Memphis Streets 4: Skeletons

Chapter 6- Shariffa

Lynch is still pissed as shit.

He hasn't said a word since we spent the night scrubbing that tattoo shop. I don't know what the fuck they did with the body parts and I don't want to know. My mind is whirling over how we're going to play defense with a bitch that thinks her ass is the Terminator.

He storms into the house and marches straight to our bedroom. I follow, thinking the moment we're alone he's gonna really let me have it. Jaws clenched, he snatches sheets and pillows from the bed.

"C'mon, Lynch. You don't have to sleep out on the sofa. We can sit and talk about this."

"I'm not sleeping out there." He rams the shit into my arms. "You are."

"Me?" I blink.

"Damn right. You sleep out there until I don't feel like killing you anymore."

"But—but . . ." Lynch grabs me by my shoulders and spins me toward the door.

"Shar, you don't want to fuck with me right now. I'm trying real hard to remember that you're my babies' momma," he warns.

"But—but . . ." With one shove, I fly out of the bedroom door. What the fuck? Pissed, I jerk back around, but he slams the door in my face. Muthafucka! I grab the doorknob. Locked.

"Lynch. C'mon. Open the goddamn door!"

"Walk away, Shariffa. I mean it," he barks. The last thing I need right now is for this nigga to be on his fuckin' period.

Determined to settle this shit, I drop the sheets and pillows and pound on the door. BANG! BANG! BANG!

"I'm not going anywhere until you open this door." BANG! BANG! BANG! "LYNCH, OPEN UP!"

BANG! BANG! BANG!

After a full minute, Lynch snatches the door open. "What the fuck is your goddamn problem?" I ignore him and push my way into the room.

"I fucked up! There! I said it. Now can we cut the drama and figure out what our next damn move is? In case you forgot, I'm at the top of some psycho bitch's hit list."

"What the fuck did you think was going to happen?" he roars, planting his face in front of mine. "You pushed and pushed to start a fuckin' war with those CL niggas and now you've got your goddamn wish. Congratu-fuckin-lations!" He chest bumps me and I stumble backwards.

"What the fuck?" I rush back at him and shove him, but all I end up doing is hurting my arms.

"I'll tell you what the fuck," Lynch says, going in. "None of my niggas want to tangle with that bitch and her crew over some bullshit that you started. They made that shit perfectly clear to me tonight." I flinch.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"C'mon, Shar. You can't be that goddamn stupid. These niggas ain't buying that your ass is a true Crip. They only put up with you because I wifed your ass. All that swag you strutting around here can't buy your ass a McDonald's Happy Meal outside this crew. Everybody looks at you and all they see is a Queen G perpetrating. They view you as my muthafuckin' problem—not theirs—so don't be expecting for a Crip army to charge at those bumble-bee-wearing muthafuckas. Fuck. You got one of their favorite homies chopped up. They want to kill you more than that slob, black and gold bitch."

Lynch's words punch me and I'm left to stand here looking like I'm stuck on stupid. Here I am, busting all these moves and making all these plans for a crew who despises me? I plop down onto the edge of the bed.

"Look. That shit came out harsh." He brushes his hands over his low-cropped hair.

"But it's true?" I ask. He hesitates. "I don't give a fuck about it being harsh. I need to know whether the shit is true. I always want the fuckin' truth, Lynch. You know that shit."

Lynch huffs out a long breath, deflating the anger in his chest, but he doesn't attempt to answer my question. "Is it true or are you just fuckin' with me because you're mad?"

"It's true. Maybe I should have told your girls to tell you—"

"Fuck them bitches! You're my man. You're the one who is supposed to always keep it one hundred with me."

Lynch explodes again. "What the fuck are you talking about? I told your ass plenty of times to have a muthafuckin' seat—several seats, in fact. Did you listen? No! You kept right on stirring the pot, pulling your bullshit trap-house robberies and pissing niggas off. The set isn't what it used to be, baby girl. Niggas are in this shit for self. Too many niggas have been bodied or locked down. The ones in the lock up, we're struggling to put money on they books and to hold down all their wives and baby mommas. It's to the point we can only concentrate on feeding the niggas that are pulling their weight in the streets. "

"Them spanish muthafuckas don't want to hear about no fuckin' ghetto, hood, soap opera shit we got going on in Memphis. I'm tryna focus on moving product. Period. Now I gotta deal with this side shit because you're obsessed with invisible thrones? Nobody owns these streets but the goddamn devil. You're blind if you don't see that shit."

"I don't need a fuckin' lecture. I—"

"Fuck it. I'm tired of talking about this shit." He turns and storms out of the bedroom.

"Lynch!" In the hallway, he snatches up the bedding.

"I'll sleep out on the sofa."

Tossing up my hands, I watch him storm off. "Now what?"