Ruthless (40 page)

I end the call, pushing back from my desk to see who is up front trying to turn it up in my salon and disrupt my fucking day.

You'll never shake drama when it knows exactly where to find you…

A
s soon as I walk by the stylists' workstations, all eyes zoom in on me. Kendra slowly shakes her head, mouthing, “Cassaaaaandra.”

I roll my eyes, shaking my head, immediately annoyed that she'd have the fucking audacity to show her damn face here after assaulting me in my office. The minute I get to the front area, I spot her at the counter in a pair of ultra-tight jeans, wedge heels and a knit blouse that clings to her flat stomach and cantaloupe-size titties, with a hand up on her hip. She has her head covered in a silk wrap, with a matching scarf draped and wrapped around her neck. From the neck up, she reminds me of a Muslim woman.

I take a deep breath. Not in the mood for her antics. “How can I help you, Cassandra?” I say combatively, tilting my head.

“You can help me, first, by taking all that stank out your voice, Miss Pasha, girl. I ain't here to play no games with you. I'm here to get my hair did. And these ole big, buffed niggah-coons talkin' 'bout I'm not welcomed here. What kinda games you playin', huh?”

I give her an annoyed stare, raising a brow. “Cassandra, were you not asked to leave?”

She huffs. “Don't do me, Miss Pasha, girl. Don't. Do. Me. Yeah, these nigga-coons called theyselves puttin'
me
out. But I ain't goin'
no
…where…until I get my hair did.”

I tell her that I'll see if one of the other stylists is willing to fit her in. But that I'm not interested. She shakes her head, banging her fist up on the counter. “Oh, no. Oh, no. Not today. You
not
'bout to do me, Miss Pasha, girl, 'cause we 'bout to tear it up in here!” She sets her purse up on the counter. “You owe me, Miss Pasha, girl. And
you
better do me right, goddammit! Or we both goin' up outta here in handcuffs. You takin' cocks outta my home…”

Oh, God, no! This bitch is about to really set it off.
I cast a glance over at Mel. Everyone within earshot is looking from me to Booty, then at each other in confusion.

“That shit you pulled at Bobblehead's funeral wasn't cute, Miss Pasha, girl. And
you
gonna pay me for…”

I turn to Mel, deciding to get this loudmouth bitch out of earshot of prying eyes of clients, sitting or standing around wide-eyed and slack-jawed, waiting to hear what Booty's going to say next.

“Mel, will you escort Miss Simms to my office, please?”

I walk off, my heels angrily clicking the checkered tile as I quickly head back to my office.

“Don't do me. I don't need this ole big-dick thing escortin' me nowhere, goddammit.”

I ignore her.

“Now I came here tryna be classy, but I see you wanna kick it up to ghetto, huh, Miss Pasha, girl? I want my goddamn hair did. I got somethin' for yo' ass if you even try me in ya office today.”

The minute she steps into my office, I whip around to face her. “Cassandra!” I snap through clenched teeth. “You
shut
your.
Filthy. Ass. Mouth.
You want to be paid? Hold that thought.” I stalk over to my desk, unlocking the bottom drawer and yanking it open. I snatch out my handbag, opening it and pulling out my
checkbook. I slam it down on my desk.
“You
want to be paid”—I stab my pen into the check—“then let me
pay
you to be on your way.” I write out an amount, then rip out the check, shoving it to here. “Here. This should cover whatever pain and suffering you
think
I've caused you in that little fucked-up head of yours. Now get the hell out of my salon.” I spin on my heel, walking over to the door and swing it open. “Now. Get. Out.”

She stands in the middle of the room, staring down at the check, then over at me. “Oh, you a real dirty bitch, Miss Pasha, girl. Your messy ass really tryna do me, huh, Miss Pasha, girl.” She stamps her foot, pointing a finger at me. “I been goddamn good to you ‘n' you really tryna fuck me over.”

I blink. Give her an incredulous, confused look. “Fuck you over?
Whaaaat
in the world are you talking about?”

She tears the check up into tiny pieces, tossing it up on my desk. “You writin' me a goddamn check for twenty-thousand dollars tryna fuck up my benefits; that's
what
I'm talkin' 'bout, goddamn you, Miss Pasha, girl. Don't do me. You know I can't deposit this in my bank account ‘n' fuck up my section-eight and EBT benefits. And I ain't cashin' this down at no check-cashin' joint, so they can eat into my coins wit' their service fees. No. You gonna need to give me cash. And I want it in hundreds and fifties.”

I stare at her for a few seconds, waiting for the punchline, thinking maybe she's joking. When I realize she's dead serious, I burst out laughing. I laugh so hard that my sides begin to hurt and tears spring from my eyes. I'm more convinced than ever before.
This bitch is fucking crazy!

I grab hold of the edge of my desk, buckling over in more laughter. It takes me several more minutes to stop laughing. But the tears just keep falling and now I don't know if it's because I've been laughing so hard or if it's because I've held so much in and
it's finally nice to let go. I grab a handful of tissue, wiping my face and blowing my nose.

“Bitch, you owe me an apology,” I finally say, giving her a dirty look.

She scoffs, indignation all over her face.
“You.
Have. Got. To. Be.
Kidding
. Me! An
apology
? Uh.
You
owe me one. You ain't have no business stealin' shit from outta my home, goddamn you. That cock ain't belong to you.”

I start laughing again. “Oh, mygod! And you
think
it belonged to
you
? Full disclosure, sweetie; do tell.”

She huffs. “Well, it ain't
belong
to me. But
I'm
the one who sliced it off.”

“So you think it was okay for you to keep it as a keepsake, huh?”

I start laughing again.

“Oh, motherfuck you.” She joins in my laughter. “I can't stand shit you stand for. Now is you gonna do my hair or am I gonna have'ta turn up the ghetto heat up in here?”

I shake my head. Tell her to come back at seven o'clock tonight. “Now get the hell out.”

“Eat my ass, Miss Pasha, girl. Ole messy-ass self! And don't even think you gonna do a whoopty-wham on me ‘n' sneak up outta here early. “She glances at her watch. “It's four o'clock. I'm gonna be sittin' outside waitin' for ya ole sneaky ass. So don't do me. Matter of fact, I want me some mink lashes, too, today so you gonna need to get me in here
before
seven. And I want you to put 'em in. You owe me, goddammit!”

“Bye, Cassandra,” I say, walking her to the door. “I'll see you at five-thirty.” She walks out, smirking and shaking her ass, brushing up against Mel. And true to her word, her crazy ass parks her ass outside in a portable beach chair, playing music and turning the front of my salon into a damn block party. I'm too damn through!

A broken heart can mend…

“S
ee. Miss Pasha, girl. I ain't wanna tell you this 'cause I don't wanna ever have'ta bang you in ya forehead if you
ever
turn on me—‘n' believe me, sugah-boo, I'ma beat the drawz off you if you do me—but you the first real classy bitch I ever met.…”

I turn her in the stylist chair finishing up the final touches on the thirteen hundred-dollar weave I've installed. She doesn't need weaves. She has beautiful shoulder-length hair. But no matter how many times I try offering her other hair options, like Fusion hair extensions, she's not interested. So, I let her do her.

“Now, I'ma classy bitch, too, Miss Pasha, girl. But I'm hood-classy with my shit. But you elegant with your shit, Miss Pasha, girl; you one'a them high-end, classy bitches who like to do a lil' cum garglin' on the side…”

I cough, almost choking on my spit. “Ohmygod, girl! You're really pushing it. Don't have me burn your face with one of these flat irons. Is that supposed to be some kind of underhanded compliment?”

She gives me the eye. “What you think, Miss Pasha, girl? And don't even part ya cum-suckers ‘n' say I'm bein' messy. 'Cause you
know
that's not how I do mine with you. And I wish you would burn this beautiful face. We'll tear this shop up, sugah-boo.”

I slowly shake my head. “Girl, not a word.”

“Mmmph. Anyway. Wit' ya ole messy self. My only good friend is Dickalina, ‘n' she don't know shit 'bout classy. Shit, her ass can't
even spell ‘class.' Who you know spellin' ‘class' with the letter
K?
But she the only bitch I fuck with. And I know she kinda retarded ‘n' I don't judge. You know what I'm sayin', Miss Pasha, girl? But lately I ain't really even beat to fuck with her like how I used to. It hurts my eyeballs watchin' her be okay with what she got ‘n' her not wantin' more for herself. I mean I know she slow ‘n' all 'cause she got dropped on her head when she was a baby, so her skull all fucked up on the inside.”

I blink.

She sighs. “Miss Pasha, girl, I go over to Dickalina's tryna get her to move on up outta there. I tell her she can apply for section-eight ‘n' get her a nice house with a yard instead of comin' outta a dusty-ass buildin' to a buncha concrete ‘n' broken glass e'erywhere ‘n' the bitch don't wanna upgrade. All she wanna do is be right where she at, stuck in the projects with a buncha wild nigga-coons. It's depressin', Miss Pasha, girl.

“I hate goin' over there. I tell her ass to go to school ‘n' get her GED, then go to beauty school ‘n' get her paperwork so she can do hair at a shop somewhere ‘n' all this bitch wanna do is do wash ‘n' sets in her nasty-ass kitchen with all them damn dirty dishes in the sink ‘n' roaches crawlin' around, like they payin' rent. And this bitch talkin' 'bout ‘c'mon down to Dickalina's
Swish ‘n' Swirl'
…” She grunts, shaking her head. “Who the fuck wanna get they hair did at some damn Swish ‘n' Swirl? That mess sound like she suckin' the nut outta dicks ‘n' swishin' the shit 'round in her damn mouth. Nasty bitch! What she doin', cock wash ‘n' balls curls? Mmmph. Dickalina so stuck in bein' ghetto. Like she just don't wanna get her mind right. But I don't judge, you know what I'm sayin,' Miss Pasha, girl?”

I blink, deciding to not even address the “I don't judge” comment. It isn't worth the energy. “Listen, Cassandra. Sounds to me like what you're saying about your friend is advice you really should consider for yourself. Maybe for once you should
stop
focusing on what others aren't doing, and spend more time focusing on what
you
should be doing to improve who you are.”

She frowns. “Don't do me, Miss Pasha, girl. There ain't nothing wrong with
me
. See. Here you go tryna be messy.”

“I'm not
doing
you. And I'm
not
being messy. I'm being a friend—a
real
friend.” She grunts and I start laughing. “Cassandra. I can't with you. I don't know what the world would be like if there were more than one of you.”

“Mmmph. You sure can't, sugah-boo. And neither can the world. They ain't ready for a bitch like me. That's why there's only
one
Big Booty, okay? Don't do me. All the rest of them bitches might got them some big ole asses, but they ain't ever gonna be me. They just a buncha raggedy bitches with big asses.”

“You're a mess. Anyway, back to you,” I say, grabbing a flat iron, “stop being so defensive all the time, Cass. I'm not your enemy. I'm not trying to hurt you, girl. And, trust, hun. There
are
some things that
are
wrong with you, like some of your thinking. But there are also so much more that's right with you. And those are the qualities you should enhance. You're a little”—I shake my head—“uh, scratch that. There's nothing
little
about it. You're a whole lot rough around the edges. But I've seen that softer, vulnerable side of you, too. Underneath that hard exterior is a really sweet, kind-hearted woman who's afraid to let others in. But I'm really glad that you've allowed me to get a glimpse of that part of who you are.”

“Oooh, goddamn you, Miss Pasha, girl. Booga-coon,
boom!
I hate e'erything you stand for right now.” She turns her head away
from me, dabbing the corners of each eye. I eye her, letting silence fill the space around us. “You the first bitch,” she finally says, keeping her gaze away from mine, “who got me wantin' more, Miss Pasha, girl.…” She pauses, pressing her palm to her eye. A few seconds pass, then she sniffles. “Ooooh, I need me a lil' get right, goddammit. I need to get my mind right. Fuckin' with you gotta bitch feelin' all soft ‘n' gooey. Ooh, I can't stand no cryin', weepy-ass bitch, goddamn you, Miss Pasha, girl.”

She shifts in her seat. “And ya stank ass still owe me for puttin' me through all kinda stress. What was you gonna do, turn ya back on me 'cause we had a lil' sisterly fistfight? Mmmph.”

I blink.
“Sisterly?!
Cassandra, stop! You can't be serious. Not the way we were going at it in my office. We fought like two bitches trying to kill each other.”

She shoots me an evil eye through the mirror. “Like I said,
sisterly.
Should I spell it? Don't do me, goddammit. We sistergirls, Miss Pasha, girl. And sistergirls tear each other's ass up when they get messy. But they don't ever turn they backs on each other. You might not wanna forget it. Don't ever turn ya back on me, Miss Pasha, girl.”