Azmir goes into his suit jacket pocket and as I watch him pull his arm out I hear, “Yeah, that’s what I thought! Don’t bring her ass back ‘round my way again!”
Simultaneously, Azmir and I stop to see what was going on. I turn to find a brazened Syn. It seems as though she’s just been made aware of me being in her home. I can’t believe her balls to take me on after having laid her lifelong partner to rest merely hours ago. A few people, including Petey run to quiet her, some, I’m sure, to comfort her.
“No! I hate ‘dat bitch!” Syn spews and I realize in that moment that her eyes are directly on me. “You’s a stuck up, high sadity bitch who think they shit don’t stink! Bring yo’ ass ‘round here again and next time ain’t nobody gon’ keep me from whooping ‘dat ass!”
Syn’s eyes are wild and bloodshot red. It doesn’t take a rocket science to conceive she is drunk and beyond deluded. Immediately, I know I cannot be affected by her combativeness. I know I can’t react in the manner she’s hoping for. It just isn’t right. If she wants to get a rise out of me, today won’t be that day.
Kid is dead for crying out loud!
“What the fuck?” Azmir mutters as he starts making his way toward her. That’s when voices get louder and even more people try to calm Syn. She’s outraged and absolutely bold with her verbal lashing.
Just before he gets beyond me, I catch him by the arm. “No,” I bite out. “She’s in pain. You’re in pain. Everybody here is in pain,” I speak firmly as I steady myself against his strain to move forward. Grabbing his chin with my left hand, I move his face down toward me. “She will not get a reaction. Not today.” I then quickly turn toward Syn and nod, “Okay. I won’t. No worries.”
I grab the key from Azmir and push him toward the car. After some resistance, he acquiesces and gets into the passenger side. I close the door and make my way over to the driver’s side as I throw Syn the nastiest warning glare that I could muster without running over there and putting my foot in her face. A part of me wishes she were able to break free so that I could finally put her over my knee. But the more logical side of me prevails. She isn’t worth it.
As I mount the driver’s side and adjust the seat to my comfort, I give a cursory glance to Syn in the rearview mirror. She’s covered by her loved ones in an embrace.
“You okay? Sorry about that shit,” Azmir grates. His voice is distressed. My heart starts to bleed all over again. That’s all it takes to snap me back into missionary mode for my husband. He’s wounded.
I start the Range and then forge a smile. “I am absolutely fine. Don’t worry about me,” I caress his left cheek. “Let’s get you home and comfy,” I murmur, trying badly to fa?ade my trembling core. I realize I’m so upset that Syn blasted me that way publically without me retaliating, I could cry. But not right now. Not today. Today and moving forward will be about aiding my big guy.
Our ride to the marina is quiet. I don’t have the “right” words articulated in my mind, so I won’t let anything stupid and not well thought out slip from my lips. I just want him to not feel alone. My chest squeezes each time I revisit that dark place, realizing Azmir could be there himself. The time in silence gives me time to come up with a plan to relax him and keep him with me.
When we arrive to the marina, before I can shut the door behind him and have him set his own agenda, “To the closet and take off your clothes,” I order. “And while you’re at it, shut your phones off. DND for the rest of the evening.”
Azmir’s large frame halts and slowly pivots an about-face to face me. I can tell that’s the last thing he expected. With his eyes, he questions my authoritative call, but it never rolls from his tongue. Though his glare is intimidating, I will not falter. I give him my poker face until he turns for the corridor, leading to the master suite.
On his heels, I drop my things on the chaise there in the bedroom and head to the en suite bathroom where I run a hot jasmine oil bath. The temperature is set to his liking, so I won’t be joining him. Azmir prefers his water at a temperature I can’t take.
Azmir arrives in the bathroom as I shut off the water, wearing just his Calvin Klein boxer briefs. His head is cocked to the side, messaging the need for further instruction. The only thing keeping me from drooling is the absence of his tongue being pressed into his molars. But damn if his columnar thighs don’t arrest my attention and cause me to stagger. I feel my mouth drop.
Needing a comeback—and quickly—I quip, “I don’t think those are needed in here, do you?”