Wifey (2 page)

“Oh, it’s alright. I ain’t been waiting that long,” Tasha replied.

“What you getting?”

“Just a hard wrap. I got two packs of sixteen-inch hair I wantcha to hook up.”

“Did you bring a stocking cap?”

“Yep.”

“A‘ight. Well, lay back so I can get started.”

Within the next two hours, I had all four of my clients situated. They were either under the dryer or on their way out the door. Seven more of my clients showed up, but three cancelled. I thanked God for that because I wouldn’t be getting out of this shop until around ten or eleven o’clock tonight. That couldn’t happen. I had to get home and wash those two loads of clothes I had packed up top of my hamper before I heard Ricky’s mouth about it.

He loved for his house to be cleaned at any cost; If his ass wasn’t so unfaithful, we could have had a housemaid, because nothing must be out of place. This fetish for absolute cleanliness got on my nerves sometimes. I mean, shit, ain’t nothing wrong with leaving a damn dirty glass or a plate and a fork in the sink every now and then. As for certain garments in his wardrobe, I was forbidden to throw them in the washing machine. I was always reminded to read the label instructions for every piece of clothing he had. If it said “Dry Clean Only,” then that’s where it was going. I got a headache just thinking about it, so, I made a rule to put a big
“H”
on my chest and handle it.

A few more hours flew by and my other stylist’s clients started falling out the door, one by one. This meant our time to go home was coming.

“Rhonda,” I called out to one of my hair stylists, who happened to be one of the hottest beauticians in the Tidewater area.

“Yeah,” she replied.

“You feel like giving me a roller set after I put my last client under the dryer?”

“Girl, you know I don’t mind,” Rhonda replied as she bopped her head to Lloyd Bank’s single, “On Fire.”

Rhonda’s good people. I knew she was going to tell me yeah, before I attempted to even ask her. That’s just her personality. She’d been working with me ever since I opened the doors to this shop four years ago. From day one, she’s showed me nothing but love, even through all the drama her kid’s father had been giving her. Her kid’s father, Tony, is also a ladies’ man; just like Ricky. I kept telling Rhonda to get him like I get my husband. Stick him where it hurts: either steal his money or his pack. It can’t get any simpler than that. But nah, she ain’t hearing me. That’s why them hoes Tony’s messing with was laughing at her, ‘cause, she was letting that nigga play her.

Now my other stylist, Sunshine, was working her game entirely different. She was your average-looking chick with a ghetto-ass booty. Niggas loved her. Every time I turned around she had somebody else’s man walking through my salon doors, bringing her shit.

Sunshine was strictly hustler bound. No other kind of man would she be attracted to. You had to be driving a whip, estimating thirty Gs or better. And his dough had to be long. I’m talking like, from V.A. to the state of Rhode Island, to mess with that chick.

Oh, and Sunshine’s wardrobe was tight, too. She wasn’t gonna wear none of that fake–ass, knock-off Prada and Chanel that these hoes were getting from the Chinese people at the hair stores. No way. Sunshine was a known customer at Sak’s Fifth Avenue and Macy’s.

I’ve seen the receipts. Sometimes I thought she was trying to be in competition with me, considering I was like a regular at those stores and all. But there can be no contest because when it’s all said and done, I am and will always be the baddest bitch.

Since the day had almost come to an end, I sat back in Rhonda’s station as she did her magic on my hair. We were in a deep conversation about her man Tony, when Ricky walked through the door. “Good evening,” he said.

“What’s up, Ricky!” Rhonda greeted him.

“Nothing much,” he responded.

“Where you just coming from?” I wanted to know.

“From the crib.”

“Our house?”

“Yeah.”

“So, what’s up?”

“I need to switch cars witcha,” he said as he took a seat in one of the booth chairs across from me.

Something must be getting ready to go down. And he wasn’t gonna spill the beans while Rhonda was sitting up in here with me. I let her finish my hair and in the meantime, Ricky and I made idle conversation until she left. After she finished my hair, it only took her about ten minutes to clean up her station. Then Rhonda said her goodbyes and left.

“So, what you need my car for this time?” I wasted no time asking Ricky the second Rhonda left out the door.

As I waited for him to respond, I knew he could do one of three things. He could either tell me the truth, which could probably hurt him in some way later down the line. Or he could tell me a lie, which would really piss me off. And then he could throw Rule #7 at me from the
Hustler’s Manual
, which insisted that he tell me nothing. A hustler’s reason for that was:
The less your girl knows, the better off ya’ll be
.

“I need to make a run,” he finally said.

“What kind of run?”

“You don’t need to know all that!” Ricky snapped.

“Look, don’t get no attitude with me because I wanna know where you’re taking my car.”

“And who bought you the LS 400?”

“I don’t care who bought it! The fact remains, it’s in my name. Just like the Benz and that cartoon character, Hulk–painted, 1100 Ninja motorcycle you got parked in the garage.”

“And your point?”

“Look, Ricky, just be careful. And please don’t do nothing stupid.”

“I’m not,” he assured me with a kiss on my forehead.

“Don’t have no bitch in my car,” I yelled as he made his way out the door.

While he ignored me like I knew he would, I stood there and watched Ricky unlock my car door and drive off. At the same time, I wondered where he was going.

Hustling + $ = Women

On my way home from the salon, I decided to stop by Wendy’s for a chicken sandwich. The lady in the drive-thru window rung up my total, I paid her and waited for my food. After sitting there for about five minutes, she finally handed me my order. But before she said her “Thanks for stopping at Wendy’s” spiel, she hesitated. “Ain’t this Ricky’s car you driving?” she boldly asked.

“Is this who car?” I asked her, wanting this young girl to repeat herself.

“Ricky,” she responded. “He’s dark-skinned with long dreads. And he keeps them hidden inside this big hat,” she continued.

Well, I guess she passed the test. She described my husband to a tee.

“Yeah, I know him,” I told her. “Why, you mess wit’ him?” I threw her into twenty questions mode.

“Nah.”

“So, why you wanna know if this is his car?”

“Well, ’cause I ain’t never seen nobody else drive it.”

“Well, let me be the one to tell you, this is his car! And the person who’s driving this car is his wife.”

“Oh, for real!” the young girl said, with a dumbfounded look on her face.

“Yeah, for real!” I waved my five-carat marquise-cut diamond ring that sat next to my platinum wedding band, which was flooded out with two-carat baguette diamonds.

From her reaction, I could tell she hadn’t been ready for the curve ball I had just thrown her.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologized.

“Nah. Nah. Nah. You ain’t got to apologize. Just tell me how you know my husband?”

“Just from coming up here,” she explained.

“So, he comes up here a lot?”

“Sometimes.”

“Has he ever tried to holla at you?”

“Nah. It’s just that whenever he comes through and orders, he always tell me I can keep his change.”

“Are you sure that’s it?”

“Oh yeah. I’m sure,” she tried to assure me.

“Well, the next time he comes through here, tell him you met his wife. Okay?”

“Okay,” she replied. I could see by her expression that she was disappointed, but that’s her problem. Bitch!

Once I got all the information I could, I drove off. I only drove about a quarter mile up Virginia Beach Blvd. and thought about nothing else but my flirtatious-ass husband. He always had to show off. I bet he had all these hoes out here thinking he’s the man. And the more I thought about it, I could do nothing else but pick up my cell phone and dial up this nigga’s number.

“What’s up, baby?” Ricky answered after the second ring.

“I just seen your peoples,” I told him.

“Who?” he asked.

“Your little girlfriend at the Wendy’s on Newtown Road.”

“Who?” he repeated the question.

“Nigga, don’t
‘who’
witcha slick ass! You know who I’m talking about,” I yelled. “I just left from talking to this young-ass girl at Wendy’s.”

“Kira, you tripping!”

“I ain’t tripping! That bitch was the one tripping when she asked me was I driving your car, like she’s fucking you or something.”

“Kira, don’t call me wit’ that shit right now.”

“What you mean, don’t call you wit’ this shit now? Ricky, you act like I be looking for this madness.”

“Look, I’m in the middle of something. So, we gon’ have to talk about this later.”

“Yeah, what the fuck ever!” I replied sarcastically and pressed the “end” button on my cell.

I got so pissed with him when he acted like I was the one bringing him the drama. I kept telling him all he had to do was keep his hoes in check because what I don’t know won’t hurt me. But nah, he couldn’t do that. He had so many of them running around, he had done lost control. I learned this a long time ago, that when you live with your man and he’s a hustler, nine times out of ten, he’s gonna have at least one or two hoes he’s screwing on the side. Trust me. It’s in the
Hustler’s Manual
. I don’t care how much Ricky lied and told me he wasn’t screwing anybody, because he was. Having to live with this fact, I constantly had to remind myself that I was the one living in the big house. I also had the pass codes to the bank accounts and the combination to the safe, which was built into a hideaway place under the floor, under our bed. Now, to know all of this, I couldn’t be nobody else but
wifey.

By the time I made it home, I was still in a pissy mood because of Ricky’s lack of concern for my feelings. I did what any other woman would do, and that was going on a manhunt for names and phone numbers. I searched Ricky’s car from top to bottom and in every hidden compartment I could find. I couldn’t find anything. He must’ve cleared everything out before he dropped his car off to me.

He thought he was so slick. But, I had his number.

***

Ricky came home about 1 am. I was going to get out of bed and jump dead in his case about the chick at Wendy’s, but I decided against it. I mean, what was the use? He wasn’t gonna do nothing but deny any dealings with her, anyway. So, I closed my eyes and lay completely still. I could hear everything he was doing downstairs. By the noises he made, I could tell he was in the kitchen messing with the microwave ‘cause I heard him pressing buttons.

After staying in the kitchen for a few minutes, I heard Ricky making his way up the staircase. I could also smell the aroma coming from his food. It didn’t smell like anything I had cooked all week. After he entered the bedroom, I decided to open my eyes and sit up in the bed. “Where did you get that food from?” I asked after turning on the lamp from my nightstand.

“I bought it from Ms. Tiny’s house.”

“From who?”

“You know Ms. Tiny? She’s the lady who sells the shots of liquor, beers and dinners after hours.”

“Oh yeah, I know who you talking about now. So, what you buy?”

“I got the fish dinner.”

“What else did you get wit’ it?”

“Some macaroni and cheese and cabbage.”

“Did she give you a piece of corn bread?”

“Yeah. But I ate that when I first got the dinner.”

“Why didn’t you get me some extra pieces?”

“I didn’t think about it.”

“Well, you should’ve brought me a dinner home.”

“Ahh, don’t even try that one. ‘Cause you know when I’m out on the grind, I don’t know when I’m gon’ come home. So, if I would’ve copped you one of Ms. Tiny’s dinners, and brought that shit home all cold, you would’ve screamed on me.”

Hearing my husband analyze me made me smile. He truly knows me like a book.

“Let me taste your macaroni and cheese,” I told him.

“Here.” He handed me the styrofoam container.

“Hmm, this shit is good!” I expressed between chews.

As I continued to dig into the mac and cheese, Ricky’s cell phone rang.

He pulled the phone from its holster and looked at it to see who was calling him.

“Hello,” he finally said.

Judging from Ricky’s expression, I could tell he was getting very angry by what he was hearing from the other caller. “Just stay there ‘til I get there! I’m on my way now!”

“What happened?”

“My spot just got robbed.”

“Which one?”

“The one out on Park Place.”

“Who was that on the phone?”

“My man Mike.”

“Did he say who did it?”

“He said he didn’t know.”

“What did they take?”

“Every damn thing!” Ricky grabbed my car keys from the dresser.

“Why you grabbing my keys?” I asked.

“Because you gon’ drive me to the spot.”

“I ain’t getting outta my bed,” I told him.

“Come on, Ma. Please!” he begged.

I told him no. He continued to beg me, so I eventually got out of my bed and got dressed.

The ride to Park Place only took like twenty minutes or so, considering we lived in the heart of Virginia Beach. Once we were on the block, it didn’t take long at all to see how the fiends reacted to Ricky’s presence. Some started flagging my car down. A few of ‘em even started running down behind us. I got scared when this type of shit went on; that’s why I rarely took these type of trips with him. Oh, but in the beginning when we
first
got together, you couldn’t pay me not to hop in one of his cars, to drive him around to check on his spots. The feeling of driving a nice-ass whip with a well-known hustler on the passenger side was the shit. But the best feeling of all was when I had all the project bitches breaking their necks, just to see me pushing Ricky’s car while they were walking. Hate mode used to kick in like clockwork. And I loved every minute of it. Especially since Ricky was a new cat from out of town, trying to build himself an empire. But after going through a whole lot of unnecessary drama year after year, I was now in another state of mind. I could care less about all this mess going on out here because it didn’t concern me. That’s why when Ricky asks me to bring him out here again, I’mma tell him no. And I’m gon’ stick to that, too!