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.
