Nasty Girls (6 page)

After sex, I got up off the bed and went into the bathroom. Sierra remained on the bed, watching television.

That dumb bitch Dee, she was a strong ox, but I handled that. That beat down was for my girl, Jade. I don't know how she put up with James. I know he trifling. But knowing them, James came home, she cursed him out, and now they probably fucking each other brains out. He got his way with Jade, and he know it too. Jade be beefing, talking about she leaving James, because he ain't doing her right. Whatever! She's been saying that same old bullshit for a year now. And James still around. Dick must be that good to her. Wouldn't be me.

I went back into the bedroom, and Sierra was getting dressed. She threw on her Guess Jeans and Nikes.

“You out?” I asked.

“I gotta go. It's Danny. You know how he get. It's ten o'clock already. I told him I'd be home by nine.”

I sucked my teeth. Bitch rushing home to a nigga. But it ain't nothing. I got what I wanted.

As Sierra was throwing on her jacket, her cell phone went off. She quickly picked up, and seeing her response, I knew it was her husband on the phone. He was probably stressing her whereabouts.

“Yeah, baby . . . yes . . . I'm over at Kim's place. I told you the other night, I'd be over here,” Sierra tried to explain.

I just stood there and listened, shaking my head.

“Danny . . . what? It ain't even like that. I'll be home in a half hour. Where are the kids? Okay . . .
Okay!
” she shouted.

She closed her phone and laughed. “Damn, he be trippin',” she said, looking over at me.

I just shrugged. What she telling me for? It ain't my business. Sierra continued to gather her things, and before ten thirty, she was out my apartment and on her way home to her man. They had three kids together. I never asked their ages. I didn't care. I was alone in my apartment, and that's how I like it.

I live in the projects, the South Jamaica Houses area. I moved here after my mother was locked up and my younger brother was killed. My building is down farther, by 110th Avenue. Shy and Jade are closer to South Road, where the more grimy niggas are.

Me, I don't fuck with no nigga up in these projects. They ain't got shit to offer me, and plus, you start dealing with these niggas in South Jamaica, and everybody start knowing your business. I like my business to be discreet. Sierra, she lives out in Long Island with her kids and her husband. I met her in a club one night. And the only time she comes out to Queens is to see me.

Now as for Shy and Jade, both their boyfriends live in South Jamaica housing with them. James and Roscoe, they know each other—fuck, they both hustle together and run the drugs in the projects we stay in. They seemed to be cool with it. Me, personally, I don't really fuck with them niggas like that—well, James, anyway. He's a real fucking asshole. They know who I am, but I keep my social contact with them to a minimum—hi, bye, and that's mostly it.

I threw on my house robe and rolled me up another blunt. A bitch lives in the projects, but my apartment stay hooked up with the fly shit. I got plush green carpeting spread throughout the rooms, imported furniture, a big-screen TV in my living room, my kitchen—shit, cherry cabinets, marble floors, fine appliances—and my closet got nothing but Burberry, Gucci, D&G, Fendi, Louis Vuitton, and Chloé stacked in it.

I live like a queen because I hustle and work for mine. I don't do a nine-to-five, but a bitch does her though. I sell boosted or stolen clothing like Fendi, Gucci, Donna Karan, and Chloé to my clientele in Brooklyn and Long Island. I have a connect who is into B&Es and robberies, and he breaks me off with merchandise to sell for a percentage. I'll keep it at that.

After I got finished rolling up my blunt and sparked it, I flopped down on my sofa, picked up the cordless, and decided to call up Jade and see what went down with her and her man tonight.

After about the umpteenth ring, this bitch finally decided to pick up her phone.

“Hello,” she answered, sounding exhausted and shit.

“Bitch, you just got finished fuckin' him, right?” I said.

“Who this? Camille?” Like she didn't know.

“Yeah, bitch. What happened? And why you sound so out of breath?” I asked.

“Um . . . listen, let me call you back, Camille.”

“Call me back? Jade, I know you ain't let this nigga off the hook so fuckin' easy like that. Tell me you didn't.”

“James . . . he, um . . . we . . . ,” Jade stuttered, trying to put the right words together to explain herself.

I had the phone clutched to my ear and waited for her excuse. I took a long pull from the dro and stared at the wall.

“Jade, who that on the phone? Get your ass back on this bed, and let me finish waxin' that sweet ass!” I heard James shout in the background.

“Camille, I'll explain it to you later. But I gotta go. . . . Bye!” this bitch said, and hung up on me.

Now I couldn't believe this shit. We had to beat a bitch down for her man earlier today, 'cause he was cheating on her. And now this bitch let that nigga off the hook so easily. I swear, Jade my girl and all, but she a dumb bitch sometimes. What the fuck was this nigga's excuse, because I was sure I saw that nigga hugged on Tasha on the Boulevard yesterday like they were a couple. So, you know I had to tell my girl this shit. Now we fucked that bitch up and her cousin, and she let James off the hook so easy. That shit got me mad now.

But you know what? It ain't my problem now. From now on, any beef Jade got with her man James, she gonna handle that shit on her own. For real.

I hated her drug-dealing boyfriend, James. He was no good. Roscoe, Shy's man, he sold drugs too, but he was cool with his, and I know he cares about Shy a lot. But James ain't nothing but an abusive, loudmouth, arrogant asshole, who only cares about himself.

Me, I rarely date drug dealers. Thugs, thieves, and bad boys, yes. But drug dealers, I always blamed them for my brother's death and my mother's incarceration. And yes, I know all dealers ain't the same, but I've held a grudge against them since I was nine.

My mother was into drugs when I was young. I hated seeing my moms getting high and not caring if I was around to see and observe. First it was crack, and then she graduated to heroin. That needle stayed deep in my mother's arm almost every fucking night. My little brother, Jamie, was only eighteen months when he was killed. I was eight or nine at the time. We lived in Queens, but at the time, I lived in the Baisley projects on Guy R. Brewer and Foch. The shit still fucks with me today.

I remember it was early afternoon, and Jamie wouldn't stop crying all day, and my mother was in her bedroom, getting high with her boyfriend. Jamie didn't know any better—he was hungry and wet. I tried telling him to be quiet before Mommy got mad, but it was too late. My moms stormed out of her bedroom, high as fuck, and she picked up Jamie and started yelling at him. She shook him back and forth hard. But Jamie never stopped crying. He got louder and louder. I just stood there, tearing up, screaming at my moms to stop before she hurts him. But she didn't listen to me; she kept on with her violent assault against my little brother. And then I heard her threaten, “You little nigga. If you don't stop cryin' right now, I'm gonna throw your ass out the fuckin' window!”

But Jamie continued to cry, and my mother kept good on her threats. She rushed over to the window with Jamie clutched in her arms and dangled him from the sixth floor.

“Stop cryin'. Stop cryin'! Stop your fuckin' cryin'!” she yelled.

“Mommy!” I screamed. “Mommy, stop! Please.”

My little brother cried and screamed until I heard his crying and screaming fading, and then I no longer heard Jamie crying. It just stopped. Everything stopped. It was a nightmare. My
mother's boyfriend ran from out the bedroom and shouted, “Lorain, what the fuck! I'm not goin' to jail over this shit! Fuck, bitch!” He quickly left the apartment, fearing prison.

Moments later, my mother was arrested, and they dragged me off with some strange white lady. A few weeks after that, I went to live with my grandmother out in Jamaica housing, where I later ran into Shy and Jade. There were problems at first, but they worked themselves out.

My mother was sentenced to life in prison, and that's the last I heard or know about her. I think about my younger brother all the time and wonder if he was alive today, what would become of his life. Would he be in school, getting an education? Or would he be another one of these dope- or coke-pushing thugs that saturate these projects?

I know directly that every drug dealer in the projects didn't kill my brother. But indirectly, it was the poison they pushed into the addicts' hands constantly that was the cause of my brother's death and my mother's absence.

After my conversation with Jade, I placed the cordless on its cradle and retreated my ass back into my bedroom. Having my brother in thought and dealing with today's drama, I just wanted some solitude. My mood became a bit somber, and today's been a long fucking day for a sista. So I just laid in bed, closed my eyes, and went to sleep.

S
hy, hurry up! Damn, what the fuck is takin' you so long?” Roscoe barked.

He was out in the living room, and I was still holed up in the bedroom, getting dressed. We were going out tonight. It was Saturday, and you know a bitch wasn't spending a beautiful October night cooped up in the crib.

He's been ready for about a half hour. But I had to throw the right outfit together. I had a bunch of shit in my closet, and when I go out, my gear gotta be right. I can't be going outside looking like some broke bum-bitch—especially to a club.

Roscoe and I were supposed to hook up with Jade and James at this club on Merrick Boulevard that was supposed to be popping off. Roscoe knew people at the party, so I was sure we'd get in for free with no fucking hassle from security. I was excited. Roscoe hasn't taken me out in weeks. He's been busy doing him and handling business out on the streets.

I put on what Roscoe brought me a week earlier: the red cropped leather jacket with the black collar and the skimpy
matching red miniskirt. And I threw on my red and white Fendi shoes with my matching Fendi bag. I was looking too damn cute.

I walked into the living room, and Roscoe's jaw almost dropped. The he smiled as he gazed at me from head to toe, and from that response, I knew I was looking good. My legs were gleaming and looking right in Fendi.

“Damn, baby!” Roscoe said.

“You like?” I asked, doing a little twirl for him.

“You . . . you 'bout ready to make me wanna stay home tonight and do some things,” Roscoe said.

He came up to me, but I put my hand out and said, “No, 'cause you're takin' me out. That can wait till later.”

He sucked his teeth. I continued to gather the rest of my things. Roscoe grabbed his keys to the ride, and we were out. Roscoe was looking good himself. I just did his braids earlier, and he sported a black leather shirt, with the white T underneath, and black leather pants. He had the bling shining out of his shirt, and a diamond ring on his pinkie finger. I sported a cute thin diamond chain around my neck, which was a previous gift from Roscoe.

I walked out first, and I suddenly felt him grab my butt. I turned around and playfully said, “Stop.” Roscoe smiled.

“Yo, you gonna get a nigga shot tonight, lookin' that good. I'm gonna have to fuck some nigga up, baby,” he said. I knew he was kidding this time. But knowing Roscoe, sometimes he was dead serious. When it came to me, he don't like no man to disrespect me. He don't even like a nigga looking at me funny. When we go out, especially to a club, I try to stay real close to my man, 'cause I know how niggas be acting when they in a club, especially when a nigga is drunk. And I don't want no beef
caused over me, and have my man fighting or, worse, killing a nigga, and he locked up over some dumb shit.

We got outside, and it was so nice that I didn't even need a jacket. We strolled over to Roscoe's pearl Escalade, and he opened the passenger door for me. When he got in, he put in a mixed R&B CD, and we drove off.

We got to the club in no time, and the line outside was ridiculous. It was like a half a block long. I think Roscoe said that Sean Paul was supposed to be performing, and that definitely drew in the crowd.

We got a lucky parking spot and strolled up to the hordes of people waiting to get in. I looked around for my girl. I called her cell phone, and she informed me that she and James were nearby.

As we stood outside, waiting for Jade and James to show up, I saw numerous eyes, especially the men's eyes, clocking me hard. Some tried to be subtle with it, being that I was with my man, and some men were with their female companions. But others, they didn't give a fuck that I was with my man or not. They stared hard, smiling—admiring and wishing they were with me.

“There they go right there,” Roscoe pointed out.

I turned around an saw Jade and her man, James, coming toward us. I smiled. “Hey, girl.” I gave Jade a hug and kiss and stared at James, knowing about him and Tasha.

James smiled and gave Roscoe dap, and they began chatting. Jade was looking cute. She had on this white leather mini miniskirt and matching halter top, with the bomb stilettos on, and her man came gangsta in the white tank top, showing off his muscles, some Sean John jeans, Timberlands, and of course, having the ice around his wrist and neck.

We didn't waste too much time standing outside socializing. We walked in, bypassing the crowds and lines outside, and security easily let our party in with no problems.

Inside was popping. I quickly got excited hearing my song “Tempted to Touch” blaring throughout the packed club. Ohmygod, I love this song. I started winding and gyrating my hips to the beat and started singing along.