Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang (9 page)

He tries to get serious. “My bad, ma. I couldn’t resist. But, on some real shit, I meant what I said, I got you if sumthin’ pops off. You real cool peoples, Kat.”

I smile. “Thanks. You ain’t so bad ya’self. But, nigga, you still ain’t gettin’ no more of this pussy heat.”

He laughs. “Nah, I ain’t on it like that. But, if you offerin’, I’m damn sure takin’.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I bet you are. But, not happenin’. And as far as them booga bears go, they pump no fear in me. So it is what it is.”

“Ouch, that hurt. You sure know how to shoot a cat in the heart.”

I laugh. “Yup, I suuure do; and in his head, too.” I dry my hands, then walk into the living room, ploppin’ down on the sofa. “So what you gettin’ into today?” I ask, changin’ the subject.

“Not much; probably study for the exam we got comin’ up this week. I need to pass this shit this time. You ready for it?”

Hell no,
I think, proppin’ my feet up on the table. Shit, I’m tryna keep myself from thinkin’ ’bout it ’cause I don’t wanna start stressin’. The property management course was some extra shit I took ’til it was time to take the exam. I’ve already passed the state and federal background checks. Mmmph, as if I didn’t think I would. And, as far as they know, a bitch is of good moral character. Now, that shit kinda cracks me up; if they only knew. Annnyway, the only thing standin’ between me and gettin’ that paper is takin’ the exam ’n passin’ it. I swear I don’t wanna be like this nigga, takin’ it over. He mentions how he failed it the first time by four points, then the second time by one. I shake my head. Although the fee is light to take the actual exam, who has another five hours to be sittin’ on they ass tryna retake a two hundred multiple question test—twice, no less? Not a bitch like me, that’s for sure. All I need is a score of 75 percent, and it’s a wrap. I already know what I’ma do the day of. I’ma spark me a blunt to relax my mind, then go in and slay that shit.

“Not really, but I will be.” He asks if I wanna meet up to study together. “As long as you plan on not wearin’ any of that
Bora, Bora
and you keep ya hands to ya’self, we good,” I say, laughin’.

He joins in my laughter. “Nah, I got you, ma. I’ma be on my best behavior. The only thing on my mind right now is acin’ that
exam on Wednesday. Now, afterward, I might be sayin’ some-thin’ different.” I glance at the clock. 2:35 p.m.

“Nigga, the only thing you gonna be sayin’ afterward is congrats.”

“Yeah, that, too.” I tell ’im to hit me up ’round six; that I’d let ’im know then if I’m feelin’ it. Shit, I don’t know if I want the nigga up in my spot. The last thing I’m beat for is a muhfucka bein’ followed, then havin’ a buncha bitches kickin’ in my doors tryna bring it. We talk a few minutes more, then hang up.

I grab the remotes to both my Sony flat-screen and DVD player, turnin’ them on. I press
PLAY
, then wait for
Dexter
, season three, episode five to come on. However, I change my mind. I mean. As much as Dexter’s pyschopathic antics make my pussy moist, right now I need sumthin’ a lil more gritty. I scroll through my On Demand, then select what I’m lookin’ for.

Spartacus: Blood & Sand
comes to life on the screen. I live for the wickedly deliciousness of each episode. Whew, the house of Batiatus…mmmph, a mess! A bitch can’t wait ’til September when the series comes out on DVD. Keepin’ shit real, I would love to say it’s all those sweaty gladiators that make a bitch’s pussy hot, but it’s not. It’s the blood; the splittin’ of skulls, decapitatin’ of heads that makes my steamy hole sizzle.

I replay episode nine, “Whore,” where Ilithyia is fuckin’ sexy-ass Spartacus, not knowin’ it’s him ’cause their faces are hidden behind masks. I lie back on my bed, reach for my clit stroker and spread open my thighs. I smack my pussy, then dip a finga in, stirrin’ my slit before layin’ the barrel of my gun along the center of my snatch. I stick the tip of it in me, coat it wit’ my juice, then suck it clean.

This sex scene is fiiiiyah, but its flame isn’t hot enough to make my cunt juices boil. It isn’t ’til Ilithyia grabs that other bitch by
the head and smashes her skull that my pussy skeets. I slide my hand into my lace panties, press on my clit while usin’ my other hand to keep rewindin’ back to the part where Ilithyia is on her knees gettin’ slayed from da back when Lucretia’s messy ass walks in to announce she’s fuckin’ Spartacus. Ooooh, I love it, love it, love it!

In a matter of minutes, I am moanin’ and creamin’ all over my fingas. I continue stirrin’ my hole while jackin’ my clit. Another nut is makin’ its way outta me. “Yeah, Ilithyia, you nutty ho, smash that bitch’s skull in,” I continue moanin’, buckin’ my hips and grindin’ on my fingas and hand. I smack my clit, then explode. “Aaaaah, shiiiit…”
I want sum dick! My pussy needs to be fucked deep,
I think, lickin’ ’n suckin’ my sticky fingas. I lay my head back on the sofa. And, before I know it, a bitch’s knocked out the fuck out.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Stilettos clickin’…timepiece tickin’…clockin’ da niggas all ’bout trickin’…swingin’ da hips…lickin’ da lips…muhfuckas ain’t ready for a bitch like this…got ’em chasin’ a dream…got ’em fucked up in da game…head spinnin’…feelin’ all strange…ain’t nuthin’ what it seems…wantin’ to know who I am…it’s Kat, muhfuckas…repeat my name…ain’t shit change…

“A
ttention, passengers. At this time, please turn off all electronic devices. And place trays and seats in the upright position as we prepare for our final descent into Newark-Liberty International Airport. We will be landing momentarily.”

I sigh, starin’ outta the window, takin’ in the view. A part of me is mad hyped ’bout bein’ back on the east coast, chillin’ wit’ my girl and poppin’ these hips a bit. Then there’s this other part of me that ain’t beat for it. I’m not gonna think ’bout it, though. I lean my head back. Close my eyes. And for some fucked up reason, Juanita’s voice finds me.
“Kat, what did I ever do to you for you to be so fucking hateful?…I am still your mother…I promise you, ya ass is gonna see what it’s like to really get it in with a Brooklyn bitch…”

I snap my eyes open. Hold the sides’a my head in the palm of my hands, pressin’ back a headache.
I’m not goin’ there; not today
. I take a deep breath, then slowly blow it out, peepin’ the George Washington Bridge. I stare at all the whips, lookin’ like miniature toy cars, zippin’ up ’n down the Turnpike. I glance at my timepiece. 10:38 a.m.

I make a mental checklist of all the shit I need’a handle once I touch down.
Spark an L…Shoot uptown to get’a doobie ’n nails done… Spark another blunt…hit up da Louis store and Neiman Marcus at Garden State Plaza in Paramus…

The minute we hit the ground at Newark Airport, I pull my phone outta my bag, then turn it on and wait for it to boot up. I text Chanel to let her know we landed. She hits me back lettin’ me know she’s already outside’a baggage claim waitin’ on me. Before I can hit her back, a call is comin’ through. It’s from Nut.

“Yes, whaddaya want now?” I ask, grinnin’.

“You already know. Don’t front.”

I suck my teeth. “Nigga, puhleeze. What can I do for you?”

“You can stop wit’ all the extras e’ery time I call you, for starters. Then you—”

I frown, flippin’ on his ass. “Muhfucka,
whaaat?!
You callin’ me, sweatin’ me, muhfucka. I ain’t beat for you.” The Asian muhfucka in the seat next to me cuts his eye over at me, shiftin’ in his seat. Why the fuck he’s still sittin’ is beyond me. I shoot him a look, raisin’ my brow, like “whaaaat, muhfucka?” He quickly gets his monkey-ass the fuck up away from me. I watch as he stretches, then gathers his shit and moves the fuck on. I get up and follow behind.

“Yo, and I’ma keep sweatin’ you ’til ya sexy-ass gives a muhfucka some rhythm. So, like I said, take down all that ’tude.”

I shake my head, makin’ my way toward baggage claim. “Umm, what did you say your name was again?”

He laughs. “Yo, you real funny, ma. Stop frontin’.”

“No…seriously. What’s ya name?”

“Alley Cat.”

I suck my teeth. “No, fool; ya government name.”

“Alex,” he offers.

“Well, listen—”

“Where you at?” he asks, cuttin’ me off.

I suck my teeth. “Nigga, why you checkin’ for me like you my man or sumthin’?”

“I will be if you learn how’ta act,” he says, laughin’.

“Whateva, Alex, Alley Cat, or whateva other lil’ name you got them gutter rats callin’ you.”

He laughs. “Yo, you can add Daddy Long Stroke to that list.”

I grunt. “Mmmph, a mess!”

“And I’m tryna be ya mess.”

“Nigga, why you checkin’ for me?”

“’Cause I wanna scoop you up tomorrow.”

“Is that right? You still in L.A.?”

“Yeah, but it ain’t nuthin’, yo. I’m tryna see you.”

I smile.
I should have his no-good ass fly out to San Francisco. It’ll serve his arrogant ass right.
“Well, sorry to piss on ya playground. But, you’re a day late and a stack short. I’m back in Jersey. So, no dice; not gonna happen.”

“Oh, shit. So how long you gonna be out there?”

“For as long as I want,” I tell ’im, snatchin’ up my Prada duffel bag. “I ain’t punchin’ no time clock.”

He chuckles. “I heard that, ma. Well, check it. Enough of this back ’n forth shit, Kat, for real-for real. I’ma scoop you up tomorrow night and we goin’ out. You been bullshittin’ long enough.”

I laugh. “Yeah, yeah, yeah;
whaaaaat
eva.”

“Nah, I’m dead-ass, yo.”

“Oh, so just like that; you gonna hop on a plane and whisk a bitch off into da sunset?”

“Yup, just like that. I told you, I’m checkin’ for you—
hard
, ma; real talk. So stop frontin’ on a muhfucka. Besides, I need to get home to check on my crib and handle some other shit.”

“Oh, so wifey’s gonna let you out?”

“Ain’t no wifey here, ma. I’m savin’ that spot for you.”

“Mmmph,” I grunt, walkin’ outta the slidin’ glass doors. I peep Chanel’s whip and make my way over to it. “That’s what ya mouth says, muhfucka.”

“And that’s what it is. I’ma hit you up tomorrow to finalize our plans.”

I laugh. “Nigga, I ain’t say I was goin’ nowhere wit’ you.”

“Aye, yo, you heard what I said. Tomorrow night, you mine. So get ya mind right ’cause big daddy’s comin’ through to scoop you up.”

I suck my teeth and roll my eyes, tryna hold back my laugh. This nigga is funny as hell. “Muhfucka, big daddy on this…” I disconnect his ass, shakin’ my head. I open the back door of Chanel’s whip and toss my bag on the seat. “What’s good, bitch?” I say, hoppin’ in the front seat.

“You trick,” she says, laughin’. “Glad to see ya ugly ass made it safe and sound. I missed ya stankan-ass.” We air kiss. “Smooches, boo.”

“What
eva,
ho.” I fasten my seatbelt, then recline my seat back, pullin’ my Gucci’s down over my eyes. I shoot Chanel a look, peerin’ at ’er over the rim of my shades. “Umm, bitch, why da fuck you ain’t got me a blunt fired up? What da fuck good are you? You know a bitch been travelin’ all damn mornin’. The least you could do is have a fatty rolled ’n ready. Damn.”

She cracks up, pressin’ ’er middle finga up in my face. “Fuck
you, boo. You stooopid as hell. Open up da damn glove compartment. I got ya fiend-ass some’a that chocolate goodie-goodie in there.”

“Awww, shit, ho, now that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout,” I say, pullin’ out a black python Tumi cosmetic pouch. I unzip it, smilin’ the minute the aroma hits my nose. My mouth waters. I wait ’til she pulls off, then spark up. I crack the window and take three pulls, holdin’ the shit in my lungs. I blow out a thick cloud of smoke. “Now, this is how you welcome a bitch home.”

F
OUR HOURS LATER
, C
HANEL AND
I
ARE BACK FROM HITTIN
’
UP
Paramus Mall, sittin’ at the table in the kitchen stuffin’ our faces wit’ jumbo shrimp, blazin’, tossin’ back a bottle of Ciroc red berry and poppin’ mad shit back ’n forth. “Skank-a-dank, why is you sittin’ over there hoggin’ the damn blunt?” she asks, dippin’ a piece’a shrimp in some cocktail sauce, then stuffin’ it in her dick sucka. “Ya greedy, fiend-ass is always doin’ that shit.”

I laugh, chokin’ on weed smoke. “Ho, shut ya cum-guzzlin’-ass up. You always whinin’.” I take another pull, then hand it to her. “Here, bitch. And pass me that bottle.”

She snatches the blunt outta my hand. I take the bottle of Ciroc to the head, guzzlin’ it down. “Oooh, this shit is da truth. It tastes like Kool-Aid.”

“It suuuuure does,” Chanel says, tokin’ the blunt. She blows smoke up at the ceilin’. “Now pass me da damn bottle, wit’ ya thirsty-ass.”

Usher’s “OMG” starts playin’ in the background.

“Bitch, kiss my ass,” I say, laughin’. I take another swig, then slide it back to her. “Ya throat’s longer than mine.”

She laughs. “Fuck you wit’ ya hatin’ ass.”

“I can’t stand this damn song,” I say, reachin’ for the remote. “It gives me a fuckin’ headache.”

“Oh-oh-ohmyGod, oh-oh-ohmyGod,” she laughs. “I think it’s a cute club banga.”

I grunt. “Mmmph. Yeah, and I bet ya ho-ass is wishin’ he was gut-bangin’ ya back out, too.” She passes off the blunt, then fires up another. I take two pulls, then put it out.

“Please, Usher can’t do shit for me. He lost a buncha cool points when he married and knocked up that man.”

I bust out laughin’. “Girl, you wrong for that. That ho ain’t no damn man.”

She bucks her eyes. “Says who? You ever really look at ’er.”

“She’s a chick wit’ very manly features; that’s all.” I change the track. Alicia Keyes “Love Is Blind” starts playin’. “Some chicks are just mannish like that.”

“Whateva,” she says, rollin’ her eyes up in her head.

I keep laughin’. “Well, they divorced now, so you can go ’head ’n gargle the nigga’s balls.”

“Please, I wish da fuck I would. Da nigga still ran his dick up in that; no thank you.”

I shake my head. Chanel’s simple ass thinks any nigga fuckin’ wit’ a bitch wit’ manly features or mannerisms is fightin’ homo tendencies, or is out gettin’ his creep on wit’ trannies ’n shit. I don’t necessarily agree wit’ her on it. But what I care. It’s her opinion, her choice. I leave it be. She opens her mouth to say sumthin’ else, but her iPhone rings. She answers.