Boss Bitch Swag Read online

  Boss Bitch

  Swag

  By Cynthia White

  Published by Pulse

  www.pulsepub.net

  [email protected]

  © 2011 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

  Chapter 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...maybe 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; he 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; my 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 hand even tighter than before. “I’m so sorry.”

  “What?” I asked in a state of complete shock, heading straight for panic. I couldn’t trust my own ears; they had to be playing a trick on me - what 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...it 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 - twice 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...it 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 now none of the 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? What 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 Black women? I then began to think of the child still growing inside of me. If I were 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; we 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 admitting that was painful.

  My tears began to fall harder than plump, juicy raindrops on a dim April morning in St. Louis. I couldn’t stop crying; it 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...” my diamond-covered hand gripped the key that was already in the ignition and turned it until my Range began to purr, “...yo 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; the rest of the time, I held shit down. I had no other choice.

  I was raised by a 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: my 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 being 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 utmost 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; every 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-yea
rs-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 she 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; it fucked me up in ways I could never explain. The center of our family was gone...she left us...she had a choice, and she chose to leave us - how 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 the 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; instead, all I found was trouble. I became reckless, living every day as if it were my last. I was so fucking arrogant that I dared God to test me, then laughed at Him 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 down; 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 fucking 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’; the streets were calling. When 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 our 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 - my house, my 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 happen 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; it 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; nothing 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.

  Chapter 3

  Gina gave birth to our son one cold-ass morning in the middle of October. He was stillborn. Death wasn’t through with me yet; that wild nigga had infected my world and was slowly ripping away everybody I had love for. I felt like I was starting to lose my damn mind. I missed my mother, and I missed my big sister more. I had nightmares about my family and son almost every single night; sleep grew almost as painful as real life. I couldn’t forget, so I got high. When my high started to come down, I’d get high again. I went from woman to woman, fucking anything with a fat ass and a pulse. Sex was just another drug to me. When I was inside a bitch, I didn’t have to think; all I had to do was feel - and nothing felt as good as pussy.

  While I was trying my best to run through every bitch in St. Louis, Gina got pregnant by another nigga - and nine months later, she gave birth to his son. As soon as li’l man arrived, her babydaddy got gone; that bitch stayed choosing the wrong niggas. I felt bad for her, so I hooked her and her shorty up with a crib, a car seat, some clothes, and some cash to get whatever else they needed. Gina cried her pretty little eyes out while thanking me over and over again, like I’d just given her the keys to the kingdom. The truth was that I really didn’t do it for her - I did it for li’l man; just because his father wasn’t man enough to take care of his responsibilities didn’t mean that he wasn’t worth somebody caring about. My deadbeat-ass father didn’t care about me, but I promised myself that whenever I had a shorty I’d be there, that I’d take care of them, provide for them, and – most importantly – I’d know them. Muthafuckas could say what they wanted to say about Boss - but they could never say a nigga wasn’t loyal.

  Li’l Man was only three weeks old when Gina’s moms kicked them both out of her house; she had three little kids of her own to take care of and had warned Gina a long time ago that she wouldn’t be raising no grandbabies. The woman might have been cruel, but she wasn’t no bullshitter. She gave Gina twenty-four hours to find somewhere else to stay – and it wasn’t long before my cell started blowing up. At first I said no, absolutely not, but that bitch knew how to play dirty. She was probably pinching the shit out of li’l man ‘cause as soon as I turned her down he started screaming at the top of his lungs. Dirty bitch. She hit me right where it hurt. Fifteen minutes later, I was out in the middle of a fucking rainstorm, driving halfway across town to pick up a hoe I used to fuck and her baby by another nigga. If I didn’t know myself better, I would have sworn that I was some sucka-ass nigga.

  The way that bitch smiled when she climbed into my warm truck made me want to grab her ass up by the throat.

  “Thanks Boss,” she whispered in the little cartoon voice she only used when she was trying to come off all sweet and innocent. “I really appreciate this.”

  “This ain’t no free ride, Gina.” I shut her and her ‘little good girl’ act down instantly. “You wanna stay at my place, you gonna have to live by my rules.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?” My anger spilled out of my mouth and spread through the air like an epidemic. I wasn’t in the mood to play her little games. I’d fucked with Gina long enough to know how she got down; she craved drama, while a nigga like me was certified drama-free.

  “Boss, I’ll do anything you want me to do. I’ll cook. I’ll clean. I’ll take good care of you and the baby.”

  The tears welling up in her eyes weren’t as effective as she would have
liked them to be. That shit didn’t work on me anymore; if she wanted me to believe that she could hold shit down like a real bitch, she was going to have to stop talking about it and start being about it.

  “We’ll see,” I replied back in a tone dripping with sarcasm. “One chance, Gina; that’s all I’m givin’ yo ass.”

  My warning was stern, but I didn’t want there to be any confusion on her part; we weren’t a couple. I was concerned for her son, but he wasn’t mine. I had known way too many niggas that got trapped in some shit they really didn’t want to be in - all because they had pity for some chick. Not me; I knew when to cash out. Me and Gina didn’t work for a reason. She wanted one thing out of life, and I wanted something altogether different. Once I was done, I was done for good. I didn’t see the need to play games.

  On the way back to my place, the rain started to fall twice as heavy, and trying to drive in that shit was a nightmare; I couldn’t see anything beyond the beam of my headlights. My truck had never been driven that slow before. Li’l man wasn’t in a car seat, so I didn’t want to take any chances. I used the extra time to strategize. My mind was overflowing with ideas. It was time for me to move up a notch or two. I was only sixteen-years-old, but in my eyes I was a man, a grown-ass man with bills and countless other responsibilities. Eventually, I wanted to be the most powerful nigga in the STL - and I was willing to do whatever it took to make it happen.