The air in Tiffany’s apartment held heat even with the box fan running in the corner. It pushed warm air around instead of cooling anything, blades ticking every few turns. The smell of yakamein sat heavy over the table, beef and green onions and boiled egg mixing with the faint sour of old grease coming from the stove.
Tiffany’s dining table was really just a small square pushed up against the window. The blinds were half open, slats crooked, letting in a strip of late morning light and the sound of the street outside. The AC unit in the window rattled without much effect.
Trell stood behind one of the chairs instead of taking it, hands resting loose for a moment on the back before he shifted and set his weight on one leg. His watch caught a line of light when he moved, the flash quick and clean. Ant posted up on the wall to his right, shoulder against the chipped paint, one shoe heel set against the baseboard. His arms were folded, face empty, eyes never still.
Tiffany sat closest to the kitchen, elbows near the edge of the table but not on it, back straight. Her nails tapped once against the sweating plastic of her cup before she caught herself and flattened her hand, fingers spread. Cass sat beside her, chair leaned back, one knee crossed over the other so her heel swung slow over the tile.
Meechie took up the space across from them. He was broad through the shoulders, hoodie unzipped over a white tee. The bowl of yakamein sat in front of him, noodles gone, broth near the bottom. He scooped up the last of it with the plastic spoon, then set it down with a clack against the styrofoam and reached in with his fingers, fishing out the egg.
He dug into it, fingers slick, yolk bright and soft where his teeth broke through. He licked his thumb slow, watching Trell over the rim of the bowl. Then he wiped his fingers on a napkin that had already been worked over and pointed at Trell with the same hand.
“I told Tiff that I ain’t never heard of you, my nigga,” Meechie said, shoulders lifting with the words. “And she told me that’s ‘cause you be moving quiet but one of my niggas back in Memphis pointed out quiet niggas the ones you gotta worry about.”
The corners of Trell’s mouth didn’t move. His eyes slipped down to Meechie’s hand, to the ring of broth left around the inside of the bowl, then back up. Ant’s gaze flicked once from Meechie to Trell and back, jaw tightening for half a second before it went flat again.
Cass snorted, a short sound that cut through the fan’s hum. She shifted in her chair, the back legs scraping the tile as she let it come down a notch and set her forearm on the table.
“It ain’t Trell you gotta worry about,” she said.
Meechie’s eyebrow rose. He turned his head just enough to look at her full on, thumb rubbing absently at a streak of dried broth on his knuckle.
Cass tipped her chin toward the wall where Ant stood. Her eyes didn’t leave Meechie’s face when she did it. Ant just watched Meechie.
Trell folded his arms across the top of the chair now, wrists crossing, forearms stacked. He shifted his weight again, the floor creaking under his shoe.
“How much work you moving a week?” Trell asked. His voice stayed light, almost bored. “I don’t fuck with small time shit. It ain’t worth my time.”
Tiffany’s fingers flexed against the cup at that. She kept her eyes on a spot just to the side of the bowl, letting the men talk, jaw clenched tight enough that a little muscle jumped near her ear.
Meechie glanced down at his food. He pinched the egg up again, took another bite, and let the yolk sit against his tongue before he chewed. Then he set what was left back in the broth and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“We can get off a bird or two,” he said. “Depend on if we make that run to Memphis or not.”
Trell’s head tilted a fraction. He looked past Meechie’s shoulder out the window for a breath, watching a car roll slow down the block, then turned his attention to Ant.
“A bird or two,” he said. “You hear that?”
Ant’s eyes met his for a second. The corner of his mouth almost moved, then didn’t. He just shook his head once, slow, the motion small but clear.
Cass saw it, caught the tone before it landed. She let out a breath that turned into a low laugh and dropped her head into her hand, fingers pressing into her temple as she shook her head too, hair shifting around her face.
Meechie’s eyes narrowed. He straightened a little in his chair, the legs edging back from the tile with a faint squeak.
Trell did not bother to soften it. “How many niggas you got working for you?” he asked.
Meechie waved his hand, dismissive, wiping the last of the yolk on the napkin. “They ain’t really working for me,” he said. “More like working with me. Ain’t no bosses. Just a bunch of young niggas getting money.”
Tiffany turned her head toward him at that, eyes cutting sideways. Her mouth tugged tight for a second before she spoke.
“Things are a little different up there,” she said. Her hand lifted off the cup and then settled back, thumb tracing the ring of water it had left on the table.
Trell snorted. He leaned a little heavier onto the chair, the wood complaining under the pressure. His gaze slid from Meechie’s easy wave to the way Tiffany’s shoulders pulled in.
“You not worried about one of them young niggas getting money wanting to be a young nigga getting a lot of money and killing you?” he asked.
The question hung there. Outside, a horn blared and then cut off. The fan kept ticking. Meechie rolled his shoulders. He shook his head.
“Ain’t no one unhappy with the set-up,” he said. He reached for the spoon again, stirring what was left in the bowl, catching stray green onions and noodles and pulling them to his side.
Cass spoke without lifting her head. “Yet.”
Her voice had a dry edge to it. She let the word sit there and then finally looked up, eyes moving from Meechie to Trell and back.
“Yeah, yet,” Trell said.
He watched Meechie while he said it, gaze heavy but still framed by the same easy posture, arms folded, chin tipped just enough.
Meechie shrugged, a small lift of one shoulder, and brought the spoon to his mouth. He chewed slower now, jaw working, eyes dropping toward the bowl like the conversation had gone back to background noise for him.
For a moment, nobody spoke. The apartment filled with other sounds instead. A neighbor’s radio drifted faint through the wall, brass and drums from some old bounce track. The ice in Tiffany’s cup shifted and cracked as it melted. Ant shifted his weight and the wall behind him gave a soft hollow thud.
Then Meechie broke the quiet.
“I heard y’all be having hoes at the trap,” he said.
He tapped the spoon twice against the side of the bowl and set it down again, fingers drumming once on the table.
Trell let his gaze move from Tiffany to Cass and then back to Meechie, taking his time. His hands slid off the top of the chair and curled around the back of it instead, fingers drumming once against the wood.
“Yeah,” he said. “Never a dull moment for the niggas working for me. We keep ‘em paid, fed and with a bitch or two ready to give up some hole.”
Meechie laughed, loud and pleased, the sound bouncing off the walls in the small room.
“Now, that’s some cartel shit,” he said.
He leaned back in his chair, one hand slapping the edge of the table, shoulders shaking with it.
Trell chuckled, the sound low. He shook his head once, slow, eyes still on Meechie as the laugh faded, and the fan kept ticking in the corner.
~~~
Sara pulled up to her mother’s house and eased the car into the strip of shade under the sagging pecan tree. The late morning heat still got her through the windshield. Sun bounced off the hoods of the cars on the block and turned the sidewalk pale. The air outside pressed heavier when she stepped out. Her sandals scuffed the cracked concrete. She pulled her bag up on her shoulder and crossed to the mailbox bolted crooked to the brick.
The metal door stuck before it gave. A wad of envelopes slid into her hand, rubber band biting into the stack. She stripped the band off with her thumb and looped it around her wrist. The keys in her other hand clicked against each other when she walked up the steps to the door.
She set the mail against her chest, worked the right key into the lock, then leaned her hip into the wood until it clicked and gave. The cooler air in the front room met her first, thinned by the window unit’s hum. Under it, another smell pushed through. Oil. Garlic. Something on the edge of burning.
She closed the door with her heel and turned the deadbolt. The living room sat half in shadow, blinds turned halfway shut against the sun. A blanket lay rumpled across one end of the sofa. A pillow had been punched into a dent where someone had slept. Against the far wall a bassinet frame stood half put together, one side rail still missing, plastic wrap from the hardware crumpled on the carpet.
From the kitchen, something hissed and popped.
Sara walked that way, her sandals quiet on the tile. The doorway opened on Hector standing at the stove, one hand on the handle of a skillet, the other braced on the counter. A cut of chicken clung to the pan in a dark patch, edges curled and black. The overhead light showed the sweat shining at his temples. He dragged the spatula under the meat and the sound of it scraping stuck metal carried through the room.
The chicken tore instead of sliding. A strip stayed welded to the pan and smoked.
Sara snorted a laugh. She shifted the stack of mail to one hand and let her shoulder rest against the wall. “Did you put enough oil in the pan?”
Hector cut his eyes over his shoulder, jaw set. He sucked his teeth, a sharp sound that came with the little shake of his head. “I know what I’m doing.”
He turned back to the stove, giving the skillet a stubborn jerk that only smeared the burnt bit across the metal. Grease spit up and caught his wrist. He hissed under his breath and stepped back, shaking his hand once before grabbing a dish towel from the counter.
“Apparently not,” Sara said. Her mouth tugged up at the corner. She slid the mail onto the small table pushed against the wall and started to sort through it. “¿Dónde está mamá?”
Hector shifted the chicken off the hottest part of the burner and nudged the knob down. The vent fan rattled when he flipped it on, not doing much besides adding noise. “With Ada and Rosario. Someone has to take her to do her errands since you left.”
Sara rolled her eyes and peeled open one of the window envelopes at the top of the stack. The paper rasped under her thumb. “I moved uptown, not out of the country.”
He smirked without looking at her, the line of his shoulders staying tight. He flipped the chicken again, coaxing it loose from the worst of the burnt patch. “Bueno, aún te quedas, ¿no?”
She caught the sting in that and let out a breath through her nose. A folded coupon book went on the corner of the table. Behind Hector, the skillet crackled. She let her gaze drift past him toward the living room again, to the half-done bassinet and the pillow waiting on the couch.
“Are you helping Saul with everything?” she asked.
Hector hooked the chicken out of the pan with the spatula and dropped it onto a plate by the stove. The meat landed with a soft thud, dark on one side. He left the burner on while he reached for a knife and started sawing the worst of the blackened crust off the chicken, movements quick and careless.
“He ain’t need no help to knock that blanquita up,” he said. “He don’t need help now.”
Sara’s eyebrows jumped before she smoothed them down. The knife kept working through the meat, clinks of metal hitting ceramic.
“Hector,” she snapped. “No one said that to you when Lorena left you holding a baby and ran off.”
For a second his hands went still. The knife hovered above the plate. He sucked his teeth again and shook his head. Then he scraped the blade along the meat, knocking another charred piece loose onto the edge of the plate.
“That’s different,” he said. He flicked the burnt bit straight into the trash can by his side and went back to cutting. “I was going to marry Lorena. This is more like you and Ada.”
Sara barked out a laugh. She stepped further into the kitchen, the edge of the table brushing her hip. Her palm landed flat on the laminate as she turned to look at him full on. “¿Pero Rosario no?”
Hector waved his free hand, knife still in the other. Oil popped in the empty pan behind him. “No, because Ernesto died.”
Sara pressed her tongue against the back of her teeth and let the rush of words she had stay where they were.
“You need to help him,” she said instead. Her fingers tapped once against the table, then stilled. “It’s not going to be easy with the girl living so far away.”
Hector balanced the pieces of chicken on the plate then crossed to the other burner and dropped a couple of tortillas straight into the hot skillet there. They puffed and hissed as they hit the dry heat. He shook his head, the line of his mouth settling into something final.
“Maybe he should’ve thought about that before he put a baby in her,” he said.
The tortillas began to blister in spots. He flipped them with his fingers. He set the plate and tortillas on the small table and pulled a chair out with the toe of his shoe so it scraped the tile.
Sara shook her head. She reached for the rest of the mail stacked at the far end of the counter. The pile there had been left untouched, edges curled from the damp in the house. She sorted through it, glossy ads thumping onto the counter, thinner envelopes getting a closer look.
Her thumb paused on one from a lab she recognized. The window in the front showed a balance she didn’t like. She slid a finger under the seal and ripped it open, smoothing the page out on the counter. The print at the top confirmed it. Bloodwork. Ximena Guerra. A red block lettering stamped across the middle: past due.
Behind her, Hector sat down and began to eat, fork scraping across his plate. The smell of overcooked chicken and warm tortillas filled the small kitchen. He chewed loud, unconcerned, chair creaking under his weight.
Sara held the notice up between two fingers. Her jaw tightened. “Héctor, dejé dinero para esto,” she said, turning enough that he could see the paper. “Why didn’t you pay it?”
He froze with the fork halfway to his mouth, then set it down with a short clink. He lifted his hands in front of him, palms out, shoulders hunching like a shrug he hadn’t committed to yet. “I called and they said I wasn’t authorized.”
She stared at him. For a heartbeat she almost told him how authorization worked, how easy it was to get around the person on the phone reading their script. Her mouth had already started. “You just have to know her birt—”
She cut herself off. He watched her, eyes blank, waiting.
“Nevermind,” she said.
She shook her head once, more to herself than to him, and turned back to the counter. The phone came out of her bag in one motion. She thumbed it awake, squinted at the tiny numbers on the bill, then tapped them in, one by one, the keypad clicks sharp in the quiet.
She held the phone to her ear as it began to ring, the paper still crumpled in her other hand. Under her breath, low enough that it was mostly for her and God, she muttered, “Pedazo de mierda inútil.”
~~~
Mireya had her feet up on the coffee table, toes bare, red polish catching the light coming in through the front windows. Her phone rested in her hand, screen bright against her thigh, and her thumb moved slow over a message thread she wasn’t really reading.Alejandra sat close enough that their arms brushed now and then, her body sunk deep into the couch.
Across from them, Sydney sat in the armchair with her legs tucked under her, bare knees pointed toward the coffee table. Her hands rested on her own thighs, fingers twisting the hem of a T-shirt with a faded logo that had seen too many washes. Her eyes stayed on Hayley.
Hayley knelt on the rug, one knee down, one foot planted, surrounded by cardboard and ripped plastic. She tore into another package, nails flashing, bracelets clicking.
She reached into the newest box, pushed tissue aside and pulled out a delicate lingerie set. The baby blue caught the light and almost glowed. She held it up by two fingers, face twisted. “I keep telling that motherfucker that I can’t stand wearing this baby blue shit.”
She shook the straps once for emphasis, the metal adjusters chiming soft. Mireya dragged her eyes up from her phone, took in the set hanging in Hayley’s hands, then the growing pile on the floor. Her thumb stilled on the glass and she shifted her heel against the table so her ankle bone didn’t press the edge.
“If he’s gonna pay for it, pay you to wear it for him and pay you to take it off, what difference does it make whether you like it or not?” she asked.
Alejandra huffed a laugh, head tipping back against the cushion. She nudged Mireya’s shin with the back of her hand as she leaned in.
“La Mexicana’s right. Stop complaining and let that old man dress you.”
Hayley sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes before looking away from the lingerie to the armchair. She dropped the set back into the box, the cardboard landing with a flat sound against the rug, then hooked the box up in one hand. “You want some free lingerie?” she asked Sydney, extending it toward her.
Sydney blinked, caught in the direct attention. She shifted forward in the chair and reached out. “Sure, I guess. It’s better than having to buy stuff from Khadijah.”
She took the box with both hands and set it in her lap, fingers smoothing once over the glossy lid. The baby blue through the plastic looked softer up close.
Alejandra stretched, one arm lifting over the back of the couch. “Because Khadijah knows that if you’re buying it from her, you ain’t got another choice.”
Mireya snorted under her breath.
“Fifty dollars for something you’re gonna be wearing for two minutes,” she said, her mouth twisting.
Hayley had already moved on. She reached for another box from the pile and sliced the tape with her thumb, shoulders working. When she opened it and saw more baby blue folded inside, she didn’t bother pulling it all the way out. She just grabbed the whole thing and held it out blindly toward Sydney without looking away from the next package.
“Or you get yourself a sugar daddy who buys you shit you don’t want,” she said, her voice dry as she dropped another piece of plastic to the floor.
Sydney hesitated half a beat, then took the new box too, stacking it carefully on top of the first one in her lap.
Alejandra shook her head, shoulders relaxing as she slid lower into the couch. The cushions caught her, robe flashing open just enough to show the edge of a thigh before it fell back into place. She turned her head toward Mireya, eyes cutting from the pile of packages to her face.
“Jazz Fest ends this weekend,” she said, her voice gone thoughtful.
Mireya raised an eyebrow.
“You got something lined up?” she asked, one hand lowering to tap the edge of her phone against her leg.
Alejandra’s mouth curved into something sharp and pleased. She nodded once, slow, as if she counted in her head. “A lot of somethings.”
She let the words hang. Her eyes tracked back to Sydney, feet still tucked under her in the chair, baby blue boxes balanced careful in her lap.
“You wanna make some big money?” Alejandra asked, tilting her chin up at Sydney.
Sydney shifted, spine pressing against the back of the chair. Her fingers tightened around the edges of the boxes. “What do you mean by that?” she asked, eyes moving from Alejandra to Mireya and back again.
Hayley laughed under her breath, the sound quick and knowing as she went for another box. She ripped the tape with less patience now, the cardboard giving way under the tug of her hand. Packages, shipping slips and discarded tissue crowded her knees.
“One of those weekends you just go home to sleep a few hours before heading back out,” she said, glancing up briefly as she peeled plastic from a thin, glittery dress before draping it over the arm of the couch.
Mireya watched Sydney’s throat move as she swallowed. She let out a breath and cut her eyes toward Alejandra.
“No deberíamos traerla. Se va a pasar todo el fin de semana esnifando perico,” she said, voice quiet but not soft.
Alejandra held Mireya’s gaze for a long second. Her jaw worked once, then she let her shoulders drop in a small shrug. “La vigilaremos,” she answered.
She straightened a little and turned fully toward Sydney, forearm resting along the back of the couch. Her ankle crossed over the other, foot bobbing in an easy rhythm. “Whatever it is you’re doing this for, this the kind of weekend you get to it.”
Sydney’s fingers stilled on the box. She looked down at the baby blue curled under the plastic, then back up. Mireya noticed the way her face changed, the playfulness she’d been trying on all morning dropping away at the edges.
“I don’t think we’ve ever asked what you’re doing this for?” Mireya said, shifting on the couch so she was angled more toward Sydney.
Sydney’s mouth pulled into a small, almost shy smile. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, the movement quick, and let out a breath. “My little brother, Duy. My parents work at a shrimp processing plant and Duy’s so smart, but they can’t afford to send him to the good schools. He wants to be an engineer like my grandpa was back in Vietnam.”
Her eyes went distant for a moment, resting on a point somewhere near the window instead of the room. She blinked once and brought herself back, thumb rubbing the edge of the cardboard.
Hayley turned from the pile, one hand pressed flat on the rug to push herself upright. She twisted at the waist to look fully at Sydney, a smile already stretching across her face. The glittery dress slid down her forearm and pooled in her lap.
“That’s so sweet. And way better than Ale who just does it because she’s addicted to money,” she said, laughter threaded through every word.
Alejandra barked out a laugh and reached for a throw pillow, tossing it sideways in Hayley’s direction so it hit her shoulder and bounced into her lap. “Like you, rubia,” she shot back, eyes bright.
Hayley grabbed the pillow and swung it once at Alejandra’s knee, the impact soft but loud enough to thump against the cushion. Alejandra swung her foot back, heel nudging Hayley’s thigh. The two of them fell into one of their familiar back-and-forths, voices overlapping, hands flashing as they pointed and waved, each accusation landing easier than the last.
Sydney laughed, the sound coming out freer this time. Her shoulders shook once, the boxes on her lap wobbling before she steadied them with both hands.
Mireya watched her, eyes on the way Sydney’s face opened when she laughed, on how it smoothed some of the tightness that usually sat around her mouth. She held that view for a moment longer, then turned back toward Alejandra and Hayley and joined in on the jokes.
~~~
Tommy sat propped against the headboard, the pillows stacked behind his shoulders gone soft under his weight. The sheets were twisted around his waist, still warm and smelling faintly of her soap. Late light came in through the bay window, slanting across the room in a wide band. Beyond the glass, the Wilmington River ran slow and flat, the surface broken only when a small boat cut through, its engine a low, distant buzz.The bathroom door stood half open, steam already thinning. Claire stepped out barefoot onto the hardwood, one hand braced on the doorframe as she bent to grab the panties she’d tossed there earlier. Her hair was pulled back in a loose knot that had started to come undone, a few strands sticking damp to the side of her neck.
She stepped into the panties and pulled them up with practiced ease, the elastic snapping lightly against her hips. She crossed the room without looking at him, the barest shift of air trailing in her wake, and settled into the chaise lounge by the window. The cushions gave under her with a soft exhale. From there the view opened wider, the river and marsh stretching out toward the far bank where the trees were already turning to shadow.
Claire reached for the laptop sitting on the small table beside the chaise. She flipped it open with one hand, the other reaching for her glasses. The frames perched low on her nose as the screen lit her face in a cold blue wash. Her fingers found the keys and started moving, quick and steady, the quiet tap of them filling the room in place of conversation.
“A bit risky to work in front of a laptop like that, isn’t it?” Tommy asked.
“If hackers were going to use the camera to see me naked, then I might as well make their effort worth it,” Claire said.
She didn’t look over. Her eyes stayed on whatever document she had pulled up, lines of text scrolling as she scrolled, the faint clicking of the trackpad loud in the quiet room. One corner of her mouth tipped up, the expression more about the line than any real amusement.
Tommy huffed under his breath and let his head fall back against the wood. Claire’s typing went on, steady. The room settled into a rhythm that felt too easy.
After a few minutes, Claire spoke without pausing her hands. “So, are you going to leave her now?”
She kept her gaze on the screen, glasses shifting a fraction down her nose. Her foot moved in a small, restless arc where it hung off the edge of the chaise, toes flexing against the fabric.
“Why would I do that?” Tommy asked.
He cracked one eye open to look at her.
“Because you don’t want to be with her, Tommy,” Claire said.
She finally glanced over at him then, a quick cut of her eyes over the top of the frames before they dropped back to the laptop. Her fingers slowed for a beat, nails hovering above the keys, then picked up again.
Tommy exhaled through his nose, slow. “I don’t know why you go from not caring if I divorce her or not to suddenly wanting me to,” he said.
“I don’t know. It might be because now everyone knows that she’s been getting fucked by some college kid with a rap sheet a mile long,” Claire said.
She said it plainly, voice even. Her hand paused over the trackpad, thumb resting against the edge, then resumed its movement. The soft tapping of the keys started up again. On the river, a larger boat moved past, the wake fanning out toward their stretch of shore a few seconds later.
“And because of everyone knowing that, she’s back in her place,” Tommy said.
Claire lifted her eyes from the screen fully this time, turning her head to look at him. “So, that’s all you wanted? Her to stop giving you problems?” she asked.
“Happy house, happy spouse,” Tommy said.
The corner of his mouth tugged up, but the smile didn’t reach anywhere else.
Claire’s eyebrows lifted, the sound that came out of her closer to a snort than a laugh. “She’s going to start fucking around behind your back again eventually,” she said.
She shook her head once, small. Her attention drifted back to the laptop, eyes scanning the page while her fingers hovered, ready to keep working.
“Well, it’s a good thing we live right in front of her family then, ain’t it?” Tommy asked.
He leaned his head against the headboard again and let his eyes close, the faintest hint of a smirk settling into place.
Claire shook her head, the movement sharper this time, ponytail shifting against her neck. She adjusted her glasses higher up on her nose with one finger and let her hands find the keys again, shoulders settling as she went back to work on her laptop.
~~~
Music rolled through Caine’s apartment in a low run, the bass more of a push against the drywall than a real beat by the time it reached the couch. The glow from the living room lamps and the TV washed over the bottles and half-filled cups lined up on the counter instead.
Caine sat sunk back into the middle cushion, foot planted on the coffee table, ankle resting loose over his knee. A cold cup of Hennessy sweated in his hand. Corinne sat pressed against him on his left, thighs bare, her hip snug into his side. On his right, Skylar leaned into the corner of the couch, one leg tucked up, the other stretched so her calf ran under his forearm.
He lifted his cup and took a slow sip. The liquor went down warm and heavy, cutting through the sweet fake-fruit smell from whatever mixer someone had spilled on the table earlier. Across the room, Matt and Keanon were posted near the wall by the TV, trading jokes with two girls who kept throwing their heads back when they laughed. Javier had claimed the chair by the coffee table. Another girl sat on the arm, shoulder touching his. Donnie stood deeper in the kitchen with a big girl draped on him, both of them half hidden by the line of bottles.
Corinne’s fingers brushed his forearm once, light, then settled there. She turned her hand and started tracing over the dark lines that ran down toward his wrist. The pad of her finger followed the ink slow, keeping time with the bass. She shifted closer, the smell of her perfume sliding in front of the liquor.
She leaned in so she could see better and squinted at his arm. “Are these letters?” she asked.
Caine turned his head just enough to follow her line of sight. The four black letters sat stacked neat along his forearm, tucked hidden into line work. He nodded once. “Yeah, my daughter’s initials,” he said.
Corinne’s brows pulled together. The drunk glaze in her eyes didn’t keep her from counting. She dragged her finger across them again, lips moving a little as she tracked the order. Then she looked up at him, eyes wide. “There are four letters.”
On his other side, Skylar let out a quick laugh. She lifted her cup, ice clinking against plastic, and took a sip before she spoke.
“You didn’t strike me as the two middle name type, Caine,” she said, mouth quirking around the rim.
Caine shook his head, a small smile sliding across his face. He raised his arm off Corinne’s lap and held it so both of them could see. The Hennessy sloshed gently in his cup when he moved. He used it to tap each letter once, slow enough that they could follow. “First, middle, last, last.”
Corinne’s expression shifted as it clicked into place. Her mouth opened in a small “oh,” then curled. Some of the haze cleared out of her eyes. “Oh, like Mexicans,” she said, the words dragging together a little.
Caine’s snort came out before he could help it. The sound blended with the music and the low run of voices around the room. “Yeah, something like that.”
Skylar angled her body more toward him, shoulder brushing his chest. Her gaze dropped back to his forearm, then up to his face again. “Doesn’t that mean you technically have her mom’s name tatted on your arm?”
He let his gaze rest on Skylar’s face then dropped his arm fall back across Corinne’s lap, the inside of his wrist landing against the warm stretch of her thighs. “You trying to get my life story or you trying to have a good time?” he asked, eyes on Skylar.
Skylar’s smile spread slow. She shifted just enough that her bare knee bumped his leg. Then she cut her eyes over to Corinne, drawing her into it. “I don’t know,” she said. “Are you sure that you can handle both of us? What do you think, Rinne?”
Caine turned his head to look at Corinne.
Corinne met his eyes. Her gaze slid down over his chest, the line of his shoulders, then back to his face. Her fingers went back to moving along his arm, tracing over ink and skin. “I’m down if you are,” she said.
“Shit, I don’t never pass up fucking a couple bad bitches,” he said, his mouth pulling into a wider grin.
Skylar glanced toward the short hallway, then looked back at him. She twisted on the cushion so she could see the bedroom door better and jerked her chin in that direction. “You want to go now?”
“Shit yeah,” Caine said.
He finished what was left in his cup in one swallow and set it on the coffee table with a soft plastic tap. Then he pushed himself up off the couch. His knee brushed Corinne’s leg as he stood. He held his hand out to Skylar first, fingers loose, and she slid her palm into his and let him pull her up. Her balance tipped for a second and she steadied herself on his chest before letting go.
He turned, offered the same hand to Corinne. She took it, nails cool against his skin as she rose. When she straightened, she smoothed a hand down the front of her dress and adjusted one strap that had slipped a little, then stepped in close enough that her shoulder lined up with his arm.
They started toward the hallway together, Skylar in front, Corinne at his side. The living room shifted around them. Javier glanced up from his spot by the chair, a half grin tugging at his mouth before he turned back to whatever the girl next to him was saying. Keanon hooted from near the wall, the sound lost quick under the music.
They’d only made it a few steps past the edge of the couch when Caine’s attention slid toward the kitchen. He tapped his hand lightly against Corinne’s hip, a silent cue, and stopped walking.
“Hold up,” he said under his breath.
He stepped away from them and cut across the living room toward the island. Donnie stood by the counter with the big girl tucked into his side, her body pressed against his. Her laugh came out loud and easy, her hand resting high on his chest.
“Watch out, bruh,” Caine said.
He leaned in behind Donnie, reaching past his shoulder. His fingers closed around the neck of one bottle, then another. Glass scraped faint against the counter when he dragged them closer and lifted them up.
Donnie turned his head, watching him with one eyebrow raised. Then his gaze slid past Caine’s shoulder toward the living room where Skylar and Corinne waited by the hall, both of them drawn up in the spill of lamplight, dresses catching the shadows.
“Damn, nigga. You wildin’ all of a sudden, huh?” Donnie said.
Caine rolled one shoulder in an easy shrug, the corner of his mouth still tipped up. The bottles hung loose from his hands. “Back in that offseason mode, big brudda.”
Donnie chuckled, shaking his head, and turned back to the girl pressed into him. Caine shifted his grip on the bottles so he wouldn’t drop them and headed back across the room.
Skylar’s face broke into a grin when she saw the alcohol in his hands. Corinne’s eyes tracked the bottles, then flicked back up to him, her tongue skimming quick over her bottom lip. They closed the space between them as he came back, the three of them meeting in the mouth of the hallway.
Without saying anything else, Caine adjusted the bottles in one hand so he could twist his bedroom doorknob with the other. He pushed the door open with his shoulder. The darker, quieter air of his room spilled out around them.
Skylar stepped through first, one hand brushing against the doorframe. Corinne followed, fingers skimming over the back of his wrist as she passed. Caine went in last, bottles knocking softly together when he did, and reached back to pull the door shut behind them.
