is Caine Guerra the first one to lose to Miami on the board!?
American Sun
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redsox907
- Posts: 3082
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
American Sun
soapy saving all of the gifs he had loaded to drop in other threads, before the board gave Miami a collective BTA
is Caine Guerra the first one to lose to Miami on the board!?
is Caine Guerra the first one to lose to Miami on the board!?
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12947
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
American Sun
Fuck 'em.redsox907 wrote: ↑19 Dec 2025, 01:02I mean that was how we expected that to go. Soap ain't gonna let that one go easy lmao
So let me get this straight. Mireya doesn't live with Maria anymore, because she *checks notes* kicked her out. But the bitch as the audacity to say she's claiming her granddaughter?! FOH. I don't remember the timing, when did she kick her out. Cause it has to be more than 50% of the year to claim the kid legally on taxes.
But even if it was, fuck outta here. I'm claiming her and if you want to bitch about it, fuck around and get audited cunt.
I know it ain't gonna happen. but if anyone ever needs to be sacrificed I nominate Maria
Maria gave Mireya the boot in May, right after she graduated from high school. Maybe she's playing chicken with Mireya and banking on Mireya not wanting her finances looked into
Fuck 'em.Captain Canada wrote: ↑19 Dec 2025, 22:39Soap gonna ether you for those results, but what can you do.
Solid season all in all. Interested that the storyline has you running it back with GA Southern.
Gracias, gracias. We got fireworks planned for year two in Statesboro and we'll see where the story goes on Caine's continued presence in South Georgia as the season unfolds.
Florida beat Miami 56-10 in the next round and won the national championship fn.
Caine did all he could.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12947
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
American Sun
And that concludes Season 3: God Don't Walk These Roads No More
Welcome to Season 4: Quod Sciebas Elegisti
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redsox907
- Posts: 3082
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
American Sun
then she has no leg to stand on!? You can't claim a dependent if they didn't live with you for more than half the year, or didn't contribute over half of the dependents monetary needs in that calendar year. So Maria completely banking on Mireya to fold
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12947
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
American Sun
Maria never misses a chance to try to make her daughter's life harder.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12947
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
American Sun
Particeps Fuit
The refrigerator hummed when he leaned close enough to feel it through his feet.
Caine lifted the first trophy with both hands and set it on top of the fridge. The base landed a fraction off. He nudged it until the edge lined up with the door seam, then stepped back and checked it from the hallway. Freshman of the Year. He reached up again. Offensive Player of the Year. Newcomer of the Year. Player of the Year. Four trophies, gold catching the kitchen light, balanced above a refrigerator that still smelled faintly of plastic and cardboard.
He stood there a second longer than necessary, neck craned, making sure none of them leaned.
Nothing for a College Football Playoff win, though.
The apartment was quiet in a way that his last one wasn’t. No sounds leaking through walls. No familiar traffic rhythms. Outside, Statesboro sat bright and still, winter sun thin and clean.
He turned back to the kitchen and opened the last box.
Plates came out first. He stacked them by size, rims flush. Bowls nested clean. He wiped the cabinet shelf before sliding them in. Spices went on the counter one by one, labels turned forward. Salt. Pepper. Garlic powder. Cajun seasoning. He adjusted the spacing twice, then once more.
The knives went into the block in the order he liked. Handles even. He set the coffee maker down, stepped back, then shifted it half an inch so the cord fell straight instead of bending.
When the kitchen was finished, he carried the empty box into the living room and set it by the door. The couch still smelled new. The rug sat centered under the coffee table. On the end table, the framed picture from Christmas caught his eye.
Camila in the middle, curls loose, one hand lifted like she’d been caught mid-sentence. Mireya beside her, smile tired but real. Sara on the other side, soft smile on her face, arms around both of them. Caine reached out and straightened the frame, though it wasn’t crooked.
He turned on the TV and dropped onto the couch.
The Orange Bowl filled the room with motion and color. The game they should’ve been in. He turned the volume down until it became background noise, pads clicking, announcers blurring together. The season kept moving without him.
He leaned forward and pulled the journal box closer with his foot.
Inside, the notebooks sat stacked in order. He lifted the top one and opened it. Pages filled edge to edge, handwriting tight, margins crowded. He flipped to the end and stopped.
Full.
He closed it and set it back in the box. The next journal came out wrapped in plastic, cover plain and dark. He peeled the wrapper away and let it fall into the empty box. The sound was sharp in the quiet room.
He opened the journal to the first page and uncapped the pen.
Camila,
I don’t know who I am.
The pen stopped. The crowd on the TV swelled and dropped again. He leaned back, eyes on the ceiling for a beat, then forward.
I never have.
He glanced toward the kitchen. The spice labels still faced forward. The coffee maker cord stayed straight.
I don’t know the man that got my mama pregnant. Neither his people. And people act like that’s the simple answer for why I am the way I am.
He shifted, elbows on his knees now.
Like that’s enough to explain the choices somebody makes.
The refrigerator kicked louder for a moment, then settled.
But it ain’t that simple.
He rubbed his thumb along the paper’s edge, felt the grit.
I learned when I was young how to be what the room needed. How to read faces. How to listen before I talked. How to move different depending on who was watching, who was around
The pen moved steady now. The TV cut to a replay. A helmet bounced on the sideline. He didn’t look.
Mr. Landry once told me I was a chameleon. I ain’t really like hearing that shit.
He shifted again, cushion sighing under him.
I thought it meant I wasn’t real. But I think what he meant was that I survived.
He let the sentence stand on its own. His eyes drifted up toward the trophies above the fridge, then back to the page.
I been a son and a father. A student and a criminal. An athlete. Now, I even got money coming from it.
The pen slowed.
I been legal and illegal at the same time. I been somebody people cheer for and somebody they already decided on. Everyone worst fear and everyone dream.
He lowered the TV volume another notch. The sentence ended. He didn’t add anything to it.
Sometimes it feels like I split my life so clean that none of it touches.
He read it once. Didn’t fix it.
Like each version of me only exists in the place it was needed. And when I’m alone, I don’t know which one is supposed to be me.
The refrigerator hummed. The building shifted somewhere deep in its frame. His jaw tightened once. He wrote the last line slower than the rest.
I don’t know if that means none of it is the real me.
His palm rested flat on the page, paper warming under his skin. He finished it without lifting his hand.
Or if all of it is.
The pen stopped. The TV murmured. The trophies stayed steady above the fridge.
Caine didn’t close the journal right away.
New Year’s Eve pulled bodies in sideways and stacked them on top of each other. The crowd pressed forward in a way that felt almost physical, heat rolling off it in waves. Plastic cups sloshed as people lifted them too fast. Bills waved overhead, some folded clean, some already damp, corners bent from hands that had been sweating all night.
The bass hit low and heavy, rattling the rail at the edge of the stage.
Mireya leaned back against the poll, hand up over her head as she rolled her hips into a squat. Men leaned forward instinctively, elbows knocking into each other as they fought for space at the rail. Someone yelled her name and shook money in her direction.
She slid down onto the floor onto her knees, leaning forward until her chest touched the stage, sweat already slicking her spine. When she began twerking, the sound surged up, sharp and hungry.
Bills slid onto the stage. She gathered them as she moved across the stage, limbs sweeping them into a pile as she move. A hand reached over the rail and trailed up her ankle. She smiled and reached back, snatching a bill from the man’s hand.
The music built. She rose with it, hair damp at her neck, breath steady. She ended with a flourish, jumping and grabbing the pole with both hands and lifting herself up into a spin, legs spread into a perfect “V” as she adjusted her grip and twirled down the pole back to the floor.
The song ended just as she landed.
The noise hit right after, a wall of sound that followed her as she crouched and gathered the rest of her money. She moved quick now, not counting, just collecting. Liana was already at the edge of the stage, smiling wide, ready to slide in.
Mireya stood and stepped back, passing the space to her. Liana took it and the next track kicked in, the room barely registering the switch.
Mireya reached for the robe and slid it, still open. The fabric clung to her skin, warm from the speaker. She stepped down into the crowd, shoulders brushing past arms, hands grazing her waist and hips as she moved through.
The bar was packed three deep.
She leaned in close enough that the bartender could hear her without shouting. “Tequila.”
He nodded and reached for the bottle. The pour was heavy, practiced. He slid the shot toward her without comment.
Mireya lifted it and knocked it back in one smooth motion, throat tightening just slightly as it burned. She set the glass down and exhaled through her nose, eyes already drifting along the bar.
That was when she noticed him.
Quarter zip. Slacks. Shoes that were a bit too scuffed to be for an unmarried man. He sat at the corner of the bar with his shoulders drawn in, drink untouched, eyes fixed on the wood in front of him instead of the stage. He wasn’t watching Liana. Wasn’t watching anyone. Just sitting there like he’d been misplaced.
Mireya stepped closer.
She leaned her hip against the bar beside him, close enough that he could feel her before he looked. She let the robe fall open slowly.
“You want to play with me, papi?” she asked, smiling.
He startled a little, eyes flicking sideways, then down, then back up again. His mouth opened, closed. He laughed once, short and tight.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m only here because my coworker dragged me along.”
“That’s okay,” Mireya said easily. “I’m Luna.” She tipped her head, hair sliding over one shoulder. “I can take care of you while your friend is busy.”
He blinked at her, fingers brushing the edge of his glass without lifting it. “I don’t know what to say to that.”
Mireya didn’t answer right away.
She grabbed her money bag from the chair she’d set it on, the weight of it familiar in her hand. Alejandra passed behind her on her way toward the dressing room, eyes already cutting toward the bar. Mireya handed the bag back without turning. Alejandra caught it, nodded once, and kept moving.
Mireya picked up the man’s drink and took a small sip. She set it back down, then reached for his hand.
Her grip was warm and certain.
“Sígueme, papi,” she said.
He laughed again as he stood, louder this time, nerves breaking through it as he let himself be pulled away from the bar. “I don’t speak Spanish.”
Mireya glanced back at him, smile easy, eyes bright.
“That’s okay.”
“You don’t get to drag last year into the next one,” Pastor Hadden said, and the words carried farther than the pulpit, settling into the rows of bodies packed shoulder to shoulder. “Not just because the calendar lets you.”
Laney stood partway down the pew, hands folded loosely in front of her, knuckles resting against the seam of her coat. Someone’s sleeve brushed her arm when they shifted their weight. She didn’t move. The sanctuary was warm with bodies and breath and the faint sting of perfume that clung to wool and starch. Every seat was full. People stood along the walls, leaning, listening.
“You don’t get to call something holy just because you learned how to live with it,” Pastor Hadden went on. His voice stayed level, practiced, the way it always did when he wasn’t asking for agreement. “And you don’t get to walk into a new year holding tight to the same sin and expect grace to do the work for you.”
A murmur moved through the room, low and instinctive. Someone said amen, sharp enough to cut.
Pastor Hadden rested both palms against the pulpit. He didn’t look down at the open Bible. He never did when the sermon ran like this, when it wasn’t about scripture as much as it was about pressure.
“Repentance ain’t comfort,” he said. “It ain’t words you say so you can sleep at night and wake up the same. Repentance is turning around. It’s stopping. It’s calling the thing what it is and not pretending it’s something else just ’cause you tired of fighting it.”
Laney kept her eyes on him. He did not look back at her. He never did when he preached like this, not even when the words landed close enough that she felt them register in her chest before she could stop them.
“You want forgiveness,” he said. “Ask for it. You want a clean start, then leave the mess right here. Don’t dress it up. Don’t explain it away. Don’t tell yourself you’ll deal with it when life gets easier.”
The room went still. Even the kids quieted, the restless shifting settling into something heavier. Laney could hear someone breathing hard behind her, could feel the heat of their coat against her arm.
“You don’t get lighter when the clock hits midnight,” Pastor Hadden said. “You get lighter when you put it down.”
He straightened, eyes moving across the sanctuary, not stopping on anyone long enough to make it personal and somehow making it personal anyway.
“Jesus don’t need you pretending,” he said. “He needs you honest.”
He bowed his head.
“If you ready to leave it,” he said, voice lower now, stripped of cadence, “now’s the time.”
Laney didn’t close her eyes.
When the prayer ended, the room exhaled all at once. Pews creaked. People stood. Coats were pulled on. Voices rose into greetings and laughter and the relieved noise of permission to move again. The pressure loosened, but it didn’t disappear. It just shifted.
Marianne stepped into the aisle, already smiling, already reaching for someone’s hand. She looked composed, settled, her face smooth in a way Laney recognized. The sermon slid past her like water. Laney caught the sight of her mother and looked away.
Mrs. Tolliver found Laney just past the end of the pew.
“Laney, honey,” she said, fingers warm on Laney’s arm. “I’m so glad I caught you tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Laney said.
Mrs. Tolliver leaned in, lowering her voice even though no one nearby was listening. “I been prayin’ over my granddaughter,” she said. “She’s a good girl, but she don’t know where she fits yet. I was thinkin’ maybe seein’ young women who really love the church might help her.”
Laney nodded once, the motion small and practiced.
“I was hopin’ maybe you and Rylee could spend some time with her,” Mrs. Tolliver continued. “Show her how good it can be to be rooted somewhere. To have somethin’ solid under her feet.”
Laney’s gaze slid past her shoulder, drawn without intention.
Rylee stood near the back wall, phone low in her hand. She glanced at the screen, then up at the clock mounted above the exit. Her foot rocked once, heel lifting, then settled. She scanned the room quickly, eyes already mapping distance and exits.
Laney brought her attention back to Mrs. Tolliver and smiled.
“I’d be happy to help her find her callin’,” she said.
Mrs. Tolliver’s face softened. She patted Laney’s arm, once, then again, satisfied. “I knew you would,” she said, and drifted away into the crowd.
Laney’s smile fell the moment she turned.
She looked toward the front of the sanctuary.
Tommy stood near the aisle, body angled toward Claire. His hands were in his pockets, posture loose. Claire stood close, head tipped slightly as she listened. She laughed quietly at something he said, controlled, contained.
Laney watched them without letting anything show on her face.
Claire glanced up.
Their eyes met. Claire’s smile tightened, polite and brief, before she turned back to Tommy and kept talking.
Laney shook her head once and stepped away.
She crossed toward Rylee, who noticed her too late to pretend she hadn’t been waiting.
“I ain’t tryin’ sneak out yet,” Rylee said, lifting both hands.
Laney stopped in front of her. “Go tell mama you ain’t feelin’ good,” she said. “Tell her you want me to take you home.”
Rylee blinked. “What?”
“I don’t care where you go after,” Laney said. “Just do this for me.”
Rylee narrowed her eyes. “What you tryin’ go do?”
Laney kept her voice low, steady. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. You don’t wanna be here and neither do I.”
Rylee studied her for a long second, then shrugged. “Alright,” she said. “But if Tommy get mad at you, remember you ask me to do this.”
Laney didn’t answer.
Rylee turned and walked toward Marianne, already adjusting her expression as she went. Laney stayed where she was, watching her weave through the crowd, the space closing and opening around her.
She glanced back toward the front of the sanctuary.
Tommy and Claire were still talking.
Laney waited.
The house never really went quiet.
Even with the music low and no shouting, there was always sound moving through it. Plastic rustling. Fingernails tapping scales. Money sliding against money. Someone laughing too loud in one room and getting told to shut up from another. The place smelled like sweat and cleaner and the sharp, metallic tang of cocaine that never fully left the air no matter how often the windows were opened.
Trell stood in the kitchen doorway, one hand resting against the frame, watching it all move.
Two women worked at the folding table pushed up against the wall, both topless, both focused, fingers fast as they broke weight down into smaller bags. Their hair was pulled back tight. One of them chewed gum hard enough that Trell could hear it pop over the music. Neither of them looked up.
On the counter behind them, stacks of cash were being sorted into neat piles. Rubber bands snapped. A calculator chirped, stopped, chirped again. One of Trell’s guys leaned over the counter, shoulders hunched, eyes locked on the numbers.
Dez stood off to the side near the back door, spinning a set of car keys around his finger.
He’d been doing it since they walked in.
The metal clicked soft and steady, the rhythm uneven. Every few seconds Dez stopped, caught the keys in his palm, then started again like he hadn’t even noticed he’d paused. His shoulders stayed tight. His eyes kept drifting toward the windows and then back to Trell.
The stairs creaked.
Ant came down first, heavy and deliberate, a duffel bag slung over each shoulder. Boogie followed right behind him, carrying his own pair. Each step they took sent a dull thud through the house.
They reached the bottom and stopped.
Trell straightened from the doorway and nodded once, his chin lifting just enough to acknowledge them. His eyes went to Boogie.
“You count that before you put it in there?” Trell asked.
Boogie shifted one of the bags higher on his shoulder. “Yeah,” he said. “I counted it twice.” He tapped the side of his head with one finger. “Even kept a mental total or whatever like them smart ass niggas be doing.”
Ant snorted under his breath but didn’t look at him.
Before Trell could respond, footsteps slapped fast across the front porch.
The door banged open.
A young guy jogged inside, breath a little too quick, eyes wide as he took in the room all at once. He barely made it two steps before Ant reacted. One of the duffel bags slid off his shoulder and hit the floor hard. Ant’s hand went straight to his waistband, body already turning.
Boogie stepped in front of him.
“Relax,” Boogie said. His hands were still full, arms tight around the bags, but he angled his body just enough to block Ant’s line. “That’s just Shad. He a new lil’ nigga I got working with us.”
Ant didn’t lower his hand.
“The fuck you mean new?” Ant said. His voice stayed flat, but there was weight behind it. “You hiring niggas and not telling us you hiring niggas?”
Boogie looked past him at Trell.
Trell didn’t move. He didn’t answer for him either. He just watched Boogie, eyes steady, waiting.
Boogie swallowed once, then nodded.
“I needed some extra help,” he said. “He solid.”
Shad nodded quick. “You ain’t gotta worry about me, big brudda,” he said. “I been off the porch.”
Trell stepped forward.
He moved slow. No rush. No show of concern. Just enough to make the space tighten.
He stopped in front of Shad and looked him over, top to bottom, like he was inventory. The kid stood straighter.
“How old are you?” Trell asked.
“Just turned eighteen,” Shad said.
Trell nodded once.
“Where you stay?” he asked.
“The Tenth Ward,” Shad said.
Trell glanced back at Ant.
The look was quick. Familiar. Ant met it and gave nothing back. Just held Trell’s eyes long enough to acknowledge the exchange.
Trell turned back to Shad.
He reached out and patted the side of the kid’s face twice, light but deliberate..
“You alright, lil’ nigga,” Trell said. “Make sure Boogie bring you through to the party.”
Shad broke into a grin. “Thanks,” he said. “Appreciate it, bro.”
Trell didn’t respond.
He turned and walked toward the back door, already lifting two fingers in a small motion for Ant and Boogie to follow.
Ant bent down and scooped up the bag he’d dropped, then shoved both duffels hard into Dez’s chest as he passed.
“Hold that,” Ant said.
Dez stumbled back a half step, keys clattering out of his hand and hitting the floor as Ant pushed him toward the door.
“Move,” Ant added.
Dez grabbed the bags and headed out ahead of them.
The house kept working behind them like nothing had happened.
The empty lot was lit by headlights and floodlamps dragged out of trunks, the ground uneven and dusty where grass had never quite grown back after years of tires and bodies grinding it down. Cars were parked in a loose ring, trunks open, music spilling out from three different directions at once, tracks clashing and bleeding into each other. The bass hit hard enough that it traveled through the dirt and up into the soles of shoes, rattling ribs, shaking bottles balanced on hoods. Dozens of people crowded in, bodies pressed close, breath fogging faintly in the cold, bottles raised, phones already out before anything worth filming even happened.
Someone shouted when the circle opened, the sound sharp and excited, like blood had just been spilled.
Two women were already on the ground by the time most people realized what was happening. Hair tangled in fists. Nails digging into skin. One of them rolled, scraping bare shoulder against gravel, shirt riding up as the other climbed on top of her, swinging wild and sloppy, knuckles glancing off collarbone, jaw, nothing clean. Dirt kicked up under them, clinging to sweat-slick skin. The crowd surged back just enough to make space, then leaned in again, hungry, boots scuffing as people jockeyed for a better angle.
“Yeah! Yeah!” somebody yelled, voice cracking.
Phones came up higher. Screens glowed bright and steady.
Tyree pushed his way forward until he was close enough to see faces, close enough to smell perfume and spilled liquor and sweat. He laughed hard, sharp, the sound cutting through the music, shoulders bouncing with it.
“Nah, you can’t go out like that, Janae!” he shouted. “Bite that bitch titty!”
Janae twisted underneath the other woman, teeth bared, trying to get leverage as hair ripped free in her hands. The other girl screamed something incoherent and slapped down, missing her face but catching her neck, fingers leaving red streaks. Janae bucked her hips, trying to roll them, breath coming out in short, angry bursts.
Ramon jerked sideways when Tyree’s elbow flew too close to his mouth. He shoved him back without looking, palm hard against Tyree’s chest.
“Calm down, nigga,” Ramon said. “You know that siddidy ass IG bitch shouldn’t have had her ass out here.”
Tyree stumbled a half step, still laughing, arms out like he hadn’t almost caught a fist himself, eyes never leaving the fight.
“She from here, bro,” Tyree said.
E.J. slid in beside Ramon and passed him the blunt without breaking his gaze on the circle. The smoke curled thick and sweet in the cold air, mixing with exhaust and dust.
“That’s why I never bring none of my bitches out here,” E.J. said. “Niggas is wild.”
Tyree turned, laughing.
“Of course you don’t bring no white bitch to the hood, nigga,” he said. “Be for fucking real.”
Ramon snorted and took a pull, eyes never leaving the circle as the two women rolled again, one shrieking when her hair came free in clumps, the other scrambling to stay on top, hands slipping. A knee came up hard into ribs. Somebody in the crowd whooped, loud and ugly.
“Damn,” somebody said. “She eatin’ that.”
A bottle hit the ground and shattered somewhere behind them. Glass skittered across dirt. Nobody flinched. Nobody moved back.
Duke’s voice cut through the noise, loud and commanding enough to matter.
“Ay! Ay!” he yelled. “Break that shit up.”
Tyree didn’t hesitate. He shoved forward with another guy, both of them ducking and weaving, hands out to keep from catching stray blows. The other guy grabbed the second woman under the arms and dragged her back, shoes scraping uselessly against the dirt as she kicked and cursed, heels digging shallow trenches.
Tyree wrapped both arms around Janae from behind and lifted her clean off the ground. She thrashed, swinging backward with her elbows, almost catching him in the jaw. He laughed, breathless, staggering a step before planting his feet and hauling her back until there was space.
“Let me go!” she yelled. “That bitch mad because I was batting the piss out of her!”
“Chill,” Tyree said, still laughing, setting her down once her feet hit steady. He pressed a bottle into her hand, cold glass knocking against her knuckles. “Drink this.”
She took it without hesitation and tipped it back, coughing when it went down wrong, liquor spilling onto her chin.
“That bitch kept tryin’ to fucking poke me in the eye,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
Ramon leaned forward. “Ain’t no rules,” he said. “Should’ve did the same shit to her.”
E.J. nodded once. “Facts.”
Janae shook her head, breathing hard now that the adrenaline was bleeding off. Her shirt was half torn, hair wild, makeup streaked down one cheek, mascara burned into her skin.
“I guess I forgot how foul y’all niggas is in New Orleans,” she said. “After being in Baton Rouge.”
Tyree grinned and stepped closer, lowering his voice as he leaned in, crowd noise swallowing the edges of his words.
“You already know we gutta gutta,” he said.
Ramon shook his head slowly as Tyree bent closer to Janae’s ear, whispering something that made her scoff and shove his shoulder without any real force. Tyree laughed again, soft this time, staying close, one hand still light at the small of her back.
Two other girls slid up beside Ramon and E.J., one of them pressing a hand into E.J.’s chest like she’d always had a right to the space. Ramon felt a hip bump into his leg and glanced down, then back up, attention splitting without effort.
The music shifted. Somebody turned it up louder.
The circle loosened but didn’t break, energy still buzzing, everyone already replaying the fight through their phones, laughing, shouting over one another as the night rolled on.
There was still an hour left before midnight.
Caine pulled on his hoodie, shaking out his dreads as the sound of fireworks began to echo outside. The quiet of earlier had disappeared as people started to empty out of their apartments to bring in the new year either in the parking lot or head out to the bars to celebrate with their friends.
And that’s exactly what Caine was about to do. The guys had texted him with a location and a demand to show up, and show up he would.
He stepped out of the bedroom and headed for the door, sending a quick text to the group chat that he was on his way and to warn them not to get too drunk before he got there. Dwight’s response was almost immediate.
that ship sailed my nigga
A knock came at the front door just as his hand brushed the chain to unlock it.
He opened the door and stopped.
Laney stood there with her fist still raised, knuckles an inch from the wood. She froze when the door swung open, eyes flicking up to his face, mouth already pulling into something that wasn’t quite a smile yet.
“What you doin’ here?” Caine said, eyebrows lifting. “Thought you had somethin’ at the church?”
Laney shrugged like it hadn’t taken any effort at all to be standing on his doorstep instead of under fluorescent lights with folding chairs and hymns. She stepped past him before he could move out of the way, heels clicking once against the floor as she crossed the threshold, already inside his space.
“I did,” she said. “But I got Rylee to say she was feelin’ bad and needed me to take her home.”
Caine shut the door behind her. He snorted under his breath, a short laugh he didn’t bother to hide, shaking his head as he turned back toward her.
“And you used that as your cover to come here?”
Laney didn’t answer right away. She took a few steps into the kitchen instead, eyes sweeping the counters, the cabinets, the boxes stacked neatly along the wall where he’d left them earlier. One of them was angled just slightly wrong, the edge sticking out enough to break the line.
She reached out and nudged it back into place with two fingers, precise and absentminded, then let her hand linger there a beat longer than necessary.
“Sound like you ain’t happy to see me,” she said.
Caine pushed off the door and leaned back against the wall across from her, arms folding loosely over his chest. “I ain’t say all that,” he said. “I’m just tryin’ to figure out what you gonna tell Rylee if she get suspicious.”
Laney turned then, already walking toward the hallway. She lifted her hand and crooked two fingers at him without looking back, the gesture casual and practiced.
“I don’t think Rylee gonna remember what we talked ’bout tonight,” she said, voice easy, “after she get drunk and get fucked.”
Caine laughed. He pushed off the wall and followed her down the hall, shoulders brushing close to the doorframes as he walked. “That’s a wild way to talk about your little sister.”
The bedroom light was already on, casting a warm, contained glow. Laney stepped inside and stopped at the foot of the bed, turning slowly as he came in behind her. The sheets were rumpled from earlier, one corner pulled loose. For a moment she just looked at him, head tilted, taking him in, eyes moving from his face to his chest and back again.
“Ain’t wild,” she said, reaching back without breaking eye contact. Her fingers found the zipper at the base of her neck and pulled it down in one smooth motion. “When I’m tryin’ to do the same thing.”
The fabric loosened immediately, sliding away from her shoulders as she pushed it down her arms. Caine’s mouth curved into a smirk as he reached up and pulled his hoodie over his head.
Mireya stood in the bathroom with the door pulled mostly shut, one shoulder leaned against it, the lock already loose from too many nights of people coming in and out without bothering. The light overhead buzzed faintly, flickering just enough to make the shadows jump when she shifted her weight. The mirror was streaked in a way that said someone had tried to wipe it clean and given up halfway, fingerprints layered over older ones. She typed Happy New Year with one thumb, the phone balanced in her palm, then lifted it out and angled it up for a picture, wrist rotating until she found the angle she liked.
She smiled without thinking, chin tipped just right, hair falling the way it always did when she’d just finished fixing it, a loose wave slipping forward. The screen flashed and she caught the background a half second later. The sink. The toilet. The open door. Her bare chest.
She huffed a quiet breath through her nose and deleted it. Took another one tighter, closer, face filling most of the frame this time, cropping out everything that could give the room away. Sent it.
The reply came fast. A heart reaction. Simple. Easy. No words to misread.
She smiled again, smaller, and slipped the phone back into her purse, zipper rasping softly in the cramped space. She smoothed a hand down her stomach once, just checking, then took one more look at herself, just to be sure nothing was off. She pulled the door open and stepped back into the house.
The living room was already loud, music stacked on top of music, bass pushing through the walls like it had nowhere else to go, vibrating in her chest. Jaslene was dancing near the center, hips loose, hair swinging, one arm up in the air as she laughed at something someone yelled. Alejandra was a step behind her, laughing too, body rolling with the beat, eyes half-lidded. Hayley and Bianca had taken the other side, both of them moving slower, more deliberate, eyes cutting toward the men watching them instead of the speakers, gauging reactions.
Money flashed in hands. Someone shouted encouragement from the couch, voice already hoarse. A bottle tipped and sloshed, liquor spilling onto the floor without anyone caring.
Mireya crossed through it without stopping. She dropped her purse under the table near the back wall where Trell always sat, the legs wobbling slightly as it landed before settling. Trell was already there, leaned back in his usual spot, one arm draped over the chair, Ant on one side of him, Dez on the other, all three of them watching the room in different ways.
Trell lifted a few bills between his fingers when he saw her, the gesture small but unmistakable.
She took them and started to pull away. He caught her hand before she could, grip firm without squeezing, thumb pressing once into her palm. With his other hand, he pointed across the room.
At Boogie.
She nodded once. He smirked, the corner of his mouth tilting up, satisfied.
“That’s my girl,” he said.
He slapped her on the ass as she turned to go. She didn’t break stride. Heard Dez suck his teeth behind her anyway.
She looked back over her shoulder. Dez shook his head, slow, like it was already decided and not worth arguing about.
Mireya rolled her eyes then schooled her face before she reached Boogie. The music shifted again, something heavier, slower, the bass stretching out the beat. She didn’t hesitate. She turned and fell into his lap, one arm sliding around his neck, weight settling in, close enough to feel his breath hitch.
“You missed me, baby?” she said.
Boogie laughed, surprised, hands coming up automatically to steady her. “I ain’t know you was on duty tonight.”
She rolled her eyes, leaning back just enough to look at him, letting the lights catch her face. “I’m always trying to make money if you trying to spend it.”
Boogie grinned and elbowed Shad, who was sitting next to him with a bottle of Casamigos tipped up to his mouth, already half gone. “This the kind of shit you can have when you get some money.”
Shad coughed, liquor burning wrong, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Then you gotta let me get some money so I can have her.”
Mireya laughed, the sound bright, unbothered, head tipping back for just a second. “Come back when you get that money.”
She turned back to Boogie, closer now, voice dropping just a notch, eyes locked on his. “But what you got for me?”
Boogie reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills, thick enough to matter, rolling it between his fingers slow. A smile spread across Mireya’s face.
The refrigerator hummed when he leaned close enough to feel it through his feet.
Caine lifted the first trophy with both hands and set it on top of the fridge. The base landed a fraction off. He nudged it until the edge lined up with the door seam, then stepped back and checked it from the hallway. Freshman of the Year. He reached up again. Offensive Player of the Year. Newcomer of the Year. Player of the Year. Four trophies, gold catching the kitchen light, balanced above a refrigerator that still smelled faintly of plastic and cardboard.
He stood there a second longer than necessary, neck craned, making sure none of them leaned.
Nothing for a College Football Playoff win, though.
The apartment was quiet in a way that his last one wasn’t. No sounds leaking through walls. No familiar traffic rhythms. Outside, Statesboro sat bright and still, winter sun thin and clean.
He turned back to the kitchen and opened the last box.
Plates came out first. He stacked them by size, rims flush. Bowls nested clean. He wiped the cabinet shelf before sliding them in. Spices went on the counter one by one, labels turned forward. Salt. Pepper. Garlic powder. Cajun seasoning. He adjusted the spacing twice, then once more.
The knives went into the block in the order he liked. Handles even. He set the coffee maker down, stepped back, then shifted it half an inch so the cord fell straight instead of bending.
When the kitchen was finished, he carried the empty box into the living room and set it by the door. The couch still smelled new. The rug sat centered under the coffee table. On the end table, the framed picture from Christmas caught his eye.
Camila in the middle, curls loose, one hand lifted like she’d been caught mid-sentence. Mireya beside her, smile tired but real. Sara on the other side, soft smile on her face, arms around both of them. Caine reached out and straightened the frame, though it wasn’t crooked.
He turned on the TV and dropped onto the couch.
The Orange Bowl filled the room with motion and color. The game they should’ve been in. He turned the volume down until it became background noise, pads clicking, announcers blurring together. The season kept moving without him.
He leaned forward and pulled the journal box closer with his foot.
Inside, the notebooks sat stacked in order. He lifted the top one and opened it. Pages filled edge to edge, handwriting tight, margins crowded. He flipped to the end and stopped.
Full.
He closed it and set it back in the box. The next journal came out wrapped in plastic, cover plain and dark. He peeled the wrapper away and let it fall into the empty box. The sound was sharp in the quiet room.
He opened the journal to the first page and uncapped the pen.
Camila,
I don’t know who I am.
The pen stopped. The crowd on the TV swelled and dropped again. He leaned back, eyes on the ceiling for a beat, then forward.
I never have.
He glanced toward the kitchen. The spice labels still faced forward. The coffee maker cord stayed straight.
I don’t know the man that got my mama pregnant. Neither his people. And people act like that’s the simple answer for why I am the way I am.
He shifted, elbows on his knees now.
Like that’s enough to explain the choices somebody makes.
The refrigerator kicked louder for a moment, then settled.
But it ain’t that simple.
He rubbed his thumb along the paper’s edge, felt the grit.
I learned when I was young how to be what the room needed. How to read faces. How to listen before I talked. How to move different depending on who was watching, who was around
The pen moved steady now. The TV cut to a replay. A helmet bounced on the sideline. He didn’t look.
Mr. Landry once told me I was a chameleon. I ain’t really like hearing that shit.
He shifted again, cushion sighing under him.
I thought it meant I wasn’t real. But I think what he meant was that I survived.
He let the sentence stand on its own. His eyes drifted up toward the trophies above the fridge, then back to the page.
I been a son and a father. A student and a criminal. An athlete. Now, I even got money coming from it.
The pen slowed.
I been legal and illegal at the same time. I been somebody people cheer for and somebody they already decided on. Everyone worst fear and everyone dream.
He lowered the TV volume another notch. The sentence ended. He didn’t add anything to it.
Sometimes it feels like I split my life so clean that none of it touches.
He read it once. Didn’t fix it.
Like each version of me only exists in the place it was needed. And when I’m alone, I don’t know which one is supposed to be me.
The refrigerator hummed. The building shifted somewhere deep in its frame. His jaw tightened once. He wrote the last line slower than the rest.
I don’t know if that means none of it is the real me.
His palm rested flat on the page, paper warming under his skin. He finished it without lifting his hand.
Or if all of it is.
The pen stopped. The TV murmured. The trophies stayed steady above the fridge.
Caine didn’t close the journal right away.
~~~
The room was already loud.New Year’s Eve pulled bodies in sideways and stacked them on top of each other. The crowd pressed forward in a way that felt almost physical, heat rolling off it in waves. Plastic cups sloshed as people lifted them too fast. Bills waved overhead, some folded clean, some already damp, corners bent from hands that had been sweating all night.
The bass hit low and heavy, rattling the rail at the edge of the stage.
Mireya leaned back against the poll, hand up over her head as she rolled her hips into a squat. Men leaned forward instinctively, elbows knocking into each other as they fought for space at the rail. Someone yelled her name and shook money in her direction.
She slid down onto the floor onto her knees, leaning forward until her chest touched the stage, sweat already slicking her spine. When she began twerking, the sound surged up, sharp and hungry.
Bills slid onto the stage. She gathered them as she moved across the stage, limbs sweeping them into a pile as she move. A hand reached over the rail and trailed up her ankle. She smiled and reached back, snatching a bill from the man’s hand.
The music built. She rose with it, hair damp at her neck, breath steady. She ended with a flourish, jumping and grabbing the pole with both hands and lifting herself up into a spin, legs spread into a perfect “V” as she adjusted her grip and twirled down the pole back to the floor.
The song ended just as she landed.
The noise hit right after, a wall of sound that followed her as she crouched and gathered the rest of her money. She moved quick now, not counting, just collecting. Liana was already at the edge of the stage, smiling wide, ready to slide in.
Mireya stood and stepped back, passing the space to her. Liana took it and the next track kicked in, the room barely registering the switch.
Mireya reached for the robe and slid it, still open. The fabric clung to her skin, warm from the speaker. She stepped down into the crowd, shoulders brushing past arms, hands grazing her waist and hips as she moved through.
The bar was packed three deep.
She leaned in close enough that the bartender could hear her without shouting. “Tequila.”
He nodded and reached for the bottle. The pour was heavy, practiced. He slid the shot toward her without comment.
Mireya lifted it and knocked it back in one smooth motion, throat tightening just slightly as it burned. She set the glass down and exhaled through her nose, eyes already drifting along the bar.
That was when she noticed him.
Quarter zip. Slacks. Shoes that were a bit too scuffed to be for an unmarried man. He sat at the corner of the bar with his shoulders drawn in, drink untouched, eyes fixed on the wood in front of him instead of the stage. He wasn’t watching Liana. Wasn’t watching anyone. Just sitting there like he’d been misplaced.
Mireya stepped closer.
She leaned her hip against the bar beside him, close enough that he could feel her before he looked. She let the robe fall open slowly.
“You want to play with me, papi?” she asked, smiling.
He startled a little, eyes flicking sideways, then down, then back up again. His mouth opened, closed. He laughed once, short and tight.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m only here because my coworker dragged me along.”
“That’s okay,” Mireya said easily. “I’m Luna.” She tipped her head, hair sliding over one shoulder. “I can take care of you while your friend is busy.”
He blinked at her, fingers brushing the edge of his glass without lifting it. “I don’t know what to say to that.”
Mireya didn’t answer right away.
She grabbed her money bag from the chair she’d set it on, the weight of it familiar in her hand. Alejandra passed behind her on her way toward the dressing room, eyes already cutting toward the bar. Mireya handed the bag back without turning. Alejandra caught it, nodded once, and kept moving.
Mireya picked up the man’s drink and took a small sip. She set it back down, then reached for his hand.
Her grip was warm and certain.
“Sígueme, papi,” she said.
He laughed again as he stood, louder this time, nerves breaking through it as he let himself be pulled away from the bar. “I don’t speak Spanish.”
Mireya glanced back at him, smile easy, eyes bright.
“That’s okay.”
~~~
“You don’t get to drag last year into the next one,” Pastor Hadden said, and the words carried farther than the pulpit, settling into the rows of bodies packed shoulder to shoulder. “Not just because the calendar lets you.”
Laney stood partway down the pew, hands folded loosely in front of her, knuckles resting against the seam of her coat. Someone’s sleeve brushed her arm when they shifted their weight. She didn’t move. The sanctuary was warm with bodies and breath and the faint sting of perfume that clung to wool and starch. Every seat was full. People stood along the walls, leaning, listening.
“You don’t get to call something holy just because you learned how to live with it,” Pastor Hadden went on. His voice stayed level, practiced, the way it always did when he wasn’t asking for agreement. “And you don’t get to walk into a new year holding tight to the same sin and expect grace to do the work for you.”
A murmur moved through the room, low and instinctive. Someone said amen, sharp enough to cut.
Pastor Hadden rested both palms against the pulpit. He didn’t look down at the open Bible. He never did when the sermon ran like this, when it wasn’t about scripture as much as it was about pressure.
“Repentance ain’t comfort,” he said. “It ain’t words you say so you can sleep at night and wake up the same. Repentance is turning around. It’s stopping. It’s calling the thing what it is and not pretending it’s something else just ’cause you tired of fighting it.”
Laney kept her eyes on him. He did not look back at her. He never did when he preached like this, not even when the words landed close enough that she felt them register in her chest before she could stop them.
“You want forgiveness,” he said. “Ask for it. You want a clean start, then leave the mess right here. Don’t dress it up. Don’t explain it away. Don’t tell yourself you’ll deal with it when life gets easier.”
The room went still. Even the kids quieted, the restless shifting settling into something heavier. Laney could hear someone breathing hard behind her, could feel the heat of their coat against her arm.
“You don’t get lighter when the clock hits midnight,” Pastor Hadden said. “You get lighter when you put it down.”
He straightened, eyes moving across the sanctuary, not stopping on anyone long enough to make it personal and somehow making it personal anyway.
“Jesus don’t need you pretending,” he said. “He needs you honest.”
He bowed his head.
“If you ready to leave it,” he said, voice lower now, stripped of cadence, “now’s the time.”
Laney didn’t close her eyes.
When the prayer ended, the room exhaled all at once. Pews creaked. People stood. Coats were pulled on. Voices rose into greetings and laughter and the relieved noise of permission to move again. The pressure loosened, but it didn’t disappear. It just shifted.
Marianne stepped into the aisle, already smiling, already reaching for someone’s hand. She looked composed, settled, her face smooth in a way Laney recognized. The sermon slid past her like water. Laney caught the sight of her mother and looked away.
Mrs. Tolliver found Laney just past the end of the pew.
“Laney, honey,” she said, fingers warm on Laney’s arm. “I’m so glad I caught you tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Laney said.
Mrs. Tolliver leaned in, lowering her voice even though no one nearby was listening. “I been prayin’ over my granddaughter,” she said. “She’s a good girl, but she don’t know where she fits yet. I was thinkin’ maybe seein’ young women who really love the church might help her.”
Laney nodded once, the motion small and practiced.
“I was hopin’ maybe you and Rylee could spend some time with her,” Mrs. Tolliver continued. “Show her how good it can be to be rooted somewhere. To have somethin’ solid under her feet.”
Laney’s gaze slid past her shoulder, drawn without intention.
Rylee stood near the back wall, phone low in her hand. She glanced at the screen, then up at the clock mounted above the exit. Her foot rocked once, heel lifting, then settled. She scanned the room quickly, eyes already mapping distance and exits.
Laney brought her attention back to Mrs. Tolliver and smiled.
“I’d be happy to help her find her callin’,” she said.
Mrs. Tolliver’s face softened. She patted Laney’s arm, once, then again, satisfied. “I knew you would,” she said, and drifted away into the crowd.
Laney’s smile fell the moment she turned.
She looked toward the front of the sanctuary.
Tommy stood near the aisle, body angled toward Claire. His hands were in his pockets, posture loose. Claire stood close, head tipped slightly as she listened. She laughed quietly at something he said, controlled, contained.
Laney watched them without letting anything show on her face.
Claire glanced up.
Their eyes met. Claire’s smile tightened, polite and brief, before she turned back to Tommy and kept talking.
Laney shook her head once and stepped away.
She crossed toward Rylee, who noticed her too late to pretend she hadn’t been waiting.
“I ain’t tryin’ sneak out yet,” Rylee said, lifting both hands.
Laney stopped in front of her. “Go tell mama you ain’t feelin’ good,” she said. “Tell her you want me to take you home.”
Rylee blinked. “What?”
“I don’t care where you go after,” Laney said. “Just do this for me.”
Rylee narrowed her eyes. “What you tryin’ go do?”
Laney kept her voice low, steady. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. You don’t wanna be here and neither do I.”
Rylee studied her for a long second, then shrugged. “Alright,” she said. “But if Tommy get mad at you, remember you ask me to do this.”
Laney didn’t answer.
Rylee turned and walked toward Marianne, already adjusting her expression as she went. Laney stayed where she was, watching her weave through the crowd, the space closing and opening around her.
She glanced back toward the front of the sanctuary.
Tommy and Claire were still talking.
Laney waited.
~~~
The house never really went quiet.
Even with the music low and no shouting, there was always sound moving through it. Plastic rustling. Fingernails tapping scales. Money sliding against money. Someone laughing too loud in one room and getting told to shut up from another. The place smelled like sweat and cleaner and the sharp, metallic tang of cocaine that never fully left the air no matter how often the windows were opened.
Trell stood in the kitchen doorway, one hand resting against the frame, watching it all move.
Two women worked at the folding table pushed up against the wall, both topless, both focused, fingers fast as they broke weight down into smaller bags. Their hair was pulled back tight. One of them chewed gum hard enough that Trell could hear it pop over the music. Neither of them looked up.
On the counter behind them, stacks of cash were being sorted into neat piles. Rubber bands snapped. A calculator chirped, stopped, chirped again. One of Trell’s guys leaned over the counter, shoulders hunched, eyes locked on the numbers.
Dez stood off to the side near the back door, spinning a set of car keys around his finger.
He’d been doing it since they walked in.
The metal clicked soft and steady, the rhythm uneven. Every few seconds Dez stopped, caught the keys in his palm, then started again like he hadn’t even noticed he’d paused. His shoulders stayed tight. His eyes kept drifting toward the windows and then back to Trell.
The stairs creaked.
Ant came down first, heavy and deliberate, a duffel bag slung over each shoulder. Boogie followed right behind him, carrying his own pair. Each step they took sent a dull thud through the house.
They reached the bottom and stopped.
Trell straightened from the doorway and nodded once, his chin lifting just enough to acknowledge them. His eyes went to Boogie.
“You count that before you put it in there?” Trell asked.
Boogie shifted one of the bags higher on his shoulder. “Yeah,” he said. “I counted it twice.” He tapped the side of his head with one finger. “Even kept a mental total or whatever like them smart ass niggas be doing.”
Ant snorted under his breath but didn’t look at him.
Before Trell could respond, footsteps slapped fast across the front porch.
The door banged open.
A young guy jogged inside, breath a little too quick, eyes wide as he took in the room all at once. He barely made it two steps before Ant reacted. One of the duffel bags slid off his shoulder and hit the floor hard. Ant’s hand went straight to his waistband, body already turning.
Boogie stepped in front of him.
“Relax,” Boogie said. His hands were still full, arms tight around the bags, but he angled his body just enough to block Ant’s line. “That’s just Shad. He a new lil’ nigga I got working with us.”
Ant didn’t lower his hand.
“The fuck you mean new?” Ant said. His voice stayed flat, but there was weight behind it. “You hiring niggas and not telling us you hiring niggas?”
Boogie looked past him at Trell.
Trell didn’t move. He didn’t answer for him either. He just watched Boogie, eyes steady, waiting.
Boogie swallowed once, then nodded.
“I needed some extra help,” he said. “He solid.”
Shad nodded quick. “You ain’t gotta worry about me, big brudda,” he said. “I been off the porch.”
Trell stepped forward.
He moved slow. No rush. No show of concern. Just enough to make the space tighten.
He stopped in front of Shad and looked him over, top to bottom, like he was inventory. The kid stood straighter.
“How old are you?” Trell asked.
“Just turned eighteen,” Shad said.
Trell nodded once.
“Where you stay?” he asked.
“The Tenth Ward,” Shad said.
Trell glanced back at Ant.
The look was quick. Familiar. Ant met it and gave nothing back. Just held Trell’s eyes long enough to acknowledge the exchange.
Trell turned back to Shad.
He reached out and patted the side of the kid’s face twice, light but deliberate..
“You alright, lil’ nigga,” Trell said. “Make sure Boogie bring you through to the party.”
Shad broke into a grin. “Thanks,” he said. “Appreciate it, bro.”
Trell didn’t respond.
He turned and walked toward the back door, already lifting two fingers in a small motion for Ant and Boogie to follow.
Ant bent down and scooped up the bag he’d dropped, then shoved both duffels hard into Dez’s chest as he passed.
“Hold that,” Ant said.
Dez stumbled back a half step, keys clattering out of his hand and hitting the floor as Ant pushed him toward the door.
“Move,” Ant added.
Dez grabbed the bags and headed out ahead of them.
The house kept working behind them like nothing had happened.
~~~
The empty lot was lit by headlights and floodlamps dragged out of trunks, the ground uneven and dusty where grass had never quite grown back after years of tires and bodies grinding it down. Cars were parked in a loose ring, trunks open, music spilling out from three different directions at once, tracks clashing and bleeding into each other. The bass hit hard enough that it traveled through the dirt and up into the soles of shoes, rattling ribs, shaking bottles balanced on hoods. Dozens of people crowded in, bodies pressed close, breath fogging faintly in the cold, bottles raised, phones already out before anything worth filming even happened.
Someone shouted when the circle opened, the sound sharp and excited, like blood had just been spilled.
Two women were already on the ground by the time most people realized what was happening. Hair tangled in fists. Nails digging into skin. One of them rolled, scraping bare shoulder against gravel, shirt riding up as the other climbed on top of her, swinging wild and sloppy, knuckles glancing off collarbone, jaw, nothing clean. Dirt kicked up under them, clinging to sweat-slick skin. The crowd surged back just enough to make space, then leaned in again, hungry, boots scuffing as people jockeyed for a better angle.
“Yeah! Yeah!” somebody yelled, voice cracking.
Phones came up higher. Screens glowed bright and steady.
Tyree pushed his way forward until he was close enough to see faces, close enough to smell perfume and spilled liquor and sweat. He laughed hard, sharp, the sound cutting through the music, shoulders bouncing with it.
“Nah, you can’t go out like that, Janae!” he shouted. “Bite that bitch titty!”
Janae twisted underneath the other woman, teeth bared, trying to get leverage as hair ripped free in her hands. The other girl screamed something incoherent and slapped down, missing her face but catching her neck, fingers leaving red streaks. Janae bucked her hips, trying to roll them, breath coming out in short, angry bursts.
Ramon jerked sideways when Tyree’s elbow flew too close to his mouth. He shoved him back without looking, palm hard against Tyree’s chest.
“Calm down, nigga,” Ramon said. “You know that siddidy ass IG bitch shouldn’t have had her ass out here.”
Tyree stumbled a half step, still laughing, arms out like he hadn’t almost caught a fist himself, eyes never leaving the fight.
“She from here, bro,” Tyree said.
E.J. slid in beside Ramon and passed him the blunt without breaking his gaze on the circle. The smoke curled thick and sweet in the cold air, mixing with exhaust and dust.
“That’s why I never bring none of my bitches out here,” E.J. said. “Niggas is wild.”
Tyree turned, laughing.
“Of course you don’t bring no white bitch to the hood, nigga,” he said. “Be for fucking real.”
Ramon snorted and took a pull, eyes never leaving the circle as the two women rolled again, one shrieking when her hair came free in clumps, the other scrambling to stay on top, hands slipping. A knee came up hard into ribs. Somebody in the crowd whooped, loud and ugly.
“Damn,” somebody said. “She eatin’ that.”
A bottle hit the ground and shattered somewhere behind them. Glass skittered across dirt. Nobody flinched. Nobody moved back.
Duke’s voice cut through the noise, loud and commanding enough to matter.
“Ay! Ay!” he yelled. “Break that shit up.”
Tyree didn’t hesitate. He shoved forward with another guy, both of them ducking and weaving, hands out to keep from catching stray blows. The other guy grabbed the second woman under the arms and dragged her back, shoes scraping uselessly against the dirt as she kicked and cursed, heels digging shallow trenches.
Tyree wrapped both arms around Janae from behind and lifted her clean off the ground. She thrashed, swinging backward with her elbows, almost catching him in the jaw. He laughed, breathless, staggering a step before planting his feet and hauling her back until there was space.
“Let me go!” she yelled. “That bitch mad because I was batting the piss out of her!”
“Chill,” Tyree said, still laughing, setting her down once her feet hit steady. He pressed a bottle into her hand, cold glass knocking against her knuckles. “Drink this.”
She took it without hesitation and tipped it back, coughing when it went down wrong, liquor spilling onto her chin.
“That bitch kept tryin’ to fucking poke me in the eye,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
Ramon leaned forward. “Ain’t no rules,” he said. “Should’ve did the same shit to her.”
E.J. nodded once. “Facts.”
Janae shook her head, breathing hard now that the adrenaline was bleeding off. Her shirt was half torn, hair wild, makeup streaked down one cheek, mascara burned into her skin.
“I guess I forgot how foul y’all niggas is in New Orleans,” she said. “After being in Baton Rouge.”
Tyree grinned and stepped closer, lowering his voice as he leaned in, crowd noise swallowing the edges of his words.
“You already know we gutta gutta,” he said.
Ramon shook his head slowly as Tyree bent closer to Janae’s ear, whispering something that made her scoff and shove his shoulder without any real force. Tyree laughed again, soft this time, staying close, one hand still light at the small of her back.
Two other girls slid up beside Ramon and E.J., one of them pressing a hand into E.J.’s chest like she’d always had a right to the space. Ramon felt a hip bump into his leg and glanced down, then back up, attention splitting without effort.
The music shifted. Somebody turned it up louder.
The circle loosened but didn’t break, energy still buzzing, everyone already replaying the fight through their phones, laughing, shouting over one another as the night rolled on.
~~~
There was still an hour left before midnight.
Caine pulled on his hoodie, shaking out his dreads as the sound of fireworks began to echo outside. The quiet of earlier had disappeared as people started to empty out of their apartments to bring in the new year either in the parking lot or head out to the bars to celebrate with their friends.
And that’s exactly what Caine was about to do. The guys had texted him with a location and a demand to show up, and show up he would.
He stepped out of the bedroom and headed for the door, sending a quick text to the group chat that he was on his way and to warn them not to get too drunk before he got there. Dwight’s response was almost immediate.
that ship sailed my nigga
A knock came at the front door just as his hand brushed the chain to unlock it.
He opened the door and stopped.
Laney stood there with her fist still raised, knuckles an inch from the wood. She froze when the door swung open, eyes flicking up to his face, mouth already pulling into something that wasn’t quite a smile yet.
“What you doin’ here?” Caine said, eyebrows lifting. “Thought you had somethin’ at the church?”
Laney shrugged like it hadn’t taken any effort at all to be standing on his doorstep instead of under fluorescent lights with folding chairs and hymns. She stepped past him before he could move out of the way, heels clicking once against the floor as she crossed the threshold, already inside his space.
“I did,” she said. “But I got Rylee to say she was feelin’ bad and needed me to take her home.”
Caine shut the door behind her. He snorted under his breath, a short laugh he didn’t bother to hide, shaking his head as he turned back toward her.
“And you used that as your cover to come here?”
Laney didn’t answer right away. She took a few steps into the kitchen instead, eyes sweeping the counters, the cabinets, the boxes stacked neatly along the wall where he’d left them earlier. One of them was angled just slightly wrong, the edge sticking out enough to break the line.
She reached out and nudged it back into place with two fingers, precise and absentminded, then let her hand linger there a beat longer than necessary.
“Sound like you ain’t happy to see me,” she said.
Caine pushed off the door and leaned back against the wall across from her, arms folding loosely over his chest. “I ain’t say all that,” he said. “I’m just tryin’ to figure out what you gonna tell Rylee if she get suspicious.”
Laney turned then, already walking toward the hallway. She lifted her hand and crooked two fingers at him without looking back, the gesture casual and practiced.
“I don’t think Rylee gonna remember what we talked ’bout tonight,” she said, voice easy, “after she get drunk and get fucked.”
Caine laughed. He pushed off the wall and followed her down the hall, shoulders brushing close to the doorframes as he walked. “That’s a wild way to talk about your little sister.”
The bedroom light was already on, casting a warm, contained glow. Laney stepped inside and stopped at the foot of the bed, turning slowly as he came in behind her. The sheets were rumpled from earlier, one corner pulled loose. For a moment she just looked at him, head tilted, taking him in, eyes moving from his face to his chest and back again.
“Ain’t wild,” she said, reaching back without breaking eye contact. Her fingers found the zipper at the base of her neck and pulled it down in one smooth motion. “When I’m tryin’ to do the same thing.”
The fabric loosened immediately, sliding away from her shoulders as she pushed it down her arms. Caine’s mouth curved into a smirk as he reached up and pulled his hoodie over his head.
~~~
Mireya stood in the bathroom with the door pulled mostly shut, one shoulder leaned against it, the lock already loose from too many nights of people coming in and out without bothering. The light overhead buzzed faintly, flickering just enough to make the shadows jump when she shifted her weight. The mirror was streaked in a way that said someone had tried to wipe it clean and given up halfway, fingerprints layered over older ones. She typed Happy New Year with one thumb, the phone balanced in her palm, then lifted it out and angled it up for a picture, wrist rotating until she found the angle she liked.
She smiled without thinking, chin tipped just right, hair falling the way it always did when she’d just finished fixing it, a loose wave slipping forward. The screen flashed and she caught the background a half second later. The sink. The toilet. The open door. Her bare chest.
She huffed a quiet breath through her nose and deleted it. Took another one tighter, closer, face filling most of the frame this time, cropping out everything that could give the room away. Sent it.
The reply came fast. A heart reaction. Simple. Easy. No words to misread.
She smiled again, smaller, and slipped the phone back into her purse, zipper rasping softly in the cramped space. She smoothed a hand down her stomach once, just checking, then took one more look at herself, just to be sure nothing was off. She pulled the door open and stepped back into the house.
The living room was already loud, music stacked on top of music, bass pushing through the walls like it had nowhere else to go, vibrating in her chest. Jaslene was dancing near the center, hips loose, hair swinging, one arm up in the air as she laughed at something someone yelled. Alejandra was a step behind her, laughing too, body rolling with the beat, eyes half-lidded. Hayley and Bianca had taken the other side, both of them moving slower, more deliberate, eyes cutting toward the men watching them instead of the speakers, gauging reactions.
Money flashed in hands. Someone shouted encouragement from the couch, voice already hoarse. A bottle tipped and sloshed, liquor spilling onto the floor without anyone caring.
Mireya crossed through it without stopping. She dropped her purse under the table near the back wall where Trell always sat, the legs wobbling slightly as it landed before settling. Trell was already there, leaned back in his usual spot, one arm draped over the chair, Ant on one side of him, Dez on the other, all three of them watching the room in different ways.
Trell lifted a few bills between his fingers when he saw her, the gesture small but unmistakable.
She took them and started to pull away. He caught her hand before she could, grip firm without squeezing, thumb pressing once into her palm. With his other hand, he pointed across the room.
At Boogie.
She nodded once. He smirked, the corner of his mouth tilting up, satisfied.
“That’s my girl,” he said.
He slapped her on the ass as she turned to go. She didn’t break stride. Heard Dez suck his teeth behind her anyway.
She looked back over her shoulder. Dez shook his head, slow, like it was already decided and not worth arguing about.
Mireya rolled her eyes then schooled her face before she reached Boogie. The music shifted again, something heavier, slower, the bass stretching out the beat. She didn’t hesitate. She turned and fell into his lap, one arm sliding around his neck, weight settling in, close enough to feel his breath hitch.
“You missed me, baby?” she said.
Boogie laughed, surprised, hands coming up automatically to steady her. “I ain’t know you was on duty tonight.”
She rolled her eyes, leaning back just enough to look at him, letting the lights catch her face. “I’m always trying to make money if you trying to spend it.”
Boogie grinned and elbowed Shad, who was sitting next to him with a bottle of Casamigos tipped up to his mouth, already half gone. “This the kind of shit you can have when you get some money.”
Shad coughed, liquor burning wrong, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Then you gotta let me get some money so I can have her.”
Mireya laughed, the sound bright, unbothered, head tipping back for just a second. “Come back when you get that money.”
She turned back to Boogie, closer now, voice dropping just a notch, eyes locked on his. “But what you got for me?”
Boogie reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills, thick enough to matter, rolling it between his fingers slow. A smile spread across Mireya’s face.
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redsox907
- Posts: 3082
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
American Sun
Janae reappears and is about to get rallied by 3NG 
Wonder if she pops back up in the storyline more than a side character we know 3NG be hanging out with Trell and em a lot
still want to know who this Claire bitch is. But clearly, Laney thinks something is up. Looping in the girl that used to fuck your side piece, so you can go fuck your side piece is diabolical;
And Mrs. Tolliver wants those to sinners to show her daughter the right path!? Lawd have mercy.
Mireya texting her white boy from the bathroom at a ho party is also diabolical lmao.
Dez stay simping.
Curious how the new guy plays in.
Wonder if she pops back up in the storyline more than a side character
we know 3NG be hanging out with Trell and em a lotstill want to know who this Claire bitch is. But clearly, Laney thinks something is up. Looping in the girl that used to fuck your side piece, so you can go fuck your side piece is diabolical;
And Mrs. Tolliver wants those to sinners to show her daughter the right path!? Lawd have mercy.
Mireya texting her white boy from the bathroom at a ho party is also diabolical lmao.
Dez stay simping.
Curious how the new guy plays in.