Ruthless (4 page)

Then there were other times, now that I'm sitting here thinking
about it, that that ho would disappear for hours anytime we traveled somewhere, then she'd pop back up out of the blue with her lips all shiny, looking all disheveled. That cock-hopping bitch was a whore, too. Yet, she wanted to pop shit to
me
about fucking over a good man. Bitch, please!

“I figured I'd try you one more time before I called Nana,” Andre says, snapping me out of my reverie. Truth is, he'd tried calling me several times yesterday, but I kept letting his calls roll over into voicemail. Now the thought of Nana being dragged into Felecia's disappearance almost makes me wish I hadn't had her body tossed in flames. “I called out from work yesterday and spent all day calling the area hospitals in case something had happened to her…” His voice cracks. “Pasha, I know this might sound kinda fucked up, but I kinda hoped something did happen to her and she was in one of those hospitals. At least I'd know where she was.”

I twirl a strand of hair through my fingers. “Andre, I don't know what to tell you. There's no telling where she is. Like I said, I haven't heard from her. And as you know she and I aren't on the best of terms right now.”

He sighs. “Yeah. I heard. Which is why I was glad to hear y'all were meeting Sunday to talk things out, feel me? The two of you have been too close to let whatever beefs y'all are having now to come in between you.”

I roll my eyes. “Well, she was a no-show, so obviously mending fences wasn't on the top of her things-to-do list. I guess she had something more important to deal with.”

“This isn't like her,” he mutters, sounding as if he's struggling to keep his emotions in check. “She's never not come home. I think something serious has happened to her.”

“Well, good luck with finding her,” I say nonchalantly. The need to keep up the act of feeling concerned is wearing thin.

“If by chance you hear from her before I do, can you call me?”

I shake my head. He sounds so pitiful. I'm convinced I've done him a favor getting rid of her ass. “Sure,” I say, reaching for the backpack Lamar left for me, and peeking inside. I inhale deeply. The smell of sweet revenge fills my nostrils. I hold it in my lungs, then slowly exhale. “What's your number?” He rattles it off, then says something about calling Nana before calling the police. I cringe. “Well, you take care, Andre. It was good hearing from you.”

“Yeah, you too, Pasha.”

I prepare to disconnect.

“Uh, Pasha?”

“Yes?”

“Listen. Not that it's any of my business. I know how close you and Felecia were. But what really happened between the two of you?”

“What did she tell you happened?”

“She didn't. She danced around the question. Said something about you believing a bunch of lies some chick told you she supposedly had said about you. But none of it made any sense to me. So I'm hoping you'd tell me.”

“Mmmph. Are you sure you really want to know, Andre?”

“Yeah.”

“The bitch fucked Jasper.”

If not weaved carefully, the web of deception can ensnare even its deceiver…

I
place the phone back on its receiver, pulling out my laptop. I turn it on, then wait for it to boot up. A few seconds later, I'm clicking into my server, opening AOL. I log into my Deep Throat Diva email account, and I am immediately alerted that I have new mail. There are three emails. All from MydickneedsUrtongue2.

Immediately, the hairs on the back of my neck go up. I pull in my bottom lip, clicking on his first email.
Yo wat's good witchu? U gonna front on dis dick or gonna be 'bout ya business n be ready to put in dat neck work? Hit a nigga back, yo. I got dis hard dick waitin for u to guzzle up witcha freak ass.

I roll my eyes.
Thirsty-ass nigga!
I specifically told this asshole when I reached out to him on Sunday that I'd send him an email
this
Thursday to confirm whether or not I'd meet him for what he thinks will be for one of my deep throat specials. But this loony-ass motherfucker too stuck on crazy. Mmmph. Yeah, I have something especially
deep
for his ass all right. But it's damn sure not this throat.

I open his second email.
Yo wat's poppin' witchu? U gonna eat da nut outta dis big dik or wat, yo? Don't get back on da dumb shit. A nigga horny for some'a dat throat. Get at me, yo

I open the third email. There are two attachments. One is of his hard-ass dick. The other is a video sent from his iPhone. I open it.
Ohmygod!
It's a five-minute video of his nasty-ass stroking his
long, black dick. His face isn't shown, just his lower body. And instead of turning it off, I sit and watch it until the very last end when a thick wad of white thick cream shoots out of his dick. I play it again, disturbingly turned on by the way his hand slowly glides up and down as he holds it upward, then back and forth as he points it straight out toward the lens and his nut shoots out like a cannon.

The third time I replay it, I try to convince myself that it's simply to look for any clues that might potentially lead me to him. There are none.

I hit the
REPLY
button, then type.
Oooh, daddy, yessss! You have that big hood dick! Luv, luv, luv watching you stroke that long, black dick! Thanks for video. Yes, I'm still going to suck the nut out of your big, thick dick. This long throat is wet and ready. I can't wait to have you down in my neck. I'm so ready to suck down more than one round of all of your gooey, thug milk. I'll email you on Thurs. to confirm for sure if I can meet you Fri. night.

I press
SEND
, then quickly pull out my cell and call James. He picks up on the third ring. “Hey, you. Good to hear your voice,” he says, sounding all cheery. “I haven't forgotten about what we talked about last weekend. I got sidetracked. It's a little crazy around here. I should have everything you need later on this evening.”

I roll my eyes. Steady my voice to keep the sarcasm from coming out too thick. “Good.” There's another email from Mydickneeds Urtongue2. “I need this handled ASAP. Please, and thank you.”

“I promise you, I'm on it.”

“I really hope so,” I say, opening the email.
I need this nigga shut down quick!
I lower my voice to almost a sultry whisper. “The sooner you handle this for me, James, the sooner I can handle
you
.” I tell him this with no real interest, but as a little motivation to light a fire under his horny, cheating ass. Some niggas seem to need an
extra push to get shit done when it isn't something important to them.
“If
that's what you still want. Or maybe you can't handle it.”

“Oh I want it all right,” he says, sounding as if he's ready to shove his dick through the receiver and into my mouth in any second. “Consider it handled.”

“Don't keep me waiting, James. Or I'll have to find me someone who can give me what I need.”

“Now hold on, baby. Not so fast. I got everything you need right here. Give me until the end of the day.”

I disconnect, reading Mydick's email.
Yo, freak u got my dik hard AF!! Make dat shit happen yo. NO BS. Ya heard? Real shit yo. I want you suckin' on my shit now, right now!!! But I'ma wait 'til Friday yo. Do whatever da fuck u gotta do to get dis hard dik! Don't front on me yo!! Dis hard dik needs dat tongue up on it!

“Oh trust, nigga,” I mutter to myself, forming a plan in my head fit for a sick motherfucker like him. “I'm going to do everything I can to get at you. When you least expect it.” Shutting my laptop, I slide it in my desk drawer, lock it, then push up from my desk and walk into my bathroom. I take a quick look at my reflection in the mirror, shaking my head.
Fucking Jasper! I fucking hate you for putting me through all of this.

Bitch, you and your dick sucking is what put your ass in this predicament in the first place!

Whatever!

I run a hand along the nape of my neck. Attempt to knead out the tension coiling around my neck.

We've both made choices. We've both drawn lines in the sand. And we've both crossed them. Now this shit between us has gotten messy.

And it's going to get even messier.

Because of him, I've become this hateful, vicious…now
murderous
…bitch!

Felecia.

One bullet. And it was over. The back of her skull splattered open, her brain a bloody, clumpy mess.

Those niggas bodied in the stash house fires—sons, brothers, fathers, lovers, friends—all casualties caught up in the crossfires.

Shot up.

Burned up.

Dead.

Because of me.

Because of Jasper.

I close my fists tight to keep my hands from shaking.

Bile rises in my throat and I feel the rushing need to vomit.

The realization—the weight of my own actions, the knowing that more than likely, they'll be more bodies dropped before this is all over—causes my stomach to churn. I flip up the toilet seat, and toss my guts up, clutching the sides of the bowl.

Maybe I should rethink this. That's what a part of me fights with. To leave everyone else out of this, so that no one else gets hurt or loses their life for something that really has nothing to do with them. This ugly war is between Jasper and me.

He's the real target.

Yet, there's the other part of me that says they all deserve to get it too. All of them. Every last one of them niggas on Jasper's team made conscious decisions to jump into a fire that had nothing to do with them.

So now they all have to get burned to ash.

I know, even if I wanted to there's no turning back now.

It is the only way poetic justice can be dished out.

It is the only way it will be served.

When I am done throwing up and dry-heaving, I flush the toilet, then walk over to the sink, washing my hands and rinsing out my mouth. I brush my teeth, then rinse, keeping my gaze locked on my reflection in the mirror.

Despite flying all night, despite trying to deal with all of these conflicting emotions, my face, my eyes, defy what's really going on in my heart and head.

I sigh, fussing with a few strands of stray hair, then shut off the light and head out into the front area of the salon. I honestly feel like I'm spinning in a vicious wheel of tit-for-tat.

I suck dick behind Jasper's back. Jasper finds out. He feels betrayed, which he was. Feels hurt, which he should. Then becomes vindictive.

And now I am retaliating.

The wheel is spinning fast.

We are both playing a far more dangerous game than Russian roulette.

It's a game of vengeance.

In the end, I can only wonder who'll really win.

“Pasha Nivea Allen, will you marry me?”

“Yes, baby.”

“I'm givin' you my heart, Pasha. Whatever you do, don't play me, yo.”

“I promise, baby. I won't.”

But I did.

And now look at us. Look what we've become.

Two warring ex-lovers hell-bent on destroying the other.

Shaking the thought of what used to be from out of my head, I take a deep breath and finally step into the spotlight, smiling, pretending—already plotting my next move.

Sometimes it's the ones you love who hurt you the most…

A
t a quarter to three in the afternoon, Booty comes strutting into my office in all of her dramatic ghetto-fabulousness. I haven't seen or spoken to her since Saturday when she came in to get her hair done. She shuts the door behind her, bringing in with her one of her signature scents, Viva La Juicy by Juicy Couture.

“Yes,
FahverGawd
, we got shit to do, Miss Pasha, girl. And the clock is tickin', sugah-boo.” She claps her hands together for emphasis. “Tick-tock, tick-tock. Where you been? I couldn't get ahold of you for the last two days.”

I tell her I had some last-minute business to handle out in L.A. There's no need for her or anyone else to know that I've temporarily moved Jaylen out there until this shit with Jasper is over with. Or until Jasper drags me into court for visitation and I'm court-ordered to return him. I know what I've done by relocating Jaylen to California without Jasper's permission, since he is his father, could technically be considered criminal under different circumstances. But, given what's rapidly unfolded over the last week, my actions are justified.

She twists her lips, taking a seat in one of the chairs across from me. “And you ain't think to return any of my calls, either, huh?” She rolls her eyes, tossing her thirty-eight hundred-dollar Marine
monogram tote bag in the chair next to her. The bag came out in 2011 and is hard to come by now as it's a limited-edition piece. But this hood diva comes in here with it draped in the crook of her arm. She tosses her bang from over her left eye, peering at me. “You need to get ya mind right, Miss Pasha, girl.”

“That Louis bag is sharp,” I say, changing the subject. Flattery always sidetracks this attention whore. “I am so hating you right now.”

She waves me on, crossing her legs. “Oh, this old thang. Sugah-boo, you know how I do it. I had to pull out a classic ‘n' give it to these thirsty coon-bitches real good today. You know these low-budget bitches ain't used to no high-end, exclusive shit.”

I shake my head. “You're a real mess.”

“But I ain't ever messy, sugah-boo.”

“Unh-huh.”
Chile, please! If you wanna keep believing that lie, then
go right on ahead.
“So what'd you end up doing over the weekend?”

She smacks her glossed lips. “Well, I ain't get me no damn dingaling, that's for sure. Miss Pasha, girl, I had to take me a quick road trip down to D.C.”