Ruthless (22 page)

“It's the nigga whose balls I tried to bite off,” I push out.

“Yesssss, goddammit! Let's get this nigga-coon
tonight,
Miss Pasha, girl. Oooh, wait…let me go into the bathroom, so I can hear myself think, goddammit.”

“A nigga like me doesn't take no for an answer. I take the fuck what I want…dick-teasing, cum slut…”

“Did he see you?” I glance up at surveillance monitor and see Lamar coming into the salon, holding what looks like a manila envelope in his hand. He gives Mel dap. I watch as they talk,
wondering if either of them shared with the other how I've made their toes curl and their heads loll to the side with my dick-swallowing skills. If so, had they swapped stories? Had they huddled over a blunt and reminisced how I sucked the nut out of them, rolling the sweet, salty spunk around on my tongue before swallowing.

My mouth and pussy start to juice at the thought of them barging through the door with their hard cocks in hand, demanding to stuff them deep into my mouth, at the same time.

“Yessssss, goddammmit!” Booty screams into my ear, rudely snatching me back to reality. I press my thighs together. “Now what you say to me, sugah-boo?”

“I wanted to know if he'd seen you?”

“Yeah, the nigga-coon saw me; that's why I hurried up into the bathroom before he could come over ‘n' get all up in my face again…”

There's a light knock at the door as it slowly creeps opens. Lamar peeks his head in. And I wave him in. I watch as he walks in, my gaze gliding down to his groin, momentarily reveling in the memory.

My pussy grows wetter.

Lamar takes a seat in front of me, sliding the large envelope in his hand over to me. I give him a puzzled look.

“Open it,” he says, easing back in his seat; legs gapped open.

“Oooh, goddammit, Miss Pasha, girl. I feel like takin' a bottle to his goddamn fine-ass face. Mmmph. Here I was thinkin' 'bout givin' that nasty, no-good nigga-coon a lil' taste of this cootie-coo the next I saw him…”

I rip open the envelope.

“Before you tol' me all this shit 'bout his black-ass fuckin' in ya throat-box. Ole nasty fucker-bitch…!

My heartbeat quickens.

Inside is an eight-by-ten photo.

It's
him! Legend!

His dark-brown eyes stare back at me—mean and menacing. His masked face flashes in my head. His deep voice plays over in my head.
“I can't wait to tear that throat up…”

I open and close my hands a few times to steady them from shaking as I hold the picture up and study it. Lamar has handed me the key to the golden opportunity I've needed.

“I take the fuck what I want…”

On the lower-right corner, his stats are listed:
six feet, four inches, 245lbs.

I peer over the edge of the photo at Lamar with thankful eyes.

He acknowledges the gesture with a nod, smiling.

“Goddammit!” Booty snaps. “It's time, Miss Pasha, girl! Let's fish this nigga!”

“I…”

“Wait a minute, Miss Pasha, girl… Umm, 'scuse me, bitch. Why is you all down in my goddamn mouth? What, booga-coon, you tryna see how long my throat is…?”

I cringe.

Whoever she's checking must have said something slick back to her. The next thing I know, the sound of glass is smashing. “Bitch, next time I won't miss. Now get the fuck up outta here ‘n' wait 'til I'm done handlin' my goddamn business…”

I drop the photo on my desk. Taking a deep breath, glaring at it.

The butt of his gun tucked in his waistband flashes in my mind.

“Suck my balls, bitch…”

“You a dead bitch…you a dead bitch…you a dead bitch…”

The threat plays over and over in my head.

I quickly swallow the rage rising in my throat.

“Oooh, I can't stand me no messy-ass, nosey bitch,” Booty says, slicing into the mental recording playing in my head. “Now tell me, Miss Pasha girl, are you ready to start scratchin' niggas off the list?”

I pull open my top drawer and reach for my gun, looking over at Lamar as I lay it on top of the photo, over his face.

Lamar's head nods slowly in agreement.

“Yes,” I say, narrowing my eyes at the nigga's snapshot. “Tell me where you want to meet?”

A smart bitch uses her foes as her footstool…

A
t a quarter to one, Lamar and I patiently sit in wait discreetly parked outside of the Crack House—across the street, watching obnoxiously loud patrons stumble drunkenly in and out of its doors, allowing snatches of bass from the club's speakers to thump and vibrate its way out into the night air.

Lamar shakes his head. “Damn. Sounds like you'll fuck 'round ‘n' end up walkin' up outta there deaf the way that bass is vibratin'.”

I grunt, eyeing four hood-hoochies as they climb out of a black gypsy cab all dolled up in their best matching hooker getups—ultra-short, one-shoulder mesh dresses with fishnet stockings and silver-glitter, eight-inch platform sandals that they can barely walk in.

“Mmmph. Trickin' ain't easy,” I say sarcastically, shaking my head as one of the chicks' dresses is sucked up into her big bubble ass. She shakes her booty a few good times and the dress frees itself from her crack. The door opens and the bass pushes out sounding louder, heavier.

“So you ever been up in that spot?” Lamar wants to know, gesturing toward the club with his chin.

I shake my head, curling my lips in disgust. “Ugh. Never.” I keep my stare fixed on the door determined and ready to finally face one of my attackers, once and for all.

When Booty called me earlier in the evening, after all of her prodding and badgering, to meet her here to reel the nigga
L
into his own trap, we agreed on the time. Midnight. Then an hour after our conversation, I sent a text telling her I'd changed my mind. That something else came up. That we'd have to get at him some other time.

Truth is, I now have my own plans for Mr. Legend. That doesn't include her.

I frown when I see Shuwanda stepping out of the club in some one-piece jumper and wedge heels. She crosses the street, walking toward the parking lot packed with luxury cars and SUVs. For a second I think she can see me through the tinted glass when she looks over in the direction of the truck as she passes by. But all she sees are two dark outlines.

“Bitch,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes. I fight back the urge to hop out and punch her in her damn throat.

“What's her deal?” Lamar asks, reclining back in his seat.

I snort. “The messy bitch is one of my ex hairstylists.” I give him the rundown on how she used to slick about me to her customers, thinking the shit wouldn't get back to me. And how the bitch was stealing from me. Then when I confronted her ass about it, she tried to break fly and pop shit. I fired her. Then I had her ass black-balled from working in any of the surrounding black-owned salons.

Lamar nods, rubbing his chin. “Damn. That's fucked up. But when you doin' it like you, haters come wit' the territory.”

I shrug. “It is what it is. Them bitches don't validate me.” I glance at the digital clock. 1:27 a.m.
I wish this nigga would hurry the fuck on out of there.
I look over toward the club as a couple arguing comes staggering out the door. He's tall, thick and very muscular.
And obnoxiously fine. She's petite with big titties and no ass. They're both clearly lit up. And the chick's pissed off about something. A hand is up on her narrow hip. Her neck is zigzagging from left to right. An angry finger is waving up in his face.

He says something to her, then slaps her hand down, spinning off from her, heading in our direction toward the parking lot across from the club. Chick is hot on his heels still talking shit.

Mmmph. Hot trash,
I think, frowning at their matching wears. She's wearing a green-and-brown scooped-neck Camo mini-dress with a pair of dark-camel wedge sneakers. Her long fingernails are painted in bright multicolors and match the colorful yarn braids she has crocheted in her head.

Her boo-thang's hair is parted down the middle and pulled up into four sections of ponytails. He's wearing a pair of green-and-brown Camo cargo pants, a green long-sleeved T-shirt with orange lettering sprawled across his wide chest. I squint, trying to make out what the shirt says.

I blink.

“Ugh, I know his shirt doesn't say what I think it says,” I say more to myself. Lamar leans up in his seat, looking over in their direction.

He chuckles, reclining back in his seat. “Yup, it says what it says.”

P
USSY
E
ATER.

He stops at the curb, spinning around to face the motor-mouth in back of him, who has apparently punched him in his back. Now I'm curious to know what they're going at it about. I inch my window down until I can hear them.

“I don't appreciate you bein' up in some other bitch's face all night. That's why, nigga! I know that baldheaded bitch ain't suckin' your dick like I do. You all up dat musty bitch's face at da bar ‘n'
buyin' her drinks ‘n' you know the cable bill ain't even been paid, yet! So, what she doin', huh, Knutz? Lickin' your ass when I don't wanna lick it?”

Knutz?

I blink, then squint, taking in everything about him. His menacing voice, his body, his bulging muscles, the way he's manhandling and smacking up that Dickalina chick…my eyes widen.
“Yo, ma, you pretty as fuck. But I will beat you the fuck up…”

I swallow back a wad of uncertainty.

“I'm tired of this shit wit' you, Knutz! Don't I let you use my EBT-card whenever you wanna buy your beers ‘n' shit. You know dat shit's illegal ‘n' I can lose my benefits doin' dat. But I love you. And all you wanna do is run 'round stickin' ya dick in these ole skank-ass, dirty bitches! You done brought me home five STDs already! And I ain't goin' down to the clinic for no more gawtdamn shots. And da last time you really had me all fucked up when I had da gonorrhea in my throat! I'ma good loyal bitch to you ‘n' all you do is shit on me! Why you keep cheatin' on me, huh, Knutz? Don't I give you all the pussy you want, huh?”

“Mygod,” I say, pressing my face to the window. “This better than going to the movies. These two ghetto-ass fools are out of control.”

Lamar grunts. “Stupid-asses.”

“Yeah, you let me pound dat shit out when ya shit ain't all stank wit' yeast ‘n' shit.” She tries to slap him. But he grabs her wrist, pushing her backward. “Yo, Dickalina, don't have me buss yo' ass out here. I ain't fuckin' playin' wit' ya retarded ass!”

She stamps her heeled foot, yelling at the top of her lungs unconcerned about who overhears. “I ain't playin' wit' you either, nigga! My pussy be stankin' 'cause you keep fuckin' them stank-ass sewer rat bitches! And I ain't fuckin' retarded! I'm just a lil'
slow, nigga! I tol' you 'bout callin' me dat shit! I can't help it my momma was tryna cook up her work ‘n' dropped me on my head when I was a baby. You ain't shit, Knutz! I shoulda listened to Booty ‘n' never fucked wit' ya ass in da first place after I tol' her I met you in the visitin' hall when I was goin' to the prison to see my other boo.

“She said you was a no-good bum-ass nigga. And she right! All I do is let you use me, nigga! I let you ‘n' ya bum-ass nephew Killah lay up on my Section-8 ‘n' you know all I got is a two-bedroom. I'm packin' ya shit ‘n' tossin' you ‘n' his trifilin' ass out tonight! Candy and Clitina ain't got no gawtdamn business havin' to see him layin' up on my sofa playin' wit' his big dick e'ery night. And I shouldn't have'ta be on watch e'ery fuckin' night tryna make sure Clitina's ass ain't in there tryna suck that ole long nasty dick!”

Lamar sucks his teeth. “Yo, them muhfuckas is wildin' out wit' this shit. They need to take that bullshit home.”

I can't lie. Watching these two is like watching a horrible train wreck, but you're too damn stuck in disbelief to turn away from it. She says something about the chick in the bar probably having a dick between her legs because she looks like a man. Then she adds, “For all I know, nigga, you prolly suckin' it or lettin' her fuck you in da ass wit'—”

She doesn't get the rest of her words out before he takes his big hand to her face, smacking the shit out of her. In a flash, his free hand is around her neck, lifting her feet up off the ground. She screams at the top of her lungs, swinging her arms, punching and clawing at him to no avail as he violently shakes her.

I gasp. “Ohmygod, that crazy nigga's really trying to crush her neck.” I look over at Lamar. “Don't you think we should do something?”

Lamar frowns. “Hell nah. She's used to that shit. Let them niggas
fight. Tomorrow that broad'll be right back suckin' his dick again wit' her sockets all punched in.”

He punches her in the mouth, then upside the head. Her head snaps with each blow, snot and spittle and blood flying everywhere. But he doesn't knock her out. For a tiny chick, she surprisingly takes her ass whipping with grace as he punches her again, then throws her to the ground. Her body hits the concrete, hard.

She screams at the top of her lungs for help. Pleads with him to leave her alone. Makes all kinds of crazy-ass promises to suck his dick, let him piss on her the next time he wants it, as long as he stops hitting her. But the nigga is too far-gone to be reasoned with.

I literally feel sick. Regardless of what I think about Booty's special-needs girlfriend, she's still a woman, first. And I'm still my sister's keeper whether I want to be or not. I dig down in my bag and pull out my stun gun.

Lamar raises his seat. “Yo, where you goin'?”