The Kat Trap

I twisted my lips. “Nigga, I know you ain’t thinkin’ a drink is gonna get ya black ass some pussy.”

He laughed. “Chill, ma. I ain’t on it like that. Don’t get me wrong, you some real eye candy and I’d love to tap that ass inside out and all. But this is on some strictly legit shit.” I twisted my lips. He flagged the bartender. “Get this beauty whatever she’s drinkin’.”

I smiled. Obviously, the nigga didn’t know just how deep my throat was. I ordered me two double-shots of Roemy, peeped my girls gettin’ their drop ’n pop on out on the dance floor, then followed dude to a corner table. As soon as we sat down, he got right to the point.

“Dig, how you feel ’bout makin’ some real cheddar?”

I tossed my drink back. Although I was already sittin’ on cake thanks to a sudden windfall, a bitch was still boostin’. It was cute and it kept me laced, but that shit wasn’t pullin’ in no real paper. I wanted more. A chick like me, bein’ an opportunist, needed to step her game up and stack some real cheese, but pushin’ or holdin’ or transportin’ somebody’s weight wasn’t ever gonna be it.

“What ya talkin’?” I had asked, raisin’ my naturally arched eyebrow.

He leaned in real close, wrapped his thick arm around the back of my seat, then spoke into my ear. He said again he was diggin’ my style, then told me ’bout a “work-for-hire” operation he ran, and how he was lookin’ for a thorough chick to be on his team.

“Hmmm,” I said, takin’ my second drink to the head. I studied dude’s swagger. He was ugly as fuck, but was dipped and paid. The nigga smelled like real money. And I wanted in. I peeped his Rolex, smilin’. “Order me another round, then let me sleep on it. A bitch don’t like to make any decisions when I’m gettin’ my drink and smoke on.”

He grinned. “Yeah, you definitely the real deal. Here’s my card. Hit me when you ready.” He slid me his business card, then turned to step. He turned back around. “Yo, ma, you gotta name?”

“Katrina,” I said. “Kat for short. And you?”

“Kashmir. But the streets know me as Cash.”

When the bartender returned with my drink, I smiled, liftin’ my glass. “I’ll get at ya.”

“Do that,” he replied, walkin’ off. I watched him give a few niggas pounds, then disappear out the door.

A week later, I called his ass and we spoke briefly. Then, the next day, we met for dinner at Junior’s in Brooklyn to discuss and finalize his offer. The paper was right, and it sounded sweet. Now, here I am, four years later, still fuckin’ with his slimy ass. Usually he was on point, but lately the nigga had been slippin’ and I really wasn’t feelin’ it. I didn’t give a fuck who he was, or how he got down for his. As far as I was concerned, the muhfucka could get it, too.

There were fifteen of us on this nigga’s money clip, and he received anywhere from five to twenty contracts a month, sometimes more. And he got paid well for the delivery of services; services that we carried out. The blood from my work was on my hands, not his. He had better recognize who kept him sittin’ his stankin’ ass up on his throne.

The longer he kept me on hold, the more heated I got. Dude was caked the fuck up and was on some real bitch shit tryna pinch corners with my paper. I’m sorry, but I was not diggin’ it at all! I was gonna have to make a major move, and soon, before I ended up shuttin’ his lights out.

“Yo,” he said, yankin’ me from my thoughts, “I’ma have that for ya in ’bout an hour. You know where to go.”

“Yeah, muhfucka,” I said, suckin’ my teeth.

“Oh, and check this out. The next time you come at me like that, I’ma forget I don’t put my hands on bitches and knock ya fronts out, ya heard?”

“Don’t fuck with my money, then,” I warned.

“You heard what I said,” he said, lowerin’ his voice. It almost sounded like his nasty ass had his hand down in his pants playin’ with his shit. The thought made me sick to my stomach. “Watch how the fuck you come at me. You work for me, not the other way around. Don’t get the game fucked up.”

I knew I was playin’ with dynamite comin’ at his neck like that. This muhfucka was a real shiesty-type nigga. I knew that the moment I jumped on his team. I also knew he could be real shady if pressed, and had no problem settin’ that ass up lovely if he felt disrespected or played. But, at the moment, I didn’t give a fuck!

“And I’m the one out here puttin’ heat to these muhfuckas, so don’t hit me with that bullshit. I ain’t the one. Play ya position, cowboy, and have my shit. I deliver ya bodies on time, and I expect my paper delivered on time, in full. And I ain’t tryna hear shit else. So don’t try ’n dry-fuck me.”

“I done warned you,” he snapped, “and you still yappin’ ya fuckin’ jaws. You’se a crazy bitch.”

“Whatever, nigga,” I said, snappin’ the phone shut on his ass. “I’ll be glad when I’ve stacked enough money to get the fuck outta this shit once and for all,” I said out loud, slippin’ into a pair of sweats and a hooded shirt. I need a fuckin’ blunt, I thought, searchin’ for my stash. Fat muhfucka got my nerves rattled. I lit the blunt, then took a long drag, inhalin’ deep, allowin’ the smoke to flow through my nose and mouth simultaneously. I really hate fuckin’ wit’ these snake niggas, I thought, takin’ another deep, long pull before puttin’ it out. I’ll smoke the rest of this shit later. I grabbed my purse and headed out the house to collect my loot.

Forty minutes later, I was back in the same spot I’d started out from, watching the money counter count and total the rest of my money. Twenty thousand. I smiled, placin’ it in the floor-to-ceiling safe with the rest of my paper. It was like Bank of America up in this bitch. And I was lovin’ it. I stood there and stared at the rows of bills neatly stacked. The smell made my snatch tingle. I just wanted to fuck, and rub my pussy over every single bill. I pinched my clit, then clamped my legs shut before slidin’ my hand between my legs and slowly rubbin’ my pussy. A bitch was in heat. I needed to be fucked, deep, long, and hard. But there wasn’t one nigga on my roster who I wanted to come through and slay me. I wanted some new dick. I sucked my teeth, then walked into a smaller walk-in closet and opened up a chest full of sex toys. I pulled out a ten-inch dildo, then climbed up on my king-sized bed, spread open my legs, and slid it in and out of my hungry hole, deep-fuckin’ myself until my cum-soaked pussy dripped a stream of hot, sticky juice down the crack of my ass. My pussy lips flapped around the width of my manual dick as I used my other hand to press on my swollen clit, pullin’ the dildo out of me e’ery so often to lick and suck my sweet cum juice off my rubber companion. I want some dick! I screamed in my head. “Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!” is the last thing I remember chantin’ and screamin’, before I closed my eyes and fucked myself into a deep, well-needed sleep.

CHAPTER THREE

If ya tryna play a bitch like me, ya better be ready to rock. Let me catch ya sleepin’, and ya gonna find ya’self knocked. Crabs in a barrel gonna try ’n steal yo shine, hatin’-ass hoes gonna try ’n steal ya spot… fuck what ya heard…a bitch like me will blast ya ass with somethin’ hot…before I ever let a muhfucka snatch me off top…

The shrill sound of my cell pulled me outta my sleep. The sound of the ring tone told me who it was, and which cell line it was. I glanced over at the digital clock on my nightstand, rollin’ my eyes.

“Shit,” I groaned, jumpin’ out of bed and diggin’ through my purse for my phone. I glanced at the number. Sure enough it was my moms. “Hello.”

“Is there any reason why you haven’t called me?” she asked with ’tude. No “hello.” No “it’s good to hear ya voice,” nothin’ except her fuckin’ attitude. I swear the older she gets the more evil she gets. The conversation hadn’t even gotten started and I was already ready to snap my phone shut on her ass.

I sighed. “Well, hello to you, too,” I said. “And to answer ya question, I haven’t called ’cause I’ve been busy.”

“Humph. Doin’ what? Are you workin’?”

“Yeah, I’m workin’. And before ya start tryna get all up in what I do, save it. As long as I’m not askin’ you to dig in ya pockets, what I do to make my paper is none of ya concern. Now, who pissed in ya Cheerios today?”

“Ain’t nobody piss in nothin’ of mine. I haven’t heard from you in almost two months, and I shouldn’t have to be the one to call you.”