by Belvin, Love
Eventually, everyone resumed their individual conversations. I saw Kim turn toward Petey. Kid was looking down the table, chatting with Wop and the other guys. Azmir bent his long upper torso down to my ear and continued to ask me about what I was experiencing and offered to order me ginger ale. I obliged, feeling like the sensation wasn’t slowing down. He ordered the soda and took to his phone—the personal cell, which was his iPhone.
Chanell blurted out, “Yoooooo! Was that private party dope as hell or what on Thursday night, yo!”
“Yeah…yeah! Yo, Chanell, man, you did yo’ thing!” Wop yelled in concert with the other guys.
“Yeah, good looking, C! ‘Dem bitches was right!” Kid blurted before freezing under Azmir’s cautionary glare, apparently signaling him to use discretion and I’m sure because they were in front of mixed company.
“Oh, my bad,” Kid mumbled apologetically. “But for real, Chanell, that was dope of you. Good lookin’!”
Syn narrowed her eyebrows, mad. At what though?
“Oh, nah! That was all Crack over there. I just held him down,” Chanell shouted, attempting modesty.
Kid reached across the table and gave Petey dap.
“Divine, did you get a lap dance at da party?” Syn brashly quizzed Azmir.
All eyes went to Azmir and then to Syn. I swear, I’d never seen dynamics like I was witnessing among this group. I guess it was out of order for her to ask him such a question. I could see how it was inappropriate, but why was Azmir revered the way that he was with these people? It’s like he had the presence of a king or someone of royal priesthood.
What the…?
“Nah, Divine wasn’t there. He was working,” Chanell answered, trying to circumvent Azmir addressing Syn.
“Oh, cuz I know he like ‘em,” Syn proclaimed. At first process, I was thrown by her statement. It took a minute for it to penetrate. “Ain’t you a dancer, sweetheart?” My head jolted back when I saw she was looking me square in the eyes, expecting an answer. It was clear that Syn was drunk. But how, so soon? We were barely into the afternoon.
I felt Azmir’s hand grab my thigh underneath the table. And here it begins. Honestly, I thought I’d be able to make it through this function without any production from Syn knowing that all the men were with us. I’d guessed her liquid courage mixed with the padded comfort of her family being present gave her the audacity. I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t easily scare—especially from someone of Syn’s mentality and non-threatening stature. I just didn’t want Azmir and his family to see me in that element—an element that they were all too familiar with and subscribed to, no less. If I could get just ten minutes alone with Syn, I’d acquaint her with the soles of my Manolos. She wouldn’t have to worry about upsetting Kid or Azmir, I’d make sure of it.
With fortitude, I chuckled, much to myself before speaking. “If you mean in the pole sense, no. I practice the artistic form of it. No dollars involved,” I said calmly yet directly.
You could hear a pin drop. Lord, keep me from snatching this broad from across the table! Syn was probably only a hundred and five pounds—soaking wet. I knew I could drop her quickly.
“Man…Syn, shut the fuck up before you find yo’ ass in sum shit you ‘on’t wanna be in,” Kid barked, giving her the look of death. Syn, unmoved, slowly rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth.
“I’m just saying,” she hissed, suddenly ruffled by now at Kid’s verbal discipline. Her girls giggled in the background. I’m sure it was at my expense. Azmir’s face was set in a scowl. I really didn’t want a scene.
“What da fuck is you sayin’—Divine girl is a fuckin’ go-go dancer? Is you crazy! Don’t fuckin’ try to come up in here fuckin’ up the cipher and embarrassing me. You can take yo’ trick ass friends…or cousins and drive y’all ass back up to the Watts!” Kid was obviously livid and it made me incredibly uncomfortable.
I don’t know where the thought came from, but before I knew it I announced, “This brings me back to an idea I’d already had. I would like to invite you to my show next weekend. It’s a fundraiser and all proceeds will go to dance lessons for underprivileged children by my dance coach. It would be great if you all could join Azmir.”
I knew Azmir wouldn’t approve because he was almost as private a person as I was when it came to our relationship, but I didn’t care. I felt like I had something to prove at this point. This was clearly Azmir’s inner circle and I was attempting acceptance on both sides—mine and theirs.
“Rayna, you don’t have to prove anything to anyone at this table. One of us seems to have lost our manners, but that’ll be handled immediately. I’m sure of that,” Azmir vowed, looking directly at Syn whose face was ashen in fear. He was trying to give me an out.
“No,” I shook my head. “This is your family. I’m very comfortable with them and I would like to allow them to get to know me better,” I murmured, piercing into his examining eyes then turned my attention back to the table. “Please. You all are invited.”
“I can’t let you invite all these knuckleheads here, but some of us’ll roll through,” Petey accepted, being sure to inform The Clan that they all were not allowed to oblige even though I’d put the invite out there.
Kim nodded her head in agreement. I could tell she wanted me to know I had her support against Syn’s foolishness. She wasn’t a woman of many words, but her presence had always been strong.
“You know I’m in ‘dat mufucker, Rayna!” Chanell championed. I smiled at her enthusiasm.
I shot my eyes across the table. “The invitation is open for you, too, Syn. Maybe you can gain a little culture, aye?”
I had to clap back at her for taking that jab at me unexpectedly. She never looked at me, just kept her head in her plate. But the act of her rolling her eyes and letting out an exasperated exhale didn’t miss me. I had no idea what was her beef with me. I mean—seriously!
“Now if you good people will excuse us, I have to get the little lady home and rested for tomorrow,” Azmir bode in much of a snarl as he rose from the table. “Peace-Peace.”
His hidden brash scared me. I could tell Syn’s words did not sit well with him. I was just glad that things didn’t get out of hand.
One by one, everyone—with the exception of Syn, her crew, and Chanell’s girls—got up and exchanged farewells with Azmir. Kim gave us hugs while Petey hugged only me. Petey and Azmir exchanged a few brief and muttered words before parting ways.
We took off for the airport.
The ride there was a little thorny. My stomach hadn’t improved and my head began to throb. Azmir kept a watchful eye over me during the trip to the airport and while on the aircraft. I tried drinking more ginger ale, but at some point I couldn’t ingest anything. I just wanted to sleep, which was finally possible when we were seated on the plane.
I was so grateful for first class that morning; I needed the space and the comfort of the larger seats. Azmir kept his hand on my thigh the entire flight that, fortunately, wasn’t long at all. He was concerned, but decided not to go the prodding route with repetitive questions about my sudden ill state. The sickness progressed. My stomach groused and my head started to spin.
As Azmir was gathering our carry-on luggage from the overhead compartment, I felt the bile threatening to rise from my belly. I tugged at the hem of his sweat jacket, trying to inform him of my need to make a dash to the bathroom. Suddenly, unable to wait, I sprinted past the captain and the flight attendants who were alarmed by my urgent fleeing.
Once out of the gate and into the airport, I searched frantically for the nearest restroom. Luckily, it was just ahead of me. I burst through the stall door and barely made the toilet, vomiting my guts out. Within seconds I felt a strong hand on my lower back.
“Brimm, baby, are you okay?” I recognized Azmir’s firm voice laced with hidden fret.
“Is she okay?” was another voice that wasn’t familiar.
I couldn’t speak, neither could I believe Azmir followed me into t
he ladies’ room. Another round of vomit came up. My abdominal muscles ached and I used the stall walls to balance myself. Azmir rubbed my lower back and I didn’t know if it was soothing or annoying from moment to moment.
“Was it something she ate?” a male yelled from outside the bathroom. I’d guessed he wasn’t as bold as Azmir to enter the ladies’ room.
The female voice just beyond Azmir spoke again, “I hate to be so personal, but is she pregnant, sir? It would help to know how we can best help her.”
PREGNANT?
God, no!
That shocked me into some level of stability and I thought to stand so that I could clean my face and get out of there.
“I just ate something that didn’t agree with me I’m sure,” I was able to weasel out, on my way to the sink. I washed my hands and rinsed my mouth.
Someone ordered a wheelchair, which was the best idea because it felt as though my ribs were cracked. I was handed another ginger ale that I could only bring myself to hold in my hand while being wheeled out to the car that Ray had waiting. Azmir helped me inside and it took me a while to find a comfortable position in the back of the Bentley. I decided on one that allowed me to lay my head back.
It had become clear that I had been holding my stomach because Azmir reached over and pushed his big hand underneath my arms, resting it over my abdomen, “Is it your stomach? What do you feel?”
With one eye, I found his concerned face and breathed, “My head and stomach. I don’t know what it was specifically that I ate—the eggs or fruit.”
His eyebrows were knitted and delicious mouth set in a grim line. He didn’t say anything. We just rode home in silence. When we were on the ride up in the elevator at the marina, the bubbling in my stomach was joined by abdominal spasms that told me I needed the bathroom and right away.
We were barely through the inside the apartment when I sprinted to the closest bathroom to the front door. I slammed the powder room door behind me, hoping Azmir would get the do not enter hint.
He yelled through the door, “Can I get you anything? Do you want me to call your doctor?” It was more a shriek and I could tell he was concerned. My body worked hard to expel whatever foreign object that had invaded it, scarcely leaving energy for me to speak.
“No!”
I screamed not to be rude, but forcing the word out that otherwise wouldn’t have budged. Immediately, I regretted opening my mouth because I felt it coming up. I quickly jumped on the toilet looking for a receptacle when I found a trash can with a fresh bag—not that it mattered. I hurled inside of it.
Oh, my god! It’s coming out from both ends!
I heard a bang at the door. “Rayna, I’m coming there!” Azmir yelled.
“Don’t you dare!” I screamed and discharged again—from both ends.
I was miserable. I felt weak and sleepy! I had no idea what I’d eaten to throw my body into such a fit. I was deathly desperate for a relief. Once the stomach spasms and head spinning had stabilized, which was nearly twenty minutes after being in there, I cleaned myself up and found comfort on the cool marble floor. When my face met the chilled tile, I sighed in relief.
Minutes later, Azmir’s back at the door. “Rayna, I can see you’re on the floor. Do you need help up?”
How can he see me!?
It then hit me that the entire apartment, with the exception of the master suite, was monitored through a surveillance system. How embarrassing! Azmir could see my bare backside plopped up in the air. Where would my dignity lie with him after this experience?
“No! Leave me alone. This is horrible! I don’t want you to see me like this, Azmir…please—”
With that, I jumped up feeling another round of spewing forcing me to take my seat back on the toilet and to shove the garbage can back to my face for dumping. That went on for the next two hours. Azmir respected my wishes, I didn’t hear from him again. It was the most miserable physiological experience of my life.
When I treaded out of the powder room, I could see the sun setting on the marina from the balcony and floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room, across from me. I was woozy, sore, and completely spent. I closed the door behind me just as Azmir charged towards me lifting me up in his hard arms. I slapped him weakly because I had no strength.
“I stink. Please don’t! I’ll walk.”
He didn’t respond. He marched toward the back of the apartment, we entered the master suite and then the bathroom. He sat me on the chaise and walked over to start the shower. When he ambled back toward me, he began removing my booties tossing them into the corner before grabbing the hem of my shirt and pulling it over my head. I had little resistance to his quick movements, I was that weak.
“Stand,” he ordered while he held my waist to assist. I did, but when he went for the elastic tip of my leather leggings to remove them, I panicked.
“No! I’ll do this. I smell horrible.”
“I haven’t smelled any foulness yet. Don’t be so prideful. You’re weak and damn near trembling. We’re adults here.”
I shook my head. “But you’re no nurse who is accustomed to body secretions of the waste type. No. Go out and I’ll take it from here,” I spoke in susurration.
Azmir sighed heavily in exasperation. “Rayna, I take advantage of your body for pleasure, I can take care of it when it’s ill, too. Let me help.”
His broad shoulders sunk in disappointment and frustration. He was earnest in his desire to take care of me. While the thought was hugely endearing, my body odor was not. There was no way I was exposing him to the ugly of it. Menstruating was something that we could work around; defecation and vomit we couldn’t survive—I couldn’t survive! I respected Azmir’s willingness to cross this boundary in our relationship, but I was not prepared. This was god-awful and exceptionally embarrassing.
I shook my head with sulking expression. I had no energy to fight with him, but there was no way I would forfeit my appeal in his eyes. Azmir worshipped my body—that I had to give him. I was not willing to compromise that. This was all too much. I couldn’t even look him in the face. I just extended my arm, telling him to go.
“You have two minutes to disrobe or I’ll be doing it for you,” he hissed before walking out of the bathroom, leaving the door open.
I held on to the pillar stand that mounted a fern plant pot as I pulled off my bra, leggings, and underwear. I kicked them into a corner and slowly sauntered to the shower. I was winded at the door of it. Azmir’s shower could comfortably fit five people and stuff seven. There were at least a dozen jet nozzles in there so I knew that I’d catch water somewhere, but looking at the massive space inside overwhelmed me. I didn’t have the strength to wash. No sooner than that revelation hit, Azmir was right back at my side, placing my shower cap on my head, lifting me into the shower, and setting me on the bench.
I eventually noticed he was naked and gathered he was going to wash with me. As much as I was discomfited by my torpid state, I was relieved that he understood my needs without me having to express them. It was as if he’d read my mind. Azmir was always good at anticipating my needs. He knew that much of them would never be lodged if left to my own devices. I was not yet programmed to reach out for assistance. It was now clear to me that he understood this.
He took his time washing me until I adamantly told him that I would take care of my private parts and that he had to turn his head. He then began washing himself, providing me privacy. I knew that task would require no sensitivity, but a thorough and aggressive sweeping instead. When we were done, he dried himself off, returned to turn off the shower and carried me out to the center rug and dried me off. I sat back on the chaise when he hurried out of the bathroom and quickly returned, holding a short silk slip in one hand and one of his clean white tank tees in the other.
“I figured you’d need easy access in case you’re not done and will need something cool to help with the hot flashes.” He gave a soft smile.
He was being sensitive to my dis
gusting situation. If I wasn’t so sick, I’d lick him from head to toe. His body was still dewy, exposing his stony abs, masterfully sculpted shoulders, and muscular arms. He wore only a Supmia towel, also affording me a view of his strong columnar legs and bare feet. Azmir was a work of art, worthy of the highest bid.
I opted for his tee, seeing nothing sexy about this ordeal and therefore the slip should be spared. He helped me with it on. As I brushed my teeth, he stood close behind me, slipping on his boxers, basketball shorts, T-shirt, and black ankle socks. I couldn’t ignore the muscular contour of his lengthy frame. I was beyond content with his mildly slender, yet solid physique. Azmir wasn’t bulky like body-builders, but was cut up so well that nearly every muscle was defined.
Once out of the bathroom, he led me over to the sitting room. I insisted that I walked no matter how slow I had to wander to get there. He gathered pillows to set up a comfortable spot for me to rest in. As he handed me the remote, he stood over me to assess my disposition.
“I’m starving and I know you need to eat something, too. I saw you had leftovers from Chef Boyd’s meals this week in there, so I can find enough scraps to make myself a meal. For you, it’ll be BRAT.”
He must have read the perplexity in my face. “Bananas, rice, applesauce or toast. I called a physician friend of mine and gave him a rundown of your symptoms. I assured him it wasn’t likely pregnancy since you’re still within your normal cycle.”
What the hell? How does Azmir know my cycle? Did he count days? Even I wasn’t that good! I was too shocked by his sheer confidence in my bodily schedule to ask.
I continued to listen. “He says by the sounds of it, you have some sort of stomach virus and can be miserable for the next twenty-four hours, at least. So, that’s probably about all your system can handle right now. And the biggest challenge is going to be keeping you hydrated.” Azmir paused for my selection.
Errrrrrrr! “Toast.”
“Dry,” he informed me before leaving for the kitchen.