Free The Banks Sisters by Nikki Turner Page B

bitch.” Marjorie threw the broken shoe at her. The shoe hit Simone on the arm, a nail, where the heel should’ve been, breaking the skin and drawing blood.
    The site of the blood trickling from her forearm, coupled with everything else built up inside of her, was more than she could take. Besides, she thought, it was time to teach this hag a gotdamn lesson.
    She had had enough.
    Marjorie was trying to stand up on shaky legs when Simone caught her with a well-timed uppercut. The punch tagged Marjorie’s chin like an unwanted tattoo. Marjorie fell back to the floor, kicking, and started squeezing. She wanted to choke some manners into Marjorie, and if Marjorie croaked in the process, so be it. Then maybe all her father’s things would revert back to her anyway.
    Marjorie eyes looked for an escape. She made a funny noise—“Ooukkk-o-wokkk,” that sounds like she was sucking a dick. In a morbid sort a way, it was noise to Simone’s ears.
    In third grade, when Simone was tearing a mud hole in Charlotte’s little racist-ass, it had taken two teachers to get Simone off of her that was one of the reasons, Simone had avoided fighting from that point on, she’d nearly killed Charlotte.
    It wasn’t until Marjorie’s face had turned a funny—not ha-ha funny, but oh my God funny—shade of purple before realizing what she was doing. Marjorie’s eyes, where the irises had been, were now white.
    Simone stopped squeezing, releasing the grip from Marjorie’s neck.
    Desperate for air, Marjorie inhaled—as hard as she could—before blowing out the lung-full of oxygen that kept her alive. With her hand around attack, she took a few more precious breaths.
    The second Marjorie had a breath to spare, she said, “Get out, bitch! Get the fuck out of my house, before I call the police.”
    Simone knew Marjorie wasn’t bluffing about the police, “I wouldn’t expect your no class wannabe-ass to do anything else, but call the police.” Simone lured her back, opened the front door, and walked out of her father’s house feeling better than she’d felt in a few months. Whoever coined the phrase, “Violence never solved anything,” was wrong. So, so wrong. . . .”
    Simone was about to get into her car when she realized it was gone. In the driveway, in the exact spot she’d parked, was a Dodge Neon.
    Oh, this hag has really lost her mind!
    Simone stormed back into the house like Hurricane Katrina, nearly knocking the door off of its hinges doing so.
    Marjorie had somehow managed to pull herself off the floor and was sitting in the high back chair leaning most of her upper body up down on her legs. Her head jerked up as the door open. Her eyes, looking as if she wished she’d locked the door.
    â€œWhere in the hell is my car, bitch?”
    Unable to look Simone in the face, Marjorie said, “Your car is outside.”
    She put her hand on her hip and said, “I drive a fucking Mercedes and the only thing in the driveway is a gotdamn Neon.”
    Marjorie clutched a lamp. Simone figured Marjorie intended to use the lamp for a weapon, if she needed it. “You don’t own shit. The title to that car, registration, license tags, they were all in Simon’s name, which means I own it now,” she spoke in a tone a little above a whisper, “all mine.”
    Simone wished she’d choked the bitch out when she had the chance. She probably could’ve beat the case if she had: self defense, crime of passion or temporary insanity. She’d learned about the different criminology defenses.
    Marjorie, holding the lamp with one hand and fixing her hair with the other, got bolder by the second. “I’m the spirit of fairness, the title and the keys to the Neon are in the glove box. You have about ten more days to get it registered. Be grateful.”
    â€œGrateful?” Simone questioned.
    Simone had no clue where