The Kat Trap

Dear Reader:

There is only one word to describe this book: Hot! Cairo has exploded onto the scene with one of the hottest, engaging, realistic, street novels to date. Kat is an assassin but she is also a complex woman. Having been raised by a single mother, she learned early that her “cat” was the only thing men were truly interested in. So she decided to use it to her advantage and now she makes her living killing men at the exact moment that most men would yearn to die: while inside of her “Kat Trap.”

The sex scenes in this book are on fire, the storyline is incredible, and the relationships between Kat, her mother, her aunts, her friends, and her lovers are all clearly drawn out. You will not be able to put this book down. Cairo is the writer to be watched and the next book, entitled
The Man Handler
is coming your way soon.

Thanks for supporting one of my many authors under Strebor Books. I appreciate the love. Make sure you join us on www.planetzane.net or visit me on the web at www.eroticanoir.com.

Peace and Many Blessings,

Publisher

Strebor Books International

www.simonandschuster.com/streborbooks

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

All praises to the Almighty, who continues to forgive me and love me in spite of all of my shortcomings. It is through HIS grace and mercy that I am still evolving, still growing and still learning how to be better than the day before, one step at a time.

I’d like to thank the following special people who helped make
The Kat Trap
a reality:

My agent, Sara Camilli; my publisher, Zane; Charmaine Parker, Navorn—editor extraordinaire, and a very special thanks to my publicist, Yona Deshommes. I appreciate all of you for being a part of this literary adventure.

My literary friends, who shared their thoughts during the early stages of this writing project and listened to me whine about Nakea daring me to leave my comfort zone: Anna J and Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker. Thanks a million, for the laughs and the support!

And lastly to the readers, I thank you in advance for your support. Without you, this journey would be senseless. I truly appreciate you, and hope you enjoy reading
The Kat Trap
just as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Cairo

M
y name is Katrina, Kat for short. Voluptuous, vivacious, and vicious—at five-feet-eight, a buck-twenty-five, I’m
that
bitch. Be clear. Fine, fly, and fabulous with a wicked brain game and a fat, wet, deep pussy so good it makes a nigga shake the minute I wrap my walls around his dick. I’m that chick with the small waist and the Hottentot Venus ass: big, round, and juicy. The kinda ass that makes a nigga’s jaw drop and his neck snap every time I walk past. Niggas love it when I make my bootie bounce, shake, and clap for ’em. With my cinnamon skin, shoulder-length hair, thick lashes wrapped around chinky eyes, I am a hood goddess. I’m that chick the bitches bow down to, and niggas worship. I was born and bred in Brooklyn, a product of one of the most notorious housing projects known for drugs and murders. If you’re an uninvited or unwanted guest, beware. You
might get in, but you comin’ out either slashed up, beat down, or bodied.

I’ma keep it real cute for ya. Ain’t shit sweet ’bout life on the compound—the hood, the concrete jungle. It’s ruthless. Game recognizes game. And ya either learn to play hard or get played. Ya either eat or be eaten. It’s that simple. Make no mistake: The hood don’t give a fuck ’bout you or the next chick. And it definitely ain’t beat for what the next nigga’s into. You either handle ya business or get handled. Ain’t no way ’round it. I ain’t tryna make excuses. It is what it is. I learned how to handle mine without sellin’ my ass, or suckin’ a string of dicks in alleyways or up on somebody’s rooftop. I studied the game, watched its playas, and mastered the rules without stuntin’ on the next bitch, or hustlin’ a nigga off his grip. I ain’t have to claw or scheme my way up to nobody’s top. I’m from Brooklyn, baby! I kicked open the muhfuckin’ door of opportunity, smashed out its windows, and fuckin’ snatched my spot ’cause I’m
that
bitch.

So, if ya lookin’ to hear me spit some whack-ass story ’bout some fast-assed little ho from the hood stretched out on a pissy mattress in shit-stained panties, eating dry-ass cereal out of a dirty-assed plastic bowl watching cartoons on a busted-ass black-and-white TV while counting roaches, then you got the wrong one. If ya wanna hear ’bout a bitch goin’ hungry ’cause her moms sold her food stamps to get high, nope…not gonna get it. If ya lookin’ to hear ’bout some young chick who got her ass beat with extension cords, razor straps, and switches because she was too hot in the ass, then ya might as well step now, ’cause that ain’t what I’m here to serve ya. Yeah, we had roaches, okay…who didn’t? But I never got my ass beat, always had food to eat, and I ain’t never laid around on no pissy-assed mattress.

Uh, yeah, a bitch was born poor. Yeah, my moms was clockin’ welfare, and? Her ass still worked, though. And she gave me what she thought I needed, which—outside of food and a roof over my head—was close to nothin’. Fuck what I wanted. No, she wasn’t on crack or dope or a fuckin’ drunk. Maybe she shoulda been. But I can’t give ya no fucked-up tales of watchin’ her smoke up, shoot up, or snort up. And I can’t tell ya jack ’bout no tricks or johns runnin’ up in her pussy all hours of the day and night. Sellin’ her ass wasn’t her thing. Yeah, she went through men like water, and moved one in after the other…okay, and? That’s her story, not mine. She did her thing, and I learned to do mine.

Yeah, I knew…uh, I mean,
know,
who the fuck my father was/is, so? It ain’t like the nigga ever did anything for me. Besides hustlin’ and robbin’ niggas, the only good thing he ever did was donate his nut to my moms, a half-Spanish, half-black chick who spit me outta her hairy pussy when she was sixteen. Other than that, goin’ in and out of prison and breakin’ my mom’s heart was the only thing his sorry ass was good for. Be clear. I ain’t hatin’ on dude. He was a street nigga who tried to get in where he fit in. From breakin’ into cars to burglaries to drug dealin’ to numerous parole violations to runnin’ with known felons to fuckin’ any unsuspectin’ trick willin’ to spread open her legs and her wallet, he was a rebel, down for whateva.

The hood raised him. Bitches praised him. And the streets and pussy were what turned their backs on him when his black ass got popped fifteen years ago. Now he was on lock for another ten years for an aggravated assault he didn’t commit, and drug charges for shit that wasn’t his. But the nigga ain’t a snitch. Turnin’ state’s evidence on his niggas was outta the question. That’s the code he lived by, and one he’d proudly die by. That’s how the real niggas
get down. So fuck what ya heard ’bout me needin’ him. A bitch can’t miss what she never had! Other than sharin’ the same DNA, the only thing dude and I will ever have in common is our love for the benjamins. Believe that!

So, you wanna know what’s really good with a bitch like me? Then I’ll tell ya. I’ma give it to ya straight, no chaser—as real and as raw as it gets. I fuck for sport. But I murder for business. And because most muhfuckas are so driven by lust and the desire for good pussy and a slow, wet dick suck, it doesn’t take much for me to lure ’em into their own death traps. My mission is simple: Wet a nigga’s dick, then put a bullet in his skull, or in his chest, just before he cracks his nut. That’s right. Send his ass to his grave with his eyes rolled up in his head and a smile on his face before he ever knows what hit his ass.

Make no mistake. This shit ain’t ’bout love. It ain’t ’bout revenge. And it surely ain’t personal. In this business, there’s no time for compassion or sympathy. And there’s no room for regret. It’s ’bout clockin’ that paper. And a bitch like me gets paid by the body. Welcome to the Kat Trap, muhfuckas…it’s ’bout to get poppin’!