Saint Cartier
Zahra laughed the whole way out the door. “You really asked the bartender if the ranch was homemade,” she said, looking up at me with that grin that made me feel like the luckiest nigga in the world. “You are so fake bougie.”
I shook my head and held the door for her. “Man, store bought ranch tastes like dirt.”
She cackled, stepping into the cold. “You eat wings with your hands and still want to act like you’re too good for Hidden Valley.”
I walked beside her, already putting myself on the street side without thinking about it.
We crossed the lot toward my truck. It was a neighborhood spot, so we were in the hood and the block was active, which was usual for any night, especially a Saturday night.
A few spaces down from my truck, a group of young niggas stood near a car with the windows down.
They were laughing too loud, talking over each other, and passing a blunt back and forth.
As Zahra and I walked past them, one of them was stupid enough to say, “Damn, ma. You pretty.”
Zahra didn’t even flinch. She kept walking like she didn’t hear anything.
But, of course, something turned in me. My hands flexed at my sides.
I knew my wife was a baddie. Her body was perfect, but her face was even more stunning.
Of course, niggas would look at my wife and comment on her beauty. So, I tried to chill.
But then the goofy ass nigga said, “Man, you thick as hell. I’d love to hit that motherfucka from the back.”
One of the dudes with him finally looked up and recognized me a second too late. His face changed fast, and he immediately knew his homie had fucked up. “Oh, shit,” he said, raising his hands halfway. “That’s big homie Saint. Our bad.”
I stopped walking.
Zahra took one more step, then realized I wasn’t beside her anymore. She glanced back at me and her eyes narrowed like she already knew exactly what I was about to do.
I turned around and started back toward them. I left Zahra by the truck because I didn’t need her in the middle of this.
They had disrespected my wife, talking to her like she was a whore off the street instead of Mrs. Saint Cartier, and they had the audacity to do it in my face.
Instantly, things got tense. Their laughter died. Their voices lowered. Their bodies stiffened.
They watched me approach, trying to decide if this was going to be a conversation or a lesson.
My security was posted only a few steps behind. I saw them clock the situation. I saw them tense. They didn’t move fast, because they knew who I was too.
I walked up close enough that my voice didn’t need to be loud. “Who said it?”
Nobody answered at first.
The one who said “my bad” swallowed hard. “It wasn’t even like that, bro. He was just—”
I cut him off with a look. “I asked who said it.”
The first one shifted his weight. “I said it. I ain’t mean no disrespect.”
“You don’t get to decide what disrespect is,” I seethed.
His eyes darted to his boys like he wanted help.
I stepped closer. “You seen a man walking with her, right?”
He nodded fast. “Yeah.”
“That mean she not for commentary. That mean you shut your fucking mouth when she walks past. You understand that?”
He nodded again. “Yeah, big bro. My bad.”
My hands were still flexing at my sides.
I could feel myself wanting to put him on the ground, wanting to make sure he remembered the lesson the hard way.
I wanted to drive my fist into his face until I felt his bones breaking against my knuckles.
I wanted to smash his face against the concrete with my foot until his brain oozed out of his ears.
I pictured grabbing his hair, yanking his head back hard enough to snap his neck halfway, then slamming my knee into his nose so it exploded in a spray of blood and cartilage.
I'd stomp on his fingers next, grinding my heel down until they cracked and pulped under my boot, listening to him scream as I twisted.
Then I'd pin him down, wrap my hands around his throat, and squeeze until his eyes bulged and his tongue lolled out blue, veins popping in his forehead while he clawed uselessly at my arms. If he somehow survived that, I'd drag him up by his shirt, hurl him into the nearest wall face-first, and keep pounding until his skull caved in, teeth scattering like broken glass across the ground.
But then I heard heels behind me.
Zahra stepped beside me. She slid into my space just enough to touch me without taking my power from me. Her hand landed on my forearm with the lightest pressure, the kind that didn’t restrain me but still spoke to me.
“Baby,” she called softly, using that voice she only used when she needed me to come back to her.
I didn’t look at her right away. I continue to glare at the YN’s, but I felt my breathing calm. I felt the urge to kill slowly fading.
Her mouth came close to my ear. “Not tonight. Not over them. They’re young, baby. They made a mistake.”
My eyes stayed on the dudes, but I’d heard her. Zahra always reminded me that I wasn’t just a street nigga. I was a name. I was a brand. I had a wife and kids, and I needed to think for them now.
I stepped back a half-step with my glare locked on them. “This pass is because my wife asked me to chill. Don’t confuse that with shit being sweet. Watch your fucking mouths when talking to women, whether they are in the company of a man or not.”
Their heads bobbed quickly.
“Yes, sir.”
“My fault, big bro.”
“Won’t happen again.”
I looked at the one who’d disrespected Zahra. “Watch your mouth when a queen is in your presence. You don’t want what comes with that kind of disrespect.”
He nodded hard. “I hear you.”
I turned away, but I felt like his goof ass was getting away too easy. So, I quickly spun around, grabbed the back of his neck and slammed his face into the trunk of the nearest car.
“Baby!” Zahra exclaimed in a warning as his homies jumped back, startled.
I lifted his head by the neck and saw that his nose and mouth were leaking blood. A few of his teeth were on the trunk. “Say sorry, nigga.”
“S-s-sorry!” he spat.
Zahra glared at me, folded her arms right across her chest, then spun around and stalked away. I let the YN’s neck go with a hard thrust and went after Zahra. I felt my security team closing in, in case these YN’s were stupid enough to get active.
I still wanted more blood, but I knew that would only piss my wife off more.
As Zahra and I climbed in my truck, she was still grimacing. I started it and pulled off.
We rode in silence for a few seconds. I kept my eyes on the road, and I could still feel my anger pulsating through my veins.
“I asked you to chill,” Zahra finally said.
“Technically, you just said, ‘Not tonight. Not over—”
“I know what I said, nigga!” she shrieked so loud, almost making me laugh.
I glanced at her. “I didn’t kill nobody, baby,” I reminded her.
Huffing and puffing, she turned toward me. “I’m not trying to make you soft. I fell for the man who would burn the world down for me. I just don’t want you burning yourself in the process.”
My jaw eased a little as Zahra rested her hand on my thigh.
“The same fearlessness that kept you alive out there can get you taken from me if you don’t learn when to walk away,” she said.
I nodded once. “I know.” Then I exhaled. “You the only person who can pull me back when I want to flip out.”
She smiled at that, like she already knew.
I looked at her and kept it real. “If you ever leave me, I’m probably going to prison the next day.”
Zahra laughed, but it wasn’t only funny. It had truth in it. We both knew it.
As we hit a red light, I lifted her hand from my thigh and kissed the back of it, then set it back where it belonged.
She stayed there, and her fingers relaxed on me, while I drove us home through our city.