Read Boss Bitch Swag Online

Authors: Cynthia White

Boss Bitch Swag

Boss Bitch

 

Swag

 

By
Cynthia White

 

Publ
ished by Pulse

 

www.pulsepub.net

 

[email protected]

 

© 20
11
Cynthia White

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the express written consent of the Publisher of this book.

 

Published and printed in the

 

United States Of America

 

 

C
hapter 1

 

Meesha

 

Dr. Benson sat down behind his regal mahogany desk and removed the gold
-
plated wire frame glasses from his weary face. At fifty-eight years old
,
he was an attractive older man with well
-
defined features, salt and pepper hair
,
and dark
,
deep chestnut eyes. He looked crazy tired and mad stressed
-
even more so than usual
...m
aybe his twelve
-
hour work days were finally starting to catch up to him.

 

After several seconds of obvious
-
and uncomfortable
-
silence
,
he finally opened his mouth to speak, but then hesitated again
; h
e seemed to be searching
desperately
for something within the confines of his brilliant mind
, and
I wondered what could turn this usually strong, pleasant
,
outspoken man into a dark and gloomy mute.

 

When he reached across his desk and took me by my hand
,
I could feel that something was wrong
; m
y women’s intuition was screaming to be heard. A quick but powerful shiver shot throughout my entire body
;
I

d never felt anything like that in my life.

 

“Mrs. Clark
...
” he spoke,
then
stopped abruptly and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Clark
...
” he continued
,
“I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this
...
but
...
you’re HIV positive.” He gripped my numb n>b..

 

“What?” I asked in a state of complete shock
,
heading straight for panic. I couldn’t trust my own ears
; t
hey had to be playing a trick on me
- w
hat other explanation was there
?
How the hell could I have HIV? I was a married woman
-
a
faithfully
married woman. This had to be a mistake. Denial was the very first stage of grief
,
and I was embracing it wholeheartedly. I told myself that my blood sample must have been mixed up with someone else’s. Clark was a fairly common last name
-
Hell, I shared it with seven students in my high school graduating class alone. It had to be a mix up
...i
t just had to be.

 

“Dr. Benson, someone must
have
made a mistake.” My tear
-
blurred eyes pleaded
desperately
with his. “I’m not blamin’ anyone. Let’s just run it again.”

 

“Meesha, the test was run three times
- t
wice by myself
,
just to be sure.”

 

I felt so lost, so confused
,
and so very hopeless. My life was only just beginning. I wanted to see more. I wanted to do more. I wanted more time with my family. At twenty-one years old
,
I was six months pregnant with my third child. My husband and I had already been blessed with two beautiful daughters
,
but this would be
our
first son. We

d been married for three years now
,
and we were genuinely happy. For the first time in our marriage
,
we were looking forward to the future. Now
,
the doctor who only a few short years ago gave me the best news of my life was also giving me the worst. It all felt so final. I never thought for one second that I wouldn’t be around for my daughter’s weddings or the births of their children. What were they going to do without me, without their mother? They only got one
-
and I was it. It didn’t matter if I had
one more
year or another ten
...i
t wasn’t enough.

 

After taking almost two hours to accept my status
-
and another two discussing my treatment options with Dr. Benson
-
I somehow managed to drag myself down to the underground parking garage and hurl my emotionally drained body into my vehicle.
As I sat
in my brand new
,
gleaming silver Range Rover
, everything felt so
surreal. A few weeks ago
,
she was all I wanted. I was so happy the day I got to pick her out. My husband
had
ordered every single option and luxury available
– but n
ow none of th
e
luxury that surrounded me meant a damn thing.

 

“What am I gonna do?
!!
” I screamed and cried as I pounded both my fists on the steering wheel. “What the
FUCK
am I gonna do?
!!

 

I looked up into my rearview mirror
,
and for the first time in my life I didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me.
Who was this person? Wfiris pershat had I become? Why did I let him and his crazy love destroy me?
There were so many questions
-
but not nearly enough answers. My mind quickly drifted back to my children
;
I wondered who would be there for them. Who would teach my girls to be ladies? Who would show them how to respect themselves and their bodies? And who would prepare them for all the heartbreaks and disappointments they

d certainly face as
B
lack women? I
then
began to think of the child still growing inside of me. If I w
ere
sick
,
would he be born sick
,
too? What would become of my son? Was he doomed to follow the same path his father did when he lost his mother at a young age? I loved my husband with all my heart
,
but I did
not
want his life for our children. They were supposed to have it better than we did growing up
; w
e were supposed to make it better for them. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly where we went wrong, but I knew
that
we
’d
failed them just the same
- and a
dmitting that was painful.

 

My tears began to fall hard
er than
plump
,
juicy raindrops on a dim April morning in St. Louis. I couldn’t stop crying
; i
t seemed like the more tears I wiped away
,
the more fell. Yes, it was true that I loved my husband with all my heart
-
but he was going to pay for what he did to me and our family.

 

“Boss
...

m
y diamond
-
covered hand gripped the key that was already in the ignition and turned it until my Range began to purr
,

...y
o bitch is on her way.”

 

 

Chapter 2

 

Boss

 

To understand a nigga like me
,
you first have to understand my past. I was born and raised in St. Louis, Missouri. It was home to the Cardinals, the Rams, the Arch
,
and
-
just like any other modern day city
-
it was also home to several rundown
,
crime
-
infested ghettos. The Cochran Housing Projects was one of the grittiest and grimiest parts of our up
-
and
-
coming town. It was full of hustlers, hoes, pimps, dopemen
,
and even its fair share of dopewomen. It also happened to be the place I called home. I earned my stripes there. Me and my niggas did so much dirt up in the halls of that muthafucka that to this day I’m
still
shocked that we ever made it out. Shit was that deep. If I wasn’t eatin’, smokin’
,
or fuckin’, I was slangin’ dope. It wasn’t what I envisioned myself growing up and becoming back when I was just a little nigga, but dreams don’t always come true. I figured that shit out a long time ago. Dreams was for white boys living in big white houses with they rich white mamas and daddies. A nigga like me only dreamed when I was sleeping
; t
he rest of the time
,
I held shit down. I had no other choice.

 

I was raised by a d sraised single mother and abandoned by a deadbeat father who didn’t give a fuck about me one way or the other. My moms gave birth to her first child when she was only thirteen
-
years-old. She wasn’t old enough to get a legal gig with hourly pay and medical benefits
,
so she did what her own mother had done and turned to the world’s oldest profession
: m
y mother was a prostitute. She was degraded and humiliated on a daily basis, but she endured it all for the well
-
being of her child.

 

By the time she was fifteen
,
she was pregnant again
-
and by the time she was eighteen
,
she was the mother of four small children. We all had different daddies, but in the end it didn’t matter much. None of them stuck around. None of them even came to visit.

 

I was the youngest and the only boy
, and b
eing raised by women made me a better man. I understood the things women had to go through to survive. I wasn’t no stupid nigga
;
Real bitches had my u
t
most respect
-
but fake
-
ass gold diggin’ bitches got no love. I could fuck them
,
but I couldn’t fuck
with
them.

 

Single mothers were my Kryptonite
; e
very time I saw one breaking her back to provide for her kids
,
that shit broke my heart. They reminded me of my own mother
, who
died when I was only eleven
-
years-old. Erika Clark was a strong
-
ass woman
,
but even she
couldn’t
deal with the pain and secrets that came along with her occupation. So one night
,
while my big sisters and I slept doubled up on two thin twin
-
size mattresses on the floor
,
she swallowed forty sleeping pills and went to bed as usual
– but s
he never again regained consciousness. The next morning
,
I was the one who found my mother’s cold
,
lifeless body. If I live to be a hundred years old
,
I

ll never get that image out of my head
; i
t fucked me up in ways I could never explain. The center of our family was gone
...s
he left us
...s
he had a choice
,
and she chose to leave us
- h
ow the fuck do you get over something like that?

 

My oldest sister Monica was a soldier. Even though she was only sixteen when our mother committed suicide
,
she did what she had to do
; she was forced to play t
he role of mother. She dropped out of high school her junior year and took a factory job making seven dollars an hour in order to provide for us.

 

Shit was tough
,
to say the least. I turned to the streets and to my niggas for acceptance
; i
nstead
,
all I found was trouble. I became reckless, living every
day as if it were my last. I was so fuckin
g
arrogant that I dared God to test me
,
then laughed at
H
im when he didn’t. Selling dope came easy to me. I even started robbing niggas just for the rush. Bitches were lining up behind their cousins and best friends to get dicked d r get didown
;
I thought I was untouchable
-
but I was wrong.

 

On the night of my fourteenth birthday
,
I was shot in the chest six times and left for dead
- just
like a dog in the middle of the street. Nobody ever told me how fuckin
g
hot slugs are when they’re ripping through your flesh. I thought I was going to die, but after three long
,
painful months in the hospital
,
I made a full recovery. The next week
,
I was right back on the block hustlin’
; t
he streets were calling.
W
hen I found out just how much money I could make in the drug game
full-
time
,
I dropped out of school with the quickness. It was time for me to take some of the weight off my sister and start standing on my own two feet. Being a kid was over
;
I was the man of the family
,
and real men take care of theirs.

 

Following in my mother’s footsteps
,
I was set to be a parent before I was even legally able to drive. Gina was just a chick from the hood I used to fuck from time to time. She was a ghetto treat at five
-
foot
-
three inches tall and one hundred thirty pounds of pure thickness. Her round hips and tree trunk thighs were the first things that caught my eye. When she turned around and I got a full view of that ass
-
a nigga was hooked. She didn’t have much in the chest area, but that fat ghetto booty more than made up for it
;
I was a sucker for an ass like that. Her caramel skin, light brown eyes
,
and shoulder
-
length reddish brown hair didn’t hurt either. I suspected she got pregnant on purpose
,
but it was too late to go back and strap on one of those Magnums I kept in my top nightstand drawer.

 

We were both only fifteen
-
years-old and about to be parents
, and o
ur shorty was going to bond us for life
-
whether we liked it or not. Gina and I tried to live together. We got a small two
-
bedroom apartment, but that didn’t last long. I continued to fuck other chicks while Gina began demanding a commitment from me. Once she realized that shit wasn’t happening
,
she moved back in with her mother
-
but I stayed put
;
I

d gotten a taste of freedom
,
and I liked it. It felt good not to have to answer to anyone or live by their rules. I loved my big sisters, but if I wanted to sit on my couch butt
-
ass naked watching a porno and smoking a fat
-
ass blunt
,
that was my prerogative. I didn’t have to ask permission for a chick to spend the night
,
and
I
didn’t have to worry about making too much noise while we were fucking. That was the life
:
I was the king of my castle
,
and if anybody didn’t like it they could get the fuck out
- m
y house
, m
y rules.

 

A month after I moved out
,
my oldest sister Monica was shot and killed in a convenience store robbery. She always said that her pack
-
a
-
day smoking habit was going to kill her, but she had no idea it would h/spa it woappen like that. Once again
,
I was heartbroken. First I lost my mother
,
then I lost my second mother. I started getting high more often. Smoking blunt after blunt was the only way to ease the pain
; i
t didn’t make it go away completely
,
but it did dull it enough for me to get shit done.

 

Even though I was the youngest
,
I took it upon myself to take care of my sisters. Monique was just a year older than me
, and
Michelle was just two older than her. They were both still in school
,
and that was where I wanted them to stay. They might not have liked the life I was living, but it kept a roof over their heads, clothes on their backs
,
and food in their stomachs
; n
othing else mattered to me. I did the dirt so they wouldn’t have to. They didn’t have to like it, but they were damn sure going to respect it.

 

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