watch was a Cartier, as thin as a silver dollar. She was wearing a beautiful tennis bracelet that had to have at least ten carats of diamonds running through it. The sparkle was reflecting off the Gucci shades that covered her sad eyes. From the looks of the rest of her outfit, Isis knew that the ring on the girl’s finger would be nothing short of stunning, but she would have to get a little closer to see it.
The bejeweled woman could tell that Isis was peeping her, so she held her hand at an angle to better flaunt the ring.
Isis finally just came out and said something. “That’s a beautiful ring you’re wearing. Can I look at it?”
“Yup.” The girl threw her hand out there as if she were Elizabeth Taylor before adding, “My man had it specially made for me.” Before Isis could get in a compliment, the chick was quick to say, “Yes honey, they’re pink dye-mons, not pink sapphires. A lot of peoples gets dem mixed up.”
Isis recognized it as one of her own creations. Then the woman spoke to her son. “Stop, Bam-Bam. Don’t do that. Don’t make me tell your daddy.” Isis felt as if a frigid dagger had been plunged into her heart.
Could it be?
she thought. “What?” she said, stunned by the little boy, who had an uncanny likeness to her man. Isis had been so busy looking over his mother that she hadn’t paid much attention to the little boy until now.
“I was talking to my son,” she pointed at the little boy. “Are you finished admiring my ring? Because I got to get into the courtroom to find out what these crackers are gonna do to my man today.”
To add insult to injury, Isis noticed a tattoo on the woman’s arm that was identical to the one she had on her inner thigh that read
Bam.
The woman said, “Come on, Bam-Bam,” and the little family stormed off.
Isis didn’t quite know what to think as her man’s son and other woman strolled away. She couldn’t find the words to call the woman back, and if she did know what to say, her tongue didn’t want any part of the conversation. She just stood there as if in cement boots, trying to process what she had just seen.
This is some motherfucking, fucked-up-ass shit. This bitch is wearing the same fucking ring that I designed—for myself—as a make-up gift from Bam, after he whipped my ass and made me lose my baby,
she thought.
The room started to spin when she reflected back on the brutally effective tactic Bam had used to ensure that she was no longer four months pregnant. “You have too much on your plate right now with your jewelry gig and all, and didn’t you tell me…that you wanted to do some traveling?…You will appreciate me when your career is booming and all is going well. When the time is right, we will have us a baby,” he had told her.
Bam had played her like a video game. His best friend had even played a part in his little game of charades. He had had Drop-Top convince her to make him the exact same ring as hers—only in pink instead of yellow—as a Valentine’s Day present for his girlfriend. But in reality, it was for Bam’s girlfriend. Bam was sick. Only a demented, twisted person would do something like that.
Isis started to feel light-headed. Her only thought before she fainted was
I can’t let him get away with this shit.
When Isis regained consciousness, she was at the hospital, where the doctor informed her that she had had a panic attack brought on by stress and anxiety. The doctor told her that the best way to avoid having another one was to try to stay stress free and do stress-relieving exercises.
Isis listened as the doctor gave his diagnosis and decided that she had the perfect tension-breaking exercise: it was called the Pay Bam Back theory.
Like mother, like daughter. History would indeed repeat itself. Just as Isis’s mother had killed her father for being unfaithful, she would kill Bam. But she was going to slay him in another way. That $313,000 he had left with her was history. She didn’t
The bejeweled woman could tell that Isis was peeping her, so she held her hand at an angle to better flaunt the ring.
Isis finally just came out and said something. “That’s a beautiful ring you’re wearing. Can I look at it?”
“Yup.” The girl threw her hand out there as if she were Elizabeth Taylor before adding, “My man had it specially made for me.” Before Isis could get in a compliment, the chick was quick to say, “Yes honey, they’re pink dye-mons, not pink sapphires. A lot of peoples gets dem mixed up.”
Isis recognized it as one of her own creations. Then the woman spoke to her son. “Stop, Bam-Bam. Don’t do that. Don’t make me tell your daddy.” Isis felt as if a frigid dagger had been plunged into her heart.
Could it be?
she thought. “What?” she said, stunned by the little boy, who had an uncanny likeness to her man. Isis had been so busy looking over his mother that she hadn’t paid much attention to the little boy until now.
“I was talking to my son,” she pointed at the little boy. “Are you finished admiring my ring? Because I got to get into the courtroom to find out what these crackers are gonna do to my man today.”
To add insult to injury, Isis noticed a tattoo on the woman’s arm that was identical to the one she had on her inner thigh that read
Bam.
The woman said, “Come on, Bam-Bam,” and the little family stormed off.
Isis didn’t quite know what to think as her man’s son and other woman strolled away. She couldn’t find the words to call the woman back, and if she did know what to say, her tongue didn’t want any part of the conversation. She just stood there as if in cement boots, trying to process what she had just seen.
This is some motherfucking, fucked-up-ass shit. This bitch is wearing the same fucking ring that I designed—for myself—as a make-up gift from Bam, after he whipped my ass and made me lose my baby,
she thought.
The room started to spin when she reflected back on the brutally effective tactic Bam had used to ensure that she was no longer four months pregnant. “You have too much on your plate right now with your jewelry gig and all, and didn’t you tell me…that you wanted to do some traveling?…You will appreciate me when your career is booming and all is going well. When the time is right, we will have us a baby,” he had told her.
Bam had played her like a video game. His best friend had even played a part in his little game of charades. He had had Drop-Top convince her to make him the exact same ring as hers—only in pink instead of yellow—as a Valentine’s Day present for his girlfriend. But in reality, it was for Bam’s girlfriend. Bam was sick. Only a demented, twisted person would do something like that.
Isis started to feel light-headed. Her only thought before she fainted was
I can’t let him get away with this shit.
When Isis regained consciousness, she was at the hospital, where the doctor informed her that she had had a panic attack brought on by stress and anxiety. The doctor told her that the best way to avoid having another one was to try to stay stress free and do stress-relieving exercises.
Isis listened as the doctor gave his diagnosis and decided that she had the perfect tension-breaking exercise: it was called the Pay Bam Back theory.
Like mother, like daughter. History would indeed repeat itself. Just as Isis’s mother had killed her father for being unfaithful, she would kill Bam. But she was going to slay him in another way. That $313,000 he had left with her was history. She didn’t
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