Kiss the Ring by Meesha Mink Page A

worked. But the water didn’t work in that bath and so she dealt with the half bath on the ground floor. She was a bath girl and would much prefer sitting her punani in hot water scented with bath oils and overrunning with bubbles.
    Drying off with one of the towels folded neatly on the built-in shelves flanking the green commode, she wrapped it around her body before she brushed her teeth and gave herself a facial. Rushing, she fast-walked into the living room. She checked the time on her cell phone. “Shit,” she swore, jumping up and over the bed to grab a bra and thong from her top dresser drawer before turning to reach in a bin for black spandex leggings and a half-shirt.
    She barely spared a second to swipe on deodorant and spray on her favorite body mist—a mix of lavender, vanilla, and lemon that she’d blended herself. She was late but she had to take time to get her makeup straight. Most men had more hair on their head than she did and a beat face was a must—lashes and all.
    Dressed and done with strapping on a pair of wedge high-top black and gold sneakers that matched the black half-shirt with BOSS BITCH splayed across her ample bosom in gold letters, she dropped all the shit from her real Louis into a fake Gucci book bag that she pulled on.
    Her steps thudded against the floor as she rushed into the kitchen. “Sarge, I’m gone,” she called, standing by the open door leading into the basement.
    He grunted.
    Naeema left the house and crossed the yard to the weathered and battered one-car garage that had only remnants of its dark green paint left. She unlocked it and lifted the door, smiling as more and more of her motorcycle was revealed. She loved it. It was a third-year anniversary gift from Tank. She stroked her fingers over the words Tank & Naeema 4Ever painted on the gas tank.
    They both believed that shit back then.
    Once she had on her hot-pink helmet and was riding the motorcycle down the drive, she felt like herself for the first time in a minute. No weaves. No extra crazy outfits. No faking the funk like she was a naive hood chick. Just Naeema headed to work like she had done every other day for the last nine years. Before she went undercover with the MMC, she had never missed a day of work unless she was traveling with Tank during one of his security jobs. Even if she got white-girl wasted or faded as hell the night before or headed straight to work from the club, Naeema had always clocked in and made her money.
    As she dipped and moved through the heavy Newark traffic the hot summer air brushed against her skin but it felt good to her. A day without looking in them motherfuckers’ faces was always an Ice Cube level good day. She pulled to a red light on Springfield Avenue next to a bright rust-colored mini-Hummer. From the corner of her eye she spotted the tinted windows lower. The sounds of Jay-Z’s “Open Letter” filled the air. Glancing over at them from behind the pink tint of her helmet’s visor, she quickly counted four dudes all looking at her ass spread on the seat of the motorcycle as she leaned forward ready to zoom off.
    She was used to that shit and didn’t let it gas her head.
    Dudes loved a fat ass, and a fat ass on a bike made their eyes big and their dicks real hard.
    She was just revving her motorcycle when she suddenly felt a slap against her ass. Her head whipped around quick as shit. The dude in the passenger seat was hanging half his body out the open window with a big grin on his face as his boys laughed and cheered them on. The driver in the car behind her blew his horn like he was co-signing the bullshit move.
    Disrespectful motherfuckers.
    Naeema flipped up the shield. “You like that?” she called over to him, sitting up straight on the seat of her motorcycle as it continued to vibrate with life between her legs and against the ass he’d assaulted.
    â€œHell yeah,” he answered, a round-faced cutie