Wifey Read Free

of the booth chairs across from me.
    Something must be getting ready to go down. And he wasn’t gonna spill the beans while Rhonda was sitting up in here with me. I let her finish my hair and in the meantime, Ricky and I made idle conversation until she left. After she finished my hair, it only took her about ten minutes to clean up her station. Then Rhonda said her goodbyes and left.
    “So, what you need my car for this time?” I wasted no time asking Ricky the second Rhonda left out the door.
    As I waited for him to respond, I knew he could do one of three things. He could either tell me the truth, which could probably hurt him in some way later down the line. Or he could tell me a lie, which would really piss me off. And then he could throw Rule #7 at me from the Hustler’s Manual , which insisted that he tell me nothing. A hustler’s reason for that was: The less your girl knows, the better off ya’ll be .
    “I need to make a run,” he finally said.
    “What kind of run?”
    “You don’t need to know all that!” Ricky snapped.
    “Look, don’t get no attitude with me because I wanna know where you’re taking my car.”
    “And who bought you the LS 400?”
    “I don’t care who bought it! The fact remains, it’s in my name. Just like the Benz and that cartoon character, Hulk–painted, 1100 Ninja motorcycle you got parked in the garage.”
    “And your point?”
    “Look, Ricky, just be careful. And please don’t do nothing stupid.”
    “I’m not,” he assured me with a kiss on my forehead.
    “Don’t have no bitch in my car,” I yelled as he made his way out the door.
    While he ignored me like I knew he would, I stood there and watched Ricky unlock my car door and drive off. At the same time, I wondered where he was going.
     

Hustling + $ = Women
    On my way home from the salon, I decided to stop by Wendy’s for a chicken sandwich. The lady in the drive-thru window rung up my total, I paid her and waited for my food. After sitting there for about five minutes, she finally handed me my order. But before she said her “Thanks for stopping at Wendy’s” spiel, she hesitated. “Ain’t this Ricky’s car you driving?” she boldly asked.
    “Is this who car?” I asked her, wanting this young girl to repeat herself.
    “Ricky,” she responded. “He’s dark-skinned with long dreads. And he keeps them hidden inside this big hat,” she continued.
    Well, I guess she passed the test. She described my husband to a tee.
    “Yeah, I know him,” I told her. “Why, you mess wit’ him?” I threw her into twenty questions mode.
    “Nah.”
    “So, why you wanna know if this is his car?”
    “Well, ’cause I ain’t never seen nobody else drive it.”
    “Well, let me be the one to tell you, this is his car! And the person who’s driving this car is his wife.”
    “Oh, for real!” the young girl said, with a dumbfounded look on her face.
    “Yeah, for real!” I waved my five-carat marquise-cut diamond ring that sat next to my platinum wedding band, which was flooded out with two-carat baguette diamonds.
    From her reaction, I could tell she hadn’t been ready for the curve ball I had just thrown her.
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologized.
    “Nah. Nah. Nah. You ain’t got to apologize. Just tell me how you know my husband?”
    “Just from coming up here,” she explained.
    “So, he comes up here a lot?”
    “Sometimes.”
    “Has he ever tried to holla at you?”
    “Nah. It’s just that whenever he comes through and orders, he always tell me I can keep his change.”
    “Are you sure that’s it?”
    “Oh yeah. I’m sure,” she tried to assure me.
    “Well, the next time he comes through here, tell him you met his wife. Okay?”
    “Okay,” she replied. I could see by her expression that she was disappointed, but that’s her problem. Bitch!
    Once I got all the information I could, I drove off. I only drove about a quarter mile up Virginia Beach Blvd. and thought about nothing else but