CHAPTER 1
shy
2004
We gonna do this, baby. I’m gonna make it happen fo’ you … fo’ us,” Roscoe promised me.
We were laid up in bed, resting on wrinkled satin sheets, and I just got finished rocking his fucking world. I fucked him so hard that I had him screaming my name. I’m that bitch!
“Watch, Shy, it’s gonna be you and me,” he said, as I was nestled against his chest, staring at the bedroom walls and listening to his weak promises. But I was used to it. I mean, after a nigga get himself some pussy, he gonna promise you the world while he’s up in you, saying shit like, “Baby, I’m gonna buy you that house.” Or “Baby, let’s get married.” Or “Baby, I’m gonna be faithful from now on. I ain’t fuckin’ wit’ no other bitches.” Yeah, yeah, yeah, a sista done heard it all before. See, when a nigga is fucking you, that pussy got his mind somewhere else, like warped and shit, and if your pussy is that good, you gonna have a nigga say all kinds of shit and promises to your ass. But after he done came, and got his mind right again, you best believe when you ask about that house, about getting married, that car he promised you, or him leaving other bitches alone, he gonna be like, “Huh? I said that? When?” The nigga get absentminded and those coochie promises go out the door.
Shit, I know my pussy is good. Every time Roscoe’s fucking me, he bragging, “Damn, Shy … you got some good pussy, ummm … shit, yes, baby … ummm, yes … I love you! Oooh … I love you.” Shit, the only time Roscoe will ever proclaim his love to me is when the nigga is deep in some pussy. Anytime besides that, it’s like, “Yeah, Shy, you know I got love for you, right?”
It’s getting so fucking played out. But Roscoe will be Roscoe; I know he ain’t changing anytime soon. But I wish he’d try.
I stayed in Roscoe’s arms; he felt so good. We didn’t say anything else for the moment. We just relished in the good sex and tried to catch our breaths. I looked at the time and saw that it was ten o’clock in the morning, and I felt good because I had the day off and was spending it in bed with my man.
“Shy, you okay?” Roscoe asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I replied.
“Why you so quiet?” he asked.
“No reason. I’m just enjoyin’ the moment, that’s all.” I looked up at his handsome face and said, “I love you.”
“Yeah, you know I got love for you too, Shy. You my wifey,” he said.
I sighed heavily. This nigga. His dick got soft and his mind went “Duh!”
“Say it, Roscoe,” I said.
“Say what?” he asked.
“That you love me.”
“But I do.”
“So why don’t you tell me it?”
“Shy, you know how I feel about you. Why you trippin’?”
“Because, we been together fo’ a year and a half, and I wanna hear you say it fo’ once, wit’out your dick being up in me.”
“What?” He chuckled.
I pushed away from him and stared at him. I hate this, because to him, everything is always a fucking joke. I mean, I feel that sometimes he never takes me seriously.
“You love me, right?” I repeated.
“You know I do,” he said.
“I want us to settle down and do us, baby. You know I wanna have a baby soon. And I wanna move out of the projects, too.”
“Here we go, Shy … I told you, shit takes time, a’ight. A brotha ain’t made out of money,” he stated.
I sighed. Roscoe was full of it. “Roscoe, you tell me that all that hustlin’ you doin’ out there on them streets, you ain’t got no money saved for us?”
“Yeah, I got shit saved,” he said on the defensive, like I offended him or some shit. “I ain’t stupid,” he added.
“So why can’t we leave here and get a better place?”
“Because, it ain’t time yet. I was born and raised here, Shy. I got business to take care of. Yo, a nigga can’t just up and leave like that. You maybe, but not me.”
“You’re lyin’, Roscoe. You just don’t wanna leave the projects, admit it. Why are you so scared of change?”
“I ain’t scared of shit.”
“Whatever!” I muttered. I hopped out of bed and walked into the bathroom naked.
Roscoe was damn near a kingpin in the neighborhood, moving kilos of that yayo wholesale price here, and to niggas down in the dirty south, and having a tight-knit crew up here in Queens, making crazy paper. I was never too much in his business, but when we met, I knew he was a big-time drug dealer. I was attracted to that type of nigga and that lifestyle. Him and his right-hand man, James—Jade’s boyfriend—ran shit in the Jamaica housing projects. And I knew he was making enough money to move a bitch like me out of the projects. I had enough bad memories here with my moms, my pops, and losing Raheem. I just wanted to be somewhere different.
“Shy, why you trippin’? It’s too fuckin’ early. Damn, we just had a good morning; you know what I’m sayin’. And now you fuckin’ it up by arguing over dumb shit!” he shouted.
I came out the bathroom and said to him, “Because, fo’ months now, you’ve been promisin’ me this shit and that shit. You gonna move me outta here and shit. We gonna have a baby together. Oh, Shy, you better than here; we need to get you a house, because niggas be wildin’ out in these streets. You promised to take care of me, Roscoe, but lately, you ain’t been takin’ care of shit.”
“Shy, you know I take care of your ass,” he said coolly. “Didn’t I buy you that leather jacket last week? And who bought you those earrings fo’ your birthday? I took care of that. Who pay the rent, huh?”
I just looked at this nigga and returned with, “Whatever, nigga!” and closed the bathroom door.
“You know what, Shy? You spoiled, that’s what you are. You got one of the flyest cribs in the buildin’, your ass stay decked out in Gucci, Donna Karan, diamonds, and shit, and you ain’t happy. Just like a fuckin’ woman. Ain’t no way in pleasing y’all,” he yelled through the bathroom door. “You know what? I’m out!”
I heard that, and I quickly opened the door and yelled, “Where you goin’?”
“Away from here, that’s fo’ sure. You actin’ crazy right now, Shy.”
“I thought you were goin’ to spend the day wit’ me?”
“I was—now I’m not,” he said, pulling up his jeans and looking at me like I was crazy.
“You know what, Roscoe, fuck you! I don’t need you. You ain’t shit, anyway.”
“Yeah, page me tonight when you want your back dug out again,” he said sarcastically.
I watched this man get dressed and dis me like I wasn’t shit. He threw on his Rocawear jacket and headed for the door.
“So you just gonna leave me like that?” I asked with my arms folded across my chest as I glared at him.
“Yo, I’ll be back when you cool the fuck off, Shy,” he said, and bounced out my apartment so easy.
I swear, niggas ain’t shit. He come around last night, lookin’ for some pussy, and my dumb ass give him some—yeah, I was horny too, but damn, why he gotta leave out my crib like that? All I asked him was to say he love me, without sex being involved, and move me out the projects, and this nigga just flipped the script on me. You know.
I wasn’t gonna cry over that nigga, even though I was hurt. Roscoe promised to spend the day with me, and now he just flew the coop like it was nothing. No, I’m not gonna cry. I’m too old for that—shedding tears over a nigga. I told myself, Shy, he ain’t worth trippin’ over. You a big girl. Yeah, I love Roscoe, but I did have a life before I met him, and I’ll have one after him.
Roscoe and I hooked up a year and a half ago in front of a Queens nightclub. It was a year after my bitch-ass father died of cancer. I was chilling wit my girls Jade and Camille, and you know we wasn’t paying majority of these clown-ass niggas that tried to holla at us no mind. Majority of them were fake, anyway, and had no game. I mean, this one dude tried to holla at my girl, Camille, because she got the phattest ass out of all of us—but come on, the nigga was ugly wit’ crusty, ashy lips—like he brushed his teeth with face powder and shit. And most niggas were staring, but were scared to come over and holla; they ain’t had no fucking backbone.
If you like someone, especially a cute female, a brother with confidence would make his presence known in front of her politely, like a gentleman, and say his name and be smooth with his. Don’t be shouting out to me, “Yo, ma, let me holla at you for a sec.” “Yo, shorty, come here. … I wanna talk to you. My nigga wanna holla!”
And then when they don’t get their way, and you don’t come over, they disrespect you and shout out, “Bitch!” Or “Fuck you! You stuck up, anyway!”
Yeah, whatever, but moments ago, they were longing for your undivided attention. They’ve already proved to me their type of mentality. And I hate the aggressive males, the ones that pull you by the arm while you’re passing by or follow you when it’s clear that you don’t want to be bothered with them, but they are too stupid or ignorant to back the fuck off.
Like this one nigga followed me for three blocks, calling me out, “Yo, ma—can you stop? I just wanna ask you sumthin’, that’s all. … You look too good to be walking alone and shit. I’ll drive you somewhere.” Let it be known, I ain’t your fucking ma. I ain’t your fucking boo. I ain’t the one.
God, I hate corny niggas with no type of game to them, especially the ones that drive these nice cars and expect me to stop and give ’em some play because they in a Benz or a new Lexus, and don’t even got the respect to stop and get out the car to approach you. They holla at you from the car window. I ain’t turning tricks, so I don’t know what they be thinking.
But Roscoe, he was different. He’s the type of man, when he walks into a room, he gets noticed. All eyes are on him. It’s his look and demeanor. When I first met Roscoe, I knew he was a hustler, a product of the streets. It was the way he talked and the wardrobe he was draped in.
It had been 3 a.m., and I was ready to leave because the night was boring and the assholes were out in swarms. I noticed Roscoe in the club, but never gave him a second glance. I just thought he was cute. He had on this navy blue and white pin-striped leather suit, which was looking great on him, with white Timberlands and a long bulky chain that draped down to his abs. He was blinged the fuck out and different from the regular guys that came in with jeans and jerseys and tried their hardest to impress the ladies. But I wasn’t the only lady that noticed this fly nigga come into the club; bitches started flocking to that nigga like he was Jay-Z or sumthin’. But I loved the way he would shrug the bitches off and chill with his boys by the bar.
Later that night, I was leaving when I saw Roscoe outside on the corner next to a parked luxurious pearl Escalade, rolling dice with his peoples. I had walked across the street with my girls, when I saw him look up and check me out. He stared at me for a moment, and from that, I knew he was interested.
But I wasn’t all that into him—just a little bit. I had just came out of a fucked-up relationship not too long before, and I wasn’t trying to mess with some other nigga so soon. I just wanted to do me and chill. I definitely had my share of the thugs and drug dealers at an early age, and when Raheem was killed when I was fifteen, I thought I would never find no other man to replace him. But I was wrong. Roscoe was Raheem three times better.
Copyright © 2006 by Erick S. Gray
