Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
BIANCA
Simmy’s been on edge ever since Rhy brought her lil fine shit to the city. My husband and I rarely fight about anything… but I can feel the static rolling off him in waves.
And the crazy part?
I didn’t even do anything.
Simmy, True, and Coop aren’t feeling this situation. I get it. I just don’t understand why Simmy hasn’t said much since he walked into the house. His silence is louder than any Choppa he could empty a clip into.
He’s overly loaded.
I can feel it. And I know they’re all thinking the same thing. Dead that nigga Rhy brought here. And to make matters worse, I haven’t heard from Rhy in days. I tried calling her earlier—straight to do-not-disturb.
Kosh has been in this city longer than anyone expected. The streets are still talking. Rhy and her new target have been spotted everywhere.
Meanwhile, my normally unshakable husband is walking around like he’s one breath away from emptying an entire clip. I can’t take it anymore.
“Simmy,” I say softly. “Can we talk?”
He doesn’t look up from his phone. Yes, this nigga is mad.
“I’m listening.”
“I feel like you’re mad at me, but I didn’t do anything.”
“I ain’t mad at you.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
His jaw tightens.
“I’m mad at the situation. You know it’s taking everything in me not to smoke that nigga.”
“I know.”
“Aye… why didn’t you tell Rhy to keep that nigga out of our city?”
“I did. He still came. He wanted to see her.”
Simmy slowly sets his phone down because it offended him.
“And she got a fucking husband.”
His voice lowers. “And I know Chauncey ’bout to wake the fuck up. A nigga can feel when his most prized possession is moving recklessly.”
“I know.”
“So how Rhy think this shit gon’ play out?” he growls.
“I don’t know.”
“Aye, that nigga needs to leave today. Or I’m gonna have to put his ass in the dirt. I don’t want to do lil’ buddy like that… but I’m loyal to three niggas in this world.”
His eyes meet mine. “And he ain’t one of ’em.”
I square my shoulders.
I’m not flinching tonight.
“I don’t want to be in the middle of this.”
Simmy lets out a humorless laugh.
“It’s too late for that.”
“Look,” I say carefully. “Rhy’s been gone for a year. She started living her life without Chauncey. What did we expect?”
Simmy’s expression doesn’t change.
“It’s not like Chauncey’s trifling ass ran after her to keep this shit from happening. He was still doing him up until he got shot. Hell, that nurse told Rhy she fucked him a few days before.”
Simmy’s eyes cut to me.
Sharp.
Cold.
“Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
“Don’t kill that man just because Chauncey might be in his feelings,” I press.
“Rhy out here moving recklessly as fuck.”
“Chauncey doesn’t have the right to be fucking mad.”
Simmy’s eyebrow lifts.
“That’s how you feel?”
“Yes. Am I wrong?”
My voice softens, yet I don’t look away.
He studies me for a moment.
“No,” he admits. “But women shouldn’t move how niggas move.”
“That’s bullshit,” I say quietly. “I want my cousin to be happy. I want Chauncey to be the nigga who gives her that.”
I pause.
“But she’s tired, Simmy. It’s selfish to expect her to sit around waiting while he moves through the city doing whatever the fuck he wants.”
Simmy leans back, silent.
And I land the final shot.
“Chauncey ain’t got the right to be fucking mad.”
Silence settles between us. Heavy as stone. For a moment… I think I actually shut him up.
Then Simmy moves.
He steps forward, closes the distance between us, and cups my chin, forcing my gaze back to his. His lips brush mine.
God.
I love this man. His touch alone makes my knees weak.
“Wife,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry I haven’t been myself lately.”
“I know. That’s why I said something. I don’t like the shift between us.”
He exhales slowly. “It’s a lot going on right now, and Rhy bringing that nigga here is fucking with me.”
“The streets are talking,” he continues. “Of course, I gotta tell Chauncey.”
He pauses. “I’m not saying she’s wrong, but given the circumstances… this shit could’ve waited.”
His voice drops. “Maybe until the next lifetime.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “Rhy still loves Chauncey.”
“I hope so,” he mutters.
“Because right now, she ain’t acting like it.”
“Simmy, chill.”
“I am the nigga still breathing,” he says dryly.
I shake my head.
“I just wish Chauncey had fought harder for their marriage. If he had… they wouldn’t be here.”
Simmy watches me carefully.
“All Rhy ever wanted was for him to fight for them once.”
I sigh.
“Hopefully, when he wakes up, he finally decides to.”
Simmy nods slowly.
“He will.”
A pause.
“I got faith in my nigga.”
Then he pulls me into his arms, gripping my waist as his hand slides down to the curve of my ass.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, stripped of all that edge.
“For real… I’ve been low-key neglecting you, and I know you don’t deserve it.”
I look at him for a moment. Not as Simmy, the enforcer. Not as Chauncey’s right hand.
Just my husband.
“I forgive you.”
Something in his face relaxes—like he needed that more than he was willing to admit.
“Can I make it up to you?” he asks, his eyes steady on mine.
A small smile pulls at my lips.
“Yes.”
Simmy doesn’t say another word. He just bends, slides one arm under my legs and the other around my back, then lifts me like I weigh nothing.
Secure.
Certain.
Like I belong to him, because I do.
I wrap my arms around his neck as he carries me upstairs, his grip firm and grounding—like he’s reminding us both of who we are when the world isn’t in the way.
For a moment… There are no streets. No chaos. No loyalty pulling him in ten directions.
Just us.
And yeah—makeup sex?
Needed.