Brooklyn Bombshells: Part 1

“No. I’m just home chilling,” said Mecca.

“Can I come over? I can’t take it over here anymore.”

“Yeah, sure. How long?”

“I’m leaving my place now,” said Chanel.

Chanel quietly and hurriedly gathered a few of her things and left the apartment to sneak onto the C train to Harlem.

Chapter Four

The two speakers in the corner of the living room were somewhat small, but they were loud and clear, and they boomed old school R&B jams from artists such as Prince, Cha

ka Khan, Mary J. Blige, Keith Sweat, D’Angelo, and many more. It was a full-blown New Year’s Eve party in the Browns’ three-bedroom project apartment. The apartment was packed with revelers, young and old. The guests were mostly men, all vying to get a look, glance, or a quick feel of a round ass or perky tit brushing up against them from one of Bacardi’s exotic looking daughters, Charlie and Claire. The girls were prime real estate, but the project guys were too broke to pay the mortgage. They could only fantasize and gawk at the Brooklyn bombshells.

“I’d give my left nut for a slice of Charlie’s red velvet cake. I’d eat that shit out ev’ry fuckin’ day. That’s my word, my nigga,” one goon stated.

“Nah, it’s Claire that got the goodies I want. She the smart one going places and will be able to take care of a nigga. I’d lick her strawberry shortcake from the rooter to the tooter,” another loser, who was five years older than Butch, remarked.

Another thug added, “Y’all buggin’. Both them ruby red bitches could get this dick. Why I gotta choose?”

The men all laughed.

Fried chicken, baked chicken, macaroni and cheese, collard greens, and fried fish were being sold for $7 per plate. BBQ ribs, potato salad, and collard greens were a bit more at $8 per plate. Hennessy and Patrón were being sold for $5 per cup and beer for $3. There was a pitty pat game going in the kitchen, and the house got a cut of all the winnings. All the cash was being stuffed into Bacardi’s big bra. She was making a small fortune from the party.

“Bacardi!” a woman named Candy hollered from across the room. “You need to come over here and get your damn husband! He messing wit’ the liquor, and I done told him a few times to get from over here.”

Bacardi turned and shot her eyes in Butch’s direction. He was lingering by the impromptu bar near the kitchen with a plastic cup in his hand. She hollered, “Butch, get the fuck away from my profits. I’ll be damned if you fuck up my money tonight!”

Butch smiled at Bacardi before he downed what was left in his cup and staggered toward her. He was in a cheery frame of mind and entertaining everyone at the party. He went up to Bacardi and did a few two-step dance moves to Mary J. Blige’s “You Remind Me.” He spun around with laughter and tried to take his wife by the hand. “C’mon, baby, let’s show these no-how’s how to really dance.”

Bacardi was in no mood to dance. “Butch, I ain’t got no time to be dancing wit’ you. Get out my face!”

She shoved him to the side and went into the kitchen to check on the food. She was about her business and making a quick buck. She had to keep an eye on things, knowing there were lots of thieves and cheats attending her party.

It was a lively affair; everyone was laughing, eating, and drinking. They were leaving the old year behind, partying like it was 1999, and bringing in the New Year with a bang. Every room had people inside of it, except for Bacardi’s bedroom. Chanel had her own company.

Charlie and God came through all smiles with more liquor to sell and nearly an ounce of weed to smoke. It was a time to celebrate. The entire apartment was ablaze with different varieties of marijuana—OG Kush, Silver Haze, Raspberry Cough, Zombie, Gelato, Hawaiian Punch, and more. It was a smorgasbord of pot inside the apartment. Everyone looked at God and Charlie like they were celebrities—like they were gods. Charlie pranced around the party dressed in a pair of tight jeans and an asymmetrical halter top under her new coat. Her jewelry was dazzling like her hazel eyes. God looked a thuggish goon wearing dark jeans with his matching construction Timberlands and a dark brown hoodie under his leather coat. His diamond watch peeked from his sleeve, and his diamond earrings gleamed.

Bacardi couldn’t stop smiling at Charlie. She was so proud of her for hooking up with a good man like God. He provided her and her family with whatever they needed, and he was highly respected and feared throughout the hood. Bacardi couldn’t imagine Charlie with a bitch-ass nigga—or some working-ass sucker who couldn’t afford to hold her daughter down. Charlie needed a real man—a fuckin’ goon to love, and God was it. Shit, most times Bacardi wished she had a man like God.

It was nearing midnight, and the party was in full throttle with no signs of slowing down anytime soon. Fingers came through dressed in his best to join in on the fun. He and God politicked in the hallway for a moment, smoking weed and discussing their next lick before heading back into the apartment. Fingers wanted to get down with a few ladies that caught his eye.

“Do your thang, my nigga,” said God.

Claire walked around the party with a book in her hand, but it was more for show than to learn. She figured a room full of folks was the perfect opportunity to boast her intelligence. She sat in a folding chair in the packed room and pretended to read.

Some of the young girls in the room started to whisper and snicker to themselves, even called her a wannabe bougie bitch. Claire heard their remarks and cut her eyes at the three young girls huddled in the corner and staring at her. She quickly stood up and marched their way, book still in her hand.

“Y’all bitches need to fuckin’ go!” she said.

“Bitch, who is you?” one of the girls responded.

“A modish bitch that’s gonna kick you out the door or throw y’all out the damn window. Y’all choose,” Claire exclaimed.

“I’d like to see you try it!”

The tension grew thick between them, but before things escalated, Charlie made her way over and intervened.