“Caine Guerra drops back and throws a bomb to Jeremiah Ware and that’s a pick up of 18 on the play!”
“Mark, coming into this game, there was a lot of talk about Georgia Southern letting off the gas with a spot in the Sun Belt Conference championship game confirmed, but they’re showing they still have something left to play for.”
“They definitely do. A spot in the College Football Playoff.”
…
Caine called for the snap. Chandler send him the ball at chest height. He spun the ball in his hands as he dropped back, finding the laces.
He stopped, going through his progressions. Drifted slightly to the left to let an edge rusher be pushed around him.
He stepped up and fired the ball across the middle of the field.
Javier caught it in stride, juking a defender and turning up the field. The crowd let out a collective groan as he spun down to the turf after a long gain.
Caine nodded to himself and punched the air.
…
“Guerra finds Trey’Dez Green and that’s another big gain for the Eagles. They’re really moving the ball in chunks on this drive!”
…
“Seeet! Red 80! Red 80! Go!”
Caine caught the snap, shifted his feet to get into a throwing position and immediately threw the ball to Javier. He caught it and walked into the endzone, holding the ball over his head as he did.
Caine looked at an Appalachian State defender, nodding his head and putting his arms out at his sides as he jogged backward toward the endzone. “Yeah, bitch. What the fuck you thought it was? Y’all not on our level!”
He got to the endzone just as the celebrations broke up. He and Javier knocked their helmets together and dapped each other up, their fingers catching and releasing in a snap before they jogged toward the sideline.
…
“Ware’s got it and he’s off to the races! Oh no, he’s out of steam and he’s whipped down for the stop at the Georgia Southern 40 by Tyler Vance. That looked like it was going to be a touchdown.”
“After that six-touchdown performance last week against UL-Monroe, Caine Guerra has been cooking in this one so far.”
“The sophomore is a Heisman long shot and he’s showing us why everyone is saying that he would be the number one quarterback in the portal if he decides that his time in Statesboro is done.”
“Unless he’s found himself one of these nice small town girls out here, I don’t see any reason that would keep him from playing in a Power Four conference next year.”
…
“Guerra finds Arechaederra and that’s a gain of fifteen!”
…
“Another big gain as Guerra hits Ware again.”
…
“Go!”
The ball came to him, a little high but Caine was able to pluck it out of the air and bring it down. He sprinted to his right and flipped it out to Javier on the run.
Javier caught it, a cornerback wrapped him up and trying to reach around him to knock the ball free. Javier shielded the ball with his arms and let himself be spun down to the turf in the endzone.
The referee signaled touchdown and the traveling Georgia Southern fans exploded in celebration as the scoreboard ticked to 20-3.
Caine ran over to Javier and pulled him up to his feet as their teammates ran over to mob them.
“You gotta start throwing me the fucking ball from further away, nigga,” Javier laughed. “You fucking up my stats. No YAC.”
Caine laughed, slapping him on the back of his helmet.
…
“Georgia Southern takes back over after another Appalachian State field goal with a little more than two minutes remaining in the second quarter and the chance to extend this lead even further.
“Guerra’s in the gun, Bradley to his left with four out wide. His favorite targets Sahara and Green on opposite sides of the field. Here’s the snap, pockets clean, Guerra floats it to Green and the big tight end catches it in stride. Ripping off 16 on that one.”
…
Caine caught the snap and held the ball out in front of him, his eyes on the edge. He held the ball there until the last second, watching the edge crash down toward the middle of the formation.
Caine pulled it and took off toward the space he had vacated.
There was nothing but green grass in front of him to the first down. Mountaineers defensive backs eventually sprinting toward him.
He gave it another couple of steps before he dove down on the turf just before getting hit by a safety.
Laying on the turf, he looked around as the chain gang moved then he pretended to paddle out on a wave, jumping up and miming surfboarding as his teammates joined the celebration.
…
“Guerra drops back. Another clean pocket. He’s had those all afternoon. Fires it out. Sahara has it. Touchdown Eagles!”
“That’s three touchdowns to Javier Sahara, who leads the Sun Belt in receptions, receiving yards and touchdowns. When you say that a quarterback has formed a partnership with a receiver, this is what you’re talking about.”
“Donal Dempsey will come out to make it 28-6 Eagles and it looks like it’s going to be an easy day for Georgia Southern as they attempt to go 12-0 on the season.”
…
Caine threw his arm around Javier as the two of them walked to the sideline. “Was that far enough out for you, bitch?”
Javier laughed. “Double that shit on the next one.
Caine shook his head and joined in on the laughter.
~~~
Laney stacked Knox's plate onto Braxton's and lifted them both off the table, a smear of ketchup catching her thumb. "Y'all go take y'all baths then y'all can come back in here and watch the rest of the game."
Knox pushed back from the table, his chair scraping the floor. "We gonna miss most of it though, mama."
"Yeah, we can do it after?" Braxton asked, already half out of his seat, his eyes cutting toward the living room where the television was throwing blue light across the carpet.
"No, go." Laney set the plates down and picked up Hunter's, scraping the leftover green beans into the trash with the edge of a fork. "Make sure y'all wash behind them ears or I'm gonna come do it for you."
Knox and Braxton bolted from the kitchen, their socked feet sliding on the hardwood as they turned the corner into the hallway.
Hunter stayed in his chair a second longer. He was looking at his mother's face, at the place where something shifted when she turned away from them to pick up another plate, a tightness in her jaw that loosened too late to be hidden. He watched it come and go, then slid off his chair and followed his brothers down the hall.
Their voices overlapped immediately, all three of them crowding the bathroom doorway at once, arguing over who was getting in first so they could make it back before the fourth quarter.
Laney carried the plates to the sink and set them in the basin. She turned the faucet on and let the water heat, her hands braced on the edge of the counter. She raised her voice over her shoulder. "And y'all bet not rush!"
Hunter's voice came back from down the hall, clear above his brothers. "We won't!"
One of the younger two said something muffled and the other one laughed, the sound bouncing off the bathroom tile and carrying back through the house.
Tommy pushed himself up from the couch. He walked into the kitchen, pulled the refrigerator open, and grabbed a beer by the neck. He swung the door shut and looked at the wall next to the fridge where the bottle opener usually hung from a small nail. The nail was bare. He turned the bottle in his hand and looked at the wall again.
Laney reached to her left without turning around, picked the opener up from beside the dish soap where she'd left it, and held it out behind her.
Tommy took it from her hand. He popped the cap off and stood there, the opener in one fist and the cap pinched between his fingers, staring at the side of her face while she worked the sponge over a plate under the running water. Down the hall the faucet in the bathroom opened up and water started drumming against the tub.
He tossed the opener and the cap onto the counter. They clattered against the granite and spun to a stop. "I just want you to know that of all the shit you've done, this is probably the most unforgiveable. Taking away my chance to have more children. Behind my back. I can't believe you."
Laney looked over at him, the sponge still in her hand, water running off her wrist and dripping onto the floor. "How you said that is exactly why I did it. It's my fuckin' body. It's my fuckin' choice."
Tommy's jaw worked once. "Fucking pathetic."
He turned and walked back to the couch and dropped onto it, the cushion compressing under his weight, his eyes going straight to the television.
Laney turned back to the sink. She picked up the next plate and ran the sponge over it, the water steaming against her hands, the sound of her boys talking over each other drifting down the hall.
~~~
Mireya pulled the bottle from the freezer and set it on the counter. The vodka flowed smoothly when she tipped it over the tumbler. She filled it halfway, then lifted the glass and swirled it once, watching the liquid catch the overhead light before she brought it to her nose. Sharp. Clean. It burned just from the smell. She tipped it back and drank it in one pull, her throat working, then set the glass down and filled it again.
She picked up the glass and walked down the hall toward the bedroom, her bare feet pressing over the polished wood floors.
In the bathroom she set the glass on the wide lip of the tub, then her phone next to it, screen down. She pulled her hoodie over her head, her hair catching and then falling loose against her shoulders and dropped it in the corner near the baseboard. Her jeans came next. She popped the button, pushed them down over her hips and stepped free, kicking them toward the hoodie. Her panties followed, peeled off and tossed onto the pile. She stood there a second with her weight on one foot, then turned back toward the tub.
She twisted the handle and water came heavy from the faucet, hitting the porcelain and filling the room with sound. Steam started to lift off the surface almost immediately. She left it running and crossed to the vanity, pulling open the second drawer where her things sat, accumulated over the months. The aromatherapy oil was pushed toward the back, behind a box of cotton rounds and a travel-size lotion. She grabbed it and walked it back to the tub.
She poured a generous amount under the stream, the oil hitting the water and spreading in a dark ribbon before dissolving. The scent came up fast, eucalyptus with sweeter notes underneath it, filling the small space until it pressed against the tile walls. She capped the bottle and set it on the floor beside the tub.
She stepped in one foot at a time, careful, the water already high enough to push against her calves. She lowered herself slowly, keeping the glass steady on the ledge, her body adjusting to the heat as it climbed her thighs, her stomach, her ribs. She settled back against the curved porcelain and let the water take her weight.
Her eyes closed. She reached to the side, fingers finding the glass by feel, and brought it to her mouth. The vodka was warmer now from sitting, softer on her tongue. She swallowed and set it back, then picked up her phone.
Her thumb moved across the screen, tapping through until music started, something slow and low that filled the bathroom and pressed against the steam. She set the phone back next to the glass and leaned forward just enough to reach the faucet handle and turn the water off.
She leaned back again as the music played. The oil made the water feel different on her skin, slicker, softer, and the heat settled into her shoulders and the backs of her arms. Her breathing slowed with nothing filling the house except for the sound of the music and the soft lap of the water as she shifted her weight. Her fingers went loose around the base of the glass.
Her head dipped forward and then pulled back, the muscles in her neck catching before her chin hit her chest. She blinked her eyes open for a second, the bathroom blurring at the edges, then let them close again. The warmth and the oil and the slow pull of the music were dragging her under, her body sinking a fraction deeper into the water.
The first bang hit the front door hard enough to send the sound through the walls.
Her eyes stayed closed. Her body tensed under the water but her mind hadn't caught up yet, still reaching for sleep, still wrapped in the heat. Then the second bang came. Harder. The whole frame of the house seemed to shift with it. And then the third, followed by a crack that was wood splitting, the front door slamming open and hitting the wall behind it so hard something fell and shattered on the floor.
Her eyes flew open.
Footsteps poured into the house. Not one set. Several, heavy and fast, spreading across the front rooms, shoes hitting the polished floors with purpose. Voices ran underneath them, low and sharp, men talking over each other.
Mireya surged up out of the water. It sloshed over the sides of the tub, splashing the tile, soaking her phone and her glass and knocking them to the floor. She got one foot on the floor, water streaming off her body, and lunged toward the corner where her clothes sat in a pile. Her fingers grabbed for the hoodie.
The man came around the doorframe with the gun already up.
He filled the bathroom entrance, shoulders squared, a pistol leveled at her face. His eyes left the sights and dropped. They moved over her, slow and deliberate, from her face down to her chest, her stomach, her hips, the water still running off her thighs and pooling on the tile around her feet. His mouth pulled into a smirk.
He turned his head back toward the hallway, the gun still trained on her.
"Hey, they got a naked bad bitch up in here."
~~~
Caine swung the Lexus into his spot and killed the engine. He pushed the door open and stepped out, the cold pressing in through his sweats and hoodie before he'd even straightened up.
He shut the driver's door and pulled the one behind it, reaching across the back seat for the duffel bag. The nylon straps bit into his palm when he lifted it. He threw it over his shoulder, bumped the door closed with his elbow, and started across the lot toward his building.
He got three steps before he saw her.
Rylee sat on the concrete step outside his door with her arms wrapped around herself, knees pulled together, her head down. She wore a hoodie two sizes too big and leggings. Her hair hung loose around her face. She looked smaller than she was, folded up on that step with the cold working on her.
Caine slowed. "Hey, you good?"
Rylee lifted her head. Her eyes found him and stayed there, wet at the edges, her face drawn tight. She shook her head.
"Someone did you something?"
She shook her head again. Then she laughed. It came out wrong, caught somewhere between a cry and a cough, the sound scraping out of her throat and dying in the cold air between them then her shoulders pulled in tighter.
Caine shifted the duffel on his shoulder and held his hand out to her. "C'mon. Ain't about to talk out here. It's cold as fuck."
Rylee looked at his hand for a second, then reached up and took it. Her fingers were freezing. He pulled her to her feet in one motion, her weight coming up easy, and let go once she was steady. He stepped past her to the door, pulled his keys from his pocket, and fit the right one into the lock. The bolt turned and he pushed the door open, holding it with his shoulder.
She went in ahead of him. Caine followed, letting the door fall shut behind them. He dropped the duffel bag by the door, the thud of it settling against the wall.
Rylee stood near the kitchen table with her hands shoved back into her hoodie pocket, her eyes moving over the floor. "I ain't mean to just drop in on you and I ain't gonna take up too much of your time."
"It's cool," Caine said.
Rylee's mouth worked for a second before the next words came. "I need your help."
Caine raised an eyebrow. He pulled one of the kitchen chairs out and sat, the legs scraping over the floor. He reached down and slipped his slides off, then found his house slippers tucked under the edge of the table and pushed his feet into them. He leaned back and looked at her.
Rylee's chest rose and fell. Her eyes locked on a spot past his shoulder, then dropped to his face. "I'm," she started, and her voice broke apart. She swallowed. "I'm..." The second attempt died the same place. She pressed her lips together hard enough that the color left them, then pushed the word out. "I'm pregnant."
The apartment held still around them. The refrigerator hummed. The heater clicked once in the wall and went on blowing.
"And you don't know who it's for," Caine said.
Rylee shook her head, her jaw flexing.
"We in Georgia so pretty much all you can do is try to figure out who it was."
Rylee nodded, the motion small and fast. "That's what I need your help with." Her voice found its footing, the words coming quicker now, her accent pulling the vowels long and bending the consonants soft. "I have a friend who can drive me to Atlanta and I'm gonna fly to Chicago and..." She stopped. Her hands came out of the pocket and pressed flat against her stomach. "And..."
Caine held his hand up. "I understand."
She let out a breath that had been sitting in her chest. Her shoulders dropped half an inch. "I just cain't use my own money for that 'cause my parents gonna know. They got notifications when I make big purchases."
"You want me to give you the money?"
"I have it." Her voice steadied. "I just gotta pay you back over time."
Caine sighed, the sound pushing through his nose. He planted his hands on his knees and pushed himself up to his feet. He walked past her to the cabinets above the counter and opened the one on the far right. His hand went in and came back with a statue of the Virgin Mary, ceramic, painted in blue and white, the size of a water bottle. He turned it over, pulled the rubber stopper from the base, and reached two fingers inside. A fold of bills came out, pressed tight from being kept in the narrow space.
Rylee watched him with her arms crossed again. A sound left her, something between a laugh and an exhale. "You finger fuckin' the Virgin Mary to give me money for a..." She trailed off, then shook her head. "A thing. Says a lot."
Caine counted bills off the fold, his thumb moving quick, peeling each one flat before setting it on the counter. "I think she'll understand."
He pressed the stopper back into the base and set the statue on the counter. He gathered the bills, folded them once, and walked over to her, holding them out.
"You ain't gotta pay me back for the procedure," he said. "Just the plane ticket."
Rylee reached for the money. Her hand closed around the bills and around his fingers underneath them. She held on. Her grip tightened for a second, her thumb pressing against his knuckle.
"Thank you, Caine."
He nodded.
"Just make sure that's really what you want to do."
Rylee nodded. She let go of his hand and folded the money into her hoodie pocket. She turned toward the door, her sneakers scuffing over the floor. She got her hand on the knob and stopped. Her head turned, just enough that he could see her profile.
"You leavin' next month?"
"Yeah."
She nodded one more time. Then she pulled the door open and stepped through it, pulling it shut behind her.
~~~
Belts cinched her wrists together in her lap, the leather pulled tight enough to leave ridges in her skin. A second belt looped around her ankles, the buckle pressed cold against the bone. The chair they'd put her in faced the center of the living room, and the seven men filled the space around her in a loose half circle, bodies blocking the hallway and the kitchen and the path to the front door. Meechie stood directly in front of her, close enough that she could see the stubble along his jaw and the vein running thick at his temple.
He hit her. Closed fist, straight across the left side of her face. Her head snapped to the right. Pain bloomed sharp through her cheekbone and into her teeth. She tasted copper where her lip split against the inside of her mouth.
"Where Trell at?"
Mireya let her head hang for a beat, then brought it back up. She widened her eyes and pushed her accent thick, rounding the vowels, breaking the grammar apart until the English sounded borrowed. "I no know. I tell you I just cleaner. Mr. Smith, he say come clean. I clean."
Meechie looked at her. His jaw shifted to one side. "But you up in here with your pussy out? Taking baths and shit?" He swung again, this time with his palm open, the crack landing flush against the same cheek. Her head rocked. Light stuttered behind her eyes. "Where that nigga at?"
Mireya blinked through the blur. Blood pooled at the corner of her mouth. She let her bottom lip tremble, let her shoulders draw in, made herself smaller in the chair. "I tell truth, señor."
He hit her again. The knuckles caught her above the eye this time and her skull rang with it. She pitched forward, the belts catching her wrists against her thighs, her vision going white at the edges for a second before the room came back.
She kept her head down. She let her breathing go ragged, let the air stutter in and out through her nose, and when she spoke she let the words tumble over each other, frantic and loose, her voice cracking on the consonants. "Por favor, señor. No sé de quién está hablando. Por favor. Solo quería darme un baño porque la tina se veía muy linda. No se lo diga a mi jefe. No lo sé. Por favor, señor."
Meechie sucked his teeth. "Man ain't nobody speak that shit. Speak fucking English."
Mireya lifted her bound hands in front of her chest, palms open, fingers spread. "Sorry, I sorry."
Meechie shook his head and reached into his pocket. He pulled his phone out, thumbed through it, and hit a number. He held the phone flat on his palm and put it on speaker. The ring tone filled the room once before the line connected.
"Y'all find that nigga where I told you?" Cass's voice came through tinny and clear.
"No, we just found some Mexican bitch that say she a cleaner."
Meechie looked at Mireya and shook his head, slow, his mouth pressed flat. Mireya stared back at him. She held his eyes and kept the mask on, kept her breathing shallow and her posture folded, but she didn't drop her gaze.
"That ain't no cleaner," Cass said. "That's his bitch."
Meechie's chin lifted. He looked around at his guys, the phone still open on his palm. "Oh, really?"
Low chuckles moved through the room, rolling from one man to the next, the sound carrying the weight of what Trell had promised. Meechie's mouth twitched at the corner.
"Yeah, if she got a tattoo on her back, that's her," Cass said.
One of the men behind Mireya stepped forward. His hand landed on the back of her neck and shoved her forward in the chair, her face dropping toward her knees, the belt at her wrists pulling taut against her thighs. He moved her hair to expose the top of the filigree work running down her spine, the black dahlia stark against her skin between her shoulder blades. He looked at Meechie and nodded.
Meechie brought the phone closer to his mouth. "This her then."
Cass laughed, the sound bright and loose through the speaker. "That bitch a stripper and a ho. Like a real pay to give up the pussy ho."
Meechie stared at Mireya. The man behind her let go and she straightened in the chair, slow, rolling her shoulders back. She leaned into the backrest and lifted her chin.
"Alright," Meechie said. "We gonna find out where that nigga at."
"Hurry up," Cass said.
Meechie tapped the screen and the call cut. He slid the phone back into his pocket. His eyes hadn't moved off Mireya.
"Niggas can buy that pretty little pussy, huh?"
Mireya's posture changed. The trembling stopped. Her shoulders squared against the back of the chair. She looked up at him and her voice came out clean, every syllable precise, the broken English gone. "Yeah, you got some money for me? I'll give you a discount because I know it won't take long."
Meechie's eyebrows rose. He tilted his head, a grin pulling at his mouth. "Oh, she does speak good English."
His guys laughed. The sound bounced off the marble and the clean white walls of Trell's living room.
Meechie crouched in front of her until they were level. He reached out and caught her chin between his thumb and fingers, his grip pressing into the bruises his fists had already put there. She didn't flinch, looked straight into his face.
"You gonna tell me where that nigga Trell at," he said. "And you ain't about to get paid for this. You can blame your nigga for bringing my baby mamas into it."
Mireya pulled her chin back just far enough to free her jaw. She gathered what was left of the blood in her mouth and spit it into his face. It hit his cheek and his lip and hung there.
"Fuck you. I ain't afraid of you."
His backhand came fast, the back of his knuckles cracking across the opposite side of her face this time, hard enough that her body twisted against the belts and the chair legs scraped across the floor. He straightened up, wiping the spit off his face with the heel of his palm, then dragged his hand down his shirt.
"We gonna see how tough you is."
~~~
Cass killed the engine and stepped out of the SUV. She reached into her purse, her fingers moving past her phone and her keys until they closed around the grip of the pistol. She pulled it free, racked the slide, and held it barrel down along her thigh as she pushed the car door shut with her hip.
The front door hung open. The frame was splintered where the lock had been, wood chewed apart and hanging in pale strips.
The noise hit her before anything else. Down the hall, past the kitchen, the sounds came layered and ugly. Skin hitting skin. Grunts punched out of a body. A headboard punching the wall in an uneven rhythm. Men laughing, the sound loose and amused. Dull thuds of flesh being struck. And underneath it, curses in English tangled with Spanish, a voice strained and raw.
The kitchen was wrecked. Cabinet doors hung open. A bottle of vodka had been knocked over on the counter, the liquid pooled and dripping off the edge of the marble in a slow line. Drawers had been pulled and left crooked in their tracks.
One of Meechie's men leaned against the island with his gun resting on the marble, the barrel pointed toward the front door. His posture was slack, shoulders rounded, his free hand scrolling his phone. He looked up when Cass came through, his expression flat and bored, then looked back down.
"Where's Meechie?" Cass asked.
The man nodded toward the hallway. "In the back."
Cass walked past him. The hallway was narrow and the sounds grew louder with every step, the walls doing nothing to muffle them. The headboard kept its rhythm. A man's voice barked something she couldn't make out and another one laughed. The Spanish had turned hoarse, the words breaking apart into syllables that caught and tore.
She pushed the bedroom door open.
Meechie stood at the foot of the bed, shirtless, his jeans unbuttoned and riding low, a blunt pinched between his fingers trailing smoke toward the ceiling. Sweat glazed his chest and shoulders. Five other men filled the room around the bed, bodies close, the air thick with smoke and heat and the sour tang of sweat.
One of them shifted his weight and Cass saw her.
Mireya was pressed face down on the mattress by two of them, one between her shoulder blades and the other gripping her wrists above her head. Her face was turned to the side, swollen and split, blood smeared across the pillowcase under her cheek. Grunts and gasps pushed out of her through clenched teeth.
Cass's lip twitched up. She stood in the doorway and watched.
She called out. "Meechie."
He turned his head. When he saw her he pulled the blunt from his mouth and gestured toward the hallway with it, smoke curling off the tip. Cass stepped back and let him come through the door first, then stepped into the hall. The door swung but didn't catch the frame, leaving a gap where the noise kept pushing through.
"That bitch talk yet?" Cass asked. The headboard was still going behind the door, the rhythm steady, and a man's laugh cut through it.
Meechie dragged his palm across the back of his neck, wiping sweat, and shook his head. "Nah. She ain't said shit."
A thud came through the gap, heavier than the rest, and something in Spanish followed it, bitten off and guttural. Cass crossed her arms, the gun still in her right hand, the barrel pressed aimed over her bicep. "Y'all niggas bad at getting information." She pointed toward the bedroom door. "You want me to go in there and get the information for you?"
The headboard knocked twice more. Meechie pulled on the blunt, the cherry flaring, and let the smoke out through his nose. "We know what we doing. She gonna break."
Someone in the room said something and the rest of them laughed, the sound rolling through the door and filling the hallway. Cass looked back toward it. Her jaw worked once. She shook her head and turned, starting down the hall toward the front of the house. She threw the words over her shoulder. "If Trell ain't back soon, it's because he at the trap. I sent you the lo last night. And when y’all done with that bitch, make sure she ain’t around to pin nothing on us."
Behind her, Meechie sucked his teeth. He dropped the blunt on the hallway floor, the cherry scattering sparks against the wood and pushed the bedroom door open. The noise from inside swelled for a second before his voice cut over it. "Say, nigga. Watch out. Let me get me."
~~~
Caine tipped the beer up and let it pour cold down his throat. The bass shook through the floor and into his feet, the music loud enough that conversations happened in shouts and leans. Bodies packed the room wall to wall, cups raised, phones out with flashes firing into the smoke and sweat.
Dwight and Keanon were somewhere to his left, voices carrying over the track. Matt stood a few feet off talking to a blonde, her hair in a high pony, his hand braced on the wall above her. Terrell, Dillon, Javier, Jaylen, and Donnie moved through the space in pieces, showing up at his shoulder and then folding back into the crowd.
The brunette pressed her back into him, her hips rolling slow against his, finding the beat and staying on it. She had one hand up near her own hair and the other resting on his thigh. Caine lowered the beer and put his free hand on her ass, his fingers spreading on the fabric of her jeans, guiding the rhythm a half count slower. She adjusted and kept going.
Matt looked over from where he had the girl against the wall. His eyes dropped to the brunette, then came back up to Caine's face. He reached across the gap between them and dapped Caine up, their hands connecting over the girl's shoulder.
"I see you, my nigga."
Caine laughed. "You know how we do."
Matt grinned and turned back to his conversation. The brunette shifted under Caine's hand, turning around to face him. She reached up with both arms and looped one hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down toward her. She was shorter than him by almost a foot and he had to bend to meet her. Her mouth pressed to his, warm and tasting faintly of whatever mixed drink she'd been working through. Her other hand slid down his chest between them, fingers trailing over his stomach, dipping into his jeans.
Caine caught her wrist and pulled back. "Slow down, love. We got all night."
She smiled up at him. "I just wanted to make sure you didn't go looking for no one else when you were deciding who to take home."
"You made your case."
She winked, her hand sliding free of his grip as she stepped back. "I'll be back." She turned and the crowd swallowed her in three steps, her dark hair disappearing between shoulders and raised arms.
Donnie pushed through from the opposite direction, a bottle of Hennessy in each hand, both already cracked, the brown liquid sloshing when he bumped past somebody's elbow. He stopped in front of Caine and held one out.
"Drink, nigga."
Caine looked at the bottle, then back at Donnie's face. Amusement pulled at the corner of his mouth. "You a fucking stereotype, bruh. This all you drink."
Donnie tilted his head, unbothered. "Especially when we celebrating, nigga. Now, drink that shit."
Caine took the bottle. He tipped it up and let a long pull burn down his throat and into his chest, the heat spreading through his ribs. He brought it down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Donnie reached over and took the bottle back, tucking it under his arm, then used his free hand to dap Caine up, their palms clapping once before their fingers locked and released.
Across the room, Dwight climbed onto something, a chair or a table, his voice booming over the music with the volume of a man who'd been drinking since the final whistle. "After party at Guerra's house! Only bad bitches and real niggas!"
The section around them erupted. Cups went up. Bottles lifted. Keanon pointed at Dwight and shouted something lost in the noise. Jaylen doubled over laughing.
Caine shook his head, but the laugh came out of him anyway, the sound buried under the roar of everyone else. Donnie pushed the bottle back into his hand. Caine took it and tipped it up for another swig.
~~~
Mireya lay on the bare mattress with the sheets ripped off and bunched somewhere on the floor. Stains darkened the fabric beneath her in patches she could feel against her skin. Her breathing came shallow and uneven, her ribs expanding just enough to pull air in before the soreness collapsed her lungs back down, and the weight in her arms and legs had settled into something that made her body feel borrowed and poorly returned.
One of Meechie's men leaned against the wall near the door, tipping his fingers against his thigh in a steady rhythm, his gun tucked into his waistband. From the other end of the house, she could hear the rest of them in the kitchen and living room, laughter mixing with the clink of glass and cabinet doors banging shut as they helped themselves to whatever Trell kept stocked.
Mireya pulled herself up, her abdomen seizing so hard she had to plant one hand on the mattress and push, her elbow shaking until she got herself vertical and sitting on the edge of the bed with her feet on the floor, her spine curved forward, her hair in tangled ropes around her face.
The man looked over. "Don't do no stupid shit."
Mireya shook her head. "Can I put something on?" She lifted her hand and pointed toward the en suite, toward the bathroom floor just past the doorframe. "My panties are right there."
He looked at her, then at where she was pointing, and nodded once before going back to drumming on his thighs.
Mireya stood. Her muscles fought her on every inch of it, her inner thighs burning, her hips stiff, her knees threatening to buckle before she locked them. She walked to the bathroom in small steps, her bare feet pressing over the cold tile as she stepped fully inside. She bent down and picked her panties up off the floor. The fabric was inside out. She righted them and pulled them on, the elastic biting into bruised skin at her hips.
She looked back through the doorway and found him scrolling his phone, his attention on the screen, the gun still tucked in his waistband.
Mireya stepped back into the bedroom. Her jeans were crumpled near the foot of the bed where they'd been thrown hours ago. She crouched, the movement sending a spike through her pelvis that she swallowed without a sound and grabbed them. Her fingers went into the right pocket and found the switchblade. She pulled it free and held it in both hands, pressing the release with her thumb while her other hand caught the blade as it opened, stopping it before the click could sound. She palmed the handle against the inside of her wrist, the metal flat against her forearm, and straightened.
She took a step toward the man. "Can I have something to drink?"
He gave her a once-over, eyes moving from her face down to her bare legs and back up. He nodded and pushed off the wall, standing.
Mireya turned the knife in her hand and drove it into his side.
The blade went in below his ribs. His body folded around it, his mouth opening wide, the yell tearing out of him loud enough to carry through every wall in the house. He dropped, knees hitting the floor first, then his shoulder, his hands clutching at the wound, fingers pressing around the handle still buried in him. Blood ran between his knuckles and onto the polished wood.
Mireya was already moving. She crossed the room in four strides, her legs burning, adrenaline flooding through muscles that had given up hours ago. She grabbed the window latch and shoved it up. The frame stuck for a second and she slammed the heel of her hand into it until it jerked open. She got one leg over the sill.
The gunshot cracked behind her. Plaster exploded from the wall above her head, dust and chips spraying across her shoulders. The sound hammered through her ears and kept ringing. She threw her other leg over and dropped. Another gunshot sounding behind her.
Grass hit her feet and the impact jolted through her ankles. She ran toward the backyard, pumping her arms, her lungs already tearing at the cold air, and cleared the short fence in one motion with her hand catching the top rail and vaulting her body over it.
She hit the concrete on the other side of the pool deck and dove. The water swallowed her, cold enough to seize every muscle in her chest. She kicked down, stroking hard until her hands touched the bottom. She pressed herself into the corner where the floor met the wall, her back against the tile, her knees drawn up, the blue light wavering above her.
Through the water she saw them. Dark shapes moving along the edge of the pool, distorted by the surface, legs and arms churning past. One of them stopped and pointed, his arm extending toward the bayou. The others followed, their shapes stretching and shrinking as they ran.
Her lungs burned. The pressure built behind her sternum and pushed up into her throat. Her diaphragm spasmed once, twice, her body demanding air that wasn't there. She clenched her jaw and stayed where she was, her fingers pressed into the grout lines between the tiles.
They came back. The shapes moved along the pool edge again, faster now, heading toward the front of the house. She counted them as they passed, all seven. She waited until the last one cleared her line of sight.
She floated up slow, controlling the rise with small movements of her hands, and broke the surface with just her mouth. She pulled air in through her lips, each breath burning on the way down, then tilted her head and put her ear above the water. Sirens were building somewhere far off, and closer than that she could hear car doors slamming and tires screeching against asphalt as the sound peeled away from the front of the house and faded down the block.
She waited. The sirens grew closer.
Mireya pulled herself out of the pool. Water poured off her body and the cold hit her full force, her skin prickling, her teeth locking together. She ran back around the side of the house, her wet feet slapping over the grass, over the concrete, up to the window she'd climbed through. She pressed herself against the wall and listened. Nothing from inside. She looked through the glass. The bedroom was empty. A smear of blood trailing from where the man she stabbed had gotten up and chased her.
She climbed back through the window and dropped into the room. She ran to the bathroom, her knees nearly buckling on the tile, and dropped to the floor beside the tub. Her phone had fallen behind it when they'd kicked the door in. She reached between the porcelain and the wall, her fingers scraping cold tile until they closed around the case. She pulled it out, wiped the screen on her thigh, and opened it.
She found Trell's contact and hit call. It rang twice before the line connected.
"Meechie is coming to the traphouse. He was just at your house."
~~~
The two SUVs rolled down the block in Marrero with their headlights off, tires whispering over cracked asphalt. Meechie leaned forward from the back seat of the first one, his hand bracing against the headrest in front of him as he scanned the houses sliding past. He found it and pointed through the gap between the front seats. "That's it right there."
The driver pulled up across the street and cut the engine. Behind them the second SUV eased to the curb and went dark. Meechie pushed the door open and stepped out, reaching back across the seat for his gun, and held it along his leg as the doors on both vehicles opened one after another.
His crew climbed out, the seven of them spreading across the pavement, hands going to waistbands and glove boxes, checking magazines and racking slides as they started walking toward the house.
Meechie got ten feet from the curb before he cupped his hand around his mouth and shouted across the street. "Bring your bitch ass out here, nigga!"
From the side of the house next to the traphouse, Trell's voice came back just as loud. "I got your bitch right here."
Trell stepped out into the yard shouldering an AK, the stock pressed into the pocket of his shoulder and started firing before his second foot touched the grass. The muzzle flash lit the yard in strobes, the reports cracking over each other so fast they blurred into a continuous rip of sound.
From three directions at once, Trell's guys came out. Behind a parked car across the street. From the back of the traphouse. From the opposite side yard. Gunfire poured into Meechie's crew from every angle, the bullets chewing through the air between the SUVs and the house.
Two of Meechie's men dropped before they could raise their weapons. The first one folded at the waist and hit the asphalt face down. The second spun from the impacts, his arms going wide, and collapsed against the fender of the SUV he'd just stepped out of, sliding down the metal until his body crumpled at the wheel well.
Dez walked beside Trell with his gun up and level, his stride matching Trell's pace, but he never pulled the trigger. He moved through the yard toward the street with the barrel tracking Meechie's crew and his finger resting along the frame.
Meechie took a round in the leg and went down on one knee, his jeans darkening at the thigh. He scrambled on all fours toward the first SUV, dragging the wounded leg behind him, and grabbed the passenger door handle. He hauled himself up and threw his body across the center console, diving over to the driver's seat. Bullets punched into the door panels and the quarter panel behind him, the metal popping with each impact, and screams tore through the gunfire from somewhere near the second vehicle as a third member of his crew buckled and dropped to the pavement.
Ant walked toward the SUVs from the side of the traphouse with a Tec-9 braced on his hip, his steps even and unhurried, the weapon cycling rounds into the vehicles in short controlled bursts that shattered glass and punched through sheet metal.
"We gotta fucking go!" Meechie's voice cracked from inside the SUV. "These niggas got machine guns!"
A fourth of his crew went down in the street, his body jerking twice before it went still. The remaining two broke toward the first SUV and dove through the open doors, one landing across the back seat and the other throwing himself into the passenger side with his legs still hanging out when Meechie turned the engine over and slammed the transmission into drive. The tires screamed against the pavement as the SUV lurched forward, the back end fishtailing once before it straightened and tore down the block.
Ant kept the Tec-9 on the vehicle, walking after it, the muzzle flashing with each burst until the SUV made the corner at the end of the street and disappeared. He lowered the weapon and turned. Yola, Scotty, and Shad were already moving toward the bodies in the road, their guns down at their sides.
"Get some niggas to get these bodies up before the police come," Ant said.
Trell stood in the yard with the AK hanging from one hand, the barrel still radiating heat into the cold air. He looked at Dez.
"You got one more."
Dez started to turn. Trell raised the AK one-handed and shot him once in the back of the head. The sound flattened across the yard. Dez dropped where he stood, his body hitting the grass and going motionless, his gun falling from his hand and landing a foot away.
Trell walked over himand spit on his body. He shook his head once, then straightened and reached into his pocket. He pulled one of his phones out with his free hand, the AK swinging loose from the other, and found Cass's contact. He hit call. It rang once before the line connected. He could hear her breathing on the other end, but she didn't say a word.
"Those country niggas you sent my way dead. I'm on my way to come kill you and your fucking bastard, too. Get your fucking affairs in order before I get there, bitch."
~~~
Cass stood in her living room with the phone pressed to her ear, Trell's voice pushing through the speaker flat and certain, every word landing with the weight of something already decided. The line went dead. She pulled the phone away from her face and looked at the screen for a second, her chest rising and falling too fast, her hands shaking badly enough that the phone trembled between her fingers.
She dropped it on the floor and put her foot on it. She pressed down and bent the phone until the screen cracked and the frame buckled, the plastic splitting under her heel with a sound that snapped through the room. She picked up the pieces and carried them to the kitchen, threw them into the sink, and turned the faucet on, the water pooling around the broken halves and running over the edges of the shattered screen.
She took the stairs two at a time, her hand catching the rail at the turn where the steps narrowed and went straight into her bedroom. She pulled two duffel bags from the top shelf of her closet, the fabric stiff from not being used, and tossed them onto the bed. She crossed to the dresser and opened the top drawer, pushing past folded clothes until her fingers found the second phone she kept buried in the back. She grabbed it and shoved it into her pocket, then picked up both bags by the straps and went down the hall.
Lil' P's door was closed. She pushed it open, the light from the hallway cutting across his bed where he lay curled on his side under the covers. She dropped one of the bags and grabbed his shoulder, shaking him hard enough that his head rocked on the pillow.
"Wake up, baby. You gotta get up now."
Lil' P's eyes opened slow, unfocused, blinking against the light. He rubbed at them with the backs of his hands, his mouth pulling down in confusion. "It ain't even time to go to church yet, Ma."
Cass bent and grabbed a pair of shoes from beside his bed. She held them in front of his face for a second, then dropped them on the floor at his feet. "We gotta go. Don't ask. Don't argue. We gotta go."
Lil' P looked at her face. Whatever he saw there pulled the sleep out of him faster than her hands had. He pushed the covers off and swung his legs over the side of the bed, sliding his feet into the shoes without tying them.
Cass picked up the second bag and held it out to him. He took it, the strap bunching in his small grip. "C'mon, baby. We gotta run."
His mouth opened and the question started to form, his brow pulling together, but Cass put her hand between his shoulder blades and shoved him toward the door before he could get a sound out. He stumbled forward and caught himself, then ran. His shoes slapped down the stairs, the untied laces whipping against the wood with each step.
Cass was right behind him. At the bottom she pointed toward the front of the house. "Go get in my car."
Lil' P ran to the front door and grabbed the handle, then stopped. He turned back toward her, his chest heaving, the duffel bag pulling his shoulder down on one side. "Ma, what's going on?"
"Just go!"
He pulled the door open and ran into the dark. Cass turned back into the living room, her eyes sweeping until they found the end table near the couch. She grabbed the framed picture from it, her thumb pressing into the glass as she lifted it. Peanut looked back at her from behind the frame, his arm around her shoulder, Lil' P a baby in the crook of her other arm. She tucked it against her chest and ran for the door, pulling it shut behind her as she crossed the porch and sprinted toward the SUV.
~~~
Caine stepped out of the shower and pulled a towel off the rack. He dragged it across his chest and arms, then down his legs, the fabric catching on damp skin. Steam clung to the mirror and the tile and the air in his lungs. He grabbed the pair of briefs from the edge of the sink and pulled them on, the elastic snapping against his sides as he settled them into place.
He wiped a streak across the mirror with the heel of his hand and looked at himself. Water ran from his dreads down the sides of his neck and across his collarbones. He ran a hand through them, lifting the weight off his scalp, then shook his head and let them fall where they wanted.
His phone buzzed against the counter. He picked it up and tilted the screen toward him. A text from Laney, five minutes old.
Can you come let me in
He set the towel on the hook and walked through the apartment to the front door, his feet leaving damp prints on the floor. He leaned into the window beside the frame and looked out. Laney's SUV was backed into the spot next to his Lexus, the parking lights off, the driver's side facing away from the building.
He pulled the door open and stood in the frame, one shoulder against the jamb, the cold pushing in against his bare chest. Laney's door opened across the lot. She got out and walked toward him with her keys in her hand and her jacket pulled tight at her collar, her steps quick on the concrete. She came through the door without slowing down, pushed it shut behind her, and put her arms around his waist. Her head dropped against his chest, her cheek pressing into the skin below his collarbone, and she exhaled long and uneven into him.
Caine's arms came up around her. He held her there with his chin resting above her head, feeling the cold she'd carried in from outside settle against his body wherever her jacket touched him.
"I still got that gun," he said.
Laney snorted a laugh into his chest, the sound muffled by his skin. "I'm sure you always got a gun."
"What's wrong?"
She shook her head against him, her hair brushing his jaw. "Same shit, different day. Ain't nothin' new under the sun."
She pulled back and looked up at his face for a second, then nodded toward his room. "C'mon. Let's go lay down."
Her hand found his and her fingers threaded through, pulling him behind her as she walked down the short hall. Caine followed, his grip loose in hers, and let her lead.
He sat on the edge of the bed. Laney stood near the dresser and started undressing, pulling her jacket off first and draping it over the chair, then her shirt and jeans. The fabric loosened around her shoulders and she stepped out of it, bending at the waist to pick it up and folding it into a neat square that she placed on top of the jacket. Her bra came off next, folded the same way, then her underwear, everything stacked in a clean pile with the edges lined up.
"What excuse you use tonight?" Caine asked.
Laney shook her head as she smoothed the top of the pile with her palm. "Ain't say nothin'. Tommy found out I was lyin' 'bout the fertility treatments." She walked around the foot of the bed toward the far side, her voice carrying over her shoulder. "I told him I got fixed after Hunter. I don't think he care 'bout this anymore when he mad 'bout that. Said it was unforgiveable."
She pulled the sheets back and slid into the bed, her body curling toward the center of the mattress as she settled her head on the pillow. Caine got up and walked to the other side, lifting the covers and getting in behind her. He put his arm across her waist and pulled her back against his chest, her spine pressing into him, her shoulders fitting under his.
"Rylee pregnant," Laney said. "Left the fuckin' test at my house."
"I know."
Her body went rigid against his arm. The muscles in her back tightened and her breathing hitched for a half second before she caught it.
"It ain't mine," Caine said. "Me and her have barely talked since everything blew up. She came here asking for help."
Laney turned her head, looking back over her shoulder at him, her eyes searching his face in the dark. "Abortion?"
He nodded.
She turned back toward the wall, her head settling into the pillow again. "That's her cross to bear."
Caine left it where she put it. Laney reached down and found his arm across her waist, wrapping both hands around his forearm and pulling it tighter until his body pressed flush against hers. She let out a breath and her shoulders loosened. Her grip on his arm softened but didn't let go. Their breathing slowed and began to match, his chest rising and falling against her back in the same rhythm until the edges of the room blurred and went soft.
~~~
Trell pulled up to the house and cut the engine. Ant was already reaching for the door handle. They both got out with their pistols drawn, Trell's hanging low at his side and Ant's held closer to his chest with the barrel angled toward the ground. The street was dark and the house looked wrong from twenty feet away, the front door cocked at an angle where it hung from one hinge, the frame splintered and pale where the wood had torn.
They crossed the yard slow, their shoes pressing over the grass, both of them watching the windows and the gap where the door should have been.
"You think they left someone behind?" Trell asked.
Ant shook his head. He stepped up to the door and pushed it open with his foot, the hinge groaning as the door swung inward and scraped against the floor. He raised his pistol and went through first, sweeping left, then right. Trell came in behind him.
The entry opened into the living room and they found her there.
Mireya was on the couch in a hoodie and panties, her feet up on the coffee table, her hair wet and dripping dark spots onto her shoulders.
A blunt burned between the fingers of her right hand, the smoke curling up past her face in a thin line. Her left hand came up to her lip every few seconds, her fingertip pressing against the split there and pulling away to check for blood. Small red spots appeared on her fingertip each time. A bruise was darkening along her cheekbone and the skin around her eye had begun to swell. She didn't look up when they came in.
Trell and Ant lowered their guns. They walked into the room, Trell stepping around a chair that had been knocked onto its side, the marble counters in the kitchen visible behind him where drawers had been pulled and left open. Ant stopped near the edge of the couch and tucked his pistol into his waistband.
Mireya brought the blunt to her mouth and pulled on it, long and slow, her cheeks hollowing. She held the smoke for a second before she let it go in a thick stream that drifted across the room. She reached down and tapped the ash off the end, letting it fall onto the floor.
"You call the jakes?" Trell asked.
Mireya shook her head without raising her eyes. "No."
"You going to call the jakes?"
She looked over at him for the first time. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen at the edges, the red deep enough that it bled into the brown of her irises. She held his gaze and let him see exactly what he was looking at.
"No."
Trell nodded once. "Good."
He looked at Ant and tilted his head toward the back of the house. Ant pushed off the arm of the couch where he'd been leaning and the two of them walked down the hallway, their footsteps fading over the polished wood as they disappeared toward the bedroom.
Mireya brought the blunt back to her mouth. She pulled on it and let the smoke out slow, her eyes on nothing, her fingertip going back to the split in her lip. Blood came up again, a small bright dot against her skin. She pressed it away and brought the blunt up again. Her hand trembled once on the way up, a single fine shake that ran from her wrist to her fingertips before it steadied.
She took the drag and let the smoke fill the room around her.
I would argue that Caine and Mireya are equally unstable and that they both have the same thing that would make one assume otherwise--college.