“And ya narcissistic ass is delusional.”
“Yeah, that’s what ya mouth says.”
“Nigga, that’s what I know.”
He shakes his head, smilin’. For the rest of the ride up the Turnpike headin’ north, we keep it light, smokin’, laughin’ ’n listenin’ to music ’n shit. I stare outta the window, takin’ the ride in. It’s not ’til after he takes the lower level of the George Washington Bridge, takes the exit for Leonia/Teaneck, then takes the ramp for Route 4 West that I know ’xactly where he’s takin’ me—Morton’s Steakhouse in Hackensack, a high-end, over-priced steak spot. The minute we turn onto Riverside Square, my mouth waters. And it has nuthin’ to do wit’ the restaurant, and e’erythin’ to do wit’ The Shops at Riverside Mall. One’a my hot spot fashion stops!
I turn my attention to ’im. “Umm, sweetie,” I say, shakin’ my head, “You takin’ me to Morton’s?”
“Yeah, you aiight wit’ that?”
I nod. “It’s cool. But you really shoulda did ya homework before bringin’ me way up here.”
“Why?”
I smirk. “’Cause the last nigga who brought me here ended up diggin’ in his pockets forty-two hunnid deep.”
He laughs. “Yo, if the cat let you do his pockets, then good for you. But, know this, I ain’t that nigga.”
Nigga, not yet you ain’t. “Oh, please be clear. I don’t need you to be. I have my own paper.”
He smiles. “That’s nice to know.”
“Yup, it suuuuure is. Now pass da blunt.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There’s sumthin’ ’bout da nigga that got’a bitch intrigued… maybe it’s da way he licks them lips…maybe da way da nigga undresses me wit’ his eyes…gotta bitch wantin’ to know what makes ’im tick…pusssy achin’ for a quick ride on da dick…still a bitch gotta keep it on da low…take it slow…not get played like some dizzy-ass chick…
Once we’re inside the restaurant and seated, we place our orders. For appetizers, we share an order of Jumbo Lump Crab Cake and Colossal Shrimp; for dinner, I order the beefsteak tomato salad wit’ fresh bleu cheese and red onions. He gets the Chilean sea bass.
Although I ain’t wit’ all this winery bullshit, I order a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon; sum shit I ain’t eva heard of. And shit a bitch ain’t feelin’. I wait for the waiter to walk away, then ask, “So, tell me. Is this ’posed to be a date?”
“Nah,” he says, smirkin’, “it’s a cool-ass nigga chillin’ wit’ a sexy-ass dime-piece, havin’ dinner. Why, you want it to be?”
I smirk back, slowly shakin’ my head. “Nope, not at all.”
“Cool then.” The waiter returns to the table wit’ my drink, and the appetizers. He waits for ’im to bounce, then says, “So how long you plan on stayin’ in Jersey?”
“For as long as I want,” I tell ’im, placin’ a crab cake on my plate. I shrug, cuttin’ into it wit’ my knife. “I don’t answer to anyone.”
“Oh, you d
on’t?”
I tilt my head, raisin’ my brow. “No…I don’t.”
“Good, neither do I; so we straight.”
I roll my eyes, twistin’ my lips up. “Yeah, right; tell me anything.”
“What, you don’t believe? A muhfucka ain’t latched down to nuthin’ or no one.”
“It doesn’t matter if I believe you or not,” I say, placin’ a forkful of crab cake into my mouth. “I’m not tryna have you.”
“Oh, word. You not?” I tell ’im hell no. “Yeah, aiight; that’s what ya mouth says.” I roll my eyes. Tell the nigga to kiss my ass. He laughs, then stares at me, shakin’ his head. His foot brushes mine. “Well, maybe I’m tryna have you,” he says, poppin’ a shrimp in his mouth. He licks his thick, titty ’n clit suckas. I shift in my seat, crossin’ my legs, then squeezin’ my thighs. I feel the pressure buildin’ up in my clit. The weed we smoked gotta bitch mad horny. I wanna feel this nigga’s dick in me. My pussy pulses. I shift in my seat again. “Well, you can’t have me,” I tell ’im.
He laughs. “Yeah, aiight; we’ll see.”