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Authors: Erick S. Gray

Nasty Girls (9 page)

BOOK: Nasty Girls
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I smiled.

“Can't handle a lil' suction, baby?” I teased.

He blew a satisfied breath of air out his mouth. My job was done. James still laid on his back, and I wanted him to remain like that. I straddled my legs around him and let his erection enter me slowly.

I moaned the more dick he put into me. Shit, a bitch may be petite, but believe me, I can ride some dick, and James definitely knows it. He clutched my waist, as my hands rested against his thick smooth chest and my ass bounced up and down against him, and gyrated my hips against his broad pelvis.

Twenty minutes into our fucking, with me still riding him, James uttered, “Baby, I'm gonna come . . . shit . . . I'm coming!”

I didn't stop. I rode him faster and faster till James clutched my hips tightly, quivered, and grunted as he let one loose up in me. And by his body movement, I knew he came lovely. A sista did her job.

He was sprawled out on the bed, sweaty with me rested on top of him, panting lightly. The room smelled like sex.

After a few moments passed, I looked at James and asked, “Baby, what happened that night?”

“About what?” he countered, like he didn't know what I meant.

“Roscoe. Who did he murder?”

“Shit just got fucked up, Jade. You know we got enemies out there on them streets. You know how fucked up shit is,” he said, like he was angry with someone.

“But that night at the club? Who were y'all fighting?”

“Some niggas that my man, Kay, had beef wit'. After y'all went into the bathroom, he came up to me and Roscoe and said niggas started beefin' wit' him by the door, and that one of 'em pulled out a knife and threatened to stab him. So you know, Kay, that's my nigga, and we wasn't tryin' to hear it, so we stepped to them. A few unkindly words were exchanged, and then shit popped off. And they stabbed my nigga Row in his chest.”

“What?” I said. “So why did you drop me off and leave?”

“Like I said, Jade, shit went bad that night. It was drama, and you didn't need to be in the middle of it. We were gonna take care of it. Roscoe caught a bad one.”

“His lawyer said he might plead for justified homicide. He said Roscoe shot in self-defense. But if not, maybe second-degree murder. But he said that they didn't find a gun on the victim, and that there might be a credible witness to testify against Roscoe. If his case goes to trial, they might serve him wit' twenty years if he gets convicted. But if he cops out, D.A. might give him ten.”

James sighed. “Damn.”

“Who did he shoot?” I asked.

“Jade, fo' real, it's a nigga that tried to come at us on some territory shit. Roscoe shot some nigga who felt big that night; some on-the-come-up nigga. That's all you need to know. I don't feel like discussin' this now. I'm fuckin' tired,” he said, laying his head back.

I shoulda interrogated his ass first, and then give up the pussy. James had gotten what he wanted. He laid there with his head against the pillow with his eyes closed. I felt like playing Sherlock Holmes, but the dick wore me out a little, and I ended up falling asleep on his chest.

~ CHAPTER 7 ~
shy

I
swear I'm tired of crying. I'm all cried out right now. Why muthafuckas gotta be dumb? I wish someone would answer me that. It's been a week since Roscoe's incarceration, and I'm a fucking mess. I haven't been to work, and I haven't left the house, none of that shit.

Camille and Jade, they're constantly calling or coming by, acting like a bitch is gonna kill herself. But I keep telling them that I'm good. It ain't like the nigga dead. Shit, he'll probably get off or something. We don't know that. He got a good lawyer who seems to know what the fuck he's doing. And I believe that Roscoe's lawyer is gonna take care of it. He gonna do my man right and have him acquitted of all charges. I believe that.

I wanna see my man, though, and I'm waiting for his call. A week had passed and not one collect call from him. So right now, I'm kinda pissed.

I know my man got clout up in them jails—he damn near ran shit in the hood. So I know he's not getting punked for his phone time in his housing. He's just probably too ignorant to call his girl and let me know what's going on with him.

I lay in bed, listening to the radio and thinking about my man. I started reminiscing about how we met, and the things we did. Two months into our relationship, I wanted to have his baby. But Roscoe wasn't ready to have kids. He said to me that he didn't want any of his children growing up in the projects and going through the same shit he went through when he was young. Roscoe's moms passed away a few years ago, and he never knew his pops. He grew up with his older sister. He told me that his moms, she wasn't the best mother, but she tried. She was an alcoholic who lost every job she had and stayed on welfare for as long as he could remember.

Roscoe wanted to give his children a good home, far from South Jamaica and the bullshit that comes along with it. He wanted to get a house and send his kids to the best schools out in Long Island, with a great education. Roscoe was a hustler and a thug, but the man had respect and morals for himself. He loved children. I remember on some weekends when he would pick up his sister's kids—she got three, two boys and a girl—and like a family, we'd go to the park, movies, Chuck E. Cheese, or just chill in the apartment and watch a Disney movie.

He told me once that he wanted twins, a boy and girl, so we could experience raising a daughter and a son at the same time. I like that. It made me feel special. Roscoe had so many dreams besides hustling that I knew that one day they were going to come true.

But tonight it seemed like everything collapsed. My dreams along with Roscoe seemed to be fading as I thought about him and not being able to touch and talk to him. I wanted to feel and make love to him. I was missing him so much that I threw on one of his Knicks jerseys and walked around the apartment in it all day.

He promised to move me outta the projects. He promised to take care of me. Tears trickled down my cheeks as I peered at a picture of us hugged up together and smiling. It was taken at Coney Island a few months back. And we looked so happy.

I remembered that night: Roscoe had on a black tank top that hugged his body so nicely and some denim shorts and white Nikes and, of course, being blinged out. He was so cute. I had on the white tennis skirt, with a short white T, sporting blue and white Nikes, and feeling so good.

Earlier, Roscoe took me out to dinner at City Island; afterwards, we took in the city and then headed for Coney Island. And after the park, he got us a stylish suite in the Sheraton.

“Baby, come back to me,” I quietly whispered, staring at his image. “I'm missing you.” I raised the picture to my lips and kissed it softly.

“Diary” by Alicia Keys played softly in the background. I looked at the time, and saw that it was 9:25. I plopped my head down against the pillows and peered up at the ceiling. I got lost in thought, listening to Alicia's lyrics.

A few minutes later, I heard the doorbell ring out. I sighed, not feeling for any company tonight, and got my ass up to go see who it was. But I figured who by the time I got to the door.

I glanced through the peephole and saw Camille and Jade standing outside my door. I sighed. But you know, they my girls, so I had to let them in.

I opened the door, and they both barged in like they own the place. I closed the door behind them and tried to look more upbeat.

“How you feelin', Shy?” Camille asked.

“I'm good,” I replied, trying not to let my voice sound sad.

“You hear any word from Roscoe yet?” Jade asked.

“No. It's been a week and he ain't call a sista yet.”

“Give it time, girl. You know it ain't like he can pick up a phone just like that and call you. Remember, he locked down. He gonna call,” Camille assured me.

“I hope it's soon. I wanna hear what he gotta say, and make sure he's a'ight,” I said, taking a seat.

“Well, James ran down some information on me the other night,” Jade informed.

“About what?” I asked.

“He told me that it was his friend Row that got stabbed that night. He said Kay had beef wit' some dudes while we were in the bathroom, Shy . . . and that it went bad.”

“Did he tell you who Roscoe shot, or if he did shoot someone?” I asked.

“He's bein' really sparse wit' information and shit, Shy. I don't know what's going on wit' him.”

“Roscoe gonna let me know what went down,” I told her confidently. “If he just calls me.”

I looked over at Jade and Camille. “He's gonna be a'ight,” I said, trying not to break out in tears. “He's comin' home.”

Jade came over to me. “Shy, we goin' out tonight.”

“No. I'm not goin' anywhere,” I said.

“Yes, you are,” Camille said. “You can't be cooped up in your crib stressin' dis shit. It's not good for you.”

“Y'all two go wit'out me. I'm cool,” I said.

“Shy, listen . . . I ain't takin' no for an answer. We gonna get dressed up and go out tonight and do us. Shit, when my man got locked up, you think my ass stayed in the crib all night and cried my eyes out? Yeah, it's fuckin' wit' you, but there ain't
much you can do about it right now, Shy . . . sittin' here bitchin' about it ain't gonna change shit,” Camille said sternly, being up-front with me.

Jade put her two cents in: “She's right, Shy.”

I stared at the both of 'em, knowing that they weren't going to leave here without me. So I reluctantly told them yes and went into the bedroom to get dressed.

Dear Roscoe,

We came a long way, baby, and just to let you know, that our journey is still not at an end. The miles that we will travel, I know our road will never end. Our life together has just begun, so I'm holding on to you for an eternity. . . .

I began to write Roscoe a letter, wishing I could mail it to him, with a poem. It was a Thursday night, and I needed to free my mind, and writing always helped me to do that. I wrote my feelings down in this little notepad that I kept hidden. I showed it to only one person, and that was Roscoe. He read every one of my poems, and never criticized them—even the ones that I felt were corny. He said that they were all good, because they all came from the heart.

It's been a few days now, and still no word. I called up his lawyer, Don Shalley, and he assured me that he was still investigating his case. He didn't explain much to me. So that was really no help.

The room was so quiet and peaceful, and I had the lights dimmed over my writing material. I was in a trance, focusing on finishing my poem, when the phone startled me.

I quickly picked up the phone and heard the operator announce, “You have a collect call from Roscoe Richardson. To accept, press one, or just hang up.”

Of course I accepted my baby's call.

“Shy?” I nearly melted into joy when Roscoe's voice transmitted through the phone receiver.

“Baby!” I hollered. I wanted to reach in the phone and give him a hug. “Why you ain't call sooner?”

“Long story, Shy. I'm getting processed and shit, and it's a bitch. So how you been?” he asked, like it's been years since we spoke.

“I'm worried about you. What's goin' on?”

“I know you heard that I got this murder charge lingerin' over my head. I'm sorry, baby,” he apologized sincerely.

“You didn't do it, right, baby?” I asked.

He was quiet. “I can't talk about it right now, Shy . . . but I need you to come see a nigga. I miss you, baby.”

“I miss you, too,” I proclaimed, smiling from ear to ear. I didn't bring up the night he left out our door or any other shit, because I knew he was going through enough shit. I just wanted us to talk. I just wanted to hear his voice.

“So where they got you, baby?” I asked.

“Rikers Island, but get a pen and take down my information,” he said.

“I got one already, baby. I was writin' you a poem when you called.”

“Word? What you writin' me?” he asked.

“Sumthin'. But it ain't finished yet. I'm still workin' on it. It's nice, though.”

“That's cool, that's cool. But yo, you need to write this down, especially when you come visit me.”

“Okay.”

“I'm in C76, 6M . . . and my number is 448524745. You can come check me next Friday around noon; I'm gonna have you registered down, and remember visitin' hours are over around two. And I need you to bring me a few things too. I need boxers and T-shirts, baby. These muthafuckas don't give you shit up in here, and deodorant. But listen, the T-shirts you get, they gotta be all white, and XXL, and the boxers, all white, baby. And also, drop me like fifty dollars into my commissary.”

I quickly wrote all his information and the items that he needed down in my pad. “I got you, baby.”

“Thanks, Shy.”

“You know I'm here for you,” I told him.

“So you chillin' for the night?” Roscoe asked. “I ain't got nowhere to go. You ain't here, so what am I gonna do? Camilla and Jade been comin' over on a regular.”

“Listen, you spoke to James?” he asked.

“No.”

“Well, if you do, give him my information too. Tell him that I gotta holla at him.”

“I got you, Roscoe. I'll let Jade know. So you good up in there? I mean, you ain't got any troubles, right, baby?”

He quickly sucked his teeth and replied, “Shy, you know I got this up in here. Niggas know who I be. I came into this dormitory and knew majority of the muthafuckas in here anyway. But you make sure you bring your fine ass and check me next Friday, a'ight, love?”

“I'm already there, baby. I miss you.”

“That's fo' sure. I know they about to cut this phone convo short. But Shy—”

BOOK: Nasty Girls
7.27Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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