Wifey Read online

  As I waited for him to respond, I knew he could do one of three things. He could either tell me the truth, which could probably hurt him in some way later down the line. Or he could tell me a lie, which would really piss me off. And then he could throw Rule #7 at me from the Hustler’s Manual, which insisted that he tell me nothing. A hustler’s reason for that was: The less your girl knows, the better off ya’ll be.

  “I need to make a run,” he finally said.

  “What kind of run?”

  “You don’t need to know all that!” Ricky snapped.

  “Look, don’t get no attitude with me because I wanna know where you’re taking my car.”

  “And who bought you the LS 400?”

  “I don’t care who bought it! The fact remains, it’s in my name. Just like the Benz and that cartoon character, Hulk–painted, 1100 Ninja motorcycle you got parked in the garage.”

  “And your point?”

  “Look, Ricky, just be careful. And please don’t do nothing stupid.”

  “I’m not,” he assured me with a kiss on my forehead.

  “Don’t have no bitch in my car,” I yelled as he made his way out the door.

  While he ignored me like I knew he would, I stood there and watched Ricky unlock my car door and drive off. At the same time, I wondered where he was going.

  Hustling + $ = Women

  On my way home from the salon, I decided to stop by Wendy’s for a chicken sandwich. The lady in the drive-thru window rung up my total, I paid her and waited for my food. After sitting there for about five minutes, she finally handed me my order. But before she said her “Thanks for stopping at Wendy’s” spiel, she hesitated. “Ain’t this Ricky’s car you driving?” she boldly asked.

  “Is this who car?” I asked her, wanting this young girl to repeat herself.

  “Ricky,” she responded. “He’s dark-skinned with long dreads. And he keeps them hidden inside this big hat,” she continued.

  Well, I guess she passed the test. She described my husband to a tee.

  “Yeah, I know him,” I told her. “Why, you mess wit’ him?” I threw her into twenty questions mode.

  “Nah.”

  “So, why you wanna know if this is his car?”

  “Well, ’cause I ain’t never seen nobody else drive it.”

  “Well, let me be the one to tell you, this is his car! And the person who’s driving this car is his wife.”

  “Oh, for real!” the young girl said, with a dumbfounded look on her face.

  “Yeah, for real!” I waved my five-carat marquise-cut diamond ring that sat next to my platinum wedding band, which was flooded out with two-carat baguette diamonds.

  From her reaction, I could tell she hadn’t been ready for the curve ball I had just thrown her.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologized.

  “Nah. Nah. Nah. You ain’t got to apologize. Just tell me how you know my husband?”

  “Just from coming up here,” she explained.

  “So, he comes up here a lot?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Has he ever tried to holla at you?”

  “Nah. It’s just that whenever he comes through and orders, he always tell me I can keep his change.”

  “Are you sure that’s it?”

  “Oh yeah. I’m sure,” she tried to assure me.

  “Well, the next time he comes through here, tell him you met his wife. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she replied. I could see by her expression that she was disappointed, but that’s her problem. Bitch!

  Once I got all the information I could, I drove off. I only drove about a quarter mile up Virginia Beach Blvd. and thought about nothing else but my flirtatious-ass husband. He always had to show off. I bet he had all these hoes out here thinking he’s the man. And the more I thought about it, I could do nothing else but pick up my cell phone and dial up this nigga’s number.

  “What’s up, baby?” Ricky answered after the second ring.

  “I just seen your peoples,” I told him.

  “Who?” he asked.

  “Your little girlfriend at the Wendy’s on Newtown Road.”

  “Who?” he repeated the question.

  “Nigga, don’t ‘who’ witcha slick ass! You know who I’m talking about,” I yelled. “I just left from talking to this young-ass girl at Wendy’s.”

  “Kira, you tripping!”

  “I ain’t tripping! That bitch was the one tripping when she asked me was I driving your car, like she’s fucking you or something.”

  “Kira, don’t call me wit’ that shit right now.”

  “What you mean, don’t call you wit’ this shit now? Ricky, you act like I be looking for this madness.”

  “Look, I’m in the middle of something. So, we gon’ have to talk about this later.”

  “Yeah, what the fuck ever!” I replied sarcastically and pressed the “end” button on my cell.

  I got so pissed with him when he acted like I was the one bringing him the drama. I kept telling him all he had to do was keep his hoes in check because what I don’t know won’t hurt me. But nah, he couldn’t do that. He had so many of them running around, he had done lost control. I learned this a long time ago, that when you live with your man and he’s a hustler, nine times out of ten, he’s gonna have at least one or two hoes he’s screwing on the side. Trust me. It’s in the Hustler’s Manual. I don’t care how much Ricky lied and told me he wasn’t screwing anybody, because he was. Having to live with this fact, I constantly had to remind myself that I was the one living in the big house. I also had the pass codes to the bank accounts and the combination to the safe, which was built into a hideaway place under the floor, under our bed. Now, to know all of this, I couldn’t be nobody else but wifey.

  By the time I made it home, I was still in a pissy mood because of Ricky’s lack of concern for my feelings. I did what any other woman would do, and that was going on a manhunt for names and phone numbers. I searched Ricky’s car from top to bottom and in every hidden compartment I could find. I couldn’t find anything. He must’ve cleared everything out before he dropped his car off to me.

  He thought he was so slick. But, I had his number.

  ***

  Ricky came home about 1 am. I was going to get out of bed and jump dead in his case about the chick at Wendy’s, but I decided against it. I mean, what was the use? He wasn’t gonna do nothing but deny any dealings with her, anyway. So, I closed my eyes and lay completely still. I could hear everything he was doing downstairs. By the noises he made, I could tell he was in the kitchen messing with the microwave ‘cause I heard him pressing buttons.

  After staying in the kitchen for a few minutes, I heard Ricky making his way up the staircase. I could also smell the aroma coming from his food. It didn’t smell like anything I had cooked all week. After he entered the bedroom, I decided to open my eyes and sit up in the bed. “Where did you get that food from?” I asked after turning on the lamp from my nightstand.

  “I bought it from Ms. Tiny’s house.”

  “From who?”

  “You know Ms. Tiny? She’s the lady who sells the shots of liquor, beers and dinners after hours.”

  “Oh yeah, I know who you talking about now. So, what you buy?”

  “I got the fish dinner.”

  “What else did you get wit’ it?”

  “Some macaroni and cheese and cabbage.”

  “Did she give you a piece of corn bread?”

  “Yeah. But I ate that when I first got the dinner.”

  “Why didn’t you get me some extra pieces?”

  “I didn’t think about it.”

  “Well, you should’ve brought me a dinner home.”

  “Ahh, don’t even try that one. ‘Cause you know when I’m out on the grind, I don’t know when I’m gon’ come home. So, if I would’ve copped you one of Ms. Tiny’s dinners, and brought that shit home all cold, you would’ve screamed on me.”

  Hearing my husband analyze me made me
smile. He truly knows me like a book.

  “Let me taste your macaroni and cheese,” I told him.

  “Here.” He handed me the styrofoam container.

  “Hmm, this shit is good!” I expressed between chews.

  As I continued to dig into the mac and cheese, Ricky’s cell phone rang.

  He pulled the phone from its holster and looked at it to see who was calling him.

  “Hello,” he finally said.

  Judging from Ricky’s expression, I could tell he was getting very angry by what he was hearing from the other caller. “Just stay there ‘til I get there! I’m on my way now!”

  “What happened?”

  “My spot just got robbed.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one out on Park Place.”

  “Who was that on the phone?”

  “My man Mike.”

  “Did he say who did it?”

  “He said he didn’t know.”

  “What did they take?”

  “Every damn thing!” Ricky grabbed my car keys from the dresser.

  “Why you grabbing my keys?” I asked.

  “Because you gon’ drive me to the spot.”

  “I ain’t getting outta my bed,” I told him.

  “Come on, Ma. Please!” he begged.

  I told him no. He continued to beg me, so I eventually got out of my bed and got dressed.

  The ride to Park Place only took like twenty minutes or so, considering we lived in the heart of Virginia Beach. Once we were on the block, it didn’t take long at all to see how the fiends reacted to Ricky’s presence. Some started flagging my car down. A few of ‘em even started running down behind us. I got scared when this type of shit went on; that’s why I rarely took these type of trips with him. Oh, but in the beginning when we first got together, you couldn’t pay me not to hop in one of his cars, to drive him around to check on his spots. The feeling of driving a nice-ass whip with a well-known hustler on the passenger side was the shit. But the best feeling of all was when I had all the project bitches breaking their necks, just to see me pushing Ricky’s car while they were walking. Hate mode used to kick in like clockwork. And I loved every minute of it. Especially since Ricky was a new cat from out of town, trying to build himself an empire. But after going through a whole lot of unnecessary drama year after year, I was now in another state of mind. I could care less about all this mess going on out here because it didn’t concern me. That’s why when Ricky asks me to bring him out here again, I’mma tell him no. And I’m gon’ stick to that, too!

  After I pulled up to the house, Ricky called Mike, his lieutenant, from his cell phone to let him know we were outside. About two seconds later, Mike walked out of the house and hopped in the back seat of my car. In the rear view mirror, I began to watch his expressions. His eyes had a fearful look in them. He knew the consequences for not being on point. He also knew the story he was getting ready to tell Ricky better be on point, too.

  “Y-y-y-yo, Ricky, man,” Mike stuttered. “Them niggas took everything!”

  “You mean all the food?”

  “I’m talking the whole shit, dog!” Mike explained. “And they took the four Gs Jay dropped off for you.”

  “Do you know who it was?” Ricky asked calmly.

  “Nah.”

  “How many was it?”

  “Three of ’em.”

  “Now, tell me how the fuck they got through that steel latch behind that door?”

  “Well, when Remo came back from the corner store, I was in the back taking a shit. And when he came in the front door, he said them niggas came from around the side and rushed him.”

  “What were they wearing?”

  “Black Carhart overalls and masks.”

  “Did you recognize their voices?”

  “Nah. They ain’t sound like none of the niggas I know.”

  “What is Remo saying ‘bout this shit?”

  “He ain’t said nuttin.”

  “Where ya’ll burners at?”

  “They took ’em.”

  “Do you think Remo could’ve set this shit up?”

  “I don’t know, dog,” Mike said, sounding a bit unsure.

  “Well, you know what’s gon’ happen, right?”

  “Yeah,” Mike responded in a long sigh.

  “A’ight, then. Just shut everything down and I’ll hitcha up tomorrow.”

  “A’ight.”

  “Oh, tell Remo I want to see him tomorrow, too.”

  “A’ight.”

  Mike got out of my car and headed back in the rundown-looking house. “Let’s Go,” Ricky told me. I put my car in drive and headed back on the highway toward the beach. I jumped on I-264 and drove ninety all the way home. Ricky loved it when I flooded the engines out in our cars. He said it’s hot when a chick can whip a car in and out of traffic on a highway. I could do the same thing on his Ninja. He taught me everything there was to know about driving a car and how to get my hustle on, if push ever came to shove. As I pushed my whip to the crib, I noticed how quiet Ricky had become. I knew he was thinking about doing some crazy shit. I hated when he got in this frame of mind.

  “I hope you ain’t gon’ do nothing stupid to Mike and Remo,” I commented.

  “I ain’t gon’ do nothing to them. But, they better be ready to work my next load off without pay.”

  “You think they gon’ work off the next pack you give them without getting paid?”

  “They ain’t got no choice. ‘Cause I ain’t gon let nobody take a half of brick and four Gs from me and not pay for it. Hell nah! It ain’t gon’ pop off like that!”

  “You need to be trying to find out who set them up.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  Baby Mama Drama

  The next day Ricky headed out to meet with Mike and Remo. His meeting with them didn’t take as long as I thought it would. He left the house about ten o’clock in the morning and called me about eleven, telling me he wanted me to take his daughter, Fredrica, to the mall and buy her some new sneakers. Truth be told, I didn’t like his daughter, Fredrica at all. She was so damn grown, it was pathetic. This little girl was about five years old and acted like she was fifteen. Now, his other two children were kind of cool; but Fredrica was the worst. Every time Ricky brought her by the house, she always terrible look. I knew her mama was filling her head up with a lot of nonsense ‘cause, every time I tried to tell her to do something, she always reminded me that I wasn’t her mama.

  Anyway, since it was a Sunday and the mall wouldn’t be open until noon, I got up and got dressed. I met Ricky in downtown Norfolk, since he had already picked Fredrica up from her mama’s house. He was parked and pumping some gas at the BP station when I pulled up.

  “Hey Fredrica,” I said to her. I was being fake, as I knew how to be.

  “Hey,” she replied in a very low tone. To hear her, I had to almost stop breathing.

  “What kind of sneakers am I supposed to buy her?” I asked my husband.

  “I want the new Jordans!” Fredrica blurted out.

  “Yeah. Get her the new black and white Jordans,” Ricky told me as he peeled off a stack of fifty-dollar bills from the roll of dough he had in his hands.

  “You giving me some of that, too?” I asked him.

  “Yeah, I gotcha, Ma.”

  After Ricky gave me the money, I took it and stuffed it in the front pocket of my jeans. “How did your meeting go wit’ Mike and Remo?” I asked him.

  “I’ll tell you ‘bout it later,” he brushed me off.

  “A’ight. I guess I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  “Call me when you’re done, because I might be in the middle of something.”

  “We still going out to dinner tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “A’ight then,” I said to him as I ushered Fredrica in my car and put on her seatbelt.

  Military Circle Mall wasn’t packed like I thought it would be, but I did run into a few chickenheads who hate my g
uts. Like Tiffany, who’s a stripper at Magic City in Portsmouth. This chick really and truly thought she had it going on. I caught her a couple times, sitting in the passenger seat of Ricky’s car in front of the strip club. I went the fuck off, too. I did it because I heard he was fucking her nasty ass. But he wouldn’t ever admit to it. Every now and then I gotta remind Ricky that I’ve got eyes all over the Tidewater area, watching his every move. It ain’t all women, either. But he doesn’t care because he still does whatever he wants to do. I bet if I told him that the same niggas he be gambling with, be calling me and throwing salt on his ass, he’d have a damn fit! I ain’t gonna do that though, because all Ricky’s gonna tell me is that the reason why them niggas doing that bitch shit is because they trying to fuck me. So, I ain’t gon’ waste my time with it!

  Now after Fredrica got her sneakers, I copped her a couple pairs of the latest RocaWear jeans with the shirts to match. Then we went to my favorite spot, Victoria’s Secret. I racked up on all the newest bra-and-panty sets. I even got myself a pair of bedroom slippers with three-inch heels. Ricky loved that type of shit, especially when we were trying to get our freak on. It was a must that I wear something sexy with a pair of heels on. Ricky’s dick got rock hard when he saw me dressed. That was probably one of the reasons he couldn’t stay out of them damn strip clubs. Hoes in heels with big asses was right up his alley.

  On my way out of the mall, I ran into this cat named Brian. He was Ricky’s right-hand man. Now, this dude was hella fine. He was dark skinned and his body was on point. He was probably a little over six feet tall. I heard from a source of mine that if you got in the bed with this dude, he was gonna fuck the shit out of you. I believed her too, ‘cause hoes be going crazy over this nigga. Now I ain’t going to lie, if I would’ve met him before I met Ricky, me and Brian’s ass would’ve been together right now. And quiet as it’s kept, I also heard he had a humongous dick and some blazing head. Too bad. I’ll never be able to find out ‘cause screwing a nigga who works for your man was like going against the grain, and that was a no-no! I learned that from Al Pacino’s movie Scarface: Never fuck the help!

  “What’s up!” I asked Brian.

  “Nuttin, I’m just strolling through.”