Big Juicy Lips (2 page)

Misty’s body shook from the final, orgasmic tremor.

“Feel better?” Brick’s face was shiny, glazed from her juices. Misty sat up and looked at him. She turned up her nose. She scooted backward. “Eew! You stink, Brick. Your face smells rank; like cum.”

Misty’s spiteful words stung badly, but Brick kept the hurt from appearing on his face. “Yeah, you’re feelin’ better,” he said as he got off his knees. “You’re back to your same ol’ evil ways.”

Recoiling, Misty grimaced. “Back up, away from me! I’m not trying to talk to you with all that stank cum crusted up in your beard and your mustache. Go, wash your face!”

“You must have a stank pussy ’cause your pussy juice is mixed up in there, too,” he retorted weakly as he headed toward the bathroom. Brick tried to play it off.

Misty could tell his feelings were hurt, but she didn’t care. “My coochie does not have an odor. Your foul-ass seed is funking up the whole bedroom,” she added maliciously, scowling and fanning her face.

The sound of water running in the sink indicated that Brick was handling his business. Misty looked down at her thighs and recoiled. “Bring me a warm washcloth! Cum is smeared all over my legs. Why you so nasty, Brick?” Then she felt around and snatched her hand back in anger. “Damn, you get on my nerves!”

“Now, what I do?” he called from the bathroom.

“It looks like you shot a gallon of cum. Slimy shit is all over the sheets and everything. I can’t sleep overtop of no cum-stained sheets. You have to change this bed linen. Hurry up!”

“Aiight, gimme a minute. I got rid of your cramps and everything, but I can’t even get a half-ass thank you,” he said glumly. “Brick, do this…Brick, do that…” he complained, mimicking her loud, high-pitched voice.

“Hurry up!” She’d been bossing him around for as long as she could remember. She squinted in thought. Hmmm. She’d met Brick back in first or second grade. He was in the class with the slow learners. She was in the accelerated class. His dumb ass wouldn’t know which way to turn if she didn’t point him in the right direction.

Brick was six feet four and two hundred and sixty pounds of solid muscle. However, tiny and mighty, Misty was the boss bitch in their relationship.

He entered the bedroom with a soapy, warm washcloth in his hand. A set of sheets were tucked under his arm. He laid the clean bed linen at the foot of the bed and cleaned the crusted cum off Misty’s thighs and outside her vagina. Very carefully, he separated her inner folds and cleaned the soft pink flesh. “Aiight, you’re straight. Get up so I can make the bed.”

“I’m tired,” Misty whined.

“You gotta get your lazy lil’ ass up if you want to sleep on clean sheets.”

Lazily, Misty eased off the bed. “You must not be working hard enough,” she informed him as she watched him pull the rumpled top sheet off the bed.

“What! It’s two in the morning…you sent me on that appointment. I came home and fucked you, I ate your pussy, I cleaned your pussy, and now you got me changing the bed. What more do you want me to do?” Brick sounded hurt, but Misty’s expression held no compassion.

“Yo, nigga,” she said, twisting her neck and injecting bass in her feminine voice. “You shot out a gallon of cum. There’s no way in hell you should be shooting a big load like that, if you’re working as hard as you should.” Misty snorted. “But that’s on me; I’ll take the responsibility for it. I’ve been too soft on you. But you better believe, playtime is over. You gotta step up your game.”

Solemnly, Brick continued making the bed, his head hung low. Misty wasn’t moved by the “poor Brick” routine.

“We got bills to pay. You can’t hustle a couple times a week and think it’s all good. Shit, just gassing up the new truck is costing us a grip. You gotta start bringing in more money and it’s my job to push you to make sure you do.”

Brick’s brows crinkled together. “Baby, I think it’s all the shopping you do that keeps us in the hole.”

Misty reared back in shock. “What! You expect me to go around looking like a ragamuffin?”

“That ain’t what I’m saying.”

“Whatchu saying, then?”

“I know you have to keep your gear up. I’m just saying, you shop two or three times a day; sometimes four. Don’t you think that might be a problem?”

“No! And you shouldn’t either. If shopping makes me feel good, then shut the fuck up and keep that money coming.”

“I can take on some part-time work,” he said in a meek voice.

She gave a loud, derisive snort.

“I could start robbing niggas again,” he suggested. “That’s an easy hustle.”

“Look at me, Brick,” Misty said through clenched teeth. He didn’t look up. “Look the fuck at me!” she yelled.

Prompted by her tone, Brick looked her directly in the eye. Curled, naked in a chair, Misty glared at him, making him squirm for a few uncomfortable moments. “How long have I been looking out for you—for us?” she asked with strained patience.

“A long time,” he muttered.

“How long!” she shouted.

“Since we were kids.”

“Don’t you think by now, I know what’s best for us?”

Brick nodded.

“Do you know how fuckin’ stupid you sound, talkin’ about robbing mufuckas? First of all, that shit is illegal. I don’t know about you, but I’m not planning on doing any more time. Second, robbing niggas only brings in a coupla dollars—it’s unpredictable employment. I’m not psychic and neither are you. I can’t point out a mufucka and calculate how much he’s carrying in his pocket or how much loot he can withdraw from the ATM machine. But the hustle we got going on is bringing in a lot of cheese. I have a master plan that’s gonna have us rolling in dough. But you have to cooperate.”

“I will,” he agreed.

“I’m gonna put up a website, featuring you. After I get that going, we’ll be counting so much IRS-can’t-tax money, we’ll have to hire somebody to set up an offshore bank account for us.”

Horror covered Brick’s face. “You wanna put me on a website?”

“Do you know how many people we could reach, if your King Kong dong was presented online? The way we’re handling things is requiring a whole lot of unnecessary legwork. Once I get the website poppin’, the sky’s the limit,” she said proudly.

“I don’t like that idea, Misty.”

Misty was momentarily silent. Seething, she looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Oh, really? I guess you forgot where you came from.”

“I didn’t forget.”

“Nigga, who took up for you when the kids teased your ass in school?”

“You did,” he mumbled, looking pained by the unpleasant and harsh shove down memory lane.

“And who was standing next to you, cheering like a fuckin’ Laker Girl, the first time you had the heart to go upside a nigga’s head?”

“You was, Misty, baby. You gave me the nerve to crack niggas’ heads.”

“I damn sure did,” she snarled. “You were scared of your own shadow until I made you believe you could whip everybody’s ass.” She stared at him for a few moments. “Did I lie?”

“No, you ain’t lie.”

“How did me and you—two fourth-graders—manage to beat middle-school niggas out of their lunch money?”

“’Cause you gave me my heart,” Brick admitted, looking resigned to having his image posted on a website.

On a rant, Misty sucked in a big burst of air. “So, how come when I got locked up two years ago you couldn’t do shit for me or for your damn self? You almost starved to death when I got popped. But as soon as I got out, we started eating again, didn’t we?”

Brick nodded, head held low. “True dat. You right.”

“I hate to talk about Shane—God rest his soul—but Shane was supposed to be your boy—your best friend, but he didn’t look out for you. Shane was all about self—” Misty paused and swallowed. “The only other person he gave a fuck about was his twin, or so he claimed, but after what he did to Tariq, we now know Shane only cared about Shane.” Misty and Brick both went silent as they mused over the night Shane Batista’s twin brother, Tariq, was hit by a car and killed after witnessing Shane in bed with his wife, Janelle. Shane lost his mind and was never the same.

Misty shook the memory away. “While I was doing that bid, you were ass-out, with nobody you could depend on.” Though she talked harshly of Shane, in her heart, she held no ill will toward him. In fact, she hated having to drag Shane’s name through the mud just to get through Brick’s thick skull.

True, Shane was selfish as hell at times, but he also had a sweet, giving side. To know him was to love and hate him—it depended on how he wanted you to feel. If Shane Batista wanted something—he turned on the charm. If he didn’t need shit from you, he gave you his ass to kiss, which was why Misty had fallen hard for him, and had loved him until the day he died. Despite everything, she’d always believed that Shane loved her, too. It was a heartbreaking, soul-wrenching discovery, when Misty found out that Shane had knocked up and married some goodie-two-shoes named Kapri.

Later, when she learned that he’d gotten a divorce and had turned around and married his dead brother’s ugly-ass wife, she’d damn near had a nervous breakdown.

When she’d heard that Shane had committed suicide, she was distraught over the loss of that good dick.
Oh, well. Rest in peace, Shane.
Misty returned her thoughts to the present, and gave Brick a scathing look.

“I’ve been carrying your weight too many years for you to tell me that I’m making a bad decision. One thing I can’t stand is an ungrateful nigga.”

Brick abandoned the bed-making task and approached the chair where Misty sat. “I’m sorry for questioning your decisions and for acting ungrateful. I know we gotta eat, baby. I’m real sorry.”

“Yeah, we gotta eat steak and seafood. Fuck Ramen damn noodles,” Misty added with laughter.

Looking pleased that he’d been able to lift her spirits, Brick threw in, “Yeah, fuck Ramen Noodles
and
Cheese Curls.”

“That’s not funny, Brick. Why’d you have to bring up Cheese Curls? You always gotta fuck up my mood.” Her facial expression turned angry; her tone, resentful.

Brick stared at her, wide-eyed. “What did I do?”

“Why you gotta talk about prison food? Damn! You know how much I despise being reminded of that mess I had to eat while I was in jail.” She shook her head. “Ramen Noodles and Cheese Curls!” Misty repeated, grimacing as she spat out each word. She cut her eyes at the partially made bed. “Why is it taking so long to change the sheets?”

Misty pushed the gear into reverse.

“You’re too lazy to help me with these bags and you’re trying to pull off before I’m all the way out of this big, overpriced contraption,” Thomasina Bernard complained as she tried to maneuver out of the BMW X5. She held a large shopping bag in each hand.

Misty looked at her fingernails, ignoring her mother’s hint for assistance. Nobody told her mom to go buck wild at the Dollar Store. She fiddled with the rearview mirror. Even with the seat adjusted to its highest level, Misty had to sit on a pillow to get a clear, unobstructed view. She’d bought the truck a little over a week ago. It was fully loaded with all kinds of fly gadgets, but she hadn’t had time to look through the owner’s manual to figure out how everything worked. Having to get Brick back and forth to his appointments and constantly ripping around, taking her mother on endless errands, cut into her free time.

Thomasina slammed the door. “Don’t forget about my hair appointment tomorrow morning.”

How long did her mother think she was going to mooch off her for transportation? Misty twisted her neck in disgust. “Dang, Mom. Can I get a break from playing chauffeur?” She shook her head. “I’m busy all day tomorrow; you’re gonna have to call a cab or take the bus.”

“Take the bus!” Offended, Thomasina glared at her daughter through the open passenger window.

Unfazed by her mother’s scathing look, Misty sucked her teeth. “I didn’t buy this whip so I could cart you all around Philly. You’re starting to run shit in the ground.”

“Watch your mouth,” Thomasina cautioned. “I’m your mother; don’t use foul language around me.”

“I’m just saying…”

“The registration and insurance card on this truck are both in my name. Neither you nor that dumb Brick has a job or driver’s license. If either one of y’all get behind the wheel, drunk or high off that mess you smoke all the time…if you ram into somebody’s car, or God forbid, if you run some poor soul over, I’m the one whose going to have to pay a lawyer to unravel the mess.”

Misty rolled her eyes. “Why do you always think…?”

Thomasina cut off her daughter’s words. “Somebody better do some thinking because you and that ignoramus, Brick, don’t know how to do anything except spend money and get high. Let me remind you, Misty, I could lose my home and all possessions because I tried to help your unemployed behind out. Now that you have transportation, do you mean to tell me that you’re too selfish to take some time out for your own mother?” Thomasina closed her mouth. She closed her eyes tight and shook her head, as if she were too pained and too overwrought to speak another word.

Misty let out a frustrated sigh. As usual, her mother was being overly dramatic. Thomasina Bernard was gainfully employed with good credit. Misty had promised to provide her with transportation if her mother agreed to put the truck in her name. But Misty had never dreamed her mother’s signature on the dotted line would go to her head and make her start acting like she was the primary owner of the luxury SUV.

“This ain’t working out, Mom.”

Her mother put her heavy shopping bags down on the concrete pavement. Taking in deep breaths, she folded her arms tight. “I guess you want me to call that car dealership and tell that salesman that I changed my mind…you want me to tell them to bring a tow truck and come get this gas-guzzler?”

Misty sucked her teeth. “That’s not what I meant. Look, I don’t like getting up in the morning. I’m not a morning person and you know it.” Misty’s shoulders heaved in frustration. She leaned toward the passenger window. “Here, Mom. Take this.”

Thomasina stuck her hand in the window. Misty pressed three folded ten-dollar bills into her mother’s palm. “Call Mr. Johnnie; he’ll give you a ride to the hair salon. For ten bucks, he’ll take you there and pick you up when you’re ready.” Mr. Johnnie was the neighborhood hack.

Thomasina appraised the folded money and then begrudgingly stuffed it inside her handbag. “I don’t see why I have to ride to the hair salon in Johnnie’s dusty clunker after I took a whole day off from work and sat up in that car dealership, signing one stack of papers after another. You and that no-good Brick are riding around in style and y’all expect me to get around the best way I can. If it came down to me having to stick my thumb out and hitchhike my way here and there, you two selfish asses wouldn’t give two shits.” Breathing hard, Thomasina rolled her eyes at her daughter.

Hoping to put an end to her mother’s tirade, but not wanting to be so rude as to pull off while her mother was still lecturing, Misty turned the volume up a notch, preferring to hear TI rant in his sexy Southern drawl. But Thomasina wasn’t having it. She got back inside the X5, reached over and politely adjusted the volume so she could be heard, loud and clear. “Don’t get all biggity with me. I’m talking and you’re gonna listen.”

Misty jerked her shoulders in disgust, but remained in the parking spot. Her mom had missed her calling; she should have been a travel agent and earned some dough from all the guilt trips she loved sending her daughter on.

“You’re sweet as honey when you want something, but you’re mean as a snake after you get it. That’s a very unattractive trait, Misty. When you get down to it, I’m the only person in this world that’s going to stick by your side, come hell or high water.”

“I know you love me, Mom, but I don’t have time to listen right now. I have a lot on my agenda.”

“I guess your agenda includes rushing down to that block where Brick sells drugs?”

Misty sighed deeply. “Brick does not sell drugs.”

Thomasina snorted. “Well, the way you two are throwing money around, he’s got to be hustling something. How the hell did two unemployed, trifling people come up with all that cash money to put down on a truck that costs more than my little row home? Neither one of y’all could come up with one single pay stub to show that car salesman. So, how are you planning on keeping up on the payments that cost more than all my monthly bills put together? Huh, Misty. You must think I’m some kind of a fool. I don’t know what you two are into, but I know it’s not legal.”

“You getting senile or something?” Misty asked, seizing the opportunity to make her mother wince. Her mom didn’t like being reminded of her age.

“Senile! I’m only forty-two years old. I’m nowhere near being senile.”

“Well, maybe all that hot flashing is making you forgetful,” Misty snarled.

“What hot flashing? Menopause is ten years or more down the road. Stop trying to speed up the process.”

“Well, you should stop acting like you’re old and helpless.” Misty paused in thought. “I know what your problem is—you need a man. You know, a new boyfriend—somebody to run you all over creation.”

Misty smiled; she’d struck another nerve. Her mom was still feeling the pain from a breakup with her most recent man, Mr. Victor. Old dude bounced and went back to his wife about a month ago. Her mom had been trippin’, acting evil, ever since the breakup. Frankly, Misty couldn’t imagine shedding a tear over some old dude like Mr. Victor. Dude had that O.J. Simpson-type walk—all bent over and half-crippled, but still trying to inject some old-school cool in every step.

Thomasina was quiet, unable to give a snappy retort. She just huffed up and wiped a few drops of perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand. Misty smiled to herself. She knew how to break her mother down when necessary.

“Mom,” she said with a fake, patient tone. “I told you a million times, Brick is working in construction. He gets paid under the table.”

“Uh-huh. Tell me anything.” Thomasina pointed her finger at Misty. “You’re twenty-three years old and I can’t tell you how to live your life.” She shook her head. “All that beauty I blessed you with…”

Misty said nothing to dispute her mother, but they both knew her good looks came from her father—Roberto Delagardo—some Latino who’d married her mom, got a green card and then went ghost.

“Girls would give their right arm to be half as pretty as you are, and you’re just wasting your looks—running around with that ugly Brick.”

Misty checked out her reflection in the rearview mirror. “I still got it going on; ain’t nothing changed.”

“Looks don’t last forever! You served time in prison! You lost six months sitting behind bars.” Thomasina snorted. “You sat in jail while that big, ugly mufucka and his friend, Shane, walked around as free as birds. They got you all finagled up in that mess and neither one of them put a dollar on your books.” Seething at the memory of her daughter doing time for two grown men caused Thomasina to have to dig inside her handbag, searching for a tissue to mop off the river of sweat that now ran down her face.

Misty smirked. She was the mastermind behind the scam that landed her in jail. But, her mother was right; Shane should have had her back. He should have looked out and made sure there was money on her books. But, Brick…he couldn’t do shit; he could barely cross the street without Misty leading the way.

“May his soul rest in peace,” her mother continued, “but that Shane was bad news from the start—his pretty-boy good looks didn’t fool me. Not for a second. I don’t know which one was worse, Shane or Brick…” Thomasina pondered for a few seconds. “I guess Shane was a little better than Brick. Don’t get me wrong, that Shane was sneaky as a garden snake, but at least he was handsome. But Brick—” her mother spat out his name. “Ugly and bad; now, that’s not a good combination. Shane was rotten through and through—but at least he was easy on the eyes. Like you, Shane had the kind of good looks that distracted people from focusing on his wicked ways.”

Misty didn’t appreciate her mother dredging up memories of Shane, reminding her of how gorgeous he was. Now, she was going to have to waste more time cruising around the ’hood, looking for somebody who resembled Shane.

Brick was gonna have a fit; he’d already been waiting for the past hour for her to pick him up. “Mom, I’m tryna be nice, but seriously, I gotta roll.”

Thomasina inhaled sharply. “The way I kept you dressed, worked two jobs so you could have the best of everything…nobody could have told me…not in a million years, that my beautiful little princess would end up putting her hopes and dreams into a hustler. A big, dumb hustler at that.” Thomasina threw up her hands in exasperation. “Brick ain’t got a lick of sense, so I don’t know how he’s handling his business,” her mother added scornfully, “but I better not find out that you’re out on that block with him. You better not be helping that idiot with his hustle. Mark my words, Misty. He might play like he’s half-retarded, but you’ll be the one left holding the bag. And the next time you get locked up, I’m not coming to visit and I’m not putting one thin dime on your books. Nope.” She folded her arms. “Let Brick take care of you the next time you land in jail.”

“The next time? I’m never going back to prison. Are you trying to jinx me or something?” Weary, Misty raked her fingers through her hair. “Are you finished, Mom?”

“No, I’m not finished.” Her mother began to wag the finger that was already pointed at her daughter. “Let me tell you something, little lady…if you get knocked up by that scuggly, ugly bear, you better march your tail right to one of those abortion clinics because there ain’t a chance in hell that I’m gonna associate myself with a grandchild that’s guaranteed to be butt-ugly and retarded. I’d bet good money that Brick can’t father nothing but a slew of artistic kids.”

“What?” Misty scowled in bafflement.

“You know what I’m talking about. Those artistic kids who won’t talk or smile or nothing; they just sit around screaming their heads off if their parents touch ’em or try to show ’em any type of affection.”

“You mean autistic,” Misty corrected.

“Artistic!” Thomasina insisted. “I saw ’em on a daytime talk show. Those artistic kids can paint and draw; some of ’em can play the hell out of musical instruments—without ever taking a lesson. Trouble is—they don’t know when to stop. Them kind of kids can paint and play music for hours on end, if you let ’em. One parent tried to take the paint brush out of her child’s hand and the little girl starting screaming like somebody had set her on fire. Now, is that the kind of child you want to bring into this world? Because as sure as my name is Thomasina Bernard, I can guarantee you that any child fathered by Brick is gonna be pitiful looking and it ain’t gonna be right in the head.” Thomasina tapped her temple for emphasis. “So, I’m letting you know in advance, I’m not babysitting. Don’t bring your artistic child over here.”

“Rest your mind, Mom. I’m not built to deal with crumb snatchers.”

“You don’t ever want to have kids? Not even by a good-looking man?” Thomasina’s eyes widened as if Misty’s admission was unholy. “It’s only natural for a woman to want to have at least one child.”

“Well, I don’t.” She smiled at her mother. “Let me help you with those bags,” she offered, looking over at the bags sitting on the pavement. Her assistance, however, wasn’t an act of goodwill. She desperately wanted her mother to shut up and get out of her whip. Her coochie was throbbing for Shane Batista-type dick.