Baby Momma 3

Author:Ni'Chelle Genovese [Genovese, Ni'chelle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, African American, General, Urban
ISBN: 9781622862788
Google: YgllAgAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00HG21C5W
Publisher: Urban Books
Published: 2014-02-01T10:39:08+00:00

Chapter 15

All Good-byes Ain’t Gone

“My nigga? Man, I know you ain’t cryin’.”

I climbed in the car and Angelo was sniffling like a little bitch. He called himself mannin’ up or whatever, flying through the city on some Nascar shit. If I had to hem this fool up and get behind the wheel so be it. My ass was Makavelli right now. We couldn’t afford any heat from a speeding ticket.

“Rah, man, she was fuckin’ him. I mean, about to fuck him. Right there in broad daylight. Anyone could have walked in. I walked right in. Then the fuckin’ bloggers, paparazzi walked right in like they were supposed to. No, I’m not . . . yes. Yes, I’m good, man.”

Angelo slammed his hands against the steering wheel before wiping his nose on his sleeve. I looked away and focused my attention on my phone, acting like I didn’t even see that nastiness. He wasn’t taking this as well as I thought he would.

I asked him, “When I was locked up, I sent you kite. And if I recall correctly, my exact words to you in that letter was that—”

“Your exact words were that I had what you’d call an’ anybody getta. That I shouldn’t feel special for having her because anybody could get her. And, Honey would fuck me over if I wasn’t careful,” Angelo sounded off. He squared up his shoulders like he was getting some of his bravado back.

“Right, right. Remember, I told you, she did the same bullshit to me. Had me thinkin’ she was locked up with my seed, knowing her ass was Triple H. I’m just glad you seen it before you wifed her up.” I dapped him on the shoulder. The kid definitely needed to toughen the hell up before we hit these streets hard and moved into VA.

He snickered, glancing over at me through his pretty boy shades. “Triple H, man, what the hell is this, a code for somethin’? I’m lost,” he muttered in his Guido Italian-American “run all the words together” accent.

“Triple H? You know, three Hs? Honey the homie humper. That’s her MO, her title. She went from me, to my boy, to my other boy. Need to get her some embroidered panties wit’ a big-ass H on them shits like a . . . a damn super she-ho.” I slapped the dashboard, cracking up.

I could see Honey’s little ass bustin’ up in bedrooms. Her hands on her hips, wearing one of her barely there lace pieces from the Hot Spot and some knee-high boots. That image sent me through a slideshow of forgotten memories. Memories that I thought died the day Michelle turned her back on me and walked out of that prison. Smiles, steak sauce, hotel rooms, Trey’s first word, and—

“What about your boy Big though? You needs to let me get Dirty Moe or Bad Apple Sims to handle him,” Angelo pressed impatiently, pulling me from my somber thoughts.

“Angelo, man, I know y’all probably talk about us wit’

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