Shameless Hoodwives: A Bentley Manor Tale Read online

  I curl onto the floor, enjoying my high. Vaguely, I’m aware of the other two vials of rock on the floor. No need to waste those motherfuckers, ’cause I won’t get another chance like this to be alone once Grandma Cleo comes home.

  I quickly load up the pipe again, determined to get higher than I’ve been in a while.

  And I succeed.

  I just wish I’d gotten that last vial of crack off the floor before I fell asleep and my baby woke up.

  WooWoo

  “Are you happy?” Lexi asks me as we walk into the parking deck of Phipps Plaza.

  I slip my new Fendi shades on and laugh. “Hell, yeah. Why?” I ask, even though I know my words are a damn lie. I’ve been married for almost two months and I’m not any closer to getting Hassan up outta my system.

  “Just doing my job as a sister and checking on you.” She throws me a half smile that says more than her words.

  She’s worried about me.

  “What about you? It’s been a minute since we talked about Luth—”

  Lexi’s eyes flash with anger and way more hatred than anybody should have illuminating from their eyes. “Don’t you dare mention that motherfucker’s name to me. Fuck him.”

  Walking in on your husband in the shower with one of your baby daddies will put all that anger in a woman’s soul.

  “Shit, I feel you on that. Fuck him.”

  I change the subject. That shit with Luther and Junior really touches her hard. Now she don’t even fuck with any dudes, and I can’t ever remember my sister being without a man…ever. That chick don’t do shit but go to work and hang out with her kids. Considering her track record with men, maybe that’s a good damn thing.

  We go our separate ways when we got to our cars. I sit in my Honda lighting a cigarette while Lexi pulls off in her old Lincoln, Black Betty, with a honk of her horn. I put in my Young Buck CD and turn up the volume until the bass feels like it’s booming inside my chest. I start dancing right in my seat before I roll down the window, light a Black & Mild, and pull out of the parking spot. I’m just turning onto the first level of the parking deck when I see Hassan about to unlock the door of his gold 2000 Lexus SC400.

  How could I forget how much he shops. That motherfucker went to the mall like twice a week just spending up that fast dope money. Same way he used to spend it on me. Some of the best gear I own came from Hassan.

  I force myself to drive the hell on by and he happens to look up over his shoulder and see me. That crazy motherfucker steps right into the path of my car, and there ain’t shit I can do but slam on my brakes. Shit, this pussy really got Hassan going crazy.

  Damn. He looking good as hell. Real good.

  I am loving the colorful navy blue, red, and yellow print Roca Wear hood he wore with faded jeans and matching colorful Air Force 1s. His shoulder-length sandy hair is braided in a crazy design. His jewelry is iced the fuck out and I’m turned the fuck on.

  Damn. Damn. Damn. My hands start to sweat as Hassan comes around to my driver’s-side window. I turn the music down.

  “Whaddup, WooWoo,” he says in that husky voice. He holds a lit blunt between his soft kissable lips as he looks down at me with them sexy-ass green eyes. “Long time no see.”

  I reach up with more boldness than I feel and take the blunt from his mouth. After two long drags I release the thick haze of smoke through my nose as I watch Hassan through squinted eyes. “Just been livin’ life, you know.”

  “That Oreo motherfucker done changed you and shit.” Hassan reaches out to take the blunt back from me. “What, you some suburbia chick or some shit now? Fuck the hood? Fuck this hood nigga?”

  My pussy lips clap as he deliberately licks the tip like he trying to taste me.

  He bends down to lean inside the window and the scent of his Black Polo cologne fills my car. My lungs. My soul. I take a deep breath of it. Damn. Damn. Diggety damn damn.

  “That’s some fucked-up shit, coming to my crib to fuck me and getting your ass right up that morning to marry that other fool. The next fucking morning. That’s some real ill shit, WooWoo. Ain’t tell a motherfucker nothing. I got to hear in the street your ass got married. What the fuck is up with you? It’s like you said fuck me like that fucking Oreo nigga is better than me or some shit.”

  I have to admit that the anger in his eyes is a little scary. He ain’t ever flipped on me, but I done seen him wild-out before, and I want no parts of that shit.

  He stands up suddenly and swaggers over toward his car as he wipes his mouth and swaggers back. “Don’t be scared of me,” he says, bending back down to kiss my cheek. “You know I wouldn’t do shit to hurt you.”

  “I don’t think you would hurt me intentionally, but you let your anger fuck with you until your ass can’t see straight and that’s not good. I mean you really gone hurt somebody or get yourself hurt just raging out like that.”

  Hassan drops his eyes from mine.

  “Hell, I heard you and old lady Cleo got into it. Said you cussed her out and threatened her or some shit?”

  “That old bitch gone ask me if I sold her crackhead granddaughter dope…like I’m gone cop to anything to her ass and she ain’t shit but the police.” Hassan’s mouth twisted. “Blaming me for her ass gettin’ high and that nasty bitch gone beg me to sell to her. Talkin’ ’bout she’ll suck my cock. My cock? Where the hell she from any fucking way?”

  There is no denying the anger blazing in his eyes. “Talkin’ that bullshit ’bout turning me in to the police or some shit. She gone turn in her crackhead granddaughter too for using dope? Hell, naw, I’m the only bad one. Man, fuck that shit and fuck that old bitch, man.”

  “Hassan, that’s an old lady!”

  He shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, but I can tell from the imprint that he opening and closing his hands into fists. “Nobody fucks with me, my money, or my freedom. Fuck that. I’m serious as a heart attack about this shit, yo.”

  And I did know that.

  “That’s one of the reasons we couldn’t make it. ’Cause straight up? I don’t know if you gone flip on me like that and I wake up with a gun in my mouth like a fucking dick.”

  Hassan scrunched up his face as he looked down at me before he smiles. “WooWoo, your ass is crazy,” he says before he smokes his blunt like it’s a Newport. “A gun ain’t shit like a dick. It’s a lot more poppin’ off than a damn nut.”

  “Shut up, boy.”

  “Boy?”

  “Whateva.” I wave my hand.

  Hassan bends down and moves in close to me. As his lips move down to my neck, my head falls back against the headrest. I ain’t ever had somebody who can make me wet and hot that damn fast. I try to think of my husband as Hassan sticks his hands down between my legs to massage my pussy through the leggings I wore with a tight-fitting sweater and belt—all BCBG. Damn, I try and try to think about Reggie like a motherfucker, but before I know it that sexy bitch is opening my door and turning me around to push down across the front seats.

  I ain’t give a shit ’bout nothin’ as Hassan jerks them leggings down over my hips. Not my husband. Not the gear shift pressing into my back. Not the fact that we in the middle of the exit lane in the parking deck. Not the cool October air blowing against my bare ass. Nothing. Fuck it. Shit.

  He pushes my wet-ass thong to the side and drops to his knees right there on the damn ground. I shiver as he lowers his head to blow cool air against my pussy before he licks away. I bend my legs to really let him get at it and one of my knees hit the horn but he ain’t stopping sucking on my clit one damn bit.

  “Make that bitch cum, Has,” I moan as I circle my hips up against his mouth.

  Like a soldier that bitch takes directions good as hell and sucks deeper on my clit until I’m holding the back of his braided head as I jerk my hips up against his mouth. My knee keeps hitting the horn as I holler out roughly. My cum fills his mouth and my clit tingles like crazy. No one or nothing is better.

  Someone lays
on their horn and we both jerk our heads up to look out the back window at a line of cars held up behind me. He laughs as he kisses both my thighs and then rises to his feet. “Next time your man fucking you think about that shit,” he tells me before he leaves my exposed ass right there to climb into his car. The bass of his system makes the change rattle in my car as he reverses his car and then pulls away out the deck.

  The people lay on their horns again. “Shut the fuck up,” I scream out the window as I try to stop my legs and shit from shaking. I sit up, pressing my wet ass to my leather seat as I lean down and snatch my leggings from the cement before I swing my legs in and close my door.

  “Nasty ass,” somebody screams out the window of one of the cars behind me.

  I flip them the bird and speed out of the parking deck. I got to get home and wash before Reggie gets there. Since he only works half a day on Saturdays, my ass is going to test the speed limits. I hope the cops don’t pull me over. How the hell can I explain riding through A-T-L in nothing but a cum-filled thong?

  I knew I had a choice to make. My fate was in my own hands. I made my choice: Reggie, marriage, life in the ’burbs, my new look, my new life. It was all my decision. It was all my own choice.

  Hassan can’t offer me the things Reggie can and will. Hassan will never marry me. He will never leave the hood. That nigga? Shit, he’s a ghetto baby for life. He probably never dreams outside the borders of the hood. He probably ain’t know shit but slinging drugs, and everybody know that shit is a one-way street. Once you start down that motherfucking road and get hooked on the life—the same way the customers get hooked on that shit—there is no turning back. And there’s nothing at the end of that road but death or jail.

  What woman—what grown-ass woman—would choose that kind of life, not knowing if your man gone make it alive on the streets in the daytime, get busted on the block at night, or drag you under with him tomorrow?

  With Reggie I didn’t have to worry about 5-0 busting in my house looking for dope and money. When he leaves in the morning to go to work, I pray for his safe return, but I don’t have to pray that he doesn’t get shot by some up-and-coming, go-getter motherfuckers who want to get rid of their street competition. I don’t have to pray that he forever and ever outruns the police.

  Fucking around with Hassan, I know a dozen ways for a head to smoke crack. You’d be amazed what them motherfuckers can do with an empty soda can, a stick pin, and some fucking ashes.

  Dealing with Reggie, I know a dozen ways to save money. Shit, who knew that a CD meant more than an artist’s latest release? My ass sure didn’t.

  The life I woulda had with Hassan and the life I have with Reggie are two entirely different things.

  It’s true Reggie ain’t know shit about the hood except what he hears on TV or reads in the papers. He don’t have a clue about hood struggle. Single mother with five kids in a two-bedroom trailer having to sell food stamps for cash just to pay her bills. Living in a shit hole like Bentley Manor ’cause you couldn’t afford higher rent ’cause your ass dropped out of a school system that is lacking like a motherfucker any damn way. Having to shop at grocery stores and corner stores that smell like rotten meat ’cause the owners know your ass is gone shop there anyway—and then they overcharge you for the right to shop in their stank-ass stores. Ain’t that a bitch? Kids having to drop to the ground at the sound of gunshots like they in Iraq or some shit. Sistahs working hard at fast-food restaurants and as maids at hotels and cashiers at gas stations just to bring home two hundred dollars every two weeks.

  That’s the kind of shit Reggie doesn’t understand and probably doesn’t give a fuck about either. That’s the shit, the life, Hassan and I have in common.

  But I don’t hold that against Reggie. He couldn’t no more control being born in the burbs than I could control my crackhead momma having me in the hood. I don’t blame him and shit. But sometimes I feel like he blames me. He’s never really said shit about it, but any monkey can see we’re different and he has to think his way is the better way—the only way.

  I don’t want to lose my husband. I don’t want to lose my life. I don’t want to cheat on my husband.

  But…

  Here I am again.

  I park Black Betty, my sister’s ’91 Continental, on the side of the Circle K down the block from Bentley Manor. There’s a few fellas lounging against the building, but I don’t recognize any of them, so I go inside the convenience store and buy five peach Phillies blunts and a forty-ounce of Old English—Hassan’s version of fine champagne. As I leave the building I reach for my cell phone and dial Lexi’s house.

  “Hey. Did Reggie call back?”

  I hear her yawn. “Not since the last time he called and spoke to you an hour ago.”

  “Good.” I walk up the broken concrete sidewalk toward Bentley Manor. “You left my car outside your garage, right?”

  “Yes. Yes. Yes. Now where your trickin’ ass at anyway?” she asks.

  I can’t tell my sister I’m dealing with Hassan. No way in hell I can tell her that. Shit, I don’t want anybody to know about us. That’s why my ass is sneaking around at one in the morning like a fiend. Shit. I’m a junkie a’ight. I’m gonna get me a Hassan fix.

  “Stop being so nosy,” I tell her as I turn the corner around the front gate.

  “And you stop using me for an alibi and lying on my kids’ health to go fuck around on your husband.”

  Bentley Manor’s parking lot is empty—that’s rare—but I throw my hoodie up around my head anyway as I make my way to Hassan’s building.

  “I gotta go. I’ll call you when I’m on the way back.”

  “WooWoo—”

  I close my phone and turn it off as I jog up the stairs and knock on his door. I look up and down the hall as I wait for him. I didn’t call first ’cause I didn’t want him to tell me not to come. But I know he’s home. His car is parked in its usual spot downstairs.

  I touch the door like it will make me feel closer to him.

  “Who?”

  I knock lightly three times. It’s our signal. The door opens and I feel like I am let into heaven.

  As soon as I step inside, I reach for him, but he steps back from me. “Why you here, WooWoo?” he asks.

  I look him dead in them eyes and speak from my heart. “Because I’m in love with you and I can’t live without you in my life. I can’t do it. I tried. I really tried but I can’t. I love you. I love you so much.”

  Hassan pulls me into his arms and now I feel like I’m really home.

  Keisha

  I don’t want to go home.

  For the second time in three weeks, Smokey has tried to kill me. This time the snooty brunette with the paramedics talked me into going to the emergency room. Prognosis: a concussion and one broken rib.

  I’ll live.

  The kids couldn’t stay with Miz Cleo. I had to drop them off at my not-too-happy sister’s, since Cleo was in the middle of handling her own emergency with Takiah and the baby.

  Shit always happens in threes, but around here shit just happens all the time.

  Miz Osceola squawked to all who would listen that she and Miz Cleo had arrived home just in time to stop Tanana from ingesting some drugs, while her momma slept high as a kite on the floor. My heart lurched because that is an everyday fear with my own children.

  Miz Osceola stood, proud as she pleased on her cemented porch, waving her Lousiville Slugger at a few of Kaseem’s foot soldiers and promising if she ever found out who sold Takiah those drugs, she was going to show them how things were done back in the ol’ Negro Baseball League.

  No one doubted that she would.

  And no one talked.

  In a way, it’s funny. All these tough, hard-core thugs runnin’ around here, and they’re all scared to cross two old ladies with baseball bats. Hell, I’d buy a bat myself, but I know the moment I turned around or left the house that son of a bitch would be down at the pawn shop.

  Smok
ey is nothing if not predictable.

  “I’m gonna clean up,” my husband says from the backseat of Shakespeare’s Dodge Intrepid.

  The car is deathly silent after this announcement.

  “I mean it this time,” he emphasizes, almost pleading for belief.

  I cut a glance over to Shakespeare behind the driver’s seat. The instant poundin’ in my heart ushers in a tidal wave of guilt. The fact that he won’t return my gaze speaks volumes.

  Things have changed.

  My gaze shifts back to the car-clogged expressway and then down to study the floor mat.

  “Keisha?” Smokey’s rough and ashy hand plops down onto my shoulder. I close my eyes as he gives it an affectionate squeeze and tears that I long thought had dried resurfaced.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” he sobs and sniffs. “You know I don’t mean to hurt you…don’t you?”

  But you always do.

  “I’m going to rehab.”

  Again?

  “I don’t really want you to give up your schoolin’. I want you to do what makes you happy,” he says, tryin’ his best to sound like a Hallmark card. “I’m gonna clean up. You’ll see.”

  Same shit, different day.

  Holloway Parkway comes into view. My stomach twists into multiple knots at the sight of Bentley Manor’s tall, wrought-iron gate. Clusters of different groups of people are spread throughout.

  On one end there are young teenage girls with bodies older than their minds while, at the other, teenage boys in cheap jewelry and clothes three sizes too big gawk and make lewd comments. In between: rude children, Kaseem’s foot soldiers, and shakin’ junkies. Home sweet home.

  Damn.

  Shakespeare parks the car, but it’s a few, long, agonizin’ seconds before he shuts off the motor. I don’t blame him. He’s just as tired of this routine as I am.

  Still, I wish the uneasiness between us would disappear. We did it. It was a mistake. It will never happen again.

  I swallow hard.

  How many times have I told myself this in the past three weeks? When will it start to feel like it was a mistake? And how come it can’t happen again?