Sonny Black - Gangsta Bitch

“Have a seat my dude, while I get the shit,” Reggie motioned towards the living room. “You know where everything is so don’t be shy,” he patted the refrigerator and went into the bedroom. “You home nigga!” he called from down the hall.

Duce strolled into the living room with a familiarity that could have only come from spending a great deal of time in the house. The furniture and electronics were more modernized than Duce remembered it but in his mind it was still his Auntie Ruth’s house. There was a picture on the wall with him and his brother Knowledge in their PAL uniforms. In the days before the money came into play everything was sweet, but that was a long time ago. Not wanting to travel any further down memory lane he settled on the couch and waited for his cousin.

By the time Reggie came out of the bedroom Duce was sitting on the couch watching television. He watched curiously as Reggie dragged what looked like a guitar case, only a square version, and placed it in the middle of the floor. Reggie fished the key from his pants pocket and undid the lock. Duce watched from over his shoulder and gasped when the case came open.

When Frankie entered the apartment she was immediately annoyed. The garbage can outside the kitchen entrance was overflowing and the house smelled like old chicken. Frankie knew exactly what the smell was because she had shared the meal with him three days prior. On the table sat three empty Heineken bottles that looked like they had been sitting there for God only knew how long.

Cowboy was lounging on the sofa shirtless, smoking a blunt. Though his chest and arms were still quite muscular, his belly protruded over his jeans a bit. Just another sign that time was catching up with him. Cowboy was almost ten years older than Frankie, but still carried himself with the immaturity of a man fresh into his twenties.

“I see you’ve been busy,” Frankie said sarcastically. She dropped the bag with his crab legs on the coffee table hard enough to rattle the bottles.

“Yeah, been a long day,” he replied, in an equally sarcastic tone. “Thanks,” he nodded at the bag of food.

“Whatever,” Frankie mumbled, storming off into the bedroom. She had expected to find an equally disturbing mess there too, but it was surprisingly spotless. The sheets had been changed and the carpet was freshly vacuumed. It was too unlike Cowboy, so her antennas immediately went up. Frankie combed every inch of the room and all her search yielded was a pair of dingy blue, Polo boxers under the bed.

“You’re bugging out, Frankie,” she said to herself. Frankie felt like a fool for crawling around on her hands and knees like a damn forensic scientist. Thankful that no one had been there to witness the spectacle, she got off her knees and made to take the boxers to the laundry hamper, which was also overflowing. She’d knock the laundry out for him later, but first she needed to get right. It had been a few days since Cowboy had bust her out and she had a new lingerie set she wanted to show off. The smile faded from Frankie’s face when she smelled the faint scent coming from the boxers.

Frankie held the boxers as close to her nose as she dared and her face twisted. The smell was soft like honey, with faint traces of musk lurking beneath. When she examined the underpants and saw the dried smear near the cock-hole her hands began to tremble with rage. “Dirty son of a bitch,” she snarled. With the boxers clutched in her fist she made her way into the living room to confront Cowboy.

The moment he saw Frankie’s face, Cowboy detected that something was wrong. Though she was smiling pleasantly there was tightness to her eyes that made him uncomfortable. When his Polo boxers came sailing across the room and landed on his lap he knew he had a problem.

“You think you’re slick, don’t you?” she snapped. Her fists were balled so tight that you could hear her knuckles cracking.

“Girl, what the hell are you talking about?” he asked as if he was really clueless.

“Cowboy, don’t play with me. Why do your boxers smell like another bitch?”

“Frankie, you tripping, I’ve been in the house all day.”

“Yeah, with another bitch,” she jabbed her finger at him.

“Man, don’t come at me with that shit. You know don’t no bitch come up in this pad but you.”

Out of nowhere Frankie slapped Cowboy’s food off the table, splattering him with the warm butter he had been dipping his crab legs in. “Nigga, don’t you dare insult my intelligence!”

In a flash, Cowboy was on his feet and advancing towards Frankie. “Bitch, you must’ve lost your damn mind. I ought to knock your fucking head off!”

Equally fast Frankie grabbed her purse and dipped her hand inside. “I wish the fuck you would act a fool in here, Cowboy.”

Knowing what she had inside the purse Cowboy stopped in his tracks. “Frankie, if you draw that gun on me you better pop off.”

“Baby, you know Frankie Five-Fingers don’t bluff,” she said in a sweet tone. “Let me explain something to you, Cowboy, I’m not a dummy. I know you do your thing on the side, but I turn a blind eye to it because you’ve always let it be known that I was the queen bitch and treated me with respect, until now.”

“Baby it ain’t what you think.”

“Fuck what I think, it’s what I know.” She sucked her teeth. “I don’t even know why I fuck with your sorry ass. You ain’t shit, Cowboy,” Frankie slung her purse over her shoulder and headed towards the door.

“Baby girl, don’t walk away from me now, I need you for the score tonight!” he called after her.

“Fuck you!” she shouted before slamming the door.

“Damn it!” Cowboy slammed his fist on the coffee table, almost breaking it. He knew that without evidence Frankie couldn’t convict him, but her storming out wasn’t what had him uptight. He had a sweet lick lined up that the two of them were supposed to take off that night and now he found himself a man short. Though his crew consisted of four seasoned thieves, he chose to take Frankie because he wouldn’t have to give her an equal split of the take. She was his girl so what was hers was his, and what was his was his.

“Fuck it. Time to go with plan B,” he said, flipping open his cell phone.

The entire case that Reggie had dragged into the living room was filled with guns. As far as guns went he had everything from American Colts to German Rugers. Duce picked up a black 9mm and tested the weight in his hands.

“That there is new,” Reggie nodded at the gun, while snacking on a doughnut. “That little piece of iron can lay low the mightiest of men, cuzo. Be careful because there’s one in the head already.”

“I like this shit,” Duce said, practicing his aim. “I can do a nigga dirty with this.”

“Yeah, that shit has stopping power, but I like the more messy shit,” Reggie reached under the couch Duce was sitting on and pulled out a rifle. It had a long sleek barrel and a large scope on top. “See, you can blow a nigga’s whole chest cavity out and never have to get up on him. You can survive a shot from a nine, but ain’t no coming back from a .33.”

“You can keep that shit, Reggie; I wanna get up close on this one. I need a nigga to feel my pain,” Duce said emotionally.

“So, you about to make that right, huh?” Reggie asked. His normally jovial tone had become serious.