Tatted On My Neck

By Nique Roberson

Journey back with the class of 1997, and see how thin the line between love and hate can be...

Chantal “learned” early in life that every baby isn’t a blessing, because she never should have survived the womb. Neglected by those who promised to love her, this Philly girl only finds peace and happiness in the bars of a sweet melody and in the arms of other girls’ men. Her promiscuity and ongoing affair with a married man land her on a bus bound for Los Angeles...where she finds it hard to change her ways.

Shalonda grew up starring in network sitcoms and gracing magazine covers. Molded by her mother, she perfected the art of manipulation and will accept only the best money can offer. With patience as her virtue, she has plans to be the stylish wife of an NFL superstar. And with four years invested and at least four to go in a deteriorating relationship with Chris, a sexy and flirtatious young Wide Receiver, Shalonda uses every trick she knows in order to hold on to him until after Draft Day.

When Chris notices a man’s name tattooed around Chantal’s ankle, he becomes infatuated with her and the story behind her ink. Chantal wanted to leave her past behind her, but Chris shows her more love than she’s ever known, and she’s falling hard for a man who can’t love her back. Shalonda wasn’t raised to allow another woman to steal her future, or her man, so as Chris and Chantal become closer than ‘just friends,’ Shalonda plots, lies, and cheats to protect her own heart. But Chantal yearns to know what real love feels like, so if she wants to maintain her ‘peace’, she better be ready for war...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nique Roberson
• Release date: Apr 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452406787

Nique Roberson

Nique Roberson fell in love with words at a young age. As early as age two, she could be found sitting on the couch 'reading' books and newspapers. Soon, she developed a passion for books, music, movies and writing; she authored her first short story in the 3rd grade and penned her first song in the 4th grade. She knew how popular soundtracks were for movies and wanted to dip her hand in as many pots as possible. Even before middle school, classmates were literally on waiting lists to read Nique's writings, which were far more mature than her years. Filled with drama and sex, students read the stories under desks and in corners for fear of being caught reading explicit, but captivating, materials. Nique studied English throughout high school and college, and took as many creative writing courses as possible to hone the craft she grew to love. She loves reading as much as she does writing. Although she currently writes Urban Contemporary Fiction, she enjoys many genres, including Children's, Spiritual, Inspirational, Self-Help, Writing Reference, Thriller, Romance, Suspense, and more. Born and raised in Gary, In, Nique moved to Southern California as a teenager. She now lives with her husband and their three young children outside Chicago. Tatted On My Neck is Nique's 8th completed novel, but first published work. It was originally published in 2009 by Authorhouse. However, Nique desired more creative freedom and wanted to give the readers a better product, so the book was pulled in 2010 and re-released by Circumstances of Destiny Tales with a new cover and other editorial changes. She is working to release her next novel before the 2011 holiday season.

Book preview

PART ONE

One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life; that word is Love.

---Sophocles

Track 1. Sometimes I feel like a motherless child

CHANTAL MICHAELA BRIGHT

Philadelphia

Mid-September 1996

My head’s pounding, and I can’t even see out my left eye. I feel how fat my lip is every time I run my tongue across it. A few patches of dried blood have crusted up on my face. I tried to scrape most of it off, but it’s starting to hurt too much to scratch any more. My thumb is the only knuckle with any traces of skin left. I couldn’t make a good fist right now if my life depended on it. But this ain’t the first time I had to scrap. Not gon’ be the last time, either. So, if need be, I’ll just pick up a brick if they wanna finish what they started. I’m so hungry, I just may hurl. I can’t remember the last time I had anything decent to eat. For the past few nights, I been sleeping in the backseat of my homeboy’s Metro. I gotta find someplace else to go. I handled this for as long as I could, the best way I knew how. Now I’m just about out of options.

But, uh, I’m not a runaway. Let’s get that straight, first of all. It’s not like I woke up one morning, decided I’d had enough of that Bitch called Life, packed my grip and hit the door. I didn’t plan this. I don’t want to wander up and down the streets with nothing but the clothes on my back. I’m not enjoying having to steal clothes and even panties, and needing to bum food just to survive. I don’t like going from house to house, staying with people I barely know or hardly like just so I can sleep on somebody’s floor or in somebody’s closet instead of on the street. Okay? I panicked. I got caught and I just panicked. I can’t live like this forever, but what else can I do other than run and hide?

There are only about five minutes of daylight left and I’m sitting on a swing at the playground down the street from my house, dragging my feet in the dirt, blasting my headphones and singing along to Patti LaBelle’s If Only You Knew. Been at this playground for hours. I don’t even know how many. Too busy dodging, ducking, and trying to stay out of plain sight. Well, now all the kids are gone, but the secret lovers haven’t come out to play just yet, so I got a little time to figure out what I need to do next. It’s funny to me. Not too long ago, just like those lil’ kids, all I ever wanted to do was play on the swings and listen to my radio. Just didn’t know how good I had it back then.

They say, Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Well, like Tupac, I ain’t got no muthafuckin’ friends. I have associates. Acquaintances. People I kick it with. But friends? Not so much. Even if I was stupid enough to think I had friends before, after everything that went down with Mr. Chase a couple weeks ago, I know I have nobody to call ‘friend’ now. That’s a damn shame too, because I’m a pretty cool chick when I wanna be. I even got best friend potential. Just don’t cross me. I got worst enemy potential, too.

And as far as enemies, well, you can’t get much closer to them than living under their roof. My daddy’s wife hated me from the moment she realized I had been conceived, so she spends her whole existence trying to turn him against me. Since she never wanted me to be here in the first place, I know she won’t feel any vindication until I’m either off the earth or I’m so miserable that I want to be off it.

I planned on staying gone just one or two days. Just over the weekend. I was gonna lie and tell my daddy I had made plans a long time ago to stay overnight with my friend, and when I made it back home, I was gonna tell him he musta forgot. But with every day that passed, I got more and more scared about what Daddy would do, or even worse, what she’d do, when they saw me again. Before I knew what happened, one or two days turned into two weeks.

I stopped going to school. I quit showing up at work. I just hid the fuck out. I guess I was embarrassed. I never wanted anybody to find out about me and Mr. Chase. I had a crush on him ever since kindergarten, but I never knew I’d actually have a chance with him. So, I mean, when the opportunity came, I guess I just took it. I didn’t think about what would happen if it came out in the open. Never thought he’d be so quick to throw me under the bus, either. Talking about I ‘seduced him.’ He was all over me. I didn’t have to ‘seduce’ him.

I wonder what rumors are spreading through the halls at school? What lies is my daddy’s wife filling his head with? People love to talk, especially about shit that they have no clue about. I already know I’m the main topic of discussion, and that’s why I don’t even have the guts to show my face. Not at school, not at home, barely even in the light of day. But it don’t matter, now. No matter how far I ran or how long I hid, the truth was gonna catch me eventually.

And catch me it did. Off guard in the mall today, after I went on a five-finger shopping spree in Frederick’s of Hollywood and Victoria’s Secret, the ‘judge’, ‘jury’, and ‘executioner’ caught me slipping when I was getting off the escalator and they tried to beat the shit out of me. One broad found out her man let me crash at his place for a couple days, and she assumed I gave him some. The other chick was mad because the dude she’s been digging on since last year ain’t even thinking about her, but been trying to get with me for weeks. The last girl in the group was just a tag-along lackey who didn’t like me just because her homies didn’t like me.

I held my own and did the best I could to stick and move, bust as many bitches in the face as possible, and above all, stay on my feet. I knew if I hit my knees, I’d get stomped out like that dude in the movie Menace II Society. I also take pride that I beat them down with nothing but my own knuckles. Those bitches fought dirty, and my eye is tore up now because one of them stuffed a damn Master lock inside a sock and tried bust me upside my head with it. Lucky for me, my reflexes are on point, otherwise my eyeball woulda got knocked clear out the socket. I vaguely remember a crowd gathering, but I don’t remember any damn body extending a hand to help me out. When somebody screamed the police were coming, everybody scattered, and I ran to the last place I’d be able to find refuge. Home. I’ve got to go home now. I miss my daddy too much. If only he knew just how much.

My daddy’s my whole world. He always has been. And I’ve always been daddy’s little girl. When I was younger, he would tuck me into bed at night, read me a story, sing me an old Motown song, and give me a sweet kiss to the top of my head. I inherited his passion for music and my mother’s everything else, so by the time I was in the sixth grade, I had a singing voice people thought belonged to a twenty-year-old and the body of a ghetto-bootied Playboy bunny. When I started performing in school programs and musicals, daddy was always alone in the front row, clapping and hooting like my number one fan.

My daddy’s wife, on the other hand, she couldn’t care less about my talents. When people told her about how good my performance was or that my voice was stunning, she said it didn’t matter because I’d grow out of it soon enough. If they smiled and said how much we favor each other, she’d huff and tell them, ‘she’s her father’s child.’ But her negativity never deterred my daddy’s love. I could never do any wrong in his eyes, and honestly, I never, ever, wanted to do anything to disappoint him. It hurts my soul to think what he must feel about me now.

Even more than my daddy, I miss the woman my daddy fell in love with. My mother. How can I miss someone I never knew? Because his eyes still gleam whenever he speaks her name. No one can say anything against her without igniting his fury, and I’m surprised he still loves me so much, because I know I destroyed the love of his life. I hate to make excuses, but a small part of me knows I would be a different person if I ever had the chance to know her.

Everybody always tells me how much I favor her. From my French vanilla complexion and the thick hair that I’ve never cut, to the downward angle of my eyes and the fullness of my lips, everyone thinks I’m my mother’s clone. I’ve seen pictures of her when she was younger, so even though I try to deny it, in my heart, I know it’s true. I just have darker eyes and hair, and a little mole beside my nose. And I’ve always been so grateful for that little bit of individuality.

When I was younger, music was my only refuge. Gave me the type of peace and comfort nothing else could and no one else would. No matter what mood or situation I found myself in, I could always find a song that spoke to me. Always felt good to know that no matter what was bothering me, someone, somewhere, at some point in time, they felt it, too. Made me feel a little less alone. But now, I’m so frustrated, I’m ready to launch this Walkman into the street ‘cause I think I may have gone too far this time. I can’t think of one song that can make me feel better now, and this one damn sure ain’t helping.

Even though my daddy is the only sunshine I’ve had for seventeen years, I couldn’t be his precious princess forever, especially having to deal with Teresa on a daily basis. I don’t know if he couldn’t see it or if he just refused to acknowledge it, but I started to change. I felt the transformation begin years ago. Everything his wife accused me of, little by little, I started to embody it. But he’s still my world.

So, last year, I wanted to show him just how much he means to me. On Father’s Day, I went out and got a tattoo around my ankle that says, ‘Mike’s Special Lady’ in script. Even when the tattoo dude suggested I pick a different spot since it was my first, I didn’t care. I knew it would hurt like hell, but my physical pain was minimal compared to the emotional and spiritual pain Daddy had to endure daily just for showing me any love and not turning me over to social services like his wife so frequently suggested. So, as soon as it was done, I rushed home to show it off.

Daddy told me it was beautiful, but Teresa totally flipped out when she saw it. She condemned him for even liking it, and told me she was my daddy’s wife, she was the one he loved most, she was his only special lady, and I better not ever forget it. Then she accused me of having some type of Oedipus complex, and told me to remember ‘Mike’ was my daddy, not my lover.

That was the straw. That was the damn straw that broke this camel’s back! I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t give a fuck! I did whatever I wanted to do, when and how I wanted to do it without so much as a thought to the repercussions. My daddy’s bitch and me were constantly at each other’s throats. I got more tattoos and a new piercing every few weeks just to piss her off. I snuck out of the house on a regular basis. Learning was the last thing on my mind because I went to school for the drama. My detentions and suspensions piled up and my grades plummeted. If people wanted to call me a ho, I was determined to show them how a ho gets down.

My routine was the same every day: girls were gonna talk shit about me, dudes were gonna try to hook up with me, and the combination of the two would have me fighting at least once every other week. If I was talking to a dude about last night’s episode of New York Undercover in first hour, by last hour word had it I blowed him in the bathroom at lunch or something. After a while, I stopped fighting the damn rumors. I let people talk. I liked it when they talked. Hell, I gave them something to talk about.

I got freaky in movie theaters, in my daddy’s car and all over the school campus. I did just about everything a ho can do short of spreading her legs or giving head. It didn’t make too much difference what I didn’t do, anyway. They thought I did everything. I let them think it, too. By the beginning of junior year, I can’t think of one female who actually had something nice to say about me. Dudes who believed the rumors quickly found out I’m the Queen of Tease, and all they were left with was blue balls, hard dicks, and angry girlfriends, so a lot of them didn’t like me, either.

I think Mr. Chase listened a little too hard to all those rumors. Got him a little too excited. I’m sure that’s why he was bold enough to start something with me. It wasn’t like I ran with a clique, so there wasn’t anybody I’d be able to tell about our little tryst. And I’m the ‘biggest freak in school’. But age ain’t nothing but a number, and relationship status was on a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ basis. We messed around for over a year, so I should be happy we didn’t get caught a lot sooner. They still didn’t have to expel me, though.

I guess I gave Teresa plenty of ammunition, but my daddy never gave up on me and I threw it in Teresa’s face each and every chance I got. Thought I was teaching her a lesson by wildin’ out, but I’m coming to realize I was only hurting my daddy, my only sunshine, with my antics. I was always afraid his wife would succeed in turning him against me, but I’ve been doing that all by myself. Now I’ve been away from home for weeks and I don’t know if I can ever look my father in the eye again after what happened at school----or after he hears everybody else’s version of what happened with my teacher. I know the things I’ve been doing and the way I’ve been acting have brought a lot of clouds our way. Now my life is a hurricane, and I don’t know if I’ll ever feel the warmth of my daddy’s sunshine again.

Like I said, though, I’m not a runaway. I just stayed away from home long enough to buy some time. Maybe give daddy enough time to get over it, or not even care at all. But now, I’m hungry, tired, bruised, bloody, and desperate. And I miss my daddy. I need to hear him tell me he loves me and everything will be all right. More than anything, I can’t have him believing lies about me. And there’s only one way he’s gonna know the truth. It’s got to come from me.

*~~* *~~*

When I finally muster the courage to walk to my front door, I take out my keys and try to unlock it quietly. Discreetly enough so no one will even notice me come in. But the key won’t even fit in the hole. I look down at my key chain, like, you know that’s the house key, try the lock again. Nothing. After trying every key on my key ring, nothing works. They changed the fuckin’ locks on me?!

I’m pissed, but not stupid enough to kick the door in, no matter how bad I want to. I just stand at the door for another five minutes, arms folded, sucking my teeth, trying to decide what to do now. Still hungry, still tired, still hurting and now, shivering cold. I gotta suck it up. I need to just swallow my pride, make a fist, and raise my hand to knock on the door.

Before I make a move, the door flies open. My daddy’s wife stands at the threshold glaring at me. Wearing her famous apron and house slippers. Her hair is hanging down, but she still isn’t wearing a stitch of make-up. She’s mean-mugging me like I’m the new bitch on the prison yard, but the aroma of the food she’s cooking---steak, onions, lima beans and cornbread, from what I can tell---makes my stomach growl like a bear, and all I wanna do is run inside and fix a plate.

But Teresa won’t let me take a step forward or back. She just reaches out and---Whapwhap, whapwhapwhap---slaps me across the face like she’s my pimp, and I’m the only ho that keeps coming up short. She grabs me by the roots of my hair, yanks me inside, and throws me to the floor. I roll around, sit on my knees, and watch her stick her head out the door to see if anybody witnessed her abuse. She slams the door shut behind her and quickly gathers her hair into a ponytail and ties it into a bun.

Your father has been here worried sick about you. Sick! But you didn’t care less, did you? I knew your selfish, rotten, trifling ass was okay. Why did you even come back?!?

Still kneeling on the ground, I’m forcing back hot tears, ready to spit fire. Pain is tearing through my body and I’m trying my best to come to my feet, but between getting jumped at the mall and slapped by Teresa, I don’t know if I have it in me.

Where my daddy at? I snap, looking into her icy eyes.

Her big grin reminds me of a second grader about to sing a round of ‘I-know-something-you-don’t-know,’ but she doesn’t bother to answer my question. Instead, she just examines her manicured nails.

"Quite a shiner you have there. You look like death. So, tell me. Whose girlfriend...or wife...beat your ass this time?"

With a grunt, I jump to my feet, but I’m not stupid enough to get any closer to her than I already am.

You don’t know what you talking about, as usual, Teresa! It wasn’t nothing like that, so talk what the fuck you kn…!

WHAP!

She pulls back her hand and starts to fan it furiously. My face feels more like I got whacked with a belt buckle, but I still manage to stop the tear in the corner of my eye from falling down. She raises her arm and makes a fist like she’s ready to clobber me since I won’t cry, but she stops mid-air. Instead, she shakes her index finger at me and smiles fiendishly.

You know, I would kick your ass right now, but somebody beat me to it, and you’re really not worth my sweat. Go on to your room. Your father should be home soon.

I’m stunned by her decency. I mean, minus the slap. Slaps. Hell, it could have been a lot worse. I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I take off to my room full speed. I don’t realize how much I missed it until I’m standing in front of the door. Miserable as Teresa makes me, there’s still no place like home. When I open my bedroom door, I let out a sigh and flick on the light. Then I grab on to the threshold to keep from buckling to the floor. All the tears I didn’t spill when that bitch slapped me come pouring down worse than a cloud burst, and she’s cackling like a Disney villain in the hallway behind me, softly patting her hair.

From the walls to the floor, my room is as bare as the day the signed Escrow. No posters, no drapes, no dressers. Gone is my computer, my stereo, my nightstand, my CDs, all my stuffed animals and the Cabbage Patch Kids collection I’ve had since I was five, with more than forty dolls, even the damn canopy bed I begged my daddy to get me for my 8th birthday! Everything I owned was erased as if I never even existed! Holding on to minimal hope, I dash to my closet, only to find empty hangers swinging.

Where’s my stuff? I scream in a panic. What did you do? My daddy is gonna kick your ASS when he find out what you did!

I slump down to the floor, defeated, and all she can do is bust a gut. A few minutes later, I hear my daddy’s voice in the distance; hear the front door slam and his keys drop on the coffee table. I want to run right to him and tell him what his wife did to me this time. But I can’t even move.

Reese, baby I’m back! Folks at the post office said it should get there in about three days or so. Had to send it C.O.D., wasn’t tryna pay all that money! I picked up those mushrooms and them onions for you, too. You want ‘em in the fridge, or you need ‘em now?

His wife is still laughing when he makes it to my room several moments later. He sees me scrunched up on the floor and yells my name. Mickey, baby girl, you back! You okay!

He runs over to me and scoops me up in his arms, hugging me tight. His shirt soaks up all my tears as he rocks me in his arms like I’m a newborn baby.

I told you that tramp was alright, his wife says nonchalantly. "I’m going to finish dinner. Dinner for two. You better tell that bitch, Michael. I know you don’t want me to."

Daddy, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it, but I was scared and I knew you’d be mad when you found out about Mr. Chase, and I didn’t know what to do....

He shushes me, still holding me close, and I try to relax.

Daddy, where’s my stuff? I ask softly.

Baby girl, what happened to your face? You need to go to the hospital? he asks, turning my head from left to right, examining my bruises. I want to scream each time he touches me, but I can’t let on that my whole face is tender.

Daddy, I’m fine, but where’s my stuff? Where’s my bed?

He shakes his head and stands, and then he helps me up to my feet and gives me another tight hug.

Baby girl, you know I love you more than I love myself. But I just cain’t do it no more. You too outta control. You tied my hands.

Daddy, I know. I don’t know what you heard, or what she told you about Mr. Chase, but....

He shakes his head vigorously as he ends our embrace. Whatever he heard, he doesn’t want to hear anything else about it, not even from me. I had felt some sense of security, some sense of peace when he came through the door. But as I look at him, into his eyes, he looks so drained and so tired. He’s aged a decade in the days I’ve been gone. He doesn’t even wipe at the tear forming in the corner of his eye like he usually does, and instead lets it fall down the side of his nose and into his mustache. When I see the third tear, I know I’ve fucked up so bad, there’s nothing I can say or do to repair it. I start bawling instantly. I slink down to my knees, and he takes two backwards steps toward my door.

You den tied my hands, Mickey. This Mr. Chase sit’iation is just the tip of the iceberg. We been debating about this for a while, and now, your ma has a point. Clearly, you need something I ain’t been giving you. We cain’t keep living like this, with the constant arguing and yelling and you being so disrespectful. Fucking around with married men, goin’ ‘round in alleys and closets and backseats and shit like you den lost your damn mind, I mean, what else I’m ‘posed to do? Baby girl, we donated most of your stuff to Goodwill. Your personals is on they way to Cali. I’m sorry, Chantal. You goin’ to live with your big brother.

What? I screech. Why? Tahir hates me! This isn’t fair! Goodwill? California! Daddy, this is my senior year! What about Prom? What about my friends?

Before my daddy can say a word, his wife walks back into my shell of a room.

As if you have any friends. Trust me, sweetheart; no one here will miss you. And you’ll be staying with Tahir, so you can get some much-needed discipline. You can’t manipulate Tahir like you do Devy. And your father, for that matter. And you’ll be leaving immediately. You haven’t spent the last two weeks under my roof; I’ll be damned if you spend another hour here.

Daddy? You’re letting her kick me out? Daddy? I’m sorry, please! Don’t let her do this, Daddy!

I look to my daddy, my sunshine, for some kind of hint or clue this is just a clever joke. Just some kind of tough-love ploy taken to the extreme. He never cries. Those tears are just an act. But he gives me no such indication. No more hugs. No kiss. He just backs out toward the door, and tells me he loves me more than I will ever know. He mouths, It’s easier this way, then he turns his back and walks out, singing Isn’t She Lovely like millions are listening. I scream his name at the top of my lungs, but it falls on deaf ears.

Teresa doesn’t let me take a bath or even wash my face. She grabs me under the arm and walks me immediately out to the car without seeing my daddy again, then drives me to the bus station and gives me a wad of cash.

You go get yourself a ticket and get on out to California. Tahir’s waiting for you, she says. She’s so happy now she’s about to cum on herself. Or, you can make this little money last you out here. Just do what you do best and sell that body of yours if you need more. Or, go straight to hell. But whatever you do, don’t darken my doorstep again.

Teresa drives off in the brand new Beamer my brother Tahir bought her just 3 months ago without so much as looking back. It took a whole seventeen years for that bitch to turn my daddy against me, and she promised me one day she would, no matter how much time it took. All I can do now is laugh to myself. Mission accomplished, Teresa. Mission fucking accomplished.

Track 2. My Boo

Shalonda Wyatt

Los Angeles, California

September 1996

I’ve been sitting in this full-service salon for the past 10 hours, and I’m just about to reach my breaking point, but you just can’t rush perfection. Mydis Touch by Monica is one of the hottest hair studios in the county--- not just the city--- so I already know whenever I come in, I better cancel all other plans for the day. I’ve been a regular for almost two years now and I’ve never seen this place even close to being empty. Between stylists, manicurists, and pedicurists, about fifteen people work here, and everybody got somebody impatiently waiting for their services. Not to mention the bootleggin’ dudes that come through selling CD’s and movies and shit. The only open seat up in here is in the ladies’ room!

And every eye is locked on the 6’4", clean-shaven, bald-headed, dark chocolate, hazel-eyed cutie standing beside Monica as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. He’s got thick eyebrows and deep dimples in his cheeks and chin. His lips are kissable without being too big. And that’s a good thing, ‘cause his ears stick out like teapot handles. But they say a big-eared man is a generous one, and my ex, Wince, is very generous in every way that counts. Plus, a woman loves a man that knows how to dress and he’s FUBU’ed out from head to toe, looking absolutely edible in his crisp black jeans, fresh white shirt, and brand new white sneakers. I can’t help but have a smile on my face.

How much you say you need, Monica? he says, winking at me.

It’s three hundred, she says, spraying oil sheen all through my scalp. Oooh, that sensation feels so good it makes my toes tingle! I release a heavy sigh, ‘cause the oil definitely loosens some of the tension I feel in my head, especially in the center. Monica taps my shoulder and tells me to check myself out.

It’s about time I can check myself out. Everybody else been checking me out all damn day. I run my fingers through my hair and look into the mirror hanging on the wall in front of me. I’m amazed. It should be a crime to be this gorgeous! I don’t even wanna know how many braids are up in my head; they stop right above my waist, and they’re so small you have to stare before you even know it’s a braid. With my smile lighting up the whole beauty salon, I lean into the mirror and put on my make-up, ‘cause I know Monica needs to take my picture so she can add it to her portfolio. All while I’m lining my eyes and applying my eyeshadow, hoes is steady staring. They keep staring while I line my lips and put on my lipstick, but I don’t get mad. I don’t even stare back. I’m used to bitches hating on me. Hell, if I wasn’t me, I’d hate my ass, too.

Thank you, Monica, girl, I say as I readjust the light pink, sleeveless, baby-doll dress I’m rocking with my matching pink wedge sandals. I don’t know how, but you made me even cuter!

You say three hund’ed? Wince says, quickly counting the bills before he pulls them out of his wallet. Here you go, Mon. Here go a lil’ tip, too. I ain’t gon’ lie. You did ya thang!

Monica smiles widely as she folds the money up and stuffs it in her pocket. From what I could count, it was at least seventy dollars extra. I know she not getting tipped like that on the regular.

The only broad in this shop who don’t look like she got an attitude is my girl Keisha. Me and Keesh are cool now, but we used to have major static back in the day. I was more popular than her, so all the boys wanted me, and all she ever did was talk crap about me. The only reason we even started kickin’ it at all is due to cheerleading.

We’re the same mocha complexion, but she’s about two inches taller and a good fifteen pounds heavier than I am. Her eyes are far apart and her mouth is too small for her face. Every day of the week, she’s got different color eyes. Blue, green, gray; as long as the contacts match her outfit, it doesn’t matter. She’s really not that cute, but her bra is bigger than a DD and her pants are a size six, so people don’t usually notice her face, anyway.

Keisha’s busy getting her hair braided, too. Her hair will probably be done in another hour, but I don’t have time to wait for her tacky-hairstyle-having ass. She going for that played out, dookie-braid look; like Patra or Janet Jackson in Poetic Justice or those girls in the R&B group, Jade. I told her that shit wasn’t nowhere as cute as mine, but I guess it’s cute enough for how she roll. Ain’t like she got a man, and the only type of niggas that she’ll pull with that hairstyle are nowhere near my level; so I’ll let Keisha do Keisha. And she wanna wonder why she can’t keep a man. If she took notes from me, she’d have as many as she wanted.

Let’s just start with the obvious. Fuck a 10, I’m a straight up 15. It’s not arrogance. It’s fact. Cream of the crop, I personify beauty. At 5’9" and 125 pounds, I’ve got big almond shaped eyes and soft lips. I’ve got perky pear-shaped tits and an ass these girls would kill for, not to mention pretty little size 8 feet I model for all the local nail shops. I used to do full-time modeling and I’ve been in a grip of nationwide commercials, too. My face has been in several magazines, modeling everything from clothes to makeup to the hottest hairstyles. Add to all that the fact that I’m the captain of the Varsity Cheer Squad at my high school, and yeah, I’m all that and a bag of Flamin’ Hots.

The not-so-obvious? I know bitches hate me ‘cause I’m talented. See, I’m a triple threat: I’ve got an angelic voice, I can act, I can model, and I can dance. Guess that really makes me a quadruple threat, huh? I’m just playin’, but, I ain’t lyin’. See, when I was younger, I was on my way to being a true superstar. I had starring roles on so many shows, I should have been in private school ‘cause I was usually a distraction in regular school. I had just enough fame for everyone to know who I was, but not enough for me to get those big paychecks. I even did a couple of my own TV shows. One lasted for a full two seasons, but the other was canceled after just six episodes. And up until my junior year, I did guest spots and worked as an extra on sitcoms, soap operas, Hollywood blockbusters, and a few music videos. I just slowed down over the past few months or so because I’m more worried about enjoying my last year of high school than tryin’ to be a supermodel or an A-list actress. Besides, every year before Christmas break there’s a talent show at Palisades and there’s never an empty seat in the house because all of Los Angeles is still tryna see me do my thing.

Like just last year. There was standing room only in a three thousand seat theater, and there wasn’t one person left sitting by the time me, my girls and my man finished our performance of Total’s Can’t You See. I’ve never done the solo thing. See, I always sing with my girls because I always shine brighter. Not that my girls can’t sing, I just sound better. It’s not an En Vogue thing, where everyone’s talent and beauty is equal. Hell, no. I’m Diana Ross and they’re the Supremes, know what I mean? I’m pretty, popular, and jealous hoes can’t stomach me.

Even still, I’m not one of those bitches claiming I’m so cute that I don’t have any friends, or that I can’t get a man because I’m so hot dudes are scared to talk to me. What-the-fuck ever to that. To me, long as you keep it real, you can have all the friends and all the lovers you can handle. A girl like me can handle a lot.

Thank you, Wince, baby, I say, giving his hand a tender caress. I’ll call you when I get home.

I can give you a ride home and shit, Boo, he says, rubbing the side of my face softly and licking his lips.

Nah, it’s cool. I already got a ride. Plus, Mon still gotta take my picture. I’ll call you lata, okay? I’m not even free right now, I gotta go meet my sister at her temp job in Woodland Hills.

Look, just walk to my car real quick, he says, nodding his head at the door. Monica and I exchange a giddy little glance, then she pushes me on my shoulder playfully, like she’s telling me I need to go and handle my business before one of these skanks in this shop try and handle it for me. So, after telling her I’ll be right back, I follow Wince to his car; a white ‘94 Jeep Cherokee with dark, tinted windows and ‘Big Win’ on the license plates. He sits down on the hood and tenderly takes me by my hand, pulling me between his legs and wrapping his hands around my waist.

My man Chris hates Winston with a passion, so he really hates that Wince and I are still close, but so what? When my man forgets how good he has it, I have to remind him of how fast he could lose me. He’s come close to losing me before…we’ve broken up at least four or five times. Every time we split up, he finds his way between another bitch’s legs. Last time the ho was like, thirty years old. Usually we end up breaking up because he’s screwing somebody else in the first place, no matter how much he denies it. So, since I know how ‘friendly’ he is and that he’s genetically predisposed to cheating, I make sure I keep me a nigga like Wince handy.

What up, baby? Why you ain’t tryna spend no time with me today? Wince asks, as he lifts my chin with his fingers and traces the outline of my lips with his thumb. If I had less self-control, I’d be sucking that thing like it was dipped in honey.

I allll-ready toooold youuu, Chris picking me up. I say in my sing-song, baby voice.

Keep telling you, Boo. Need to leave that broke muthafucka alone and come back home where you belong. When you gon’ realize that nigga can’t never be me? He won’t even give you some scrilla to get ya hair done, Wince says, looking at me like he’s dying to see me naked again.

Sometimes I ask myself why I kicked Wince to the curb for Chris in the first place. Winston, my first love, is one of the most popular fellas at school. He always has been. He’s a star player on the football team, the basketball team, and the track team, and I think he’s even going out for baseball this year. He’s taller, more diesel, and a lot sexier than my current man is. Always has been. I love those light eyes of his, and he’s no punk in the bedroom, either. But as he caresses the small of my back and acts like he can’t hear his pager singing from his pocket, my memory gets stronger. Wince never was and never will be a one-woman man. That’s no secret to anyone he dicks down. Besides, he’s way more of a real man than my boo and Wince would never let me run him like I run Chris.

As Wince gently runs his fingers across my freshly braided head he continues, When the last time he bought you somethin’ nice? Took you out to eat? Got you a night at Embassy Suites or a Jacuzzi suite instead of fucking you in the back of that piece of shit ass hoopty all the time? Come on, Lonnie. You know I can treat ya sexy ass right.

Wince leans in close to kiss me. After thinking about it for a second, I give him a quick open mouth kiss. Just to remind him of how good he once had it. Enough tongue to turn him on, but not enough to make him think he’ll be getting some ass soon.

"Just because you the better man, don’t mean you the better man for me, I say coyly. Besides, how many hoodrats you stringin’ along right now? You know you ain’t got time for me."

Whatever, man. You know ten of those bitches don’t amount to one of you. Just say the word, I’ll kick all those birds to the curb for you, boo.

All of ‘em? I tease.

ALL of ‘em! Wince promises, then pulls me in for another kiss.

At the sound of his pager going off again, I chuckle a little and shake my head. I love the flattery, but I’m not falling for it. Wince can’t function if he doesn’t have at least five girls fawning over him at all times. My mama instilled in me how important it is to know your worth, so that’s why I say loud and proud I’m all that. See, she had to learn the hard way. She messed around and got pregnant by her high school sweetheart, my big sister’s daddy, right before she graduated. He was trying to make paper hustling and shit, and got himself killed a month before my sister was born.

But mama didn’t learn her lesson. Still loving the fast life and dope boys, she met my father and fell crazy, madly, deeply in love with him when my sister was four or five. I’m almost 18 now and I don’t think he’s been out of jail for a full five years my whole life. Now my mama’s a flight attendant and for years she’s been using her position to meet paid men and have them pamper her.

My sister Tisha is an embarrassment. She’s the type of bitch that’ll let a nigga hit it the first night and still expect him to call the next day. She’s cute, though. Almost as cute as me. She likes her hair Toni Braxton short; that’s about her only style flaw. Her main flaw is she has no game, so niggas love her and leave her on the regular. I’m more her role model than she is mine.

Growing up watching my mama and Tisha get fucked over time and time again, I decided I had to go for mine. When I was little, I hoped I could make it big in acting or something, make my own millions and not have to worry about getting a man to take care of me. That’s all my mom, my sis and my cousins want is for a rich dude to rescue them. The thought used to disgust me. But after a while, I decided there’s nothing wrong with having a man support me...or a few men supporting me. As long as I’m the one who’s really running things, it’s all good.

I told you, boy. I’ll call you later, I tell Wince. I push his hands off my waist. I’m not even free now. I gotta meet my sister at her temp job in Woodland Hills.

Tisha’s doing secretarial work for some real estate company, and she asked me to stop by and meet her boss once I got done with my hair today. She say dude is paid and fine, and she want me to do some kinda favor for him. I wasn’t gonna waste my time, that is, until she told me dude would buy us dinner at one of those ritzy, paparazzi-stalking Beverly Hills spots you have to call ahead weeks in advance just to get a table. Then I was like, let’s do the damn thing!

I don’t even know how long it’s gonna take, baby, With a soft smile, I rub Wince’s cheek. So, I’m making Chris drive me. I’m sayin’, he can run out a little gas for me since he couldn’t even pay for my hair. He gon’ be here in a minute. I called him like, half an hour ago. But, you know how my lil’ mama’s boy is. Had to give him time to get away from her ass.

Wince frowns and opens his mouth to try to convince me to change my mind, but before he can get three words out, his pager starts beeping again. I take it upon myself to reach into his pocket and check it. I don’t recognize the phone number, but it’s got code 69 behind it. I toss the pager back to Wince, give him a quick, closed mouth, thank-you kiss, and walk back into the shop to wait for my ride. That’s exactly why I can’t mess with that boy on a real level.

Monica is still sweeping up hair when I hop back into her seat. Her next client’s not due to get here for another twenty minutes or so, so I wanna get as much gossip as I can.

Hey Keesh! I turn my head and see some broad about five seats away