Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang (16 page)

I laugh. “Sweetie, you look like the kinda chick wit’ them black, nasty fat burns between ya stumpy-ass legs, okay. And there ain’t’a ’nough smoke in this muthafuckin’ world to entice me to wanna eva get between them hamhocks to suck on ya lil’ piggy dick. So you can save that for them Chunky-Monkey bitches you roll wit’.”

“Bitch, I don’t know who da fuck you think you is, you’ve been comin’ at me all sideways ’n shit since ya stuck-up ass got up in here. And I’m about ready to jump on that ass. You don’t know shit about me, bitch.”

“Booga, all you gotta do is jump, and we can make it bounce up in this muthafucka, trust.”

“Ohhhhhhmiiiigaaaaawd,” Chanel says, slappin’ the table wit’ her hand, “will you stupid bitches pleeeease shut da fuck up! I wish
you bitches learn to get along. Both of you hoes are tryna fuck up my high. Damn.”

“Ho, you need to be talkin’ that shit to ya girl,” Hungry Jack says, glaring at me. “You know it’s whatever for a bitch like me. I ain’t one to keep lettin’ no skinny, stuck-up bitch talk greasy. Yeah, I’ma big bitch. But I hit hard, okay?”

I raise my brow, tilt my head. “Bitch, yabba-dabba-doo. You don’t really want it wit’ me, Barney, so shut da fuck up wit’ ya double-necked ass and finish eatin’ ya blunt.”

She stares me down, openin’ and closin’ ’er fists like she’s ready to bring da noise. I smirk, waitin’. The bitch rolls ’er eyes, but she keeps ’er ass planted in her seat. Once I see this ho ain’t really tryna bring it, I take my hand off the ice pick and pull out my emergency stash—three blunts packed ’n ready to go—I keep in a Louie eyeglass case. I take one out as I tell Chanel to hand me the lighter, then spark up. I take a deep pull. Hold it in for a few, then blow smoke out over in Hungry Jack’s face. I can’t stand this bitch, so now I’ma fuck wit’ ’er.

Lucky for ’er my cell rings. I fish it outta my bag, then glance at the screen. It’s Nut. “Hey,” I say, shiftin’ in my seat.

“Yo, what’s good, beautiful?” For some reason, a bitch starts grill-cheesin’ it up. “Yo, that was fucked up how you played me the other day.”

I laugh. “Oh, well. I told you what it was; shoulda got there on time.”

“Yo, whatever. I was five minutes late.”

“And now it’s ya loss.”

“Yeah, aiight. I see how you doin’ it. It’s ballgame, baby. The first chance I get to get at you, I’ma bust that ass up; real talk.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

“Fuck outta here wit’ that. Yo, where you now?”

“Nigga, don’t be checkin’ for me,” I snap, takin’ another pull off’a my blunt. “The last time I checked I wasn’t da one ridin’ ya dick. You were five minutes too late, remember. And you damn sure wasn’t ridin’ mine.”

He laughs. “Here you go,” he says, lettin’ the shit go ova his head. “Whatever, yo. I wanna see you tonight.”

“Umm, don’t you have some dick hungry hoes to chase down?”

“Yeah, but I ain’t beat for ’em. I’d rather be chasin’ you. But I see you still wanna be on ya bullshit. You dissed a muhfucka, and you stood me up the night before that. You just keep playin’ a nigga to the left. But it’s all good.”

“Nigga, puhleeze.”

“Yo, stop fuckin’ ’round, Kat. A muhfucka’s tryna see you, so what’s good?”

I suck my teeth, rollin’ my eyes at Chanel for bein’ all down my throat. “Bitch, what da fuck,” I say to ’er, shiftin’ in my seat.

She gives me da finga. “Ohhh no, bitch, don’t try ’n get cute. Let me find out you got some nigga on da low I ain’t heard about.”

“Yo, who’s that in the background?” Alex asks.

“Nobody,” I tell ’em, takin’ another toke, then blowin’ out the smoke. “Just sum nosey bitch tryna be all up in mine.” Chanel gives me da finga again.

“Oh, word? What, you smokin’?”

“Yeah, sumthin’ like that.”

“So, what’s up for later? I told you I’m tryna see you. So what’s good? You think you can squeeze a muhfuck into ya life, or do I gotta keep beggin’?”

I grin. “Let me think on it. And I’ll hit you back.”

“Yeah, aiight. I heard that shit already. Don’t front on me.”

“Nigga, whateva.” We go back ’n forth a few minutes more wit’ me tellin’ him I’ll hit ’im back later tonight, then disconnect.

Chanel points ’n wags a finga at me. “Oh noooooo, Miss Bitch, who’s this nigga you all goo-goo, ga-ga ova?”

I laugh. “Bitch, ain’t nobody goo-goo, ga-ga-in’ nuthin’.”

“Mmmph, sounds like it to me,” Hungry Jack says, rollin’ another blunt to eat.

“Bitch, who asked yo’ ass?” I snap, shootin’ ’er a look.

She laughs. “Slut, you’se a real funny-style bitch, but I ain’t sweatin’ it.”

“Unh-uh, ho,” Chanel says to ’er, puttin’ her hand up, “not now. Save the dumb shit for later. Right now”—she turns ’er gaze on me—“back to yo’ ass, you sneaky ho. I wanna know who this nigga is you all grin ’n giggles wit’.”

I roll my eyes, flickin’ my hand at ’er. “What-da-fuck-
eva.
I ain’t grinnin’ shit.”

“Yeah, whatever, tramp; just tell me who da nigga is and why I ain’t heard ’bout his ass.” I tell ’er it’s the nigga from All-Star Weekend. “As funny style as ya ass is, I didn’t think you was even fuckin’ wit’ that nigga like that.” I tell ’er nosey ass ’bout the lil’ outin’ he took me on. “Get out!
And
you went out wit’ his ass? Oh, shit. Let me find out you diggin’ ’im.”

I shrug, takin’ another pull. “He’s aiight. It ain’t nuthin’ serious, trust.”

“Okay, skip all the silly shit. A bitch wanna know did you fuck ’im, yet?”

I frown, knowin’ damn well I wanna fuck the skin off that nigga’s dick. “Hell, no.”

She sucks her teeth. “Bitch, yo’ ass is always tryna play like you Miss Goodie Two Shoes. You act like you don’t like dick, boo.”

Hungry Jack grunts. I shoot ’er a look. The bitch blows smoke in my direction. But I ain’t mad at ’er ’cause it’s the same shit I’ve been doin’ to ’er. I decide to make ’er invisible.

“Annnnnyway…Bitch, puhleeeze. Just ’cause a bitch ain’t suckin’ ’n fuckin’ e’ery thing movin’ that don’t mean she ain’t lovin’ da dick. It means she ain’t beat for havin’ a beat up snatch, okay? So don’t get ya fronts knocked.”

Chanel flicks ’er hand at me. “Whateva; it sounds good. But that Virgin Mary shit you talkin’ is gettin’ real old, boo. It’s time for you to let ya freak flag fly.”

I give ’er the finga. “Fly on this, trick.”

Hungry Jack rolls her eyes up in her big snow globe head. “Bitch, get real,” she says, lookin’ at Chanel, then shootin’ a look at me. “I know this ho’s kind. Her ass is an undercover freak, okay. So she can spare us the okey-doke.”

“Bitch, why is you all up in mine?”

“Like I said, I know ya kind,” she repeats, splittin’ open another blunt, then packin’ it wit’ Kush. “Sneaky, freak-nasty hoes.”

“And I know ya kind, too, sweetie. You the kinda bitch who lets a nigga come through after the clubs close—all sweaty and drunk da fuck up—when he can’t get his dick wet nowhere else. Niggas call on yo’ ass ’cause they know you a sloppy-ass, maneatin’ dick gobbler who’ll let ’em fuck you in ya crater ass e’ery-which-way.”

Jabba Jaws licks the blunt, seals it. Then slides it in and outta her mouth, like it’s a damn toothpick. She sits it on the table. This bitch is outta control.

I frown.

Chanel bucks her eyes. “Bitch, what da fuck is you doin’?”

I get up from the table, shootin’ a look over at Chanel. “Bitch, I’m out. Call me when Orca goes back out to sea, then we can get it in like real bitches do.” Hungry Jack says sumthin’ slick back, but I laugh it off, throwin’ up the finga.

“Don’t forget the party is in two weeks,” she yells out. “So don’t
go makin’ no plans wit’ that nigga who you say you ain’t fuckin, but got you all ga-ga-googly.”

“Whateva,” I yell back, walkin’ out the door. I click the alarm to my whip, slide in, then make my way back over to the hospital for what I hope will be my last visit.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ready or not…da ho gotta go…bitch won’t eva rest in peace… Grim Reaper done came to take ’er…now it’s time for ’er to meet ’er maker…but da dead bitch has a baby inside ’er womb…wrapped ’round doom ’n gloom…what’s a bitch to do…do I take one life, or take two?

T
he minute I reach the nurse’s station I spot the nigga DeAndre. But, before I can speak, I peep the pasty-faced charge nurse from the other day, sittin’ on the other side of ’im behind a computer. She glances in my direction and looks shook. I grin and keep it cute, puttin’ ’er mind at ease. “Bitch, ain’t nobody thinkin’ ’bout you. I’m here to see my mother.” She quickly shifts her eyes back to what she was doin’. DeAndre bucks his eyes, surprised. “How you doin’, Nurse Lewis?” I ask, turnin’ my attention to ’im. I smile.

He smiles back. “Missus Rivera. Good morning. I’m good, thanks. I was on my way to your mother’s room so I will walk with you, if you don’t mind.”

I shake my head. “Fine wit’ me. I’ll be glad when all this is ova.” I peep Pasty-Face pick up the phone. “Sweetie, if you’re callin’ for security, there’s no need for that,” I tell ’er. “But I would like to speak to the doctor.”

“I’m calling him now,” she says, lookin’ over at me.

I roll my eyes at ’er. “Oh, goodie. You do that.”
Stupid bitch!

She hangs up. “He’ll be down momentarily to speak with you.”

I lean up against the counter. “Good. Send ’im to my mother’s room.” I walk off wit’ DeAndre. And of course the nigga’s tryna get his rap on on the sly. It’d be real cute to fuck wit’ a nurse if I was a junkie-bitch. I could fuck the nigga into snatchin’ me up a few of them ’script pads to keep a bitch lifted. But I ain’t the one. Still, I keep it cute and let the nigga try ’n spit his game; no matter how wack.

“I get off at three today. You wanna go grab something to eat?”

“Maybe sum other time,” I tell ’em as we approach Juanita’s room. “I need to do—” I stop myself when I see a brown-skinned chick and some tall, blond-haired, Ken-doll-lookin’ muhfucka in the room who’s movin’ a wand slowly ova Juanita’s swollen belly. “What’s goin’ on in here?”

“We’re completin’ an ultrasound,” the chick says. She glances ova at DeAndre, who tells ’em who I am. The brown chick is introduced as Doctor Larsons; the white dude as Doctor Peters, both ob-gyn specialists for high-risk pregnancies. Fuck all the formalities! A bitch wants to know what the fuck they doin’ another sonogram for when I’m here to shut this sideshow down.

“We want to make sure the pregnancy is…” Ken Doll’s mouth is movin’ but I don’t hear shit he’s sayin’. My eyes lock on the image on the screen. A bitch is frozen.
It’s a baby. Wit’ hands and feet and a mouth and nose. And you wanna take its life; murder it.… You a real selfish bitch for this shit…

I blink, try ’n shake Chanel’s voice outta my head.
Is this about
you
or ya fuckin’ hate for ya moms? And da only bitch you need to be real wit’ ’bout it is you
.

I feel myself startin’ to hyperventilate. “Turn that shit off!” I
hear myself screamin’ in my head. My mouth opens. But a bitch can’t get the words out.
It’s a baby…And you wanna take its life…

“…Missus Rivera? Are you okay?”

“I-I-I,” I stutter, slowly backin’ outta the room.
Pull da god-damn plug!
I have’ta get the fuck outta here—away from the image on the screen; away from Juanita; away from this fuckin’ hospital. I turn to walk out. Race outta the room and down the hall ’til I get to the bathroom.

As soon as I get into the stall, I throw my guts up. I am mad siiiiiick! Do you hear me? Sick…sick…sick! Sick wit’ disgust! Sick wit’ knowin’ that there’s really a baby inside’a Juanita! Sick knowin’ that no matter how fucked up a bitch
might
be—no matter how cold-hearted; no matter how bad I wanna see the plug yanked outta the wall—I can’t do it. Not to that lil’ helpless thing growin’ inside’a that bitch’s belly. No matter how many times I say I’m done wit’ ’er ass, somehow, someway, this bitch finds a way back in my space—fuckin’ up my world ’cause I keep lettin’ ’er. And
that
has a bitch siiiiiiiiiick!! I throw up again, flush the toilet, then walk outta the stall.

I run the water, splashin’ my face wit’ it, then pat dry my face wit’ sum’a their hard-ass paper towels, starin’ at myself in the mirror.
Bitch, you shoulda pulled that plug ya damn self when you had da chance. Now you done seen that fuckin’ sonogram, and now you gotta wait ’til it can be cut outta ’er.

I stare at myself in the mirror. I might have’ta wait ’til I’m finally free of Juanita, but a bitch damn sure doesn’t have’ta wait for shit else. I pull out my makeup case. Apply a fresh coat of eyeliner and lip gloss, then pull out my Kat line. Although, I still carry it, and keep it charged, it’s a phone I haven’t had’a use in two years. One I hoped I wouldn’t have’ta eva use again. Still, I held onto it.

I turn it on. Wait for it to boot up, then scroll through the address book. I press the
CALL
button, then wait.

“Ohhh, shit. Let me find out my baby girl ready to come home to Daddy. I been waitin’ to hear from ya sexy ass. Took you long ’nough. Maybe now I can finally get sum’a that good-ass pussy you been holdin’ out on me.”

I cringe. Hearin’ his voice takes me back to the last thing this fat muhfucka said to me when I decided to shut down the
Kat Trap
. “It’s twisted muhfuckas like you and me who can do this shit in our sleep. It takes a cold, vengeful, mean-streaked muhfucka to look a nigga dead in his eyes, then smoke his ass and never blink. Somewhere in our twisted minds, we think ain’t shit wrong with takin’ a muhfucka out. And what keeps us doin’ this sick shit is the fact that we like takin’ chances, livin’ on the edge, thinkin’ we’ll never get caught. Killin’ is ya callin’, baby. You’ll be back. And when you ready, I’ma be here waitin’ for ya.”

I roll my eyes. “Nigga, puhleeze. Annnnnnywaaaaaay, I need you to track someone down for me.”

“I got you, ma. Is it someone you need me to send the goons out on?”

“No,” I tell ’im, runnin’ my hand through my hair, “this is a muhfucka I need’a handle myself.”

“Personal?”