonna get into it wit’ this nigga, but since he wanna start bassin’ in a bitch’s ear, then it’s lights on up in here. “Nigga, spare me da okey-doke. You told me this shit ova a month ago and you mean to tell me you still goin’ through da same shit?”

“True story, Kat; I’ve been stressin’ like a muhfucka, aiight?”

“Let me guess. It has to do wit’ some bitch, right?” He gets real quiet. “Ohhhh, a bitch done got ya fuckin’ tongue now, huh? Keep shit a hunnid, muhfucka. Is ya stress ova a bitch?”

He sighs into the phone. “Sumthin’ like that.”

“Just what da fuck I thought.”

“But it’s not what you think, on e’erything; word up.”

“Nigga, boom!” I press END, tossin’ the phone onto the sofa. The nigga calls back, but I let the shit go into voicemail. That nigga must think I’m some kinda fool, I think, goin’ down into the basement. I flip on my stereo, then walk ova to the bar and pour myself a shot’a Henny. I toss it back, then pour anotha. Muhfuckas ain’t shit!

Bitch, you knew what it was wit’ da nigga from da rip, so get ova ya’self.

Fantasia’s “Angel” comes on through the speakers. I contemplate sparkin’ a blunt, but know I can’t ’til after this court shit is ova and Zaire is officially mine. I close my eyes and listen to the Fantasia sing. I toss back anotha drink. Then when Indie.Arie’s “He Heals Me” comes on, a bitch gets all choked up and wit’out any warnin’, I break down and start cryin’.

AT NINE O’CLOCK, I AWAKE LOOKIN’ ’ROUND THE ROOM ALL GROGGY ’n shit. “I can’t believe I fell asleep down here on da sofa,” I think, wipin’ the drool from my mouth. I get up and grab the dirty shot glass, step ’round the bar and wash it at the sink, then put it away. Once I get back upstairs I grab my phone from off the sofa in the livin’ room, checkin’ it for any missed calls. There are eight. I check my messages. I have four. I plop down on the sofa, and wait for ’em to play.

“Hey, sexy. This is Tone. I def enjoyed seein’ you the other night. Hopefully when you get back to Cali we’ll get a chance to do it again. Stay beautiful, ma.”

“Hooker, where da fuck you at? I know you ain’t sumwhere down on ya rusty-ass knees, but if you are, rinse ’n swallow, then call me.” I laugh at Chanel’s ass. This bitch is a nut.

“Kat, this is Patrice. When you get a chance, please give me a call.” I blink, blink again, wonderin’ why the fuck she’s callin’ me, and leavin’ me a damn message bein’ all nice. Uh, no thank you, I think, hittin’ DELETE.

“Yo, I know I fucked up not callin’ you, but you gotta believe it ain’t what you think. I’m dead-ass, ma. We need to talk. Call me when you get this. I wanna see you.” Oh, now da nigga wanna see a bitch. Puhleeze. Poof, muhfucka. Ya ass is dismissed.

As I make my way up the stairs, my doorbell rings. I turn back around to see who it is, peekin’ through the peephole. Ohmiigod, what da fuck?! This nigga, I think shakin’ my head. I open the door. Cross my arms, and lean up against up the door frame. “Why are you here?”

“We need to talk,” he says, pushin’ his way into my house.

“Nigga, have you loss ya muthafuckin’ mind? I didn’t invite you in, so get da fuck out.”

“C’mon, Kat. Look at me. I’m fucked up, yo. I’m stressed da fuck out, aiight?”

I stare at ’im. The nigga looks like he ain’t slept in days. I twist my lips up. As mad as I wanna be at this muhfucka for playin’ me to the left, a part of me wants to know what the fuck’s been goin’ on. I take a seat on the sofa. “Well, what’s wrong wit’ you?”

He sits next to me, takin’ me by the hand. “I’ve missed you, yo; true story.”

“Okay, well that’s not tellin’ me much. What da fuck you all stressed ’bout?”

“You gotta promise me you not gonna start snappin’. That you’ll hear me out, first.”

I frown. “Nigga I ain’t promisin’ shit. So speak or get da fuck out; for real, nigga. ’Cause on some real shit, you ain’t one’a my favorites right now.”

“I fucked up, Kat.”

“Yeah, nigga you did. You still wanna be out there fuckin’ otha bitches and shit.”

“No lie. That’s not what I’ve been doin’?”

“Well, was ya ass locked up?”

He shakes his head. “Nah.”

“Okay, what, you fuckin’ niggas?”

“Fuck outta here. That ain’t my steelo. I don’t get down like that, yo.”

“Aiight, so then what da fuck is it? Damn.”

“That crazy bitch been stressin’ me da fuck out, word up.”

“What crazy bitch?”

“Ramona.”

I blink, blink again. “I thought there was a restrainin’ order.”

“There is.”

“Okay, so then how da fuck is the bitch stressin’ you?” He tells me that since that night at the party she had been tryna get at ’im on his Facebook and Blackplanet pages. That she made up fake accounts. Tells me that they were sendin’ notes back and forth a few times, then he stopped the shit. The nigga tells me the bitch been talkin’ reckless since I rocked her nozzle up in that salon. He tells me the bitch was the one who gutted his tires in my driveway.

My nose flares. “Waaaait one gaawtdamn minute. You tellin’ me that bitch knows where da fuck I live. Is that what I hear you sayin’?”

He nods, lookin’ all pitiful ’n shit. “Yeah. She’s been followin’ me.”

“Wait a minute, so what you tellin’ me is da bitch been stalkin’ you.”

“Yeah, this ho is a fuckin’ nut, yo. She’s done threw a brick through my pop’s window. And I ain’t even stayin’ there.” I ask ’im if anyone saw her do it. “Nah, but I know she did it. The bitch told me she was gonna keep fuckin’ wit’ me until I talked to ’er.”

I jump up from my seat, slammin’ my hand on my hip. “So you mean to tell me, all this time you been talkin’ to that bitch and you gotta restrainin’ order against ’er?” He nods. “Why?”

“I was tryna keep peace wit’ this broad.” I tilt my head, lookin’ at his ass like he’s a real Fruit Loop. “She’s been talkin’ real reckless, Kat.”