Ruthless (41 page)

I choke back a rushing wave of emotions. I set the flat iron down and grab the comb to finish styling her hair. “I'll be sure to never forget that.” I lean in and wrap my arms around her. “Messy or not, you're all right with me, Cassandra.”

“Oooh, you'se a real dirty bitch, Miss Pasha, girl. I can't stand shit you stand for.” She turns her head from the mirror, casting her gaze downward as she rummages through her handbag. She pulls out a tissue and dabs her eyes. “Finish up my goddamn hair, so I can get the hell on up outta here. You ain't even 'bout to do me, goddammit. And mess up these four hundred-dollar mink lashes.”

I can't even… mmph. I shake my head, spinning her around in the chair one last time. She turns her head. My heartstrings tug as Booty fights to keep me from seeing this side of her. I unsnap the cape from around her neck, handing her a mirror and glancing up at the clock. Nine o'clock at night.

“See. You shitted ya drawz, Miss Pasha, girl. Lashes right, weave right. Mmph. Can't a bitch serve me, but you, sugah-boo.” She gets up from her seat, opening up her clutch, then counting two grand. She hands it to me, telling me to keep the change. I shake my head. “I think I'ma collect on the rest of that debt you owe me, Miss Pasha, girl.” She tucks her purse under arm.

I blink. “Oh, you want me to write you that check after all. Why don't I just give you back your money? I already told you everything'd be on the house for a year.”

She toots her lips, giving me the evil eye. “Don't do me. And I tol' you I got me sponsors to maintain my upkeep. And, no, I don't want a check. I want them dead presidents. But tonight, we goin' out to celebrate, goddammit!”

I frown.
“Out
to celebrate what?”

She bucks her eyes. “To the death of a no-good, dirty nigga; that's what we celebratin'. You free, Miss Pasha, girl. You can suck you a lil' dingaling now wit'out that ole crazy coon tryna do you. You can suck you down a nut wit' peace of mind now, sugah-boo.”

I roll my eyes, sucking my teeth. “Oh, whatever.” I tell her she can have a whole year of salon services for free as my way of repaying what she thinks I owe her, but I'm not interested in going anywhere near The Crack House.

She tilts her head. “You'se a lie. Don't do me, Miss Pasha, girl. What I need free goddamn salon services for when I keep me sponsors to keep my nails ‘n' hair did? You ain't makin' no sense,
Miss Pasha, girl. Think ‘n' stop tryna be messy. You goin' out wit' me for stealin' JT's cock,
tonight
, ‘n' that's that,
so
you might as well get yo' mind right. You owe me. Now go get yo' wears right. And don't play no games, Miss Pasha, girl. Be ready by ten thirty. Matter of fact, I'ma sit right here ‘n' entertain”—she points over at Mel—“that big ole hunky, chunky six-stacks of sexy man meat sittin' over there while you clean up. Then we gonna all walk outta here together wit' yo' ole sneaky-ass.”

I shake my head. I can't help but chuckle at her ass as I straighten up my area, then move toward the back to my office. I shut my door, then go to my closet, unlocking it, then rolling a trunk out and pulling up a floorboard, which hides the customized floor safe. I slide all the receipts and earnings for the day inside, then lock it, putting everything back. I go into the second safe in the wall where I keep emergency cash, pulling out four stacks of hundred-dollar bills totaling ten grand. I stuff the money into my handbag, then lock everything up, shutting off my light and locking my office door.

There are no coincidences; only moments of opportunity…

“S
ugah-boo, I
knew
I was a bad bitch when I was young and hot in the ass, goddammit,” Booty says, peering at me over the rim of her Gucci wraparounds. It's pitch-dark out and I'm still trying to figure out why she has on shades. But, okay.

Anyway, we've been sitting out in her truck, talking. Well, she's talking. I'm listening as she confides in me things about her childhood and life that she's never shared with anyone else. Like how every nigga she ever let run up in her raw wasn't because she wanted
him
to love
her
, but that she wanted him to
leave
her with
something
she could love even when he was long gone. How she wanted lots of babies she could love and know they'd love her back no matter how fucked up she felt inside because she'd always do her best by them. And she knew babies and kids loved unconditionally. How she'd never turn her back on them the way her mother and grandmother had done her, which is why she's hard on them and overprotective of them at the same time.

She's shared all of this and more. Things I never knew about her. Or never really cared to ask. Or never cared about…until now. Booty isn't the type of chick I would have ever aspired to be with, or get to know, outside of the salon.

But here I am.

And here we are sitting outside, at almost midnight, two unlikely souls, somehow bonding, forming a very strange—yet, endearing—friendship that I never would have guessed, or imagined, possible.

I look over at her and smile. “Girl, you're
still
a bad bitch.”

She snaps her head back, smacking her lips. “Miss Pasha, girl, don't do me. I
know
I'm still a bad bitch, sugah-boo. I ain't need you to remind me. But, thanks, I guess. Annnnyway, I was real grown back then with real grown titties ‘n' a real grown juicy ass. And a bitch couldn't tell me shit, especially after I started fuckin'. Oooh, yes, gawd, Trigger—Jah'Mel and Darius's
fahver
—that no-good, big-dick, gun-happy nigga-coon, showed me how to make this cootie-coo skeet. Yes, lawd, he fucked my drawz inside out, Miss Pasha, girl.” She clutches her chest, shaking her head and waving a hand in the air. “Ooooh, I was so hot-in-the ass for the dingdong back then, Miss Pasha, girl…”

I shake my head, laughing. “Cassandra, girl. I can't with you. You
still
hot-in-the-ass.”

“Ooooh, Miss Pasha, girl. I can't stand
shit
you stand for, goddammit. You stay tryna do me, sugah-boo. You know I
love
me some good goddamn dingaling, yes, lawd! But don't even get cute, sugah-boo; you like you a whole lotta cock-a-doodle-doo, too. So don't do me with ya ole cock-washin' ass. That's what got ya sneaky-ass in all that shit in the first place. But I ain't even goin' there with ya ole sensitive-ass 'cause you know I don't do messy.”

I feign insult. “Ohmygod, Cass, I am
not
sensitive.”

She toots her lips, raising a brow. “Sugah-boo,
boom-boom!
You'se a lie. The last time I said somethin' 'bout ya dick-suckin' ways, ya ass turned up the gas ‘n' took it to a bitch's head. Oooh, you did me right, goddammit! But you really ain't have'ta do me
upside the head with that gun like that. You had'a bitch seein' stars. Oooh, it made me nut my drawz, goddammit. Now
that's
how a bitch s'posed to bring it, if she gonna do me. You gave it to me rough ‘n' dirty. And, sugah-boo, you the
first
bitch who
ever
wet my drawz right in a fight!

“But, yes, gawd, you ain't the only cum-guzzler on deck. I can suck a mean dingaling, too, Miss Pasha, girl. Prolly not as good as yo' ole dick-swallowin' ass. You prolly make a nigga-coon's asshole whistle when you suckin' that thang-a-lang-a-lang. And don't think I ain't see how Stax was droolin' ‘n' lookin' all cross-eyed ‘n' googly-eyed at you at Miss FeFe's funeral. His eyeballs stayed bouncin' 'round the room tryna act like he ain't seein' you. I
know
you done had them ole fluffy dick suckers wrapped around his dingaling. You prolly done fucked him, too. Ole nasty stank-ass.”

I crack up laughing. “You know what, Booty, motherfuck you, goddammit. No comment. Your ass is a hot damn mess.”

“Uh-huh, but you know I ain't
ever
messy. But, annnnnyway, Miss Pasha, girl, as I was sayin' before you cut me off…”—she takes a long pull off her blunt—“… you sure you don't want you none'a this, sugah-boo?” I shake my head. Tell her no. She twists her lips, blowing smoke out of the cracked window. “Mmmph. Don't think I'm givin' up on ya ass. One'a these days I'ma get ya ole high-class ass to roll ‘n' burn with me. I'ma get ya ass lit up like a damn torch.”

“Um,
sugah-boo,”
I say jokingly. “Good luck. Let me know how you make out with that.”

She grunts. “I ain't goin' there with you right now 'cause we on a mission.” She bangs the palm of her hand on the steering wheel. “Yes, gawd, Miss Pasha, girl. Them nigga-coons gonna fall out ‘n' shit they drawz when they see us two bad-ass, classy bitches steppin' up
in this muthasucka tonight, goddammit. I'ma turn up the gas on them nigga-coons, goddammit. Yes, fahvergawd!”

I groan.

She pulls her shades down, peers over the rim. “Don't do me. Anyway, back to Trigger's ole grimy-ass. If he didn't get his dumb-ass locked up and get them football numbers, ain't no tellin' how I woulda turned out. A bitch prolly woulda been wild ‘n' crazy…”

I shoot her an incredulous look. “Uh, and you don't
think
you're already wild and crazy?”

“Sugah-boo,
boom, boom!
Now, I might kick up the gas ‘n' light a nigga-coon up when he tryna do me ‘n' I might even snatch a bottle or two off the bar ‘n' take it to a booga-coon's head when she tryna be messy, but I ain't hardly wild ‘n' crazy. Shit, Miss Pasha, girl. I was on my own way before Beulah's ole rotten ass ever tossed me outta her house. Shitty-bitch! Oooh, goddammit!

“E'ery time I think 'bout that ole nasty bitch, leavin' her ole crusty, pissy-ass drawz in the middle of the bathroom floor, wantin' me to cook ‘n' clean ‘n' rub her ole nasty, swollen-ass feet, lookin' like goddamn pig hoofs, then the bitch callin' me all kinda names, callin' me all kinda ugly bitches ‘n' sayin' I ain't ever gonna be shit 'cause I ain't shit, tellin' me I ain't ever gonna be nothin' but an ole junkie crack-whore like my momma. That hateful-ass bitch tried to tear my spirits, Miss Pasha, girl. Mmmph. Let a bitch keep tellin' her babies they ain't shit, that they ain't worth shit, that ain't nobody gonna ever love 'em, ‘n' see how fast they start eventually believin' that shit.

“So, Miss Pasha, girl. All my life I been fightin'. And I'm still fightin'. Fightin' to prove stank-ass Beulah wrong, that
I am
somebody. The bitch's dead ‘n' I'm still tryna show that bitch that I ain't none'a the shit she said I was, or was gonna be. Oooh, I wish that bitch was still alive. I'd beat her ass dead, goddammit!”

I reach over and grab her hand, choking back upsurges of sadness as she shares. “You don't have to prove shit to her, or anyone else.”

“I know I don't. But I still do 'cause I'm so mad at the bitch for dyin' on me before I could show that bitch that I ain't a junkie, crack-whore…” She gives me a sly grin. “Well, I
do
do me a lil' whorin', but I ain't whorin' for no damn crack. And I ain't somewhere doin' molly-whops ‘n' drinkin' syrups ‘n' all other kinda dumb shit. I do my weed. Do my drinks ‘n' my hard damn dingaling. And I ain't givin' none'a that up. Maybe the weed one day”—she takes another pull from her blunt, then shakes her head—“no, gawd, I ain't givin' this good shit up, either. And I'm definitely not givin' up on no dingaling, no, gawd! Hard dingaling makes this cootie-coo go
boom-boom,
Miss Pasha, girl!”

“Anyway, I been fightin' to keep niggas from tryna do me. Fightin' to keep bitches from tryna do me. Fightin' to keep all my kids together. Fightin' to make sure they stay clothed ‘n' they black asses in school. Fightin' to keep from ever goin' hungry or bein' on the streets. All I know how'ta do is fight. And, yes,
Fahver
Gawd,
I'll take it upside a nigga-coon's head if they fuck with me, my kids, or any-damn-body I got me some love for.”

I turn my head toward the window, quickly dabbing the tear that escapes from my eye as I watch people spill out of luxury cars, blinged-out hoopties, and gypsy cabs all piped out in their wears to get their party on. I say a silent pray.

Booty quickly flicks the rest of her blunt out the window, then flips down the visor, sliding open the lighted mirror. She digs into her purse and pulls out a designer compact.

“And bitch,” she starts as she glides a fresh coat of lipstick over her plush lips, “you
still
ain't said shit 'bout how you got into my house ‘n' got JT's dingaling up outta my freezer. And you
still
ain't say whether you sucked it or sautéed it.” She pauses, smacking her
lips together, then fussing with her bang. “But I ain't even gonna press. You owe me, goddammit.”

“And I'm paying up now, aren't I?”

She grunts, tooting her lips up. “Mmmph. Legend dead. Felecia dead. Jasper dead. And JT's cock gone. But
you
ain't had nothin' to do wit' nothin', huh, Miss Pasha, girl?”

I glance at her, feigning insult. “Ohmygod. How could you think such a thing? That would make me the judge, jury, and executioner. And you know I don't have it in me to be any of those things.”

She twists her lips up, pulling her shades down and crossing her eyes. “Uh-huh, if you say so. And my ass is flat. I know you an ole ruthless bitch underneath all that cuteness ‘n' finery, sugah-boo. So don't do me.”

I don't say a word, turning my head and glancing over at the club. I blink several times as if I'm hallucinating when I spot someone who looks like Stax behind the wheel of a metallic-silver Benz G550, but I quickly dismiss it as silly because I've never known him drive anything flashy, let alone an SUV with that kind of six-figure price tag.