“Damn, you sure know how ta crush a nigga’s spirits. Let me stop fuckin’ with you. I mean, don’t get it twisted; I’d dick and tongue you down in a heartbeat, stretch that fat ass right out the box, but I know you ain’t havin’ it. I like talkin’ shit to ya nasty ass, ma.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I said. “Now, how can I help you?”
“I got some outta town work for ya.”
My phones rang again.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, goin’ upstairs to put somethin’ on before Chanel got here. I had been chillin’ in my lace panties. “Where and when?”
“Vegas. In three days.”
Even though I’d been to Vegas in February for All-Star weekend, I hadn’t really gotten a chance to take in much of the happenin’s. Besides, it was so fuckin’ packed I couldn’t really move like I wanted. So goin’ back was all good. I figured I could hit the Fashion Show Mall on the strip to hopefully buy some bangin’ shit, check out that show Zumanity at New York-New York, and maybe even gamble it up a bit.
“Cool. I’ll fly out a day or two early and chill.”
He laughed. “Why the fuck I know you was gonna say that shit?”
“’Cause that’s how I do mine. You already know.”
“Do you, ma. Just make sure you handle ya business on time. I don’t want none of that bullshit you pulled in San Diego. Matter of fact, I shoulda docked ya ass for holdin’ shit up.”
Against my better judgment, I decided to fuck with the nigga. “Cash, if you ever fuck with my money, you’ll never get any of this pussy, feel me? But if ya keep my paper flowin’ like ya ’posed to, then one day I might invite ya to slide ya tongue up in it. So if you ever wanna taste of this sweet pussy, don’t fuck with my paper.”
“Yeah, aiight,” he said, lowerin’ his voice. “Keep fuckin’ with me, Kat, and I’ma end up takin’ it, ya heard?”
“And ya’ll end up with a bullet in ya skull, muhfucka.”
“Damn, baby, you get my dick hard e’erytime you talk like that. Word up.”
“Ugh. Send me the paperwork, along with my paper, Cash.”
“You’ll have e’erything you need tomorrow afternoon.”
“Good.”
“Be easy,” he said, hangin’ up. I swear he makes me fuckin’ sick sometimes. I glanced at the clock and noticed Chanel’s ass was late as usual. It was 3:15. I figured the ho would be another hour or so, so I decided to take a quick shower.
By the time Chanel rang my doorbell two hours later, I was already on my third blunt, and a bitch was lifted lovely.
“Ho,” I snapped, swingin’ the door open, “I thought you said you was gonna be here in a half hour. You betta be glad I like ya yellow ass or you’d be standin’ outside.”
“Whatever, tramp.” She laughed, walkin’ in carryin’ a bangin’-ass, white pebbled leather Prada weekend bag. She was lookin’ all fly ’n whatnot in a slick-ass white linen jumper and a pair of strappy heels.
“I know you don’t think ya ugly ass is stayin’ the night. I ain’t runnin’ no damn ho house.”
“I can’t tell,” she said, closin’ the door behind her and followin’ me into the kitchen. “They have ya ass listed in the Yellow Pages under ‘Hoes for Rent.’” She dropped her bag by the door, then walked over to the refrigerator and opened it.
“Whatever, bitch,” I said, throwin’ my hand up in her face. I pressed the Bose remote and Me’Shell NdegeOcello’s “Dead Nigga Blvd., Pt. I” blared through the speakers.
“I’m hungry as hell. What you got to eat up in this piece?”
“Not a damn thing. You know ain’t shit domesticated ’bout me.”
She sucked her teeth. “And that’s why ya ass can’t get ya’self a man.”
“Whatever, ho,” I said, dismissin’ her with the flick of my hand. “I’m good. You worry ’bout keepin’ ya ass a man.”
“Speaking of which,” she said, closin’ the fridge door, then leanin’ on the aisle counter. I pulled out some menus from outta the counter drawer, then tossed them to her. I puffed the blunt, watchin’ her flip through each one. “Divine told me to tell ya ass ‘wassup.’ That nigga funny as hell. He started buggin’ when he saw me packin’ my overnight bag. He was like, ‘Where the fuck ya ass goin?’ Then as soon as I told him I was chillin’ with you tonight, he was like, ‘Oh, aiight.’” She started laughin’. “But let it be me tryna chill with T or Iris, and the nigga starts straight blackin’ for real. That nigga’s crazy. He really can’t stand them two.”
We each pulled out a stool and sat at the counter.
“Humph, I wonder why,” I said sarcastically. “What you wanna eat?”
“Let’s do Chinese. I want the garlic shrimp with brown rice. And two spring rolls. You treatin’, right?” I rolled my eyes, pickin’ up the cordless to call our order in. “Thanks, babe,” she said, smilin’. “And why the fuck you hoggin’ that damn blunt, bitch. Puff, puff, pass…I’m tryna get my smoke on too, greedy heifer.”
“Kiss my ass, trick,” I said, takin’ another pull, then handin’ it to her, laughin’. I started rollin’ two more.
When Me’Shell’s “Priorities 1-6” came on, Chanel closed her eyes and started swayin’. “I love this chick. She’s the fuckin’ truth.” She took another toke from the blunt, then handed it to me. I took two pulls and swayed with her.
“Yeah, she ain’t to be fucked with,” I agreed. “These weak-ass chicks in the game don’t really want it with her.”
We sliced open six more cigars, removed the tobacco, then packed ’em with weed. I watched Chanel as she expertly slid her tongue across the cigar paper like she was lickin’ the edges of a dick to moisten it, before fillin’ it with trees. She rolled the last blunt between her thumbs and index fingas, then placed it on the table with the rest of ’em.
“On some real shit, I think she’s too deep for a lotta these bitches out here. Her musical style is so damn fly to me.”
I nodded, takin’ a pull from the blunt while Chanel lit another one. I closed my eyes when “Andromeda & the Milky Way” came on. We sat in silence, smoked, and grooved to Me’Shell. The funky soul beats were so fuckin’ tight that I wanted to light candles, lay my head back, and drift into a zone.
“Would you let her eat your pussy?” Chanel asked outta the blue, fuckin’ up the mood. I almost choked.
“What?” I asked, shocked.
She repeated the question. “Would you let her go down on you?”
“That’s it, bitch,” I said, reachin’ for the blunt, “no more smoke for ya ass. You talkin’ real sideways now.”
She started laughin’ ’n shit. “I’m just sayin’.”
I raised my eyebrow, placin’ my hand on my hip. “Bitch, is there somethin’ you tryna tell me?”
“No, I’m just sayin’. I mean, she really does her thing, musically. And some of her joints got a freaky-sexy groove that be makin’ me wanna get it in.”
“Well, ho, you make sure you ain’t tryna get it in here. I don’t wanna split ya shit up for tryna get at my pussy.”
“Bitch, please,” she said, laughin’. “I ain’t on it like that. I was just askin’. Besides, you ain’t my type.”
“Mmm-hmm. Yeah, aiight. Try that freaky shit if you want.”
“Whatever…aaah, shit,” she said, jumpin’ up when the song “I’m Diggin’ You” came on. “Bitch, you need to burn this shit for me. Who made this mix for you? The shit is tight.”
“I did,” I said, watchin’ her shake her big, round ass and swing her hips. On some real shit though, if I was into chicks, I’d probably strap on a dildo and rock her ass. But I wouldn’t tongue-fuck her. That was out. This ho done had too many dicks up in her. I frowned at the thought of havin’ my face between her legs. Ugh!
My phone rang. I picked it up off the counter and glanced at the number. It was my aunt Rosa again. I sat the phone back down. Two minutes later, my cell rang, then my home line again. I turned my cell off.
Chanel looked at me, then the phones. She took a pull from the half-blunt, then exhaled the smoke up into the air. “Don’t you think you should at least check ya messages? It could be ’bout ya moms.”
I shrugged. “I ain’t beat.”
She opened her mouth to say somethin’, but I raised my brow and gave her a warnin’ look to keep her muthafuckin’ mouth shut. And she did.
