Flirt (12 page)

“Jackie, I don’t give a fuck how much you had to drink or smoke, but don’t come at me like that on some stunting shit, dawg. You know how me and Gina get down, homey,” José told him. His tone wasn’t hostile, but the words carried far more weight than when he normally spoke.

The two friends glared stone-faced at each other, neither moving, only glaring. A situation was fast on the horizon, and as usual I was in the center of it.

My rational brain told me to just go get my car keys and
skate, but the devil got the best of me. “Look, nobody has to go to the store with me, I’m a big girl. Jackie, you’ll get your beers, but I’m taking these damn shoes off first.” I made sure I flung my hair extra hard when I turned to sashay toward the stairs. About eight and a half seconds later, the world exploded into brilliant white stars.

Y
o, I’ve never been a dick rider—well, at least not in the metaphoric sense, but I loved Harlem. Don’t get me wrong, I was born and raised in Brooklyn, so my heart is always gonna be on Nostrand Ave., but I very much enjoyed my trips Uptown. Be it hopping off the A train, or out of some lame nigga’s whip, I always felt a tinge of excitement when I touched these Harlem streets. In my mind, it was like the spirits that had passed through here were reaching out to the rejected and abused child within me, telling me that it got greater later. I’ve always held on to that belief, though I have yet to see it.

If the world were a perfect place, I’d be walking back and
forth across 125th, spending money on things I wanted but didn’t need, but this world was far from perfect. In fact, I had started to see it as cruel. I was sweating like a runaway slave, though there was a comfortable chill to the air. My deodorant had melted away twenty minutes prior, and the damn duct tape pulled across my thigh felt like it was coming loose. My life had to get better than this.

As I crossed the different avenues, I could feel their eyes on me, the hungry eyes of men. Some were bold enough to say something—lame, of course—but most of them just watched in silence, wondering at what temperature did my pussy overheat. “You’ll never find out, cocksuckers,” I mumbled more to myself than to anyone else.

I couldn’t be mad at them, though, because I was looking especially delicious that day. Mercedes had given my hair a thorough washing before sitting me under the dryer and eventually wrapping my hair. She didn’t speak a lot of English, but that little Dominican chick knew hair like a gynecologist knows pussy. When I get my weaves, the Indonesian shit, I let her cut and style it. By the time I was ready to step out, my hair was falling just right, not even a pin mark.

I had on a gray wool skirt that I’d picked up at Marshalls. It wasn’t tight, but it hugged my hips in a way that made me feel pretty. I loved that skirt because it showcased my figure without making me look like a slut. But when you have a thirty-one-inch waist and a thirty-nine-inch ass, lust will stir in the purest hearts. When I walked, I had a bad bitch’s stride and the curves to match, which over the years I had learned to wear like a badge
of honor. Niggaz went crazy over this, and for as silly as it may sound, it made me feel more like a woman.

I walked across the few avenues to Lenox, got a five-dollar pack of Newports, and slipped inside Starbucks. As usual, it was popping with people. I can’t think of one time since they’ve been here that I’d seen the place empty. They had successfully made coffee a good business. It wasn’t necessarily that they had the best product, but their presentation sold them. It was a relaxed little spot I could see myself sitting up in, poring over a good book, sipping something with way more sugar than I needed to have, but I wasn’t there to daydream: I had to handle business.

Most of the people were young, hipsters, with laptops and paperback books, sipping drinks and making small talk amongst themselves. At the counter, I peeped a nice-looking chick drinking a latte and thumbing through a magazine. The red dress she wore hugged her so snug that I wondered if she’d bust the seams if she made a sudden movement.

The man I had come to meet with was sitting at one of the far booths, eyeing me over the newspaper he was pretending to read. I ordered an espresso from the pimple-faced young kid and made my way over to the table.

In true gentleman style, he stood as I approached. His hands slid down my sides and rested on my hips as he pulled me into a lover’s embrace. I didn’t pull away when he kissed me. The coarseness of his lips in contrast to the softness of mine brought back memories of eating dry toast in the mornings before school. It turned my stomach to kiss this man, but it was a delicate
situation, and appearances were important. It wasn’t until he tried to put his tongue in my mouth that I roughly slammed my hip into his groin, giving him the signal to back off. Smirking, he slid back into the booth and I slid in next to him.

“Damn, I missed you, ma,” he said, draping his arm around me. He could’ve used another swab of deodorant, but I wasn’t there to enlighten him on hygiene. “So what you been up to?”

“Nothing special, just trying to make it happen, ya know?” When I felt his hand under the table making its way up my leg, I reflexively shuddered. He lingered around my knee before continuing up to my thigh. For appearances, I traced the line of his jaw with my finger while gazing into his eyes like I was really interested in what he was saying. The duct tape stung when he pulled it off, but I’d take a few yanked-out hairs to pass that problem to someone else. I promised myself this would be the last time I let Slim talk me into toting his drugs.

I looked up when I heard the door open. A wiry young man slithered into the coffee shop wearing an Atlanta Braves cap pulled tightly on his head. His bloodshot eyes swept the joint, lingering a half second too long on me and my date. A frog jumped in my throat when he reached into his pocket, but to my surprise and embarrassment he pulled out his wallet and walked to the counter.

My date didn’t seem to notice him, too preoccupied with his cell phone. I could tell he was ready to skate, and I can’t say that I blame him, since he now had the ten years I’d been carrying. Truth be told, I wanted him and that package the fuck away from me as soon as humanly possible, but the business wasn’t done.

The chick in the red dress had just noticed the kid in the Braves cap and had a chickenhead moment, squealing like a schoolgirl and draping her arms around him and putting her nasty painted lips on his. I watched them without watching them as they chatted it up for a few minutes before exchanging numbers and saying their good-byes. The slut in the tight dress was the first to boogie, big ass swinging as she went. A few ticks after that, the man in the Braves cap took the muffin and coffee he had ordered and left, too.

The minutes felt like hours as I waited the agreed-upon ten minutes before I was to leave. My date walked me out to the curb and waited around until I got into a taxi. He was a better person than me, because I sure as hell wouldn’t have stood around with that weight on me. It wasn’t until I was off 125th Street that I released the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My days in the game were
so
over.

I had the taxi let me out at 135th and Fifth, in front of the bank. I walked into a store to get another pack of cigarettes, because I had lost the five-dollar pack in my rush to get out of Starbucks. My hand shook like Pookie in
New Jack City
, but I’d finally managed to get my cigarette lit when my green Honda Accord pulled up to the fire hydrant. Flicking my ash, I climbed in to the passenger seat and faced the sharp brown eyes staring out at me from under the Braves cap.

“You did good, baby,” Slim leaned over and kissed me. There was no passion in the gesture, only approval. On his breath,
I could taste the lingering sweetness of red Alizé, the only kind of liquor Slim drank. “That lil move paid off nicely.” He tossed the envelope the slut had passed him onto my lap and merged with the light Fifth Avenue traffic.

Just thumbing through the cheese, I figured it to be somewhere around five thousand, maybe a little more, but not much. I flipped through the bread once more before shoving it into my knockoff Bourke bag. It was a good little move, and we could damn sure use the paper, but I couldn’t help but keep thinking that I could’ve gotten a year for every dollar in this damn envelope had something gone wrong. This was far from the life my mother wanted for me. I kept my game face and turned to my man.

“Yeah, it was a nice lick, but I ain’t fucking around no more,” I told him, trying to keep my voice from giving away my uncertainty. Slim was my lover, my friend, and my father, so going against something that he believed in felt funny. For damn near as long as I’ve known him, I’ve never been able to tell him no. Even when I put the pieces together, I still found myself loving him. Of course, the first thing he does is trace his finger from the back of my ear, down my neck, and across my collarbone. Bastard is using my spot against me, but I gotta stay strong.

Slim eased closer to me and placed his hand on my thigh. “Don’t go rabbit on me now, baby. I thought we was trying to get this money up?”

“You know I am, but drugs ain’t my thing,” I told him.

“Princess, we in the street, ma. We gotta get it how we live.”

“I feel you, Slim, but they’re giving out too much time for
that shit, and I’m too pretty to go to jail.” I pulled down the visor to check myself out in the mirror. Before meeting with the guy in Starbucks, I had applied a layer foundation that was two shades lighter than my actual mocha skin color. I was paranoid to the tenth degree, but it wasn’t without reason. My face was correct, as usual, but I was starting to get bags under my eyes. I needed to slow down.

“So, you’d rather keep shaking your ass in them dives for shorts, instead of getting this long money?”

I rolled my eyes. “Shaking my ass won’t get me time.”

“But those backroom dances will,” he muttered, loud enough for me to hear. It was a low blow, and he and I both knew it.

I sat stiff-backed in my seat and turned around to face him. “Nigga, you got some nerve. It’s them backroom dances that hold you down when you blow your re-up money on dice games and strip clubs, trying to stunt for these lame-ass niggaz out here on some real birdshit!”

I never even saw him move. The only reason I knew he’d swung was because my head bounced off the car window. Tears welled in my eyes as the pain caught up with the deed and my lip started to throb. My hands suddenly began to shake, not because I was afraid, but because I knew I was about to kill this nigga. Slim must’ve felt it, too, because he quickly pulled over in front of the liquor store.

“Bitch, you better not start tripping—,” he started, but that was as far as he got before I stole on him. The bum-ass engagement ring he’d gotten me a few months prior opened up a cut on his cheek. Slim was trying to undo his seat belt when I let
him have two more. On open ground, he would’ve tore my ass up, but in cramped quarters, I had the advantage. I managed to visit his chin one more time before he was able to release the belt and lunge at me.

“You funky little cunt,” Slim snarled, trying to grab a fistful of my hair. I managed to get the passenger-side door open and one leg out of the car, but not before he got a firm hold on the back of my shirt. Slim swung an overhand left that would’ve surely put me in la-la land had the top of the doorframe not absorbed most of the blow. Slim’s fist landed on my jaw, sending me sprawling backwards and out of the car.

Half my shirt ended up being torn off in the process, but I had made it out of the car. I could only imagine how I must’ve looked, teetering on the curb with one of my tits hanging out of the shredded fabric, but I really didn’t care as long as I had some distance between me and Slim. If looks could kill, I would’ve dropped dead from the way he was glaring at me.

“I’m gonna kill your ass, Princess!” he screamed across the car. This wasn’t the first time he’d threatened to kill me, but it was the first time I actually believed him.

In the blink of an eye, I watched Slim go from my lover to a salivating maniac as he stalked around the car toward me. I tried to think of a getaway. I could’ve run—but I was wearing heels, and by the time I undid the laces on the back, he’d be on me.

The thought of survival took over my brain, and the word that fell out of my mouth surprised Slim just as much as it did me: “Rape!”

All right, all right, it was a low move. . . . I know this, but no more so than him trying to beat my ass after I had just risked going to prison for him. One thing that every man should know is not to play dirty pool with a woman; you’ll come up short every time. Slim took another step toward me, and I said it again—this time a bit louder as I staggered backward toward the entrance of the pizza shop. The heel on my right shoe broke off, causing me to stumble and bang my shoulder against the door frame. All the hell we were raising out front and my screaming started to draw an audience. People were slowing up in their cars, being nosy, and even some of the corner boys inched closer to get a better look. Good—the more, the merrier. Slim was crazy, but he wouldn’t be stupid enough to kill me in front of a crowd . . . or at least that’s what I’d hoped.

“This fool is trying to kill me,” I shrieked.

“You there, stop hitting that girl!” the owner of the pizza shop screamed, leaning out of the pickup window. “You keep it up, and I’m going to call the police.”

“Mind your fucking business!” Slim snapped at the man before turning his attention back to me. “Princess, what the fuck are you doing?” he almost pleaded. It gave me a fucked-up rush to see fear creep into his eyes.

“Nigga, if you put your hands on me again, as God is my witness, I’m gonna put a case on you!” I yelled. Slim looked around cautiously before moving toward me again. His face had softened, but his eyes still said murder.

“Baby, I know I was wrong for hitting you, but don’t go about it like this,” he tried to coo, but that sweet shit wasn’t
working this time. Dick and sweet words had rocked me to sleep for the last time.