Desert Eagle out the closet and resting them on the bed, “if he says, ‘Look, ma, I'm sorry, either you can believeme or not, but I love you and I ain't leaving you,’ and he don't have no attitude or base in his throat, then all the bitch did was suck his dick.”
“But,”
Tasha stressed, “if the niggah comes home and eats your pussy without saying a word, and he goes straight for the clit, best believe it's a bitch out in the street pregnant.”
Imani's voice cracked. “That ain't always true, Tasha. Walik ain't never ate my pussy.”
“Imani,” Sabrena turned to her, “you fucking up my high and shit. Go get dressed. I'll call my li'l crackhead cousin over here to get this. We might not ever find Larry in time, and believe me my cousin'll have this shit sold in five minutes. Keep him from stealing my shit for a li'l while.”
“Ai'ight, I'ma go get dressed,” Imani sniffed.
Imani grabbed her gear before she left, then went in the bathroom to take a shower.
Once Imani stepped out of the shower, she slipped on a white terry-cloth strapless Juicy dress that came midway to her thick thighs. The tattoo in the middle of her right thigh, of two cherries with cream dripping on them, glistened from the shimmering lotion she rubbed over it. The top of Imani's dress was so tight that her C-cup breasts threatened to spill out. She stood in the mirror, glazed her lips with Oh Baby MAC Lipglass. She popped her lips together, slipped on her pearlized tinted Christian Dior shades, and stepped out the bathroom door. “Ready to roll?”
“Look at you, ho,” Sabrena said, returning from setting Walik's bags of clothes outside the apartment door. “Turn around. That shit you got is fiyyah. I know you spent your whole check on that shit. Let me see them shoes.”
Imani kicked one foot out, showing off her two-inch white patent-leather Marc Jacobs thongs.
“That shit is nice.” Quiana grinned, grabbing her purse and popping an orange Tic Tac in her mouth. Quiana pushed herwhite round eye shades on top of her Pony hair micro braids. She ran her hand down the front of her blue-and-white diagonal-striped Baby Phat halter dress, to straighten the wrinkles out.
Tasha pulled the side of her Giants' football-jersey dress down, so that it would fall off her shoulders. She looked down at her feet to make sure her heels weren't dirty; she'd bought brand-new blue Chinese slippers and spray-painted numbers on them to match her football-jersey dress, and with this ensemble she knew she was the shit.
“Let's get it cracked,” Tasha said. Tasha was the designated driver of the clique, since none of the other girls, including Imani, had her license.
“One minute, I almost forgot,” Imani said, walking back into her bedroom and grabbing Walik's guns. She placed them in Jamal's backpack and walked out the door. By the time they got into Tasha's 1993 red CR-V and finished complaining about being cramped, Tasha'd pulled in front of the police station, where Imani turned in Walik's guns. Under the new “Ask No Questions” program, Imani handed the policemen the guns, and they never said a word.
“I am now officially through with that niggah!” Imani said. A few moments later her cell phone rang. When she peeped the caller ID she sucked her teeth. “I cannot stand answering a blocked number.”
“Don't answer,” Tasha said as she started to drive. “Nah,” Imani flipped her phone open, “it could be something wrong with my son.” She placed the phone to her ear. “Who dis?”
“Imani.”
“Yeah, this Imani.”
“I know who this is, where you at?”
Imani was so hyped, pissed off, and hurt by hearing Walik's voice that she didn't even notice he hadn't called collect. “This niggah!” Imani said loudly.
“Who?” Sabrena frowned. “Walik?”
“Who the fuck else?” Imani said.
“Imani,” Walik said calmly, “where are you?”
“I'm on my way to Club NV. Where the fuck are you? On the bottom bunk
“But,”
Tasha stressed, “if the niggah comes home and eats your pussy without saying a word, and he goes straight for the clit, best believe it's a bitch out in the street pregnant.”
Imani's voice cracked. “That ain't always true, Tasha. Walik ain't never ate my pussy.”
“Imani,” Sabrena turned to her, “you fucking up my high and shit. Go get dressed. I'll call my li'l crackhead cousin over here to get this. We might not ever find Larry in time, and believe me my cousin'll have this shit sold in five minutes. Keep him from stealing my shit for a li'l while.”
“Ai'ight, I'ma go get dressed,” Imani sniffed.
Imani grabbed her gear before she left, then went in the bathroom to take a shower.
Once Imani stepped out of the shower, she slipped on a white terry-cloth strapless Juicy dress that came midway to her thick thighs. The tattoo in the middle of her right thigh, of two cherries with cream dripping on them, glistened from the shimmering lotion she rubbed over it. The top of Imani's dress was so tight that her C-cup breasts threatened to spill out. She stood in the mirror, glazed her lips with Oh Baby MAC Lipglass. She popped her lips together, slipped on her pearlized tinted Christian Dior shades, and stepped out the bathroom door. “Ready to roll?”
“Look at you, ho,” Sabrena said, returning from setting Walik's bags of clothes outside the apartment door. “Turn around. That shit you got is fiyyah. I know you spent your whole check on that shit. Let me see them shoes.”
Imani kicked one foot out, showing off her two-inch white patent-leather Marc Jacobs thongs.
“That shit is nice.” Quiana grinned, grabbing her purse and popping an orange Tic Tac in her mouth. Quiana pushed herwhite round eye shades on top of her Pony hair micro braids. She ran her hand down the front of her blue-and-white diagonal-striped Baby Phat halter dress, to straighten the wrinkles out.
Tasha pulled the side of her Giants' football-jersey dress down, so that it would fall off her shoulders. She looked down at her feet to make sure her heels weren't dirty; she'd bought brand-new blue Chinese slippers and spray-painted numbers on them to match her football-jersey dress, and with this ensemble she knew she was the shit.
“Let's get it cracked,” Tasha said. Tasha was the designated driver of the clique, since none of the other girls, including Imani, had her license.
“One minute, I almost forgot,” Imani said, walking back into her bedroom and grabbing Walik's guns. She placed them in Jamal's backpack and walked out the door. By the time they got into Tasha's 1993 red CR-V and finished complaining about being cramped, Tasha'd pulled in front of the police station, where Imani turned in Walik's guns. Under the new “Ask No Questions” program, Imani handed the policemen the guns, and they never said a word.
“I am now officially through with that niggah!” Imani said. A few moments later her cell phone rang. When she peeped the caller ID she sucked her teeth. “I cannot stand answering a blocked number.”
“Don't answer,” Tasha said as she started to drive. “Nah,” Imani flipped her phone open, “it could be something wrong with my son.” She placed the phone to her ear. “Who dis?”
“Imani.”
“Yeah, this Imani.”
“I know who this is, where you at?”
Imani was so hyped, pissed off, and hurt by hearing Walik's voice that she didn't even notice he hadn't called collect. “This niggah!” Imani said loudly.
“Who?” Sabrena frowned. “Walik?”
“Who the fuck else?” Imani said.
“Imani,” Walik said calmly, “where are you?”
“I'm on my way to Club NV. Where the fuck are you? On the bottom bunk
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