Nasty Girls An Urban Novel
, by Gray, Erick S.
- ISBN: 9780312349967 | 0312349963
- Cover: Paperback
- Copyright: 5/16/2006
Camille, Jade and Shy are best friends and have always had each others backs. Jade and Shys boyfriends, Roscoe and James, are partners in the lucrative drug business. But one night James and Roscoe get caught up in a shoot-out that goes horribly wrong. Shys man, Roscoe, ends up in prison while James walks away clean, and things begin to fall apart between the girls. Jealousy, greed, revenge, and betrayal test the true bonds of their friendship. Get ready because these girls are about to take nasty to a whole new level.
Erick S. Gray is the author of Money Power Respect, Ghetto Heaven, and Booty Call. He lives in Queens, New York, and is currently at work on his next novel.
Chapter One
SHY
2004
We gonna do this, baby. I'm gonna make it happen fo' you . . . fo' us,” Roscoe promised me. We were laid up in bed, resting on wrinkled satin sheets, and I just got finished rocking his fucking world. I fucked him so hard that I had him screaming my name. I'm that bitch!
“Watch, Shy, it's gonna be you and me,” he said, as I was nestled against his chest, staring at the bedroom walls and listening to his weak promises. But I was used to it. I mean, after a nigga get himself some pussy, he gonna promise you the world while he's up in you, saying shit like, “Baby, I'm gonna buy you that house.” Or “Baby, let's get married.” Or “Baby, I'm gonna be faithful from now on. I ain't fuckin' wit' no other bitches.” Yeah, yeah, yeah, a sista done heard it all before. See, when a nigga is fucking you, that pussy got his mind somewhere else, like warped and shit, and if your pussy is that good, you gonna have a nigga say all kinds of shit and promises to your ass. But after he done came, and got his mind right again, you best believe when you ask about that house, about getting married, that car he promised you, or him leaving other bitches alone, he gonna be like, “Huh? I said that? When?” The nigga get absentminded and those coochie promises go out the door.
Shit, I know my pussy is good. Every time Roscoe's fucking me, he bragging, “Damn, Shy . . . you got some good pussy, ummm . . . shit, yes, baby . . . ummm, yes . . . I love you! Oooh . . . I love you.” Shit, the only time Roscoe will ever proclaim his love to me is when the nigga is deep in some pussy. Anytime besides that, it's like, “Yeah, Shy, you know I got love for you, right?”
It's getting so fucking played out. But Roscoe will be Roscoe; I know he ain't changing anytime soon. But I wish he'd try.
I stayed in Roscoe's arms; he felt so good. We didn't say anything else for the moment. We just relished in the good sex and tried to catch our breaths. I looked at the time and saw that it was ten o'clock in the morning, and I felt good because I had the day off and was spending it in bed with my man.
“Shy, you okay?” Roscoe asked.
“Yeah, I'm fine.” I replied.
“Why you so quiet?” he asked.
“No reason. I'm just enjoyin' the moment, that's all.” I looked up at his handsome face and said, “I love you.”
“Yeah, you know I got love for you too, Shy. You my wifey,” he said.
I sighed heavily. This nigga. His dick got soft and his mind went “Duh!”
“Say it, Roscoe,” I said.
“Say what?” he asked.
“That you love me.”
“But I do.”
“So why don't you tell me it?”
“Shy, you know how I feel about you. Why you trippin'?”
“Because, we been together fo' a year and a half, and I wanna hear you say it fo' once, wit'out your dick being up in me.”
“What?” He chuckled.
I pushed away from him and stared at him. I hate this, because to him, everything is always a fucking joke. I mean, I feel that sometimes he never takes me seriously.
“You love me, right?” I repeated.
“You know I do,” he said.
“I want us to settle down and do us, baby. You know I wanna have a baby soon. And I wanna move out of the projects, too.”
“Here we go, Shy . . . I told you, shit takes time, a'ight. A brotha ain't made out of money,” he stated.
I sighed. Roscoe was full of it. “Roscoe, you tell me that all that hustlin' you doin' out there on them streets, you ain't got no money saved for us?”
“Yeah, I got shit saved,” he said on the defensive, like I offended him or some shit. “I ain't stupid,” he added.
“So why can't we leave here and get a better place?”
“Because, it ain't time yet. I was born and raised here, Shy. I got business to take care of. Yo, a nigga can't just up and leave like that. You maybe, but not me.”
“You're lyin', Roscoe. You just don't wanna leave the projects, admit it. Why are you so scared of change?”
“I ain't scared of shit.”
“Whatever!” I muttered. I hopped out of bed and walked into the bathroom naked.
Roscoe was damn near a kingpin in the neighborhood, moving kilos of that yayo wholesale price here, and to niggas down in the dirty south, and having a tight-knit crew up here in Queens, making crazy paper. I was never too much in his business, but when we met, I knew he was a big-time drug dealer. I was attracted to that type of nigga and that lifestyle. Him and his right-hand man, James—Jade's boyfriend—ran shit in the Jamaica housing projects. And I knew he was making enough money to move a bitch like me out of the projects. I had enough bad memories here with my moms, my pops, and losing Raheem. I just wanted to be somewhere different.
“Shy, why you trippin'? It's too fuckin' early. Damn, we just had a good morning; you know what I'm sayin'. And now you fuckin' it up by arguing over dumb shit!” he shouted.
I came out the bathroom and said to him, “Because, fo' months now, you've been promisin' me this shit and that shit. You gonna move me outta here and shit. We gonna have a baby together. Oh, Shy, you better than here; we need to get you a house, because niggas be wildin' out in these streets. You promised to take care of me, Roscoe, but lately, you ain't been takin' care of shit.”
“Shy, you know I take care of your ass,” he said coolly. “Didn't I buy you that leather jacket last week? And who bought you those earrings fo' your birthday? I took care of that. Who pay the rent, huh?”
I just looked at this nigga and returned with, “Whatever, nigga!” and closed the bathroom door.
“You know what, Shy? You spoiled, that's what you are. You got one of the flyest cribs in the buildin', your ass stay decked out in Gucci, Donna Karan, diamonds, and shit, and you ain't happy. Just like a fuckin' woman. Ain't no way in pleasing y'all,” he yelled through the bathroom door. “You know what? I'm out!”
I heard that, and I quickly opened the door and yelled, “Where you goin'?”
“Away from here, that's fo' sure. You actin' crazy right now, Shy.”
“I thought you were goin' to spend the day wit' me?”
“I was—now I'm not,” he said, pulling up his jeans and looking at me like I was crazy.
“You know what, Roscoe, fuck you! I don't need you. You ain't shit, anyway.”
“Yeah, page me tonight when you want your back dug out again,” he said sarcastically.
I watched this man get dressed and dis me like I wasn't shit. He threw on his Rocawear jacket and headed for the door.
“So you just gonna leave me like that?” I asked with my arms folded across my chest as I glared at him.
“Yo, I'll be back when you cool the fuck off, Shy,” he said, and bounced out my apartment so easy.
I swear, niggas ain't shit. He come around last night, lookin' for some pussy, and my dumb ass give him some—yeah, I was horny too, but damn, why he gotta leave out my crib like that? All I asked him was to say he love me, without sex being involved, and move me out the projects, and this nigga just flipped the script on me. You know.
I wasn't gonna cry over that nigga, even though I was hurt. Roscoe promised to spend the day with me, and now he just flew the coop like it was nothing. No, I'm not gonna cry. I'm too old for that—shedding tears over a nigga. I told myself, Shy, he ain't worth trippin' over. You a big girl. Yeah, I love Roscoe, but I did have a life before I met him, and I'll have one after him.
Roscoe and I hooked up a year and a half ago in front of a Queens nightclub. It was a year after my bitch-ass father died of cancer. I was chilling wit my girls Jade and Camille, and you know we wasn't paying majority of these clown-ass niggas that tried to holla at us no mind. Majority of them were fake, anyway, and had no game. I mean, this one dude tried to holla at my girl, Camille, because she got the phattest ass out of all of us—but come on, the nigga was ugly wit' crusty, ashy lips—like he brushed his teeth with face powder and shit. And most niggas were staring, but were scared to come over and holla; they ain't had no fucking backbone.
If you like someone, especially a cute female, a brother with confidence would make his presence known in front of her politely, like a gentleman, and say his name and be smooth with his. Don't be shouting out to me, “Yo, ma, let me holla at you for a sec.” “Yo, shorty, come here. . . . I wanna talk to you. My nigga wanna holla!”
And then when they don't get their way, and you don't come over, they disrespect you and shout out, “Bitch!” Or “Fuck you! You stuck up, anyway!”
Yeah, whatever, but moments ago, they were longing for your undivided attention. They've already proved to me their type of mentality. And I hate the aggressive males, the ones that pull you by the arm while you're passing by or follow you when it's clear that you don't want to be bothered with them, but they are too stupid or ignorant to back the fuck off.
Like this one nigga followed me for three blocks, calling me out, “Yo, ma—can you stop? I just wanna ask you sumthin', that's all. . . . You look too good to be walking alone and shit. I'll drive you somewhere.” Let it be known, I ain't your fucking ma. I ain't your fucking boo. I ain't the one.
God, I hate corny niggas with no type of game to them, especially the ones that drive these nice cars and expect me to stop and give 'em some play because they in a Benz or a new Lexus, and don't even got the respect to stop and get out the car to approach you. They holla at you from the car window. I ain't turning tricks, so I don't know what they be thinking.
But Roscoe, he was different. He's the type of man, when he walks into a room, he gets noticed. All eyes are on him. It's his look and demeanor. When I first met Roscoe, I knew he was a hustler, a product of the streets. It was the way he talked and the wardrobe he was draped in.
It had been 3 a.m., and I was ready to leave because the night was boring and the assholes were out in swarms. I noticed Roscoe in the club, but never gave him a second glance. I just thought he was cute. He had on this navy blue and white pin-striped leather suit, which was looking great on him, with white Timberlands and a long bulky chain that draped down to his abs. He was blinged the fuck out and different from the regular guys that came in with jeans and jerseys and tried their hardest to impress the ladies. But I wasn't the only lady that noticed this fly nigga come into the club; bitches started flocking to that nigga like he was Jay-Z or sumthin'. But I loved the way he would shrug the bitches off and chill with his boys by the bar.
Later that night, I was leaving when I saw Roscoe outside on the corner next to a parked luxurious pearl Escalade, rolling dice with his peoples. I had walked across the street with my girls, when I saw him look up and check me out. He stared at me for a moment, and from that, I knew he was interested.
But I wasn't all that into him—just a little bit. I had just came out of a fucked-up relationship not too long before, and I wasn't trying to mess with some other nigga so soon. I just wanted to do me and chill. I definitely had my share of the thugs and drug dealers at an early age, and when Raheem was killed when I was fifteen, I thought I would never find no other man to replace him. But I was wrong. Roscoe was Raheem three times better.
Roscoe said something to his man, and then he strolled across the street, never taking his eyes off me. Camille and Jade noticed him too, and they smiled. I guess they both thought that he was gonna holla at one of them, or thought he was cute.
“Hey, lovely,” he called out, staring hard at me.
I gave him a faint smile as I stood talking to my girls. I started to walk away. Roscoe came up from behind and said, “Beautiful in the denim skirt . . . I like your walk.”
I stopped, turned around, and said, “Excuse me?”
“I like the way you walk. You walk wit' class. I can tell by your presence that you got respect fo' yourself.”
“And you know this by watchin' me walk?” I asked, and then let out a sigh. I wanted to play hard to get, but it was hard, because he was so cute and he had so much style to him. But I didn't want this nigga thinking that I was one of these dizzy-ass chickenhead bitches out here that was craving for his attention.
Roscoe came up close and gently grabbed me by my hand, looked me dead in my eyes, and asked, “Can I have a quick moment wit' you? I just wanna talk. I'm not gonna hold you from your girls too long.”
I looked at him and knew he was confident with his. He didn't seem too cocky, and he didn't stutter while he was talking to me. He knew what to say and how to say it. And he wasn't aggressive to the point where I wanted to smack him. The way he grabbed my hand—casually but not scared to touch a sista—said something about him.
I looked over at my girls, and Camille and Jade just looked back at me. Camille shrugged her shoulders and said, “We ain't goin' anywhere, Shy.”
So I walked off with Roscoe down the block, where we had a chance to talk privately, away from the loud crowd and the nosy bitches outside the club that were hating on me because I had Roscoe's undivided attention.
When we got to the corner, he said, “Your name Shy, huh?”
“I see you pick up on things,” I said.
“I pay attention to a lot of things, especially when I come across a beautiful woman. And you definitely are a beautiful woman. So, is Shy your real name or a nickname?” he asked.
“It's my middle name, given to me by my mother.”
“It's nice. I like that . . . Shy. I can get used to sayin' it out loud.”
I smiled.
When he talked, he always made eye contact. Not once did his eyes leave mine, which was a positive thing. I hate a man that talks to you, but his eyes are looking everywhere except at you, which either means he's too timid, too weak, or he's devious and you can't trust the muthafucka.
And in return, I stared right back. He was definitely eye candy. He had full lips that were—ummmm. I just wanted to suck that bottom lip so bad! He also had brown eyes and smooth brown skin. Now the bonus was that he was tall. The brotha stood about six-one, rocking cornrows with design parts which looked freshly done. And the clothes! His gear looked spanking new.
“You got beautiful eyes, Shy.”
“Thank you,” I replied. I ain't gonna front; Roscoe was making me blush. And if a brotha can make me blush, then he was doing his job and was definitely on point with his game.
“I see you're big on eye contact,” I said.
“Always. I feel that lookin' in a person's eyes tells you a lot about that person and his or her character. And wit' women, I feel that the eyes tell what the heart is feelin', and the way you're lookin' at me right now tells me a lot.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“So what are my eyes saying?”
“Truthfully . . . that you're feelin' me somewhat, and I got my foot in the door wit' you. I'm willin' to work on the rest wit' you.”
“Are you always this cocky?”
He didn't respond to my question. He just looked at me and smiled. “I definitely wanna take you out sometime. Only you can make it happen. So, will I be leavin' here wit' a smile on my face, or are you gonna have a brotha continuously pursuin'?”
“We can work somethin' out,” I told him.
The more he talked, the more he had me open. That shit he said about the eyes, I like. He was smart, and that was another plus.
So I gave him my cell phone and my home numbers, and I rarely give out my home number. But he deserved it. He came correct with his. I gave him his moment, and it paid off.
I went back over to Camille and Jade, and you know they had a bunch of questions to ask a sista. The entire ride home to my place, I thought about Roscoe.
Our first date, Roscoe took me out of town with him to Philadelphia, where he had tickets to a Jay-Z concert, front row and everything. And then afterwards, he had a suite at the Sheraton—you know he had a sista open. I ain't no slut, but I fucked the nigga that night. I mean, who wouldn't? It was worth it.
And as our relationship grew, it was great to know that he didn't have no kids. Oh, God, that was such a bonus, knowing that I didn't have to deal with no jealous bitchy baby mamas. I had no kids, so it was great.
I stood in front of the mirror naked and gazed at myself, like I do every morning. I'm not conceited—well, a little, but a sista like me got it going on. I got a petite figure, with gracefully long black hair that stops at my shoulders. Bitches in the hair salon be hating, because my shit ain't a weave like most fake sistas. My lips are pretty and stay glossed out. To the fellows, I'm known as the chocolate fine honey with the cute butt and curvaceous figure. Roscoe hates it when I walk out on the streets alone, because plenty of brothas be trying to come at me and holla. Most of 'em know that I'm with Roscoe, but they don't care. They be stressing the situation, saying my man ain't gonna find out. But I be loving Roscoe too much to fuck around with these lame-ass wannabe hustlers and gangstas. And I also know you don't shit where you eat. Roscoe do take care of me—I just wish that sometimes he would take care of me a little bit more often.
About an hour done passed since Roscoe left me alone in the apartment. And to be real, I was missing him already. This nigga had my fucking hopes up, thinking I was gonna be with my man all day, and we were going to go out shopping and have dinner at the Olive Garden and just do us all day. Instead he leaves because he claims I got him upset. Yeah, whatever.
Well, I was determined not to spend my entire day off being bored and trapped in this apartment. I was getting into something—I don't care if it was just hanging outside the projects.
I called up Jade, and as soon as she picked up the phone, I heard the drama.
Copyright © 2006 by Erick S. Gray
SHY
2004
We gonna do this, baby. I'm gonna make it happen fo' you . . . fo' us,” Roscoe promised me. We were laid up in bed, resting on wrinkled satin sheets, and I just got finished rocking his fucking world. I fucked him so hard that I had him screaming my name. I'm that bitch!
“Watch, Shy, it's gonna be you and me,” he said, as I was nestled against his chest, staring at the bedroom walls and listening to his weak promises. But I was used to it. I mean, after a nigga get himself some pussy, he gonna promise you the world while he's up in you, saying shit like, “Baby, I'm gonna buy you that house.” Or “Baby, let's get married.” Or “Baby, I'm gonna be faithful from now on. I ain't fuckin' wit' no other bitches.” Yeah, yeah, yeah, a sista done heard it all before. See, when a nigga is fucking you, that pussy got his mind somewhere else, like warped and shit, and if your pussy is that good, you gonna have a nigga say all kinds of shit and promises to your ass. But after he done came, and got his mind right again, you best believe when you ask about that house, about getting married, that car he promised you, or him leaving other bitches alone, he gonna be like, “Huh? I said that? When?” The nigga get absentminded and those coochie promises go out the door.
Shit, I know my pussy is good. Every time Roscoe's fucking me, he bragging, “Damn, Shy . . . you got some good pussy, ummm . . . shit, yes, baby . . . ummm, yes . . . I love you! Oooh . . . I love you.” Shit, the only time Roscoe will ever proclaim his love to me is when the nigga is deep in some pussy. Anytime besides that, it's like, “Yeah, Shy, you know I got love for you, right?”
It's getting so fucking played out. But Roscoe will be Roscoe; I know he ain't changing anytime soon. But I wish he'd try.
I stayed in Roscoe's arms; he felt so good. We didn't say anything else for the moment. We just relished in the good sex and tried to catch our breaths. I looked at the time and saw that it was ten o'clock in the morning, and I felt good because I had the day off and was spending it in bed with my man.
“Shy, you okay?” Roscoe asked.
“Yeah, I'm fine.” I replied.
“Why you so quiet?” he asked.
“No reason. I'm just enjoyin' the moment, that's all.” I looked up at his handsome face and said, “I love you.”
“Yeah, you know I got love for you too, Shy. You my wifey,” he said.
I sighed heavily. This nigga. His dick got soft and his mind went “Duh!”
“Say it, Roscoe,” I said.
“Say what?” he asked.
“That you love me.”
“But I do.”
“So why don't you tell me it?”
“Shy, you know how I feel about you. Why you trippin'?”
“Because, we been together fo' a year and a half, and I wanna hear you say it fo' once, wit'out your dick being up in me.”
“What?” He chuckled.
I pushed away from him and stared at him. I hate this, because to him, everything is always a fucking joke. I mean, I feel that sometimes he never takes me seriously.
“You love me, right?” I repeated.
“You know I do,” he said.
“I want us to settle down and do us, baby. You know I wanna have a baby soon. And I wanna move out of the projects, too.”
“Here we go, Shy . . . I told you, shit takes time, a'ight. A brotha ain't made out of money,” he stated.
I sighed. Roscoe was full of it. “Roscoe, you tell me that all that hustlin' you doin' out there on them streets, you ain't got no money saved for us?”
“Yeah, I got shit saved,” he said on the defensive, like I offended him or some shit. “I ain't stupid,” he added.
“So why can't we leave here and get a better place?”
“Because, it ain't time yet. I was born and raised here, Shy. I got business to take care of. Yo, a nigga can't just up and leave like that. You maybe, but not me.”
“You're lyin', Roscoe. You just don't wanna leave the projects, admit it. Why are you so scared of change?”
“I ain't scared of shit.”
“Whatever!” I muttered. I hopped out of bed and walked into the bathroom naked.
Roscoe was damn near a kingpin in the neighborhood, moving kilos of that yayo wholesale price here, and to niggas down in the dirty south, and having a tight-knit crew up here in Queens, making crazy paper. I was never too much in his business, but when we met, I knew he was a big-time drug dealer. I was attracted to that type of nigga and that lifestyle. Him and his right-hand man, James—Jade's boyfriend—ran shit in the Jamaica housing projects. And I knew he was making enough money to move a bitch like me out of the projects. I had enough bad memories here with my moms, my pops, and losing Raheem. I just wanted to be somewhere different.
“Shy, why you trippin'? It's too fuckin' early. Damn, we just had a good morning; you know what I'm sayin'. And now you fuckin' it up by arguing over dumb shit!” he shouted.
I came out the bathroom and said to him, “Because, fo' months now, you've been promisin' me this shit and that shit. You gonna move me outta here and shit. We gonna have a baby together. Oh, Shy, you better than here; we need to get you a house, because niggas be wildin' out in these streets. You promised to take care of me, Roscoe, but lately, you ain't been takin' care of shit.”
“Shy, you know I take care of your ass,” he said coolly. “Didn't I buy you that leather jacket last week? And who bought you those earrings fo' your birthday? I took care of that. Who pay the rent, huh?”
I just looked at this nigga and returned with, “Whatever, nigga!” and closed the bathroom door.
“You know what, Shy? You spoiled, that's what you are. You got one of the flyest cribs in the buildin', your ass stay decked out in Gucci, Donna Karan, diamonds, and shit, and you ain't happy. Just like a fuckin' woman. Ain't no way in pleasing y'all,” he yelled through the bathroom door. “You know what? I'm out!”
I heard that, and I quickly opened the door and yelled, “Where you goin'?”
“Away from here, that's fo' sure. You actin' crazy right now, Shy.”
“I thought you were goin' to spend the day wit' me?”
“I was—now I'm not,” he said, pulling up his jeans and looking at me like I was crazy.
“You know what, Roscoe, fuck you! I don't need you. You ain't shit, anyway.”
“Yeah, page me tonight when you want your back dug out again,” he said sarcastically.
I watched this man get dressed and dis me like I wasn't shit. He threw on his Rocawear jacket and headed for the door.
“So you just gonna leave me like that?” I asked with my arms folded across my chest as I glared at him.
“Yo, I'll be back when you cool the fuck off, Shy,” he said, and bounced out my apartment so easy.
I swear, niggas ain't shit. He come around last night, lookin' for some pussy, and my dumb ass give him some—yeah, I was horny too, but damn, why he gotta leave out my crib like that? All I asked him was to say he love me, without sex being involved, and move me out the projects, and this nigga just flipped the script on me. You know.
I wasn't gonna cry over that nigga, even though I was hurt. Roscoe promised to spend the day with me, and now he just flew the coop like it was nothing. No, I'm not gonna cry. I'm too old for that—shedding tears over a nigga. I told myself, Shy, he ain't worth trippin' over. You a big girl. Yeah, I love Roscoe, but I did have a life before I met him, and I'll have one after him.
Roscoe and I hooked up a year and a half ago in front of a Queens nightclub. It was a year after my bitch-ass father died of cancer. I was chilling wit my girls Jade and Camille, and you know we wasn't paying majority of these clown-ass niggas that tried to holla at us no mind. Majority of them were fake, anyway, and had no game. I mean, this one dude tried to holla at my girl, Camille, because she got the phattest ass out of all of us—but come on, the nigga was ugly wit' crusty, ashy lips—like he brushed his teeth with face powder and shit. And most niggas were staring, but were scared to come over and holla; they ain't had no fucking backbone.
If you like someone, especially a cute female, a brother with confidence would make his presence known in front of her politely, like a gentleman, and say his name and be smooth with his. Don't be shouting out to me, “Yo, ma, let me holla at you for a sec.” “Yo, shorty, come here. . . . I wanna talk to you. My nigga wanna holla!”
And then when they don't get their way, and you don't come over, they disrespect you and shout out, “Bitch!” Or “Fuck you! You stuck up, anyway!”
Yeah, whatever, but moments ago, they were longing for your undivided attention. They've already proved to me their type of mentality. And I hate the aggressive males, the ones that pull you by the arm while you're passing by or follow you when it's clear that you don't want to be bothered with them, but they are too stupid or ignorant to back the fuck off.
Like this one nigga followed me for three blocks, calling me out, “Yo, ma—can you stop? I just wanna ask you sumthin', that's all. . . . You look too good to be walking alone and shit. I'll drive you somewhere.” Let it be known, I ain't your fucking ma. I ain't your fucking boo. I ain't the one.
God, I hate corny niggas with no type of game to them, especially the ones that drive these nice cars and expect me to stop and give 'em some play because they in a Benz or a new Lexus, and don't even got the respect to stop and get out the car to approach you. They holla at you from the car window. I ain't turning tricks, so I don't know what they be thinking.
But Roscoe, he was different. He's the type of man, when he walks into a room, he gets noticed. All eyes are on him. It's his look and demeanor. When I first met Roscoe, I knew he was a hustler, a product of the streets. It was the way he talked and the wardrobe he was draped in.
It had been 3 a.m., and I was ready to leave because the night was boring and the assholes were out in swarms. I noticed Roscoe in the club, but never gave him a second glance. I just thought he was cute. He had on this navy blue and white pin-striped leather suit, which was looking great on him, with white Timberlands and a long bulky chain that draped down to his abs. He was blinged the fuck out and different from the regular guys that came in with jeans and jerseys and tried their hardest to impress the ladies. But I wasn't the only lady that noticed this fly nigga come into the club; bitches started flocking to that nigga like he was Jay-Z or sumthin'. But I loved the way he would shrug the bitches off and chill with his boys by the bar.
Later that night, I was leaving when I saw Roscoe outside on the corner next to a parked luxurious pearl Escalade, rolling dice with his peoples. I had walked across the street with my girls, when I saw him look up and check me out. He stared at me for a moment, and from that, I knew he was interested.
But I wasn't all that into him—just a little bit. I had just came out of a fucked-up relationship not too long before, and I wasn't trying to mess with some other nigga so soon. I just wanted to do me and chill. I definitely had my share of the thugs and drug dealers at an early age, and when Raheem was killed when I was fifteen, I thought I would never find no other man to replace him. But I was wrong. Roscoe was Raheem three times better.
Roscoe said something to his man, and then he strolled across the street, never taking his eyes off me. Camille and Jade noticed him too, and they smiled. I guess they both thought that he was gonna holla at one of them, or thought he was cute.
“Hey, lovely,” he called out, staring hard at me.
I gave him a faint smile as I stood talking to my girls. I started to walk away. Roscoe came up from behind and said, “Beautiful in the denim skirt . . . I like your walk.”
I stopped, turned around, and said, “Excuse me?”
“I like the way you walk. You walk wit' class. I can tell by your presence that you got respect fo' yourself.”
“And you know this by watchin' me walk?” I asked, and then let out a sigh. I wanted to play hard to get, but it was hard, because he was so cute and he had so much style to him. But I didn't want this nigga thinking that I was one of these dizzy-ass chickenhead bitches out here that was craving for his attention.
Roscoe came up close and gently grabbed me by my hand, looked me dead in my eyes, and asked, “Can I have a quick moment wit' you? I just wanna talk. I'm not gonna hold you from your girls too long.”
I looked at him and knew he was confident with his. He didn't seem too cocky, and he didn't stutter while he was talking to me. He knew what to say and how to say it. And he wasn't aggressive to the point where I wanted to smack him. The way he grabbed my hand—casually but not scared to touch a sista—said something about him.
I looked over at my girls, and Camille and Jade just looked back at me. Camille shrugged her shoulders and said, “We ain't goin' anywhere, Shy.”
So I walked off with Roscoe down the block, where we had a chance to talk privately, away from the loud crowd and the nosy bitches outside the club that were hating on me because I had Roscoe's undivided attention.
When we got to the corner, he said, “Your name Shy, huh?”
“I see you pick up on things,” I said.
“I pay attention to a lot of things, especially when I come across a beautiful woman. And you definitely are a beautiful woman. So, is Shy your real name or a nickname?” he asked.
“It's my middle name, given to me by my mother.”
“It's nice. I like that . . . Shy. I can get used to sayin' it out loud.”
I smiled.
When he talked, he always made eye contact. Not once did his eyes leave mine, which was a positive thing. I hate a man that talks to you, but his eyes are looking everywhere except at you, which either means he's too timid, too weak, or he's devious and you can't trust the muthafucka.
And in return, I stared right back. He was definitely eye candy. He had full lips that were—ummmm. I just wanted to suck that bottom lip so bad! He also had brown eyes and smooth brown skin. Now the bonus was that he was tall. The brotha stood about six-one, rocking cornrows with design parts which looked freshly done. And the clothes! His gear looked spanking new.
“You got beautiful eyes, Shy.”
“Thank you,” I replied. I ain't gonna front; Roscoe was making me blush. And if a brotha can make me blush, then he was doing his job and was definitely on point with his game.
“I see you're big on eye contact,” I said.
“Always. I feel that lookin' in a person's eyes tells you a lot about that person and his or her character. And wit' women, I feel that the eyes tell what the heart is feelin', and the way you're lookin' at me right now tells me a lot.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“So what are my eyes saying?”
“Truthfully . . . that you're feelin' me somewhat, and I got my foot in the door wit' you. I'm willin' to work on the rest wit' you.”
“Are you always this cocky?”
He didn't respond to my question. He just looked at me and smiled. “I definitely wanna take you out sometime. Only you can make it happen. So, will I be leavin' here wit' a smile on my face, or are you gonna have a brotha continuously pursuin'?”
“We can work somethin' out,” I told him.
The more he talked, the more he had me open. That shit he said about the eyes, I like. He was smart, and that was another plus.
So I gave him my cell phone and my home numbers, and I rarely give out my home number. But he deserved it. He came correct with his. I gave him his moment, and it paid off.
I went back over to Camille and Jade, and you know they had a bunch of questions to ask a sista. The entire ride home to my place, I thought about Roscoe.
Our first date, Roscoe took me out of town with him to Philadelphia, where he had tickets to a Jay-Z concert, front row and everything. And then afterwards, he had a suite at the Sheraton—you know he had a sista open. I ain't no slut, but I fucked the nigga that night. I mean, who wouldn't? It was worth it.
And as our relationship grew, it was great to know that he didn't have no kids. Oh, God, that was such a bonus, knowing that I didn't have to deal with no jealous bitchy baby mamas. I had no kids, so it was great.
I stood in front of the mirror naked and gazed at myself, like I do every morning. I'm not conceited—well, a little, but a sista like me got it going on. I got a petite figure, with gracefully long black hair that stops at my shoulders. Bitches in the hair salon be hating, because my shit ain't a weave like most fake sistas. My lips are pretty and stay glossed out. To the fellows, I'm known as the chocolate fine honey with the cute butt and curvaceous figure. Roscoe hates it when I walk out on the streets alone, because plenty of brothas be trying to come at me and holla. Most of 'em know that I'm with Roscoe, but they don't care. They be stressing the situation, saying my man ain't gonna find out. But I be loving Roscoe too much to fuck around with these lame-ass wannabe hustlers and gangstas. And I also know you don't shit where you eat. Roscoe do take care of me—I just wish that sometimes he would take care of me a little bit more often.
About an hour done passed since Roscoe left me alone in the apartment. And to be real, I was missing him already. This nigga had my fucking hopes up, thinking I was gonna be with my man all day, and we were going to go out shopping and have dinner at the Olive Garden and just do us all day. Instead he leaves because he claims I got him upset. Yeah, whatever.
Well, I was determined not to spend my entire day off being bored and trapped in this apartment. I was getting into something—I don't care if it was just hanging outside the projects.
I called up Jade, and as soon as she picked up the phone, I heard the drama.
Copyright © 2006 by Erick S. Gray
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