Tales from da Hood (30 page)

I took a deep breath, straightened my posture, and walked over to him. I stood two feet away, waiting for him to complete his call. Once he noticed me, he never took his eyes off me. He stared me up and down as he carried on his conversation. I stood my ground, knowing that there was something in front of me that I wanted a taste of. I don't know where in the hell I got all this courage. It was like I was somebody else, living somebody else's life. I was a fly on the wall, watching myself. Finally, he ended his call.

“Uh, is there something I can do you for, Miss Lady?” he asked, walking closer to me. “You all up in my grill and shit like I stole something from you.”

“Well, actually, uhh …” I was at a complete loss for words. I wanted this man's phone number or I wanted him to have mine. Either/or, I just wanted us to connect. For some reason I felt the need to experience him, if only for one night, but I didn't know how to approach him without sounding corny. I mean, I wanted to test-drive this baby as if I were Richard Petty, but how could I just come out and say that? So I started speaking.

“I'm a journalist. I focus primarily on criminal-justice cases,” I said.

“Let me guess.” He laughed. “You think I'm a criminal? What? You wanna interview me or something?”

“No, no. Not that at all,” I quickly said. “I just, uh Look, here's my card.” I fumbled around and dug up one of my business cards and handed it to him. “I don't know. You look like you've seen
a lot, you know? Maybe you might come across a story that might interest me.”

He looked down at the card, read my name and information, licked his lips, and then smirked. “Angel, huh?”

“That's me. Angel Delaney,” I said, taking a deep breath. Then I threw him a professional smile, but I think he could see right through me.

At that point he stepped up to me as close as he possibly could. “Well, Angel,” he said. “You might want to be careful who you run around handing your card to. It might end up in the devil's hands.” He winked, tucked the card in his pocket, and walked past me without looking back.

I just stood there with my back to him. It took everything in me not to turn around and watch him walk away, to make sure he had really been there and that my imagination wasn't playing tricks on me. I stood long enough for him to be long gone, and then I let out a deep sigh. What the hell did you just do? I asked myself. He knew as well as I did that the last thing I wanted out of him was a lead on a story. I could have come up with something better than that. Oh, well, that's water under the bridge. It was too late to turn shit around now. I composed myself and headed out to the underground parking garage. I hopped into my gold Audi A-4 convertible and headed for the garage exit. I fumbled around for my parking ticket, locating it by the time I got to the exit, and handed it to the woman in the booth.

“Six dollars, please,” she said. It was the usual woman who was there most of the time whenever I came to the courthouse. I pulled out my wallet and discovered that I only had $5. Then I remembered the balled-up dollar in my jacket pocket. I pulled it out and handed it to the woman, then waited for her to lift the gate so that I could exit.

“Here, ma'am,” she said, handing back the wrinkled-up bill.
“We can't break this, so I'll just let you go with the five dollars. You can just pay the dollar the next time you come back.”

“Pardon me?” I asked, confused. I looked down at the bill, and my eyes widened.

“We don't have change for a hundred-dollar bill,” she said. “The five dollars will be fine today.” She then proceeded to raise the gate as I drove off, stunned.

I couldn't believe this man had gone and given me a hundred-dollar bill just for change to use the pay phone so that he could
hit his boy back.
So that's how they do it, huh? That's how the so-called ballers rolled? From that moment on, curiosity for sure got the best of my ass.

I raced home and literally sat and watched the phone, waiting for it to ring. I hoped and prayed that he'd call. I guess the devil couldn't resist this angel because my prayers were soon answered. He called, and I agreed to hook up with him that very same evening.

There was a carnival going on in town, and since I was feeling like a high school teenage girl anyway, I decided to convince Dee to go to the carnival. Most first dates are the movies or dinner, but this wasn't most first dates, as I would soon learn.

As soon as I hung up the phone with Dee, I headed to the mall to buy some fly hip-hop street gear. It's funny how things can change in a matter of minutes. One minute I'm this uptight woman who wears black, gray, and navy blue suits, and the next minute I'm transformed into this gangsta's bitch, rockin’ skintight Baby Phat with cleavage peeking out.

But now as I sit here ready to put the pedal to the metal, I'm thinking about how when you're dealing with these types of dudes, dem soldier boys, the golden rule should be always to expect the unexpected. I mean just five minutes ago, Dee and I were having a ball at the carnival. He was shooting basketballs, trying to win one of those big-ass teddy bears for me. You know, the ones girls always
want their dudes to win for them at the fair. The ones that chicks act like mean so much to them. Like a big-ass teddy bear is a major achievement, a badge of courtship or something. Broads be so happy when those bears are handed over to us by the usual redneck with dirty fingernails who hosts the games at those little bullshit-ass carnivals. We treat that bear like we just spit the mutherfucker out of our pussy, gave birth to it. Then we walk around with our arm wrapped around the stuffed teddy bear, our other arm wrapped around our real live teddy bear like we the shit. The fellas know this, too. It's a macho thing. They spend so much money, energy, and effort trying to win that damn bear for their girl, and we are so happy when they do. But it won't take long before that bear is thrown into the attic or storage room a week or two later because there's really no place to sit that big motherfucker and it damn sure doesn't match the decor in the apartment.

But anyway, Dee was making hoops left and right. He had already won the medium-size bear for me, but of course his male ego wouldn't let him stop until he won the biggest one they had, the one that was damn near bigger than me. He was just about to make that last shot when he looked back over his shoulder at me in order to get my good luck smile. Licking my pouty lips, which glowed with a shimmering cotton candy lip gloss, I threw him that lucky smile. He didn't smile back, wink, or do shit. All of a sudden I realized that he wasn't looking at me at all. In fact, he was looking over my shoulder right past me. Whatever it was, it really had his attention. I folded my arms and began tapping my female claws, you know, the one-inch-long French manicured acrylics that I had gotten that day at the mall. I needed to know what had gotten him sidetracked from winning my goddamn teddy bear. Not only that, but what in the fuck was more important than gazing at my good luck smile, the smile that had been equivalent to his four-leaf clover? Then my woman's intuition kicked in. I turned around to see what
it was that had his attention, and the first thing I saw was this big ol’ ass in some Apple Bottom jeans. I mean this girl's butt was so big that I am positive when Nelly and his camp came through town to scope out a spokesmodel for their Apple Bottom clothing line, she must have been nowhere to be found. Well, she missed out on her ticket up out of this raggedy-ass town, dumb bitch.

Every dude up in there was trying to catch a glimpse of that ass. No one seemed to even care that she was there with her man, clinging to his arm. At that moment I couldn't be mad at my dude. Shoot! That bitch's ass wasn't nothing to play with, and no man, woman, or child could deny it. I mean I ain't gay or nothing, but this girl's ass even had my attention for a minute. So I took the situation lightly—treated it like lint and brushed it off. But then I thought that I shouldn't take the situation
too
lightly. Why would he settle for the bottom of the apple when he got the apple of his eye right in front of him? I mean, I ain't going to sit here and say I'm a straight dime piece to the third power, but guess what? On a bad day I could give Serena Williams, Beyoncé, and, that's right? I said it, J-Lo a run for their money.

Just like Serena's father had her running around the tennis court for years and years, and Beyoncé's dad had her practicing dance steps from sunup to sundown, and I don't know about J-Lo's daddy, but I'm sure he pointed out the right men for her to get with, my daddy had me running track for as long as I could remember, so my body was always fit and tight. Daddy would say that with my height and petite build, if I'd been at the right place at the right time, I could've easily become a runway model. I knew in my heart that with my big butt, small waist, and firm breasts I had truly missed my real calling as a video chick. Daddy knew it, too, but what daddy wants his sweet, darling little girl to grow up to be a video chick?

My momma did her part, too. Her number-one priority was my
appearance, and my hair was at the top of her list. She made sure that I had a standing appointment with the hair salon every Saturday so my hair was never out of place. I grew accustomed to a weave from the time I could damn near piss the pot. By the time I was nine years old, I thought all that hair sewn into my head was mine. Mama had this thing for long hair. She thought it made a woman. She said that teachers and white people even treated her better than they did the black girls with short nappy hair. My momma has always had hair down her back, as did her mother, and her grandmother, who was 100 percent Cherokee Indian. So, when I say that I have Indian in my family, I mean it. It's just too bad my daddy's genes were more powerful than my momma's when it came to my coarse hair.

My daddy was 100 percent black, straight Zulu. I mean my daddy is as black as the night sky with no moon and no stars. But a beautiful man he is, a black, sexy, dark chocolate specimen. Although I love a dark-skinned brother, in a way, I'm glad I did get Momma's reddish caramel complexion. But I got Daddy's side of the family's hair. Nothin’ but naps. Mama didn't know what to do with my kinky locks, but just as soon as my hair got long enough to latch to a horse's tail, my momma took control of the situation and started having extensions braided onto it. All through school and college, my signature hairstyle was long braids down to my ass. Over the years, I think Momma spent more on my hair weave than she did on my college tuition. But I guess it did help that I got a partial scholarship.

My parents always told me that I could be and do anything I wanted. They worked hard at giving me the best of everything so that I could achieve the best things that life had to offer. Never would they have ever imagined that Dee was what I wanted life to give me or that I would want whatever it was that Dee could possibly have to give me, even if it was only a teddy bear from a carnival.

Speaking of my teddy bear and the big ass that put a halt to my getting it, when Dee saw that I was peeping him checking out that girl's Apple Bottoms, he immediately turned his attention back to the basketball that was in hand. He quickly threw the ball, then walked over to me and took me in his arms. He then softly whispered in my ear, “Shawty, do you wanna ride wit’ me?” He said it with such intensity that I knew there was more to his words than just a simple question.

With him being taller than me, I met him at his neck. Without saying a word, I embraced him back. I wanted my actions to do all the talking. I could smell the faint odor of Creed cologne combined with the smell of weed on him. Although I hated the smell of weed, it turned me on at this particular moment. But what really got me aroused was the fresh war mark on his neck. Yeah, that cut on his neck gave me confirmation that I had a certified ruffneck on my hands. If you ever cross paths with a thug who doesn't have any kind of war marks, stab wounds, gunshot wounds, or something, then bet your last piece of change that he's an impostor. He ain't who he says he is, because trust me when I tell you, every real soldier done been to war.

I hugged him tight, and he asked me again, “Do you wanna ride wit’ me? I'm talkin’ some ride-or-die shit. A bitch down for her nigga type shit.” This time there was a deep sincerity in his tone.

“Of course,” I said, ignoring the fact that less than twenty-four hours ago I was somebody else's bitch. Or should I say woman— Brandon's, that is.

“You just saying that shit. You ain't trying to be wit’ me fo’ real, are you?” he said, gripping my ass.

“Yes, I am,” I said, my voice going hoarse with desire.

“So you trying to be wit’ me?”

I nodded yes.

“I ain't just some experiment, some story idea?”

I shook my head.

“For how long?” he asked.

That shit threw me off totally. I mean, what in the hell was I doing here? With him? At this time? At this place, all out in the open, setting myself up to run into somebody Brandon knew or worked with? What was I thinking? Had I lost my damn mind? I was completely out of my element, out of my league. This was a game to me, something I could start and finish and maybe even hit the restart button, but now here Dee was, testing me—or should I say initiating me?

“For how long?” I repeated, stalling. “Ummm.” I hesitated for a minute, trying to think of something slick to say that any other down-ass chick would let fly off of her tongue. He was looking at me dead in my eyes, and it caused me to go blank. I couldn't be quick on my feet. His gazing into my eyes had me weak at the knees, so I just said the same corny shit that the rest of them chicks probably told him, but I didn't care. Why? Because my words came from the heart, and he knew it, too. “For however long you want me to be.” At that moment, not caring if he meant one night or an eternity, I proceeded to tongue him down like we were the only two people left on earth.

“Then you gon’ ride till I die? You gon’ be my bottom bitch?” he asked.

“Yes,” I responded, although I hadn't the foggiest idea what a bottom bitch was. Looking into his strong eyes, vibin’ off that aura that just reeked with authority, I knew that whatever a bottom bitch was, I wanted to be it. I knew it meant being in his stable. And once I got my foot in the door, I believed without a doubt that I could be his thoroughbred.