CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Funny how time passes by…nigga been sendin’ flowers ’n cards…but he ain’t been seen…gotta bitch masturbatin’ in a magazine…nigga got da game f*cked up…this bitch is done… ain’t da type to be waitin’ on no one…now he wanna talk… nigga, puhleeze…this bitch comes second to none…
“I miss you, yo,” Allstar says, soundin’ all down ’n shit. The last three days the nigga’s been callin’ tryna get back in my good graces. I keep tellin’ the nigga it’s not that serious. Yeah a bitch was startin’ to feel some kinda way, but it’s all good. I’m soooo ova the shit now.
“Mmmmph, that’s nice,” I say, rollin’ my eyes up in my head. “You have a funny way of showin’ it, though.”
“I know, baby…”
“Nigga, stop callin’ me that.”
“Kat, f*ck 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 f*cked 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 f*ckin’ one, okay. I told you da first time I think you tryna play a bitch, I was gonna dead shit.”
“YO, what da f*ck?! I ain’t tryna hear that shit, yo. I told you I’ma tryna sort some shit out. I know it was f*cked 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 muhf*cka, aiight?”
“Let me guess. It has to do wit’ some bitch, right?” He gets real quiet. “Ohhhh, a bitch done got ya f*ckin’ tongue now, huh? Keep shit a hunnid, muhf*cka. Is ya stress ova a bitch?”
He sighs into the phone. “Sumthin’ like that.”
“Just what da f*ck 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. Muhf*ckas 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 f*ck 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 f*ck 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 f*cked 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, muhf*cka. 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 f*ck?! 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 muthaf*ckin’ mind? I didn’t invite you in, so get da f*ck out.”
“C’mon, Kat. Look at me. I’m f*cked up, yo. I’m stressed da f*ck 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 muhf*cka for playin’ me to the left, a part of me wants to know what the f*ck’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 f*ck 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 f*ck out; for real, nigga. ’Cause on some real shit, you ain’t one’a my favorites right now.”
“I f*cked up, Kat.”
“Yeah, nigga you did. You still wanna be out there f*ckin’ 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 f*ckin’ niggas?”
“F*ck outta here. That ain’t my steelo. I don’t get down like that, yo.”
“Aiight, so then what da f*ck is it? Damn.”
“That crazy bitch been stressin’ me da f*ck 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 f*ck 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 f*ck 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 f*ckin’ 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 f*ckin’ 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.”
“Then why da f*ck didn’t you call da police on ’er ass?”
“I did, yo. And them dumb muhf*ckas thought da shit was funny, askin’ me dumb shit like was I really afraid of ’er, did I really think a lil’ chick like ’er could hurt a big nigga like me and shit like that.” He pulls out his cell. “But when she started leavin’ me all kinda crazy-ass messages, I went down to the station again and played ’em for them muhf*ckas.” He retrieved his voice messages, then put the phone on speaker.
“Hi, baby. Call me. I miss you. Our baby misses you.”
I cringe, pacin’ the floor, listenin’ to this kook-bitch.
“Alex, call me, big daddy. I need to see you. Why won’t you return any of my calls?”
“Alley Cat, you p-ssy-ass nigga. You scared of this p-ssy. Stop f*cking avoiding my calls, nigga.”
“Motherf*cker, until you come back where you belong, until you f*ck me wit’ that big-ass dick, I’m going to keep f*ckin’ with you.”
“F*ck you, nigga. You ain’t shit, Alley Cat. I hope you rot in hell, motherf*cker! I promise you, you gonna pay for hurting me, nigga. Oh, and that lil’ stuck-up bitch you been f*cking, the next time I run into her, I’m gonna toss acid in her pretty face. She broke my nose, but I promise you I’m gonna bring a hammer to that bitch’s skull. Let’s see you run behind that bitch when she’s all burnt and banged up.”
A bitch is pipin’ hot, okay? That stinkin’ bitch gonna threaten me. “So this bitch is still out on da muthaf*ckin’ loose, poppin shit.”
“I filed a complaint on ’er.”
“Well, why da f*ck didn’t you do that shit in da first place?”
“Them muhf*ckas wouldn’t let me. They told me there wasn’t nuthin’ they could do.”
I stare the nigga, down. “What’s that bitch’s last name and address? That bitch is barkin’ up da wrong muthaf*ckin’ tree and she’s ’bout to get chopped da f*cked down.”
“C’mon, baby. Let da police handle it. I don’t want you gettin’ caught up in this shit.”
“Nigga, is you serious? That bitch has been to my home. She slashed ya muthaf*ckin’ tires in my driveway, did you forget that? And the bitch is talkin’ ’bout she gonna do my face. I don’t think so. I told you before I wanted that bitch’s address, and you f*ckin’ thought I was playin’. I coulda had that bitch dropped months ago. But noooo, you wanna protect da bitch.”
He takes a deep breath, rubbin’ his hands ova his face. “It’s not like that, yo. You don’t understand, this bitch’s crazy.”
“Nigga, I understand more than you think. And guess what? I don’t give’a f*ck ’bout that bitch bein’ crazy. I want that nuttyass ho’s address. And I want it now!”
“No, baby. I got this.”
I glare at ’im. “No? You still wanna protect that crazy bitch?”
“Yo, I don’t give a f*ck ’bout ’er. I ain’t protectin’ that bitch, yo. I don’t want ’er comin’ at you; that’s all.”
“F*ck outta here wit’ that dumb shit. You brought da bitch straight to my muthaf*ckin’ doorstep, number one; and number two, ya black ass kept all this bitch’s crazy-ass antics from me. Why?”
“I was tryna handle da shit on my own.”
“What da f*ck?! Muthaf*cka, you retarded as hell. Why da f*ck was you even talkin’ to da bitch when you knew ’er ass was a nut from da rip?”
“I know I—”
I’m done f*ckin’ wit’ this nigga, I think, puttin’ my hand up to stop him from sayin’ shit else. Strike three! I stare at ’im, disgusted. “You know what, nigga. Get da f*ck outta my house.”
He gets up and walks ova toward me. “C’mon, baby. I promise you, da police are lookin’ for ’er as we speak. You don’t need to get ya’self caught up in this shit.”
I huff, grittin’ my teeth. “Muthaf*cka, I’m already caught up in this shit. The minute that bitch stepped to me at that salon it became my shit, too. Now get out!”
“No. I ain’t leavin’.”
I blink. “No? Uh, you ain’t leavin’? I tell you what. Hol’ that thought. I’ll be right back.” I run upstairs to my bedroom, swingin’ open my closet. Muhf*cka gonna tell me he ain’t leavin’ up outta my shit. That nigga don’t want it. I’ma show his cocky ass. I open my safe, pullin’ out my 9mm. I screw on the silencer, then pop my hips back downstairs. The nigga is sittin’ back down on the sofa. Ohmiigaaawd, this muthaf*cka is f*ckin’ crazy.
I point my gun at ’im. The nigga jumps up, shook. “Nigga, I asked you to get da f*ck outta my house. Now I’m tellin’ you. Get da f*ck up, and get da f*ck out, NOW! Or I’ma blow ya muthaf*ckin’ face off.”
“Yo, c’mon, baby, why you gotta pull ya shit out on me. All I wanna do is talk.”
“Muthaf*cka, you done said all I need’a hear. Unless you givin’ me that slut’s last name and address, da only thing I wanna hear is ya ass screechin’ outta my driveway.”
He stands here lookin’ at me all crazy-eyed ’n shit. This nigga really don’t think I’ll take his face off. I cock the gun. “I’ma tell you one more time, then I’ma pop off ya top. Get. Da. F*ck. OUT. NOW!”
He shakes his head, puttin’ his hands up. “Aiight, Kat, you got that. You made ya point. I’m out.”
“Good. Now get ta steppin’.”
I watch ’im walk toward the door and open it. He turns to face me. “Yo, hol’ up. Check this out. I didn’t do this shit intentionally. A muhf*cka thought I could keep that bitch quiet ’til I could figure out how’ta get ’er ass off my back. I didn’t want ’er f*ckin’ wit’ you; that’s all. And I damn sure wasn’t tryna bring drama up in ya space.”
“Well, too bad, nigga, you did. Now bounce.”
He opens the door and walks out, shuttin’ it behind ’im.
I drop down on the step and sit, holdin’ my head in my hands. Relieved the nigga left up outta here before I had’a blow his head off. I lay the gun down on the step, starin’ out the livin’ room window waitin’ to see his car lights go on, then disappear outta my driveway.
When it takes the nigga longer than I think it should for ’im to roll out, I get up off the step to see what the f*ck he’s doin’. As I swing open the door, I see him standin’ outside by his car, talkin’ to someone but I can’t see who it is. And it looks like he has his hands up. I flip on the outside light, then, Boom! Boom! Boom! The next thing I know, Alex hits the ground.
“Ohhhmiif*ckin’god!” I race back to get my gun, then flee out the door. But whoeva it was that shot ’im, has hopped in they car and sped the f*ck off. I race back in the house to get my cell phone, then run back outside, callin’ 9-1-1. “Ohhhhmiigod, Alex, can you hear me?” The nigga doesn’t respond and he’s bleedin’ real bad. As soon as the dispatcher picks up, I tell ’im what’s what, and tell ’im to hurry the f*ck up and get someone here. I drop down beside Alex and try to steady his head. I scoop ’im into my arms and rock ’im, hopin’ like hell the nigga doesn’t die in my arms. “Hol’ on, Allstar…don’t you die on me, nigga. Help is on the way.”
One of my neighbors—a white man I neva f*ck wit’—runs ’cross the yard ova to us, carryin’ a buncha towels. “You alright?” he asks, handin’ me towels. I tell ’im I am and thank ’im for the towels. “My wife and I saw everything,” he says, gettin’ on the otha side of Alex. He puts pressure on the wound. “We were on the phone with the police when the woman fired her gun.”
“He’s losin’ a lotta blood,” I say, tryna keep my composure. My hands start to shake. Nigga, why da f*ck didn’t you give me that bitch’s address when I first asked you for it? This shit woulda neva went down like this.
Just as three cop cars are pullin’ up alongside the house, the nigga stops breathin’ and it takes e’erything in me not to pass the f*ck out.