Make a Sinful Noise unto The Lord
Caine stepped out of the locker room into the tunnel and the air hit him in a wave of leftover noise and damp. Brooks Stadium was still humming behind him, crowd murmur echoing off concrete, band somewhere out on the field punching through with fight songs he couldn’t see. The light in the tunnel ran cold and flat. It bounced off helmets and shoulder pads as people moved past.
An SID was waiting just past the door, polo tucked. He lifted a hand and tilted his chin toward the knot of bodies ten yards down. Cameras. Phones. Recorders. A little half circle already formed.
“Right here, Caine,” the SID said, voice even. “Couple quick ones.”
Caine rolled his shoulders once under the hoodie, towel still hanging around his neck from the shower. The sweat behind his ears had dried but he could feel the salt tight on his skin. He walked into the scrum without slowing, stopped where the SID wanted him, and let the ring close in just enough.
A reporter jumped in before anybody else could shape their mouth. He had a notepad pressed to his chest and the school’s lanyard swinging off his neck.
“Caine,” he said, breath a little quick from hustling over, “everyone is wondering, where did you come from? It’s like you fell out of the sky with an S on your chest and everyone not recognizing you because you put a pair of glasses on.”
A couple of the other reporters laughed under their breath. Somebody’s camera light clicked on and threw a hard square over Caine’s face and the navy script on his sweatshirt.
Caine smirked. He let his eyes move once around the circle, catching the SID for half a second, then brought them back to the man who had asked.
“I’m just a kid from New Orleans who play football,” he said. His voice stayed easy. “I ain’t really get attention for some reasons but Coach Aplin and the staff showed faith in me, keep showing faith in me and I appreciate that.”
Pens moved. A thumb hit a phone screen to mark the quote. One of the cameras whirred as it refocused. The question died there and the next one came quick, the sound of shoes on concrete passing behind them as Coastal staff pushed a cart toward the exit.
“Caine,” another reporter said, leaning forward just enough to be heard over the tunnel noise, “after today’s performance, you’re third in the nation as far as freshmen quarterbacks go for yards and touchdowns. The guys above you though, Julian Lewis, Ethan Grunkemeyer, Alex Radunz, these are four and five star kids. And they’ve played a game extra or two. What do you say to people who doubted you?”
The words hung a second. Caine shifted his weight from one cleat to the other, laces still dark from the rubber pellets out on the field.
“I’m not trying to prove nothing to no one,” he said. “Those guys play the game their way. I play the game mine. Just put some respect on my name when you see it.”
There was a little ripple of sound at that. A low “mm” from somebody on the edge, a quiet laugh from the back of the pack.
The SID lifted a finger in the air, arm straight up.
“One more,” he called, not loud but firm enough that everybody heard it.
The cluster tightened that tiny bit, everyone trying to catch the last one. A third reporter edged his recorder closer, thumb already on the button.
“Caine,” he said, “will you still be in blue and white next season?”
Caine snorted a laugh before he could stop it, not mean, just sharp at the edges. His eyes cut to the SID.
The SID’s mouth tipped. He didn’t say anything. Shoulders went up, came down once, like he was putting it on Caine to handle.
Caine looked back at the circle. A couple of them were already leaning in, waiting. He kept the smirk, same small lift at the corner, and answered.
“It’s GATA all day over here,” he said.
The words landed and the scrum loosened, reporters already dropping their arms to send clips, the SID stepping in with a hand toward Caine’s shoulder to turn him back toward the locker room and the rest of the night.
~~~
The night pressed close around them, air thick with the smell of wet dirt. Streetlights ran in a crooked line down the block, a few bulbs missing, the rest throwing weak yellow pools across cracked concrete and sagging porches.
Ant walked in front, hood up, hands loose at his sides. Dez and Yola flanked him, a step back. Ramon, Tyree, and E.J. came behind that line, spaced just enough to see past shoulders and backs. Houses leaned into each other on both sides, some with light bleeding through bent blinds, some dark and hollow.
Ramon watched Ant’s shoulders more than the street. He kept his pace even.
“What we doing out here again?” Ramon asked as they cut across a patch of bare yard toward a low house with no porch light.
Ant didn’t look back. “Just follow my lead.”
Tyree clicked his tongue and let his eyes sweep the block once. “Fucking seems like a quick way to end up in the dirt.”
“Facts,” E.J. said, quiet but clear, breath puffing once in the humid dark.
Ant stopped short enough that the row behind him had to check their steps. He half turned, eyes on Tyree first. “I thought we only brought one bitch tonight,” he said, eyes sliding to Dez.
Dez snorted and shook his head, but his mouth stayed shut.
Tyree squared his shoulders, chin nudging up. “I ain’t no pussy ass nigga. Don’t get it twisted, brudda.”
Ant held his stare for a beat, face flat. Then he nodded once. “Alright, then. Just shut up and do what I do.”
He turned back and stepped up to the traphouse’s door. The paint was gone from it, only gray wood left, swollen at the bottom where rain had sat. Music leaked from inside, low and muddy, bass barely hanging on. Ant knocked twice with the side of his fist, then pushed the door open without waiting.
Heat and smoke slid out around them. Ramon, Tyree, and E.J. hung back half a step as they crossed the threshold. The front room was tight, crowded with bodies and furniture that had seen too many nights. A couch sagged near the wall. Two folding chairs tried to make a circle in front of a milk crate that held an ashtray overflowing with butts. A box fan in the corner turned slow, pushing old cigarette fog in a lazy loop.
The man who seemed to be in charge rose from one of the chairs. He came up with a grin already on his face, dreadlocks tied back, T-shirt stuck to his chest with sweat. He went straight to Dez first, hand out.
“Boy, Dez,” he said, pulling him into a dap and half hug. He moved to Yola next, slapping his palm. “Yola. Y’all straight.”
He never reached for Ant.
Ant stayed in the center of the room, hands still down, gaze following every shift. Ramon watched that too, letting his own eyes move slower, catching faces at the walls, corners where men leaned, hands tucked near belts.
The main man tipped his chin toward the three behind. “Who them is?”
He stepped closer, the grin still there. “I’m Slick,” he said to Ramon, then Tyree, then E.J.
Ramon met his hand, quick dap up, no names. Tyree did the same, mouth a flat line. E.J. bumped his knuckles once and let it go. A couple of other Lafayette boys drifted up to nod, to tap hands, eyes trying to read where everybody fit. No one pressed for more.
Ant’s voice cut across the room. “Did y’all get off that brick yet?”
The music from a back room hit a beat and rolled on. Slick’s grin slipped. He glanced over his shoulder at his boys, then back to Ant, hands lifting out a little from his sides.
“Man, people ain’t buying like that with Reezy gone,” he said. “Shit changed.”
Ant sucked his teeth and shook his head once, slow. “We disappointed in you, lil’ brudda. It shouldn’t have taken this long to move that.”
Slick looked at the faces behind him and then at the floor. His shoulders rose and fell. “I ain’t never been no general,” he said. “I’m just trying to figure it out as I go.”
Ant’s eyes slid over the room. Bottles on a crate. Ash on the floor. A gun half hidden under a jacket on the arm of the couch. He turned his head back to Slick.
“What else y’all got in here?” Ant asked. “Weed? H? Fent?”
Ramon shifted his weight, drawing Tyree’s and E.J.’s attention with just that. He twitched his fingers once near his waist. Both of them caught it. They eased a half step back and off to the side, out of the Lafayette boys’ line of sight. Hands dropped lower, loose near belts where metal sat.
Slick rolled his jaw. “A little of this and that,” he said.
“Where’s it at?” Ant asked. He jerked his chin toward Dez, Yola, Ramon, Tyree, and E.J. “I got my guys here. We can help show y’all how to flip it.”
Slick turned, eyes going to his own people. A couple of them looked back with tight mouths and small shakes of the head. No one spoke. The quiet pushed against the music bleeding from the back.
“Come on, lil’ nigga,” Ant said. “We ain’t got all night.”
The words didn’t get louder, but the room felt smaller around them. Slick blew out a breath and nodded once, more to the space around him than to any one person. He motioned with his hand.
“Aight,” he said. “It’s in the back.”
He led them past the couch toward a doorway where dirty blinds hung crooked. Ramon kept pace just behind, eyes ticking to every doorway, every hand that moved. Tyree and E.J. shadowed him, their steps quiet. Dez and Yola stayed closer to Ant.
The kitchen had no appliances, just outlines on the floor where something big used to sit. The linoleum was peeled in spots, corners curled up. A single bulb burned overhead, throwing hard light and soft shadows. Roaches scattered when Slick’s shoe scraped across the floor.
He stopped at a wall where the paint was bubbled and cracked. With one hand he felt along the baseboard until his fingers hooked a loose board. He pulled it back, wood creaking. Behind it, in the dark hollow, baggies sat stuffed together, plastic crinkling. Some held white. Some tan. Wads of cash filled the gaps, rubber bands biting into them.
Ant was already reaching.
His gun cleared his waistband clean and fast. The first shot snapped the air apart in the tiny kitchen. Slick’s chest jerked. He stumbled back into the light, mouth open with nothing coming out.
Yola’s arm came up next, muzzle flashing. Ramon stepped just enough to see shoulders and center mass and squeezed. Tyree and E.J. fired too, the blasts running together in a hard, ragged line. The men in the front room shouted, scrambled, some ducking behind the doorway, some frozen.
Then it was quiet again, except for the ringing in their ears and the distant thump of the music someone hadn’t thought to turn off.
Slick slid down the wall, legs folding under him. The loose board hung from one nail, half off.
Smoke curled lazy in the kitchen air. A shell casing spun once on the floor and settled.
Tyree broke the silence first, motioning with his chin toward Dez. “Y’all boy ain’t shoot nothing.”
Dez’s head snapped toward him. “Yeah, I did.”
E.J. stared at Dez’s hand, then his waist. “Let us see the clip then.”
Dez pulled his gun up just enough to make the movement clear, then put it back in his waistband without showing anything. “That ain’t what we here for.”
Ant’s eyes found Dez and stayed there. The look sat on him, heavy, no words riding with it. Dez shifted his weight but didn’t look away.
After a long beat, Ant cut his gaze to the hole in the wall. “Get this shit.”
Ramon, E.J., and Tyree traded a quick glance, nothing more. Then they moved together toward the open board, shoulders brushing as they crowded the space. Plastic crackled under their hands as they reached in.
Behind them, Ant crouched down beside Slick’s body. He grabbed the chain around Slick’s neck, gave it one hard yank, and snatched it free.
~~~
Mireya sat in the passenger seat while the music from inside Trell’s house leaked out through the cracked front windows, bass steady under the night. The porch light cut a hard circle in the dark, catching smoke and mosquitoes in the air. When Alejandra pulled the car into the yard, gravel shifted under the tires and the girls went quiet for a second.
Jaslene was already unbuckling, reaching for the visor to check her lip gloss. Mari and Liana were a fast shuffle of perfume and heels in the back seat, Alejandra’s laugh drifting as she killed the engine.
Mireya’s hand stayed on the door handle. She looked at the house instead. She exhaled, long, and only then pushed the door open.
The air pressed hot as soon as she stepped out. Someone had the front door propped with a shoe. The bass thumped clearer now, voices floating between tracks. Jaslene came around the hood, eyes narrowing when she caught the lag in Mireya’s steps. She reached out and caught Mireya by the wrist, tugging her a few feet away, out of earshot of the others.
“¿De qué estás preocupada?” she asked, brows pulled together.
Mireya looked past her to the door again, shoulders tight. “I been spending a lot of time with Trell,” she said. “I don’t know how he’s gonna act now. Even though he said he doesn’t care about this.”
Jaslene’s mouth pulled to one side. “He asked for you, didn’t he?”
Mireya shrugged first, then nodded. “That’s what Alejandra said.”
“Entonces le estás dando demasiadas vueltas,” Jaslene said, letting her hand slide down to squeeze Mireya’s fingers once. “Let’s just go in here, pop some pussy and get the chavos then we can go grab some breakfast.”
Mireya shook her head, a small smile trying to show. “Y’all always thinking about eating.”
“Chica, have you ever looked up how many calories this shit burns?” Jaslene asked, throwing an arm around Mireya’s shoulders as they started toward the house.
Mari pushed the door the rest of the way open ahead of them, Alejandra close behind, Liana laughing at something low. Heat rolled out from the living room. The crowd was thinner than some nights but loud enough that the walls felt close. Weed smoke sat heavy over sweat and Hennessy, the beat shaking through the floorboards.
Mireya followed the others in. The living room was cleared down to a couch and a couple folding chairs, the rest of the space opened up into a makeshift floor. Men leaned against the walls, drinks in hand. A few reached for the girls with bills already folded between their fingers.
Her eyes went straight to the back of the room.
Trell sat where he always did, in the cut where the wall bent, shoulders easy against the chair. No Ant posted behind him tonight. His phone was in his hand, but his gaze wasn’t on the screen. He was looking at her.
Their eyes caught. He lifted two fingers and crooked them once.
Mireya felt Jaslene’s arm slip away. She walked through the room, past the couch, past the stretch of floor where Alejandra was already letting a man touch the back of her legs. Conversation dipped in pockets as she moved, then picked back up behind her.
Trell reached out when she got close, his hand closing around hers. His grip pulled her a step nearer so he could look up at her from where he sat.
“You gonna save time for me, right?” he asked.
Mireya smiled. “Depends on if you paying.”
He didn’t make her wait. Trell slid his other hand into his pocket and came out with a small fold of hundreds. He peeled off a couple, neat, and pressed them into her palm, his fingers resting there a second.
“Come see me after the party over,” he said.
The paper edged her skin. Mireya closed her fingers around it and nodded. “Where’s Ant?”
Trell’s eyes barely shifted. He shook his head once. “Business trip.”
She heard the stop in it and let it stand. “Okay.” She slipped the bills down into her pocket.
Trell lifted his chin toward the open space where the men waited. “Go make your money, Luna.”
She turned away on the cue and moved back into the swell of the room where the others were already working.
…
By the time Mireya had her heels dug into the carpet in front of the couch, the night had stretched into its own rhythm. Sweat slicked the small of her back. Her hair was off her neck, the air still thick around her. Boogie sat in the middle of the couch, legs spread, hoodie bunched at his elbows. His eyes traveled up and down her body without hurry.
“Shit, Luna, I been waiting for this shit all week because a nigga couldn’t get out to see you work that pole,” he said, voice rough with a grin.
Mireya rolled her hips slow, letting the movement ride the beat. She put her hands on his shoulders and leaned in, chest brushing his as she bent enough to bring her mouth close to his ear. “You always know how to make me feel special, papi.”
Boogie’s hands rested easy on her thighs, thumbs moving just enough to trace her skin. “You gonna let ya boy get a little more than a dance?”
She let her smile widen, still moving. Her lips brushed the side of his jaw when she answered, voice low for him. “You can get whatever you want if you’re paying for it.”
He laughed under his breath, his grip tightening on her legs.
The front door swung wider on a rush of outside air. Mireya’s gaze flicked past Boogie’s shoulder. Ant walked in first, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, the strap cutting across the front of his shirt. The bottom hem of the white cotton held dark splatters she recognized. His jaw was set, eyes making quick passes over the room.
Dez came in behind him, talking close to his ear, whatever he said lost under the music. And then Ramon stepped through the doorway.
His eyes swept the room once, taking in the girls, the money, the haze.
They landed on Mireya.
She kept her shoulders loose and her hips moving, bringing herself down into Boogie’s lap. Ramon’s stare didn’t break. He walked through the living room toward the back of the house where Trell was, each step cutting through bodies that shifted just enough to clear space.
Boogie talked at her, something about how she was killing him, but she only caught pieces of it over the bass. She stayed facing the room long enough to watch Ramon reach Trell’s spot and then disappear from her line of sight. The bodies in the room closed behind him.
Mireya turned so her back was to Boogie’s chest, rolling down in his lap, hands sliding over her own thighs. From that angle she could see the back wall again. Ant had set the duffel on the low table in front of Trell. He unzipped it, the metal teeth catching light for a second. Trell leaned forward, pulled the flap back, and reached in. His hand came out with a dense stack of cash, edges sharp.
He held the money out toward Ramon.
Ramon took it, slipping it from Trell’s hand. He nodded once, the movement short. Ant straightened up. The music swallowed whatever passed between their mouths, lips moving with no sound landing where she was.
Ramon shook his head, a small cut of motion, and jerked his chin toward the door. Ant and Trell both gave tight nods. Ramon shoved the money down into his pockets, both hands working fast. When he turned to leave, his gaze went back to Mireya and stayed there.
She kept dancing on Boogie, weight shifting on his legs, hands braced on her knees now. Ramon walked along the edge of the room, never blinking off her. The closer he got, the clearer his expression, but it didn’t change.
He passed behind the couch. For a moment he was just over her shoulder, his eyes still on her even when she couldn’t see him straight on. Then the front door creaked again, and he was gone to the yard.
“So, you ready?” Boogie asked, voice cutting in close, all attention back on the way she moved on him.
Mireya turned back around to face him fully, knees bracketing his hips. She looked down at him and smiled. “You let me know, baby.”
But they just might be up there doing this shit at night 
