The Beach pool deck held a hush that didn’t come from silence so much as design. Everything had been built to feel effortless. The stone tiles stayed warm but never blistering. The umbrellas cut the light without killing it. Even the breeze felt styled, drifting in from the ocean in soft layers that lifted the palm fronds and let them fall again with a lazy rustle.
Mireya lay stretched out on her lounger in the black bikini Trell chose. The barely there bikini. The sun glazed her stomach and thighs in a slow, steady heat that felt more like sinking than burning. Her drink sat beside her, condensation sliding off the glass in thin trails that pooled on the table before evaporating into the warm air.
The pool water moved like it had been coached not to ripple too hard. A pair floated near the far edge, speaking in low voices that blended in with the faint pulse of the curated playlist slipping through hidden speakers. Someone laughed softly near a cabana. A server glided past with a tray of cocktails that smelled bright and herbal. Nothing in the space shouted. Everything murmured.
Mireya let her body relax into the lounger. Her breathing slowed. The warmth sank deeper into the muscles of her legs, her stomach, the small space under her ribs. She felt the sun without fighting it. Felt the quiet without resenting it. For a moment she drifted, not asleep, not thinking, just letting her body loosen in ways it didn’t get to most days.
The light vanished from her midsection.
A shadow slid over her in one clean stroke, long enough to reach from her knees to the curve of her ribs. She opened her eyes without lifting her head.
Trell stood there.
His chain caught the sun in a sharp glint. His hands stayed tucked in his pockets, shoulders relaxed like he had all the time in the world. The sunglasses on his face reflected her body back at her, stretched out and unbothered, and the look he gave her carried no rush, no apology. Just ownership of the moment he’d stepped into.
He held the silence long enough to make it intentional. Then he sat on the lounger beside hers, the cushion dipping, the frame sighing with the shift. His knee angled toward her, close enough she felt the heat radiating off him.
“You ready?” he asked, voice low and certain.
Mireya didn’t move much. Just pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and met his eyes. “I came out here, didn’t I?”
Trell’s mouth pulled into that slow smirk. “Yeah. That’s why I fuck with you. You don’t ask stupid fucking questions. Just handle business.”
Mireya let out a small exhale that might’ve been a laugh. “Thought that’s what you had Cass for.”
Trell tilted his head. “Cass hard-headed. Wants to do her own shit. Even if it fuck up the play. Not you though.”
“Or maybe you just like how I look sitting out here,” she said
“That too,” he admitted, eyes dragging over her slowly. “But that ain’t the reason.”
She held his gaze. “You gonna tell me where we’re going?”
He leaned back. “Last time I came out here, I made a deal with these white boys out in the swamp. Cass handled it. Smoothed shit over, made him feel like he was running something.”
Mireya’s expression didn’t change. “So why am I here if Cass already knows him?”
Trell laughed under his breath, shaking his head like the answer was obvious. “I don’t want her in it. I want you doing what she do.”
Mireya let the silence stretch a second before she spoke. “And I’m guessing what she does if there’s a problem is fuck whoever needs to be fucked.”
His grin widened, bright and satisfied. “See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You get it without me needing to draw a damn picture. When you figure it out?”
“When you first asked me, Trell. I didn’t think I was coming out here to be a shooter.”
He laughed louder this time, head tipping back before he leaned in toward her again. “That’s why I keep telling you leave that school shit alone. You got a mind for this. You got a look for this. Tactical, strategic. A ‘bout her business ass bitch. What school teaching you that you don’t already know? Not a motherfucking thing.”
Mireya didn’t let the smile reach her teeth, but her lips curved, subtle and warm. The praise threaded itself through her, tightening something low in her chest. She dropped her sunglasses back over her eyes to hide the way it hit her.
“When are we going?” she asked.
Trell shifted closer, bracing a hand on her lounger, then dragging the other across her stomach in a slow pass before letting it slip down the inside of her thigh. The heat of his touch lingered long after he lifted his hand.
“Later,” he said. “I’ll have what I want you to wear ready.”
She nodded once, calm, collected, as if the touch hadn’t sent a small ribbon of heat curling through her belly. As if the praise hadn’t landed exactly where he meant it to.
Trell stood. His chain flashed again as he turned toward the path leading back to their suite. She watched the line of his shoulders, the easy roll of his steps, the way he didn’t look back.
When he disappeared behind the row of cabanas, Mireya settled deeper into the lounger, letting the sun return to her skin in slow, warming waves. The ocean breeze brushed across her legs again. The playlist shifted to something slower. The world narrowed to the weight of the sun, the faint salt in the air, the warm echo of his hand.
She closed her eyes.
And let the moment hold her.
~~~
College football filled the Hadden living room with a steady roar, the commentators riding over the crash of pads and the crowd swelling behind every play. The room had that lived-in Saturday feel, warm with the smell of Marianne’s earlier cooking and the faint sting of the cleaner she’d used on the counters before everyone showed up. The boys’ toys sat pushed against the far wall, a herd of dinosaurs and trucks left half-organized where Knox, Braxton, and Hunter had been playing before the game started.
Laney sat on the far end of the couch, not beside Tommy the way she always did. She folded her leg under herself and let her shoulder rest against the armrest, eyes on the TV without really seeing it. Tommy sat at the opposite end, leaning forward, forearms on his knees, watching the screen. His empty cup stayed on the table in front of him. He hadn’t asked for a refill. He didn’t have to.
Rylee lounged in one of the chairs with her phone tilted toward her chest, boots crossed at the ankles, expression bored. Jesse slumped on the floor beside the sofa, back against it, headphones around his neck, not paying attention to anything beyond the occasional play that got loud enough to break into whatever he was scrolling on his phone. Caleb and Gabrielle sat together on the loveseat, Caleb yelling at the refs every few minutes while Gabrielle kept one hand on his knee and one arm folded across her stomach.
Only Tommy noticed Laney sitting away from him. His eyes slid sideways every so often, checking the empty space she’d put between them.
Laney pushed herself up from the couch finally, heart thudding low in her chest. She didn’t ask Tommy if he wanted anything. She didn’t look at him. She just walked into the kitchen with her empty cup.
The kitchen felt cooler than the living room, the hum of the fridge mixing with the muted game noise drifting through the doorway. Laney opened the fridge and reached for the pitcher of sweet tea. The ice shifted as she poured, the sound loud in the quiet.
She hadn’t finished setting the pitcher back on the shelf when she felt her mother behind her.
“You don’t think your husband wants somethin’ to drink?” Marianne asked. Her voice cut sharp even though it stayed soft.
Laney didn’t turn. She kept her hand on the fridge door. “He ain’t said nothin’, so I figure he ain’t want nothin’.”
“You need to check your tone, Delaney.”
Laney pushed the fridge shut, jaw tight. “I ain’t do nothin’ but not get him a damn drink, Mama. It ain’t the end of the world.”
Marianne’s lips pressed together. “Oh, no. You won’t curse at me in my house.” She leaned just enough to call down the hall. “Franklin!”
Laney shook her head and walked out the back door, letting the screen slap behind her. The porch boards gave under her weight. The yard stretched out in front of her, grass browned in patches from the heat the week before. A faint breeze moved across her skin, pulling some of the tightness from her shoulders.
She took a long sip of tea.
The porch door opened again. “Delaney,” Marianne said, stepping out onto the boards.
Laney didn’t turn. “I’m a grown woman and he a grown man,” she said over her shoulder.
Pastor Hadden stepped out next, expression already set. “What’s the problem?”
Marianne folded her arms. “Your daughter isn’t doing her duties as a wife.”
Laney took another sip to keep from saying anything too fast. The tea hit her tongue sweet and cold. Pastor Hadden walked up and snatched the glass from her hand so violently it jerked her forward. Tea splashed across her shirt and down her stomach.
“You’ve been being flippant for a while now,” he said. “We didn’t raise you like this. You won’t disrespect this family’s name by not doing one of the only things God’s asked of you.”
Laney pressed her lips into a thin line, breath shaking once before she got it under control.
Marianne stepped closer. “What kind of example you setting for your sister?”
Laney gave a short laugh, humorless. “That ship done sailed long ago. But you ain’t worried about what kinda example Caleb settin’ for Jesse as usual.”
Pastor Hadden’s hand shot out. He grabbed her wrist hard enough that the sharp pinch of bone-on-bone made her gasp. Her arm twisted under the pressure.
“You’re hurtin’ me,” Laney said, voice nearly steady.
“I think you forgettin’ your place, girl. Your husband is the head. You’re at his feet.”
Laney yanked her arm free. The skin throbbed where his fingers had been. He pointed toward the house.
“You better go fix it.”
Laney bent to pick up the dropped glass out of the grass. Dirt clung to the rim. She brushed it off with her palm and walked back inside without waiting for either of them.
The living room went quiet when she stepped in, the shift immediate. Even the boys slowed down. Jesse pulled one headphone back, watching her with a blank stare. Rylee sat up straighter. Caleb stopped mid-rant. Tommy didn’t look at her at first.
Laney walked to the couch and sat beside him, spine straight, hands in her lap. Always behind him. Always smaller.
She leaned in and whispered, “I’m sorry for how I’ve been acting.”
Tommy glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, still watching the game. He didn’t nod. He didn’t speak right away. Then his hand came up and gripped the back of her neck, thumb pressing below her ear.
He leaned in, voice low enough nobody else could hear. “I keep telling you to stop stepping out of line but you too fucking stupid to listen.”
Laney fought the instinct to pull away. She didn’t move.
Tommy let go of her neck and sat back like nothing had happened, eyes on the TV again.
Laney folded her hands tighter, one over the other, her wrist still throbbing under her sleeve. Pastor Hadden came in behind her, taking his usual seat, eyes fixed on her like he was still waiting for something.
She didn’t look back.
She just sat there, breathing slow, tasting the leftover sweetness of the tea he’d ripped out of her hands.
~~~
The noise in Atlanta hit Caine before the snap did, the whole stadium buzzing with that sick rivalry energy that always got under his skin. Blue seats, blue shirts, blue everything. Georgia State players jawing across the line, pointing at his legs, telling him he was leaving Atlanta on a stretcher.Caine ignored all of it.
He wiped his hands on his towel, stepped up to the line, and barked the cadence. The Panthers’ nickel corner cheated inside just a hair. Jeremiah saw it too, chin dipping once, the signal they didn’t need words for.
“Set… go!”
The ball hit Caine’s hands and the pocket formed tight around him. The nickel blitzed right on cue, flying through the B-gap with bad intentions. Caine slid left, eyes already on Jeremiah streaking across the middle. Jeremiah snapped out of his break, shaking the safety with that quick shoulder fake.
Caine planted and rifled it.
Jeremiah caught it in stride, ball thudding into his chest as he tucked and turned upfield. Sixteen yards before anybody even breathed on him.
Georgia State’s sideline booed.
Jeremiah spun the ball on the turf and glared right at the safety like, You too slow for that shit.
…
The Panthers had only gotten louder, barking across the line like they hadn’t just gotten cooked. The linebacker closest to Caine leaned in, voice just low enough to make it personal.
“You soft, nigga. You ain’t runnin’ on us today.”
Caine popped his mouthpiece. “Shut yo bitch ass up,” he said, and got set in the shotgun.
Jeremiah lined up tight to the formation this time, weight forward, ready to snap his route off quick. The safety shaded over him, practically begging Caine to force it.
Caine took the snap and rolled right, dragging the defense with him. Jeremiah jab-stepped outside, then slashed underneath, losing the safety completely.
Ten yards. Easy money.
Caine put the ball on him before the linebacker could close. Jeremiah caught it, dropped his shoulder, and drove right through the safety who’d been chirping earlier. The hit echoed. The safety staggered back, grabbing for balance.
Jeremiah stood over him for a half-second.
Caine jogged up beside him.
“Yeah, bitch, what’s good, nigga?” Jeremiah said toward the fallen safety.
And the stadium booed even louder.
…
Georgia State tried to disguise coverage this time, rotating late, crowd stomping like they wanted the whole stadium to collapse around Caine. The Panthers’ defensive end pointed at him again, tapping his helmet.
Caine beckoned at him with a wave of his hand.
He scanned the field. Dylan settled into his stance, balanced, patient. The Panthers treated him like an afterthought with all the attention going to Jermiah. Their mistake.
Snap.
Caine dropped straight back this time, pocket holding just long enough. The linebacker blitzed off the edge and got a hand on Caine’s jersey, twisting him sideways. Caine yanked free, reset his feet, and saw Dylan slip behind the zone.
Sixteen yards of daylight.
He fired it. A dart.
Dylan snatched it clean, turned upfield, and dragged a defender three yards before they finally wrestled him down.
The Panthers’ crowd groaned.
Their sideline cursed.
Caine stood over the spot where Dylan went down and stared right at the blitzing linebacker.
“It’s all fucking night, pussy,” he said through his facemask. “BTA, bitch.”
And the drive kept rolling.
…
The noise in the stadium hit a different pitch when Georgia Southern got down into the redzone. Caine could feel it humming in the ground under his cleats.
He wiped his hand once on his towel. David lined up behind him. Jeremiah set wide left, tugging at his gloves, eyes locked on his corner. The Panthers’ defensive front crouched low like they’d been waiting all game for this one play.
One of their linemen pointed straight at Caine through his facemask.
“I’m coming for you, nigga!”
Caine didn’t bite. He dropped his chin, barked the cadence.
“Set…!”
The defensive line twitched, hungry.
“Go!”
The snap came hot. Too hot. Caine barely got the laces spun before the right side of the pocket collapsed. Their defensive tackle swam over Chandler like he wasn’t even there and shot straight through the gap.
Caine braced, rolled left—
—and the end came free off the edge untouched.
He never saw him until the last second.
The hit exploded in his ribs. The breath punched out of him. His arm jerked forward reflexively, ball loosening just enough for the second defender to punch it clean out of his grip.
The ball skittered across the turf like it wanted to leave the stadium.
A linebacker scooped it at full sprint.
“Fuck—” Caine took off.
The stadium roared. Georgia State’s sideline spilled forward, pointing downfield as the linebacker broke past the forty, then the fifty. Caine chased, lungs burning, fury bubbling up hotter with every step. He cut through two Panthers who tried to shield the return, shoulder-checking one hard enough to make the guy stumble.
The linebacker hit the thirty.
Then the twenty.
Caine closed the last five yards and launched.
Their bodies crashed near the ten. Caine wrapped him up, dragging him down with a full deadweight tackle that wiped both of them across the turf. The crowd screamed over the whistle.
The linebacker rolled onto his back, laughing, helmet pointed at the sky.
Caine shoved up off his chest.
“Get yo’ bitch ass up,” Caine snapped, chest heaving.
The linebacker sat up, leaned forward, and bumped his facemask into Caine’s.
“You soft like wet flowers, nigga. Real niggas hit you and you drop that shit like a bitch?”
Caine smirked through the bars of his facemask.
“I got you, motherfucker,” he said. “You gonna have to see me. You gonna have to see me.”
The linebacker shot back, “It’s all day, fuck nigga. All day.”
The ref stepped between them, arms wide.
“That’s enough! Back to your sidelines!”
Caine backed away slow, eyes locked on the linebacker, jaw flexing.
The stadium buzzed around him. Georgia State celebrated like they’d won the whole damn Sun Belt.
He jogged back toward his sideline with one thought cutting through everything else:
You gonna have to see me.
…
The first thing Caine heard when he jogged back onto the field wasn’t the whistle, or the band, or even his own heartbeat hammering hot in his chest.
It was the chant.
“OVERRATED! OVERRATED! OVERRATED!”
Thousands of Georgia State fans throwing it right at him, palms pointed down, voices bouncing off the concrete bowl of the stadium.
Caine didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge any of it.
He just stepped into the shotgun spot at the thirty-two, feet set wide, hands loose in front of him. The fumble still burned in his ribs. The return. The tackle. The linebacker laughing in his face.
Georgia State smelled it.
They were talking again.
“That boy rattled!”
“You ain't built for this, ten!”
“Show me something, nigga!”
Caine locked his jaw.
Ware looked at him across the formation, checking him like he was making sure Caine was still in there. Caine didn’t give him a nod, just barked out the call.
“Trips right! Zip motion! On one! On one!”
David slid across the formation at the snap count, hands ready. Caine lifted one foot, brought it down, and clapped once—
Ball.
It hit his hands in the pocket and everything went sideways instantly.
Collin got beat clean. The defensive end didn’t even hit a move. He just ripped through the block and came straight for Caine. At the same time, the nose tackle looped around Chandler and shot into the backfield untouched.
Caine planted, trying to slide up in the pocket, but there was no pocket.
Just pressure. Just blue jerseys.
The end wrapped him from behind and yanked him down hard. Caine hit the turf at an angle, grass pellets exploding around his helmet.
Eight yards lost.
The crowd erupted like it was a touchdown.
Caine rolled up onto one knee, breath hot inside his facemask. The defensive tackle walked past him slow, brushing his shoulder pads with the back of his hand.
“You scared yet, Guerra? You pissing down your leg, nigga!”
Caine shot up to his feet, chest to chest with him. Shoving him back, a scrum starting almost instantly.
“I’ll fucking kill you, bitch. We can die about it! We can take it there!”
The tackle laughed. “Boy, you already cracked.”
Before Caine could fire back, he heard it: “TIMEOUT! TIMEOUT!”
Coach Aplin.
Caine turned and stalked toward the sideline, fury shaking through him. Even the offense backed out of his path. Jermiah muttered “Damn…” under his breath and didn’t try to stop him.
Aplin met him at the numbers, palm planted firmly on Caine’s chest plate.
“Breathe,” Aplin said. Calm voice. Firm hand. “Settle your ass down.”
“I’m good,” Caine snapped back.
“You’re not,” Aplin said. “You’re playin’ pissed, not playin’ smart. Lock in.”
Behind them, Georgia State kept chirping.
“Soft!”
“He folding already!”
“Keep hittin’ him!”
Caine turned just enough for them to see his visor tilt their way.
No words. Just murder in the way he looked at them.
Aplin leaned in. “You want this game? Take it. Stop letting them drag you into stupid.”
Caine sucked in a slow breath. The anger didn’t cool, but it sharpened. Focused. Settled into something dangerous.
He stepped back into the huddle.
The chants kept coming.
“OVERRATED! OVERRATED!”
Caine just nodded then listened for the call from Coach Fatu.
…
“Caine Guerra and the Georgia Southern offense looking uncharacteristically shaky to start this game as they line up on 2nd and 18 after that sack.”
“Well, you know what they say, throw the records out of the window for rivalry games. Georgia State has come to play today!”
“Guerra gets the snap and rockets it across the middle to Josh Dallas and he’s going to pick up the first down with a gain of 23!”
“Guerra’s waving them back to the line! Going tempo!”
…
“Guerra rolls out of the pocket and takes it himself. For five, ten, fifteen yards on the play!”
…
“The Eagles aren’t slowing down here. Back up to the line of scrimmage already. Guerra drops back, steps up to avoid the pressure and he’s got Gray down the field for 19 and into the redzone again!”
…
“Rogers piles into the endzone and that’s Georgia Southern up on the board and in the lead!”
“Ryan Aplin dialed up the speed after that shaky start and it looks like the Panthers couldn’t cope with it. Let’s see how Georgia State bounces back.”
…
“Hatter goes down in the backfield and the Panthers are going to have to punt!”
…
“Ware makes the grab and that’s 27 for the Eagles!”
…
“Rogers powers his way in and that’s his second touchdown of the game!”
…
The chants were dying, and Caine heard the fear tucked under the noise now. Georgia State had gone quiet in pockets, like they didn’t recognize the scoreboard sitting at 13–3. Like they’d given up and had accepted what was coming.
Caine stood in shotgun at the twelve, tapping his fingers against his thigh, eyes reading the defense pre-snap. Jeremiah lined up tight to the formation, bouncing on his toes, that grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.
The Panthers’ nickel kept screaming at Caine.
“I’m locking him up, ten! He ain’t touching the ball!”
Caine didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge him.
He lifted his foot, clapped—
Ball.
The snap hit his hands and the whole play unfolded in front of him like he’d seen it in a dream. Edge pressure. Late safety rotation. Linebacker leaning the wrong way. And Jeremiah breaking inside with a burst that made the corner stumble.
Caine fired immediately.
A dart to the chest.
Jeremiah caught it at the one and bulldozed through the safety, dragging him across the goal line.
Touchdown.
And the scoreboard jumped:
GEORGIA SOUTHERN — 19
GEORGIA STATE — 3
Jeremiah popped up first, screaming at the student section, arms wide like he wanted them to see every inch of it. The stadium’s noise cracked, broke, then sagged under the weight of it.
Caine jogged downfield behind him, adrenaline ripping through him in hot waves. Jeremiah tossed him the ball. Caine caught it, spun it once in his palm, and walked straight up to the corner who’d promised he’d “lock him up.”
Helmet to helmet.
“Locked up, huh, bitch?” Caine said, voice low and icy. “Talk that shit now, pussy. Talk that shit now!”
The corner shoved him. Caine didn’t move.
“Whazzam, lil’ bitch?” Caine said. “Why you so quiet?”
A ref rushed between them, hands out, shouting for separation. Caine backed away slow, visor still on the corner, letting the whole stadium watch him.
Jeremiah slapped the back of his helmet as they turned toward the sideline.
“Run these boys out the building then.”
Caine didn’t smile.
Just jogged off the field.
…
“Guerra finds Ware again in the endzone and it’s 29-3 here in the third quarter.”
“Scott, do you remember at the beginning of this game when it looked like Georgia State might have what it took to beat this team?”
“I sure do. I think the kids would say to this: life comes at you fast.”
“It sure does.”
…
The stadium was dead.
Not quiet—dead.
Like the whole place had swallowed its own voice and didn’t know how to breathe anymore.
Caine stood in shotgun one last time, even though the play wasn’t his. The scoreboard above him glowed bright in the dying minutes of the fourth:
GEORGIA SOUTHERN — 33
GEORGIA STATE — 10
Georgia State’s defense didn’t even disguise the defeat on their faces now. Shoulders slumped. Hands on hips. Helmets tilted like the weight of the night sat inside the plastic.
To seal it, all Georgia Southern needed was one more snap.
Caine looked to his right at Nate, who nodded once, already knowing it wasn’t about yards anymore—.
The crowd was restless. Boos. Silence. Scattered shouts. All of it mixing with the tension that comes when a rivalry game dies long before the clock does.
Caine clapped—
Ball.
Nate took the handoff and pushed forward, bodies collapsing around him. One yard. Maybe less. It didn’t matter. The clock kept rolling.
And that was it.
Georgia Southern started pouring onto the field the second the whistle blew, helmets raised, gloves in the air, and every single one of them holding up four fingers right in Georgia State’s faces.
Four.
As in four straight wins in the rivalry.
Four as in dominance.
Four as in, We own y’all.
Caine walked right into the middle of the chaos, helmet still on, chin strap hanging loose. He wasn’t celebrating like the others. He was hunting—eyes locked on any Panther player still standing upright and close enough to hear him.
One linebacker tried to shoulder past him.
Caine stepped right into his path.
“You mad, huh, lil’ bitch?!” he shouted, holding the fingers an inch from the guy’s visor. “You quiet, huh? You buku drove, huh?! This my house, bitch!”
Another Georgia State defensive back barked something under his breath as he passed.
Caine spun on him.
“I’m soft, huh?! I’m soft, huh?! That’s what y’all were saying all fucking game! Let’s talk, now!”
The guy kept walking.
Caine followed three steps, furious, electric, unstoppable heat pouring off him. Dwight and Donnie dragged him back just enough to keep him from earning a flag that didn’t matter anymore.
Dwight laughed. “Relax, bro. Ain’t nobody hearin’ him. They done.”
Caine shook him off—still charged, still hot.
“Fuck all that. They wanted to talk, right? ‘Overrated’? ‘This they state’? Yeah? How’d that go?”
He lifted the four fingers again, sweeping them across every Georgia State player within reach.
Most of them wouldn’t look at him.
Some did—and looked away just as fast.
Coach Aplin caught him by the arm as he finally drifted toward the sideline.
“You good?” Aplin asked, though he already knew the answer.
Caine nodded, but the fire in his eyes didn’t dim.
“Good,” Aplin said. “Let ’em feel it. They earned that.”
On the far end of the field, the Georgia Southern fans made their own wall of raised fours, a sea of hands cutting through the stadium’s blue seats.
Caine stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling, sweat cooling inside his pads, rivalry heat still buzzing in his teeth.
And he jawed until the last Georgia State player disappeared into the tunnel.
~~~
Mireya leaned against the rented SUV Dez and Ant had driven in from Louisiana, the cool metal pressing through the thin cotton at the small of her back. The hood still ticked from the ride out. Red dust clung to the tires and lower panels where the road had turned from highway to washboard gravel and then to the packed dirt that passed for a driveway out here.
She looked past the hood toward the yard. It felt wrong to call it anything else. A wide stretch of flattened grass and dirt spread out in front of the low house and the big metal-sided barn. Ruts cut through the ground where trucks had turned in circles over and over. Someone had dragged a folding table near the barn and covered it with beer cans and plastic cups. A burn barrel off to the side coughed up a slow column of gray smoke. The smell rolled over them in layers. Old beer, wet wood, sweat and cologne, the sour breath of the swamp drifting in from the tree line.
A dozen white men lounged in loose knots across the yard with bottles in their hands. Some leaned against trucks with lift kits and mud still dried in the wheel wells. Others sat on the back steps or on overturned buckets near the barrel. Confederate flags hung from the porch rail and the barn door, the red and blue sharp against the dull metal and peeling paint. Every time the light wind caught one, the fabric snapped once and settled.
Scattered among them, maybe half a dozen women moved slow, laughing too loud at nothing. One climbed into a man’s lap in the bed of a pickup, skirt rucked up high on her thighs. Another stood between two men and let them pass a cigarette back and forth around her head, her eyes already glassy.
Mireya shifted her weight on her heel and felt the hem of her dress graze the top of her thigh. The dress fit like somebody had poured it on her at the hotel. Strapless, plunging from her collarbone down the center of her chest, stopping around her waist. The fabric grabbed her curves without fighting them. The skirt was barely there, cut high under her ass, every breath threatening to show more. Her hair fell down her back in soft waves. The heels stabbed into the soft ground.
They were the only ones out here who weren’t white. Mireya could feel it. Every time a laugh broke across the yard, eyes slid their way for a second and then moved on.
“It fucking stinks out here,” she muttered.
Ant let out a short snort, the sound more air than laugh. He stood close enough that his elbow almost brushed hers, one hand tucked into the front of his hoodie, fingers resting on the pistol shoved into his waistband. He didn’t bother to hide it. His gaze stayed on the yard, slow, steady sweeps.
Dez shifted on her other side, shoulder leaning against the SUV just behind hers. “You really out here to do something?” he asked, voice low enough that it barely carried past the car.
Mireya turned her head, catching him in her peripheral first, then letting her eyes slide over him proper.
“If I got to,” she said.
He opened his mouth like he had more. “You don’t need to be doing all this shit, though.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Doing what?”
Dez shifted again, foot scraping over the dirt. “You know what I’m talk—”
Ant’s fingers snapped once in the space between them. The sound cut across Dez’s words. He didn’t look away from the yard.
“Shut the fuck up, nigga,” Ant said. “You supposed to be making sure them white boys keep they eyes on they cousins and not Trell.”
Dez’s jaw flexed. “They cousins?” he echoed, glancing around like he was actually checking who Ant meant.
Mireya sucked her teeth. “The women,” she said.
Ant shook his head once, still watching the yard. “Exactly.”
Near the barn, Trell and Cass stood a few steps away from the two men they were talking to. The men both wore camo shirts and boots, beer bottles cramped in their hands. One had a beard that looked like it had been grown out on purpose and then given up on halfway. The other’s face was all sun and lines. Their heads bent in toward Trell, like they needed him to hear the important parts up close and didn’t trust anybody else.
Cass hung back half a step from them, arms folded under her chest, weight on one hip. Her eyes never stopped moving. Every few seconds they tracked from the men’s mouths to Trell’s face, then out across the yard and back again.
Trell broke off mid-sentence and glanced over his shoulder. His gaze found Mireya quick, as if he had known exactly where she was. He jerked his chin once, a small.
“Go on,” Ant said under his breath, mostly for her. “That’s you.”
Mireya pushed off the SUV. Dirt crunched under her heels as she walked. The little groups in the yard didn’t go quiet, but she felt the shift. Heads turning, conversations thinning, the way every man near the truck line watched the cut of her dress as she passed.
The closer she got, the more she could smell them. Cheap body spray under real sweat. Tobacco. The sharp tang of whatever they had been cleaning guns with earlier. One of the men with Trell tipped his chin up when he saw her, eyes dropping straight to her chest and then lower. The other’s gaze did the same. Predatory, lazy, like they were at a livestock auction and she was just another thing to look over before they talked money.
She took a breath through her nose. Quick. Enough to set her shoulders and smooth the inside of her mouth. Luna slid into place beneath her skin. Her spine loosened just enough for her hips to roll when she walked. Her mouth softened into a slow smile, eyes turning warm even though they stayed sharp. She let herself glow a little, same way she did under the lights, letting the air think she liked being seen.
…
The tub in the hotel bathroom was big enough that Mireya could stretch her legs out and still not touch the far end. Warm water lapped against her shins every time she breathed deep. The tile walls around her were bright and clean, pale stone catching reflections off the chrome. The air held hotel soap and something floral from the bath salts she had dumped in earlier. Under it all, the faint trace of whatever she had scrubbed off herself clung around the edges.
Her skin was still pink across her shoulders and thighs from where she’d gone at herself with the washcloth when they first got back. Now the cloth sat in a small heap on the ledge, wrung dry, forgotten. She had let herself sink down until the water reached the top of her chest. Steam had thinned, leaving the glass on the shower door only half fogged.
Her head rested against the curve of the tub. Eyes closed. Her mind had already moved away from the yard, away from the barn and the flags and the way those men’s hands had felt. It sat instead on exam dates and the study guide on her laptop back in New Orleans. Which professor was going to give partial credit. How fast she could finish if she didn’t get distracted.
The door opened somewhere beyond the bathroom. The faint muffled click reached her under the hum of the vent fan. Footsteps crossed the other room, slow and sure over thick carpet, then turned onto the tile. She didn’t open her eyes. She knew the weight of Trell’s steps. The way he carried his shoulders into a room like the air should already know him.
His shoes sounded different once he hit the bathroom. Leather against tile, dull thuds. He came to a stop beside the tub. She felt him more than saw him, the shift in the air, the little dip in the echo.
“You good?” he asked.
She opened her eyes and turned her head. Trell had one knee down on the floor now, forearm resting on the lip of the tub. The other leg stayed planted, keeping him anchored. His chain caught the bathroom light. His face sat open, that curve at the corner of his mouth already halfway there, like he expected her to say yes.
“Yeah,” she said. “Ain’t shit I ain’t never done before.”
Trell’s smirk deepened. He reached down to the duffel bag sitting on the tile by his foot and unzipped it enough to get his hand inside. Plastic crackled. When his hand came back up, he held a brick of money wrapped tight in clear vacuum seal. The bills inside stacked clean, edges lined up.
“This what you got us tonight, baby,” he said. He turned it in his hand so she could see the thickness. “You did that.”
Mireya’s gaze locked on the money. It didn’t look real at first. It looked like something from a movie. More than she had ever seen at one time.
She lifted her eyes back to his face. “You trying to be my pimp or my man?” she asked.
It came out easy, half tease, half question that had weight under it.
Trell set the money on the tile for a second and leaned in closer. One hand came up to cup her jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, fingers warm against damp skin.
“Your man,” he said. “You good at this, the same way I’m good at shit. If you want a nigga walked down, you’d call me, right?”
Mireya’s shoulder shrugged up just enough to make the water move. “Yeah, probably,” she said.
“I just need a down ass bitch to balance shit out,” he went on. “You not scared of none of this. And you a paper chaser. I love that shit.”
The words sat warm on her chest. Praise from Trell always landed. It slid past the part of her that knew he was working an angle and went straight to the girl who had spent years in the background, always wrong. He saw that and called it something good.
Her mouth curved, small but real. She nodded once.
“Alright,” she said.
Trell let his hand fall from her jaw and picked the money back up. He slid it into the bag, pushed it down among whatever else he had packed, and dragged the zipper closed with a quick pull.
“Lemme go bring this shit back to Ant,” he said as he stood. “You got room in there for me when I come back?”
He looked down at her, one eyebrow lifting a little. Water clung to her collarbones. She paused, let the question roll through her along with the echo of his praise, then nodded.
“Yeah,” she said. “I got room.”
That was all he needed. Trell smiled, bright for a second. Then he turned and walked out of the bathroom, bag hanging off his hand. She heard him cross the suite, heard the outer door open and close again. The quiet folded back in after him.
Mireya tipped her head back and stared up at the ceiling. For a long breath she didn’t think about the yard or the money. She thought about a practice test she still needed to print, about how many nights she’d have to work when she got home to make sure she had everything lined up.
Then she moved.
She slid down until the water closed over her face. Sound dropped out in a rush. The world turned to muffled heartbeat and the feel of water pressing at her ears. She kept her eyes open until the sting got sharp, then squeezed them shut and counted off a few slow seconds in her head.
When she came back up, she did it fast. Air hit her mouth and nose. Water streamed down her hair, over her lashes, down the sides of her face and onto the tile in thin rivers. She coughed once when a little of it went wrong down her throat, wiped at her nose with the back of her wrist, and then settled back against the tub again.
Her eyes slid closed. The ceiling, the yard, Trell’s smile, the brick of money, all of it blurred together and thinned out until only the next exam date stayed sharp.
