Actus Reus Est
Caine walked out his apartment, scratching the back of his neck as the sun beamed down into his face. He let the door close behind him as he walked across the short distance to where Ramon and Tyree were parked.
Ramon came around the front. Tyree rolled out the passenger side, stretching hard, arms thrown back, the cotton of his shirt lifting to show the waistband of his shorts and the edge of a tattoo running his ribcage.
Ramon got out of the driver’s side, tipping up an energy drink to his lips before tossing it empty into the bushes at the edge of the parking lot. Tyree rolled out of the passenger side, stretching hard, one hand rubbing at his eyes as he yawned.
Caine dapped them both up when they got closer.
"How long y'all was in the A?" Caine asked.
"Just a couple days," Ramon said. "Quick flip on this run."
Tyree shook his head before Ramon had finished the sentence. "This nigga been getting on my nerves with that shit." He jabbed a finger in Ramon's direction. "I told this lil' redbone that I been talking to on IG that I was gonna slide through and put this dick in her life."
"You know you can just fly her out to New Orleans if it's that serious," Caine said. “Gonna have to spit some real game to get a bitch to fly from Atlanta to fucking New Orleans, though.”
Tyree sucked his teeth. "Nigga, I ain't no trick like y'all. That bitch better fly herself."
Caine turned his head slightly. "That's why she letting another motherfucker crack right now. Nutting all in her fucking pussy."
Ramon shook his head as he reached back into the car to put the trunk, circling around to it and lifting the compartment that housed the spare. He spun the bolt holding it in place under the car until it spun off into the trunk. He lifted the plastic from over the tire and tossed it aside.
Underneath the tire sat three duffel bags, nylon gone soft from the press of the tire above them and the frame of the car around them.
Tyree leaned into the trunk and grabbed the nearest one, dragging it out and dropping it on the asphalt.
“You sure ain’t gonna have no random white kids running out here wondering why three niggas pulling duffel bags out the trunk of a car?” Tyree asked Caine as he did the same for the second before grabbing the third and hefting it onto his shoulder.
Caine reached down and grabbed one of the bags by the straps. “Told your ass before. Ain’t shit here but college students. No one gonna be up out here before noon after going out last night.”
Ramon grabbed the last bag before they turned back toward the building. “Especially not when we got the superstar with us.”
Caine shook his head, testing the weight of the bag in his hand. "Where the fuck E.J. at?"
"Went to Houston behind that white bitch," Tyree said. “Nigga said she was too torn up about some shit she helped us with.”
Caine turned and looked at him. "I know you fucking lying."
"Nope." Tyree's jaw moved. "That's why he don't be answering niggas in the group chat. He feeling some type of way."
Caine shook his head once as he pushed the door opened to the apartment. The three of them walked inside, Caine going over to open the blinds a bit to let some light in. He set his bag down on the table then looked at Ramon.
"Where you land on that?"
Ramon shrugged, dropping his own bag and rolling his shoulder after.
"He should've never been fucking with no bitch that can't handle the fucking life." He sat down at the table and stretched his legs out after the long drive. "They got plenty snowbunnies out here who'd hide the work in they pussy if you asked 'em. He chose wrong."
Tyree nodded from behind them. "Facts."
Caine bent over the duffel he’d set down and pulled the zipper back. “Sound like he trying to get out the game.”
Tyree pointed between Caine and Ramon, snapping his fingers. “That’s the same shit I said. Nigga got soft on us.”
“Pause,” Caine said.
Ramon snorted a laugh while Tyree flipped Caine off.
Caine finished unzipping the back and spread it open. Inside, vacuum-sealed packs sat in a pile. He picked one up and turned it over in his hand, rolls of pills packed together inside a few layers of plastic, anything to try to get past the slightest bit of detection.
“Y’all switching it up to start taxing them white kids at Tulane, huh?”
Ramon rubbed at one of his shins and shook his head. "You know we don't go around there. We just got out of shit with the jakes."
“That’s what them niggas Duke got us doing runs for want.” Tyree drifted toward the kitchen. He pulled a cabinet open and looked at the contents and reached in, coming back out with a handle of Tito’s. “Them niggas was moving that powder for a bit but now they on these G6s, roxies and xans.”
Caine raised an eyebrow and looked at Ramon. “These the same dudes y’all been working with? From last year?”
Ramon nodded. "They small enough to not attract no attention like twenty niggas from that 3."
"But they must got enough pull to keep having y'all make these runs," Caine said. “Unless 39 done got caught up in a sweep or something while I been gone.”
"Never that. They getting money," Tyree said. He set the bottle on the counter, reaching for a plastic cup at the top of a stack of them. "Weird as fuck though."
"What you mean?"
Tyree looked up from the bottle. "Always got some freaky shit going on at the trap. Shit be lowkey feeling like a Diddy party."
Caine looked at Ramon.
Ramon hesitated for a moment then shrugged. "You know niggas don't care why they go looking for pussy at."
"You ain't wrong," Caine said.
Tyree started to pour some of the Tito’s in the cup. "Speaking of, where the hoes at?"
~~~
Laney sat three seats from the door with her purse in her lap. Her fingers sat laced over the zipper, tapping against the leather as she watched the TV in the corner showing the local news’ Saturday morning show, the closed captions trailing a couple seconds behind the anchors’ mouths.
The waiting room was only a third full. A few other women looking down at their phones, checking apps, notes, emails, anything, to see if they could figure out what would give them what they’d been hoping and praying for. Laney just sat with her hands over the purse, watching the news.
The receptionist at the front desk leaned back to see a nurse who was standing over her shoulder. The two of them talking in the low, easy register of people who no longer spoke with those practiced work voices. They’d flitted between topics, office gossip, new stores opening in town, some showing at Georgia Southern’s performing arts center coming up in a few weeks. The nurse mentioned her younger brother starting to settle into life as a college student there.
Laney's fingers tapped once more against her purse, then stopped. She smoothed her thumb over the clasp and let it rest.
The hallway door swung open. Another nurse came through it, younger than the one at the desk, with a tablet cradled against her forearm and her hair pulled back in a tight bun. She glanced at the tablet, then at the room.
"Delaney Matthews?"
Laney offered her a smile as she stood, looping her purse over her shoulder and following the nurse through the door.
The exam room was small and clean. No different than the many other such rooms Laney had been in over the years. For routine check-ups, for Knox, then Braxton then Hunter. Everything after and before.
Laney lay back on the table, the paper crinkling beneath her every time she shifted. She stared at the ceiling, her hands resting on her stomach, fingers clasped as she waited for the sonographer to finish prepping everything.
The sonographer had already been in the room when she arrived with the nurse. Young, not new, but close to it. Not the usual one she’d seen the first couple of times she’d come to an appointment. This one was focused, efficient. Trying to keep the line moving to stay ahead of schedule instead of feeling the space with idle chatter.
She’d moved without wasted motion, pulling up a chart, setting everything out, confirming the information, pen moving quickly over the chart before she set it aside.
The sonographer pulled on a glove and turned to Laney. “This’ll be cold.”
Laney’s breath hitched a bit when the probe pressed the gel against her skin.
The sonographer worked through the list methodically, speaking to herself under her breath. Lining thickness, measured and noted. Follicle check, the probing moving with small adjustments and a shift in her eyebrows. Her eyes tracked the screen while other hand moved the mouse in staccato clicks.
"What day of your cycle are you on?" She asked without looking at Laney.
"Fourteen.”
The sonographer shifted the probe, sweeping upward toward the ovary. The screen adjusted, the image folding and rebuilding as she moved. Laney looked over at the screen.
The sonographer paused. Her hand stilled on the probe for a beat, eyes on the frame. At the edge of the image, bright spots. She stared at the screen then tilted the wand slightly. The frame shifted again, a different angle, and she continued moving through the ovary, picking up her documentation where she left off. The clicks resumed.
"Any spotting or cramping? Pain or discomfort?"
"No," Laney said. "All good."
The sonographer printed her measurements, removed the probe, and handed Laney a cloth. She was already typing when Laney sat up.
Laney adjusted her clothes then stood from the table, following the sonographer’s brief directions as the two of them walked back. The sonographer handed the printouts to the receptionist and disappeared back to the rear of the clinic without another word.
The receptionist had a card and a folded bill ready. She slid them both across the counter with a practiced smile. "See you next month, Mrs. Matthews."
"Thank you, honey," Laney said. She folded the bill around the card, edges lining up perfectly before slipping them both into her purse.
As she walked out of the lobby and back into the sun, she reached into her purse for her sunglasses and put them on as she moved across the parking lot toward her SUV, her heels clicking a short, steady rhythm on the asphalt.
~~~
Trell leaned back in the middle of an U-shaped couch, one ankle hooked over his knee, the whole club spread out beneath him. He held a glass off the edge of his knee, tapping the side of it as he watched the bodies compressed against one another on the floor below. Lights sliding over skin and disappearing, the bass from the speakers moving through the floor and up through the furniture.
Ant sat to his right, a blunt between two fingers. He occasionally looked at the security guard standing nearby. The guard looked away, pretending not to notice anyone sitting at the edge of the couch, let alone smoking inside of the club. Then Ant would continue scanning the people moving around them.
Yola was at the other end, a shot girl sitting beside him with her tray on her lap. He had her attention occupied by whatever he was saying into her ear, his hand moving along the inside of her thigh in a slow easy stroke, his fingers ducking under her skirt every few slides. She laughed, head tipping back and his hand moved higher.
Six guys came up the stairs, some of their eyes glancing around as the one at the front of the line saw Trell and started moving toward the section. Ant clicked his tongue, a single flat sound, and waved his hand once. They froze, looking at one another as they stood at the edge of the raised portion.
Trell lowered his foot, not looking up right away. He set his glass down one the table, looking at the newcomers. He tipped his chin at one of them and pointed to the side of the couch opposite Yola.
"Just you, Scotty."
Scotty glanced at the others and shrugged, stepping up to the raised portion and dropping onto the edge of the couch. He looked at the shot girl. "Say, love. Go get me something to drink. Dusse."
She looked at him then back at Yola. He whispered something that she laughed at before she nodded to Scotty as she got up. Yola turned to watch her go, the flat of his tongue moving over his teeth.
"It don't even make sense to have all that ass," Yola said, shaking his head. “That bitch gonna let me hit before the end of the night.
Trell glanced at him for a moment before leaning forward, settling his forearms on his knees. He pointed at Scotty as he spoke. "You think about what we talked over?"
Scotty threw his arm back on the back of the couch, putting on foot on the table as he leaned back. “Yeah,” he said, hand moving as he spoke. “I thought about it, big brudda.” He pointed to the guys with him with the same hand. “We all talked it over, too.”
Ant brought the blunt up to his lips and took a slow pull. He held it for a moment, exhaled through his nose then held the blunt out in front of him, looking at it. “When y’all was doing all that fucking talking, was y’all trying to do some fucking deciding, too?”
Scotty held up one hand. “Chill, bro.” He brought his arm back down, adjusting the gaudy piece sitting on the end of a chain around his neck. “We in. But we ain’t giving up our corners for y’all set up.”
Trell rested one hand over the other, tapping his fingers against the back of his hand as he stared at Scott. Then his mouth pulled at one side. “You know that mean you might have to kill a couple of your potnas in 110 if you keep them corners.”
“Nah.” Scotty shifted his weight on the couch and switched which foot he had on the table. “We can make that bread together. We all been cliqued up with them niggas since we was juvies.” He held his hand out next to him just above the couch. “They ain’t gonna like it, but making a little less money and staying alive better than dying and not making shit.”
“Y’all niggas gonna be playing both sides the fence and think that we could trust y’all?” Yola asked, picking up his drink and a shot sitting next to it. He downed the shot and slammed the glass back on the table.
“Nah, we ain’t gotta worry about that,” Trell said. He picked up his glass and took a sip, swishing the alcohol around in his mouth. He shrugged then gestured at the glass. Then shook his head and set it back down. “We ain’t gotta worry about that because they know ain’t no U-Turns in this shit. You decide to take this ride, ain’t no getting out the car.”
Ant took another long pull from the blunt, glancing at the security guard when he moved away from the wall. The guard paused then went down the stairs, keeping his eyes forward. Ant ashed the blunt on the floor. “Not without a lot of flower bringing and gospel singing.”
Scotty didn't flinch. He looked at Ant, then back at Trell. "I know how this street shit work, brudda. You ain't gotta school me." He spread his hands open, resting them on his knees. "Just tell me where the work at and we'll get to this fucking money."
Scotty sat forward for a moment then slide back into the cushions, looking between Ant and Trell. “I know how this street shit work, brudda. You ain’t gotta school me.” He spread his hands out to the sides. “Just tell me where the work at and we’ll get to this fucking money.”
Trell reached forward and put his hand on top of the glass, tapping his finger against the rim as he looked at Scotty. Then the other five with him. The club below pushed sound up at them, bass and voices running together into one thick thing. A bottle girl navigated the section next to theirs, threading between bodies with a sparkler trialing off a Hennessy handle.
Trell’s mouth turned up just slightly as he leaned back into the couch, glass coming off the table with him. He brought ankle back up to rest across his knee as he took a sip from his desk, letting his eyes drift back over the rail to the people below.
~~~
Mireya leaned back against the pole, one arm over her head as the other hand ran down her chest. She lowered herself into a squat as the song entered its last minute. She rolled her hips, letting her head falling back to whip her hair around.
Pushing up onto her toes, she slapped her heels together and took one step back and launched herself upside down onto the pole, going into a spin. The metal spun under her hand as the noise of the men at the stage blurred around. She rolled her body, upside down, feet pointed to the ceiling as she slowed.
She spread her legs into a V, shaking her ass as she eased herself down to the floor. She rolled into a handstand, waving one leg then the other. Then pushed up with her arms to launched herself into a flip, landing in a full split. The men at the rail grabbed bills and tossed them into the air over her.
She stayed in the split, twerking through the tail end of the song. As it ended, she leaned forward and rolled onto her shoulders to sit up. She found a man at the rail with a large roll of money still in his hand, winked at him and blew him a kiss as she kicked the bills into a pill to pick up.
Bending at the waist, she swept the money up and walked off the stage, stuffing it into her money bag. She grabbed her robe off a speaker cabinet and threw it around her shoulders, turning toward the dressing room.
"Luna!"
She knew the voice instantly. Closing her eyes, she tipped her head back and drew a slow breath through her nose, holding it. Her eyes stayed closed for a beat longer before she turned around.
Dez cut toward her, shoving his way through men working their way to find a dancer to spend their money on. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stopped a step away from her.
"Can I talk to you right quick?"
Mireya sucked her teeth. "You fucking see me working, Dez."
Dez pulled one hand out of his pocket and looked at the money now there. He flicked his thumb through it then shook his head and held it out to her.
She raised an eyebrow and looked at the bills then at him. She reached out, snatching the bills from his hand, and turned toward the hallway behind the stage. She heard the curtains push aside behind her and the heavy footfalls of his shoes as he followed.
The two of them walked toward a corner of the hallway, somewhere the noise was low enough that you didn’t need to shout to be heard clearly. Mireya turned to face him, running a hand through her hair.
"What is it that you want to talk about?"
He ran a hand across his face then looked back over his shoulder. He leaned closer to her. “I been putting some money together on the side. To get the fuck up out of here.” He gestured with his hand vaguely in a direction. “I got a cousin live out in California. He said I could come crash at his spot until I’m able to get on my feet and shit.”
“Good for you,” Mireya said, her voice dead.
He gestured between them. "I want you to come with me."
Her eyes narrowed.
"I told you I can take care of you," he said. "Shit about to get hot out here. I don't want you getting hurt or something."
"Dez."
He lifted both hands. "Look, I know what you're going to say. But I know they got something between us. You keep trying to deny it, but I see it."
Mireya gestured down at herself, her entire body bared under the open robe, the money bag hanging from her wrist, sweat still drying on her chest. "You realize you're saying this after I just showed my pussy to a couple dozen motherfuckers, right?"
He shrugged. "You ain't saying I'm wrong."
"How many languages you want me to say it in?" She held two fingers up. "I only know two. I do not fucking want you. No quiero estar contigo, carajo."
Dez shook his head. "You don't mean that." His voice stayed level. He took another step toward her, closing the distance until their bodies almost touched. "You know I'm better for you than a nigga like Trell."
Mireya dragged her palm down her face, fingers pressing hard over her mouth for a moment before she let her hand drop. "I feel like I'm talking to a fucking wall. You're fucking not."
"Why?"
She jutted both hands out toward him. "Because you're a fucking pussy ass bitch."
His jaw tightened and he sucked his teeth. "I hear how Trell talk about your baby daddy. You ain't just fucking no killers." He shook his head, the dismissal sitting in his shoulders. "If I'm a pussy, what that make your baby daddy? Stop it."
She held still for a moment. Then a short, flat laugh came out of her. "Stupid. It makes you stupid."
Movement from the direction of the dressing room caught her eyes. She glanced over and saw Alejandra stepping out of the dressing room, adjusting her bra, heels clicking on the floor as her jaw worked around gum. She glanced toward Mireya and Dez, raising an eyebrow at the two of them.
"¿Todo bien, Mexicana?"
Mireya lifted a hand, a small dismissive wave. "Sí, estoy bien."
Alejandra nodded, one short dip of her chin, and slipped through the curtain.
Mireya looked at the two twenties she'd taken from Dez and held them up between them. "Your time is up. Stop fucking doing this."
"I'm not," he said. "Not until you get through your head that I'm trying to save you from getting fucking hurt out here."
She opened her mouth to say something else then shook her head, throwing a hand up in his face before turning and heading down the hall toward the dressing room.
You think he gonna realize all that from a brief meeting?
