Desperate Hoodwives Read online

  The sad part is I chose this path. The moment I said, “I do” to my husband, Calvin Jefferson III, aka Junior. But you know what? I would do it all again because I love my man.

  That’s right. I love him.

  All these black bitches can kiss my ass, talking that shit about white women stealing their good black brothers. All is fair in love and war. When I first hooked up with Junior, I thought: What the hell? It’s the twenty-first century.

  I quickly learned that little has changed in Jim Crow’s South, at least as far as attitudes go. There’s no lynching, but I have a feeling the desire still crosses the minds of the overflowing redneck population.

  My father included.

  No sooner than the image of my father surfaces in my mind do I feel a sudden sting of tears. My once doting father has owned and operated the number one Ford dealership in the Southeast for the last twenty years.

  Right up until the moment he discovered me having sex with Junior in my bedroom, I’d always thought of my father as an honest, fair, and caring man.

  Sure, any father would’ve hit the roof after catching their seventeen-year-old baby girl in bed with a boy, but the monster my father turned into the moment his gaze took in Junior’s coal-black complexion and his long Mandingo cock was like nothing I’ve ever witnessed.

  Back then, Junior used to pack a hot .45 in his baggy jeans. To me, it added to his dangerous street vibe and gave me bragging rights about dating a rap gangster. However, that night, Junior’s .45 didn’t stand a chance against my father’s power rifle. Junior knew it, so he didn’t bother making a grab for it before diving out my bedroom window.

  Despite my begging and screaming, my father chased after him. For a full hour I remained sobbing on the floor of my pink princess room, listening to the occasional shotgun blast. I just knew my father had killed Junior, the love of my life—my soul mate.

  Instead, when he returned to the house he’d nearly killed me.

  White trash. Coon whore. Nigger lover.

  That was the first time I’d heard those words. They were shouted with venom each time his fist crashed against my ribs, jaw, lips, and eyes. I had also felt the sharp point of my father’s favorite steel-toe cowboy boots at every unprotected part of my body.

  I begged him to stop, but in the end all I could do was curl into a fetal position and try to protect myself the best I could. Even then I wondered if Junior had gotten away or whether he was lying in a pool of blood somewhere on the property.

  How did two kids from the opposite sides of the railroad tracks meet? Believe it or not—at a downtown Taco Bell. I know it’s funny and not nearly romantic, but I like to think it was fate. Before the night Junior asked if I wanted any special sauce with my order, I’d never given a thought about dating a black man, let alone falling in love with one.

  But I did and paid one hell of a price.

  That night, my mother…well, let’s just say that there was really nothing she could do but wait until my father grew exhausted kicking and punching me. Afterward he declared I was dead to him and once he left the house, she managed to get me dressed and take me to the emergency room.

  There, when the doctors inquired about my extensive injuries, my mother coerced me to lie. The next thing I knew I was filing a false police report about being raped.

  It made me sick to turn something so beautiful into something so ugly. I gave a generic description of a black man who’d supposedly raped me and to my horror—because of my father’s status in the community—the police sketch was splashed across the local news for three days.

  A few innocent black men were hauled in for questioning and then forced into a lineup where I pretended to be confused and couldn’t make a positive ID.

  After that, reporters moved on to the next ground-breaking news story and I was left alone.

  To my amazement, my father calmed down—well, after Pastor Robinson spent a week praying over my soul and I was forced to repent for the sins I had committed with my body. Before God and family I vowed never to lay with a disgusting black serpent again.

  It was a vow I couldn’t and wouldn’t keep.

  Despite the constant check-ins my father required, I grew creative with my hookups with Junior. I wasn’t going to stop seeing him for nothing in the world. Besides, his record deal with So-So Def was all but a done deal—according to his NFL cousin, Tyrik.

  All we had to do was hold on a few weeks or months tops. But that isn’t how it played out. Nothing went according to plan.

  One night, when I was supposed to be spending the night at my best friend Kimberly’s house, my father followed me to Bentley Manor. This time he fully intended to kill both Junior and me. However, he miscalculated by rolling into the projects in the middle of the night, thinking he was about to kill himself a nigger.

  He barely got out of Bentley Manor alive, but this time I really was dead to him. It was a year before my mother started talking to me again—but only secretly.

  I lost everything: my parents, friends, and even my college fund. I wanted to be a journalist—the future Katie Couric. Now, I don’t know. Maybe with the advance money Junior will eventually get with his record deal I can attend Perimeter Community College.

  Sighing, I stop peeking out the closed slits of the venetian blinds and glance around the small cramped quarters of our one-bedroom apartment in Bentley Manor. I wrinkle my nose at the sight of the plaid hand-me-down sofa Junior and I picked up at the Salvation Army. It, along with everything else, was supposed to be temporary.

  Temporary is now three years and counting.

  “It’s all going to be worth it in the end,” I remind myself. The words are hollow tonight like they are every night Junior stays out late. I’m not going to trip. I know my man is working late at the studio, trying to get his hustle on.

  I trust Junior and all these whispering haters can kiss my lily-white ass—and that includes his baby momma, Lexi, who lives across the way. That bitch isn’t fooling me, switching around with her five damn kids and all them different daddies. I know she wants Junior back, but I’ll go Jerry Springer on her ghetto ass if she crosses one toe out of line.

  I hate the fact she has something I seem to be incapable of giving Junior. Babies. It isn’t for lack of trying. Junior says it doesn’t matter and that he doesn’t want any more children anyway, but I’m confident he will feel differently once our baby arrives—if a baby ever arrives. I went off the pill over a year ago.

  With each prompt menstrual cycle, I can’t help but think about the night of my reported rape and wonder about the damage those steel-toed cowboy boots may have caused to my internal organs. It’s either that or perhaps the fifty pounds I’ve put on since we’ve gotten married.

  I’m no longer the perfect blond, blue-eyed cheerleader with a slamming body. I’m soft and round, but Junior has never uttered a single complaint. Now tell me that’s not love.

  Since I know Junior is capable of producing a child, that can only mean I’m the problem. I’ll give it a couple more months before I go to the clinic to get checked out. I want beautiful brown babies—the more the better. Maybe I’ll get a little more respect from the people around here.

  But I doubt it.

  Racism runs wild on both sides of the fence.

  Despite my pep talk and nightly affirmations, I cross the room and pick up the cordless phone with the itch to dial Junior’s cell. He’d promised to come home early tonight but the last thing I want to do is nag him to death.

  I, at least, want to know whether he dropped off the rent payment. We’re already two months behind and the last thing I want is to call my mother for help again. I hate to ask and my mother hates doing things behind my father’s back.

  My baby sister, Shannon, is my father’s new princess and he now goes on about his life as though I’ve never existed. And that’s fine with me.

  White trash. Coon whore. Nigger lover. And proud of it.

  6

  Aisha
/>   I softly sing along with Keyshia Cole as I head north up Piedmont. I pull to a stop at a red light and double-check my makeup in the rearview mirror. A-town is all the way live as people move up and down the streets, but I don’t pay no mind to who’s who because I’m headed to Phipps Plaza for some serious shopping. Nothing like Nordstrom and Saks Fifth Avenue to help ease the my-man-is-on-lock blues.

  The sun glints off the two-carat solitaire of my engagement ring. I swallow back the guilt I feel. I’m out and about, living life to the fullest and my man, my lover, my husband, is locked down in a cell.

  “Damn, I miss that nigga,” I admit, the look in my eyes shifting to sadness in the mirror.

  And I mean I really miss everything about his ass. His smile. His touch. His dick. His scent. His body. His warmth. His protection.

  Boom…boom…boom.

  The heavy bass of a car system jars me from my thoughts. A-town’s own Dem Franchise Boyz ’06 “snap” anthem “Lean Wit It, Rock Wit It” is echoing all through my car. A badass, milk-white ’68 Cadillac sitting on shiny twenty-two-inch rims pulls to the light beside me. I’m shocked as fuck to see my husband’s friend Kaseem leaned back behind the wheel with its funky Gucci logo interior.

  Damn, Kaseem got a new whip? Shit, he was just pushing a Tahoe when I saw him last week.

  He turns his head, catches sight of me and his face frames right up with a smile as he leans forward to turn the music down. “Whaddup, Aisha?”

  “Look like you what’s up. Nice ride,” I tell him, ignoring the car horns behind me blaring as the light turned green.

  “Yo, pull over. Let me holla at you for a sec.”

  I make a right at the light, park my car, and wait ’til Kaseem can pull over. I hop out my Benz knowing Maleek would be proud that I still dress and present myself as his queen even while he is looking at a bid.

  Kaseem walks up to me, his jeans nearly falling off his narrow hips, his white Air Force 1s looking fresh out the box, his white tee crisp as a new hundred-dollar bill and his jewelry gleaming like a motherfucker. He hugs me to him and I’m surrounded by the scent of Tommy cologne. The same cologne Maleek wears.

  For one precious second I hug Kaseem back, inhaled deeply of his scent and imagine he’s my Maleek.

  But it doesn’t work. Kaseem is a sorry-ass substitute. Too thin and too tall. For me no man can compare to my Maleek.

  Tears fill my eyes but I blink them away as I step back from him—or at least I try to step back. Kaseem’s arms are still wrapped tightly around my body like he tryna mold me into him.

  “I get to see Maleek every Friday,” I tell him. That’s a signal and a half for his ass to get the fuck up off his friend’s woman. If that don’t work I am more than ready to give his ass a nice two-piece and I ain’t talkin’ ’bout no chicken.

  Luckily for his nuts and his grill he lets me go.

  “How that nigga doin’?” he asks, looking down at me with squinted eyes as he crosses his arms over his chest.

  “No worries. Our lawyers working hard on his case. So you know it ain’t nothing but a small thing.” I speak with more confidence than I feel.

  “No doubt. No doubt. I would visit him but you know I got a record.”

  Convicted felons ain’t allowed to visit those on lock. Guess the government figures they ass should feel blessed not to be in that motherfucker anymore. “Maleek know what’s up.”

  Kaseem reaches in the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out a rubber-band-wrapped wad of money big enough to choke a elephant. Quickly, I calculate he got at least five grand in twenties, fifties, and hundreds, but I don’t get excited or start salivating and shit because I rolled with a nigga like Maleek.

  That five grand is chump change up against the tens of thousands we’ve fucked on.

  “We’re straight for money, Kaseem,” I tell him as he counts off some bills that still hold the curve of the roll.

  He laughs and winks at me. “Oh, trust I know Maleek straight and this grand ain’t shit but my way of lettin’ him I know I ain’t forgot a nigga, that’s all.”

  I hesitate. I know Maleek wouldn’t want nobody thinking he needed them sending him money like he’s hurtin’. But if Kaseem’s just tryna to stay in Maleek’s good graces then who am I to block him. I take the money out his outstretched hand.

  Kaseem peels off more bills. “And this is for you, just to let you know I got you on my mind, too.”

  My eyes dart down to the bills and then up to his face to catch him eyeing my size 36DDs with a suggestive lick of his lips. WTF? “No thanks, Kaseem. My husband laced me with enough money and dick to keep me straight ’til he gets home.”

  He has the audacity to look offended. “Come on, Aisha, I ain’t even trying to play you like no two-bit ho who would fuck around on my boy.”

  “I know you see it,” I tell him with much attitude.

  Kaseem shoves the money back into his pocket. “Don’t get me wrong. You fine enough to make a nigga sweat you, but I didn’t mean to come off that way.”

  I nod and smile. “As long as all the niggas know that while my king is on lock, Aisha Cummings’s pussy is on lock, too. Ya heard me?”

  He laughed with the diamond grille on the bottom row of his teeth gleaming. “I heard you. I heard you. Tell Maleek I said to keep his head up.” He gives me another look before he turn and strolls back to his whip. Soon the motor purrs to life. The boom…boom…boom makes the street vibrate beneath my Jimmy Choos. He honks twice before he whizzes past me up Lenox, causing my skirt to fly up.

  I ain’t have no doubt in my mind his eyes is watching my thick-ass thighs in his rearview mirrors.

  Two thousand dollars and four hours later I drive away from Phipps Plaza. I definitely downsized my usual shopping sprees. It used to be nothing for me to blow five grand. Maleek would lace me with one or two outfits and maybe a new designer purse. I’m proud of myself for cutting my shopping budget in half.

  Shit, Maleek encourages me to rep him to the fullest and I love how he likes the finer things in life. He showed me the finer things in the first place and let me know straight up this is what I deserve. Yeah, we live in that fucked-up, bullshit-ass Bentley Manor but we drive a nice car (which thank God Maleek put in my mom’s name or the Feds woulda snatched it up), we have a low-income apartment but it’s filled with luxury (leather furniture, top of the line electronics, 1,000-count sheets, and a $3,000 mattress), we eat at nice-ass restaurants (sometimes we couldn’t even read the damn French menus), and we rent luxury suites at the best hotels just to blaze trees, relax, and be together.

  I look out my windshield at the Ritz-Carlton Buckhead.

  It is the hotel in Atlanta. Wealthy and famous niggas stay here when they’re up in A-town. And this is our spot.

  I don’t know when my ass decided to steer my vehicle toward the Ritz-Carlton, but I did. I pull to a stop by the valet, grab my purse as I climb out the car and smooth my skirt over my hips. It’s February, the end of winter, and the air is cool at night. Goose bumps race up my bare legs.

  I hurry inside the hotel lobby and soon I’m surrounded by the luxury that is so different from Bentley Manor and Hollywood Court. The difference between Bankhead and Buckhead. Without him I would have never seen—shit, enjoyed—this side of life. I wouldn’t have ever known that this life is the life this badass bitch is meant to live.

  “Baby, Momma would die if she could see this.” I pressed my face to the glass and looked out at Buckhead at night. We were just twenty minutes away from our hood but the suite in this top-notch hotel was a gazillion miles away in wealth, class, and style.

  Shee-it, my baby was a straight baller and on our wedding night there was no other way to do it but big. We were married at the courthouse that morning and that afternoon we threw a helluva barbeque in the hood to celebrate. Plenty of good food and good liquor. We had a ball and everything was all good but when Maleek grabbed my hand and told me “let’s ride,” I was more than ready to follow
him anywhere. I just never guessed this suite would be my surprise.

  “You like it, baby?” he asked, coming up behind me to wrap his strong arm around my waist.

  “Damn real I like it. I only seen shit like this in the movies or in videos.”

  “Get used to it, baby.” He turned my slim, trim, and sexy-as-hell body around and pressed me up against that glass. I looked up into his fine-ass face and twisted my fingers in his dreads to pull it toward mine.

  “Thank you, baby,” I whispered, looking into his eyes as I traced his thick lips with my tongue. He tasted like weed, Crown Royal, and promises of a good dicking down.

  Maleek moved his hands up to squeeze that juicy ass of mine that he loved so much. Not that my ass was all he loved. My looks. My bomb-ass pussy. Me period. He loved me. This motherfucker was mine. My husband. My lover. My man. My baller.

  And nothing or nobody was gone to take him from me.

  And I believed that all the way up to the day I got the call telling me Maleek got busted. I honestly believed nothing or no one would—or could—come between us.

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  I turn my head to see some sucker-ass Opie-fucking-Cunningham-looking fool smiling in my face. I start to cuss him the fuck out for trying to play me but Maleek always taught me when you’re on their turf you have to chill on the type of shit you would say or do like we home in the hood. So instead of telling this cornball to roll out my face before I roll on him, I just say, “No thanks.”

  “You look like you could use some company for the night,” Opie says, with a friendly smile.

  What the fuck?

  I give him the nastiest ghetto/country girl Bankhead stare. He disappears quicker than a yard full of hot boys when somebody hollers out 5-0.

  As I watch him walk away I notice quite a few eyes on me. Shit, I look good so I’m used to the hot stares of men and the even cooler stares of women. But here in this place with these mostly pale-ass faces and without my chocolate warrior by my side I feel hella out of place.