Retribution (28 page)

I work my magic, weaving and styling Booty's hair, humming. She remains surprisingly entertained on her phone, texting, up until the last ten minutes, then shoves her cell back into her bag. “Mmmph. So, you ready to act right, Miss Pasha, girl? 'Cause you stay showin' ya ass, goddammit.”

I laugh, giving her a dismissive wave. “Cass, hush.”

“Ooooh, you better be glad you my sugah-boo ‘n' I need you to keep me lookin' right; otherwise…mmmmph. Ooh, I'd do you right, goddammit. So when you seein' that ole messy bitch, Miss FeFe?”

“We're supposed to meet sometime this weekend,” I say, purposefully not mentioning our meeting tomorrow night.

She
tsks
in the back of her throat. “You better do her up right, Miss Pasha, girl. Betrayal ain't cute. And it ain't acceptable. A bitch turn her back on you ‘n' try to do you for filth, you do her one better—good ‘n' goddamn dirty.”

I agree, saying no more than necessary as I hand her the mirror,
spinning her around so she can see the back of her hair. “Yessssss, goddammit! You stay doin' me, right, goddammit. And I got me a date tonight, too. Mmmph. That ole big-dick gorilla ain't gonna know what to do with all this fine booty heat when I step up in the restaurant.” I ask her where her dates taking her. She tells me into the city to an Indian restaurant in Tribeca.

I remove the cape from around her neck. “Oh, that should be nice.”

She grunts. “Sugah-boo,
boom!
What the hell I wanna be in some Tribeca—wherever the hell that is, eatin' some goddamn curry shit for? I tol' that gorilla he better do me right ‘n' find me one'a them fancy soul food spots. I want me a slab'a damn ribs ‘n' some buttery biscuits.”

I laugh, shaking my head. She follows me up to the front, paying her bill, then handing me a hundred-dollar tip. “Thanks, girl. And try to behave yourself tonight. It's nice to have a man to want to take you out on a date sometime.”

“Miss Pasha, girl,
boom!
All that freaky, big-dick gorilla wanna do is sniff my cootie-coo-scented drawz. And I don't mind lettin' him, either, since he pays me good. But he ain't gotta take me over to no damn New York to do it. All I know is, he better have me back 'cross the water before the club closes tonight.”

I chuckle. “Cass, I can't, girl.”

“Uh-huh, and you won't, sugah-boo.” She puts a hand up on her hip. “But you better hurry up ‘n' get ya mind right, Miss Pasha, girl, 'cause come Monday I ain't gonna be playin' no games with ya ole uppity-ass. I see I'ma have'ta strike a match up under them ole fluffy booty cheeks of yours to get the fire started.”

I smirk, raising a brow. “Girl, please. The fire's already been lit.
Trust.”

She grunts, tossing me a hand wave in the air, handbag in the crook of her arm, ass bouncin' every which way as she struts out the door. A few minutes later, my next client walks through the door, followed by Kendra and two other appointments, looking fabulous as always.

Kendra and I say our good mornings as I stand. “Heeeeey, diva,” I say, walking around the counter to give Bianca a hug. We embrace. I step back and take her in. She has her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her smooth chestnut-brown skin is absolutely glowing. “Bianca, girl, you look
great!
What in the world are you doing with yourself?”

She smiles. “Girl, besides finally planning for this wedding, which I
know
you had better be at, not a thing.”

“Girl,
please
. You know I'll be there front and center, with bells on. I wouldn't miss it for the world.” She follows me to the back, then takes a seat in my chair. “How's that handsome baby of yours?”

“Which one?” She chuckles. “Oh, you mean Cairo.” Bianca spent a month vacation over in North Africa and fell in love with Egypt, so she named her son after its capital. Her face lights up. “Girl, I am
so
in love with that child.” She opens her handbag, pulling out her phone, then showing me several pictures of him. And all I can say is, he's a gorgeous little boy.

“Ohmygod, he's so adorable,” I say, snapping the cape around her. “He needs to be doing print ads or commercials.”

She playfully swats at me. “Oh, no, girl. I'm not even trying to become one of
those
mothers. He can do all of that when he's grown and on his own.”

I chuckle. “So when's the big day?” She tells me in June. “Girl, you don't have much time. That's in like…”

She gives me a dramatic sigh. “Seven months. Don't remind me.
Between my mother and Garrett, I don't know who's going to drive me crazy first. My mother is already talking about flying in from San Diego to stay until the wedding.” I ask her whom she'd be staying with. “Girl, please. Not me.
Maybe
for a week or two, but that's about it. The way me and Garrett stay locked in our bedroom.” We laugh. “And,
don't
even get me started on him. All he wants to do is rush down to City Hall.”

I smile, truly happy for her. If this were three years ago, Bianca and I would be having another kind of conversation since she was—as she used to say, “allergic to relationshps” and against love. But, Garrett—who was initially one of her many man toys, chipped away at that wall and finally broke her resolve. She opened her heart and took a chance on him and love. And it's paid off. She seems and looks so happy. She is one of the fortunate ones. She has herself one of the good men out here.

She waves me on. “Please. Garrett swooped in, snatched me up, knocked me up, and got me strung the hell out, girl. And I ain't too proud to beg, okay. That man
knows
I'm not going anywhere. And he better not, either; especially now that I'm four months' pregnant with baby number two.”

“Girl, shut your mouth,” I say, spinning her around in my chair staring at her through the mirror. “Congrats! How many more do you think you'll have?”

She smiles wide. “Girl, one more, and that's it. But Garrett would have me pregnant every year if I'd let him. He's wants at least six kids. And I want to keep my shape, okay? So we compromised. I told him I'd give him three babies. But that's it. And even three is one too many if you ask me; especially the way this economy is.”

“Tell me about it.”

She lowers her voice. “Now enough about me. How are things
with you?” I tell her all is as good as it can be, considering the circumstances. I don't mention to her about the shootout. “Garrett told me to tell you if you need anything to make sure you call him. He doesn't care what time of the day or night it is.”

I smile, glancing over toward the door as Lamar walks in. He walks over to Mel, giving him dap. “I appreciate that. Believe it or not, the light at the end of the tunnel is getting brighter by the day.”

“Good. I really thought things would work out for the two of you.”

“Girl, it is what it is. Nothing in this life is promised to us, or guaranteed. Jasper and I shared what we've shared. And now it's time to move on. I'm so done.”

She smiles. “Good for you. And how's little Jaylen doing?”

Now it's my turn to beam. “He's fine. That little boy gives me life, girl.”

She nods knowingly. “Hopefully you and Jasper will be able to work through your differences for his sake. Lamar and I lock eyes briefly as he says “good morning” to everyone, heading toward the back.

“Time will tell,” I say, glancing up at the television. Kendra's client starts talking about the fires.

“Girl, that's some shit,” she says. “They said mad bodies got
burnt
up, too.”

Kendra keeps her eyes glued to her client's head, her fingers fast at work putting in her weave. “I heard there was some kinda shootout, first. Some Rambo niggas kicked in the doors, then started snuffin' niggas out left ‘n' right before they torched them spots up.”

“Girl, that's the same shit I heard,” her client says. “All I know is, whoever kicked in them doors ‘n' set them fires wasn't playin'. They asses meant business. And they
shut.
Shit.
Down.”

You got that right! And I'm not through!

My heartbeat quickens. The suspense of not knowing, not
ever
knowing—per Lamar and my “don't ask” agreement—what really went down this morning is a sweet torture that has me on the edge of an orgasm. I don't need, want, to know details, anyway. All I care is that the deed is done.

Seven more to go.
And each week I'm going to keep burning them all down until Jasper's ass is left with
nothing
. Then I'm going to finish his ass off—for good.

“Garrett and I were watching it all on the news this morning,” Bianca says, shaking her head. “It's tragic what happened.”

I turn her chair back around, hiding a look of satisfaction. “Girl,
yes,
it is. A real damn tragedy.”

A smart bitch never lets a nigga know her next move…

I
turn the cold water on, then splash some on my face. I glance up into the mirror, staring at my reflection. I'm exhausted. By the time I finished up with Bianca's hair this morning, the salon all of a sudden got packed, which is always a blessing given the way the economy is. Still I had hoped to leave early today. However, as you can see, that didn't happen.

I got hit with three walk-ins. One was a wash and curl, which wasn't a problem. Another wanted a perm and cut. Then there was a baldhead chick with double E breasts that wanted a sew-in weave, but didn't want anything done with her unibrow. Whatever. I had never seen her before, but she asked specifically for me. So, I took her. But it took me almost an hour and forty-five minutes to remove the raggedy shit she had glued up on her scalp. Fucking with her ass put me behind schedule. And the one thing I don't like to do is keep any of my clients waiting any longer than they have to.

I swear, I don't know what the hell these chicks are thinking when they let some makeshift beautician slap glue all up in their shit, especially a chick who doesn't have much hair to begin with.

Anyway, I love what I do. Wouldn't change anything about it. But some days I just don't have it in me to be on my feet all damn
day, listening to a bunch of cackling, gossiping-ass bitches. But then I see the finished product, the fruits of my creativity and labor, and the smiles on my clients' faces as they strut their new looks out the door, and it's all worth it—throbbing feet and all. Anyway, my last client walked up out of here thirty minutes ago. And Kendra finished her last appointent ten minutes after mine left.

Now the only two people still here in the shop are Mel and me. And all I want to do is lock up and get home so I can take off these clothes and curl up in my bed with a chilled bottle of chardonnay.

I splash more water on my face, replaying this morning's new over in my head. All day, the fires were the hot topic of the day. They appeared on every news channel and it's all clients talked about.

I bet Jasper's black ass is
sick
right about now! Stash houses down, street soldiers down.
Everything around you is going to crumble, nigga!

I reach for a towel and pat my face. Then brush my teeth and gargle. Finally I dig through the emergency make-up kit I keep under the sink and pull out an applicator of concealer to smooth out the puffiness under my eyes. When I am satisfied, I apply a coat of cherry wine lipstick over my lips, then a coat of lip gloss to make them pop. No matter how I might be feeling on the inside, I'll
never
let myself step out looking any kind of way.

I open the door, flicking off the light and stepping back out into my office. I jump.
“Ohmygod!
You scared the shit out of me. What are
you
doing here?”

Stax gets up from the sofa, removing his Brooklyn Nets fitted from his head. “My bad. Didn't mean to startle you, Pash. I wanted to come through to check on you. To make sure you're aiight.”

I rush over to my desk; an uneasiness in my stride, making a mental note to give Mel holy fucking hell when Stax leaves for
sending people to my office without alerting me first.
Mmmph. If Lamar were here, his ass wouldn't have gotten back here.

I raise my brow, eyeing him. He's wearing a long-sleeved True Religion T-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting jeans. I glance down at his Timb-clad feet, then back up at him.

“Do I
look
all right to you, Montgomery?”

He cringes. “Oh, wow…that's how you really doin' it, Pash?” No one in his personal space ever refers to him by his birth name. They either call him Monty or Stax—his street name. He rubs his chin, nodding. “I know you're goin' through it right now—”

I narrow my eyes to slits, cutting him off. “You don't know what the hell I'm going through.” I jab a finger in the air at him. “So don't stand there and try to patronize me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to finish up in here.”

His brown eyes search mine. There's a brief pause. And suddenly I'm feeling flustered. “Damn, it's like that, Pash? What's up with all the 'tude? I thought we were bigger than that, yo.”

I shift my eyes from his stare. “I thought so, too. But I guess I was wrong. Now do me a favor. Go run along to your puppet master. And be sure to let him know that the
next
time I pull my gun out on his ass, it
will
be to blow a hole in his face.” I stare him down for effect. He keeps his eyes locked on my glare. “Now, if you don't mind. You can see yourself out.”

He raises his voice slightly. “Puppet master?
Don't
get it twisted, Pash. Just because I ain't on no rah-rah type shit like the rest of the niggas in my circle, doesn't mean I'm some soft-ass cat. I'm not
anyone's
puppet. Believe that.”