So Gone by Jennifer Luckett Page B

like Tiger
Woods. I might need to go to a sex rehab center for help wit’ my sexual
addiction, I thought to myself.
    That was some funny
shit.
    I started laughing
my ass off, because that was the lamest shit I had ever heard. Tiger prob’ly
had been in rehab dicking therapists and nurses. Fa real tho, I needed to check
myself before I lost a good woman. My li’l head was gonna get me in some shit
that I couldn’t get out of one day. A nigga was  droppin’ seeds like crazy.
    I hit the blunt and
held the smoke in my lungs until I started coughing. It was some fiyah I was
blazin’! That shit must’ve been laced wit’ some common sense 'cause I swear
every time I inhaled I could clearly see my mistakes.
    I grabbed my cell
phone and speed dialed my boo. I got sent to voicemail five straight times. On
the sixth attempt Mo’ answered the phone. “Blunt, stop calling my damn phone.”
    I said real softly,
“Boo, all I ask is that you allow me a few minutes to say what’s in my heart.
You don’t have to say anything in response, just listen to me.” I raised my
foot up and planted it on the small nightstand on the side of the bed.
    I was posted up in
only a wife beater and black boxers. I tightly clutched the bottle of Henny in
my hand and took a gulp. I was gettin' good and gon’ off that fiyah water.
    “No, Blunt. You
don’t deserve another minute of my time. I’ve wasted three years on you, and
I’m not wasting another second. This is where I get off the rollercoaster,
Sir,” Mo' stated without a hint of regret in her voice.
    My heart dropped at
the thought that she may have meant it this time. I spoke fast before she could
hang up. "Mo’, you kno’ I love you. You can’t even dispute that. Am I
perfect? Nah, not by a long shot, but my love for you is one hunnid, and that’s
a foundation that you just don’t toss away. I told you when we first hooked up
that sometimes I might make some pretty big mistakes, but you will always be
able to count on my heart. Anything you ask me for, I give it to you, and I
give it wit’ a smile ‘cause you’re my baby.”
    “No, Blunt, I’m not
your baby. Your babies are by Chunuchi, some broad named Mika, another
trick named Luscious, and God knows how many other baby mamas you have.”
    I got quiet. I
wondered how she knew about Mika and Luscious.
    “What now? Cat got
your tongue? See, when you lay wit’ rats they go back and tell it. Lose my
number, Dog Ass Negro.” The call abruptly ended.
    I didn’t even call
back. I just got high and kicked myself for fuckin’ up. My eyes slowly shut as
I told myself that I had to get my baby back somehow, someway.      

 
No Mask
Blunt
    The next day I was
out in the streets parlaying with my hood niggas. Mo’ was still on my mind, but
I had on my game face around the homies.
    “I heard you got
them thangs on deck,” a nigga named Millionaire said to me as I walked up to
where he was posted up on the hood of his metallic gray Dodge Charger, chopping
it up wit’ some homies at Grant Park. We dapped fists.
    “Yeah, I’m fuckin’
wit’ a li’l somethin’,” I said and steered him away from the others. My li’l
homie, Deuce, who was sitting on the hood of his black '64 Chevy Impala a few
feet away, winked at me.
    When me and
Millionaire got away from the others I asked, “So, how many of them thangs you
tryna fuck wit’?”
    “Depends on the
ticket you got on 'em,” he replied.
    “Since it’s you,
I’ma let ‘em go for sixteen a piece.” I quoted a
price that he couldn’t refuse.
    Millionaire smiled,
showin’ eight gold teeth across the top of his grill. “In that case, let me get
three of them thangs,” he said like he was ordering a hunnid.
    "That's what's
up." I nodded.
    “I would get more,
but I already got a half mil tied up in another move,” he popped, frontin’ like
a motha. He had gotten the nickname 'Millionaire' by talkin’ a million dollars
worth of shit and exaggeratin’ nine