Real Wifeys: Get Money (8 page)

“You ain’t even had enough decency to strap up with them dirty birds you out there fucking ’cause you a Mr. Jay-Z wannabe, fucking Lil Wayne 2.0 bitch.” I fought the urge to straight box that nigga in his face. “Huh, you excited them bitches want you for your money and your name that you raw-dogging bitches? That’s how you out there? That’s how you handling your B.I. Negro? Huh? That’s how you handling . . .
me
?”

I broke. Tears filled my eyes as I looked at him. I patted my chest, the diamond jewelry he gave me flashing from my hand and wrist. That shit meant nothing. “That’s the respect you got for me? For
this
?” I asked, waving my hand around our apartment. Our home.

Right then, in that moment, I wanted nothing but a kiss on the forehead from my father or to bury my head in my mother’s lap to make me feel better. It’s funny how grown and independent you think you are until something fucks your world right up and nothing can straighten you out like Mommy and Daddy.

Make$ reached for me. I stepped back from him, shaking my head, my lips twisted downward. “Nah. You want them bitches? Have them, Terrence. Oh, no no no. I’m sorry. You’re Make$. Right?” I gave him a nasty once-over with my eyes that I knew were filled with the pain I couldn’t fight off.

“Luscious, you know I ain’t fucking nobody. If I have something I must’ve had it before we starting going together,” Make$ said, his eyes all over my face.

I turned from him, not at all buying the bullshit he wanted to sell me.

“Oh shit, you bleeding,” he said. “It’s blood everywhere.”

I felt him step up behind where I stood with my arms crossed over my chest. “Don’t fucking touch me,” I told him, my voice
hard.

“Man, Luscious, it’s blood all down your shirt and in your hair. You must’ve busted your fucking head open on that table,” Make$ said, his voice filled with concern.

FUCK HIM.

I turned and pushed past him to get to our bedroom. When I came back the gun was in my hand and pointed at him. I’d never really held the gun except to move it, but it felt good. My finger resting lightly on the trigger felt natural. “Get the fuck out,” I said, picturing him fucking some other bitch. And then me. And then another bitch. And then me.

Make$’s eyes got big as shit as he held up his hands. “Yo, Luscious, shit ain’t even that serious. Put the fucking gun down,” he said, trying to sound calm.

There wasn’t shit calming about a cheating man and an STD.

He stepped closer to me.

I extended my arm and tightened my grip on the gun as I turned it sideways. “Who you fucking,
Ter-rence
? Huh?” I asked, a tear that wasn’t near as lonely as I felt racing down my cheek.

“Man, Luscious, if I gave you—”

I made a dum-dum face. “If?
If?
Nigga, ain’t no ifs about it. You trying to say it’s me that gave you this shit?”

“Man, I love you, Luscious, and you know this. I give you everything I have and I promised you more,” Make$ said, holding his hands up like I was robbing him. He was the one who stole my heart and then broke it.

I shook my head and bit my lip. The gun felt heavy in my hands, so I locked my elbow tighter. “I’m not
that
bitch. Clothes, money, fucking jewelry. Your Jag. This apartment. Your promises? All that shit means nothing to me compared to loyalty. See, I’m
that
bitch. The one you can trust. The one you can depend on. The one you rely on. That’s me, motherfucker . . . and that’s why I deserve it in return. Fuck materialistic shit.”

The truth of my own words did me in. My shoulders slumped as my heart finished crumbling. The tears flowed. It was like a broken faucet I couldn’t turn off. With my free hand I tried to wipe them away. Nothing. More fell in their place.

I cried out when suddenly one of his arms was around me as he wrestled the gun from my hand and then tossed it onto the sofa away from us. I caved and cried like a baby. My knees gave out, but his arms held me up. I didn’t have no more fight in me. Not in that moment.

I let him check the back of my head as I cried from a hole deep in my soul that he created. I’m talking snot running. Eyes hurting. Mouth wide open. Head flung back. Straight wailing.

“You might need stitches,” Make$ said. “I’m taking you to the ER.”

I hated how much his touch still felt good to me. Hated myself for wanting to know this nigga cared about me. Hated that I was hoping he was telling the truth about having the STD before we met. Hated that I didn’t want to lose him.

I’m weak.

Love got me fucked up all the way up.

I
opened my compact and double-checked my makeup as we pulled up to Club 973 in Newark. My makeup was a little over the top but it matched the deep purple Gucci dress that clung to my curves like a second skin. Michel had styled my long ebony weave until it was nothing but loose and airy curls surrounding my face and cascading down to the middle of my back. Twenty-inch Indian remy. Goldie put me down on the good shit. Fuck yaki. Give that shit a good two weeks and it was shedding like cat hairs.

There were cars lined up and down the blocks surrounding the club. The line to get in, for the non-VIPs, was around the corner. Goldie said she wanted a big blowout for her belated birthday party and the proof was in the pudding, because everybody was talking about it. I’d seen more club flyers floating around Newark and New York in the last two weeks than a little bit. All the local radio station DJs were planning to be in attendance. East Coast celebs and athletes were supposed to make appearances. Shit was
bananas.

“Looks like Goldie’s party is going to be the shit,” I said to Make$, excited to get in, get me a cocktail, and enjoy myself.

Make$ leaned forward in the seat of the Jag. “That must be her new Benz,” he said, tilting his chin toward the silver SLK 500 parked—and definitely posed up—in front of the club like she wanted it seen.

“Missy told me how she embarrassed some white dude at the car lot who thought she was broke. She bought it cash,” I said, as he parked at the corner in front of a hydrant and a handicap access.

His security parked their blacked-out SUV in front of us damn near on the curb.

I couldn’t do anything but shake my head as we climbed out the car. “I hope
my
Jag doesn’t get towed,” I said with a smile as he came around to step up on the curb and press a hand to my back as we walked up the street with the two security guards behind us.

“Oh, you got jokes,” he said, fitting his oversize shades on his slender face.

“No, I got the title,” I shot back, holding out my hand for the keys with one of my eyebrows arched.

He slapped my ass as he dropped them into my hand.

Make$ did everything in the last two weeks to get back in good with me. He was mad attentive. Flowers. Romantic dinners. Surprise gifts. QT out the ass. That nigga even made a song about me, begging my forgiveness and proclaiming his love. We just got back from a weekend trip to Antigua where he surprised me with the title to the Jag all signed, sealed, and delivered to me in a box with a new Tiffany diamond key chain.

My wish was his command.

I looked over at him as the entire line of clubgoers began to holler, reach for him, and snap pictures with their camera phones as we all entered the club. Did I still have my doubts? Damn straight. Was it possible that he caught the STD before me and didn’t know? My doctor said he could’ve been asymptomatic just like me and that it was possible. Did I love him? No question.

We made our way to the VIP lounge upstairs. It took about ten minutes as he stopped to politic with everybody, my hand in his, right at his side. I spotted Goldie making her rounds looking hella cute in a bustier and ruffled ballerina skirt with sequined booties. We waved across the room and she motioned she would make her way to us soon.

In the VIP, I was sipping on Goldie’s signature drink and dancing in front of where Make$ sat, knowing my ass was looking good. He stood up and pressed his body close to mine, bringing his tattooed hands up to press against my stomach. I felt his hard dick against my ass.

“When you gone take that pussy off lockdown?” he asked in my ear as I continued to sip my drink and dip my ass against him.

We hadn’t fucked since the STD bullshit came to light. Even after I finished my meds and the doctor gave me the all clear—along with a handful of condoms—I still didn’t give it up. The best he got was eating my pussy even though I made sure his ass went to the doctor and took his meds to clear his shit up too. Still, no haps on the sex . . . yet.

I leaned my head back against his shoulder and brought my arms up to cup the back of his head. “Maybe tonight,” I said.

“Maybe.” He balked.

I laughed, enjoying teasing him as I stepped away from him and danced some more to some Rick Ross song that was playing. I looked down and spotted Goldie hugging a dude close, her body pressed to his like she was trying to blend into him. I eyed the tall fine dude. He had one of those athletic builds that made you think he could tear a pussy up. I did a little clap when I saw Goldie take his hand and lead him through the club and down the hall leading to the bathroom. She needed a man, because as far I knew, she wasn’t giving up the goodies.
Fucking coochie cobwebs and shit. I hope he knocks the dust off it.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Make$ told me.

I nodded and kept doing my thing, just enjoying the drinks, the music, and even Goldie having some of her best dancers performing in different spots around the club. I spotted Missy. I hadn’t really seen her since I stopped dancing. She looked the same with all her caramel cuteness, partying it up in a short sequined dress with a light-skinned girl with long reddish-brown hair and more hips than anything else on her body. I didn’t know the other chick, but I knew she was one of Goldie’s dancers. She had the look.

Missy was so busy partying that she didn’t even see me motion to get her attention.

“Motivation” by Kelly Rowland came on and I raised my hand to the air and worked my hips like I was still making money on the pole. I loved that song. It made me feel all sexy and shit. I loved it even more after she tore that shit up performing on the BET Awards last year.

“I just want to feel your hands all over me ba-by,” I sang, rocking my wide hips back and forth in my Gucci heels just like she did on that stage.

I looked down just as I spotted the tall sexy dude making his way through the club to post up at the bar. Shit. I shifted my eyes back to where he and Goldie had disappeared. I didn’t see her. Nosy as hell, I shifted my eyes back to the bar. My eyes widened to see Make$ brush the tall dude
hard
with his shoulder as he passed, and then he turned to mean-mug Old Boy over his shoulder.
Huh?

Make$ disappeared down the hall.

Goldie never reappeared.

Huh?
Something ain’t right.

I sat my drink down and made my way down the stairs quick as fuck. My mind was working overtime even as I pushed my way through the crowd. I finally made it to the hall. I looked and saw the signs for the restrooms.

I paused.

He did say he was going to the bathroom.

I kept it moving and stormed into the men’s bathroom. There were plenty of men lined up at the urinals on the wall . . . but no Make$.

“What you looking for . . . this?” a cute Puerto Rican man asked, turning with pee still dripping from the tip of his thick and long brown dick.

I can’t front. That sight of that snake made me pause.

He laughed.

I left the men’s room, the door swinging closed behind me and causing air to breeze against the back of my legs. I looked up and down the hall. There wasn’t shit else back there but the ladies’ room and an emergency exit with a sign above it saying an alarm would ring if it was opened.

I didn’t hear no fucking alarms.

Not that kind anyway. These alarms sounding off were inside me and all about my woman’s intuition.

I stepped over to the ladies’ room door and pushed it. It was locked. That shit made my heart race more. Something wasn’t right. Fuck the dumb shit.

I walked back out the hall and snatched up the first waitress I saw. “Excuse me, do you have the key to the ladies’ room?” I asked, even as all my nerves were firing up until I felt like I could shit up my damn self. For real.

“The manager has the key. It’s locked?” the woman asked, looking over my shoulder with a frown before she made a move to walk past me.

I stepped in her path knowing she was gonna knock. I didn’t want that. I wanted that fucking door unlocked. ASAP. “I knocked already,” I lied. “I have to pee so bad, girl.”

This bitch didn’t have no key, and all I needed was for her to get the motherfucker who did.

“A’ight, I’ll be right back,” she said.

Bitch, boo-bye.
No offense to her but I was on a mission.

Thankfully the club manager came just a few minutes later, keys in hand. “Sorry about this,” he said, his silk shirt soaked down in sweat under the arms.

Whatever. OPEN THE DOOR!

I gave him a tight smile as I bit the gloss from my lips as he slid the key in the lock. As soon as he pushed the door open I stepped up so close to him that my titties pressed against his sweaty back.

My eyes got big as shit as I saw
my
man squatted down between Goldie’s legs eating her the fuck out while her scandalous ass was posted up on the nasty wet counter playing with her nipples and shit. Her skirt was up around her waist and her bustier down below her breasts. She grabbed the back of his head and worked her hips as THIS NIGGA started moaning.