Daddy Long Stroke (23 page)

“You know what?” she snaps. “I don't need you, and I definitely don't need your no-good, lying ass to take care of my baby. I can do the shit on my own.”

I drop the blunt, pullin' the cell from my ear, then starin' at it.
What the fuck did this ho just say? Baby?
I return it to my ear. “Yo, run that shit by me again.”

“You heard me, nigga. I said,
baby
. I'm pregnant.”

Now I might be many things, but a sucka ain't one of 'em. This ho is reachin' for sure if she thinks I'ma let her pin that shit on me. “Okay, so you pregnant, and?”

“It's yours.”

I bust out laughin'. “Yo, you funny as hell, word up. Nice try, baby, but you'se a real clown. Unless you can get pregnant from swallowin' a nut, you had better go back to the lab and find the real donor, 'cause it ain't me. And on that note, don't call my muthafuckin' phone wit' no more of ya nutty-ass bullshit.”

I disconnect the call, then light another blunt. I inhale, hold the smoke in my lungs 'til it starts to burn, then blow it up into the air. “Bitch talkin' 'bout she pregnant. Fuck outta here,” I say to myself, shakin' my head. “These thirsty-ass broads will do and say any-muthafuckin'-thing to get a muhfucka to stay wit' 'em.” My cell rings, again. I look at the screen, then press I
GNORE
.

Twenty minutes later, my cell rings again. I grin. This time it's Moms. “Hey, beautiful, what it do?”

“
It
calls its mother, that's what the hell it do,” she says, pretendin' to be annoyed. “But obviously, you done forgot who gave birth to
it
.”

I chuckle, blowin' smoke outta my mouth. “You right, my bad. Didn't I tell you I was gonna be outta town?”

“Yeah, you told me all that. I'm just tryna figure out why you didn't return my call.”

“You called? When?”

“I don't remember which day it was; maybe a week or so ago.”

“Oh. Well, I don't remember seein' a call from you. Did you leave a message?”

“No, fool,” she huffs, “I figured you'd see my number and have sense to call back.”

“Is e'erything okay?”

“Everything's fine,” she says, softenin' her tone. “The question is, is everything alright with you?”

“Oh, no doubt,” I tell her.

“You sure?”

“Yep. I'm good, Ma, real talk.”

She responds, “I'm cooking tomorrow. Dinner will be ready at six.”

I shake my head and smile. Anytime she calls me and says she's ‘cookin',' she wants to see me. And, more than likely to beat me in the head 'bout sumthin' she's heard, seen, or thought I've done. She's never been one to confront me over the phone; it's always face to face. However, no matter the reason, a muhfucka drops e'erything for Mom dukes, no questions asked—whether I want to hear it or not.

“I'll be there,” I tell her, puttin' out my blunt.

“See you then.”

 19 

“I dreamt of fish last week,” Moms announces at the table as I'm bitin' into my second piece of her slammin' cornbread, then scooping up a forkful of her infamous three-cheese baked macaroni and cheese.

I cough, chokin'. Ramona's words sting my ears.
I'm pregnant
. Moms studies me as I continue coughin'. I finally stop, takin' a sip of my pomegranate and blueberry juice. I swallow, hard.

“You okay?” she asks, raisin' her brow.

“Yeah, I'm good.”

“Hmmm, as soon as I told you I had a dream about fish, you practically choke to death,” she says, givin' me the eye.

“Ohhhhkaaay, and?”

“Is there something you wanna tell me?”

I frown. “Nah, there's nuthin' to tell you.”

“You sure?”

It's yours
. “No doubt.”

“You know everytime I have a dream about fish someone's pregnant.”

I don't know what the hell fish has to do wit' some ho bein' knocked up
? I shift in my seat. “Well, don't look at me. I'm not the one pregnant.”

She doesn't crack a smile. “Then who is?”

All of sudden I've lost my appetite. I get up from my seat, takin' my half-eaten plate of food over to the counter.
You heard me,
nigga…I'm pregnant.
I shake the thought. Ain't no way that bitch pregnant by me. “The hell if I know.” I gulp down the rest of my drink, placin' the empty glass into the sink.

Moms remains seated, watchin' me. “Alex, you need to come back over here and have a seat.” I sigh, knowin' she's 'bout to beat me in the head. I walk back over to the table and take a seat. She folds her hands. “When I was married to your father, I could always tell when he was lying, or keeping something from me. And the last time I dreamt of fish I confronted him and he looked me dead in my face and”—she catches herself, foldin' her arms 'cross her chest, realizin' she's 'bout to say sumthin' I'm not supposed to know. She shakes her head, swipin' hair outta her face— “Is one of them hot-in-the-ass girls you fucking pregnant?”

I shake my head. “Not by me.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she says, raisin' her brow. “The left side of your jaw twitches like your father's when you're lying,” she calmly states.

“I'm not lying.”

“Well, then, you must be keeping shit out 'cause you're definitely not telling me something.”

“There's nuthin' to tell,” I tell her again, feelin' a headache comin' on.

She tilts her head, stares at me. “Are you protecting yourself?”

“Ma, on some real shit, I'm many things, but reckless ain't one of 'em. I keep my pipe wrapped at all times. Well,”—I grin— “unless I'm gettin' topped.”

She rolls her eyes. “Please, you better be wrappin' that dick of yours up for that, too. The last thing you need is a baby, or catching some shit you can't get rid of. Then again…maybe having a child might slow your ass down and make you more responsible. You know, force you to get a job, knowing you'd have someone depending on you.”

I shake my head. “Nah, I'm good. I'll pass. The only thing havin'
a baby would do is make me miserable, especially knowin' I'ma be stuck wit' its mother in my ear for eighteen or more years. No thanks, boo. I'd rather kill myself.”

She sucks her teeth. “‘Boo,' my ass. You're a damn mess.”

I get up and kiss her on her forehead, then say, “Well, I'm your mess, beautiful woman.” I decide to tell her 'bout my fucked-up convo wit' Ramona's nutty ass. She takes it all in, then wants to know why I didn't tell her from the rip. And I tell her 'cause I really didn't wanna get into it wit' her. She nods, asks me if there's any truth to what she's sayin'.

“Hell if I know. I mean, she could be pregnant. But it ain't mine. That much I know for sure. I put my life on that. Ma, that bit…I mean, broad is crazy.”

She sighs. “I'm sure she's no crazier than she already was when you decided to stick your dick in her.”

“Yeah, you gotta point,” I admit, chucklin'. “But, actually, I think she got worse once she climbed up on this
Maple
wood.”

She rolls her eyes, suckin' her teeth. “Hmmph. I'm telling you, you and that dick of yours”—she shakes her head—“You really need to cut out all this ho-ing around you do. Nothing good is gonna come out of it. It's only a matter of time before you find yourself lying up in a hospital bed, bandaged from feet to head.” —she snaps her fingers—“Just that much…from being dead…”

I burst out laughin', peepin' how she hit me wit' a verse from that joint “A Thin Line between Love and Hate.” “You funny as hell, Ma, word up.”

“You can laugh if you want, but I'm being serious.”

“Ma, stop worryin' 'bout me. I got this.”

“Okay, Mr. I Got This. You've been warned.” She sighs. “I wish you'd find yourself one, even two, nice girls to date. What the hell you need with a dozen or more women anyway?” I give her a blank look. “Besides for the obvious, you fool.”

“Other than for variety, nuthin'.”

She shakes her head. “You know what,”—she raises her hand, pausing—“I'm gonna leave it alone.”

I laugh. “Yeah, right, Ma. That's what you always say.”

“I know. And as your mother, smart ass, I'm allowed to change my mind. But, this time I'm serious. You're a grown man.”

My cell phone chirps, lettin' me know someone sent me a text. “I'm glad you finally realize that,” I tease, smilin' at her.

“Obviously, I realize a whole lot more than you do.”

“Ma, whatever happens, happens. I'm doin' me. Now, tell me. Why'd you ask Pops 'bout fish?” My phone chirps again. I ignore it, keepin' my eyes on her.

“Ask him yourself,” she answers, gettin' up from the table. She walks over to the sink and starts washin' dishes.

I raise my brow. “Wait a minute, are you tryna say Pops got some other chick knocked up while ya'll were together?” She doesn't respond. I walk over to her, lean up against the counter.

“Let him be the one to tell you.” I stare at her. Watch as she washes and rinses the dishes, then move about the kitchen puttin' away food.

“So you just gonna leave me hangin'?”

She stops what she's doin' and looks at me, movin' a strand of hair from her face. “Let me say this: Some women can be some real crafty bitches.” I keep from smilin', surprised she's referrin' to women as
bitches
since she's always comin' at my neck for usin' the word. “Yes, I said it: bitches. And a desperate bitch will stop at nothing to get her claws in what she can't have, including…” she pauses, narrowin' her left eye and raisin' a brow, “…another woman's husband.”

I blink, take in what she's said, then it becomes clear. “Wow,” is the only thing I say.

“Yeah, ‘wow' is right.” The doorbell rings. I glance up at the wooden wall clock: 7:43
P.M.
“Speaking of which, that's him now,” she announces, wipin' the table. “Go open the door.”

“Aiight.” My cell chirps, again, as I'm goin' toward the front door. I finally pull it from off my waist. It's Tamera's ass. You still on ya bullshit?

The doorbell rings again as I text back. Nah. What's good? I open the door. “What's good, playboy?” I tease, givin' Pops a pound. Although I wanna feel some kinda way 'bout what Moms insinuated, I don't. That shit was between him and her. But I ain't gonna front. A muhfucka still wants the rundown on shit.

“Hey, son,” he says, steppin' into the house, then shuttin' the door. “Where's ya mom?”

Tamera texts: When am I gonna see you, nigga?

“In the kitchen,” I tell him as I'm textin back. Why, U cravin' for some of this cock and cum? Pops walks toward the kitchen.

What u think, she responds. My cell rings. It's my nigga Mike. “Yo?” I answer, takin' a seat on the sofa.

“What's poppin', nigga?”

“Chillin', dawg. What's good wit' you?”

“Shit. Sittin' here wit' Gee's punk ass,” he says, laughin'. Gee's another one of my boys from back in the day. We actually played ball together in high school and fucked some of the same bitches.

“Ya'll niggas smokin'?”

“Yeah, a lil' sumthin'.”

“I shoulda known ya fiend asses would be blazin'.”

“Fuck outta here, muhfucka,” he says, laughin'. “You burn more trees than a wildfire, nigga.”

“Damn, straight,” I agree, glancin' at my watch. It's almost eight. “So what ya'll niggas 'bout to get into tonight?”

“We were thinkin' 'bout hittin' up that titty spot Mr. Cheeks
down in Mount Holly. They got some bad-ass bitches up in that piece, son.”

“Nigga, you'se a real clown if you think I'ma trick my money up on a bunch of ass-shakin', pole-ridin' hoes. Not the kid, muhfucka.”