The Kat Trap

was close to midnight, and the ride was smooth as fuck until I almost hit a damn deer that raced across the highway. I swerved to the right, quickly brakin’, then pressin’ down on the gas pedal, pushin’ one-ten. It takes a lot to shake a bitch like me, but the thought of havin’ a damn deer flipped up on my fuckin’ hood or comin’ through my windshield with its hoof in my grill had a bitch shook. I ain’t gonna front. But I sparked a blunt, took three deep pulls, and quickly pulled it together, thinkin’ ’bout my mark for the night.

I was gonna fuck him real good, then splatter his brains out. I pressed my thighs together, tryna pinch the excitement stirrin’ between my legs. Yes, I was gonna fuck this nigga to death, literally and figuratively. But then I felt guilty. Fuckin’ with Grant had my groove all jacked up. Like I already told ya, I was diggin’ the nigga. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to live a double life if I wanted to be wifed-up by his ass. I was glad his ass was outta town doin’ him for the weekend. Although fuckin’ these marks was strictly a part of how I handled my business, it would be cheatin’. So I decided I’d have to stop fuckin’ ’em if I was gonna rock with Grant. Yep, this is the last mark I’m fuckin’, I thought, veerin’ off the ramp onto the toll road for AC. From now on, I’ll just kill ’em on the spot. No extras.

I caught my reflection in my rearview mirror, pulled the front of my burgundy spiked, pixie-cut wig cap down a little, then made sure my self-made beauty mole over my lip was still in place. I adjusted my wire-framed Christian Dior glasses. I hated all these wigs and makeup ’n shit, but they were needed props. I pulled into the parkin’ garage for the Borgata, then checked inside my Gucci duffle bag to make sure I had e’erything. It was show-time.

I entered the fly-ass hotel, strutted through the casino toward the elevators to my mark’s suite. On the way up, somethin’ didn’t feel right. My gut told me to turn around and take my ass back home. I was startin’ to feel real paranoid ’bout shit, but knew I couldn’t back out. There was money to be made, and a body to be accounted for. What the fuck! I snapped in my head, steppin’ outta the elevator. I shoulda never smoked that shit. The closer I got to my mark’s room, the more shit didn’t feel right. So, I decided to follow my gut. I’m not fuckin’ this nigga; not tonight. In that split second, I decided I would just smoke his ass and bounce.

I reached his door, then looked around to make sure no witnesses were around. I knocked. A few minutes later, the door opened. There stood my mark in a pair of black jeans and black tee shirt. The nigga was fine. He had caramel-coated skin with thick lips, a big nose, and a bangin’ body. “Yes?” he said, checkin’ me out from head to toe. “How can I help you?”

Damn, this nigga looks like someone, I thought. “Somebody called for a massage,” I said, takin’ ’im in.

“Nah, baby, you got the wrong room.”

I felt my nipples harden and licked my lips. “That’s too bad,” I said, eyein’ him real slow and sexy-like. “I woulda loved roamin’ ya body with my hands. Oh well. Enjoy ya night.”

“Yo, hold up,” he said. I stopped in my tracks, slowly turnin’ around. Gotcha! “How much one of those massages run?”

“For you,” I said, smilin’. “It’ll be on the house. And I’ll even give ya a nice release.” I winked. He smiled. “I promise. You’ll feel like ya floatin’ on clouds when I’m done workin’ ya body.”

“I like that,” he said, steppin’ back and openin’ the door with a big-ass grin on his face. “Come on in. After the night I’ve had, I can definitely use a little tension release.”

I stepped into the spacious suite. It was just him there. “Okay, you’ll need to remove all your clothes.”

“Say what?”

“It’s a nude massage, baby,” I said. “You need to be butt-ass.”

He chuckled. “Got ya. Uh, so this really does come with a happy ending?” He started laughin’. “Just kiddin’.”

I smiled. “Actually, big daddy, it sure does. When I’m done with you, ya gonna be spillin’ all over the place.”

“Oh, word? That’s wassup.”

He removed his clothes, then lay across the king-sized bed. I tried not to look too hard at his muscled back and thighs. His ass was nice and firm. My mind started wanderin’ and a bitch started wonderin’ what it would feel like havin’ my legs up over his shoulders and my nails diggin’ in his muscular ass cheeks while he fucked me down. I shook away the thought before I changed my mind and gave him some pussy.

As soon as he turned his head, facin’ the other way, I reached into my bag and pulled out my nickel-plated nine-millimeter with the silencer attached. I walked up on him. Theessrrpp! I blasted him in the back of his head. I hadn’t touched shit so I was gonna be able to dip out real easy. I let out a deep breath, relieved that this went smoother than I had expected. Well, that’s what I thought. But jas I was headed toward the door, it opened. And in stepped this fine-ass nigga. My eyes popped open. My face cracked. Keepin’ shit real, a bitch almost passed the fuck out. It was Grant!

“Yo, who da fuck are you?” he asked, starin’ me down. He squinted. The door closed behind him. I took a deep breath and backed up real slow, pullin’ off my wig and removin’ my glasses. I was caught and there was no need tryna talk my way outta it. “Yo, what the fuck you doin’ up in here with my brotha?”

My mouth dropped. “Ya brotha?” I asked in disbelief as he walked up on me.

“Yeah, Kat, my brotha,” he replied, soundin’ heated. He glanced over at the bed and saw the mark sprawled on his stomach with blood oozin’ outta a hole in the back of his head. He blacked. “Yo, what the fuck did you fuckin’ do?” He ran over to the bed, shakin’ the body. “Yo, Greg, man, you aiight? Wake up, man. Yo, Greg.” He shook ’im, all frantic and whatnot, then looked up at me. “Why da fuck did you kill him, huh, bitch? Is you fuckin’ crazy? That’s my fam, bitch! You’se a dead ho. Word on my brotha’s body.” He jumped up and tried to come at me. But I had pulled my gun out and had it pointed at his head. He stopped in his tracks.

“Now put ya hands up and on the back of ya head, and don’t move ’em,” I said.

He did, turnin’ his head back toward his brotha. When it finally hit him that his brotha was layin’ there naked, he stared at him for a minute longer, then shot me a look. “Did you just fuck my fam, then turn around and kill ’im?”

“No, I didn’t fuck him,” I said, relieved I didn’t. “You asked me several times how I made my paper,” I said, starin’ him in his eyes. “And I never answered you ’cause I hoped I wouldn’t ever have to tell you. I hoped that I would be outta this shit. But, now it looks like it doesn’t really matter.” I knew the nigga was strapped so I tried to keep my eyes on his hands.

“I don’t believe this shit!” he yelled, holdin’ his head and walkin’ in circles. “I don’t fuckin’ believe it! Why?”

“It’s my job,” I offered, avoidin’ his eyes. It rattled a bitch’s nerves to see the look on my man’s face. Okay, the nigga wasn’t officially my man, but he was the nigga I was fuckin’ on a regular. And I was diggin’ him. Anyway, knowin’ I had caused the pained look in his eyes started fuckin’ with me. Keep shit cute, bitch, I warned myself, tryin’ fuckin’ hard not to look at him. Ain’t no time for gettin’ all soft up in this piece, ho. He broke down cryin’. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! E’erything was all fucked up. But there wasn’t shit I could do ’bout it. It was too late. And what really fucked a bitch up the most was knowin’ one of us wasn’t gonna be walkin’ up outta here. “I wish it didn’t hafta go down like this,” I said softly.

“Fuck you, bitch!” he spat. “Fuck you talkin’ ’bout it’s ya job? Fuck you wishin’ for, bitch? You just bodied my brotha!”

“It’s what I do,” I said, keepin’ my heat aimed at his head. But for the first time in years, my hands shook. On the inside a bitch was tremblin’. I took two deep breaths. “It’s my hustle.”

“Ya ‘hustle’? Bitch, is you cracked out or what? How the fuck is killin’ muhfuckas ya hustle? You killed my muhfuckin’ fam.”

My heart ached. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I took a deep breath. “Like with ya bruh,” I tried to explain. “When somebody puts a hit out on a nigga, someone’s paid to make that shit happen. Tonight, it was me. Trust me. If it wasn’t me, it woulda been someone else slumpin’ him. It was a done deal. Whoever he pissed on wanted him murked.”

“Hits? Who the fuck ordered a hit out on him?”

“That’s not my concern. Makin’ it happen is. I don’t get caught up in all the details. The less I know, the better. But had I known he was related to you, I woulda passed.”

“But you woulda let someone else kill ’im? You fuckin’ mean to tell me you wouldn’t have warned me?”