Ruthless (42 page)

Booty snaps her compact shut, tossing it back into her bag. “Miss Pasha, girl, c'mon, let's go up in here ‘n' turn the booty heat up on these coons.” I suck my teeth, sighing. “Mmmph. Suck all you want. But I tol' you, you owe me. So time to pay up.”

My stomach knots as I get out of her truck.
Okay, girl. It's only one night. You got this,
I think, as she sets the alarm.
It won't be that bad.

Booty comes around and links her arm through mine, our heels clicking against the cement in sync as we make our way up the sidewalk toward The Crack House. “And Miss Pasha, girl,” she says, rolling a piece of gum in her mouth. “You gonna have some Clit Lickers or a few Wet Drawz wit' me, too, goddammit!”

I shake my head. “Ohgod, no. Not Wet Drawz, please. I'll have me a Cosmo.”

She sucks her teeth. “Don't do me, sugah-boo. They aint servin' none'a that dainty shit up in here. But don't worry. I'ma have Big Mike do you up right. I tol' him all about you, so he gonna have a special drink on deck for you.”

I groan. “Ohgod. What is it?”

She laughs. “The Dick Sucker, Miss Pasha, girl. What else. Don't play, sugah-boo. Isn't that what you do best?” I can't help but join in her laughter as the glass doors open and I'm smacked in the face by the loud, booming sound of bass pumping out of massive speakers as Jay-Z and Kanye West's “Welcome to The Jungle,” their latest song, bounces off the walls.

“Yessssss, goddammmmit!” Booty screams, throwing a hand up in the air and bouncing her ass, zigzagging her way through the crowd. “Ohhh! Ohhh! We gonna light some candles ‘n' do some fuckin' tonnnnnight…yesssss, yesss! Welcome to the jungle, welcome to the jungle, goddammit!” She dips down low, then pops back up and grabs my hand, pulling me along. “Yesss, gawd! It's packed up in here wit' dicks ‘n' hoes!”

I blink. The crowd is wild. It's so packed in here. We're not even through the club good and niggas are all up on Booty, likes she's a goddess or hood celebrity. And she turns it out right in the middle of the floor. She's in her glory. And they're even trying to press up on me, licking their lips, and eyeballing me like I'm the Last Supper.

“Oooooh, Miss Pasha, girl! Mmmph. Look at Stax's ole fine, big-dick self all jeweled up ‘n' juicy over at the bar! Yessss, goddammit! Verrrrrry special! Fuck the flowers ‘n' gifts; you gonna get you some dingaling tonight! Yesss! Yessss! Yesss, goddammit, welcome to the jungle!”

Mygod, it's a zoo in here! And booty's the Zookeeper.
I clutch my purse to my chest, feeling so out of place. I spot Stax with his back to us. Whomever he's with, nods their head in our direction, causing him to crane his neck. Our eyes meet. And his butter-soft, pussy-eating-toe-sucking lips ease into a sly grin.

Yeah, I'm going to need me something real strong to drink to get through tonight. And a Dick Sucker isn't it!

There is deliverance in death…

A
nother funeral. Another closed casket, I think staring at the portrait of the man I had loved, then hated, then wished dead. And eventually tortured.

When Stax saw me in the club with Booty three nights ago, he'd asked if I wanted anything special for Jasper's funeral. I told him no. Still, as his wife there were things that I felt obligated to tend to, like handling the obituary and the programs, and making sure there were flowers here from his son. And me.

I kiss Jaylen on his head, breathing in his innocence. Grateful he is too young to know, to understand, that he'd had parents who went to great lengths to hurt and destroy the other. And feeling justified in doing so.

And, no, it wasn't always bad. Life with Jasper was fun. It was spontaneous. Intense. Exciting. Explosive. Adventurous. Then somewhere toward the middle of our relationship, it became hectic. Obsessive. Controlling. Demanding. Stressful.

It became full of jealousy, drama, and lies.

Until what we had finally became frightening. Destructive. Violent. Fatal.

Finally ending in death. One of us had to go. I'm glad it was he instead of me.

He was beyond redemption. So, as far as I'm concerned, whoever dumped their clip in his head did him, and
me
—and
maybe
the next bitch, a favor.

I peel my gaze away from the man I once loved, blinking away his haunting smile, glancing around the funeral home. It's packed with the hood rich and fabulous—young and old, hustlers and hoes, wannabe crooks and gangsters, pimps, players, shakers and movers, ex-lovers, and jump-offs, all congregating here to pay their final respects to the man many of them admired, respected, loved and—I'm sure for some, feared.

Everyone, except me and…Stax, interestingly, sit or stand in a fixed state of shock, their minds still reeling from the tragic news of Jasper's expiry. All of his relatives, mostly from Connecticut, pack the pews mourning the loss of their revered loved one, shaking their heads in disbelief. Speaking in hushed whispers how tragic, how unfortunate, how untimely, his death is. “The streets done took another one of ours,” I overhear a very pretty older, brown-skinned woman saying to her male companion as they walk by. “Such a pity. Jasper was one of the good ones.”

I raise a brow, puckering my lips. Mmmph. Not a word.

Glancing at my Harry Winston Lattice, I check the time. Eleven o'clock.
One more excruciating hour and this dog and pony show will finally be underway.
I keep my gaze on my wrist getting lost—no matter how brief, in the brilliance of the nine-carat diamonds. “Hey, Pasha, girl,” Bianca says, leaning in and kissing me on the cheek. “I love you dearly. But we really have to stop meeting like this.”

“Ugh. Tell me about it. If I have to sit through another funeral, I'm going to slice my wrists.” I smile up at her. “Thanks for coming.”

She strokes the side of my face. “I had to be here for you.” She
hands me an envelope. “You know I love you, girl.” I smile again. Let her know how much I appreciate her in my life. She and Paris greet each other, then she excuses herself to go over to express her sympathy to Mona.

I glance over at Avery, catching him eyeing me. I tilt my head, purposefully looking over in his direction. My shades hide the glint of burning. He quickly averts his gaze.

I shift in my seat as Jasper's grandmother wraps her arms around the portrait of him, wailing. It takes Mona and three of her cousins to help pry the eighty-seven-year-old woman's frail fingers away from the frame. She faints in front of his casket, pulling down with her the half-couch casket spray, my all-white floral tribute to my dead husband, the nigga who wreaked havoc in my life; the nigga who violated me in the worst way imaginable.

Mmmph. Four-hundred-and-fifty dollars' worth of white carnations, gerberas, gladioli, asters, orchids, and roses all toppled over. I strain to keep from rolling my eyes as Mona tries to reposition the spray on Jasper's casket.

It's no secret to most of his family that we were separated, that I'd obtained an order of protection, and wanted a divorce. So the fact that I'm sitting here staring into space, emotionless, should be of no surprise to any of them. Jasper had been dead to me, emotionally, long before his body ever hit the bottom of his steel box adorned with platinum finish.

Still, many of the mourners come over to me, offering a warm hug, a few words of heartfelt sympathy, or an envelope stuffed with Hallmark gibberish—and, some checks and dead presidents. The best I can do is offer back a tight-lipped smile and, perhaps, a gracious head nod.

I rock Jaylen in my arms, thankful he's asleep. I lift my black
shades from my face and dab the rim of my left eye with the handkerchief clutched in my hand. Not because of tears. There's something in my eye. I blink, then drop my shades back down over my eyes.

“Pasha, you okay?” Paris asks, sitting to the right of me. I nod. Once again, I sit in the second pew behind a wailing grandmother, burying one of her own with Paris right by my side. The only difference this time, I'm not flanked with Mel and Lamar sitting in the back of me. Lamar is still recuperating from his gunshot wounds, while Mel is sitting outside in my stretch limo, waiting on me to walk out of here.

I'm headed for the airport to L.A., where I'll be for the next month in preparation of my grand opening of Nappy No More II, which will be an exclusive, extremely upscale salon and spa in Beverly Hills, catering strictly to the true elite clientele, wealthy and famous. I have to say, I really lucked up with a wonderful realtor out in L.A., Katrina Rivers, who located this prime piece of real estate property for me. While Nappy No More I continues to serve the hood rich and ghetto-fabulous, I've hired Greta to manage it.

Stax, Sparks, Desmond and Avery—Jasper's blood, confidants, partners in crime, and now…pallbearers, all stand overwrought with grief.

Stax, Sparks, and Desmond stand at Jasper's casket, an arm around the other's waist, linked together by sadness and loss, remembering Jasper for who he was to them. Sparks' head is bowed. My heart aches for them when I see tears squeeze from the corner of Stax's closed lids.

Mona walks over and squeezes herself in between Desmond and Sparks, their arms wrapping her into the fold. She is crying profusely, for many reasons. Love and guilt being the two I knew of. Jasper was her cousin, yes. But she also knew what he was capable of.
She knew of, overheard, many of his dirty deeds. She'd covered for him in her youth. Made excuses for him.

The pastor opens with, “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord…”

From across the church, I catch Booty eyeballing me over the rim of her Guccis with her lips twisted up. I roll my eyes, turning my head as someone gets up and begins singing “Amazing Grace,” followed by a solo of “Precious Lord.”

When the second song ends, the pastor gets up and finishes his eulogy, saying something about forgiveness and letting go, and letting God, but I'm so disconnected from this whole ordeal that I'm not really paying attention. It's not until a young girl—who looks to be no more than twelve or thirteen—takes a seat at the piano and belts out “It's So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday” sounding like a mini Lauryn Hill while taking me back to an eleven-year-old girl who sat at a piano and sang this same song in this same church at her father's funeral, that a wave of emotions overcome me. I was that little girl.

I choke back tears as Paris wraps her arm around me, knowingly, pulling me into her and whispering how much she loves me.

And, without warning, I start to feel my body shaking from the inside out. Start to feel my chest tightening. Then I am sobbing.

Not for Nana.

Not for the scandalous bitch who betrayed me. Felecia Travonda Allen. The bitch I murdered.

Not for the nigga whom I once loved with everything in me. Jasper Edwin Tyler. The nigga I married, had a child with, then did whatever I could to make him pay for what he did to me.

Not for Legend or JT or the other ruthless motherfuckers who fucked their dicks into my mouth and pumped their seeds down into my neck.

No.

I am wailing…for me.

Pasha Nivea Alona Allen-Tyler.

For my wretched soul.

For the bitch with the broken spirit.

I cry for forgiveness.

Not for me.

Not for my sins.

But for all those who've trespassed against me.

I stretch out my hand, tears and snot, mourning the loss of the woman I once was. I clutch my son to my chest, sobbing. Shedding the shell of the old me.

Jasper did this to me. Felecia did this to me. Legend did this to me.

But, most importantly,
I
did this to me.

I remove my shades, wipe my eyes and blow my nose. Finally, I look at Jasper's portrait one last time. My cherry-red-painted lips curl into a sly grin.

Yeah, motherfucker, look at you. Boxed and beaten, ready for your final resting place. You thought I was a weak bitch, huh? Now who's the fool?

I hand Jaylen over to Paris and get up as the pastor says whatever he's saying. All eyes are on me as I lift his coffin. I want to see him. I need to see him.

One last time.

I hear the gasps around the room as I lift the lid. Down at the foot of his casket, scattered all over his feet with the eight missing toes, are Felecia's ashes. The rest of her pregnant body cremated. They deserve each other. She wanted him. Now she has him. They can burn in hell together.

Revenge is most definitely a dish best served cold. I spit in his face.
I hope you burn a thousand deaths, nigga!

I slowly close the lid, feeling weights dropping and shackles unsnapping. Everyone in the room is mortified, stonestill, as I grab my son from Paris and saunter down the aisle with my head high, feeling light, feeling free.

I step out into the brightness of day; the crisp air cooling my cheeks as I make my way toward my waiting limo, sliding in the backseat with my son. I breathe a sigh of relief as Mel slides in across from me, shutting the door.

“You good,” he wants to know, his gaze warming my skin.

I toss my bang from over my eye. “I couldn't be better.”

The driver pulls off. And I close my eyes, not once looking back. It is finally over for me.

And justice was served mercilessly to all those who crossed me.

My
way.

There's a price to be paid and joys to be gained when we finally let go…

F
OUR MONTHS LATER…

D
espite the dust of Felecia's and Jasper's deaths finally settling, up until two days ago—the day I stepped off the plane at Los Angeles International Airport in preparation for the Nappy No More II Grand Opening, I had been feeling…I don't know. Restless. My spirit was still unsettled. My nerves still rattled.