Retribution (20 page)

“Mygod! And the two of you have only been married since…what, August?”

All for show and tell, an elusive illusion of happiness.
I cringe. “Girl, please. Don't remind me. Three months and a hundred-thousand-damn-dollars later, I'm done. I've decided to put the house on the market the first chance I get, and start fresh—away from his ass.”

She reaches over, grabs my hand. “Good for you. You don't deserve that shit.” She glances around the cabin, leaning in closer. “You know I'm not ever a fan of violence. But there are always exceptions. And a man putting his hands on a woman, or trying to rape her, are two of them. You should have sliced his damn dick off, then shot him in his head.”

“Oh, trust me. The next time, if there ever is one, I will.” We share knowing glances. “Right down to the base.”

“And Felecia.” She snorts, shaking her head. “That chick is a mess. But she's always been like that. So I'm not the least bit
surprised to hear what she's done.” She takes a liberal sip of her drink, then sets her glass down. “She's always been two-faced. I'm only surprised she didn't get caught out there sooner. You know I used to warn you about her when we were in high school.”

I nod pensively. Streaks of bright natural light, streaming in from the opened window shade, bounce off the thick tennis bracelet on my wrist, causing the sparkling diamonds to dance about the plane's cabin.

I blink.

“Yeah, you, Mona, and everyone else who saw her for who she really was. I was the only one blind to it. But I
see
her for all she is, now. Felecia bit off the hand that has fed her and fought her battles for most of her life.”

“Pasha, girl, and this,” she pauses, tossing her honey-blonde tresses over her shoulder, “is another one of those exceptions I was talking about.
That
bitch needs to be handled.”

My body goes cold as a chill slices up the center of my back. I toss my head in Greta's direction and say in an icy tone, “Oh, I'm going to handle her real good. When I'm done with her ass, she'll
never
part her lips to let my name roll off her tongue again.”

I'm going to bust that bitch's fucking face in!

She lifts her flute to mine; our glasses clink.

We both take slow, deliberate sips. Silence meets us. And I use it as an opportunity to think. Things were moving fast, maybe a little too fast, with very little time to plan, to think things through, to wrap my mind around the turn of events. But I have to keep up. Yet, not move in haste. There's too much riding on it. One miscalculated move, one poorly executed attack, can blow up in my face. No. I have to think smart, move smart, be smart. I have to take them down, one at a time. I can't allow myself to be
outsmarted. Not this time. There are too many things at stake, my life, my freedom…and Jaylen.

Feeling Greta's probing eyes on me, I purposefully turn my head ever so slight, bite the inside of my lip, and start fidgeting with the huge rock on my finger. I summon up an unhappy memory, allow pang of sadness to claim me. Then methodically dab at the corners of my eye.

Greta gently touches my hand. “Are you okay?”

I sigh. Slowly turn to face her. My bottom lip quivers.

A look of alarm paints her face, the tone of her voice layered with concern. “Pasha, what is it? Talk to me.”

I drop my wet gaze down to my hands, nervously twisting my ring. In a hushed whisper, I finally say, “If anything…happens to me”—I look up, allowing my eyes to meet her searching gaze—“please promise me you'll look after Jaylen for me. That you'll raise him and love him as your own.”

“Ohmygod, Pasha, I'd be honored. Of course I would. But…
why?
What makes you think
something
might happen to you?”

I lean in to her. Stare her dead in the eyes. “Greta, Jasper is
ruthless.”

Her eyes widen. “You don't think he'd…
kill
you?”

My eyes never leave hers. I don't blink. “I
know
he will.”

She falls back in her seat. The look of horror plastered all over her face. “Mygod!” She reaches for her drink. Takes two long gulps, then leans over in her seat and waves over the flight attendant. She orders another round, for the both of us. She waits for the attendant to saunter off. “Pasha, whatever you do, just
try
to be careful.”

The flight attendant returns with a chilled bottle of champagne, refills our glasses, then whisks off.

Nothing else is said. We both settle back in the comfort of first-class, sinking into the leather seats. I smile inwardly. The notion of being killed by Jasper now etched in Greta's mind. The worried look still carved into her face as she guzzles down her drink.

I glance over at Sophia, seated in the row across from me. She has Jaylen in her arms. My heart melts for him. There's nothing I'm not willing to do to keep him safe. To keep him from ever growing up and becoming anything like Jasper—a coldhearted, dangerous nigga!

I peer out of the window, dazing into the puff of white clouds hovering around. My head starts reeling as I try to absorb everything that has happened in the last few days since my return from L.A. on Sunday. In less than three days, my whole life has been drastically shaken up and is about to change. For the better, I hope. Still, it'll have to get worse before that happens. And it will.

Desperation changes a lot of things. So does hurt. Betrayal. And hatred. There's a big difference in screwing and being screwed. Getting fucked is dirty and vile. Its strokes are rough and jagged. And it's not always done with a hard damn dick. No. It's done when you least expect it—by the ones you least expect, right in your damn face with a smile. Felecia screwed me. That bitch fucked me, deep.

I lift my flute to my lips, taking a very careful sip of my drink as I give thought to what Felecia's looming fate will be. This is war. It's going to get messy. There's going to be casualties. And that bitch is going to be the first to go down.

Forgiveness and second chances are forfeited the first time you fuck a bitch over…

T
he next morning, Rihanna's “Diamonds” is blaring through the speakers as I step through the salon's doors at eleven
A.M.,
and the first thing I'm greeted by is Booty's ass bouncing and shaking, fingers popping, knees dipping, hair swinging. “Yessssss, goddammmit! Diamonds ‘n' dingaling on my mind…Oooh, Miss Rih-Rih tore her drawz…”

The salon is packed to the seams. And all the seats in the lounge area are full and this bitch is flouncing around, giving everyone a show, like she's about to turn my shop into a damn strip club and ride down on a pole. I scan the room and spot Janelle—my eleven o'clock, twisted in her seat, eyeing Booty as she literally performs.

“…Yes,
gawd
…feel the warmth between these thighs”—she winds her hips, then pops her shoulders—“…shine bright like a diamond…yes,
gawd
…Rih-Rih soaked my drawz with this right here…”

This bitch has no shame!

Of course her back is turned so she doesn't hear or
see
me when I saunter in, taking a deep breath. I walk around to the receptionist's counter, grab the stereo's remote, lowering the volume and shutting her one-woman party down.

“Cassandra, what in the world do you think you're doing?” I ask, hand on hip, head tilted. “Seems to me you're at the wrong address. If I'm not mistaken, The Coochie Cutter is ten blocks over.” The Coochie Cutter is one of the local strip clubs in town where most of the hand-to-hand drug dealers and wannabe ballers and ratchet and makeshift divas frequent. I've even heard that in the past, a few of their dancers/strippers had bullet holes and razor cuts on them.

“Ooooh, no, Miss Pasha, girl,” she says, walking over to the counter as she's dabbing her forehead with a napkin, “don't do me, sugah-boo. I had to take me a lil break.”

“A break?
A break from
what?”

“From”—she reaches over the counter and hands me a stack of messages written on pink Post-it notes—“this. I done handled all these messages for you. I've been here since nine o'clock waitin' on you, sugah-boo. And Booty's exhausted. You know I ain't used to doin' no kinda work unless it's in the streets or in the sheets.”

I blink. “Umm, Cass, why were
you
taking messages for
me?”

She gives me a one-eyed stare as if I've asked her the most ridiculous question. “Sugah-boo, it's been packed in here since the doors opened. These nigga-coons have been carryin' on tryna get they hands ‘n' feet done.” She must notice the puzzled look on my face. Today's Wednesday, the salon is usually not this packed on a Wednesday morning. “Mmmph. You act like you ain't runnin' a special today. You know anytime you run them thangs, these booga-coons come scramblin' up in here like you givin' away free eggs ‘n' cheese…”

Shit! I'm so wrapped up in my personal drama that I completely forgot all about the ad I ran for two weeks advertising for the “Nappy on the Go” special, running Wednesday through Friday of this week.

“Ohhhhkay. But that
still
doesn't tell me
why
you are answering the phones?”

She sucks her teeth. “ 'Cause ain't nobody else around to do it. The phone been ringin' crazy all mornin'. You still ain't got you no counter help. You're two stylists down 'cause they don't know how'ta keep they dick suckas shut. And
you
just now struttin' in, like
you
ain't got clients to see. Your eleven o'clock is already here. And I done put me in for right after her. Twelve, sharp.”

I stare blankly at her. The phone starts ringing. I go to grab it, and this bitch slaps my hand away. I catch Janelle's eye, holding a finger up for her to give me a minute. I hold my breath as Cassandra answers the call. “Nappy No More…yes, yes…we sure do, ma'am… Excuse you? Oh, no, sugah-boo. Rho-Ho don't work here no more… sweetness, that ho got fired…ooh, see you tryna be nosey…”

I quickly snatch the phone out of her hand. “Hello, good morning. This is Pasha. How can I help you?”

“Yes,” the woman on the phone says, sounding frantic. “I was just told by someone that Rhodeshia no longer works there. Is that so?” I tell her it is, as of two days ago. She groans. “For the love of God. Do you know what shop she's at now?” I tell her no. But what I really want to tell her is, “the bitch won't be working in any shops around this area.”

She's another bitch I've blackballed from working in any black-owned hair salon in this county. I eye Cassandra as she rolls a stick of gum in her mouth. The woman on the phone sighs. “Oh, I see. Well, listen. I'm in a crisis. I have this retirement party to go to tonight and I need my hair done. Is there any way I can get an appointment for today? The sooner the better.” I reach for the appointment book, flip through today's appointments. Tell her I can fit her in at twelve. Cassandra gives me a dirty look, snapping her fingers in my face.

“Not today you won't, sugah-boo. You tryna tear ya drawz. Don't do me, Miss Pasha, girl. I'm a good-payin' customer and you
know
I been good to you. That ho ain't tippin' you like I do. You better drop that booga down to the next slot. Or I'ma be standin' outside to greet her at the door ‘n' it ain't gonna be as no Welcome Committee.”

“Wait,” I say, raising a brow at Booty. “I already have someone for twelve. But you can see Kendra at that time instead. May I have your name, please?”

“Queenie
—spelled K-w-e-e-n-i-e—Starbright,” she says. I blink. Ask her to repeat herself, not certain if I misunderstood her. She repeats herself. “Okay,
Queenie
with a
Kay
. I'll let Kendra know to expect you.” She thanks me, then hangs up.

Booty rolls her eyes. “I know one thing; that better not be the Queenie with a
Kay
I know. That old rusty, thievin' bitch owes me a refund for clothes I had her boost for me eight years ago, but I ain't seen her 'cause her ass went to prison for slicin' two Macy's security guards.”

I open my mouth to say something and she immediately shuts me down as the phone rings.

“Not now, Miss Pasha, girl…Nappy No More”—she pops her gum into the phone, causing me to cringe—“Sugah-boo, before you start flappin' them gums, hol' on'a minute…” She places her hand over the mouthpiece. “Umm, why is you down in my throat, Miss Pasha, girl? The last I knew you did hair, not dental work and you”—she points over toward the waiting area—“have someone waitin' to get hers did.”

I lean in, then say in a sharp whisper, “Cass,
don't
. Do. It. If you're going to sit here
and
answer the phones, then
don't
crack your gum into the phone,
don't
refer to anyone as a goddamn coon, and
save all that pussy popping and booty bouncing for the Crack House.
Understand?”

She eyes me, popping her gum. “Don't do me, Miss Pasha, girl. You know I know how to keep it classy.” She puts the phone back to her ear, dismissing me with a flick of her hand. “Sugah-boo, I'm back…now what you say you needed again, them hoofs done…? Oh, no, sugah-boo. We ain't doin' no bunion ‘n' corn work over here at Nappy No More…ooh, see you tryna be messy…now I'm tryna keep it classy…don't do me…uh-huh…and I'm
tellin'
you we
ain't
touchin' them hoofs. Sounds like you need you a miracle. Or some new damn feet…”

She hangs up.