But none of them pasty, weave-wearin’, frontin’-ass tramps could rock with me. And I was slayin’ them hoes every night at every damn party in all the ill shit. Long story short, I ran into this nigga in the airport, and wouldn’t you know he stepped to me, holdin’ open his BlackBerry, ready for me to program my number into his phone. And the nigga has been callin’ me ever since. Now I wish I woulda gave his ass a wrong number.

Anyway, I had to pull the phone from my ear for a minute. I swear I don’t know why I gave this nigga my fuckin’ number, I thought, rollin’ my eyes. “Nigga, you must be smokin’ dust or eatin’ mufuckin’ paint chips to come at me like that. I don’t know you like that. And to answer ya question, never. Now do me a favor and delete my number ’cause I ain’t feelin’ ya ass like that.”

He laughed. “Damn, ma, why you gotta be so hard on a brotha. I’m only fucking with ya sexy ass. I know you ain’t that type of chick.”

I sucked my teeth. “Whatever. You still might as well delete my number ’cause I ain’t givin’ you no pussy.” The Kat line started ringin’ off the hook. And I was glad. “Listen, I gotta go. Don’t call me anymore.”

“Yeah, aiight. I’ma keep callin’ ’til you stop answerin’,” he said. “There’s somethin’ ’bout ya evil ass that turns me the fuck on.”

Click. I hung up on his ass, pressin’ the TALK button on my other cell. “Yeah.”

“We still beefin’?” Cash asked, soundin’ like Barry White.

“Nah,” I said, “we straight.” For now, muhfucka, I thought, rollin’ my eyes.

“Good. I got some gigs for you. You wit’ it?”

“When?” I asked, ploppin’ down on my bed. I ran my hand through my ultra-silky hair, then twirled the ends through my fingers. “And where?”

“Everything needs to be wrapped up within a week.”

I let out a sigh of relief. I was glad I had a few days to chill. “Where?” I asked.

“Atlanta and Chicago,” he stated.