Get the feeling Leo gonna crash outAmerican Sun
American Sun
Get the feeling Leo gonna crash outAmerican Sun
Leo just went from a scumbag to a grooming POS. Obviously paying a 17 y/o for sex is bad - but its clearly not his first time. And with the voyeurism added to not just Mireya, but obviously other girls too, is trending him more towards serial killer / rapist then just a guy taking advantage of a girl down on her luck.
I think Leo ends up crashing out on Mireya - Caine gets involved with the boys and Leo suddenly disappears. Mireya doesn't know - Caine doesn't say.
The little bit of "peace" Caine is experiencing at Karr with football is about to fly out the window with him rolling with Ramon and em. Especially with Rousell (SP?) obviously enjoying throwing people back in jail
I think Leo ends up crashing out on Mireya - Caine gets involved with the boys and Leo suddenly disappears. Mireya doesn't know - Caine doesn't say.
The little bit of "peace" Caine is experiencing at Karr with football is about to fly out the window with him rolling with Ramon and em. Especially with Rousell (SP?) obviously enjoying throwing people back in jail
American Sun
It's hard out here bring poor, man.Chillcavern wrote: ↑17 Jul 2025, 22:47Man Mireya’s luck for that ACT was brutal. You don’t let her have any breaks, do you.
Well, at least Caine is running with guys who can handle a police interaction
Good pacing with putting that Leo segment after the Roussel one - I almost started hating Roussel more until we’re reminded of how trash Leo is.
The only problem is that these guys are shooters unlike his previous crew. Let's see how that affects Caine.
I initially had that Leo scene last so good here it works better third
djp says it's good bathroom reading, you can knock it out that way. Fortunately this time I have a table of contents on the first page so you don't have to dig through all the posts when you're trying to catch up.chosenone58 wrote: ↑17 Jul 2025, 22:59I am gonna take a stab at getting through this, but I know this is gonna take some time.
Always a saga with this guy... respectfully
Good to have you onboard though!
The grossest
Institutionalized gon' institutionalize
For clarification, that shouldn't have come across as a serial "taking it" rapist. Mireya isn't the only underage girl he's offered money to for sex is the suggested takeaway. So serial stat rapist.redsox907 wrote: ↑18 Jul 2025, 13:34Leo just went from a scumbag to a grooming POS. Obviously paying a 17 y/o for sex is bad - but its clearly not his first time. And with the voyeurism added to not just Mireya, but obviously other girls too, is trending him more towards serial killer / rapist then just a guy taking advantage of a girl down on her luck.
I think Leo ends up crashing out on Mireya - Caine gets involved with the boys and Leo suddenly disappears. Mireya doesn't know - Caine doesn't say.
The little bit of "peace" Caine is experiencing at Karr with football is about to fly out the window with him rolling with Ramon and em. Especially with Rousell (SP?) obviously enjoying throwing people back in jail
Has Caine learned how to better get out of criming?
American Sun
Yon Nwit Pa Rale Demen
Caine moved down the hall, one shoulder brushing cinderblock, backpack slung low, hood half up. The school always buzzed this time of morning—sneakers squeaking, lockers slamming, the sour-sweet scent of syrup from the cafeteria drifting down the tile. He ducked his head, letting the noise roll past, doing his best to disappear.
“Yo, Caine—hold up.”
He stopped, jaw tight, turning as Mr. Landry leaned in the doorway, shirt sleeves rolled, eyes bright and tired all at once. The light behind him made a white square on the linoleum.
Caine nodded. “What’s up?”
Landry gave a half-smile. “Heard you back out with the team.”
Caine shifted his bag, barely meeting his eyes. “Yeah. Second string, though. Nothin’ special.”
Landry’s look was steady, easy. “Everybody starts somewhere. You like being back out there?”
Caine glanced off, jaw working. “It’s straight, I guess. Just tryna get on the field. Ain’t tryna get in the way.”
A group of freshmen blew past, laughing loud, one trailing the smell of cheap weed. Caine let his gaze linger on the tile until the noise faded.
“You sign up for the ACT yet?” Landry asked. “You know if plan to play college ball then you’ll need a good enough score just like any other student.”
Caine shook his head. “Nah. Didn’t really think about it. Ain’t figure all this was gon’ go anywhere.”
Landry nodded slow, reading him. “You never know. Might want to be ready, just in case. Sign up for the next one. I’ll help you get right, if you want.”
Caine shrugged, a little softer now. “Aight.”
Landry reached into his satchel and pulled out a slim paperback—The Other Wes Moore. He held it out, just enough wear at the corners to show it’d been read a few times. “Give this a look when you got a minute. Two dudes, same name, different stories. Lot of folks think the world already made up its mind about them. Don’t mean they right.”
Caine turned the book in his hands, fingers rough from catching passes. “You always got a book for me, Mr. Landry.”
Landry’s smile flickered a little wider. “You always reading them. Let me know what you think.”
Caine tucked it into his bag, feeling the weight of it. “Bet.”
Landry’s voice softened as the bell rang. “Don’t let ’em box you in, Caine. You decide your story.”
Caine nodded, slipping away, letting the hallway noise swallow him back up—book pressed flat against his ribs, the words echoing after him, half-believed but not all the way gone.
The practice field shimmered under the late-afternoon sun, grass clipped low and smelling like sweat, churned earth, and Gatorade. Whistles and the crack of pads echoed off the metal bleachers, and shouts bounced down the sideline. The city’s sounds faded out here—just ball and boys and coaches with their own kind of language.
Caine adjusted his helmet, fingers slipping on the slick plastic, heart drumming steady but hard. He lined up with the second string, feet dug into the turf, numbers on his jersey still stiff and bright from the equipment room. The starting defense squared up across from them, all cut eyes and smack talk.
“Let’s go, let’s go!” Coach Joseph barked, clipboard in hand. “Show me something!”
Darnell, the center—stocky, always grinning until he set his feet—snapped the ball with a hard thunk. Caine dropped back, scanning: Corey on the out, Tyron streaking deep, Jayden cutting underneath. The defense shifted—Marcus, the linebacker, reading Caine’s eyes, grinning like he already knew what was coming.
Jay, the starter, stood on the sideline, helmet off, head tilted, watching every throw.
Caine felt the play collapse in slow motion—defense closing, Corey blanketed. He rolled left, feet churning up mud, then snapped a pass across his body, threading it just past Marcus’ fingertips. Tyron snagged it, toe-dragged in bounds, and the sideline whooped.
“Okay then!” Darnell slapped Caine’s shoulder as they reset. “That’s what we talkin’ about!”
Jay’s voice drifted in, low, a little tight: “Solid throw, bruh.”
Caine just nodded, eyes ahead, already picturing the next read.
They ran it again. The defense bit on the run, Caine kept, slipped through a gap—someone grabbed at his jersey but he shook free, feet flying, the field stretching open. Not much, but enough. Coach Joseph’s whistle cut through, sharp.
On the sideline, Coach Joseph exchanged a glance with Coach Martin—eyebrows up, a slight nod. Coach Martin scribbled notes, eyes lingering on Caine a beat longer.
In the huddle, sweat pouring down his temple, Caine caught his breath. Darnell grinned, teeth flashing. “Keep ballin’, G. You got these boys stressed.”
Jayden nudged him. “Think you might mess around and take that spot, huh?”
Caine just shrugged, swallowing the pride before it could show. “Ain’t that y’all boy?”
Coach Joseph shouted for the second string to switch out. As Caine jogged to the sideline, the air felt cooler, but his skin burned with something sharper—wanting, maybe, or just the old itch of having something to prove.
Jay was waiting, helmet under his arm, eyes steady but not unfriendly. “Gonna be giving us some good looks on that scout team this year, whoadie.”
Caine let a small smile slip. “Yeah, something like that, lil’ bitch.”
He watched Jay walk back to the huddle, felt the weight of every gaze—coaches, teammates, maybe a few kids in the bleachers. He rolled his shoulder, eyes following the lines on the field, and for a second, it almost felt like freedom.
But the city was always right there, behind the fence and the noise—waiting to remind him where he came from, and what could still be lost.
The little boutique was all harsh overhead lights and the faint, sticky scent of cheap floral air freshener, trying and failing to cover up the old building’s must and the detergent from the back room. Racks leaned with last season’s clearance, colored hangers tangled, clothes folded and refolded till the edges went soft. Mireya’s back ached from standing since school let out, her feet burning in off-brand sneakers.
Paz was folding a stack of graphic tees, hair tied up in a scarf. “I swear, if I see another old lady come in here to buy a ‘Baddie’ shirt for her grandbaby, I’m gonna scream.”
Mireya snorted. “She probably got more money than me.”
“Girl, same,” Paz said. “Can’t wait till summer. We outside, bitch.”
The bell chimed—Angela, breezing in with that easy, messy ponytail and a cloud of body spray. She grinned, waving. “I was around the corner, figured I’d check on y’all.”
Before either of them could answer, the door opened again. Two customers—a guy in skinny jeans and golds in his mouth, his girl with sharp nails and a bag slung across her chest—came in laughing, the sound bright and wild. Angela leaned on the counter, lowering her voice. “Y’all doing anything tonight?”
Paz’s eyes flicked up. “This dude I been talking to? He said there’s a house party in Algiers. Supposed to be live. You wanna go?”
Angela waggled her brows. “I’m always down. Mireya?”
Mireya kept folding, not looking up. “Can’t. I got Camila. Y’all know that.”
Angela clicked her tongue. “Ask Sara.”
Mireya shook her head, but Paz chimed in, “Why not? Your mama watches her. Caine’s mom can too. That’s what abuelas are for.”
Mireya pressed her lips together, folding a tank top tight. She wasn’t about to dump her kid on Sara last minute, even if she probably would say yes. Guilt knotted in her stomach; she hated being the one always saying no.
The guy browsing the racks waved them over, flashing a gold-toothed grin. “Hey, my girl need a dressing room.”
Mireya nodded, motioning for the girl to follow. Up close, the customer smelled faintly of vanilla and weed; her skin was smooth, lips glossed, tight curls falling around big gold hoops. Her jeans were torn just right, hugging curves you couldn’t help but notice—the kind of confidence you could feel before you saw it.
Mireya unlocked the door, eyes flicking over the price tag on the top draped over the girl’s arm—two weeks’ gas, easy
For a second, Mireya wondered what it would feel like to wear something that expensive.
On her way back, the guy caught her eye, leaning close so only she could hear. “You like that top, huh? I could buy you one.”
Mireya kept her face flat, but there was a flicker of heat—half embarrassment, half curiosity—at being offered something just for looking good. “I’m good, thanks,” she said, but he just smirked, letting his eyes linger.
He nodded toward the fitting room. “You and my girl ‘bout the same size anyway. Y’all would look good together. I don’t mind sharin’ with a bad bitch and she don’t either. So what’s happenin’?”
Mireya let out a small, disbelieving laugh, shaking her head as she walked away. She went back to folding shirts, her mind pinging between bills and Camila and annoyance.
Angela sidled up, elbowing her. “Come on, Reya. It’ll be fun. We never do shit anymore. Live a little.”
Mireya shrugged, voice quieter. “Maybe if Camila sleeps early. I’ll let you know.”
Paz nudged her too, her eyes bright. “We got your back. You need a night out.”
The store filled with the soft hum of a pop song on the overhead speaker, the little drama of customers and coworkers unfolding in the fluorescent light. For a moment, Mireya let herself pretend—just for a second—that she could be the kind of girl who didn’t have to think about money, who could just say yes.
But when the bell over the door chimed again, she straightened, tugged her shirt down, and kept folding. Somebody had to be the one to hold it together.
The sun was setting orange through the blinds, striping the living room in gold and shadow. Sara sat on the edge of the old sofa, a laundry basket wedged between her knees, pulling apart the tight rolls of Caine’s T-shirts and jeans—everything folded up all stiff and precise, military-style, just like he started doing after jail. She smoothed out each shirt, then folded it again the old way, into a square that would fit in a drawer.
The house was restless: TV humming in one room, the rattle of pots from the kitchen, Ada singing off-key as she chopped onions for tomorrow’s breakfast.
Ximena came in, her hair back in a low twist, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She looked at Sara, head tilted, eyes gentle. “You have that look on your face, mija.”
Sara glanced up, sighing as she flattened a pair of socks that had been rolled tight as a fist. “Just thinking about him. I worry he’ll be struggling like this forever. The system don’t let up. And now—” She held up a shirt, half-smiling. “He never used to fold his clothes like this. It’s like jail followed him home.”
Ximena sat down beside her, the couch springs groaning. She took a shirt, refolded it slow and soft. “That’s what mothers do. Worry. Mira, I remember when you came home and told us you were pregnant with Caine. You were just nineteen. Scared but you tried so hard not to show it.” She smiled, a little sad. “You wouldn’t let nobody tell you nothing. Not even your papa.”
Sara snorted, shaking her head. “He threatened to throw me out every day for six months.”
Ximena chuckled. “Vicente was an old man set in his ways, Dios lo descanse. But he loved you. All of us. And that boy too, even if he pretended otherwise.”
Sara pressed a fist into her cheek, fighting a smile. “I still hear his voice sometimes. Telling me to get out his kitchen, or get off the phone, or stop letting Caine run wild.”
Ximena nodded. “Mothers never stop worrying. I still worry about all my babies. But you, especialmente. You always been stubborn. That’s why your papa called you, La Burra, remember?” She leaned in, nudging Sara’s shoulder. “And now your boy’s just the same. You see it, right?”
Sara nodded, folding another shirt the old way. “He don’t quit, that’s for sure.”
The room fell quiet for a moment, the only sound the dryer thumping in the hallway and the distant sizzle of onions in oil. Sara looked at her hands, dry from bleach and laundry soap. “Sometimes I wonder if I did enough. If this… Es por mi culpa.”
Ximena put an arm around her, soft but strong. “You did what you could. That’s all we ever do, mija. Life throws us down hills sometimes. The strong ones find ways to keep rolling, even if it’s ugly.”
Sara let herself lean in, just for a breath, closing her eyes. “I just want him to be okay.”
“He will be. Same as you. You both keep going, stubborn or not.”
The house felt warmer, quieter, just for that moment—a small peace between the chaos of work, kids, and old ghosts. Sara finished refolding the last shirt, stacking it on the pile, and let herself hope, just a little, that maybe her mother was right.
The yard at Dixon Correctional was all gray dust, chain-link, and old sweat. Even the sun felt mean here, burning the top of Ricardo’s head as he circled the cracked concrete path, jaw set, eyes steady. The air stank of bleach and boiled cabbage from the kitchen, mixing with something sour and metallic he’d come to know as fear. He moved different now—shoulders squared, eyes flat, the easy smile he used to flash on the block stripped away, left in the back of some squad car months ago.
He paused near the far fence, where the shadows of the weight pile cut sharp lines across the yard. On his left hand, just below the thumb, the black ink of the La eMe tattoo was still fresh, skin puffy, scabbing where the needle had bit. It wasn’t for show. You needed to belong to something in here, or you belonged to nobody.
Ricardo leaned on the fence, watching the new inmates cluster by the wall—young, jumpy, wearing their nervousness like bad cologne. He sized them up by habit, already calculating who’d fold, who’d be trouble, who might be useful. On the other side of the yard, Dre was bench pressing with a group of Black inmates, his laugh hard and sharp above the clang of weights.
Miguel strolled over, short and broad, with a tattooed tear under one eye and a gold tooth that caught the afternoon light. He nodded, posture relaxed but eyes alert. “Ricardo. Oye, you know if your boy, el mayate, can get at some stuff? Phones, maybe a little smoke?”
Ricardo kept his face blank, rolling a pebble under his shoe. “Depends. I don’t know how connected he is in here, but I can find out.”
Miguel leaned in, voice softer now. “You let me know, eh? Don’t keep me waiting.”
Ricardo nodded, holding the older man’s gaze. “Simón.”
Miguel drifted off, easy as anything, but the tension in the air lingered. Ricardo watched as Dre finished his set, fist-bumping a wiry dude with dreadlocks, both of them laughing too loud for this place. For a second, Ricardo almost felt the old urge to walk over, say something dumb and easy, but he caught himself—those days were done.
He flexed his hand, feeling the sting of the tattoo, and scanned the yard again—every gesture, every glance, every shadow might mean something now. Out here, being soft got you hurt. Out here, you learned to see before you got seen.
He caught Dre’s eye across the yard. Dre nodded once, real slow. Ricardo nodded back, just enough. He wondered, not for the first time, how long it’d be before the outside world stopped feeling like it was his to get back to.
A gust of wind kicked up dust and cigarette butts. Somewhere up in a tower, a guard’s radio crackled and died. Ricardo tucked his hands in his pockets, squinting into the sunlight, letting the hard quiet settle over him.
Survive today. Worry about the next one when it comes.
The house in Algiers pulsed with bass, bounce music shaking the floorboards, every surface sticky with sweat and the sweet haze of weed smoke. Inside, it was packed—shoulder to shoulder, bodies pressed in the hallway, girls in Fashion Nova and G-Nikes twerking against the walls or dropped low in the middle of the living room. Boys hyped them up, waving stacks of ones, hands on knees, sweat running down necks, the smell of hair products, fried food, and spilled liquor heavy in the air.
They rolled up deep—Caine and Mireya together, Angela and Paz, Tyree, Ramon, and E.J., all clowning each other before they even hit the door. The DJ was somebody’s cousin, spinning bounce classics and Magnolia Shorty, letting the track ride so the crowd could holler every word.
Angela was already moving, tossing her hair and dropping low, ass shaking to the beat while E.J. tried to keep up behind her, catching nothing but air as she laughed and moved on. Tyree egged him on, flashing his phone to record for Snapchat. “Damn, she curbed you, my nigga!”
Paz grinded on a boy from the West Bank, her laughter high and wild. Mireya felt the music in her bones, the bass in her chest, the heat slick between her shoulder blades. For once, she let herself forget—hands on her knees, back arched, catching the rhythm, Caine posted up on the couch with a cup, grinning as he watched her show out. She knew what she was doing, letting the whole room see, but always circling back to him, making sure he knew who she was moving for.
Caine didn’t dance much—nobody really expected him to—but when Mireya backed up into him, he didn’t shy away. Hands on her hips, low and close, he matched her sway, mouth at her ear, his words lost under the music but his touch solid, steady. Around them, the room got louder, somebody popping a bottle, shouts echoing as a new track dropped.
Paz caught Mireya’s eye, grinned, and called out, “That’s how y’all got Camila, huh?” The group cackled, Mireya flipping her off, but smiling, sweat shining on her cheeks.
Then Jay and his crew pushed through the kitchen, bouncing to the beat. Jay spotted Caine across the living room—eyes traveling up and down, as if sizing him up, jaw set in a way that said he remembered every word from practice. The air changed for a second, tension sharp and electric over the thump of the speakers.
Ramon saw it first, posted up near the group talking to some girl, hand drifting to his waistband, just in case. The music kept going but the energy in that corner of the room went tight, a few heads turning, everyone clocking who was watching who.
Caine caught the shift—leaned forward, voice low but steady. “It’s cool,” he said, locking eyes with Jay for a half-beat. “Ain’t nothing.”
Jay held the stare, then tipped his chin and reached out for a quick dap—peace, at least for now. The room’s pulse picked right back up, but the message landed. Ramon relaxed, letting his hand drop, a quick smirk at Caine like, You got it.
Behind Jay, Janae stood—braids up, mouth set in a half-smile. Mireya recognized her instantly from the Mardi Gras parade, that same bold stare, like she was waiting for Caine to look her way. Their eyes caught for a split second, Janae’s chin tilting up in a way Mireya read as challenge.
Mireya felt that heat, sharp and possessive, crawl up her chest as Janae’s eyes met hers across the room—confident, bold, and a little too comfortable eyeing boys who belonged to someone else. For a half-second, Mireya wanted to cross the floor and say something reckless, but instead, she pressed herself harder against Caine, winding her hips slow and deep on him, never breaking eye contact with Janae.
Caine’s hands gripped her hips, pulling her back with intention. He leaned in, mouth close to her ear, and whispered in that dirty, playful Spanish only she got to hear:
“Si sigues bailando así me vas a poner bien duro aquí mismo, y no me importa quién está mirando.”
Mireya let a wicked smile curl on her lips, never breaking that little stare-down with Janae. Then she tossed her hair, put one arm back around his neck as she moved her ass against him, every curve and roll meant for him but her eyes making clear to Janae just who he was going home with.
She murmured back, voice low and hot in his ear, “Déjalos mirar. Te vas a acordar de esto cuando lleguemos a la casa.”
For everyone else, it was just dancing, just noise and sweat and New Orleans heat. But for Caine, this was everything—the thrill, the territory, the tension of being wanted this way, right here, right now. For Mireya, it was a show, a dare, a mark laid down, and a private game only they could play—their Spanish dirty and quick between them, the room and the rivalry and the city all melting away to nothing but this.
But even as Mireya threw her head back and lost herself in the music, and Caine let himself get lost right along with her, they both felt the world pressing at the edge of the night—a reminder that this peace, this power, this belonging was always temporary, always something you had to claim over and over, every time the beat dropped.
Caine moved down the hall, one shoulder brushing cinderblock, backpack slung low, hood half up. The school always buzzed this time of morning—sneakers squeaking, lockers slamming, the sour-sweet scent of syrup from the cafeteria drifting down the tile. He ducked his head, letting the noise roll past, doing his best to disappear.
“Yo, Caine—hold up.”
He stopped, jaw tight, turning as Mr. Landry leaned in the doorway, shirt sleeves rolled, eyes bright and tired all at once. The light behind him made a white square on the linoleum.
Caine nodded. “What’s up?”
Landry gave a half-smile. “Heard you back out with the team.”
Caine shifted his bag, barely meeting his eyes. “Yeah. Second string, though. Nothin’ special.”
Landry’s look was steady, easy. “Everybody starts somewhere. You like being back out there?”
Caine glanced off, jaw working. “It’s straight, I guess. Just tryna get on the field. Ain’t tryna get in the way.”
A group of freshmen blew past, laughing loud, one trailing the smell of cheap weed. Caine let his gaze linger on the tile until the noise faded.
“You sign up for the ACT yet?” Landry asked. “You know if plan to play college ball then you’ll need a good enough score just like any other student.”
Caine shook his head. “Nah. Didn’t really think about it. Ain’t figure all this was gon’ go anywhere.”
Landry nodded slow, reading him. “You never know. Might want to be ready, just in case. Sign up for the next one. I’ll help you get right, if you want.”
Caine shrugged, a little softer now. “Aight.”
Landry reached into his satchel and pulled out a slim paperback—The Other Wes Moore. He held it out, just enough wear at the corners to show it’d been read a few times. “Give this a look when you got a minute. Two dudes, same name, different stories. Lot of folks think the world already made up its mind about them. Don’t mean they right.”
Caine turned the book in his hands, fingers rough from catching passes. “You always got a book for me, Mr. Landry.”
Landry’s smile flickered a little wider. “You always reading them. Let me know what you think.”
Caine tucked it into his bag, feeling the weight of it. “Bet.”
Landry’s voice softened as the bell rang. “Don’t let ’em box you in, Caine. You decide your story.”
Caine nodded, slipping away, letting the hallway noise swallow him back up—book pressed flat against his ribs, the words echoing after him, half-believed but not all the way gone.
~~~
The practice field shimmered under the late-afternoon sun, grass clipped low and smelling like sweat, churned earth, and Gatorade. Whistles and the crack of pads echoed off the metal bleachers, and shouts bounced down the sideline. The city’s sounds faded out here—just ball and boys and coaches with their own kind of language.
Caine adjusted his helmet, fingers slipping on the slick plastic, heart drumming steady but hard. He lined up with the second string, feet dug into the turf, numbers on his jersey still stiff and bright from the equipment room. The starting defense squared up across from them, all cut eyes and smack talk.
“Let’s go, let’s go!” Coach Joseph barked, clipboard in hand. “Show me something!”
Darnell, the center—stocky, always grinning until he set his feet—snapped the ball with a hard thunk. Caine dropped back, scanning: Corey on the out, Tyron streaking deep, Jayden cutting underneath. The defense shifted—Marcus, the linebacker, reading Caine’s eyes, grinning like he already knew what was coming.
Jay, the starter, stood on the sideline, helmet off, head tilted, watching every throw.
Caine felt the play collapse in slow motion—defense closing, Corey blanketed. He rolled left, feet churning up mud, then snapped a pass across his body, threading it just past Marcus’ fingertips. Tyron snagged it, toe-dragged in bounds, and the sideline whooped.
“Okay then!” Darnell slapped Caine’s shoulder as they reset. “That’s what we talkin’ about!”
Jay’s voice drifted in, low, a little tight: “Solid throw, bruh.”
Caine just nodded, eyes ahead, already picturing the next read.
They ran it again. The defense bit on the run, Caine kept, slipped through a gap—someone grabbed at his jersey but he shook free, feet flying, the field stretching open. Not much, but enough. Coach Joseph’s whistle cut through, sharp.
On the sideline, Coach Joseph exchanged a glance with Coach Martin—eyebrows up, a slight nod. Coach Martin scribbled notes, eyes lingering on Caine a beat longer.
In the huddle, sweat pouring down his temple, Caine caught his breath. Darnell grinned, teeth flashing. “Keep ballin’, G. You got these boys stressed.”
Jayden nudged him. “Think you might mess around and take that spot, huh?”
Caine just shrugged, swallowing the pride before it could show. “Ain’t that y’all boy?”
Coach Joseph shouted for the second string to switch out. As Caine jogged to the sideline, the air felt cooler, but his skin burned with something sharper—wanting, maybe, or just the old itch of having something to prove.
Jay was waiting, helmet under his arm, eyes steady but not unfriendly. “Gonna be giving us some good looks on that scout team this year, whoadie.”
Caine let a small smile slip. “Yeah, something like that, lil’ bitch.”
He watched Jay walk back to the huddle, felt the weight of every gaze—coaches, teammates, maybe a few kids in the bleachers. He rolled his shoulder, eyes following the lines on the field, and for a second, it almost felt like freedom.
But the city was always right there, behind the fence and the noise—waiting to remind him where he came from, and what could still be lost.
~~~
The little boutique was all harsh overhead lights and the faint, sticky scent of cheap floral air freshener, trying and failing to cover up the old building’s must and the detergent from the back room. Racks leaned with last season’s clearance, colored hangers tangled, clothes folded and refolded till the edges went soft. Mireya’s back ached from standing since school let out, her feet burning in off-brand sneakers.
Paz was folding a stack of graphic tees, hair tied up in a scarf. “I swear, if I see another old lady come in here to buy a ‘Baddie’ shirt for her grandbaby, I’m gonna scream.”
Mireya snorted. “She probably got more money than me.”
“Girl, same,” Paz said. “Can’t wait till summer. We outside, bitch.”
The bell chimed—Angela, breezing in with that easy, messy ponytail and a cloud of body spray. She grinned, waving. “I was around the corner, figured I’d check on y’all.”
Before either of them could answer, the door opened again. Two customers—a guy in skinny jeans and golds in his mouth, his girl with sharp nails and a bag slung across her chest—came in laughing, the sound bright and wild. Angela leaned on the counter, lowering her voice. “Y’all doing anything tonight?”
Paz’s eyes flicked up. “This dude I been talking to? He said there’s a house party in Algiers. Supposed to be live. You wanna go?”
Angela waggled her brows. “I’m always down. Mireya?”
Mireya kept folding, not looking up. “Can’t. I got Camila. Y’all know that.”
Angela clicked her tongue. “Ask Sara.”
Mireya shook her head, but Paz chimed in, “Why not? Your mama watches her. Caine’s mom can too. That’s what abuelas are for.”
Mireya pressed her lips together, folding a tank top tight. She wasn’t about to dump her kid on Sara last minute, even if she probably would say yes. Guilt knotted in her stomach; she hated being the one always saying no.
The guy browsing the racks waved them over, flashing a gold-toothed grin. “Hey, my girl need a dressing room.”
Mireya nodded, motioning for the girl to follow. Up close, the customer smelled faintly of vanilla and weed; her skin was smooth, lips glossed, tight curls falling around big gold hoops. Her jeans were torn just right, hugging curves you couldn’t help but notice—the kind of confidence you could feel before you saw it.
Mireya unlocked the door, eyes flicking over the price tag on the top draped over the girl’s arm—two weeks’ gas, easy
For a second, Mireya wondered what it would feel like to wear something that expensive.
On her way back, the guy caught her eye, leaning close so only she could hear. “You like that top, huh? I could buy you one.”
Mireya kept her face flat, but there was a flicker of heat—half embarrassment, half curiosity—at being offered something just for looking good. “I’m good, thanks,” she said, but he just smirked, letting his eyes linger.
He nodded toward the fitting room. “You and my girl ‘bout the same size anyway. Y’all would look good together. I don’t mind sharin’ with a bad bitch and she don’t either. So what’s happenin’?”
Mireya let out a small, disbelieving laugh, shaking her head as she walked away. She went back to folding shirts, her mind pinging between bills and Camila and annoyance.
Angela sidled up, elbowing her. “Come on, Reya. It’ll be fun. We never do shit anymore. Live a little.”
Mireya shrugged, voice quieter. “Maybe if Camila sleeps early. I’ll let you know.”
Paz nudged her too, her eyes bright. “We got your back. You need a night out.”
The store filled with the soft hum of a pop song on the overhead speaker, the little drama of customers and coworkers unfolding in the fluorescent light. For a moment, Mireya let herself pretend—just for a second—that she could be the kind of girl who didn’t have to think about money, who could just say yes.
But when the bell over the door chimed again, she straightened, tugged her shirt down, and kept folding. Somebody had to be the one to hold it together.
~~~
The sun was setting orange through the blinds, striping the living room in gold and shadow. Sara sat on the edge of the old sofa, a laundry basket wedged between her knees, pulling apart the tight rolls of Caine’s T-shirts and jeans—everything folded up all stiff and precise, military-style, just like he started doing after jail. She smoothed out each shirt, then folded it again the old way, into a square that would fit in a drawer.
The house was restless: TV humming in one room, the rattle of pots from the kitchen, Ada singing off-key as she chopped onions for tomorrow’s breakfast.
Ximena came in, her hair back in a low twist, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She looked at Sara, head tilted, eyes gentle. “You have that look on your face, mija.”
Sara glanced up, sighing as she flattened a pair of socks that had been rolled tight as a fist. “Just thinking about him. I worry he’ll be struggling like this forever. The system don’t let up. And now—” She held up a shirt, half-smiling. “He never used to fold his clothes like this. It’s like jail followed him home.”
Ximena sat down beside her, the couch springs groaning. She took a shirt, refolded it slow and soft. “That’s what mothers do. Worry. Mira, I remember when you came home and told us you were pregnant with Caine. You were just nineteen. Scared but you tried so hard not to show it.” She smiled, a little sad. “You wouldn’t let nobody tell you nothing. Not even your papa.”
Sara snorted, shaking her head. “He threatened to throw me out every day for six months.”
Ximena chuckled. “Vicente was an old man set in his ways, Dios lo descanse. But he loved you. All of us. And that boy too, even if he pretended otherwise.”
Sara pressed a fist into her cheek, fighting a smile. “I still hear his voice sometimes. Telling me to get out his kitchen, or get off the phone, or stop letting Caine run wild.”
Ximena nodded. “Mothers never stop worrying. I still worry about all my babies. But you, especialmente. You always been stubborn. That’s why your papa called you, La Burra, remember?” She leaned in, nudging Sara’s shoulder. “And now your boy’s just the same. You see it, right?”
Sara nodded, folding another shirt the old way. “He don’t quit, that’s for sure.”
The room fell quiet for a moment, the only sound the dryer thumping in the hallway and the distant sizzle of onions in oil. Sara looked at her hands, dry from bleach and laundry soap. “Sometimes I wonder if I did enough. If this… Es por mi culpa.”
Ximena put an arm around her, soft but strong. “You did what you could. That’s all we ever do, mija. Life throws us down hills sometimes. The strong ones find ways to keep rolling, even if it’s ugly.”
Sara let herself lean in, just for a breath, closing her eyes. “I just want him to be okay.”
“He will be. Same as you. You both keep going, stubborn or not.”
The house felt warmer, quieter, just for that moment—a small peace between the chaos of work, kids, and old ghosts. Sara finished refolding the last shirt, stacking it on the pile, and let herself hope, just a little, that maybe her mother was right.
~~~
The yard at Dixon Correctional was all gray dust, chain-link, and old sweat. Even the sun felt mean here, burning the top of Ricardo’s head as he circled the cracked concrete path, jaw set, eyes steady. The air stank of bleach and boiled cabbage from the kitchen, mixing with something sour and metallic he’d come to know as fear. He moved different now—shoulders squared, eyes flat, the easy smile he used to flash on the block stripped away, left in the back of some squad car months ago.
He paused near the far fence, where the shadows of the weight pile cut sharp lines across the yard. On his left hand, just below the thumb, the black ink of the La eMe tattoo was still fresh, skin puffy, scabbing where the needle had bit. It wasn’t for show. You needed to belong to something in here, or you belonged to nobody.
Ricardo leaned on the fence, watching the new inmates cluster by the wall—young, jumpy, wearing their nervousness like bad cologne. He sized them up by habit, already calculating who’d fold, who’d be trouble, who might be useful. On the other side of the yard, Dre was bench pressing with a group of Black inmates, his laugh hard and sharp above the clang of weights.
Miguel strolled over, short and broad, with a tattooed tear under one eye and a gold tooth that caught the afternoon light. He nodded, posture relaxed but eyes alert. “Ricardo. Oye, you know if your boy, el mayate, can get at some stuff? Phones, maybe a little smoke?”
Ricardo kept his face blank, rolling a pebble under his shoe. “Depends. I don’t know how connected he is in here, but I can find out.”
Miguel leaned in, voice softer now. “You let me know, eh? Don’t keep me waiting.”
Ricardo nodded, holding the older man’s gaze. “Simón.”
Miguel drifted off, easy as anything, but the tension in the air lingered. Ricardo watched as Dre finished his set, fist-bumping a wiry dude with dreadlocks, both of them laughing too loud for this place. For a second, Ricardo almost felt the old urge to walk over, say something dumb and easy, but he caught himself—those days were done.
He flexed his hand, feeling the sting of the tattoo, and scanned the yard again—every gesture, every glance, every shadow might mean something now. Out here, being soft got you hurt. Out here, you learned to see before you got seen.
He caught Dre’s eye across the yard. Dre nodded once, real slow. Ricardo nodded back, just enough. He wondered, not for the first time, how long it’d be before the outside world stopped feeling like it was his to get back to.
A gust of wind kicked up dust and cigarette butts. Somewhere up in a tower, a guard’s radio crackled and died. Ricardo tucked his hands in his pockets, squinting into the sunlight, letting the hard quiet settle over him.
Survive today. Worry about the next one when it comes.
~~~
The house in Algiers pulsed with bass, bounce music shaking the floorboards, every surface sticky with sweat and the sweet haze of weed smoke. Inside, it was packed—shoulder to shoulder, bodies pressed in the hallway, girls in Fashion Nova and G-Nikes twerking against the walls or dropped low in the middle of the living room. Boys hyped them up, waving stacks of ones, hands on knees, sweat running down necks, the smell of hair products, fried food, and spilled liquor heavy in the air.
They rolled up deep—Caine and Mireya together, Angela and Paz, Tyree, Ramon, and E.J., all clowning each other before they even hit the door. The DJ was somebody’s cousin, spinning bounce classics and Magnolia Shorty, letting the track ride so the crowd could holler every word.
Angela was already moving, tossing her hair and dropping low, ass shaking to the beat while E.J. tried to keep up behind her, catching nothing but air as she laughed and moved on. Tyree egged him on, flashing his phone to record for Snapchat. “Damn, she curbed you, my nigga!”
Paz grinded on a boy from the West Bank, her laughter high and wild. Mireya felt the music in her bones, the bass in her chest, the heat slick between her shoulder blades. For once, she let herself forget—hands on her knees, back arched, catching the rhythm, Caine posted up on the couch with a cup, grinning as he watched her show out. She knew what she was doing, letting the whole room see, but always circling back to him, making sure he knew who she was moving for.
Caine didn’t dance much—nobody really expected him to—but when Mireya backed up into him, he didn’t shy away. Hands on her hips, low and close, he matched her sway, mouth at her ear, his words lost under the music but his touch solid, steady. Around them, the room got louder, somebody popping a bottle, shouts echoing as a new track dropped.
Paz caught Mireya’s eye, grinned, and called out, “That’s how y’all got Camila, huh?” The group cackled, Mireya flipping her off, but smiling, sweat shining on her cheeks.
Then Jay and his crew pushed through the kitchen, bouncing to the beat. Jay spotted Caine across the living room—eyes traveling up and down, as if sizing him up, jaw set in a way that said he remembered every word from practice. The air changed for a second, tension sharp and electric over the thump of the speakers.
Ramon saw it first, posted up near the group talking to some girl, hand drifting to his waistband, just in case. The music kept going but the energy in that corner of the room went tight, a few heads turning, everyone clocking who was watching who.
Caine caught the shift—leaned forward, voice low but steady. “It’s cool,” he said, locking eyes with Jay for a half-beat. “Ain’t nothing.”
Jay held the stare, then tipped his chin and reached out for a quick dap—peace, at least for now. The room’s pulse picked right back up, but the message landed. Ramon relaxed, letting his hand drop, a quick smirk at Caine like, You got it.
Behind Jay, Janae stood—braids up, mouth set in a half-smile. Mireya recognized her instantly from the Mardi Gras parade, that same bold stare, like she was waiting for Caine to look her way. Their eyes caught for a split second, Janae’s chin tilting up in a way Mireya read as challenge.
Mireya felt that heat, sharp and possessive, crawl up her chest as Janae’s eyes met hers across the room—confident, bold, and a little too comfortable eyeing boys who belonged to someone else. For a half-second, Mireya wanted to cross the floor and say something reckless, but instead, she pressed herself harder against Caine, winding her hips slow and deep on him, never breaking eye contact with Janae.
Caine’s hands gripped her hips, pulling her back with intention. He leaned in, mouth close to her ear, and whispered in that dirty, playful Spanish only she got to hear:
“Si sigues bailando así me vas a poner bien duro aquí mismo, y no me importa quién está mirando.”
Mireya let a wicked smile curl on her lips, never breaking that little stare-down with Janae. Then she tossed her hair, put one arm back around his neck as she moved her ass against him, every curve and roll meant for him but her eyes making clear to Janae just who he was going home with.
She murmured back, voice low and hot in his ear, “Déjalos mirar. Te vas a acordar de esto cuando lleguemos a la casa.”
For everyone else, it was just dancing, just noise and sweat and New Orleans heat. But for Caine, this was everything—the thrill, the territory, the tension of being wanted this way, right here, right now. For Mireya, it was a show, a dare, a mark laid down, and a private game only they could play—their Spanish dirty and quick between them, the room and the rivalry and the city all melting away to nothing but this.
But even as Mireya threw her head back and lost herself in the music, and Caine let himself get lost right along with her, they both felt the world pressing at the edge of the night—a reminder that this peace, this power, this belonging was always temporary, always something you had to claim over and over, every time the beat dropped.
American Sun
Camilla bout to have a sibling
American Sun
Didn't mean he was at that point already - but that his lack of emotional regulation plus clear obsessive behaviors towards Mireya - going as far as to say she owes him the attention - means I can see him rationalizing "taking it" when he grows tired of being rejected what he thinks should be his.
Is Mr. Landry crafted after our local bleeding heart???Caesar wrote: ↑19 Jul 2025, 00:30Landry reached into his satchel and pulled out a slim paperback—The Other Wes Moore. He held it out, just enough wear at the corners to show it’d been read a few times. “Give this a look when you got a minute. Two dudes, same name, different stories. Lot of folks think the world already made up its mind about them. Don’t mean they right.”
Jay starting to realize his time is up. Mireya realizing she's got competition - at least in her eyes. She don't know, but we know Caine ain't even glanced Janae's way like that. But got a feeling that is going to lead to a head eventually
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 4735
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
American Sun
They never learn. Doubling up on a baby is crazy 
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Chillcavern
- Posts: 952
- Joined: 07 Dec 2018, 23:38
- Contact:
American Sun
Even when they go and party, shit gets territorial 
Good that Caine can keep his shit with Jay separate from his criminal friends (for now, at least) - and glad to see that was respected. Liking that Caine has been more or less been taking the high road thus far with Jay and letting his play do the talking - as he said, he doesn’t want to get in the way, he just wants to play.
I see you loading Ramon’s (Chekov’s) gun here, though. Here’s hoping Leo or Roussel (if you’re really wanting shit to just burn again) get hit, not Caine’s competition for QB1 (or worse, a bystander/victim)
I see you with that book recommendation
Good that Caine can keep his shit with Jay separate from his criminal friends (for now, at least) - and glad to see that was respected. Liking that Caine has been more or less been taking the high road thus far with Jay and letting his play do the talking - as he said, he doesn’t want to get in the way, he just wants to play.
I see you loading Ramon’s (Chekov’s) gun here, though. Here’s hoping Leo or Roussel (if you’re really wanting shit to just burn again) get hit, not Caine’s competition for QB1 (or worse, a bystander/victim)
I see you with that book recommendation
American Sun
They can't fuck on each other because they into each other without the fear of babies because they learned about birth control?!
Mr. Landry is crafted after a professor I had at a community college, only Black male teacher I ever had. The book did come from Chill's mention thoughredsox907 wrote: ↑19 Jul 2025, 13:32Didn't mean he was at that point already - but that his lack of emotional regulation plus clear obsessive behaviors towards Mireya - going as far as to say she owes him the attention - means I can see him rationalizing "taking it" when he grows tired of being rejected what he thinks should be his.
Is Mr. Landry crafted after our local bleeding heart???Caesar wrote: ↑19 Jul 2025, 00:30Landry reached into his satchel and pulled out a slim paperback—The Other Wes Moore. He held it out, just enough wear at the corners to show it’d been read a few times. “Give this a look when you got a minute. Two dudes, same name, different stories. Lot of folks think the world already made up its mind about them. Don’t mean they right.”
Jay starting to realize his time is up. Mireya realizing she's got competition - at least in her eyes. She don't know, but we know Caine ain't even glanced Janae's way like that. But got a feeling that is going to lead to a head eventually
Mireya has been shown to be territorial over her baby daddy indeed.
Posturing never ends!Chillcavern wrote: ↑19 Jul 2025, 16:16Even when they go and party, shit gets territorial
Good that Caine can keep his shit with Jay separate from his criminal friends (for now, at least) - and glad to see that was respected. Liking that Caine has been more or less been taking the high road thus far with Jay and letting his play do the talking - as he said, he doesn’t want to get in the way, he just wants to play.
I see you loading Ramon’s (Chekov’s) gun here, though. Here’s hoping Leo or Roussel (if you’re really wanting shit to just burn again) get hit, not Caine’s competition for QB1 (or worse, a bystander/victim)
I see you with that book recommendation
We'll see how long that keeps up.
