Light had slid past the edge of the curtain and found her face before Mireya’s eyes agreed to open. For a second the ceiling didn’t belong to her. The paint was smoother than at home, the fan newer, the air less heavy. She blinked, adjusted, then felt the weight of the mattress under her and the warm line of a body at her back.
Jaslene.
The decision to crash here after their shift and Camila safe and sound with Sara for a couple days came back to her mind.
She exhaled into the pillow. The room smelled like jasmine, body spray, and the faint sweetness of Jaslene’s shampoo on the pillowcase. Somewhere outside a car rolled by slow, music muffled through the walls.
Behind her, Jaslene’s breathing shifted. Sheets rustled. Mireya felt fingers graze the back of her head, slow and absent, tugging once at a knot before smoothing over it.
“You know when you up ‘cause your mind start going like… one thousand miles per hour,” Jaslene murmured, voice thick with sleep. “You can hear it, nena.”
Mireya sucked her teeth and didn’t bother to turn yet. “’Cause there’s always some shit in my life.”
Jaslene’s hand slid away. Mireya heard the mattress give as she rolled off the bed, the soft thud of bare feet hitting the floor. The bathroom light flicked on. Toilet, flush, water running. Mireya stared at the wall, eyes half-lidded.
The water cut off. After a moment the bathroom door opened and Jaslene stepped back into the room, wiping her hands on the hem of her T-shirt. She climbed onto the bed again, this time sitting up against the headboard, legs stretched out, one heel bumping Mireya’s thigh. Her fingers tapped a light rhythm on Mireya’s shoulder.
“Dale, what is it now?” she asked.
Mireya let out a slow breath and rolled onto her side, then onto her back so she could see her.
“Some fucking shit with one of Caine’s friends,” Mireya said. Her voice scraped a little. “You remember them guys that was at Camila’s birthday party?”
Jaslene nodded, eyes already narrowing like she was flipping through faces. “Which one?”
“Ramon.” Mireya stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t know if you saw him the other day at Trell’s, but he came in there when we was there. Told me I gotta tell Caine what I do or he will.”
“Mm.” Jaslene’s mouth twisted. “Los hombres always wanna demand shit from us.” She lifted her chin, a little spark in her eyes. “Too bad it wasn’t that other one.”
Mireya turned her head on the pillow so she could really look at her. “Which one?”
“The smiley, jokey one,” Jaslene said, waving a hand. “You coulda just fucked him and he wouldn’t have talked.”
A laugh slipped out of Mireya before she could catch it. “Tyree?” she asked. “He wouldn’t have done that. They’re all boys.”
Jaslene rolled her eyes. “He definitely would. He not gon’ be the one bring it up, but if you did? Pfft. Absolutely, mami.”
“Well, Ramon definitely wouldn’t,” Mireya said.
Jaslene just shrugged. She leaned across Mireya, torso brushing her arm, reaching to the nightstand. Her fingers found a little metal tray, the rattle of a lighter, the dry paper sound of a pre-rolled joint against glass.
She sat back up, stuck the joint between her lips, and flicked the lighter. The flame caught quick. She inhaled, then pulled it away, exhaling toward the cracked window. Smoke curled and crawled across the ceiling.
She looked down at Mireya. “You want my advice?” she asked, joint pinched between two fingers.
Mireya lifted one shoulder, eyes on the smoke. “Can’t hurt.”
Jaslene brought the joint down and held it to her mouth. Mireya lifted her head just enough to meet it, lips parting. The first drag hit the back of her throat hard. She held it, let it burn a second, then let the smoke go, watching it thin out in the strip of light.
“Make it so he can’t tell,” Jaslene said.
Mireya’s brow creased. Her gaze slid from the ceiling to Jaslene’s face. “How I’m supposed to do that?”
Jaslene shrugged, the motion loose, one hand braced behind her on the headboard. “You know your baby daddy better than anybody,” she said. “Pero that’s what I would do. Make it so if Ramon say something, it don’t matter.”
Mireya hummed, the sound low. Her eyes went back to the ceiling. The light had moved a little, strip climbing higher up the wall as the sun cleared whatever building sat across the way. Her mind picked at the edges of Jaslene’s words, running fast even while her body stayed flat and still.
Jaslene tapped her shoulder again with two fingers, then brought the joint back to her lips, pulling long. She leaned down, exhaled away, and set it at Mireya’s mouth again. Mireya took another drag, deeper this time, felt the warmth slide down into her chest. She let it out slow, watching smoke blur the ceiling lines.
“You wanna go get brunch?” Jaslene asked after a beat, eyes on her, voice lighter. “Estoy hambrienta.”
Mireya turned her head, one eyebrow lifting. “You paying?”
Jaslene laughed, head tipping back against the wood. “Sure. I’ll just take it from your cut tonight.”
Mireya’s laugh joined hers, softer but real, the sound bouncing off the quiet walls.
~~~
Laney’s daddy had the game on, and everybody arranged around it. Georgia colors washed over the living room, crowd noise filling the gaps between clinked plates and low talk.
Pastor Hadden sat in his recliner, hand on the remote. Marianne had the end of the couch, body angled toward him. Caleb and Gabrielle were crammed into the other recliner, her almost in his lap, his arm banded around her waist. Rylee and Jesse leaned in a corner, talking low, glancing at the screen when the crowd roared. Blake sat on the loveseat, shoulders drawn in, eyes fixed straight ahead.
Tommy held the far side of the couch. Boots off, posture straight, three months gone and back in his spot. The boys had taken the floor near his feet. Knox closest, Braxton and Hunter on either side, plates in their laps, faces tipped toward their daddy, careful not to lean too far.
Laney was back into the routine.
When Tommy’s glass dropped below half, she was already at the table, filling it with tea and ice, setting it back on the table within his reach before he could look for it. When he nudged his plate, she came from the kitchen with another roll, more beans, the bottle of hot sauce he liked. She wiped Knox’s mouth, straightened Braxton’s fork, slid Hunter’s plate an inch back so he wouldn’t spill. The motions came easy. Months of something else peeled off her shoulders and this old rhythm settled back in.
“Laney, hand your daddy one of them rolls,” Marianne said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Laney answered, already reaching.
She set the roll on her father’s plate, gave his shoulder a quick squeeze, then moved on. Tommy never had to ask. The room gave him to her boys in pieces and they tried to gather them up. Every grunt he let slip at a blown play made them sit up straighter, like they might get credit for hearing it right.
Tommy didn’t look down at them. He stayed on the game, jaw working, hands laced together.
Laney watched from beside the coffee table, dish towel twisted in her hand. Her ring caught the TV light when she turned it with her thumb. The boys leaned toward their father and stopped just short of touching him.
Caine pushed at the edge of her mind. The back of her van, the back of his hand on her face, the way he said her name. She pressed her lips together until the picture blurred and let the towel pull tight between her fingers instead.
“I’m gon’ step out a minute,” she said, touching Tommy’s shoulder so he would hear her over the announcer. “Ain’t feelin’ too good. You need somethin’, you just holler.”
He cut his eyes up at her. Something flickered there, thin and sharp. He gave a short nod. “Alright.”
Laney nodded back, then slipped past the couch and the loveseat and Rylee’s corner. She opened the back door and eased it shut behind her so it would not slam.
The air on the porch was thick but quieter. The game dropped to a muffled hum behind the wall. The yard lay still, grass cut, swing set empty.
She sat at the patio table and set her palms flat on the glass until her shoulders loosened a little. Then she pulled her phone from her dress pocket.
The sports app was already on Georgia Southern. She stared at the numbers long enough to feel her chest tighten and then backed out. Her thumb slid through folders, deeper, into the DropBox she kept buried. Thumbnails lined up. She scrolled to the one she knew.
She opened it.
Caine’s profile filled the screen, taken quick in the back of her van. Head turned toward the window, jaw easy, mouth relaxed. Light had caught the edge of his cheekbone that night.
She let herself look for one breath. Two. Then she swiped the image away and locked the phone, setting it face down on the table.
The patio door opened.
Laney turned. Blake stepped out, letting it close behind him with a dull little thud. He came to the table and dropped into the chair beside her. As he sat, he pulled a crumpled cigarette pack from his pocket and shook one loose.
“You cain’t smoke out here,” Laney said.
Blake froze with the cigarette halfway to his mouth. He lifted both hands. “Alright,” he said. “My bad.” He slid it back into the pack and shoved it into his pocket. “Didn’t know there was rules on the porch.”
Laney looked back out at the yard.
“Don’t look like you too happy my brother’s back,” Blake said after a moment.
“You think me and Tommy the type to be gushin’ over each other like Caleb and Gabby in there?” she asked.
He snorted. “No. Just mean you ain’t been this quiet in a while. Guess you ain’t gonna be as chipper as you been. Not that you was real different, but I seen it.”
She turned her head enough to see his face. “What you mean by that?”
“Still treating me like I almost killed you or something, but besides that,” he said.
“You did almost kill us,” she said.
Blake rolled his eyes up toward the porch ceiling. “I wasn’t driving,” he said. “That’s like saying Taela almost killed you.”
Laney shook her head and let it sit.
The door cracked open again.
“Laney,” Marianne called, poking her head out. “You need to come back in here. Poor Tommy doesn’t have nothing to drink.”
Laney glanced back. “Alright, Mama,” she said.
The door shut. Blake let out a short chuckle.
“Bet you never thought this’d be your life,” he said.
Laney stood. Her dress fell back around her knees. She took a step toward the door, then stopped beside Blake’s chair and leaned down, one hand on the armrest.
“Whatever change you thought you saw was them drugs messin’ with your brain, you hear me?” she said.
Blake’s eyebrow went up.
“You hear me?” she asked again.
He shrugged and nodded. “Yeah. I hear you.”
Laney straightened, smoothed her dress, and went back inside, heading for the kitchen.
~~~
Caine crouched at the edge of the white stripe, toes up on it, forearms braced across his thighs. The turf felt chewed up under his cleats, the rubber pellets grinding when he shifted his weight. Ballard Stadium hummed around him, all that blue and silver in the stands, restless and waiting.
Old Dominion’s offense broke the huddle and jogged to the ball. The umpire set it at the one, arm motion sharp, chains already tucked tight against the far sideline. The echo of the pass interference flag still hung in the air, the home crowd howling at the fresh set of downs they’d just been handed.
Caine kept his eyes on the back of the formation. Heavy set. Bodies packed in tight on both sides of the ball. Quinn Heincle dropped under center, hands pressed up under the center’s pads, shoulders tight. He barked the cadence once, voice swallowed by the noise, then again, sharper.
Caine sank a little lower. He could see Burnett’s calves flex as he rocked on his toes.
Heincle called for the snap. He turned, jammed it into Burnett’s stomach, and the back surged forward. Pads popped in a short, ugly burst right at the line. A pile formed and then broke as Burnett’s body spilled across the goal line, knees churning through tackles until he landed in the paint.
The line judge threw both arms up.
The stadium cracked open. Sound rolled over the field, over the sideline, like somebody had turned the speakers to max all at once. The Old Dominion band punched in with the fight song, drums rattling against the metal bleachers, horns blaring through the cool night.
Caine’s head dropped for a breath. Scoreboard lights burned in his peripheral, numbers flipping to 35–35, clock frozen at 2:58. His right hand tightened around his helmet.
He pushed up from the crouch and stood, shoulders rolling once to shake the stiffness out. He slid the helmet on, pulled the chin strap up, snapped it home. His mouthpiece hung for a second before he bit it into place.
Coach Aplin was already moving toward him from behind the line of players, headset cord tugging at his hip. He caught Caine by the front of his shoulder pads with one hand and thumped his fist into Caine’s chest pads with the other, close enough that Caine could see the sweat at his hairline.
“Two fifty-eight left, Caine,” Aplin rasped, voice rough from three and a half quarters of yelling. “Don’t rush it down the field. We got the timeouts, alright?”
Caine nodded once, eyes locked on his coach’s face.
“Take your time, burn the clock,” Aplin said. His fist tapped Caine’s pads again to punctuate it. “Set us up for a field goal and we’ll get out of here. Just don’t turn it over.”
“Got it, Coach,” Caine said, voice steady behind the mouthpiece.
Aplin gave his shoulder pads one more squeeze, then turned away, already yelling for the return unit. Caine stepped back toward the bench for a second, fingers grazing the towel at his waist, then turned to watch the kickoff team jog out.
The ball went up on the tee at the thirty-five. The ref’s whistle cut across the noise. The kicker took his steps, swung his leg, and the ball jumped off his foot, climbing under the lights. Caine tracked it in the air, the shape turning end over end as it sailed downfield.
It carried all the way to the back line of the endzone and beyond. The back judge chopped his arm, signaling touchback, and the whistle blew the play dead.
Caine felt the familiar smack of Aplin’s palm against the back of his helmet.
“Go win us the fucking game,” Aplin said, voice right by his ear.
Caine jogged out onto the field, the noise of the crowd folding around him in waves. His teammates closed in, helmets turned his way, waiting.
Coach Fatu’s voice was already crackling in his helmet as he jogged toward the huddle.
…
“Guerra in the shotgun, four out wide, Mbadinga to his right. The freshman has been stellar this afternoon, but he has to move the ball down into field goal range and not leave too much time on the clock.”
“I bet no one would’ve thought that ODU would be in this game with three minutes to go!”
“Guerra gets the snap and hands it off to Mbadinga. The back slices through the gap and picks up a first down to start the drive!”
…
Caine settled into his stance, barking out his cadence. He stepped forward to the line, pointing out a linebacker showing blitz and making the adjustments.
“Green 80, Green 80, Seeeet, Go, Go.”
Chandler rifled the ball back toward him. He caught it. Spun it to the laces. Dropped back. One, two, three. Eyes went from Josh to Jeremiah to Femi.
Femi throttled down, beating his feet before cutting to the inside. Just between the linebacker and the safety.
Caine drew his arm back and floated it to a spot between them. Leading Femi further down the field. Femi made the catch and rolled down to the turf before the safety came up to make the hit on him.
Caine glanced toward the sideline, seeing Coach Aplin holding both his palms out. Caine snapped his chin strap off and looked up at the clock as it ticked down toward the two minute warning.
…
“Coming out of the two minute timeout, Georgia Southern has the ball on Old Dominion’s 46. You think they’ll want to get about 20 more yards to make it easy for Donal Dempsey. Guerra hands it off to Mbadinga up the middle and he’s stuffed for a gain of just a yard.”
“That’s not what you want to see on the first play but it is going to start the clock again.”
…
“Guerra drops back and the Monarchs are sending seven. Guerra dumps it off to Ware for a gain of four. That gets it down to the 41. There doesn’t seem to be a lot of urgency on that Georgia Southern sideline.”
“Well, you have to remember that Heincle has only completed four passes today. I think Ryan Aplin is betting that he can’t suddenly turn it on if, in the worst case scenario, they go into overtime.”
..
“Third and five at the ODU 41 coming up. Guerra in the shotgun, three by two look from the Eagles. This would be a 58-yard field goal so Georgia Southern has to convert this if they want a chance of winning this ball game.”
“They do have the kid that almost beat Clemson back there, John.”
“Here’s the snap. ODU drops into a zone look. Guerra drops back. He rolls out to buy himself some time. Maybe run for it. He can’t. He’s running out of space. The Monarchs are coming! Guerra throws it off one foot just as he’s getting crunched! Ware has it! And he’s down at the 19!”
“Warm up those buses, John! Georgia Southern is about to escape with this one! But what a throw by the freshman Caine Guerra. I’m counting at least four Monarch defenders hitting him on that throw but he hung in there and completed the pass knowing a big hit was coming!”
…
After three runs to center the ball and burn the rest of the clock, Caine and Coach Aplin both stood by officials, hands poised to call the timeout as they watched the clock tick down to three seconds.
The officials waved for the timeout when they called it and the kicking team jogged onto the field, ready to attempt a 19-yard game-winning field goal.
Caine walked off the field, snapping off his chin strap and pulling off his helmet. Coach Aplin patted him on the back as he walked down the sideline, grabbing a water bottle from one of the team managers.
He took a swig of water and looked up at the scoreboard. Ranked. One loss to Clemson.
And they needed a last second drive to beat Old Dominion who was 1-4 and had only beaten an FCS school.
~~~
Mireya sat in the back of the room behind Trell’s shoulder, her chair turned on an angle so he only had to glance back if he wanted her. The plastic cup was cold in her hand. She tipped it and let cheap vodka burn down her throat. Her dress rode high on her thighs, short hem catching on the seat. Halter tied behind her neck, front cut low, back bare to the curve of her spine.
Trell sat in the plush chair in front of her, body loose, phone in his hand. From where she sat she could see the edge of his jaw, the chain against his neck, the way his thumb moved steady over the screen. If he spoke, she could lean in and hear him. Until then, she stayed quiet, one ankle swinging slow over the other.
The house sweated around them. Music shoved out of the speakers, bass rattling bottles on the table. Smoke and hot breath thickened the air. The Mississippi girls worked the middle of the room, heels slipping on a sticky floor, bending over in front of the couch where men sat with bills fanned in their hands. Laughter broke and rolled, then dropped back under the track.
Boogie sat off to the side with a couple of Trell’s boys, chair tipped back, grin showing every few beats. One of the Mississippi strippers had her hand on his shoulder, leaning in when she laughed. Across the room Dez stood with some guys Mireya didn’t know, heads bent together as they talked. Ant stood against the wall behind Trell’s opposite shoulder, hand against his waist.
The front door opened and let in a brief breath of outside air. Junebug stepped through with another man behind him, shoulders rolled forward, chin high. He cut through bodies, went straight to Boogie, and dapped him up.
Mireya watched without turning her head. She took another sip of vodka and glanced at the back of Trell’s head. Nothing in him shifted. His focus stayed on his phone. Ant had already clocked the new faces and moved on.
Junebug dropped into a chair near Boogie and started talking, hands moving, laugh riding over everyone else’s. She saw him pull a small roll of money from his pocket, peel off a bill, flash it, tuck it back. He reached for a beer, lifted it, and chugged half in one go.
Her phone sat on the table beside her cup. Her fingers slid toward it, touched the edge, curled like they might bring it closer. She left it. Her hand pulled back to her drink. She put the rim to her mouth and kept her eyes on Junebug.
…
Hours stretched, the party softening at the edges. People leaned heavier on furniture. Voices got louder, words slurring, then snapping sharp for no reason. Somebody dropped a glass and only a few heads turned. Sweat shined on faces and shoulders. The Mississippi girls had slowed to half-hearted moves, hanging on whoever still had cash.
Mireya pushed up from her chair, muscles stiff. She smoothed her dress down with one hand and walked along the wall toward the table on the far side of the room where more bottles sat. Junebug had shifted closer, One of the Mississippi strippers, Cherry, settled on his lap. They were deep in talk, her laugh high and loose over his shoulder.
Mireya set her cup down, grabbed a bottle, and started to pour.
Junebug’s eyes slid to her. He watched her for a beat, then snorted a laugh. “Why don’t you and Cherry here give a real nigga a little sucking and fucking,” he said.
Cherry laughed and tilted her head back to look at him. “You got it like that?” she asked, nails tracing his chest.
Mireya didn’t bother with a smile. “I doubt he does,” she said, eyes on his face as she finished pouring and set the bottle down.
Junebug’s mouth tightened. “Watch your mouth, bitch,” he said. “I’ll have you on the stroll by the end of the night.”
She let out a short laugh. “Why would I do anything with a broke ass motherfucker like you?”
Cherry’s laugh cut off. She went still, eyes moving between the two of them. Junebug pushed her off his lap so fast she caught herself on the arm of the chair. He stood up, stepping in close enough that his shadow cut across Mireya.
“You lucky you not one of mine,” he said, breath hot and sour with liquor. “Because I’d have you getting fucked bareback by crackheads behind a dumpster for talking to me like that.”
“Is that something they do,” Mireya asked, “or is that something you do?”
His jaw jumped. He jabbed his finger into the center of her forehead. “You testing my patience, ho. You wo—”
She slapped his hand away and spat in his face before he finished the word. It hit his cheek and his mouth, thick and wet.
Cherry’s eyes went wide. The sound in the space around them dipped as people turned.
“I know a bitch sucking dick didn’t just spit in my mouth,” Junebug yelled.
His backhand caught her across the face, hard enough to pitch her sideways. Her shoulder slammed into the table, cup flying, vodka splashing down her arm. Pain burst hot in her cheek. She came back up and swung on him with an open palm, nails scraping down his skin.
He lunged, fingers tangling in her hair, yanking her head back. The room tilted. He dragged her off the table and slammed her into the wall. Her spine hit first. Her vision blurred.
His hand twisted tighter in her hair and pulled her down the wall until her knees hit the floor. She grabbed for his arm, turned her head, and bit down on the meat of his forearm. He shouted and ripped his arm away.
A bottle had rolled off the table and stopped near her hand. She snatched it up and swung at his head. He jerked back. The glass smashed into the knuckles of his other hand instead, a crack cutting through the music.
He wrapped both arms around her waist and lifted. Her feet left the floor. He slammed her down. The boards under her back vibrated with the impact. Air rushed out of her lungs. His foot came down into her ribs before she pulled a breath in. Then again. And again. She curled, arms over her face, trying to shield what she could.
He dropped to a knee and punched her once more in the face. Her world shrank to noise. Shouting. Shoes scraping. The track skipping.
Then his hits weren’t on her anymore. She still heard impact, but it landed higher up.
When she forced her eyes open, Trell had Junebug by the collar, dragging him up. His other hand held a pistol by the grip. He brought the butt down into Junebug’s head. Once. Twice. Again. Junebug’s body sagged with each blow until his eyes rolled back and his legs gave out.
Trell let him go. Junebug dropped in a heap, chest moving shallow.
Trell looked up, eyes finding Boogie in the crowd. “Get rid of this nigga,” he said.
Boogie hesitated. His gaze went from Junebug’s face to Trell’s.
Metal clicked behind him. Ant had his pistol half out, slide back. He didn’t say anything.
Boogie’s jaw worked. He bent, grabbed Junebug under the arms, and started to lift. “Come on,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone. He jerked his chin at Dez.
Dez stepped in, catching Junebug by the legs. They hauled him toward the back door, his heels dragging, leaving faint streaks on the floor. The crowd opened just enough for them to pass, then closed.
Trell’s eyes skimmed over Mireya where she lay curled. He took her in once, quick, then reached for a towel on the table, wiped his knuckles and the side of his gun, dropped the towel, and walked back to his chair. He sat down in the same spot, shoulders easing, phone back in his hand.
…
stood at the sink, facing the mirror. A swollen cheek stared back at her, a split at the edge of her lip, reddening along her jaw. Her eye had a faint bloom in the corner. She met her own gaze and held it.
She ran a damp paper towel over her face, clearing away smeared makeup and spit and blood. She poured alcohol onto another wad and pressed it to the cut. The alcohol burned. Her hand stayed steady.
She shifted her dress strap, checking the bruises forming along her shoulder, fingers pressing carefully along her ribs. The knot at the back of her neck had loosened. She retied it, pulled the front straight, and breathed in slow through her nose.
Her phone sat on the counter by the faucet. She picked it up, thumb moving over the screen. The text box stayed empty for a second, then she typed.
it’s done
She hit send and set the phone back down. The screen lit her hand, then dimmed.
She went back to work. Cotton, alcohol, water from the tap, all in small, practiced motions. Cleaning blood from a scrape on her forearm. Wiping at a raw spot on her knee. Adjusting how she stood so she could see the side of her face better.
The phone buzzed against the porcelain. Ramon’s reply flashed on the screen. She glanced down long enough to read it, flipped the phone over so the screen faced the counter, and picked up another clean piece of paper towel.
She just continued tending to her wounds.
