thought I was gone. But I was about to be his worst fucking nightmare. Now it was my turn.
I went and sat down on my sofa and stared at the blank television screen. I needed the silence. But what I needed more was to hear what this bitch Tasha had to say. I didn’t even know that she had written me back until I was packing to leave the hospital. I wanted to read the letter in peace and quiet, one of the reasons I wanted everybody out. I was anxious, mainly because when I sent her my letter, I wasn’t sure if she would receive it. But she did.
I ripped the letter open.
Kyron, Kyron, Kyron.
First of all, nigga, you bitch made. Here it is, you over there recovering from a life-threatening injury, and the first bitch you holla at is me? You talking all that shit about Jags and money and connections—who the fuck you tryna convince that you the shit, me or yourself? Talking about you love me and you hate me. What kinda fag shit is that? You wish you hated me. You don’t know who you fucking with, so you better check my résumé. I will bet anything that your dick is hard right now as you read and anticipate my next line.
My nigga, why can’t you just accept it? You were just something to do for me . . . simply a revenge fuck. I gave you some payback pussy on my terms, and you got pussy-whipped and fell in love. That’s why you laying over there crying and shit. And you have the audacity to call me a ho? Fuck outta here with that bullshit. You don’t even know how you mustered up the energy to call me a ho. No, nigga, I ain’t your ho; you’re my bitch. Sheeeit . . . gonna call me a walking billboard? If I am that, you best believe it reads, “Kyron’s a fuckin’ sucka!”
I recall you saying three important things: 1. You went out. 2. You made my money. 3. You kept me fly, then gave me the dick if and when I decided I wanted it. But then I fucked you so good you thought I was going to take you to the top of the world and had you begging: Marry me, Tasha! Be mine, Tasha! I had your punk ass pulling out rings and shit. So that sounds like you the ho. Nigga, I pimped your ass real good, had you trained well, and even after you got that ass whipped, you still brought Momma her money. Yeah, I rode your dick . . . good enough to make you lick where another nigga slides his dick. How does Trae’s cum taste? Is it as good to you as it is to me? And then you brag about a bitch serving her purpose. No nigga, you served your purpose. I wasn’t even fucking you, and you were coming up off stacks and scheming on ways to steal me from Trae. And you are boasting about a Jag? You a low-budget-ass nigga if you think a Jag gets you a come-up. Them fake-ass, so-called loyal niggas you got on your team are laughing in your face because they got a bitch for a boss, or should I say a broke-ass coworker? Bitch ass sitting here whining about a car, page after page. Nigga, please! I bought Trae a fuckin’ Maybach. And you obviously forgot that I told you I have a Spyder C8 Aileron sitting in the garage that I don’t even drive! That Jag was like a punch buggy compared to my shit. That’s why Trae busted the shit up. You think your money is long? Get the fuck outta here; your money is as long as your dick . . . and that ain’t long enough.
Since we keeping score, let me ho-check your ass real quick. You called me a ho, but I’m the same bitch who had you turn your back on your family. It was me, Tasha, the same bitch who had you eating pussy, and it ain’t about you making me cum, nigga. I’m married to Trae Macklin. My pussy is well trained. And yes, I’m the same bitch who turned you into a marked fucking man. So watch your back, bitch-ass nigga. You do the math. Calculate that shit. Tasha, a ten . . . Kyron, a zero.
You asked yourself, are you insane? Hell, no! You in love,