Dying to Live
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17008
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
****Character List: https://dynastysports.net/viewtopic.php?p=69562#p69562****
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17008
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Lines and Crossfire
Alix leaned back against the plush sofa, tucked her legs up beneath her as her friend, Riley, and James, Riley’s boyfriend, disappeared into his room, their laughter and whispers muffled by the closed door. The faint thrum of music played in the background, blending with the ambient hum of the apartment. The evening had started innocently enough—food, a few drinks, and some lighthearted conversation. But now, as the night stretched on, she found herself alone with Dominic, James’ roommate, whose flirtation had been growing more obvious every time they crossed paths.
Dominic stretched out beside her, his arm draped casually over the back of the sofa, exuding a relaxed confidence that made him hard to ignore. His sharp jawline caught the soft light from the nearby lamp, and his cologne carried a faint, spicy warmth.
“You know,” he said, his voice low and smooth, “James and Riley could be in there all night. Might as well might ourselves comfortable.”
Alix raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a small smirk. “Comfortable, huh?”
“Yeah,” Dominic said, leaning slightly closer, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I mean, we’ve been vibing all night. Don’t pretend you not feeling me.”
She rolled her eyes, her smirk widening. Dominic’s charm was undeniable, and for a moment, she let herself enjoy the attention. Her thoughts flickered briefly to Royce, but he wasn’t there—and they weren’t together. Dominic was next to her, easy present and undeniably magnetic.
“Come on, Alix,” he said, resting his hand on her knee. “You gonna keep playing hard to get?”
Alix sighed and stretched her legs out, letting them drape over Dominic’s lap. The move felt casual, almost natural, but it was enough to send a spark through the air between them. Dominic grinned, running a finger lightly along the inside seam of her jeans, tracing an invisible path, stopping just above her knee.
“So, what are we doing here?” he asked, his tone half-joking but heavy with suggestion.
Alix tilted her head, her expression teasing. “We’re hanging out,” she said simply, her voice smooth and controlled.
Dominic chuckled, leaning a fraction closer, his hand moving slightly up. “We could hang out somewhere a little more private. My room’s right there.”
Her stomach flipped, but not in the way she hoped it would. His boldness sent a thrill through her, but it was followed by a twinge of discomfort. The line between playful banter and something more had been blurred since she’d met Dominic, but now it felt like he was testing just how far he could push it.
Alix laughed lightly, sliding her legs off his lap and sitting upright. “Nice try,” she said, giving him a playful shove on the shoulder. “But I think we’re good right out here.”
Dominic leaned back, a shrug rolling through his shoulders as he studied her. “Fair enough,” he said, though there was a flicker of disappointment in his tone. He let out a small laugh. “So, what’s it gonna take to get out of the friend zone.”
Alix shook her head, her laugh bubbling up despite herself. “No one said you’re in the friend zone, Dominic. You’re good company, though.”
“Good company,” Dominic repeated, raising an eyebrow. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”
She reached for her drink, taking a slow sip to buy herself a moment. “It’s a compliment. Take it.”
The tension between them softened as their conversation shifted to lighter topics—music, movies, Dominic’s ongoing battle with his pre-law coursework. Alix found herself relaxing again, but Royce lingered in the back of her mind.
Dominic leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “So, for real, Alix. I’m not trying to push you into anything but I figured you always come here with Riley because you’re feeling me and I’m trying to fuck with you, too. But you always seem like you’re somewhere else.”
Alix blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. “I never said I wasn’t. But I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Physically, yeah,” Dominic said. “What’s wrong? You don’t fuck with Black dudes?”
She laughed at that. “Do I give off that impression?”
“You do. Kinda, yeah,” he said, joining her in the laughter. “I’m just trying to figure out the reason so I can know if I still got a chance.”
“If you only knew how far from the truth that actually was.”
“Oh, you a bunny?” Dominic said, leaning forward with a teasing glint in his eyes.
Alix rolled her eyes. “I’d never call myself that. I’m just saying what you’re saying isn’t exactly true.”
“So,” he said, his voice softer now. “You got a man or something? I mean, I’m still going to shoot my shot, but I might throw in a little jab step if I got some competition, you know what I’m saying?”
She hesitated, swirling the ice in her glass. She didn’t know how to answer that. Her thoughts drifted back to Royce. They didn’t keep their relationship secret these days, but they hadn’t redefined it either. It was as much as casual situationship now as much as it was in high school—despite…
“No, I guess I’ve just got a lot on my mind,” she said finally.
“You know what helps me clear my head?” Dominic asked, his suggestion clear as a smirk grew on his lips.
“We’re not fucking,” Alix said, shaking her head but she couldn’t help smiling.
“Not fucking or not fucking tonight?”
“Is that the jab step?”
Dominic nodded. “Did it work? I’m just saying. The room’s only a few steps away. They’re going to start fucking soon and you don’t want to be sitting out here where you can hear that.”
Alix laughed, drinking the rest of her drink. She held the cup out to Dominic. “Want to go get me another drink?”
Dominic paused for a moment, the wheels in his head seemingly turning, before he took the cup from her and headed to the kitchen.
As he made her another drink, the pull between what Dominic offered—a distraction, an easy path forward—and what she really wanted only grew stronger.
~~~~~~~~~~
Mike-Mike leaned against the hood of a beat-up car, the Louisiana night air clinging to his skin like a second layer. The group around him buzzed with energy, their laughter and loud conversation carrying over the quiet, dark bayou. It was the kind of night he used to enjoy—being surrounded by familiar faces, letting the warmth of the moment shield him from everything else. But tonight felt different. There was an edge to the air, and it wasn’t just the humidity.
Most of the people there were neighborhood regulars—guys he’d played ball with growing up, girls who always seemed to show up at the parities. But one of them, Treg, was new.
Treg had that kind of brash confidence that immediately drew people in, his loud voice and flashy grin making him the center of attention.
At some point during the night, Treg’s theatrics hit a new level. With a dramatic flourish, he reached into his waistband and pulled out a pistol, holding it out in front of him like a gangster from a movie.
“Just got this bitch,” Treg said, turning the gun over in his hand. “Paid some clucker $50 for it then got the dick from one of my cousins. She a pretty bitch, huh?”
The reactions were varied. From nervous laughter to exaggerated approval of those trying to match Treg’s bravado.
Mike-Mike stayed silent, his stomach twisting into knots. The sight of the gun was like a lightning bolt to his memory, dragging him back to that night. The image of Royce and Romeo bleeding out in the street flashed in his mind, vivid and unrelenting. He crossed his arms tightly, trying to steady his breathing, but the weight of those memories pressed down on him.
Treg caught his silence and smirked, zeroing in on him. “What’s the matter, man? Scared of the pole?”
“Nah, I’m good,” Mike-Mike said quickly, his voice betraying him with its tightness.
The group erupted in laughter, their reactions egging Treg on. He stepped closer, holding the gun out toward Mike-Mike with a grin. “Come on, nigga, you ain’t gotta be scared. It ain’t gonna jump up and bite you.”
Mike-Mike tried to step back, but the group’s expectant eyes pinned him in place. Before he could refuse, Treg thrust the gun into his hands. The cold metal was heavier than he expected, its weight pressing against his palms like a judgment. His pulse quickened as he glanced around the group, all of them watching him, waiting for his reaction.
“See?” Treg said, his grin widening. “Feel like a man now, right?”
Mike-Mike didn’t answer, his fingers tightening instinctively around the grip. The gun felt alien and wrong in his hands, but the pressure to prove himself—to not seem weak—was overwhelming.
“Now, shoot that bitch,” Treg urged nodding toward the bayou. His tone was casual, but there was an edge to it, a challenge Mike-Mike couldn’t ignore.
Every fiber of his being screamed to put the gun down, to walk away. But the weight of the group’s expectations bore down on him. He swallowed hard, turning toward the bayou, the dark water shimmering faintly under the moonlight.
Taking a deep breath, he raised the gun into the air and squeezed the trigger.
The crack of the shot shattered the stillness of the night, louder than Mike-Mike had anticipated. His ears rang, the group’s voices blending into the cacophony in his head. Treg clapped him on the back, his laughter cutting through the chaos.
“See you ain’t no bitch!” Treg shouted.
Before Mike-Mike could respond, another shot rang out, then another, as Treg and a couple of the others took turns firing into the night. The noise was relentless, each shot slicing through Mike-Mike’s nerves like a knife. The smell of gunpowder filled his nose, sharp and acrid, amplifying the pounding in his chest.
Then came the distant wail of sirens.
“Cops!” someone yelled, and the group scattered in an instant, their laughter replaced by panicked shouts.
Mike-Mike bolted toward the trees, his heart hammering as adrenaline surged through his veins. The darkened woods stretched out ahead of him, and he pushed himself harder, his legs burning with the effort. Flashbacks of Romeo and Royce hit him in rapid succession, vivid and brutal, but he forced them aside, focusing on putting as much distance as he could between himself and the scene.
When he finally stopped running, bent over and gasping for breath, the night was eerily quiet again. The only sounds were the rustling of leaves and his own ragged breathing.
It was then he realized he still had the gun in his hand.
Without hesitation, he hurled it into a canal running through the woods. The splash was fiat, barely audible over the pounding of his heart, but it felt like the only thing he could do to distance himself from what had just happened.
Straightening up, Mike-Mike pressed his hands to his knees, trying to steady himself. The weight in his chest didn’t budge.
Alix leaned back against the plush sofa, tucked her legs up beneath her as her friend, Riley, and James, Riley’s boyfriend, disappeared into his room, their laughter and whispers muffled by the closed door. The faint thrum of music played in the background, blending with the ambient hum of the apartment. The evening had started innocently enough—food, a few drinks, and some lighthearted conversation. But now, as the night stretched on, she found herself alone with Dominic, James’ roommate, whose flirtation had been growing more obvious every time they crossed paths.
Dominic stretched out beside her, his arm draped casually over the back of the sofa, exuding a relaxed confidence that made him hard to ignore. His sharp jawline caught the soft light from the nearby lamp, and his cologne carried a faint, spicy warmth.
“You know,” he said, his voice low and smooth, “James and Riley could be in there all night. Might as well might ourselves comfortable.”
Alix raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a small smirk. “Comfortable, huh?”
“Yeah,” Dominic said, leaning slightly closer, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I mean, we’ve been vibing all night. Don’t pretend you not feeling me.”
She rolled her eyes, her smirk widening. Dominic’s charm was undeniable, and for a moment, she let herself enjoy the attention. Her thoughts flickered briefly to Royce, but he wasn’t there—and they weren’t together. Dominic was next to her, easy present and undeniably magnetic.
“Come on, Alix,” he said, resting his hand on her knee. “You gonna keep playing hard to get?”
Alix sighed and stretched her legs out, letting them drape over Dominic’s lap. The move felt casual, almost natural, but it was enough to send a spark through the air between them. Dominic grinned, running a finger lightly along the inside seam of her jeans, tracing an invisible path, stopping just above her knee.
“So, what are we doing here?” he asked, his tone half-joking but heavy with suggestion.
Alix tilted her head, her expression teasing. “We’re hanging out,” she said simply, her voice smooth and controlled.
Dominic chuckled, leaning a fraction closer, his hand moving slightly up. “We could hang out somewhere a little more private. My room’s right there.”
Her stomach flipped, but not in the way she hoped it would. His boldness sent a thrill through her, but it was followed by a twinge of discomfort. The line between playful banter and something more had been blurred since she’d met Dominic, but now it felt like he was testing just how far he could push it.
Alix laughed lightly, sliding her legs off his lap and sitting upright. “Nice try,” she said, giving him a playful shove on the shoulder. “But I think we’re good right out here.”
Dominic leaned back, a shrug rolling through his shoulders as he studied her. “Fair enough,” he said, though there was a flicker of disappointment in his tone. He let out a small laugh. “So, what’s it gonna take to get out of the friend zone.”
Alix shook her head, her laugh bubbling up despite herself. “No one said you’re in the friend zone, Dominic. You’re good company, though.”
“Good company,” Dominic repeated, raising an eyebrow. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”
She reached for her drink, taking a slow sip to buy herself a moment. “It’s a compliment. Take it.”
The tension between them softened as their conversation shifted to lighter topics—music, movies, Dominic’s ongoing battle with his pre-law coursework. Alix found herself relaxing again, but Royce lingered in the back of her mind.
Dominic leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “So, for real, Alix. I’m not trying to push you into anything but I figured you always come here with Riley because you’re feeling me and I’m trying to fuck with you, too. But you always seem like you’re somewhere else.”
Alix blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. “I never said I wasn’t. But I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Physically, yeah,” Dominic said. “What’s wrong? You don’t fuck with Black dudes?”
She laughed at that. “Do I give off that impression?”
“You do. Kinda, yeah,” he said, joining her in the laughter. “I’m just trying to figure out the reason so I can know if I still got a chance.”
“If you only knew how far from the truth that actually was.”
“Oh, you a bunny?” Dominic said, leaning forward with a teasing glint in his eyes.
Alix rolled her eyes. “I’d never call myself that. I’m just saying what you’re saying isn’t exactly true.”
“So,” he said, his voice softer now. “You got a man or something? I mean, I’m still going to shoot my shot, but I might throw in a little jab step if I got some competition, you know what I’m saying?”
She hesitated, swirling the ice in her glass. She didn’t know how to answer that. Her thoughts drifted back to Royce. They didn’t keep their relationship secret these days, but they hadn’t redefined it either. It was as much as casual situationship now as much as it was in high school—despite…
“No, I guess I’ve just got a lot on my mind,” she said finally.
“You know what helps me clear my head?” Dominic asked, his suggestion clear as a smirk grew on his lips.
“We’re not fucking,” Alix said, shaking her head but she couldn’t help smiling.
“Not fucking or not fucking tonight?”
“Is that the jab step?”
Dominic nodded. “Did it work? I’m just saying. The room’s only a few steps away. They’re going to start fucking soon and you don’t want to be sitting out here where you can hear that.”
Alix laughed, drinking the rest of her drink. She held the cup out to Dominic. “Want to go get me another drink?”
Dominic paused for a moment, the wheels in his head seemingly turning, before he took the cup from her and headed to the kitchen.
As he made her another drink, the pull between what Dominic offered—a distraction, an easy path forward—and what she really wanted only grew stronger.
~~~~~~~~~~
Mike-Mike leaned against the hood of a beat-up car, the Louisiana night air clinging to his skin like a second layer. The group around him buzzed with energy, their laughter and loud conversation carrying over the quiet, dark bayou. It was the kind of night he used to enjoy—being surrounded by familiar faces, letting the warmth of the moment shield him from everything else. But tonight felt different. There was an edge to the air, and it wasn’t just the humidity.
Most of the people there were neighborhood regulars—guys he’d played ball with growing up, girls who always seemed to show up at the parities. But one of them, Treg, was new.
Treg had that kind of brash confidence that immediately drew people in, his loud voice and flashy grin making him the center of attention.
At some point during the night, Treg’s theatrics hit a new level. With a dramatic flourish, he reached into his waistband and pulled out a pistol, holding it out in front of him like a gangster from a movie.
“Just got this bitch,” Treg said, turning the gun over in his hand. “Paid some clucker $50 for it then got the dick from one of my cousins. She a pretty bitch, huh?”
The reactions were varied. From nervous laughter to exaggerated approval of those trying to match Treg’s bravado.
Mike-Mike stayed silent, his stomach twisting into knots. The sight of the gun was like a lightning bolt to his memory, dragging him back to that night. The image of Royce and Romeo bleeding out in the street flashed in his mind, vivid and unrelenting. He crossed his arms tightly, trying to steady his breathing, but the weight of those memories pressed down on him.
Treg caught his silence and smirked, zeroing in on him. “What’s the matter, man? Scared of the pole?”
“Nah, I’m good,” Mike-Mike said quickly, his voice betraying him with its tightness.
The group erupted in laughter, their reactions egging Treg on. He stepped closer, holding the gun out toward Mike-Mike with a grin. “Come on, nigga, you ain’t gotta be scared. It ain’t gonna jump up and bite you.”
Mike-Mike tried to step back, but the group’s expectant eyes pinned him in place. Before he could refuse, Treg thrust the gun into his hands. The cold metal was heavier than he expected, its weight pressing against his palms like a judgment. His pulse quickened as he glanced around the group, all of them watching him, waiting for his reaction.
“See?” Treg said, his grin widening. “Feel like a man now, right?”
Mike-Mike didn’t answer, his fingers tightening instinctively around the grip. The gun felt alien and wrong in his hands, but the pressure to prove himself—to not seem weak—was overwhelming.
“Now, shoot that bitch,” Treg urged nodding toward the bayou. His tone was casual, but there was an edge to it, a challenge Mike-Mike couldn’t ignore.
Every fiber of his being screamed to put the gun down, to walk away. But the weight of the group’s expectations bore down on him. He swallowed hard, turning toward the bayou, the dark water shimmering faintly under the moonlight.
Taking a deep breath, he raised the gun into the air and squeezed the trigger.
The crack of the shot shattered the stillness of the night, louder than Mike-Mike had anticipated. His ears rang, the group’s voices blending into the cacophony in his head. Treg clapped him on the back, his laughter cutting through the chaos.
“See you ain’t no bitch!” Treg shouted.
Before Mike-Mike could respond, another shot rang out, then another, as Treg and a couple of the others took turns firing into the night. The noise was relentless, each shot slicing through Mike-Mike’s nerves like a knife. The smell of gunpowder filled his nose, sharp and acrid, amplifying the pounding in his chest.
Then came the distant wail of sirens.
“Cops!” someone yelled, and the group scattered in an instant, their laughter replaced by panicked shouts.
Mike-Mike bolted toward the trees, his heart hammering as adrenaline surged through his veins. The darkened woods stretched out ahead of him, and he pushed himself harder, his legs burning with the effort. Flashbacks of Romeo and Royce hit him in rapid succession, vivid and brutal, but he forced them aside, focusing on putting as much distance as he could between himself and the scene.
When he finally stopped running, bent over and gasping for breath, the night was eerily quiet again. The only sounds were the rustling of leaves and his own ragged breathing.
It was then he realized he still had the gun in his hand.
Without hesitation, he hurled it into a canal running through the woods. The splash was fiat, barely audible over the pounding of his heart, but it felt like the only thing he could do to distance himself from what had just happened.
Straightening up, Mike-Mike pressed his hands to his knees, trying to steady himself. The weight in his chest didn’t budge.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17008
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Gigged 'Em
-
The JZA
- Posts: 9445
- Joined: 07 Dec 2018, 13:10
Dying to Live
Royce & them bois been rollings since South Alabama, nice string of wins
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17008
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Trust Issues
Royce lay sprawled across Bree’s bed, his arm slung lazily behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. The faint hum of her fan mixed with the low buzz of traffic outside, creating a lull that made him feel heavier against the mattress.
Bree stood by the mirror, pulling a brush through her dark hair. She wore the satisfied but distracted expression of someone organizing their thoughts. Royce watched her, his mind already drifting back to his schedule for the day. Practice, film, maybe another meet-up.
The silence stretched until Bree broke it, her tone calm but loaded with intent. “So,” she said, her eyes flicking up to meet his in the mirror, “you’ve been hanging out with Emilia?”
Royce didn’t sit up. “You know the answer to that.”
She turned, crossing her arms over her chest as she faced him. “Yeah, I do. But I want to hear you say it.”
With a sigh, Royce swung his legs off the side of the bed, planting his feet on the floor. “Come on, Bree. You’re not asking because you don’t know. You’re asking because you want to start some shit.”
Her jaw tightened, but she stood firm, her posture unyielding. “I’m not going to keep fucking you if you’re hooking up with my fucking roommate.”
Royce let out a low chuckle, the sound dismissive. He grabbed his shirt from the edge of the bed and began pulling it over his head. “Bree. Let’s not act like we’re something we’re not. You don’t get to give me demands and shit. This has always been just what it is. If you wanted a boyfriend, you shouldn’t have fucked me 15 minutes after meeting me.”
Bree’s face flushed, her brows knitting together as her frustration spilled over. “You’re a fucking dick, Royce. You think you can just do whatever you want to people? It’s fucked up. What you’re doing is fucked up.”
He straightened, adjusting his shirt as he met her glare with calm detachment. “It’s not fucked up, Bree. It’s about us not being anything more than this. You knew what it was from the start. Don’t go trying to change shit now.”
Her voice rose, the tension in the room snapping like a rubber band. “That doesn’t mean I have to let you treat me like shit!” She grabbed a pillow from the bed and hurled it at him. He sidestepped it effortlessly, shaking his head with a faint, almost amused smile.
“Get the fuck out, Royce!” she shouted, storming to the door and yanking it open with dramatic flair. Her voice carried down the hall as she added. “You’re a fucking piece of shit.”
Royce didn’t flinch, his expression unreadable as he stepped past her into the corridor. He adjusted the hood of his sweatshirt, pulling it over his head as Bree continued to shout behind him. The sound of her voice echoed down the hallway, drawing attention of a few students who lingered outside their rooms. Their curious gazes darted between Royce and Bree, their expressions a mix of amusement and pity.
Royce ignored them, his pace steady as he walked away. Bree’s accusations faded behind him, her voice no longer carrying over the low murmur of the building’s ambiance. He shook his head, more out of habit than genuine frustration and shoved his hands into his pockets.
As he walked out of the building, his phone was already buzzing with texts and calls from Bree, looking to continue her tirade. He put his phone on do not disturb and headed to his car to drive back to his apartment.
~~~~~~~~~~
The sun hung high in the sky, casting a warm glow over the sprawling greens of the golf course. A light breeze carried the faint scent of freshly cut grass, and the quiet hum of distant chatter from other golfers punctuated the otherwise serene atmosphere. Royce squinted as he lined up his shot, gripping the club tightly. His shoulders were stiff, his posture rigid as he eyed the ball.
To his left, Tyrell leaned on his own club, adjusting his hat and watching Royce critically. “You’re gonna hook it if you don’t loosen up,” he said, smirking.
Royce shot him a sidelong glare. “I got this.”
“You sure? Last time you said, you damn near took out someone’s mawmaw watering her flowers.”
Royce ignored him, taking a deep breath and pulling back for the swing. He brought the club down with a clean crack, the ball shooting off the tee—but slicing sharply to the right. It disappeared into the rough, where it nestled out of sight among the thick grass.
Tyrell burst out laughing, slapping Royce on the back. “What I told you. You keep that shit up and you’re going to have them kicking us out because you’re killing the cart girls.”
“Yeah, fuck you, nigga,” Royce muttered under his breath, though the small grin tugging at his lips betrayed his frustration. He walked over to the cart and dropped the club into a bag, hopping in the passenger side as Tyrell followed the group toward the next hole.
As they reached the next tee, Tyrell leaned on his driver, his expression shifting from amusement to something more serious. He tilted his head toward Royce. “You being careful, Ro?”
Royce paused, raising an eyebrow. “Careful with what?”
“You know what I mean,” Tyrell said, his tone light but the concern evident. “You’re playing well, getting that NIL money now, got you a new car and all. People notice that—especially women.”
Royce shook his head, brushing off the comment with a casual shrug. “I’m a little too old for you to be giving me the birds and bees talk, bruh. Trust, ain’t gonna be any mini-mes running around here any time soon.”
Tyrell let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “It’s more than that, though, lil’ bro. People noticing what you can provide for them and shit. People see and opportunity, and they’ll take it. You gotta watch your back, especially now.”
Royce smirked, leaning on his club. “I know how to handle myself, man. I jumped off the porch a long time ago. I know none of these snake ass motherfuckers should be trusted.”
Tyrell’s gaze sharpened, his voice dropping to a lower register. “That’s a problem, too. You can’t go around in life not trusting anybody. You start thinking like that, and you’ll drive yourself crazy. You gotta trust someone. Or else, paranoia’s gonna eat you alive.”
The words hung heavy in the air, and Royce didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked out at the course, the neat, open space suddenly feeling claustrophobic. His mind drifted to Romeo, the one person he’d trusted completely, the one person who had trusted him back.
Where had that trust gotten them? Romeo was gone, his life cut short in a moment of violence Royce couldn’t stop replaying in his head. He carried that trust now like a scar—deep, unhealed and always aching.
Finally, Royce shook his head, gripping his club as he stepped toward the tee. “I’m good, big bruh. You ain’t gotta worry about me.”
Tyrell sighed, stepping back to give him space. “Just remember what I said, man. You don’t gotta learn shit the hard way.”
Royce lined up for his next swing, his focus narrowing to the ball in front of him. He pulled back, his muscles tight, and the club fly. The ball shot off cleanly, sailing through the air and landing neatly on the fairway. It was a good shot, one that earned an approving whistle from Tyrell, but the satisfaction didn’t linger.
As they moved on to the next hole, Royce carried Tyrell’s words with him, intertwining with the memories of his brother. Trust was a risk, Royce thought, one he wasn’t sure he could afford anymore.
It wasn’t just paranoia—it was survival.
Royce lay sprawled across Bree’s bed, his arm slung lazily behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. The faint hum of her fan mixed with the low buzz of traffic outside, creating a lull that made him feel heavier against the mattress.
Bree stood by the mirror, pulling a brush through her dark hair. She wore the satisfied but distracted expression of someone organizing their thoughts. Royce watched her, his mind already drifting back to his schedule for the day. Practice, film, maybe another meet-up.
The silence stretched until Bree broke it, her tone calm but loaded with intent. “So,” she said, her eyes flicking up to meet his in the mirror, “you’ve been hanging out with Emilia?”
Royce didn’t sit up. “You know the answer to that.”
She turned, crossing her arms over her chest as she faced him. “Yeah, I do. But I want to hear you say it.”
With a sigh, Royce swung his legs off the side of the bed, planting his feet on the floor. “Come on, Bree. You’re not asking because you don’t know. You’re asking because you want to start some shit.”
Her jaw tightened, but she stood firm, her posture unyielding. “I’m not going to keep fucking you if you’re hooking up with my fucking roommate.”
Royce let out a low chuckle, the sound dismissive. He grabbed his shirt from the edge of the bed and began pulling it over his head. “Bree. Let’s not act like we’re something we’re not. You don’t get to give me demands and shit. This has always been just what it is. If you wanted a boyfriend, you shouldn’t have fucked me 15 minutes after meeting me.”
Bree’s face flushed, her brows knitting together as her frustration spilled over. “You’re a fucking dick, Royce. You think you can just do whatever you want to people? It’s fucked up. What you’re doing is fucked up.”
He straightened, adjusting his shirt as he met her glare with calm detachment. “It’s not fucked up, Bree. It’s about us not being anything more than this. You knew what it was from the start. Don’t go trying to change shit now.”
Her voice rose, the tension in the room snapping like a rubber band. “That doesn’t mean I have to let you treat me like shit!” She grabbed a pillow from the bed and hurled it at him. He sidestepped it effortlessly, shaking his head with a faint, almost amused smile.
“Get the fuck out, Royce!” she shouted, storming to the door and yanking it open with dramatic flair. Her voice carried down the hall as she added. “You’re a fucking piece of shit.”
Royce didn’t flinch, his expression unreadable as he stepped past her into the corridor. He adjusted the hood of his sweatshirt, pulling it over his head as Bree continued to shout behind him. The sound of her voice echoed down the hallway, drawing attention of a few students who lingered outside their rooms. Their curious gazes darted between Royce and Bree, their expressions a mix of amusement and pity.
Royce ignored them, his pace steady as he walked away. Bree’s accusations faded behind him, her voice no longer carrying over the low murmur of the building’s ambiance. He shook his head, more out of habit than genuine frustration and shoved his hands into his pockets.
As he walked out of the building, his phone was already buzzing with texts and calls from Bree, looking to continue her tirade. He put his phone on do not disturb and headed to his car to drive back to his apartment.
~~~~~~~~~~
The sun hung high in the sky, casting a warm glow over the sprawling greens of the golf course. A light breeze carried the faint scent of freshly cut grass, and the quiet hum of distant chatter from other golfers punctuated the otherwise serene atmosphere. Royce squinted as he lined up his shot, gripping the club tightly. His shoulders were stiff, his posture rigid as he eyed the ball.
To his left, Tyrell leaned on his own club, adjusting his hat and watching Royce critically. “You’re gonna hook it if you don’t loosen up,” he said, smirking.
Royce shot him a sidelong glare. “I got this.”
“You sure? Last time you said, you damn near took out someone’s mawmaw watering her flowers.”
Royce ignored him, taking a deep breath and pulling back for the swing. He brought the club down with a clean crack, the ball shooting off the tee—but slicing sharply to the right. It disappeared into the rough, where it nestled out of sight among the thick grass.
Tyrell burst out laughing, slapping Royce on the back. “What I told you. You keep that shit up and you’re going to have them kicking us out because you’re killing the cart girls.”
“Yeah, fuck you, nigga,” Royce muttered under his breath, though the small grin tugging at his lips betrayed his frustration. He walked over to the cart and dropped the club into a bag, hopping in the passenger side as Tyrell followed the group toward the next hole.
As they reached the next tee, Tyrell leaned on his driver, his expression shifting from amusement to something more serious. He tilted his head toward Royce. “You being careful, Ro?”
Royce paused, raising an eyebrow. “Careful with what?”
“You know what I mean,” Tyrell said, his tone light but the concern evident. “You’re playing well, getting that NIL money now, got you a new car and all. People notice that—especially women.”
Royce shook his head, brushing off the comment with a casual shrug. “I’m a little too old for you to be giving me the birds and bees talk, bruh. Trust, ain’t gonna be any mini-mes running around here any time soon.”
Tyrell let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “It’s more than that, though, lil’ bro. People noticing what you can provide for them and shit. People see and opportunity, and they’ll take it. You gotta watch your back, especially now.”
Royce smirked, leaning on his club. “I know how to handle myself, man. I jumped off the porch a long time ago. I know none of these snake ass motherfuckers should be trusted.”
Tyrell’s gaze sharpened, his voice dropping to a lower register. “That’s a problem, too. You can’t go around in life not trusting anybody. You start thinking like that, and you’ll drive yourself crazy. You gotta trust someone. Or else, paranoia’s gonna eat you alive.”
The words hung heavy in the air, and Royce didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked out at the course, the neat, open space suddenly feeling claustrophobic. His mind drifted to Romeo, the one person he’d trusted completely, the one person who had trusted him back.
Where had that trust gotten them? Romeo was gone, his life cut short in a moment of violence Royce couldn’t stop replaying in his head. He carried that trust now like a scar—deep, unhealed and always aching.
Finally, Royce shook his head, gripping his club as he stepped toward the tee. “I’m good, big bruh. You ain’t gotta worry about me.”
Tyrell sighed, stepping back to give him space. “Just remember what I said, man. You don’t gotta learn shit the hard way.”
Royce lined up for his next swing, his focus narrowing to the ball in front of him. He pulled back, his muscles tight, and the club fly. The ball shot off cleanly, sailing through the air and landing neatly on the fairway. It was a good shot, one that earned an approving whistle from Tyrell, but the satisfaction didn’t linger.
As they moved on to the next hole, Royce carried Tyrell’s words with him, intertwining with the memories of his brother. Trust was a risk, Royce thought, one he wasn’t sure he could afford anymore.
It wasn’t just paranoia—it was survival.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17008
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Wrong Which Way
The afternoon sun bathed the porch in a golden glow, casting long, lazy shadows across the yard. The slight creak of the wooden swing beneath Mike and Laila added a rhythm to their conversation, a gentle back-and-forth that mirrored the way they always seem to flow together. The scent of freshly cut grass lingered in the air, mingling with the faint hum of a neighbor’s lawnmower in the distance. It was one of those perfect southern afternoons that felt suspended in time.
Laila leaned back against the armrest of the swing, her legs stretched out, sneakers lightly tapping against the porch railing. She had a natural ease about her, the kind that made even heavy conversations feel light. Mike sat beside her, absentmindedly spinning a football in his hands, the worn leather smooth under his fingers. The ball has seen better days, but it was his favorite—one he carried through countless pickup games and personal drills.
“So,” Laila said, her tone playful but curious as she watched him. “Are you going to tell me about the coaches that have been talking to you?”
Mike grinned, glancing at her. “It’s nothing serious. A couple community colleges and like Division II schools. I guess I gotta keep grinding and balling out to get recruited by bigger schools. I want to go to LSU, like Royce, if I had to choose.”
Laila raised an eyebrow, shifting her position to sit up a little straighter. “LSU, huh?”
“Yeah,” Mike said, nodding firmly. “Royce is killing it up there. I look up to him, you know? I mean, I looked up to Romeo, too, but it wasn’t like Ro. He always put the family first, you know? He never just did things for himself—he was always doing everything for all of us.”
Laila tilted her head, her dark hair catching the sunlight. Her eyes softened as she watched him, the admiration in his voice clear. “I get that,” she said slowly. “and I think you can go play college ball. But, Mike…” She reached out, her slender fingers brushing against his arm before resting there. “You don’t have to follow in someone else’s footsteps to make your own mark. You’re your own person. You can find your own way.”
Mike paused, her words sinking in. He looked down at the football in his hands, turning it over as if searching for an answer. “You really think I can make it?”
Laila leaned forward, her gaze steady and unwavering. “I know you can. But don’t try to be your cousin. Be you. The world needs you to just be you.”
Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, yet wrapped in a warmth that only Laila seemed capable of offering. Mike felt something stir in his chest, a mix of gratitude and hope that made him sit up a little straight. He’d heard plenty of encouragement before—from family, from coaches—but something about the way Laila said it felt different. It felt real.
“Thanks, Laila,” he said finally, his voice softer now. “That means a lot.”
She squeezed his arm, her touch grounding him. “Anytime. That’s what I’m here for.”
She leaned back again, resting her head against the swing’s cushion as she let her legs dangle lazily. The two of them fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t need to be filled. Mike found himself stealing glances at her, noting how the sun lit up her eyes and the way she absentmindedly twirled a strand of her hair.
He couldn’t help but smile to himself.
…
The sound of tires crunching on gravel pulled their attention, cutting through the peaceful hum of the evening. A beat-up sedan rolled up to the curb, its engine sputtering with each labored turn of the pistons. The car rattled to a stop, and the driver’s door creaked open. Treg stepped out first, his ever-present smirk plastered on his face, his swagger making it clear he thought he owned the space around him. Behind him, Scottie and Deuce, two guys Mike-Mike knew vaguely from around the way, emerged, their movements casual, but their eyes scanning the area with sharp precision.
Mike-Mike tensed immediately, his hand instinctively gripping the armrest of the swing as if it could anchor him. The shift in his body didn’t go unnoticed by Laila, who glanced at him with furrowed brows.
“Who’s that?” she whispered, her voice low but tinged with concern.
“No one,” Mike-Mike muttered, standing up slowly. His voice was steady, but his heart was pounding. He stepped forward as Treg sauntered up the porch steps, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his sagging jeans.
“What’s up, Mike-Mike?” Treg drawled, his smirk widening. “You been harder than a bitch to find lately.”
Mike-Mike forced a laugh, trying to keep his tone light. “Just been busy with shit. You know how it is. School, football, all that shit.”
Treg raised an eyebrow, his smirk hardening into something colder. “Yeah? You been so busy you forgot to tell me what happened to that blick?”
Mike-Mike’s stomach sank, the words hitting him like a punch. His mouth went dry as he struggled to find a response. “I don’t know, man,” he said finally, his voice quieter. “I dropped it when we ran from the cops that night. That’s it.”
Treg’s smile disappeared, replaced by a sharp, predatory look. His tone dropped, the menace barely hidden beneath his words. “You sure about that? ‘Cause it’s starting to feel to me like you still got that bitch and you hiding from me. You trying to keep something in your back pocket incase you gotta talk to the people?”
“I’m not hiding,” Mike-Mike said quickly, his voice steady but tight. “I don’t even know you like that to be talking to anyone. I just… I don’t know where it ended up.”
Treg exchanged a glance with Scottie and Deuce, the unspoken communication between them sending a chill down Mike-Mike’s spine. Treg stepped closer, clapping his hands together as his gaze locked onto Mike-Mike’s. “Alright, let’s keep it simple then, nigga. You ow me. Five hundred for the gun. Or…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of small, tightly sealed plastic bags. Without hesitation, he dropped them into Mike-Mike’s hand.
Mike-Mike froze, staring at the bags as if they might burn through his skin. The weight of them felt heavier than it should have, and the implications pressed down on him like a vise. “Man, I can’t sl—”
“You can do whatever you put your mind to, lil’ nigga. You ain’t pay attention to Reading Rainbow?” Treg interrupted, his voice low and unyielding. “And you will. ‘Cause I promise you, you don’t want the other options. And neither does she.”
Treg tilted his head toward Laila, his smirk returning as he glanced at her. Laila met his gaze with a glare, her fists clenched at her sides, but the slight tremble in her jaw betrayed her nerves.
Mike-Mike’s jaw tightened as anger and fear swirled inside him. He looked down at the bags, his heart pounding as he realized there was no way out. Slowly, he closed his hand around them, the motion feeling like a surrender.
“See? I knew you were a smart lil’ motherfucker,” Treg said, slapping Mike-Mike on the shoulder and stepping back with a satisfied grin. He turned to Scottie and Deuce, jerking his chin toward the car. “You got two weeks, nigga.”
Scottie and Deuce chuckled as they followed Treg back to the sedan, their voices fading into the hum of the evening as they climbed inside. The car sputtered to life again and rolled off down the street, the exhaust leaving a faint haze in the air.
As the car disappeared around the corner, the porch fell silent except for the faint creak of the swing as Laila shifted uneasily. She turned to Mike, her voice trembling with urgency. “You have to go to the cops.”
Mike shook his head, his expression grim as he stared at the bags in his hands. “And tell them what? That some guy handed me drugs after I ran from the cops with a gun that probably got some bodies on it? They’d arrest me on the spot.”
“But you didn’t—” Laila started, but stopped herself, realizing the truth in his words. The system wouldn’t care about the details. They’d see the drugs in the hand of a young Black boy, and that would be enough.
She sank back onto the swing, her fists tightening around the edge of the seat. “So what are we supposed to do?”
Mike sat down beside her, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the situation. He placed the bags on the porch railing, staring at them like they held the answer to a test he couldn’t pass. “I don’t know, Laila,” he said quietly. “But whatever it is. I’m not dragging you into it.”
“You don’t have to figure this out alone,” she said firmly, placing a hand on his arm. “I can help you.”
He looked at her, the fear and determination in her eyes mirroring his own. He nodded slowly, but the worry didn’t leave his face.
They sat there in silence, side by side, staring at the bags of drugs as the sun dipped below the horizon.
The afternoon sun bathed the porch in a golden glow, casting long, lazy shadows across the yard. The slight creak of the wooden swing beneath Mike and Laila added a rhythm to their conversation, a gentle back-and-forth that mirrored the way they always seem to flow together. The scent of freshly cut grass lingered in the air, mingling with the faint hum of a neighbor’s lawnmower in the distance. It was one of those perfect southern afternoons that felt suspended in time.
Laila leaned back against the armrest of the swing, her legs stretched out, sneakers lightly tapping against the porch railing. She had a natural ease about her, the kind that made even heavy conversations feel light. Mike sat beside her, absentmindedly spinning a football in his hands, the worn leather smooth under his fingers. The ball has seen better days, but it was his favorite—one he carried through countless pickup games and personal drills.
“So,” Laila said, her tone playful but curious as she watched him. “Are you going to tell me about the coaches that have been talking to you?”
Mike grinned, glancing at her. “It’s nothing serious. A couple community colleges and like Division II schools. I guess I gotta keep grinding and balling out to get recruited by bigger schools. I want to go to LSU, like Royce, if I had to choose.”
Laila raised an eyebrow, shifting her position to sit up a little straighter. “LSU, huh?”
“Yeah,” Mike said, nodding firmly. “Royce is killing it up there. I look up to him, you know? I mean, I looked up to Romeo, too, but it wasn’t like Ro. He always put the family first, you know? He never just did things for himself—he was always doing everything for all of us.”
Laila tilted her head, her dark hair catching the sunlight. Her eyes softened as she watched him, the admiration in his voice clear. “I get that,” she said slowly. “and I think you can go play college ball. But, Mike…” She reached out, her slender fingers brushing against his arm before resting there. “You don’t have to follow in someone else’s footsteps to make your own mark. You’re your own person. You can find your own way.”
Mike paused, her words sinking in. He looked down at the football in his hands, turning it over as if searching for an answer. “You really think I can make it?”
Laila leaned forward, her gaze steady and unwavering. “I know you can. But don’t try to be your cousin. Be you. The world needs you to just be you.”
Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, yet wrapped in a warmth that only Laila seemed capable of offering. Mike felt something stir in his chest, a mix of gratitude and hope that made him sit up a little straight. He’d heard plenty of encouragement before—from family, from coaches—but something about the way Laila said it felt different. It felt real.
“Thanks, Laila,” he said finally, his voice softer now. “That means a lot.”
She squeezed his arm, her touch grounding him. “Anytime. That’s what I’m here for.”
She leaned back again, resting her head against the swing’s cushion as she let her legs dangle lazily. The two of them fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t need to be filled. Mike found himself stealing glances at her, noting how the sun lit up her eyes and the way she absentmindedly twirled a strand of her hair.
He couldn’t help but smile to himself.
…
The sound of tires crunching on gravel pulled their attention, cutting through the peaceful hum of the evening. A beat-up sedan rolled up to the curb, its engine sputtering with each labored turn of the pistons. The car rattled to a stop, and the driver’s door creaked open. Treg stepped out first, his ever-present smirk plastered on his face, his swagger making it clear he thought he owned the space around him. Behind him, Scottie and Deuce, two guys Mike-Mike knew vaguely from around the way, emerged, their movements casual, but their eyes scanning the area with sharp precision.
Mike-Mike tensed immediately, his hand instinctively gripping the armrest of the swing as if it could anchor him. The shift in his body didn’t go unnoticed by Laila, who glanced at him with furrowed brows.
“Who’s that?” she whispered, her voice low but tinged with concern.
“No one,” Mike-Mike muttered, standing up slowly. His voice was steady, but his heart was pounding. He stepped forward as Treg sauntered up the porch steps, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his sagging jeans.
“What’s up, Mike-Mike?” Treg drawled, his smirk widening. “You been harder than a bitch to find lately.”
Mike-Mike forced a laugh, trying to keep his tone light. “Just been busy with shit. You know how it is. School, football, all that shit.”
Treg raised an eyebrow, his smirk hardening into something colder. “Yeah? You been so busy you forgot to tell me what happened to that blick?”
Mike-Mike’s stomach sank, the words hitting him like a punch. His mouth went dry as he struggled to find a response. “I don’t know, man,” he said finally, his voice quieter. “I dropped it when we ran from the cops that night. That’s it.”
Treg’s smile disappeared, replaced by a sharp, predatory look. His tone dropped, the menace barely hidden beneath his words. “You sure about that? ‘Cause it’s starting to feel to me like you still got that bitch and you hiding from me. You trying to keep something in your back pocket incase you gotta talk to the people?”
“I’m not hiding,” Mike-Mike said quickly, his voice steady but tight. “I don’t even know you like that to be talking to anyone. I just… I don’t know where it ended up.”
Treg exchanged a glance with Scottie and Deuce, the unspoken communication between them sending a chill down Mike-Mike’s spine. Treg stepped closer, clapping his hands together as his gaze locked onto Mike-Mike’s. “Alright, let’s keep it simple then, nigga. You ow me. Five hundred for the gun. Or…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of small, tightly sealed plastic bags. Without hesitation, he dropped them into Mike-Mike’s hand.
Mike-Mike froze, staring at the bags as if they might burn through his skin. The weight of them felt heavier than it should have, and the implications pressed down on him like a vise. “Man, I can’t sl—”
“You can do whatever you put your mind to, lil’ nigga. You ain’t pay attention to Reading Rainbow?” Treg interrupted, his voice low and unyielding. “And you will. ‘Cause I promise you, you don’t want the other options. And neither does she.”
Treg tilted his head toward Laila, his smirk returning as he glanced at her. Laila met his gaze with a glare, her fists clenched at her sides, but the slight tremble in her jaw betrayed her nerves.
Mike-Mike’s jaw tightened as anger and fear swirled inside him. He looked down at the bags, his heart pounding as he realized there was no way out. Slowly, he closed his hand around them, the motion feeling like a surrender.
“See? I knew you were a smart lil’ motherfucker,” Treg said, slapping Mike-Mike on the shoulder and stepping back with a satisfied grin. He turned to Scottie and Deuce, jerking his chin toward the car. “You got two weeks, nigga.”
Scottie and Deuce chuckled as they followed Treg back to the sedan, their voices fading into the hum of the evening as they climbed inside. The car sputtered to life again and rolled off down the street, the exhaust leaving a faint haze in the air.
As the car disappeared around the corner, the porch fell silent except for the faint creak of the swing as Laila shifted uneasily. She turned to Mike, her voice trembling with urgency. “You have to go to the cops.”
Mike shook his head, his expression grim as he stared at the bags in his hands. “And tell them what? That some guy handed me drugs after I ran from the cops with a gun that probably got some bodies on it? They’d arrest me on the spot.”
“But you didn’t—” Laila started, but stopped herself, realizing the truth in his words. The system wouldn’t care about the details. They’d see the drugs in the hand of a young Black boy, and that would be enough.
She sank back onto the swing, her fists tightening around the edge of the seat. “So what are we supposed to do?”
Mike sat down beside her, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the situation. He placed the bags on the porch railing, staring at them like they held the answer to a test he couldn’t pass. “I don’t know, Laila,” he said quietly. “But whatever it is. I’m not dragging you into it.”
“You don’t have to figure this out alone,” she said firmly, placing a hand on his arm. “I can help you.”
He looked at her, the fear and determination in her eyes mirroring his own. He nodded slowly, but the worry didn’t leave his face.
They sat there in silence, side by side, staring at the bags of drugs as the sun dipped below the horizon.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17008
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
By the Bay
The beach house buzzed with activity as Jonah leaned over the kitchen counter, carefully rolling a joint. The smell of saltwater wafted through the open windows, mingling with the faint tang of sunscreen and lingering hints of seafood from dinner. Arianna stood nearby, arms crossed, her expression caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief.
“The fuck are you doing?” Arianna snapped, her voice sharp. “Royce can’t piss dirty and you’re up here smoking some skunk weed.”
Jonah glanced up, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “Relax. It’s not for him. It’s for us. He can just stick to alcohol and we’ll stick to the weed.”
Arianna rolled her eyes, gesturing at Royce who was lounging on the couch, a drink in hand. “You shouldn’t even have it in the house. You could’ve at least go outside to do that. I’m gonna kick your ass if he gets in some shit.”
Royce chuckled, tipping his drink toward her in mock salute. “Chill, cuzzo. You don’t have to go in on your man like that. There is worse shit LSU gotta deal with in its athletics program than a couple niggas smoking some weed.”
“Who man?” she snapped, narrowing her eyes.
“Yours,” Toni added, walking out one of the rooms in the sprawling beach house.
Jonah looked at Royce and held his hands up. “Look, man. It just hap—”
Royce waved his hand to interrupt him. “You not the first white boy she decided she was gonna fuck with, but I ain’t trying to hear about nothing y’all be doing. This ain’t motherfucking Alabama. Keep that shit in Lafayette.”
“Better say that,” Arianna said to Royce, nodding toward Alix who sat in a chair, focused on her phone.
“It’s wild that you talking shit when you ain’t pay for not a damn thing out here,” Royce said, though his tone was clearly teasing. “Y’all need to get on this drink, though. I can’t be the only one here pouring up.”
Alix looked up from her phone. “You should probably go easy on that for the weekend. You know, since y’all got a big game next week.”
Royce sucked his teeth before gulping down half of the alcohol in the glass in his hand. “Come on, now. We been running through niggas for weeks. We gonna smash them clown ass niggas from Alabama, too.”
“What’s the line for that shit? I need to win me some money,” Jonah said, bringing the joint to his lips and lighting it.
“Call up that motherfucker Poochie and get the scouting report. He probably ain’t got shit else to do but watch practice.”
Toni’s phone buzzed and she sighed, heading back to the room she’d emerged from only moments before.
“Tell Deshawn to stop calling you every three minutes!” Arianna shouted behind her.
“She need to leave that nigga,” Royce said, getting up from the couch and walking into the kitchen to refill his drink. He gestured toward Jonah. “Go find her a white boy, too. Get that Taylor Swift ass love. Karma is a whatever type shit.”
Arianna took the bottle of liquor from Royce and shoved him. “We can’t all be with white folks. Someone gotta hold it down for our people.”
Alix glanced up again. “You’re the only one in here with someone white.”
“Oh,” Arianna made a face at Royce, one of amusement at Alix’s comment.
Royce shook his head, turning toward Alix. “You can get off your phone too and come over here and drink with us since you want to be over there sneak dissing.”
…
The beach house was everything one could’ve hoped for when Royce booked it. Perched on the edge of the sand, it had sprawling decks with wicker chairs and a view of the Gulf that stretched endlessly into the horizon. Inside, the décor was all light wood and soft blue tones, the kind of coastal charm that felt effortless. The open floor plan made it easy for the group to drift between the kitchen, living room and deck, and the bedrooms upstairs offered just enough privacy when someone needed a break.
The weekend had been an impromptu idea, a chance to blow off steam before LSU played Alabama. Royce had footed the bill with his NIL money, brushing off protests from the others. He only asked that they have a good time.
And they had. The first day was spent exploring the town, hitting up a seafood shack that paled in comparison to the ones over the state line in Louisiana, but were good enough. By the time they returned to the house, laughter had become a constant backdrop, the kind of easy camaraderie that made stress feel miles away.
…
That night, Royce sat on the edge of the bed in the room he and Alix had claimed for the weekend. The house was still alive with the muffled sounds from the rest of the group---Jonah, Arianna and Toni arguing about which move to stream, their voices carrying faintly through the thin walls. The waves outside provided a steady rhythm, but inside the room, there was a simmering tension, just beneath the surface.
Alix stood in front of him, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. She held a plastic cup in one hand, swirling the contents lazily as she sipped. Her other hand rested on top of Royce’s where his lay on her hip. He posture was casual, though her gaze held something sharper.
“This was a good idea,” she said finally, her voice warm but edged with something Royce couldn’t quite place. “Feels nice to get away.”
“Yeah,” Royce agreed, running his fingers along the waistband of her jeans. “This football shit is killing me. Thought I’d get used to it, but I ain’t even close. Shit ain’t nothing like high school, not at all.”
Alix smirked, tipping her cup toward him. “You needed this.”
He nodded, his eyes lingering on her. She had that relaxed glow she always seemed to carry when she wasn’t trying so hard to guard herself. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in loose waves, and she looked effortlessly comfortable in her tank top and jeans. Royce let his gaze travel, unbothered by the idea that she might catch him staring.
“You too,” he said finally.
Alix shrugged, taking another sip. “I guess.”
Royce raised an eyebrow, sensing there was more. “You guess?”
She hesitated, her eyes drifting toward the window. The soft light caught the curve of her jaw as she took a long sip from her cup. Eventually, she said. “I’ve been talking to someone.”
The words hit Royce like a punch he wasn’t ready for. He felt his jaw tighten, but he covered it by hooking his fingers onto the inside of her waistband, forcing an easy smirk. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Alix said carefully. She met his gaze, her tone steady but measured. “It’s not serious or anything, but I figured you should know.”
Royce refused to let his emotions show. He nodded, keeping his expression neutral. “Why are you telling me this? You didn’t want anything serious, remember?”
“Right,” she said, but there was an edge of uncertainty in her voice, a slight pause before the word landed. “I do… I don’t. I’m just saying.”
He wanted to press her, ask her who this “someone” was, how long she’d been talking to him, how close they were. But that wasn’t their arrangement. They’d always been fluid, undefined. Asking those questions would mean crossing into territory he wasn’t sure either of them were ready for.
Instead, Royce wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer, his smirk softening into something more teasing. “Guess I’m gonna have to remind you where it’s good at when that nigga gotta pop blue chews and honey packs to get it up, huh?”
Alix arched an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a faint smile. “What are you talking about?”
Royce reached for the cup, gently prying it from her fingers and tossing it onto the floor next to the bed. “I’m saying you’ve been looking fine all night, and I’m trying to fuck. You know being around the water always gets you wet.”
Her laugh was light, but she didn’t move away as he pulled her onto his lap. “You’re fucking ridiculous.”
“But you still let me hit,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, his hands brushing against her hips.
Alix tilted her head, studying him for a moment. Her expression was unreadable, a mix of amusement and something deeper. “You’re lucky I’m even in here with you right now.”
“Lucky?” Royce leaned in slightly, his lips hovering near hers. “You know it’s because your ass can’t quit me.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t pull back. Instead, she let the moment linger, her hands lightly resting on his chest. “You make this harder than it needs to be. You know that?”
“Yeah,” Royce said. “But you’re still here.”
For a moment, the tension between them softened, their banter giving way to the unspoken pull that always seemed to draw them together. Whatever lines they’d drawn for their relationship, they blurred just a little more, neither of them stopping to define what they were or what they weren’t. The rest of the house, the weekend, even the mention of someone else—all of it faded into the background as the night pressed on.
The beach house buzzed with activity as Jonah leaned over the kitchen counter, carefully rolling a joint. The smell of saltwater wafted through the open windows, mingling with the faint tang of sunscreen and lingering hints of seafood from dinner. Arianna stood nearby, arms crossed, her expression caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief.
“The fuck are you doing?” Arianna snapped, her voice sharp. “Royce can’t piss dirty and you’re up here smoking some skunk weed.”
Jonah glanced up, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “Relax. It’s not for him. It’s for us. He can just stick to alcohol and we’ll stick to the weed.”
Arianna rolled her eyes, gesturing at Royce who was lounging on the couch, a drink in hand. “You shouldn’t even have it in the house. You could’ve at least go outside to do that. I’m gonna kick your ass if he gets in some shit.”
Royce chuckled, tipping his drink toward her in mock salute. “Chill, cuzzo. You don’t have to go in on your man like that. There is worse shit LSU gotta deal with in its athletics program than a couple niggas smoking some weed.”
“Who man?” she snapped, narrowing her eyes.
“Yours,” Toni added, walking out one of the rooms in the sprawling beach house.
Jonah looked at Royce and held his hands up. “Look, man. It just hap—”
Royce waved his hand to interrupt him. “You not the first white boy she decided she was gonna fuck with, but I ain’t trying to hear about nothing y’all be doing. This ain’t motherfucking Alabama. Keep that shit in Lafayette.”
“Better say that,” Arianna said to Royce, nodding toward Alix who sat in a chair, focused on her phone.
“It’s wild that you talking shit when you ain’t pay for not a damn thing out here,” Royce said, though his tone was clearly teasing. “Y’all need to get on this drink, though. I can’t be the only one here pouring up.”
Alix looked up from her phone. “You should probably go easy on that for the weekend. You know, since y’all got a big game next week.”
Royce sucked his teeth before gulping down half of the alcohol in the glass in his hand. “Come on, now. We been running through niggas for weeks. We gonna smash them clown ass niggas from Alabama, too.”
“What’s the line for that shit? I need to win me some money,” Jonah said, bringing the joint to his lips and lighting it.
“Call up that motherfucker Poochie and get the scouting report. He probably ain’t got shit else to do but watch practice.”
Toni’s phone buzzed and she sighed, heading back to the room she’d emerged from only moments before.
“Tell Deshawn to stop calling you every three minutes!” Arianna shouted behind her.
“She need to leave that nigga,” Royce said, getting up from the couch and walking into the kitchen to refill his drink. He gestured toward Jonah. “Go find her a white boy, too. Get that Taylor Swift ass love. Karma is a whatever type shit.”
Arianna took the bottle of liquor from Royce and shoved him. “We can’t all be with white folks. Someone gotta hold it down for our people.”
Alix glanced up again. “You’re the only one in here with someone white.”
“Oh,” Arianna made a face at Royce, one of amusement at Alix’s comment.
Royce shook his head, turning toward Alix. “You can get off your phone too and come over here and drink with us since you want to be over there sneak dissing.”
…
The beach house was everything one could’ve hoped for when Royce booked it. Perched on the edge of the sand, it had sprawling decks with wicker chairs and a view of the Gulf that stretched endlessly into the horizon. Inside, the décor was all light wood and soft blue tones, the kind of coastal charm that felt effortless. The open floor plan made it easy for the group to drift between the kitchen, living room and deck, and the bedrooms upstairs offered just enough privacy when someone needed a break.
The weekend had been an impromptu idea, a chance to blow off steam before LSU played Alabama. Royce had footed the bill with his NIL money, brushing off protests from the others. He only asked that they have a good time.
And they had. The first day was spent exploring the town, hitting up a seafood shack that paled in comparison to the ones over the state line in Louisiana, but were good enough. By the time they returned to the house, laughter had become a constant backdrop, the kind of easy camaraderie that made stress feel miles away.
…
That night, Royce sat on the edge of the bed in the room he and Alix had claimed for the weekend. The house was still alive with the muffled sounds from the rest of the group---Jonah, Arianna and Toni arguing about which move to stream, their voices carrying faintly through the thin walls. The waves outside provided a steady rhythm, but inside the room, there was a simmering tension, just beneath the surface.
Alix stood in front of him, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. She held a plastic cup in one hand, swirling the contents lazily as she sipped. Her other hand rested on top of Royce’s where his lay on her hip. He posture was casual, though her gaze held something sharper.
“This was a good idea,” she said finally, her voice warm but edged with something Royce couldn’t quite place. “Feels nice to get away.”
“Yeah,” Royce agreed, running his fingers along the waistband of her jeans. “This football shit is killing me. Thought I’d get used to it, but I ain’t even close. Shit ain’t nothing like high school, not at all.”
Alix smirked, tipping her cup toward him. “You needed this.”
He nodded, his eyes lingering on her. She had that relaxed glow she always seemed to carry when she wasn’t trying so hard to guard herself. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in loose waves, and she looked effortlessly comfortable in her tank top and jeans. Royce let his gaze travel, unbothered by the idea that she might catch him staring.
“You too,” he said finally.
Alix shrugged, taking another sip. “I guess.”
Royce raised an eyebrow, sensing there was more. “You guess?”
She hesitated, her eyes drifting toward the window. The soft light caught the curve of her jaw as she took a long sip from her cup. Eventually, she said. “I’ve been talking to someone.”
The words hit Royce like a punch he wasn’t ready for. He felt his jaw tighten, but he covered it by hooking his fingers onto the inside of her waistband, forcing an easy smirk. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Alix said carefully. She met his gaze, her tone steady but measured. “It’s not serious or anything, but I figured you should know.”
Royce refused to let his emotions show. He nodded, keeping his expression neutral. “Why are you telling me this? You didn’t want anything serious, remember?”
“Right,” she said, but there was an edge of uncertainty in her voice, a slight pause before the word landed. “I do… I don’t. I’m just saying.”
He wanted to press her, ask her who this “someone” was, how long she’d been talking to him, how close they were. But that wasn’t their arrangement. They’d always been fluid, undefined. Asking those questions would mean crossing into territory he wasn’t sure either of them were ready for.
Instead, Royce wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer, his smirk softening into something more teasing. “Guess I’m gonna have to remind you where it’s good at when that nigga gotta pop blue chews and honey packs to get it up, huh?”
Alix arched an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a faint smile. “What are you talking about?”
Royce reached for the cup, gently prying it from her fingers and tossing it onto the floor next to the bed. “I’m saying you’ve been looking fine all night, and I’m trying to fuck. You know being around the water always gets you wet.”
Her laugh was light, but she didn’t move away as he pulled her onto his lap. “You’re fucking ridiculous.”
“But you still let me hit,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, his hands brushing against her hips.
Alix tilted her head, studying him for a moment. Her expression was unreadable, a mix of amusement and something deeper. “You’re lucky I’m even in here with you right now.”
“Lucky?” Royce leaned in slightly, his lips hovering near hers. “You know it’s because your ass can’t quit me.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t pull back. Instead, she let the moment linger, her hands lightly resting on his chest. “You make this harder than it needs to be. You know that?”
“Yeah,” Royce said. “But you’re still here.”
For a moment, the tension between them softened, their banter giving way to the unspoken pull that always seemed to draw them together. Whatever lines they’d drawn for their relationship, they blurred just a little more, neither of them stopping to define what they were or what they weren’t. The rest of the house, the weekend, even the mention of someone else—all of it faded into the background as the night pressed on.
-
djp73
- Posts: 13267
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
![[img]https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/51066730087_8f014a0403_o.gif[/img]](./images/smilies/51066730087_8f014a0403_o.gif "Jonesy")
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17008
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47