Nasty Girls (11 page)

“Oh, that's fucked up!” I said.

“It's like that, though. I don't pay these fools no mind. I beat my dick first, before that shit pop off.”

“You better,” I said.

He smiled.

“You spoke to James?” he asked.

“Nah. I didn't get a chance to. Him and Jade been on some beefin' shit lately. They be wildin' out. The other day, they arguin' and about to fight each other in front of her buildin',” I told him.

“Yo, Shy, I'm gonna speak to James, and I'm gonna have him come by and drop some money off for you. I ain't got bail, and I don't know how long I'm gonna be up in this bitch. But James is holdin' down shop till whatever happens, happens. He gonna look out for you. I promised to look out for you—I don't care if I'm in here or out there. I'm gonna take care of you.”

“Roscoe, I got a job, you forgot?”

“Yeah, I know that, but I know your lifestyle. You like rockin' that name-brand shit. And that little bullshit check you get from workin' at Mony's part-time ain't gonna do it for you.”

“At least I get a ten percent discount off clothing.”

“Yeah. A'ight.”

I stared at his lips, and they looked so soft and enticing. I smiled, as he held my hands, and I motioned for him to come here. He smiled, leaned across the table, and we started to suck on each other lips, with people on all sides of us. Our action went on for a few minutes. I sighed, wishing I could take him home, or get a conjugal with him just for an hour. But I cleared the thought of sex from my head, closed my legs, and continued talking.

We talked more about his case and his lawyer, and Roscoe informed me that Don Shalley was the best. His lawyer's fees were already taken care of. Roscoe had cash stashed away just for situations like this one. He would give money to Don Shalley just off of GP. But I knew the more Roscoe tried to look unconcerned about his case and his freedom, deep inside he was
hurting just like me. He had numerous charges lingering over his head, from felonies to misdemeanors. And his previous rap sheet wasn't peaches and roses. If worst came to worst, he would probably have to cop out to a dime and appeal his case later. But I didn't want it to go down like that. Ten years without having my man close to me, and no dick—nah, Don Shalley better be worth every penny he received.

It seemed like time went by quickly, because just like that, my visit with Roscoe was over. The CO came by and made it clear, our hour was up.

I stared at Roscoe with concern and love showing in my eyes. He looked back at me. We hugged and I passionately kissed him, sucking on his lips.

“You take care, Shy,” he said in my ear. “I'm gonna be good.”

“I'll be back next week, baby.”

“You do that.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He then reluctantly let go of me and walked back over to where he came in at. He was escorted through the thick brown shabby doors with two other inmates following right behind him. A few tears began to trickle down my cheeks as I watched him disappear from my sight. I quickly wiped them away with the palm of my hand and followed the male CO back to the exit.

Going home was painful for me. I cried on the train, thinking about my man.

I
was holding up a khaki jumpsuit by Jordache.

Cream stood in front of me, smiling, waiting for my approval. I was in his Brooklyn loft near Atlantic Avenue.

“You like it?” he asked.

“Yeah, this is tight. What else you got?” I asked.

Cream went into his luggage, which contained nothing but stolen garments and shoes from warehouses and department stores. He had everything from Gucci to Polo on sale for me at a reasonable price. He was my connect, and a very good one. I could depend on him to boost anything for me, from any store. He was good at what he did.

Cream was a few years older than me, in his early thirties, and he'd had a crush on me since the day we met. He was shorter than me, about five feet six, but cute and lean. He sported box braids and always wore throwback jerseys and stayed with a fitted cap on his head.

“I also got this for you,” Cream said, pulling out of his suitcase a pink open-back dress by Donna Karan, with the pink Kangol to match. The outfit was tight. I wanted to keep it for myself.

I grabbed it and said, “Now this outfit, a bitch can definitely fuck wit', Cream. I might keep this shit fo' dolo.”

“I knew you would like this one. That's why I saved it fo' you, Camille,” Cream said, proud of his taste in women's clothing.

He had dozens of women's outfits spread out in front of me, but the good shit he kept concealed away in one of his many suitcases.

Cream had called me up yesterday and notified me of a new shipment that had just come into his possession, and since Cream has a serious crush on me and always wanted to fuck me, I'd be the first bitch he called up, so I could have first choice.

In my business, I needed top-quality shit to sell to these high-quality bitches that I call my clientele. Some live in the hood that I rest my head in, but most of my clientele stay out in Long Island, or Manhattan. And when I come through with items, these ladies know my merchandise is legit, authentic, and sometimes hard to come by. And they are willing to pay me whatever. I get everything for them—Gucci, Prada, Donna Karan, Versace, Fendi, Dolce & Gabbana, and even Louis Vuitton and Chanel. It's always COD, cash on delivery. And in one day, I'll make from fifteen hundred to two thousand dollars easy. And I give Cream thirty percent of my earnings. We make good business together.

I met Cream a few years back when I used to dance, strip, entertain—whatever muthafuckas call it today. He always came into the club looking so nice and dressed down in the latest costly fashion, from Sean John to Versace. He was always a fly nigga. He was still short, though. But he definitely had flavor. And from the day he first laid eyes on me, I had him.

He bought me a drink and tried hard to get into my pants, but I ain't easy, and I let him know that from jump. He respected
me for that. Bitches were always turned on by his steady cash flow and his style. He'll fuck 'em, and forget about them the next day. Me, I saw a different angle than getting myself some quick dick and hopefully having him throw some cash at me.

We would talk, and Cream became a cool-ass nigga, mad down to earth. He'd be like, “Shorty, I like your style. You're different from these bitches up in here.”

As the days passed, Cream started hooking me up with the flyest clothes to wear. He'd bring me gifts in the club like he was my man. It came to a point where I had to quit dancing, because bitches started hating on me hard. They'd try to steal my shit in the dressing room while I was onstage, or fight me when they had the chance.

Months later, I got to know what Cream was really about, and he was definitely about his paper. He had a tight crew, and on regulars, these niggas would go out to L.I. and do a string of B&Es, grabbing lucrative shit. I went along with Cream's crew a few nights, and Cream would be the one going up in the woman's closet and snatching all of her shit—minks, furs, clothing, jewelry—and he'd then sell shit off in the streets like it was candy. His cousin was a professional booster, stealing shit from shoes out of Macy's to grand theft auto and driving cars to chop shops. They had the right toys and equipment to commit such large and profitable schemes.

Cream was a hustler, and I loved that about him. He did him, and he did him lovely. He made his paper to the fullest. He pushed a Benz SL600, had a huge loft out in Brooklyn, and paraded his fortune like he was the Teflon don himself.

And I'll admit, we did hook up for a moment. Cream was a nigga who grew on me, and all of a sudden, I began to have a
crush on him. One late night, we were drinking, cracking jokes, and chilling, and the next thing, I'm butt naked in his loft, sprawled out on his bed, and fucking him. He was all right in the bed. I had had bigger, and I had had smaller, but Cream made you feel like a woman—well, at least he made me feel like one. I don't know about these other hos out here. We continued to do us for weeks, and whatever I wanted or needed, Cream had it for me the next day. And he wasn't hung up on me. You know, always wanting to be up under a bitch, and being pussy-whipped. The nigga kept it real with his, and admitted to me one day, “Yeah, I still fuck other bitches once in a while. But yo . . . that's just me. We cool, Camille. Anythin' you need, I got you, boo. But I do me.”

I couldn't get mad at the nigga. He was honest. We were together, but it wasn't like that—like some husband-and-wife type of shit. We had an understanding, and we took care of each other. And he was the first nigga that I had a threesome with, two women and a man. Cream was cool with it. He ain't flip out about me being bi.

Eventually, our relationship faded, but we remained cool. And now we've became partners in this clothing shit, among minor things too.

 

S
o what you doin' tonight?” Cream asked.

“Don't know yet. Might hang out wit' my girls. Why?” I asked.

“Nah, just askin'. You lookin' good, Camille.” He stared at me with lust in his eyes, but it didn't make me uncomfortable. “Why don't you try that pink dress on for me right now?” he suggested. “I wanna see how it fits you.”

I smiled. “This one?” I flirted, holding up the pink Donna Karan dress.

“Yeah . . . that's da one.”

“You gonna give it to me for free?” I asked.

He looked at me. “Yeah, I got you, Camille.”

I shrugged my shoulders and began getting undressed in front of him. Cream smiled, licking his lips while he stared at me. “That's what's up.”

I stripped down to my blue thong and nothing else. I didn't mind getting naked in front of Cream. It ain't like he never saw it before. I put on the dress and the matching Kangol, and started posing for him.

“Yeah, that dress looks real good on you,” Cream said.

I looked around for the nearest mirror in his loft and found a floor mirror by the closet. He was right: the dress looked really good on me.

“Oh yes . . . I'm definitely goin' out tonight,” I said, getting hyped off myself.

I posed a few more times, gazing at myself in the mirror, until Cream came up behind me and effortlessly wrapped his arms around my waist. We both stared at our reflection in the mirror.

“You want me to help take it off now?” he asked in a calm, masculine tone.

I smiled.

He squeezed me gently in his embrace, never averting his eyes from our reflection. I felt his hand start to explore my body as his warm breath brushed against my neck.

“What you want, Cream?” I asked.

“Honestly, I want you, Camille. It's been a long time,” he admitted.

“Really?”

“You ain't got a man, right?” he asked. Like if I did, it would stop him now.

“Would it matter?”

“No.”

“So why did you ask?”

“Thought it would be the polite thing to do.”

I smiled.

He affectionately kissed me on the back of my neck, making my skin tickle. Then his hand grasped my breast, and I gasped, as his other hand slid up my dress, in between my thighs. I closed my eyes and licked my lips, feeling Cream's warm hands glide over my soft brown skin.

Within minutes, he slipped the dress off me and had me naked. I came here to do business with him, and now this man had me longing for him to enter me. Cream could be patient, especially when it came to me. We didn't see each other every day; sometimes weeks would go by, and then when we saw each other, it was always about business. The man never asked me any questions, especially about my personal life. But today, it was different. It was like something exploded within him, and he just had to have me. But I didn't mind, because it'd been weeks since I had any dick. Sierra could please a sista, but sometimes you just need the real thing, a flesh-and-blood hard-on thrusting into you instead of plastic and batteries.

 

A
round midnight, Shy, Jade, and I decided to hit up a club. You know I had to show off my new dress. And I had hooked my girls up too. Shy opted for the Baby Phat
leather skirt, and Jade went for the black Fendi shoes.

Shy was looking more spirited since she'd been hearing from Roscoe and seeing him on her regular visits to Rikers. And Jade's situation with James—that was her business. She can continue to be the fool if she wants. But I know what I saw, and if she don't believe me, then I ain't gonna stress it to her.

The club of choice was Club Vertigo in the city. The attire was upscale and classy, and I know we would have a good night out without worrying about any knuckleheads.

I sported my pink dress and received many compliments from my girls, as well as from complete strangers. I was the only bitch in our group with a car, so you know I had to drive. I pushed a sleek black Benz CLK500. I had had it for a minute now. Cream hooked me up. He helped with the down payment and everything. I make the payments every month, but whenever I'm short with money, Cream would buss me down with a lil' sumthin'.

I had to park in one of those high-priced city garages that charge you like twenty dollars an hour to park your shit. But I made Jade and Shy come out their pockets for parking. Shit, I ain't paying for gas
and
parking, and then buy drinks.

Vertigo was popping. The line outside was short; it took us no time to enter. They wanted twenty at the door. We paid, checked our jackets, and stepped into the dimly lit club, and the crowd was hyped, as the DJ popped off with some Fat Joe's “Lean Back.” That's my joint right there.

We went straight to the bar, and I ordered myself a Long Island iced tea and started moving to my bitch Remy Martin's verse. I love her lyrics in this song. I noticed the fellows watching me, but I paid them no mind as I continued to dance by myself.