Laney rolled off him slow, her skin slick with sweat, and landed on her back beside him. The ceiling over Caine’s bed stared down flat and off-white, a faint water mark blurring one corner near the fan. The room still smelled like sex and laundry detergent, the air heavy and warm in the way it got when the sun had been leaning on the blinds for a while.
Caine dragged in a breath and pushed himself up, shoulders sliding against the wall at the head of the bed until he sat half propped. The sheets bunched at his waist. He scrubbed the back of his wrist across his forehead, catching the sweat there, then wiped his palm down his face once more.
His phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark. He leaned over her to reach it, careful not to plant his weight on her ribs. The cord of the charger brushed her shoulder. He thumbed the screen awake, glanced at the numbers, and huffed a quiet sound that wasn’t quite a laugh.
“You gonna be late,” he said.
Laney’s chest still rose and fell harder than usual, air moving through her in long pulls. She didn’t look at him yet. She just lifted one shoulder in a shrug, eyes on the ceiling.
“I know the boss,” she said. “She ain’t gon’ mind none.”
That pulled a laugh out of him, low in his throat. He dropped the phone back onto the nightstand, face down, and let his hand fall to his thigh.
“Yeah,” he said. “She gave me the mornin’ off ’cause she been workin’ me too hard.”
“Mm-hm.” Laney rolled toward him, turning onto her stomach. The sheet dragged with her, slipping down to the curve of her back. She slid up until she was stretched half across him, her chest pressed to his side, chin resting on the flat of his sternum. Her hair trailed over his skin, damp where it touched.
For a second she let herself just breathe there, feeling his heart knock slow under her jaw. Then she tipped her head back enough to see his face.
“I need to tell you somethin’,” she said.
His eyes dropped from the ceiling to her. One corner of his mouth pulled, not quite a smile.
“The last time a woman said some shit like that to me,” he answered, “I got told I was gonna be a father.”
Her mouth twitched. “Well, it’s a good thing you’ve done this before …”
The words slipped out light, teasing. A laugh bubbled up with them. She snorted once, shoulders shaking against his side.
“Man, watch out with that shit,” he said.
He didn’t sound mad, but he didn’t laugh with her either. Her laughter thinned out, then died. For a beat the room held only the buzz of the AC unit and the faint rush of a car passing on the street below.
Laney lowered her eyes, following the line of his chest, the rise and fall of it. Her fingers picked at a wrinkle in the sheet near his hip, smoothing it flat, then creasing it again.
“Blake told me the other day that he knows about us,” she said.
The words were plain, dropped between them without decoration.
Caine sucked his teeth once, quiet. His hand went up to his hair and pushed back through his dreads, palm dragging slow over his scalp. He stared past her toward the closet door for a second, then back down.
“What’d you tell him?” he asked.
“I lied,” she said. “Told him he was confused from all the drugs he does.”
Her voice stayed even, but her jaw worked once. She could still see Blake’s face by the van, the way his eyes had cut sharp over her being late, the way his words had hung between them like he’d already decided he was right.
“You think he’s gonna tell your husband?” Caine asked.
Laney nodded against his chest. “Yeah, he will,” she said. “He’s mad about some other shit, but he would’ve done it anyway, just ‘cause they don’t get along. ’Cause Tommy’s so much better off than him, you know?”
Caine blew out a breath. “I guess,” he said. “I ain’t got no siblings to be jealous.”
His fingers slid absently along the curve of her shoulder, not quite a touch, more a pass of his knuckles against her skin while he thought. His gaze dropped back to her face.
“So, this the end of this for real then?” he asked. “Between us?”
Laney’s eyes lifted to his. She watched his face for a long second, like she was weighing something she’d already decided on. Then she pushed herself up, palms pressing into his chest as she shifted.
She swung one leg over his, the mattress dipping under her knee until she straddled him, settling into the cradle of his hips. The sheet bunched between them. Her hands planted on either side of his shoulders, holding herself up so her face was inches from his, their breaths already mixing in the small space.
“No,” she said.
Her voice came low, steady now. Up this close he could see the faint flush still riding high on her cheeks, the damp at her hairline.
“Because if I’m fucked anyway,” she went on, “then I might as well keep doin’ what feels good till I cain’t anymore.”
Caine held her eyes. His hands slid to her thighs, fingers resting light against her skin.
“You the boss, boss lady,” he said.
That pulled a real smile out of her this time. It softened her mouth, reached the corners of her eyes. She let it sit there for a heartbeat, then leaned down, closing the last bit of space between them, and kissed him.
~~~
Trell stood on the sidewalk in front of the row of shotgun houses. The narrow fronts ran tight along the block, paint peeling in spots where the weather had gotten to it. The air carried that wet New Orleans chill that found its way through clothes instead of sitting neat on top of them.
Next door a small knot of dopeboys posted in front of a leaning porch, shoulders hunched in hoodies and bubble jackets. They watched the street with quick little sweeps of their heads, eyes moving from the corner where a cop car might slide up to the end of the block where the first fiend usually came shuffling through. A couple of them had styrofoam cups tucked in their palms. One shifted a weighty plastic grocery bag from one hand to the other, the sound of it crackling under his fingers.
They clocked Trell before he stepped off the curb. One by one they lifted their chins in the little nod. Trell answered with his own nod and cut across the patchy grass toward them, hands out of his pockets by the time he hit the bottom of the steps.
He dapped them up in a row, palms hitting, fingers snapping off. “Business good?” he asked.
The oldest of the group, a dude with a thin beard and bags under his eyes, glanced down the block once more before answering. “It’s straight this mornin’,” he said. “This cold got all the fiends stayin’ in them bandos right now.”
Trell gave a slow nod, eyes tracking the empty space where the usual traffic should have been. A car rolled past without slowing, music thudding low through the glass, then kept going. “Make sure y’all get off all that before y’all go lookin’ to re-up,” he said.
All of them nodded, a little wave that moved down the line. Trell clapped the oldest on the shoulder once, then turned away and headed for the house in the middle of the row.
Empty beer bottles lay along the bottom step, brown glass tagged with old labels. He stepped over them, shoes landing on the soft spot in the wood where it sagged. The front door had a crooked screen hanging open, one hinge barely holding on. He knocked once, knuckles rapping against the frame, then pushed the door in with his palm.
The smell hit first. Weed, sweat, fried food from some long-gone night, all settled into the sagging couch cushions and the thin carpet. The TV on the far wall played some daytime show muted, colors flickering across the room with no sound to match. The controller sat facedown on the floor.
On the couch Ant had a woman bent over the arm, his hands locked on her hips. Skin met skin in steady rhythm. The woman’s hair fell forward, hiding most of her face, but the sound of the door opening made her head jerk up. Her eyes went wide when she saw Trell in the doorway.
She shoved back against Ant’s chest with one hand, twisting away from him. “Shit,” she hissed, grabbing for her shorts where they hung off the back of the couch. She hopped on one foot, then the other as she yanked them up.
Trell turned his head toward the little end table by the door, hand reaching for the first thing on it. An old magazine lay there, cover curled at the corner. He picked it up and flipped it open without really seeing the pages, giving her his back.
Behind him Ant let out a breath like he couldn’t believe it. “I keep tellin’ your ass he don’t give a fuck about that, Naomi,” he said.
“That don’t mean you shouldn’t lock the fuckin’ door,” she shot back, voice sharp as she wrestled with her waistband.
Ant pulled his own shorts up, elastic snapping against his waist. “Just go wait in the bedroom,” he said, not looking at her.
Naomi sucked her teeth, the sound cutting through the muted TV light, and stalked toward the back of the house. Her bare feet slapped softly on the warped floorboards until a door opened and shut down the short hall.
Trell let the magazine fall closed and set it back on the table. He looked up, finally bringing his eyes back to Ant. “You really should lock the door though,” he said. “What if the jakes come here?”
Ant shook his head and pointed his chin toward the window that faced the next house. “The shit over there,” he said. “Ain’t nothin’ in here but dirty drawers and the game.”
A PS4 sat under the TV, light bar dark, wires snaking behind the stand. Trell glanced at it and shook his head. He dug into his pocket, fingers finding the roll of money he kept there. The rubber band dug into his fingertips when he peeled it off and slid a few hundreds free.
He held them out. “Go buy a fuckin’ PS5, man.”
Ant squinted at the bills for a half second, then grinned and took them. “You know, I don’t know shit about them new systems,” he said, even as he folded the money and tucked it into his pocket.
“You ain’t go lay down until after that shit came out,” Trell said.
Ant shrugged and dropped back onto the same threadbare couch he’d just had Naomi bent over. The springs squeaked under his weight. He leaned back, one arm thrown over the backrest, looking up at Trell. “That ain’t the same as knowin’ how to work it,” he said.
Trell let that slide. He shifted his weight, glancing once toward where Naomi had disappeared, then back. “Cass came to the crib the other day,” he said.
Ant’s eyebrow climbed. “Yeah?” he asked.
Trell sucked his teeth, cutting off whatever look Ant thought he was giving him. “With some business shit, nigga,” he added.
Ant’s gaze slid off him for a second as he reached for the coffee table. A half-burned joint sat in an ashtray surrounded by old roaches and gray ash. He picked it up, checked the tip, then sparked it with a lighter he pulled from his pocket. The first draw lit the cherry bright, smoke curling up between them before he let it out.
“What business shit?” he asked, smoke seeping from the corner of his mouth.
“She gon’ tell us where P used to get his guns,” Trell said. “Some crazy white boys out in the Everglades, but that’s all she told me.”
Ant took another drag and sat with that a second, eyes on Trell through the haze. “You want me to go get the names out of her?” he asked.
Trell waved the idea off with a flick of his wrist. “Nah,” he said. “She’ll give us the names. We just gotta bring her out there and give her a cut.”
Ant nodded slow, the joint hanging between his fingers. “You the boss,” he said. “When we goin’ out there?” He paused, then added, “Wherever there is.”
“Miami,” Trell said. “This weekend. Me and Cass gon’ fly. You drive with Boogie and Dez.”
Ant’s eyes narrowed a little. “You trust Dez on this?” he asked.
Trell shook his head once. “No,” he said. “But we’ll make sure we don’t get in a shootout with no crackers in the swamp. We don’t even do that shit here.”
Ant huffed a short laugh, smoke leaking out with it. “Alright,” he said. “Just let me know when to leave.”
Trell nodded and stepped closer, reaching out his hand. Ant sat forward enough to meet it, their palms slapping together in a firm dap before Trell turned toward the door.
“You know Cass probably let them white boys fuck to keep them copacetic?” Ant said behind him.
Trell looked back at him, then at the door, hand on the knob. A laugh slipped out of him, quick and rough. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
~~~
Ramon stepped through the doorway with Tyree and E.J. tight behind him, Kevin out front cutting a path through the heat and the stink. The flop house in the East had the curtains pulled half down and a sheet thumbtacked where a window used to be. Morning light pushed around the edges, thin and dirty, just enough to show bodies spread across the floor.
Someone snored in a broken recliner. Two men lay on the bare boards, one on his back with his arm thrown over his eyes, the other curled up, shoes still on, a glass pipe loose in his fingers. A woman in a torn hoodie sat wedged between the wall and the end of a busted couch, knees pulled up, head tipped back. The air was sour with smoke and sweat and whatever had been cooked in the kitchen days ago and never cleaned.
Kevin didn’t slow. “Watch your step,” he tossed over his shoulder, weaving between outstretched legs.
Ramon watched the corners while he walked, the weight of the bag in his hand dragging at his fingers. Tyree and E.J. moved single file, shoulders angled, eyes tracking everything without resting long on any of the bodies laid out around them.
Near the hallway, a woman on the floor rolled onto her side and retched. Vomit hit the boards in a wet splash and spread toward Tyree’s sneakers. He snapped his foot back fast and hissed air through his teeth.
“Fuck,” he muttered, lip curling.
She dragged air in, body hitching, then pushed herself halfway up on one elbow. Her hair hung in greasy ropes around her face. When she lifted her head, trying to catch her breath, Tyree’s eyes narrowed. He glanced from her to Ramon’s back.
“Ramon,” he called. “Ain’t this your sister?”
Ramon’s stride hitched for half a second. He turned his head just enough to look down at her. The woman blinked slow, eyes unfocused, spit and bile at the corner of her mouth. She wiped the back of her hand across her face and bent again, shoulders working as she kept dry heaving over the mess on the floor.
He faced forward again and kept walking.
Behind him, a sharp crack sounded as E.J.’s palm met the back of Tyree’s head.
“Man, shut the fuck up,” E.J. said.
Tyree’s mouth opened like he wanted to say more, but Kevin had already pushed through the kitchen and out the back door. The weak daylight from outside cut across the sticky linoleum, catching on empty bottles and a trash bag that never made it outside. Ramon followed it, stepping around another body stretched near the fridge, and shouldered through onto the small slab of concrete that passed for a back porch.
Out back, the air moved a little easier. Grass grew high and patchy at the edges of the yard, bottles half-buried in the dirt, a busted grill tipped over on its side. A weather-beaten shed leaned near the fence, padlock rusted and hanging open.
Kevin stopped just off the porch, close enough that the open back door could still swallow their voices. He leaned in toward Ramon.
“Sorry about Asia, bro,” he said, voice low. “I know you don’t like anyone selling to her, but we ain’t sell it to her.”
Ramon flicked his chin once and lifted the bag a little. “Few packs,” he said. “Just like you asked for.”
Kevin nodded. He jerked his head toward the shed and walked across the yard, stepping over a tangle of wire and an upside-down crate. The door creaked when he pulled it open. He slipped inside and pulled it shut behind him, the latch clacking.
Tyree shifted closer to Ramon, hands buried in his pockets. E.J. hung back a pace, eyes on the back of the house.
“Hey, my bad, big brudda,” Tyree said after a beat. “I ain’t mean to put your business out there like that.”
Ramon slid him a look. “What you bringing it up again for then?”
Tyree’s shoulders dipped. “You right,” he said. He looked over at E.J. “You sort out your white boy problem?” he asked.
E.J. sucked his teeth. “What you want me to do, off a cop?”
Tyree gave a small shrug. “You could.”
Ramon shook his head. “That white girl gon’ snitch on him immediately,” he said. “So he’d have to knock her ass off, too.”
E.J. waved his hand. “Nah,” he said. “She love me. He just some motherfucker her mama used to foster.”
Ramon’s mouth twisted. “You just some motherfucker her mama used to foster,” he said.
The shed door opened before E.J. could answer. Kevin stepped out with a brown paper bag rolled down neat at the top. He crossed the yard and held it out.
Ramon passed him the bag from his own hand. Kevin took it, gave it the same quick heft he always did, and tucked it against his thigh. Ramon opened the paper bag, pinched the top with two fingers, and peeled it back enough to see what sat inside. Stacks. Plastic. The count looked right.
He nodded once and rolled the top back down. “Hit me up next time you want a re-up,” he said.
Kevin gripped his hand, palm to palm, shoulders bumping in a short dap. “Bet,” he said, then turned back toward the shed.
Ramon stepped off the little porch and cut across the yard toward the side of the house. The back door to the flop house yawned open behind them, voices and the low drone of some TV spilling out. He glanced once toward it, then veered away.
“Nigga, where you going?” Tyree asked. “Door right there.”
“Going round,” Ramon said. “Too many cluckers in there.”
Tyree snorted but fell in beside him. E.J. came up on Ramon’s other side, tugging his shirt straight as they walked the narrow dirt path along the side of the house. The siding was stained and buckled, a busted window patched with cardboard and duct tape. A stray cat darted from under the steps ahead of them, tail puffed and slipped under the next house.
They hit the front yard a second later. The grass was more dirt than green, trampled flat into paths. Two other guys had just stepped out of a scratched-up sedan parked at the curb. One slammed the driver’s door with his hip, keys swinging from his finger. The other adjusted his belt, eyes on the front door.
All five of them stopped at once.
Ramon, Tyree, and E.J. on the patch of yard. The two new arrivals on the broken walk leading up to the porch. The space between them tightened. Hands hovered closer to waistbands. Faces shifted from blank to sharp.
The taller of the two newcomers squinted, head tipping just enough to show he knew exactly who stood in front of him. His lip curled.
“Fuck 3NG, nigga!” he barked, his hand dropping straight to his waistband.
Ramon moved before the last word finished. He closed the distance in a burst, shoulder slamming into the man’s middle. They went down hard, skidding across the packed dirt at the edge of the yard. The other man’s hand was already coming up, gun clearing his shirt.
A shot cracked the air, loud and close. The sound bounced off the shotgun houses up and down the block. The second guy jerked and dropped, screaming, fingers flying to his knee as blood spread warm under his palm.
Tyree had his gun out now, arm straight, barrel trained on the one on the ground. “Don’t fucking move,” he snapped, feet planted, body between the car and the man.
E.J. rushed toward Ramon and the first guy, trying to get a clear angle. On the ground, Ramon and the man twisted and rolled, each hand fighting for the gun caught between them. Dirt kicked up under their shoulders. The man cursed, teeth bared, trying to wrench the pistol free. Ramon drove his weight down, forearm across the other man’s chest, fingers clamped on his wrist.
Doors along the block cracked open. A shout went up from a yard across the way. Before anybody else could jump in, a group of men rushed over from the side, feet pounding against the packed earth. They yelled in Vietnamese, voices sharp and overlapping, crowding into the space.
Hands grabbed at shoulders and arms, pulling. One man hooked Ramon under the elbow, hauling him back off the guy on the ground. Another kicked the loose gun out of reach, sending it spinning toward the porch. The air filled with more Vietnamese, words firing back and forth, hard and fast.
Kevin pushed through them from the direction of the house, his face set. He shook his head once, tight.
He fired off a string of Vietnamese at the men around them, gestures slicing through the air, then switched to English long enough to cut at Ramon.
“Get the fuck out of here,” he said. “We’ll handle this.”
Ramon’s chest rose and fell under his shirt, but he didn’t argue. He backed away, snatching up the bag, eyes still on the two men from the car. Tyree eased his own gun down, stepping back in line with him. E.J. lingered a beat, jaw set, then turned too.
They jogged down the block toward Ramon’s car, shoes slapping against the cracked sidewalk. Ramon yanked the driver’s door open. Tyree piled into the passenger seat. E.J. tore the back door open and dove in, the whole car rocking once with his weight.
The engine caught on the first turn. Ramon dropped it into gear and pulled away from the curb, tires spitting gravel.
Behind them, the shouts in Vietnamese rose again, high and angry. Somewhere farther off, a siren wound up and cut through the air, the sound chasing them as they headed out of the East.
~~~
Mireya pushed through the heavy door of the hall. The sky hung low and gray over the quad. Students streamed past in clusters, backpacks bumping, someone’s speaker hissing out bass from inside a bag.
Trell’s car rolled up to the curb right as she stepped off the last stair. He had the window down, elbow resting on the frame, one hand on the wheel. His eyes slid over her slow, catching the fitted top and pants he had pulled off hangers for her, the clean lines of the jacket resting open over it. He clocked the belt, the shoes. All of it came from bags that had once been spread across his bed.
He gave a small nod, nothing else, and reached across to pop the lock.
Mireya yanked the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder and pulled the passenger door open. The air inside carried cologne and old smoke under the faint sweetness of the little tree hanging from the mirror. She dropped her bag at her feet and pulled the door shut, the sound clipping off the campus noise.
“You good?” Trell asked.
“Yeah,” she said.
He pulled off from the curb, easing the car into the slow crawl of traffic that circled the lot. The tires thumped over a pothole at the exit. Once they hit the street, he let the car stretch, sliding through yellow lights before they turned red.
He checked her again in his peripheral, the way the fabric sat on her, the way she held herself in it. Another short nod, satisfied, then his gaze went back to the road.
They passed the bookstore, the bus stop, the wide green where students cut across in crooked paths. Mireya watched all of it through the glass, elbow pressed to the door, wrist bent so her fingers could rest near her mouth.
“Where we going?” she asked, eyes still on the buildings falling back behind them.
“Westbank,” Trell said. “Just for a couple hours.”
She nodded once and settled deeper into the seat. The city shifted as they moved. Campus gave way to strip malls, tire shops, shotgun houses with front steps crowded in plastic chairs. Billboards stacked over the highway, preaching lawyers and Jesus with the same bold letters.
She turned her face toward the glass and let the motion blur lights and signs together. The hum of the tires under them and the low rush of other cars on the interstate filled the quiet.
For a while neither of them said anything. Trell tapped two fingers against the steering wheel in rhythm with a song only he could hear. Mireya counted exits without really meaning to, mouth pressed into a flat line.
“I need you to come to Miami with me this weekend,” Trell said finally. “Can you do that for me?”
The question dropped right into the middle of the noise. Mireya pulled her gaze from the window and looked over at him, caught the way he didn’t take his eyes off the road when he asked.
She shook her head. “No. I’m going to be in Georgia this weekend.”
His eyebrow rose, a small twitch. “Just cancel that shit and come to Miami,” he said. “You said you don’t be going to Atlanta. Where else could you be going in Georgia that’s even close to going to somewhere with beaches and shit?”
“I can’t cancel it,” she said.
“I’m gonna pay for everything while we in Miami,” he said, voice steady, like that should have closed it.
“I just can’t,” she answered.
Trell glanced at her, eyes cutting quick across her face, then back to the lane lines. He nodded slow, jaw flexing once. “Alright then.”
Silence pressed in again, heavier now. Mireya went back to the window, the glass cool against her temple when she leaned into it. Traffic tightened around them as they hit a merge. Horns sounded in short bursts, trucks rumbling low as they shifted lanes.
She let a few beats pass before she spoke again. “I’m bringing my daughter to see her father,” she said quietly. “That’s why I can’t cancel.”
Trell’s hand paused on the wheel for half a second before it kept moving. “You got a kid?” he asked.
Mireya nodded. “Yeah.”
He shrugged, taking the next exit ramp, shoulders lifting and dropping under his T-shirt. “Guess that’s why you got random hours you unavailable,” he said.
A short sound slipped out of her, halfway between a snort and a laugh.
“He locked up out there or something?” Trell asked.
She shook her head, eyes on the dash. “No, he goes to college in Statesboro near Savannah.”
Trell eased the car down as the light ahead flipped yellow and then red. He let it roll to a stop, one hand resting loose at the top of the wheel. He turned his head that time to look at her full on, then started laughing.
Mireya frowned. “What’s funny?”
“I just ain’t take you for the type to let some poindexter ass nigga put a baby in you,” he said.
She rolled her eyes and stared through the windshield. “I don’t think I’d call him that.”
The light flipped green. Trell drove them forward, lips still curved. “Makes sense why you keep running up to that campus trying to pretend like you not making hella bread already,” he said. “He know what you do?”
Mireya’s gaze stayed on the stretch of road ahead. “No,” she said.
“He wouldn’t respect the hustle,” Trell said. “A college nigga? I don’t blame you for not telling him. People in that world ain’t never gonna understand what we do. They gonna want some AKA bitch who spend half her life chasing 40 degrees. Not a money making bitch like you.”
Buildings grew shorter as they pushed farther from campus, the highway signs now pointing them toward the bridge.
Mireya didn’t respond. Her fingers traced an invisible line along the seam of the seat, nails catching on the stitching. The air vent blew against her knuckles, drying the faint sheen of sweat there.
“That’s why it’s a good thing you with me now, though,” Trell went on. “You a real ass bitch and you need a real ass nigga who ain’t gonna put you down for getting your bag.”
She kept her eyes forward, throat working once. “What did you need me in Miami for?” she asked.
“’Cause you my good luck charm,” Trell said. “I been up ever since I started fuckin’ with you.”
Mireya let that sit between them, weighing it.
“I can go in two weeks,” she said.
A small smirk tugged at Trell’s mouth. He cut his eyes toward her again, then back to the road. “Alright,” he said. “You go do the baby mama thing with that square ass nigga and we’ll hit the beach in a couple weeks.”
Mireya nodded and turned her face back to the window, letting him believe the picture he was painting of Caine.
~~~
Caine stepped off the field with the last stretch of practice heat still clinging to him. His jersey stuck to his back under the pads, breath fogging faint in the cooler air rolling across the grass. Javier jogged up beside him, bumping his shoulder hard enough to make him shift a step.“Motherfucker, quit,” Caine said, but he was already smiling. “Before I bat the piss out your ass.”
Javier circled in front of him, feet light, hands up in a fake stance. “What’s up then?” he said, shadowboxing the space between them. “I ain’t swingin’ on you too hard. Know you a million dollar man and all.”
One of the linemen passing by barked out a laugh. Another slapped Caine’s shoulder pad as he headed toward the locker room.
Caine let the helmet hang from two fingers and stepped forward, closing the space. “Sounds like some bitch shit to me.”
Javier backed up with both palms out, grin wide. “Aight, aight. Wait till they bubble wrap you.”
They were still clowning when a voice cut across the field.
“Caine!”
He turned. One of the SIDs stood at the rope line in a navy polo, clipboard under one arm. Beside him, two camera crews had set up on the path. Tripods, lights, and long cords taped to the concrete.
The SID waved him over.
“Go on, superstar,” Javier called as he jogged away.
Caine jogged toward the path, cleats biting the edge of the turf before he stepped onto the concrete. As he approached, the older reporter extended his hand.
“Caine, good to meet you. Evan Lassiter, WSAV.”
Caine shook his hand, then moved to the next.
“Alex Tremaine, WJCL,” the younger one said, mic in his other hand.
Caine nodded at both, gave the cameraman the same quick handshake. He had done enough of these that his body moved on autopilot. Stand here, square the shoulders, helmet down by the thigh.
The SID clipped a small mic to the collar of his practice jersey and stepped back out of frame.
Evan took the lead, eyes flicking to the cameraman until he got the ready signal.
“Alright,” Evan said. “Y’all got a big game coming up this weekend against JMU. A win Saturday puts Georgia Southern in the driver’s seat for the Sun Belt title game. Any nerves?”
Caine shook his head. “Coach keeps us pretty focused from week to week. Ain’t nobody looking ahead or thinking about anything but JMU.”
The SID nodded once, pleased.
Alex stepped in for the next question, his yellow paper rattling once in his hand.
“The award watchlists drop next week,” he said. “And from what we’re hearing, you’re sitting second for the Shaun Alexander Award behind USF’s Cameron Dyer. You think your play justifies more praise than you’re getting?”
Caine let one shoulder rise and fall. “I don’t know. What you think?”
Alex blinked, then let out a short laugh. “Yeah, probably so.”
Caine nodded. “I’m just doing me out there. I ain’t worried about what people handing out awards think. That ain’t got nothing to do with us winning or losing. They can give it to ol’ boy as long as we finish the season twelve and one.”
The cameraman smothered a smile behind the lens.
Evan glanced at his notes, then raised his head.
“Speaking of how well you’re playing,” he said, “portal opens in a few weeks. The whole country’s asking: will Caine Guerra be hitting the transfer portal?”
For a heartbeat the field behind him faded. Markus’ warning cut through, sharp, unsoftened, the same tone he used on the call.
You can’t leave.
Caine didn’t let any of that touch his face.
He shook his head. “I know everyone gonna think I’m trying to be sneaky or something, but I’m just focused on Saturday. What happens in December is a December problem. We in November and I’m trying to win football games.”
Evan held his stare for another moment, then nodded and moved on. They spent another run of questions on JMU’s defense, on how the receivers looked this week, on how practice had changed since the bye. Caine kept it tight, credited the linemen, talked about the importance of stay disciplined.
By the time they wrapped, sweat had dried cool across Caine’s ribs and the stadium lights were beginning to hum overhead.
“Appreciate you, man,” Evan said, shaking his hand again.
“Good luck this weekend,” Alex added.
Caine gave both a quiet “Appreciate it,” and stepped back. The SID unclipped the mic from his jersey, rolled the wire in one practiced motion, and tucked it into his belt.
Caine started toward the facility doors. The concrete walkway carried the faint thump of music leaking from the locker room, bass pulses bouncing off the wall. Trainers pushed water coolers past. A couple of scout teamers sprinted by, helmets still on, trying to beat curfew to the showers.
The SID fell in beside him, matching his pace without looking directly at him.
“Good stuff,” he said under his breath. “Those answers were strong.”
Caine swung the helmet lightly at his side. They approached the double doors where warm air spilled from the gap at the bottom.
The SID waited until they were almost at the threshold before speaking again, voice dropping even lower.
“So,” he said, “between the two of us… you transferring?”
Caine kept his eyes forward, the shrug coming slow, measured, deliberate. He let the shoulder rise and fall, saying nothing, keeping every ounce of leverage he still had.
~~~
Laney sat on the back porch with her hands folded around her phone, the last of the dishwater still drying tight on her fingers. The air had cooled some since the afternoon, heading back to the chill of the morning. The kitchen light behind her threw a soft square across the porch boards, catching the edge of the chair she sat in and the rail in front of her.
The screen door stood cracked just enough that the hum of the refrigerator and the tick of the cooling stove drifted out. The smell of food lingered under the sharper note of bleach she had used on the counters. Her stomach gave a low, mean twist. She laid her palm over it for a second, thumb rubbing against the cotton of her shirt. Salad hadn’t done much more.
Out in the yard, the camper glowed at the edges. The little window over the sink held a square of yellow light. She could see Blake inside, arms moving big and wild, head bent toward Tommy. From the porch, their voices blurred into one low noise, but she could read the shape of Blake’s agitation in the way he paced that small space. Tommy stood near the far wall, shoulders set, arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t move much. Every now and then his head tipped, slow, like he was letting Blake say his piece.
Laney dropped her eyes to the phone and opened her messages. Her thumbs moved, tapping out a line to Caine. No hiding it now. She didn’t shift in her chair or turn away from the house. The porch light brushed across the back of her hand, catching on the tiny crack in the screen protector. She paused once, listening to the low rumble from the camper, then finished the thought and hit send.
A few beats later the phone buzzed against her palm. Caine’s name slid across the top of the screen. Her mouth twitched at the corner before she flattened it again. She read his reply, thumb hovering over the keys as she crafted the next one. The hunger in her stomach sat there, steady, but it wasn’t just about food.
Through the kitchen window she could still see the dark outline of the table she had wiped down, the chairs pushed in, the boys’ school papers stacked in a neat pile for the morning. She had scrubbed the grease from the skillet, stacked the plates in the rack, folded the dish towel back over the oven handle. There wasn’t anything left to do in there but wait until morning, so she stayed where she was, shoulders settled into the chair.
Out back, Blake threw his hands up, the gesture big enough to hit the top of the camper’s ceiling. Tommy’s head turned then. His mouth moved. Laney couldn’t hear the words, but she knew that tone, the way his lips pressed around them. Blake’s shoulders sagged. Tommy lifted his hand, palm out, the stop of it sharp even from a distance. Whatever Blake was saying died right there.
Tommy shifted toward the door. For a second he looked down, lips still moving, saying one last thing. Then he reached for the handle. The camper door opened, a slice of light cutting across the yard before it swung shut again behind him.
Laney watched him come. He stepped down from the camper and started across the backyard, boots quiet on the packed dirt path he had worn between the two doors. The security light over the back stoop came on as he hit the halfway point, washing him in pale yellow. He didn’t rush. His hands were empty. His mouth held that same flat line he wore when he was working something out in his head.
Her phone buzzed again. She glanced down, caught the new message from Caine, and started to type her answer. The porch boards creaked once when Tommy’s weight hit the bottom step. She felt it through the soles of her feet. She didn’t look up right away. Her thumbs kept moving, quick and familiar over the screen.
Tommy climbed the steps. The wood complained under each steady step. He stopped near her chair, shadow falling across her bare knees. She lifted her eyes from the screen and met his for a heartbeat, then dropped her gaze again to finish the sentence she was typing. Her thumb tapped send. The tiny whoosh in her hand sounded louder than it was.
He didn’t speak at first. The pause sat between them, the open door behind him framing his shoulder in warm kitchen light. Laney felt his eyes on her, on the way her fingers still cradled the phone, but she kept her face smooth.
“Have you done the laundry tonight?” he asked.
She nodded once, phone still in her hand. “Yes, I did,” she said, the words easy, worn into the shape of her tongue.
He shifted his weight, boot scraping against the board. “What about my–”
“On the hanger in the closet,” she cut in, voice even. “Already ironed.”
She looked down again as the phone buzzed in her palm. Caine’s name popped up. She opened the thread and started typing, the glow from the screen washing her features in a cooler light. Her thumbs moved steady.
“Who are you texting?” Tommy asked.
Laney lifted her eyes to him. Her expression didn’t change. “Taela,” she said. “’Bout the baby.”
His jaw worked once, a small clench that showed at the edge of his cheek. He held her gaze for a second, then turned without a word and stepped past her into the house. The screen door swung in and eased shut behind him with a soft click.
Laney sat there, the night pressing in at the edges of the porch light. Out in the yard, the camper door had cracked open again. Blake stood in the gap, one shoulder leaned against the frame, watching. The glow from inside cut across his face, catching on the set of his mouth and the narrowed eyes turned toward the house.
She let her gaze rest on him for a breath, then dropped it back to the phone in her hand. Her thumbs moved over the screen, picking the thread back up with Caine.
~~~
Mireya sank a little lower in the hot water, the bubbles licking at her shoulders. Steam curled up into the cool Northshore night, breaking against the high back of the stone jacuzzi. Beyond it, the dark shape of the house sat with most of its lights off, big and quiet in a way that said no one was home who mattered.
Alejandra tipped the wine bottle up, throat working as she took a long pull. The glass caught the glow from the pool lights set into the concrete, throwing it over her cheekbones. She smacked her lips once and passed the bottle toward Jaslene.
“Aquí,” she said, voice lazy. “Take it before I finish it, mami.”
Jaslene took it, fingers brushing Alejandra’s. Her nails were still done from the weekend, tiny rhinestones catching water and light. She lifted the bottle, drank, then set it on the wide tile ledge just within reach, water beading on her brown arms.
On the other side of Mireya, Hayley turned a strand of pearls over in her fingers. The necklace looked almost gray in the pool lighting until it flashed white when she moved it.
“Found this upstairs,” Hayley said. “Hung over her mirror like she ain’t touched it in months.”
Mireya watched the pearls drip. Water slid down Hayley’s wrist and fell back into the tub.
“His wife got more shit up there?” she asked.
Hayley didn’t look up from the necklace. “Yeah. Whole vanity full. But I don’t know what’s expensive and what’s not.”
Alejandra snorted. “Todo ello. It’s all expensive,” she said. “He got to buy it for her to make up for having stripper sugar babies.” The way she hit sugar babies came with a small eye roll, amused and sharp at the same time.
Hayley scoffed. “I don’t think you can call me a sugar baby if I gotta work for the money he gives me.”
Jaslene reached past Mireya for the bottle again, the movement brushing warm thigh against Mireya’s under the water.
“You don’t think the rest of them are getting fucked for it?” she said. “They working too.”
Mireya’s mouth pulled in a half smile. The pearls gleamed in Hayley’s hand, flashing once before her fingers closed around them.
“And you the only one with a key to his house,” Mireya said.
Hayley finally looked over, eyes cutting to her and then away. She rolled her eyes but the corner of her mouth curved, caught.
“Perks of good customer service,” she said, letting the necklace fall into her palm.
The jets hummed under them, pushing hot water around bare legs. Out past the fence, the dark line of trees edged the yard. A faint stretch of highway noise floated across from farther inland, cars whispering over concrete.
Mireya tipped her head back against the stone. “Y’all ever think about what’s after this?” she asked. “Like one day we gonna have to stop doing this, right?”
Alejandra barked out a laugh. “¡Ni por el putas!” she said. “When I’m too old and ugly, I’m going jump in the river like a witch.”
Hayley snickered. “Live fast, die young,” she said, lifting her free hand.
Alejandra slapped her palm against Hayley’s for the high five, water splashing their wrists. The bottle on the ledge rattled.
Jaslene watched them, mouth tilted up. She slid her eyes back to Mireya.
“You just thinking about that shit now that you got a man willing to take care of you,” she said.
Mireya sucked her teeth. “What man?” she asked, rolling her eyes, even as the picture of Trell’s chain, Trell’s car, Trell’s hand at the small of her back flickered through.
Hayley’s laugh rode the water. “Jas, you let someone take your girl?” she said.
Jaslene shook her head slow. Her hand reached up, fingers tracing along the back of Mireya’s neck, damp curls catching under her nails.
“No,” she said, voice lower. “I just let him borrow her.”
Mireya scoffed, but she didn’t move away from her touch. The heat from the water pressed against the soft drag of Jaslene’s fingers, a small steady line at the base of her skull.
“I’m serious though,” Mireya said. “Y’all have to have thought about it. Like for real.”
Jaslene’s fingers shifted, now brushing along her hairline, then back down. “I’m only thinking about tomorrow,” she said. “That’s enough.”
Alejandra tilted her head back against the lip of the tub, dark hair spreading out. “You want to quit, Mexicana? Already?” she asked.
Mireya opened her mouth. The first answer ready was yes, for a second, the idea of never having to do any of it again. She paused, swallowed.
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I like the money. I don’t feel like I’m looking over my shoulder for the first time in my life. But I don’t want to keep my life a secret forever.”
Hayley let out a breath through her nose. “Then don’t,” she said, simple. She set the necklace on the ledge and watched a bead of water slide between two of the pearls.
Mireya lifted her shoulders out of the water and let them sink again. “I ain’t that comfortable with it yet,” she said. “With the dancing. With… everything. There’s no coming back from it.”
For a second, none of them talked. The pool filter hummed. Somewhere in the house, the air unit kicked on, a low thrum cutting under the night sounds.
Jaslene leaned in closer. Mireya felt her breath near her ear first, warm against the cooler air above the water.
“You gotta stop letting people get in your head, nena,” Jaslene murmured. “La única opinión que importa es la tuya.”
The words slid in soft. Mireya nodded slowly, trying to let them settle instead of bouncing off whatever worry still sat inside her. She focused on the ripples around their shoulders, the slick sound of water moving when someone shifted a foot.
Hayley suddenly pushed herself up, water streaming from her body. The air hit her skin and she shivered once, snatching a towel from a nearby chair and wrapping it around her.
“I’m going find more shit to take from his wife,” she said, already stepping out onto the cool concrete.
Alejandra made a face and then laughed, standing with a splash of her own. “Espérame,” she said. “You not leaving me nothing good.”
She hoisted herself out of the jacuzzi. Water dripped in a line behind her as she padded across the deck to catch up with Hayley, the two of them disappearing toward the back door of the house, voices overlapping, low and amused.
The yard got quieter without them. The trees swayed just enough to rustle. A bug buzzed near the pool light and tapped against the glass.
Jaslene and Mireya stayed where they were. Mireya let herself sink into the silence, thoughts moving but not making a sound she was ready to share. Jaslene’s hand never left her. Her fingers played with the hair at the base of Mireya’s neck, light and slow, turning small strands between them while the hot water held them both in place.
but you right that some folks knew about the “Black Mexican” that Ramon, Tyree and E.J. run with. The issue is the most of those people are dead or are in prison (Dre). 
