Trap House (7 page)

“Boy, stop.” She giggled, fastening her seatbelt.

“You lookin’ good, Tiff,” Carlos remarked, staring at her black thighs.

When he pulled away from the curb, Tiffany gave him a quick once-over as well.
Damn, you
looking good yourself
, she thought as she took in the muscles straining against his T-shirt. She
admired his smooth chocolate skin tone, remembering how that had been a determining factor in
her choosing Marcus over him so many years earlier. She still hated her own dark skin, but his
looked good!
What a mistake that was
, she admitted to herself.

Tiffany and Carlos were very close growing up, even sharing their first kiss at seven. They
planned to get married when they got older…but then they got older.

She glanced up at Carlos’s freshly cut hair, sporting ring after ring of waves. He was in college,
earning a business degree, and still running his own business—a landscaping business he had
started in the ninth grade by cutting lawns on their block. Now he had ten employees, three trucks,
and equipment.
Damn, I played myself
, Tiffany admitted again as she finally accepted the fact that
Marcus was a bum.

“Hellooo?” Carlos sang, jolting her back to the present. “Where to, shawty?” he joked, using
slang that sounded odd coming from him.

“Um, I gotta go to work, but can I make a quick stop?” she asked sweetly.

“Anything for you,” he said flirtatiously. “Lead the way.” He followed the turn-by-turn directions
Tiffany gave him as he drove, stealing glances at his sexy passenger every chance he got. “Say,
where your car at?” Carlos inquired as they rode.

“My man got it. He got a new job,” Tiffany lied. She stifled a smile as she watched his jaw
tighten at the mention of Marcus, her so-called man.

Tiffany knew Carlos hated her boyfriend. They almost came to blows over her back in the
eleventh grade. Even though Carlos stood almost a full foot taller than Marcus, he still stepped to
him about their friendship. It was Marcus’s contention that since she was his girl, their friendship
had to end. The only thing that kept Carlos from whipping his ass was a slight, almost imperceptible
shake of Tiffany’s head. Marcus foolishly thought he had scared the larger man into backing down,
and to this day, he was certain Carlos was afraid of him.

The mention of Marcus seemed to foul the mood between the two old friends, and they rode in
silence for a while. Tiffany unconsciously rubbed at her nose, which had been bothering her more
and more lately. It seemed like it was always stopped up, as if it was full of boogers. She discreetly
slid a pinky nail in her nostril in an attempt to clear it. In the process, she scratched off a scab,
causing a small rivulet of blood to trickle out.

Carlos sucked his teeth loudly, shaking his head, dismayed by the obvious.

“Fuck you shakin’ ya head fo’?” Tiffany asked indignantly.

“Look at you,” he said, disgusted. “I can’t believe he got you fucking with that shit too.”

“I don’t snort no powder,” Tiffany shot back, unwittingly telling on herself.

“Whatever, man.” Carlos chuckled. “Everyone know ya little boyfriend’s a damn junkie. Look
like he turning you out too.”

“My man ain’t no junkie! He got a good job,” she said, feebly defending Marcus more out of
habit than out of feeling.

“Fuck you, nigga. I just wanted a ride. I ain’t tryina hear all dat shit you talkin’. Matter of fact,
you can let me out!” Tiffany screamed.

Carlos pulled the car to a stop so quickly she almost got whiplash.

“Wait…” Tiffany pleaded, realizing that he would indeed put her out. “I’m saying though…
dang…” she said sweetly, putting her hand on his arm.

Her sweet-talking did the trick, and Carlos pulled back out into traffic.

“I take a little bump every now and then,” she purred. “You know…just party a little.”

“Ain’t no such thing as a recreational cocaine user. That shit is dangerous. You gonna fuck
around and end up like Tosha,” he said solemnly.

The mention of Tosha was enough to send shivers up Tiffany’s spine. She had been the prettiest,
most popular girl in the school, if not the city. She began getting high, though, in ninth grade and
was strung out by tenth. She was stripping in the eleventh grade, and a prostitute by the time she
hit her senior year. She died right before graduation. The number of people she infected directly or
indirectly with the HIV that ultimately killed her still grew by the day.

“I think I’m going to talk to your daddy,” Carlos said matter-of-factly.

“You do, and Ima tell him you tried to rape me,” Tiffany exploded, horrified at the thought of
her father finding out about his darling daughter’s drug use.

“Rape you?” Carlos laughed. “You’ll be out her selling pussy you keep fucking with that
shit.”

“That’s a fucked-up thing to say, Carlos.” Tiffany sobbed, unable to prevent the tears from
falling.

“I’m sorry, Tiff,” Carlos said sincerely. “I love you, man. I don’t wanna see you go out bad,
that’s all.”

“Love me?” Tiffany asked, genuinely moved by his words.

“Of course I love you, Tiff. Always have, and I know you love me. You just don’t know it,” he
said, pulling to a stop in front of P.I.G.’s house as directed. He leaned over and took Tiffany into
his arms to console the still-crying girl. The hug began platonically, but then Tiffany looked up into
his eyes. In an instant, she knew he was right. He did love her, and she loved him.

Just as they drew near to sharing their first kiss since second grade, the door flew open, and she
was snatched from the car. “Fuck you doing with this lame-ass nigga!?” Marcus spat so furiously
he was drooling. Before she could utter a word in response, she was knocked off her feet by a
vicious open-handed slap.

Carlos jerked off his seatbelt to exit the car, but Marcus raced around to the driver side before he
could open the door. Marcus pointed a small-caliber pistol in his face and pulled back the hammer.
“You want something, fuck nigga?” he growled as his finger tightened around the trigger.

“Naw, you got it.” Carlos chuckled as he eased his hand toward the forty-caliber pistol he kept
under the armrest. Realizing he probably couldn’t get his gun out before Marcus put a couple in
his face, he settled back in his seat. “We ain’t got no problem,” he said.

“That’s what the fuck I thought, busta-ass nigga.” Marcus laughed. “Now get your punk ass
outta here!” he shouted as Carlos pulled away.

“I’ll be seeing you, Marcus,” Carlos said ominously as he pulled off.

“Whatever.” Marcus laughed, making his way back over to where Tiffany was standing. Before
she could offer a word of explanation, he slapped her again.

When he reared back for another blow, his friend Pony grabbed his hand.

“You need to stay out my business,” Marcus warned his friend, danger evident in his voice.

“Chill, shawty. We out here in front P.I.G.’s. You know he don’t stand for no drama over here,”
Pony warned. As he spoke, he looked Tiffany up and down slowly. He flirted with her every chance
he got, even in front of Marcus, who was too busy chasing a blast to notice or care.

The thought of being banned from P.I.G.’s and the best coke in the city knocked all the buck out
of Marcus. When he glanced up and saw P.I.G. looking back, a shiver ran up his spine. “Come on,”
he said contritely, leading the way up the walk.

P.I.G. had witnessed the entire event but wasn’t mad. In fact, he was pleased. For one thing, that
lovely Tiffany was back, and for another, that silly young nigga was blowing her by the day.

Tiffany shot daggers at Marcus’s back as they walked. He missed it, but P.I.G. didn’t, and
neither did Pony.

CHAPTER 7

T
iffany let out a sigh of relief after completing her last sale of the day. Eight long hours on
her feet dealing with rude customers and their fickle demands—and worse, it was eight long
hours without a single hit. But the wait was almost over. As soon as she counted out her drawer
and straightened her area, she was free to go. The thought of a nice, long line of blow caused her
stomach to flutter.

Marcus had given her five counterfeit hundred-dollar bills to switch for real ones. Tiffany still
had yet to make the swap and was running out of time. The bills were good and would have
even fooled her. She hoped they would fool her boss too. She had initially refused to use her job
to exchange the fake bills, reasoning that they could use them to buy the drugs instead. Marcus
countered that it would burn his bridges with the dealers, and he’d much rather burn hers at work if
it came down to that. It wasn’t until he agreed to split the money that she relented. She calculated
that she could pay the $100 that was past due on her insurance and still have enough left to get a
nice little package.

Paranoia set in as she prepared to commit her first crime. She was so sure all her co-workers
were suddenly watching her. Feeling clever, she decided to make the switch on the elevator up to
cash out. Tiffany wasn’t aware of the overhead camera in the corner of the elevator, nor was she
aware that she was under surveillance. At Mrs. Lovejoy’s direction, one of the store detectives had
been watching her all day since her receipts had been fifty to sixty dollars short every day as of
late.

Even though her back was to the camera when Tiffany made the switch, the observant guard
could tell she did something suspicious, and Mrs. Lovejoy was notified of the anomaly.

Tiffany broke out into a cold sweat as she watched Mrs. Lovejoy meticulously count her drawer
for the third time. It was all she could do to not take off running or break down and confess.

Her supervisor was concentrating so hard on the count that she missed the fake bills time after
time. Satisfied that all the money was there, twelve dollars over, in fact, Mrs. Lovejoy thanked
Tiffany and excused her.

Still fearing that the deception would be discovered, Tiffany practically ran from the store. She
was relieved to find Marcus parked in her car right outside the exit. Any other day, she might have
had to wait for hours for her car, and some days it didn’t even come at all.

Marcus sat behind the wheel, wide-eyed, looking every bit the junkie he’d become. Tiffany
wondered again what she still saw in him. He had long ago stopped caring about his appearance.
His usually well-maintained wavy hair was now an unkempt bush on the top of his head. Once
a nice dresser, he now wore the same dingy jeans and shirt daily, like some sort of crackhead
uniform.