Simmy
The streets don’t fucking lie. Word travels faster than bullets out here—and right now, every corner, every barbershop, every DM is talking about Rhy and that nigga she brought to our city.
I tried to let it ride. Tried to stay focused—on business, on Bianca, on us. But that static in my fucking chest? It ain’t gone nowhere. Chauncey is my cousin.
My brother.
My day-one.
And if he’s laid up in that hospital, fighting to breathe, while his wife is out here with another nigga? That shit doesn’t sit right with me at all. Bianca told me to chill. Said it wasn’t my fight.
Said Rhy needed space.
I gave her space.
Three days.
She ain’t even been back to the hospital. But what Bianca doesn’t understand is—anything that touches Chauncey touches me. If the streets clown him, they clown all of us.
If he loses face…we all do. So yeah—I’m finna go holla at Rhy. I slide my Glock into the console, not because I plan to use it, but because I know how fast peace turns to war when emotions get loud as fuck.
I’m just trying to talk.
That’s it.
End whatever this is before it stains her name—or worse…gets back to Chauncey the wrong way.
The city feels loud tonight—horns blaring, bass thumping loud as fuck, gossip bouncing off the walls. I pull up outside the Ruby Bleu Hotel; damn, I can never get tired of this view.
I step out.
Hoodie up.
Hands in my pockets. Tool tucked behind my back. Just in case I got to squeeze this nigga.
My phone buzzes.
Coop.
Then True.
Same message.
“You sure you wanna do this?”
Yeah.
I’m sure.
Somebody gotta handle it. I hit her phone. Once. No answer. I call again. She picks up.
“Hey, Simmy.”
“Come downstairs,” I say, my voice even. “I need to wrap up with you really quick.”
A pause. “Okay… is something wrong?”
“Yeah.”
Silence.
“I’ll be down in a few.”
I end the call.
And wait.
The low hum of my engine greets her before the hotel doors even open. The night air is cool and clean. I’m leaning back in my matte-black Escalade, watching. It takes her a minute.
Then Rhy steps out. Surprised. Guarded. And—my jaw tightens. Why the fuck did she put that nigga hoodie on?
“Simmy… what are you doing here?”
I ain’t feeling her right now. “I need a word with you if that’s cool.”
“What’s up?”
“Get in.”
She hesitates, then slides into the passenger seat. The door shuts. Silence settles.
Engine low.
City lights bleeding through the tint. Tension thick as hell. She looks… rested.
Too calm.
Like she’s been doing shit she ain’t got no business doing.
“I ain’t come here to argue,” I say, voice steady. “I just needed to talk face-to-face.”
“What’s up?”
“I’ve been biting my tongue for days.”
“Why?”
I look at her.
“You know why.”
“Simmy…”
“It’s hard as hell hearing from the streets that you’re moving around with this nigga like you ain’t got 10 years plus with Chauncey.”
My voice stays even. “Like I ain’t watched y’all build something from nothing.”
Rhy looks down at her hands. “Simmy…I’m tired.”
“I know.”
I pause.
Choose my words carefully. “Aye, I know why. Chauncey did his dirt. I’ve seen some shit. I ain’t about to sit here and pretend you don’t deserve peace.”
“I just don’t want war anymore,” she whispers.
“I ain’t here to start a war,” I tell her.
I lean back slightly. “But you need to understand what’s fucking coming.”
Her eyes flick to mine. “If Chauncey wakes up and sees what I’ve been seeing?”
I shake my head slowly. “He ain’t built like most niggas. His love…it’s loud. It’s reckless. And when it burns?”
I pause for a beat.
“It won’t stop.”
“I know,” she says quietly.
“It burned me many times.”
“Where is he?” I ask, eyes cutting toward the hotel.
“Who?”
“Don’t play with me, Rhy.”
She exhales. “Upstairs.”
“How long has he been here?”
She doesn’t answer.
I nod slowly. “That’s too long.”
“He just wanted to check on me.”
I let out a low, humorless laugh. “Aye, Rhy, you’re good until the day you take your last breath. I’ve got eyes on you at all times.”
“Simmy—”
“Rhy, if that nigga wanted to talk, y’all could’ve talked on the phone.”
My voice hardens just a notch. “You don’t bring no nigga to this city to ‘talk.’ Not while Chauncey is still fighting to breathe.”
Her jaw tightens. “Oh, so that’s what this is about? You think I don’t know? You think I don’t care?”
I lean in.
Close.
“Then act like it.”
A pause.
“Whatever y’all had out there… let it stay out there.”
My voice drops lower. “You still my nigga wife.”
I catch another beat. “And on some real shit?”
I hold her gaze. “I will kill that nigga right now.”
Silence.
Heavy.
“I was supposed to handle him days ago,” I continue. “As soon as he thought it was sweet to move around my city, knowing you were married to Chauncey.”
Her eyes gloss. Pain. Pride. Fighting for space.
“Don’t have people think you’re disrespecting my nigga while he’s down bad.”
“Simmy…” Her voice cracks slightly. “I’ve been alone for a fucking year.”
That hits.
I feel it.
But I don’t show it.
“Nobody came for me,” she continues. “Not even him.”
I rub the back of my neck.
Exhale slowly.
“I get it.”
And I do.
“But you know what kind of world we’re in.”
I look at her. “Perception matters more than truth.”
A pause.
“And right now?”
I shake my head. “Perception says you’re wilding out.”
She turns, eyes sharp. “Really? After everything he’s fucking done to me?”
Her voice rises just a little. “I came back because you asked me to. I didn’t realize it came with rules.”
“Rhy—”
“You heard what the fuck I said.”
Her jaw trembles. She looks away. I let the silence sit.
Then—softly: “Go see your husband.”
She freezes.
“Before this city decides your fucking story for you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t wanna find out.”
She doesn’t flinch.
Not even a little.
“Simmy… I hear you,” she says after a beat, steady and unmoved.
“But I need you to hear me, too. I don’t give a fuck what the streets say.
The streets always got some shit to say, so let ’em talk.
Last time I checked, the same streets were laughing while Chauncey was out here cheating with any bitch willing to fuck him. ”
Her eyes lock on mine, sharp and unapologetic. “You just admitted you saw it. I hope you were just as loud then as you are right now.”
That one lands.
Heavy.
She leans a little closer, her voice dropping low, cutting. “Because I find it crazy… everybody wants to fight for my marriage—except the nigga I’m actually married to.”
Silence stretches between us, thick as hell.
“I’m done being Chauncey’s fool, Simmy.”
She reaches for the door. “So don’t worry about who I’m fucking… worry about who your nigga was fucking.”
The door swings open, then slams shut behind her—no goodbye, no hesitation.
And just like that, she’s gone. I sit there for a second, hands still on the wheel, jaw tight, chest heavy as hell—but my conscience?
Clean.
I step out of the truck, the night air biting through my hoodie, sharp and needed. I light a blunt slowly, just to keep my hands from doing something else. My phone’s already in my hand, thumb moving before I even think.
I text Chauncey’s nurse.
On my way.
I slide back into the driver’s seat, the engine growling low. Yeah. It’s time to head back to the hospital. Time to remind my nigga—while he is healing—the world is still spinning.
And his wife? Got the whole city talking. One loose end handled.
For now.