Love Redeemed, Book 4 (48 page)

I’m thrown from my sleep from a frightening yelp. I twist around to find a trembling Azmir sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s out of breath, skin is clammy, and goose bumps are disbursed throughout his torso. This time I do throw my arms around him, needing to help him land from whatever nightmare he’s just escaped.

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” I whisper in his ear, my face
pinned against the back of his head.

His body eerily jerks. Any other time I would have been scared out of my mind, but in this moment my first inclination—my natural inclination—is to comfort him. I squeeze him and rain scant kisses from his face to his neck, not in a salacious manner, but a
soothing one instead. We stay this way for long minutes until I’m able to coax him back down into the bed and shower him with words of assurance and comfort as he does me when my nightmares surface. It works. Azmir is asleep in my arms within minutes, breathing softly. This time I don’t return to my corner of the bed. I remain at his side until we’re both awakened by sunlight.

The next few days are similar to that night. Azmir is a ghost of himself, somewhat despondent, uncharacteristically taciturn.  He goes about his days, but I’m worried about him, constantly checking in with Brett who reports of his reticent behavior, but assures that his business astute is still
intact. I orchestrate shorter workdays, even covertly contacting Richard, his
Global Fusions
partner, to take on Azmir’s travels for the next week at least. Azmir is so aloof that either he doesn’t realize his early arrivals home to me at night or doesn’t have the energy to fight me on it. He retreats into his office until I call him for dinner and a bath. We do lots of quiet bath time. The silence doesn’t disturb me at all; I have my own cross to bear…alone.

The day to put Kid to rest arrives. It
’s the greyest day, reminding me of Michelle’s funeral. Azmir’s rigid the entire event. I almost feel every bunched muscle of his frame as I sit just about underneath him the entire service. It’s a sad event. I’ve never seen so many hardcore thugs, bawling into their knees in one place. Their wails are frightening loud pitches. It makes me clench to a stoic Azmir even tighter.

Azmir
holds it together well. He and Petey sit tall and military-like, just behind Syn and Kid’s immediate family during the service. They don’t flinch and hardly blink. I don’t know how they’re able to hold a public face. I know Kid’s death is taunting Azmir within. I’m not able to hold onto my tears. They seep of their own will. Kid was such a respectable guy to me. Of his memory, all I can think of is his little bop in the club in Vegas for his birthday. He held his bottle of bubbly, contently smiling and dancing blissfully by himself. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Rayna

“You gotta get duke up outta here, Rayna,” I hear from just behind me, perhaps a little too close because it startles me.

I nearly leap in place before turning around to find a pensive Petey, peering into me.
We’re standing in the hallway of Syn and Kid’s home, facing their kitchen. People are moving all about the house, attending his post-repast gathering. Children are running about. There’s a game of football going on outside with thuggish men, sporting casual attire, attempting something appropriate for a funeral. Azmir has been standing here for nearly ten minutes now in a grieving fog. Like his shadow, I’m glued to his back as I hold a Styrofoam cup of ginger ale to help with my queasiness. I need to eat, but won’t dare utter a complaint to Azmir. If he hasn’t eaten, neither will I. The soda has helped marginally.

Observing Petey, my belly toils even more.
I knew something was majorly off with being here, but he just solidified it with the signaling look in his eyes. I don’t saying anything, don’t have to. With my eyes glued to his, I give a slight nod and turn to a haunted Azmir.

“Jacobs,
” I whisper to him, pretty much in his shoulder as I can’t reach his ear without standing on my tippiest of toes in heels. “Petey is saying we need to leave.”

A
melancholy Azmir beholds me from above, and while processing my message, turns his attention behind me to Petey. I glance over to Petey and catch him giving Azmir an affirming nod. It’s all so strange, but I’m accustomed to their peculiar dynamics by now. Petey’s eyes make their way back to me, silently messaging his urgency. I slowly grab Azmir’s hand and start making my way toward the front door. And without dispute, he follows obediently.

As
we’re just mere feet away from Azmir’s truck, I ask for the keys so that I can drive. He pauses, considering my call. I’m prepared to be stern in my request. It’s clear that Azmir is a shell of himself and rightfully so, he’d just buried one of his closest friends. I feel the overwhelming urge to cover him in my bosom and nurture him until his strength and resolve returns.

Azmir
goes into his suit jacket pocket and as I watch him pull his arm out I hear, “Yeah, that’s what I thought! Don’t bring her ass back ‘round my way again!”

Simultaneously, Azmir and I stop to see what was going on.
I turn to find a brazened Syn. It seems as though she’s just been made aware of me being in her home. I can’t believe her balls to take me on after having laid her lifelong partner to rest merely hours ago. A few people, including Petey run to quiet her, some, I’m sure, to comfort her.

“No! I hate ‘dat bitch!” Syn spew
s and I realize in that moment that her eyes are directly on me. “You’s a stuck up, high sadity bitch who think they shit don’t stink! Bring yo’ ass ‘round here again and next time ain’t nobody gon’ keep me from whooping ‘dat ass!”

Syn’s eyes
are wild and bloodshot red. It doesn’t take a rocket science to conceive she is drunk and beyond deluded. Immediately, I know I cannot be affected by her combativeness. I know I can’t react in the manner she’s hoping for. It just isn’t right. If she wants to get a rise out of me, today won’t be that day.

Kid i
s dead for crying out loud!

“What the fuck?” Azmir mutter
s as he starts making his way toward her. That’s when voices get louder and even more people try to calm Syn. She’s outraged and absolutely bold with her verbal lashing.

Just before he g
ets beyond me, I catch him by the arm. “No,” I bite out. “She’s in pain. You’re in pain. Everybody here is in pain,” I speak firmly as I steady myself against his strain to move forward. Grabbing his chin with my left hand, I move his face down toward me. “She will not get a reaction. Not today.” I then quickly turn toward Syn and nod, “Okay. I won’t. No worries.”

I grab the key from Azmir and push him toward the car. After some resistance, he acquiesce
s and gets into the passenger side. I close the door and make my way over to the driver’s side as I throw Syn the nastiest warning glare that I could muster without running over there and putting my foot in her face. A part of me wishes she were able to break free so that I could finally put her over my knee. But the more logical side of me prevails. She isn’t worth it.

As I mount the driver’s
side and adjust the seat to my comfort, I give a cursory glance to Syn in the rearview mirror. She’s covered by her loved ones in an embrace.

“You okay? Sorry about that
shit,” Azmir grates. His voice is distressed. My heart starts to bleed all over again. That’s all it takes to snap me back into missionary mode for my husband. He’s wounded.

I start the
Range and then forge a smile. “I am absolutely fine. Don’t worry about me,” I caress his left cheek. “Let’s get you home and comfy,” I murmur, trying badly to façade my trembling core. I realize I’m so upset that Syn blasted me that way publically without me retaliating, I could cry. But not right now. Not today. Today and moving forward will be about aiding my big guy.

Our ride to the marina
is quiet. I don’t have the “right” words articulated in my mind, so I won’t let anything stupid and not well thought out slip from my lips. I just want him to not feel alone. My chest squeezes each time I revisit
that
dark place, realizing Azmir could be there himself. The time in silence gives me time to come up with a plan to relax him and keep him with me.

When we arrive to the marina, before I c
an shut the door behind him and have him set his own agenda, “To the closet and take off your clothes,” I order. “And while you’re at it, shut your phones off. DND for the rest of the evening.”

Azmir’s large frame halt
s and slowly pivots an about-face to face me. I can tell that’s the last thing he expected. With his eyes, he questions my authoritative call, but it never rolls from his tongue. Though his glare is intimidating, I will not falter. I give him my poker face until he turns for the corridor, leading to the master suite.

On his heels, I drop my things on the chais
e there in the bedroom and head to the en suite bathroom where I run a hot jasmine oil bath. The temperature is set to his liking, so I won’t be joining him. Azmir prefers his water at a temperature I can’t take.

Azmir arrive
s in the bathroom as I shut off the water, wearing just his Calvin Klein boxer briefs. His head is cocked to the side, messaging the need for further instruction. The only thing keeping me from drooling is the absence of his tongue being pressed into his molars. But damn if his columnar thighs don’t arrest my attention and cause me to stagger. I feel my mouth drop.

Needing a comeback—and quick
ly—I quip, “I don’t think those are needed in here, do you?”

Azmir snort
s ruefully after a beat and then bends to remove his boxer briefs. During the brief descension I quickly decide not to be a peeping Tom. This comforting thing is not about me and the annoying fact that I could never get my fill of Azmir. He needs soothing. Though my eyes are now facing the Jacuzzi, I can sense Azmir tossing his underwear in the hamper and making his way over to the tub.

I gi
ve him time to settle into a place of comfort before I lather the sponge and wash him from his neck to his toes. When we’re done, I dry him off and have him lay across the bed. I’m torn about his obedience. Azmir has questioned very little of my instruction. He does everything I ask, which further coils my heart. He just isn’t himself.

I ha
ve him lay on his stomach while I change into something more comfortable, yet aesthetically pleasing, which is a yoga lounge set. I then grab a small bottle of eucalyptus oil from the vanity in the bathroom. When I settle onto the bed, I take my time and massage his glorious lengthy and muscular frame. I start with his feet, as I straddle him backwards. I then work my way up from his ankles to his calves, kneading every muscle attached to each bone as I ascend to his lower back. I don’t touch his butt. Some men have this no-bother-zone thing with their derrieres and Azmir is no different. On a different day, I’d rile him up by hinting to it, but again today is about relaxing him.

I try
to focus my mind as my hands explore every inch of him—every scar from childhood, skin-tone blemish, and smooth patch that perfects this man’s exterior. When I’m  done with his back, I have him roll over and I place a small towel on his private area to keep me from violating the pact I made with myself when I conjured this therapeutic plan of mine. I don’t even straddle him this time, but sit at his side instead to keep the course. It’s difficult. I’m unaccustomed to not having Azmir’s body as my playground when it’s fully exposed. It also doesn’t help that he has glaring erection. I train my eyes everywhere but there.

When I
’m done, I check and see his eyes are still closed. I don’t think he’s asleep, so I go into the walk-in closet and grab some clothes for him to slip on. When I return, he’s sitting up with his back resting against the decorative pillows. I feel like a deer caught in headlights. Emotionally, I’m able to identify, but not so much verbally. I hated when people tried to soothe me with words when I was in mourning.

Azmir d
oesn’t look at me as he sits, staring blankly at the adjacent wall above the flat screen ahead. I’m stapled to the floor, not knowing what to do. I’d do anything to comfort him right now in any way. I know he and Kid weren’t exactly best friends like Michelle and I, but when I lost her, there was a bit of comfort being alone in my own head. If that’s what my husband wants, I’ll give it to him without resentment. And if he wants me here, I’ll—

“Come here,” Azmir’s raspy voice c
an hardly be heard, but I hear the pain in it.

Within seconds, I mount the massive bed and shuffle
around until I’m settled behind him, assuming the support position. I have his back and here’s where I’ll rest in hopes of him laying his concerns on me so that I can help him carry the load.
I want to be what he needs when he needs me to be it.

“I feel…” he attempt
s. He doesn’t pick up right away and that’s okay. We’ll stay here as long as he needs to. “It’s my fault…Kid’s death.”

I don’t know where
he’s navigating this conversation to because there is no way I can believe Kid’s death is in anyway Azmir’s fault. He goes quiet again. And again, I wait.

“In
The Clan
, we all had roles,” he starts again. “Mine, you know was the general. Petey’s was the enforcer. And so to speak, Kid was the terminator. I won’t speak too much on it, but…” He takes a long and heavy exhale, blowing out his grief on the way. It’s so thick I can feel it. “When the fire happened last fall in Pasadena, it was Kid’s role to find the fucker who did it. We’d easily learned who the perp was on the street. He ended up a ghost and I had been on Kid’s ass about recovering him for months. I was marrying you and....” This time he inhales and I can feel his wide back expand against my chest.