The Kat Trap

“Uh, and why not?” I asked, sittin’ on the edge of my king-sized poster bed. The fuckin’ nerve of her!

“Because I’m your mother, that’s why. You should be callin’ and checkin’ on me.”

I rolled my eyes. “Really? Well, thanks for that news bulletin. I woulda thought as a mother you would wanna pick up a phone to see how ya only child is doin’. You know how to reach me. Anyway, now that ya got me, what’s been happenin’? Anything new goin’ on in ya life?”

“Nope,” she said, a bit too quick if ya ask me. “You know I don’t mess with too many people. Ever since I got my money these phony bitches ’round here always smilin’ and whatnot and tryna be up in my face. I’m like, ‘bitch, please, I ain’t got no time for it.’”

“Hmm. I hear ya. How’s Grandma?”

“You’d know that if ya ass picked up a phone and called her sometimes.”

I sucked my teeth. I really wasn’t in the mood for her shit. Beeeep! The call waitin’ tone signaled in my ear. Good. “Listen, I gotta go. I have another call comin’ in. I’ll be over next Saturday or Sunday.”

“That’s what ya ass said two months ago, and I still haven’t seen you.”

Beeeep!

“Alright,” I said, gettin’ agitated. “I’ll see ya on Sunday. ’Bye.”

“Well—”

I pressed the TALK button, disconnectin’ her ass. “Hello?”

“Damn, baby,” the nigga said in his silky voice. “Your voice got my shit on brick. When you gonna let a nigga see you?” It was Raynard, this cat from Long Island I had met when I was out in Vegas for All-Star Weekend in February. Humph. I knew I shoulda never given this nigga my digits.

The first night I met him was at the party P. Diddy was hostin’ at the Ice House Lounge. I was up in that piece lookin’ fabulous in a sexy Christian Dior white slip dress with a cutout back and plungin’ neckline that showed off my perfectly shaped ass, titties, and legs, and rockin’ a bangin’-ass pair of white beaded Gucci stilettos. Yes, a bitch slayed ’em in all white. I had the niggas droolin’ and every hatin’-ass bitch in that piece gaggin’.

Anyway, I was up in the VIP lounge standin’ out on the patio drinkin’ a flute of champagne when dude stepped to me tryna get his mack on. I ain’t gonna front, he was a dark-chocolate cutie—six-three, sexy brown eyes, nice thick lips, neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, with a beautiful bald head. The nigga was dipped in a fly-ass black Hugo Boss suit and it was somethin’ ’bout his swagger that made my pussy jump. But I kept it cute. I let him get his rap on, then sweetly smiled and bounced on his ass.

The next night, I bumped into him again when I was walkin’ through Caesar’s headin’ toward the Forum Shops. As I walked past him and his boys—there was like six or seven of them niggas—he stopped me and tried to get his shine on in front of his mans while them vultures swarmed around me like they were ready to eat me alive. I wasn’t pressed, though.

“Listen,” I had said. “I’d love to stand here and let you and your boys gawk at me, but I got shoppin’ to do.”

“Anything I can help you with, beautiful?”

I looked his ass up and down real easy-like, then smirked, starin’ into his eyes. “Nope,” I said, “’cause I ain’t shoppin’ for dick.”

He grinned. And his boys started laughin’. “Oh word. Well, let me get your digits then, so I can hit you up later on tonight.”

“Wrong answer,” I replied.

“Do you believe in fate?” he asked, smilin’.

“Why?”

“’Cause this is the second time I done ran into you. Outta all these heads out here, I spot you again. You dipped on me last night, but I ain’t letting you off that easy this time.”

I smiled. “So, you believe in fate, I take it?”

“Most def.”

“Good. Well, they say three’s a charm so if we happen to run into each other again, then I’ll give you my number. If not”—I shrugged—“then it wasn’t meant to be.”

I looked at him, then over at his boys. “You boys enjoy the rest of your stay. I’m out.”

He threw his big hand up over his chest, like he was clutchin’ his heart. “Damn, ma. I’m heartbroken. How you gonna leave me hanging like this?”

I grinned. “Easy,” I said, gettin’ ready to step off. But I stopped dead in my tracks when I heard one of his boys say: “Yo, Ray, I wouldn’t even waste my time on a stuck-up bitch like her. I can tell she’d be a fuckin’ headache tryna get some pussy from.”

I turned to face his wide-nosed, big-lipped ass, then let that ass have it. “Nigga, what the fuck did you just say?” I asked, steppin’ up in his face. I could tell the nigga was lit. He smelled like he’d been drinkin’ all night. But I didn’t give a fuck. Drunk or not, that nigga stepped outta pocket. In a split second I was ’bout to bring my blade to his face. “I know you didn’t just disrespect me. Muhfucka, I don’t know what type of bitch you think you talkin’ to, but I ain’t that bitch. How dare you try to come at me and you got the fuckin’ audacity to look like a muthafuckin’ cross-eyed gorilla!”

“Yo, you better go ’head ’fore you get hurt in here.”

“Go ’head nothin’. Fuck you, you crusty muhfucka. You probably the only duck-ass nigga outta ya crew who ain’t gettin’ no real pussy unless you beggin’ for it, or trickin’ ya money up for it. You done fucked with the wrong one, nigga. I’ll have ya muthafuckin’ lights smashed out before the sun comes up, fake-ass baller.” I knew if my girls were with me, we woulda tore that casino up and been hauled off to jail for stompin’ his ass.

“Yo, tell this bitch to step the fuck off before—”

“Before you what, nigga?” I said, cuttin’ him off while reachin’ into my bag to get my shit. Fuck splittin’ his shit with my blade, I was gonna ram my ice pick in his thick gut. If he kept pressin’, it’d be a bullet instead.

Dude stepped in between us, pushin’ his boy back with his forearm. “Yo, nigga, shut ya drunk ass the fuck up. Yo, ma, don’t pay his dumb ass no mind. He’s fucked up.”

I stared the drunk nigga down, then turned my attention to him. “And he’s about to get really fucked up ’cause he done came at the wrong bitch.”

“Yo, y’all take this dumb nigga outta here,” he said to two of his boys. They snatched his ass up real quick and got him the fuck away from me before I put a slug in his skull.

“Don’t no nigga talk slick and think shit’s sweet.”

“I hear you. That was some real foul shit. I apologize for how he came at you, but I’ma check him on it.”

“Yeah, you do that. But, please be clear. If I run into that crab-ass nigga again, he had better be in a position to apologize for how he came at me, otherwise you and the rest of ya crew gonna be goin’ to a funeral.”

“I feel you, ma. So, I guess tryna get ya number is definitely out now?” he asked, flashin’ me a beautiful smile.

“You got that right,” I said, leavin’ him starin’ at my ass.

Oh my God! It was live and poppin’ in Vegas that weekend and every fuckin’ night the strip was filled to capacity with niggas and bitches tryna shine in their wears. Even the white bitches were tryna get it in. But none of them pasty, weave-wearin’, frontin’-ass tramps could rock with me. And I was slayin’ them hoes every night at every damn party in all the ill shit. Long story short, I ran into this nigga in the airport, and wouldn’t you know he stepped to me, holdin’ open his BlackBerry, ready for me to program my number into his phone. And the nigga has been callin’ me ever since. Now I wish I woulda gave his ass a wrong number.

Anyway, I had to pull the phone from my ear for a minute. I swear I don’t know why I gave this nigga my fuckin’ number, I thought, rollin’ my eyes. “Nigga, you must be smokin’ dust or eatin’ mufuckin’ paint chips to come at me like that. I don’t know you like that. And to answer ya question, never. Now do me a favor and delete my number ’cause I ain’t feelin’ ya ass like that.”

He laughed. “Damn, ma, why you gotta be so hard on a brotha. I’m only fucking with ya sexy ass. I know you ain’t that type of chick.”

I sucked my teeth. “Whatever. You still might as well delete my number ’cause I ain’t givin’ you no pussy.”