Real Wifeys: Get Money Page 4

  I couldn’t do shit but shake my head as I stood in the street in my bare damn feet. I came out to party, have a little fun with my friends, and try not to fixate on what the fuck my man was doing. Getting lumped the fuck up because of some of his mama’s shit wasn’t in my plans at all.

  “Damn, stripper Barbie, I ain’t know you had it in you,” Peaches said, lighting a blunt she pulled out her bra.

  That’s because God has kept me from fucking you up, that’s why, I thought. “What was y’all fighting over?” I asked, glad to see Eve and Michel finally leave the club. I took my purse from her and reached inside for the little gel flats I usually put on after the club.

  “That big bitch stepped on my toe and I told her Precious, Magilla Gorilla, Fat Albert, Al Roker, and Biggie-looking ass to get off my fucking toe!” Peaches jerked her thumb over her shoulder at the girl walking up the street with her friends. “Shit, did I lie?”

  When Eve tried to hand me my shoes—both of them—I eyed her like she was crazy. “You can throw them pissy motherfuckers in the trash,” I said, dead serious.

  Michel raked his slender fingers through his hair. “I know that’s right,” he agreed.

  Eve looked back at me like I was crazy. “Fucking Louboutins? I’ll rock these pissy motherfuckers then.”

  I shrugged. I wasn’t the type of chick to waste money, but I didn’t want to drag nobody else’s piss and possible germs in Make$’s car or our apartment. Nothing.

  “Oh heeeeeeeellll no,” Peaches said, stepping up next to Eve and pulling a plastic grocery bag from her purse. “Put them Loubies right in this bag, beanpole.”

  I rolled my eyes, even as I wondered who in they right mind carried grocery bags balled up in they pocketbook. Why? Who? When? Why? How?

  “You not gone waste my son’s money, Miss Chocoliscious,” she snapped. “And I’m gone tell Terrence that’s how you living. I told him he need to let me handle his money while he gone. You ain’t had job the first since you fell off the stripper pole and you just wasting money like you Keyshia Cole, Mary J. Blige, or some shit. Fuck you and fuck what you thinking, baby boo. You wait ’til I talk to him.”

  “Girl, you right, Peaches,” Nikki Façade cosigned, digging under her loose tracks to scratch her scalp.

  Eve and Michel and I shared a long look. I knew they had to be thinking what I was thinking. I just fought a bitch for her ass and she flipped the script on me in a heartbeat.

  I wasn’t worrying about fucking up my cash flow. Peaches was on a strict allowance outside of the house he bought her, and there was no way he was trusting her crazy ass with his money. Hell, I barely had a lot of access to it.

  Still, that bitch was dirty. I should’ve left her laid the fuck out on the floor, but hindsight is always clearer.

  Dumb bitch.

  Since Make$ was out of town, Michel and Eve spent the night with me. A couple of bottles of moscato and retelling about our club escapade kept my mind occupied, but as soon as I set them up in the guest room and made my way to our master suite I felt all my loneliness again. That shit was starting to fit me like a second skin.

  Sometimes it felt like it was suffocating me.

  Most bitches would spend his money, enjoy his whip, lamp in the nice crib, and find a jump-off for a little phone conversation and sexual stimulation on their terms. But no other nigga did it for me. I didn’t want nobody but Make$. A couple of his friends—like his childhood friend and fellow rapper Tek-9, had even tried me on the sneak tip, but I played like I couldn’t read between the lines. Besides, I couldn’t even picture myself chilling with—and definitely not sexing—another dude.

  My mama always taught me that a woman can’t do the shit a man do. Our bodies are built different, and trying to handle two or three dicks in steady rotation would fuck up a woman’s reputation and her pussy walls.

  I picked up my cell phone from the bed, hating myself for checking to see if the ringer was off and I missed his call or text. I felt disappointment before I even confirmed that there wasn’t shit wrong with my phone but there was a lot wrong with my relationship—at least when he was on the road. When he was home we were straight.

  We spent a lot of time together. Whenever he had an event I was right there on the red carpet with him chinning and grinning. Award shows. Premieres. Vacations. Shopping sprees. But also plenty of romantic surprises and hearing “I love you.” That ninja was straight on point . . . until he got out of my eyesight.

  I called his phone and it went straight to voice mail. I didn’t bother leaving a message. He would eventually call me back and have his excuse ready. I’d heard them all:

  “I turned the ringer down by mistake.”

  “I couldn’t hear the ringer over the loud music.”

  “I was sleeping. I didn’t hear it.”

  “You know I don’t like to be interrupted when I’m in the studio.”

  “I texted you . . . didn’t you get it?”

  I sat up in bed and reached for the pack of Newports I kept in the top drawer of my nightstand. Visions of him eating the pussy of some random bitch ate me up inside as I leaned back against the leather-padded headboard and lit the cigarette. I only smoked when I was stressed the fuck out.

  I dialed Goldie’s cell phone. I hated to call her this late, but my desire to talk to Make$ outweighed any doubts or concerns I had.

  My heart was racing as I listened to Goldie’s phone ring in my ear.

  “Whaddup, Luscious?”

  I exhaled a stream of smoke, filling the air with the smell of Newports. “I hate to call you so late, but I been calling my so-called man’s phone and that motherfucka ain’t answering,” I said, hating how hard my heart was pumping. Hating it even more how desperate I felt.

  “After the show, I left him and his crew at the venue. Maybe he’s in his suite wasted. They was drinkin’ and smokin’ like crazy.”

  I tucked my phone between my ear and shoulder as I tapped the ashes into the palm of my hand. “Would you go check his room for me? I don’t know why he ain’t let me go with him.”

  The line stayed quiet and that made me go all stiff and shit. I frowned. “Yo, Goldie, go check and see if he in his room . . . motherfuckin’ alone,” I said, climbing out of bed to dump my ashes into the commode in our adjoining all-white master bath.

  I dumped the cigarette too, the taste of it making me nauseous. The embers went out with a hiss. I didn’t even inhale.

  “Luscious, I’m in my bed. Just keep trying his phone.”

  I paused on my way back to the bed and looked down at my phone like “You ain’t that tired.” I would have hopped up out of bed and did a bed check on her man if she asked me. Who cared if it was 2 a.m.? “I tried the other girls but they at some club,” I told her. Meaning? There’s no one to do it but you, Goldie, so stop playing.

  “If I see him before we fly out I’ll tell him you was looking for him. A’ight then. Night.”

  Click.

  It wasn’t Goldie’s responsibility to keep up with my man, but damn. The letdown and the hang-up. That shit felt like “Bitch, fuck you.”

  Bzzz.

  My phone vibrated in my hand and Make$’s face filled the screen. My heart pounded. “Hey baby,” I said, feeling the pleasure in my heart that he called even as my doubts fucked with my head.

  “We just left the after-party. I wanted to call you before I went to bed. Tired as fuck, you know. This touring kicking my ass but I gotta hustle until I sign that new deal with a big advance, you know?”

  I nodded but to keep it one hundred, I really didn’t know. Make$ made a good enough living, and we lived well but nothing over the top. He had more than enough to slow the fuck up some. “I know,” I lied, focusing on hearing any noises in his background to peep if what he told me was the truth.

  I heard the television and I relaxed a little bit. I pictured him sitting on the edge of the bed, no shirt, just boxers, jewelry still on.

  Make$ yawned. “I know I’m a
way a lot but when I get back next week we’re going on a trip. Wherever you want,” he promised.

  Now this the shit. Make$’s word was good like money. I knew that all I had to do was point to a spot on the map and we would be there just like he said. I knew we would go shopping for the trip and we would spend the entire time together. He would focus on us and make it known that what we had—what we was building—was important.

  It was like there was two of him, Terrence the boyfriend who was so completely on point when we were together and Make$ the public persona on the road. But I was no secret in the industry: I was on his arms at parties, premieres, and red-carpet events. He never denied me in interviews.

  As soon as he went on tour his slick ass started acting shady.

  “Hey, Luscious, I love your chocolate ass, a’ight,” he said, his voice deep and rough. “That’s on some real shit. I know you miss me. I miss you too, but I gotta make this money. You know more than anybody the load I’m carrying on my shoulders. The people relying on me. Yo, the only thing I know for sure is you love me and I know you got my back. Ya heard me?”

  I nodded as I licked my lips. “I love you too, baby,” I reassured him.

  “I’m tired. I’ll call you when I get up, a’ight?”

  I nodded again and then remembered he couldn’t see me. “A’ight.”

  The call disconnected and I was left in the middle of the battle of Terrence vs. Make$.

  That two-sided shit of his was a complete mind-fuck.

  3

  One Month Later

  The sound of loud talking and laughter woke me from my sleep. I popped one eye open with the rest of my face pressed deep into lavender-scented pillows. I felt like shit. Worse than shit. Head was pounding. My body felt like a truck rolled over it ten times. My eyes were too puffy and heavy to open.

  Last night we got fucked up and this morning I felt completely fucked over.

  Make$ and I stayed up all night, drinking, smoking, and talking. The morning after was never as much fun as the night before.

  I stretched my body against the bed before I kicked off the covers and hopped out of bed. Like always when my man was home for more than a day our bedroom was fucked up. Clothes and sneakers were everywhere. Shopping bags still yet to be unpacked were stacked in a corner by the window. A dirty plate with remnants of whatever he ate last night and cigarette ends sat on the floor. The underwear and socks he stepped out of still sat on the floor in front of the bathroom door.

  Shit. This mess had my damn name written all over it. That ninja didn’t even try to clean up behind himself. He made it clear those were part of my duties as his wifey. And from the noises coming from the living room, he had his bullshit as entourage in there making more of a fucking disaster zone for me to fight.

  Fuck this shit.

  Yes, Make$ took damn good care of me, but I wasn’t his maid. When he moved me on up, I thought I’d get treated more like Weezie than fucking Florence. The fuck?

  Clearing my throat, I stretched before I kicked a stack of glossy photos his publicist sent over for him to autograph. I was passing the mirror on the way to the bathroom when I did a double take at my reflection. White crusted spots were on my stomach and breasts.

  Make$’s nut.

  I smiled. It looked like glaze on a chocolate donut, with my smooth, dark-skinned complexion. Last night I sucked that dick so good and then just before he nutted, I jacked him off and let his cum rain down on me. Fuck it. What I won’t do another bitch will. I’m simply not having that.

  I took a quick shower and made a half-ass attempt at cleaning our bedroom. There really was no need until his ass went back on the road because that nigga was comfortable in mess. With a chick like Peaches as his mother, that’s all his ass probably was used to.

  Dressed in a pair of sweats and a baby tee, I padded barefoot out the bedroom and down the hall. The smell of weed knocked me in the face, and the air just below the ceiling was filled with silver haze. The living room was packed like a club. Niggas was everywhere, and Make$ sat on the leather ottoman in the middle of them knuckleheads.

  “Whaddup, y’all,” I said, opening the double-sided fridge to grab a bottle of water.

  “Whaddup,” they all said in unison, their eyes locked on the flat-screen on the wall.

  Make$ turned to eye me, his shades and jewelry already in place. I knew he was checking to see what I had on. Usually I strolled my thick chocolate ass around in thongs or boy shorts with a baby tee. Pussy and nipples pressed against the material and meant to turn him the fuck on.

  I made a playful face at him before I blew him a kiss.

  He lowered his shades to look over them and wink at me.

  “Yo, here come the best part,” his friend Tank said, pointing at the screen with one of his juicy fingers, looking like a fat and greasy Biggie reject. That nigga’s head was so gone, I didn’t fuck with him too much. I didn’t trust his mind-set. At all.

  I looked at the TV, being nosy, and frowned at the grainy image of me getting hauled out of Club Infinity last month. Some motherfucker with a cell phone videotaped it and loaded that shit up on WorldStarHipHop. “Why you watching this old shit?” I asked, coming out of the kitchen to sit next to Make$ on the ottoman. I slid my hand against his slender thigh. I could feel the tip of his dick in the sleep pants he still had on.

  “I never saw it,” he said. “My moms said to watch it before I watch the next vid.”

  “Next video?” I asked, lost like a motherfucker.

  “Yup.” He raised the remote to load the next DVD.

  I jumped back a little bit as Peaches’ face filled the screen. She looked like Make$ with a short blonde wig on. She was standing in the middle of some nondescript street by herself, blazing on a blunt like her shit was medicinal and not illegal. Now what? I thought.

  “Hey baby. What’s poppin’? I know you’re not one to fuck with and that’s because ya mama ain’t one to play with either. I refuse to be disrespected. I don’t take no shit and I raised you not to take no motherfuckin’ bullshit either. Ya heard me? Now watch how yo mama made sure this bitch wished she didn’t bust my fucking lip in the club. Lights. Camera. Action. Whooop-whooooooooop!”

  Peaches took a big drag off her blunt and blew a thick stream of smoke directly into the camera.

  My stomach got tight as fuck as the screen went black before it came back on inside an abandoned apartment that looked too grimy for rats and roaches to even fuck with. The windows were boarded. There was graffiti on the walls and discarded crack pipes and dope bags on the floors.

  I jumped back when two figures dressed all in back with ski masks on filled the screen before the camera dipped down to take in a body lying in the middle of the dirty matted rug. A big body. Like Big Girl from the fight at the club.

  No, the fuck that ain’t . . .

  One of the figures that could have been women or skinny dudes nudged the body with a black boot.

  She cried out in pain.

  They said nothing as they began punching and kicking her again. And again. And again.

  My stomach clenched.

  The fellas littered around the apartment all laughed.

  But there wasn’t shit funny.

  I looked at Make$ and he was quiet. His shades were in place, but his mouth was a thin line. The muscle in his jaw was flexing in and out. He sat still as a fucking statue. Was he pissed off?

  I knew that seeing the video of his mother getting knocked the fuck out had been embarrassing for him. That shit was the talk of gossip blogs and radio stations for weeks. But was he in on this retaliation shit? And why tape it?

  I didn’t say shit as I shifted my eyes back to the screen.

  One of the figures bent down to box the woman in her face. Kick her. Spit on her. Degrade her. She curled into a ball to protect herself from some of the blows.

  The camera zoomed in on her face. It was bloody and swollen. One of her eyes was closed shut and already purplish. Her l
ip was busted. A gash on her forehead was down to the white meat. I didn’t recognize her.

  What the fuck?

  I felt my stomach hurl at this bullshit. I made to stand up but Make$’s hand shot out to grab my wrist tight as hell and pull me back down.

  When one of them picked up a broken broom handle and snatched the skirt she wore up to probe between her legs, I tried to snatch the remote from Make$’s hand. “Turn that bullshit off.”

  He moved the remote out of my reach. “Chill, Luscious.”

  The screen went black before Peaches’ crazy ass filled the screen again. “Bitch thought she could swerve on me in the club and that shit was a done dada? Nothing.”

  She started laughing crazy as hell.

  I snatched my fucking hand away and ran the fuck out of there, pushing some random motherfucker out of my way. Whoever it was hollered out in surprise. Fuck ’em. I slammed our bedroom door so hard I knew everyone on that floor felt the vibrations.

  Peaches was crazy. What I was just taking a guess at before, I now knew for sure. That little bitch was out of her fucking mind.

  “What’s your problem?”

  I turned away from where I stood at the window and eyed Make$ walking into our bedroom with the DVD in his hand. “You knew about that shit?” I asked, watching the disc as my heart pounded.

  “Nah,” he said.

  I eyed him. Was this fucker lying? Was he as crazy as his mama? “That shit was so over the top and unnecessary,” I snapped, running my hands through my jet-black weave. “Your mama started a fucking fight and lost. I already fought the bitch. Everything was handled. That shit was dead. You know what I’m saying? So what the fuck is that shit?”

  “Yo,” Make$ roared, making a fist that he shook at his side as the veins in his neck strained beneath the cover of his tattoos. “I will handle it, Luscious.”

  “Handle what? Ya mama out here wilding out, acting crazy, talking stupid—”

  “Yo, don’t disrespect my mother!” Make$ shouted, pointing his finger at me like he was ready to storm across the room and slap me up.