Chapter 3 #5
“Well, I don’t want to fucking see Chauncey, and judging by the hoes in the waiting room, nothing has changed about yo nigga. Nothing Chauncey can do will surprise me. Simmy, if another bitch gets out of line, she will be lying right back there with that nigga, and I fucking mean it.”
“Rhy, chill…”
“I was chilling, Simmy.”
“Fuck them hoes.”
“It has always been fuck them…”
“Rhy, you know where you stand with my nigga. You don’t need validation from no hoe.”
“I know, Simmy, but I was minding my fucking business. She went out of her way to let me know she was with this nigga when he got shot.”
“Rhy, she was with him, but trust me, it’s not how she’s making it sound.”
Simmy knows something, but he’s not going to say it. I won’t press the issue because I really don’t give a fuck.
“So, if all these hoes are here, why am I here? Simmy, I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Aye, Rhy, you are here because I asked you to be. At the end of the day, you are Chauncey’s wife.”
“I’ve got too much to lose now. I’m a registered nurse. I’m not trying to lose my license because I’m getting busy with Chauncey’s hoes.”
“I hear you, Rhy, but did she swing first?”
“No, Simmy, she didn’t swing first. But she opened her fucking mouth.
I’m not dealing with any bullshit, period.
And you, of all people, know I’m not going back and forth with no hoe about Chauncey.
I don’t care if we’re not together. I’ll give a hoe a reason to wish she weren’t fucking him when she catches these hands. ”
“I hear you, Rhy, but hear me out.”
“I heard you earlier, Simmy. There is nothing else to say.”
“Aye, Rhy, they’re finna move Chauncey to a room in the ICU/critical care. Shit, I guess it was perfect timing. I pulled up right when I got that call. I’m finna walk yo ass up to his room.
Chauncey’s security detail will remain outside his room until he departs from this hospital. I have some business to attend to in the streets. Bianca will relieve you sometime tomorrow, but please stay out of fucking trouble.”
“I ain’t making no fucking promises.”
“I will take that as long as you sit tight.”
Simmy walked me up to Chauncey’s room and pushed the door open. We stepped inside, and he closed it behind us, sealing us off from the rest of the world. It’s been a minute since I last saw him.
My heart caved in the second my eyes fell on Chauncey’s body—hooked up to machines, IV lines running into his arms, monitors blinking and humming as if they were doing all the breathing for him. I pressed my fist against my chest, hard, trying to hold back the tears.
I’m not supposed to see him like this.
Even laid up in a hospital bed, beaten and broken, Chauncey is still handsome as fuck. I’ll never downplay that—not even now. God really did His big one when He made this nigga.
Chauncey is tall—about six-four, maybe two hundred pounds on a light day.
Broad shoulders. Long limbs. Built like a nigga meant to take up space. His skin is the color of toasted walnut, with hints of honey beneath, warm even under the harsh hospital lights. His face is perfectly sculpted, masculine without trying too hard.
Dark brown eyes—closed now, but still heavy with the same mystery that used to undo me every time he looked my fucking way.
A few creases line his forehead, as if he’s still thinking, still fighting, even in his sleep.
His nose sits strong in the center of his face, marked by that small mole I used to trace with my finger when I couldn’t sleep.
His lips—full and so soft—are the kind I can’t forget, the kind my body remembers even when my mind tries to move on. His locs spill over his shoulders, thick and healthy.
I fight the urge to run my fingers through them, to ground myself in something familiar. His beard is still perfectly lined up. This nigga probably got a cut the same day he got shot. Typical Chauncey—always on point, no matter what.
His body is muscular, tattooed, and defined. He works out religiously. That discipline never left him. Even now, he looks like himself.
Just quiet.
Too quiet.
And, of course, he’s still iced out.
Diamonds sit heavy around his neck and wrist, flashing softly as the machines blink. I reach out without thinking. My fingers tremble as I lift the chain from his neck and slide it over my head. I take his AP from his wrist and clasp it around mine.
If he’s not conscious, he’s still mine.
That’s when the tears come.
They slip past my lashes before I can stop them. Simmy hands me a Kleenex without a word. He doesn’t need to. He knows. I take it and dab at my face, but it doesn’t matter—my chest feels cracked open.
I don’t care how mad I’ve been. I don’t care how much distance I’ve put between us. I never wanted to see Chauncey like this.
I know the life my husband lives. I’m not na?ve. Chauncey has always been a street nigga, and I’ve always known exactly what that meant. I never wished anyone harm—but whoever did this to him? Whoever thought they could take him out?
I want their head in my lap.
The attempt on his life wasn’t a warning; it wasn’t a message.
This tragedy was an attempt to take his life, and for that, someone will pay.