Idoneus Solum
The football center already smelled like sanitizer and burned coffee, the kind of clean that didn’t quite hide how many bodies passed through every day. The automatic doors sighed open and shut behind them, letting in a thin slice of cold morning air before sealing it back out. The lights overhead were too bright for the hour, bouncing off polished floors and glass walls that showed weight rooms and offices still half asleep.
Caine walked between Dwight and Donnie, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, pace easy. His backpack sat light on one shoulder. Online classes meant no rush, no lecture halls to sprint across. Just a few hours to lift later and whatever food they could grab before it ran out.
Dwight moved like he always did, wide shoulders rolling loose, steps heavy enough to make the floor answer him. Donnie trailed half a step ahead, phone in his hand, thumb flicking up and down without really looking.
“I told her I ain’t trying to have no relationship or nothing like that,” Donnie said, voice loud in the quiet hallway, “and the bitch started crying with my dick still in her mouth.”
Caine didn’t stop walking. He turned his head just enough to look at Donnie out of the corner of his eye.
“Why the fuck would you even be talking about that when getting some head?” he asked.
Dwight barked a laugh, the sound bouncing off the glass. “He right. You could’ve waited until she was done or something to make her start crying.”
Donnie lifted his head, scowling. “Nigga, shut the fuck up.”
Caine shrugged, the motion small. “Unless he into that shit.”
Dwight laughed again, louder this time, hand slapping against his own thigh. Donnie spun on both of them mid-step and flipped them off without breaking stride.
“Don’t be putting y’all weird ass fantasies on me,” he said. “I ain’t even try to get her to let me nut. Just pulled my pants back up and left.”
Dwight shook his head, still smiling. “You know she was dogging your ass out in the group chat.”
Caine nodded once. “And put him on that tea app shit.”
Donnie’s shoulders slumped like the fight leaked out of him all at once. He slid his phone into his pocket and sighed.
“Y’all supposed to be my niggas,” he said. “But I guess it do be ya own people.”
They hit the corner where the hallway widened, the ceiling lifting higher, the noise changing. Somewhere deeper in the building, a cart rattled. A fridge door opened and closed. The smell of wrapped breakfast sandwiches drifted down the hall, egg and grease and something vaguely sweet.
Coming from the opposite direction, moving with purpose but no hurry, Derrick McCray filled the space. Arms spread wide before he even reached them, grin already set in place, jacket pressed sharp over a collared shirt that didn’t have a wrinkle in it.
“Caine, my guy,” McCray said. “How’s it going? Keeping that arm safe, I hope.”
Caine stepped in, meeting him halfway. Their hands clasped in that in-between space, not quite a full dap, not quite a handshake either.
“Ain’t been doing nothing but watching TV,” Caine said.
McCray laughed and slapped him on the left shoulder, firm but careful.
“Good,” he said. “Or we’ll have to start teaching you how to throw with this arm.”
Dwight grinned, eyes flicking between them. Donnie stayed quiet, watching, hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie.
McCray’s phone buzzed. He glanced down at it, thumb scrolling quick, then looked back up and pointed at Caine.
“Look,” he said. “After we get through signing day, come see me. We’re putting together something with Zaxby’s for you.”
Caine nodded. “Alright, bet.”
McCray’s smile widened like that was the answer he’d expected. He gave Caine’s shoulder one last pat and started backing away.
“You’re the man, kid,” he said, already turning. “We’ll talk soon.”
He disappeared down the hall, jacket swinging just a little with his stride.
Donnie watched him go, then leaned closer to Caine. “Better get some free food out that shit, too.”
Caine shook his head, a short laugh slipping out before he could stop it. Dwight laughed again, deep and easy, and the three of them turned back toward the breakfast setup, following the smell and the sound of paper bags being dragged off tables as fast as they were set down.
~~~
Ramon sat in his car with the engine running low, the vibration just enough to feel through the seat. He was backed into the space tight and straight, rear bumper nearly kissing the curb, the hood angled out toward the open lot. From where he sat, he could see the entrance to the strip of stores, the cracked driveway that led back out to the street, and the line of parked cars stretching off to either side.
NBA YoungBoy came through the speakers thin and sharp, bass rattling lightly in the door panels. Ramon had the volume set right, loud enough to fill the car but not loud enough to bleed out the windows. His left hand rested on the steering wheel. His right hand tapped against his knee in a steady rhythm.
The parking lot was sun-bleached and wide, asphalt patched in uneven squares. The air already held that East smell of exhaust, old oil, and whatever somebody had cooked last night drifting out of a nearby apartment. A few cars were parked crooked. A shopping cart lay tipped on its side near the far fence.
Ant’s car swung into the lot fast and clean, nose cutting in before easing off the gas. He drove straight over and pulled up alongside Ramon’s driver side, close enough that their mirrors nearly lined up. The engine cut. The door opened.
Ant stepped out with a small brown paper bag folded over at the top, held loose in his right hand. He glanced once across the lot, once toward the entrance, then shut his door and walked around the front of Ramon’s car. He opened the passenger door and slid inside.
The door shut. The bass thumped once harder as the cabin sealed again.
Ant leaned back and handed the bag over. “Here.”
Ramon took it with one hand and unfolded the top just enough to look. Inside were tight stacks of cash, rubber-banded, the edges worn soft. He folded the bag back down and shoved it between the seat and the center console, pushing it until it disappeared into the shadow there.
Ant watched him do it, then nodded.
“Tell Duke we might need you lil’ niggas to come make a run with us,” Ant said, voice flat.
Ramon kept his eyes forward. “You know y’all could just pick up a few more bodies permanently and you wouldn’t have to keep looking for niggas outside the clique to help y’all.”
Ant snorted a laugh, short and quiet. He shook his head. “Nah. We’ll let you niggas be the ones trying to take over the fucking world.” He waved a hand once, dismissing it. “It ain’t nothing heavy. Just a trip to Montgomery.”
Ramon’s fingers stopped tapping for half a second, then started again. “Fuck y’all got with them country motherfuckers?”
“Business,” Ant said. “Nothing that need no violence. Yet, anyway.” He shifted in the seat, leaning back. “Got a new nigga running the crew we work with. Just going out there to show some love and keep things moving. If he got a problem though, make sure y’all bring y’all sticks.”
Ramon shrugged, the movement small, shoulders lifting and falling. “Aight.”
Ant reached into his pocket and pulled his phone out, screen already lit. “Speaking of new niggas,” he said, tilting the phone toward Ramon. “You know this lil’ motherfucker?”
An Instagram page filled the screen. Ramon leaned over just enough to see it clearly. He tapped one of the pictures with his thumb, scrolling once, then nodded.
“That’s a nigga named Kam little brother,” Ramon said. “He 110. Zesty ass nigga. They say he a ponk on the low. Why?”
Ant squinted at the phone, then looked back at Ramon. “Shad’s 110?”
Ramon shrugged again. “I don’t know. Kam is, though. Tyree done batted the piss out of him a few times.”
Ant nodded slowly, filing it away. He locked the phone and slid it back into his pocket. He reached for the door handle, already turning his body.
“Alright,” Ant said. “I’m gonna hit you up when we figure out when we going to Montgomery.”
Ramon nodded once.
Ant stepped out, shut the door behind him, and walked back toward his car without looking over his shoulder. His engine started. The car pulled away and merged back into the lot, tires humming low over the rough pavement.
Ramon waited. He glanced left. He glanced right. He checked the entrance again, then the street beyond it. His fingers stopped tapping. He shifted the gear into drive and eased out of the spot, pulling off into the lot and toward the exit.
~~~
The bookstore smelled like paper, glue, and that faint chemical sharpness from freshly printed pages. The sound inside stayed low but constant. Shoes squeaked against the tile. Someone coughed near the back. A register chimed every few seconds, the noise stacking on itself in uneven rhythms. Mireya stepped through the doors and adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, eyes already scanning for the shorter line.
She headed straight for the section marked for students who had already paid, cardboard sign taped crooked above the counter. The line was there but manageable. Three people ahead of her. She shifted her weight and waited, fingers hooked loosely around the strap, eyes drifting to the shelves behind the counter where boxed sets of textbooks were stacked in neat columns.
When it was her turn, the cashier disappeared into the back and came out with a taped cardboard box, her name written across the top in black marker. Mireya signed where she was told to sign, slid the pen back, and took the box against her chest. It was heavier than she expected but not unbearable. She thanked the cashier, pivoted, and walked toward the exit.
She turned and pushed the door open with her back.
Jordan was just reaching for the handle on the other side.
He looked up and the smile came immediately, spreading across his face without hesitation. He stepped closer and reached out, hands already closing around the box before she could say anything.
“I thought you said you were just getting here,” he said, testing the weight as he lifted it.
Mireya let go without protest. “I did. I’d already paid for my books.” She glanced up at him. “Learned my lesson from last semester.”
Jordan adjusted the box under his arm and laughed. “Feels like you bought the whole fucking store, too.”
She rolled her eyes. “Some of us are still taking gen eds.”
They fell into step together as they walked out, the sunlight hitting harder than it had inside. The air outside felt thicker, carrying the hum of campus with it. Voices drifted across the quad. A bike bell rang somewhere to their left. Jordan shifted the box again and started down the path, Mireya walking beside him close enough that their arms brushed.
“So,” he said after a few steps, “you remember what you asked me the other day?”
She glanced at him sideways. “I ask you a lot of shit.”
“Fair,” he said. “But you wanted to know if I’d introduce you to my family.”
Mireya nodded slowly. “Yeah?”
“My brothers and sister are coming down for Mardi Gras,” he said. “They got an AirBnB in the Quarter for the whole week before.”
She looked at him more directly then. “Your siblings got enough money to get an AirBnB in the French Quarter this close to Mardi Gras for a week?”
Jordan sighed, dramatic and heavy, tilting his head back for a second as they walked. “They all embrace the nepo baby thing.” He glanced down at her, mouth pulling into a grin. “I’m hoping you think my devilishly handsome face outweighs learning that.”
Mireya laughed, the sound short and genuine. “It’s all good. I was just wondering.”
“Well,” he said, “if you want, you can meet them. No pressure or anything.” He paused, then added, “I’d actually prefer if you didn’t because they’re all dickheads but it’s up to you.”
They kept walking, the path narrowing slightly as it curved toward the quad. Mireya watched the ground for a moment, then lifted her eyes again. The pit that formed in her stomach was quick and sharp. She ignored it.
“Maybe,” she said. “I might have to work.”
She already knew she would. Dancing. A party or two. Trell. Mardi Gras meant tourists. Tourists meant money. Money she couldn’t afford to turn down. Jordan clicked his tongue and shook his head.
“You gotta take some time off,” he said. “You’re gonna run yourself into the ground.”
She smiled up at him, soft and practiced. “Somebody gotta pay for those books.”
Jordan nodded once, shifting the box again as they reached the edge of the quad. “Guess you’re right.”
Mireya just shrugged, glancing at the books Trell paid for that Jordan was carrying, as they continued walking.
~~~
Laney pushed the broom forward in short, even strokes, the bristles rasping softly against the concrete path that ran between the church kitchen and the fellowship hall. Pine needles and grit gathered into a thin line with each pass. The air was cool and dry, the kind that held onto the shade longer than the sun, her breath steady as she worked.
She worked methodically, eyes lowered, hands moving without hurry. The fellowship hall door stood propped open behind her, a rectangle of dimmer light and the faint smell of old coffee and lemon cleaner drifting out. Somewhere inside, a fan clicked as it turned, uneven but persistent.
Gravel crunched behind the building.
Laney paused mid-stroke and glanced up just as Caleb’s car rolled into the yard and eased to a stop near the edge of the lot. Dust puffed faint around the tires before settling back down. The engine cut off. For a moment, nothing moved.
Then the driver’s door opened.
Caleb stepped out first, sunglasses already in place, phone in one hand as he circled the car. He reached the passenger side and opened the door, holding his hand out the way he always did.
Gabrielle took it, stepping down carefully despite the flat ground, fingers lacing with his as she straightened. Her dress fell smooth against her legs, her hair pulled back clean and deliberate. Caleb didn’t let go of her hand as they started toward Laney.
Laney leaned the broom against her hip and waited.
Gabrielle’s face brightened as soon as she reached her, arms opening. “Girl,” she said, pulling Laney into a hug, “you have to come with us the next time we go to Aspen.”
Laney hugged her back, the broom caught awkwardly between her arm and her side. She smiled, polite and practiced, the expression stopping short of her eyes. “You know Tommy don’t do vacations,” she said, her voice soft.
Caleb laughed. “Because he’d lose his shit if he had to spend a week in a different state with you without being able to tell you to fuck off here.”
Gabrielle swatted his arm. “Caleb.”
Laney stepped back, set the broom down properly, and rested both hands on the handle. She didn’t rise to it. Didn’t bristle. “What you want?” she asked, tone even.
Caleb blew out a breath and shifted his weight. “We were on our way back from work,” he said, “and I been meaning to ask you, when the fuck is Blake getting out of my RV?”
Laney lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “That’s a Tommy question.”
Caleb stared at her. “You’re the one who asked me to let him use it.”
“Then Tommy came home,” she said, nudging a bit of grit aside with the toe of her shoe. “So ask him ‘bout his brother.”
Caleb shook his head. “You’re so fucking annoying sometimes.”
Laney didn’t answer. She picked the broom back up and drew it toward her, slow and deliberate.
Caleb let out a sharp breath and turned, lifting his hand toward the car. “C’mon,” he said to Gabrielle.
Gabrielle hesitated, glancing between them, then followed him a step.
Caleb stopped.
He turned back to Laney, one hand still half-raised. “I see Claire’s been around your house a lot lately.”
Gabrielle’s brows lifted. “Who’s Claire?”
Laney’s hands tightened on the broom handle. She kept her mouth shut.
Caleb answered for her without missing a beat. “The woman Tommy was going to marry before those howitzer rounds scrambled his fucking brain and he ended up with Laney’s dumb ass.”
Laney rolled her lips into her mouth, jaw working once. She stared at him and said nothing. The conversation she and Tommy had years ago, when Knox just before turned one, wanting to have his cake and eat it too sat in her mind. Something he wanted for himself until she wanted her own, too. Then he thought it was a problem.
Caleb watched her a second longer, then smirked. “You think he’s realized how much he fucked up?” He tilted his head. “Isn’t she a lawyer?”
Laney shrugged, expression still flat. “I don’t know what she does.”
“Much better than a church secretary in any case,” Caleb said.
Gabrielle slapped his hand. “Stop it.”
Caleb chuckled and turned away. “Come on.”
They walked back toward the car together, Gabrielle falling in step beside him. The passenger door closed. Then the driver’s. The engine turned over and the car rolled out of the yard, gravel popping under the tires before the sound faded down the road.
Laney stood where she was until the noise disappeared.
Then she lowered the broom and went back to sweeping.
~~~
The door behind Trell closed with a dull thud. He stepped off the porch without looking back, shoulders loose, jacket open against the cold. The night sat sharp and dry, the kind of chill that crept in under clothes instead of pressing down from above.
Dez was still on the bench where Trell had left him, hands shoved deep into his pockets, knees pulled in close. He bounced one heel against the wood, trying to keep feeling in his feet. The porch light cast a weak yellow circle that didn’t do much beyond outlining the edge of the steps and the bench slats beneath him.
Trell snapped his fingers once and pointed toward the car.
Dez pushed himself upright. He reached down and picked up his pistol from the cushion beside him, the metal cold against his palm. He slid it into his waistband as he stepped off the porch and started across the yard, putting a few paces between himself and Trell without meaning to.
The gravel shifted under their shoes. Trell followed a step behind, unhurried.
After a few strides, Dez glanced back over his shoulder. “Say,” he said, slowing just enough to turn his head, “can I ask you something?”
Trell didn’t stop walking. “What?”
Dez hooked a thumb back toward the house. “If you fucking Cass, why you don’t have her doing the shit that you have Mireya doing?” He hesitated, then added, “Cass used to do that for Peanut.”
Trell sucked his teeth, the sound sharp in the quiet yard. “For Peanut.” He shook his head once. “I don’t trust Cass. She just got some good pussy.”
Dez frowned, the question still sitting there. “But Cass built for this shit. Mireya ain’t.”
Trell stopped.
Dez took another step before he realized it and had to turn back around to face him. Trell stood still, head tilted slightly, one eyebrow raised.
“You questioning me, brudda?” Trell asked.
Dez’s hands came up immediately, palms out, backing off the tone if not the point. “Nah, nah. I ain’t saying that.” He swallowed and shifted his weight. “I just don’t think she should be involved in the business. This ain’t her life.”
Trell closed the distance in two steps.
He grabbed Dez by the shirt and slammed him back into the side of the car, metal rattling as Dez’s shoulder hit. Trell’s fist knotted tight in his collar, pulling him close enough that Dez could smell the liquor on his breath.
Trell jabbed a finger hard into Dez’s forehead. “Nigga, Mireya my bitch,” he said. “You don’t need to be worried about what she doing.” His voice stayed low, steady. “You forgetting you work for me, nigga. The only reason you fuck her is because I let you fuck her.”
Dez’s jaw clenched. “I just think it’s some fucked up shit what you doing with her,” he said. “She a whole college student. And you got her running around mobsters and hood niggas. That’s it.”
For a moment, Trell didn’t say anything.
His grip didn’t loosen. His face didn’t change. The silence stretched just long enough to make Dez think he might have crossed back into safety.
Then Trell punched him.
The blow landed clean across Dez’s cheek, snapping his head to the side. His knees buckled, body folding inward, but Trell held him up by the collar and hit him again. And again. Each strike came fast, controlled, Trell’s shoulder driving the motion as much as his fist.
Dez grunted, breath knocked out of him in short bursts. His hand slid down toward his waistband without thought, fingers brushing the grip of the gun.
Trell laughed. “Nigga.”
He reached down first, faster, ripping the pistol free. He swung it up and brought the handle down across Dez’s face. The impact made a wet, hollow sound. Blood spilled immediately, dark against the cold air.
Trell tucked the gun into his own waistband and released Dez.
Dez crumpled, knees giving out, then tipped sideways and hit the ground hard. He curled slightly, one arm across his face, the other scraping uselessly at the gravel.
Trell looked down at him, chest rising slow, breathing even. He scanned the ground and spotted the keys where they’d fallen. He picked them up and crouched beside Dez, close enough that Dez could feel his presence even with his eyes squeezed shut.
“Tonight,” Trell said, calm and deliberate, “I’m gonna fuck her face.” He leaned in closer. “Because she mine, motherfucker.” He straightened slightly. “Stay in your fucking lane, nigga.”
He stood, nudged Dez over into the grass with the toe of his shoe, not hard enough to help, not soft enough to care.
“Call a fucking Uber, nigga,” Trell said.
He walked around to the driver’s side of the car, got in, and pulled off, tires crunching over the gravel as he disappeared down the road.
Dez groaned, the sound low and broken, hands still clamped to his bleeding face.
There was someone else connected to the 110ers, too 
