Mireya sat on the examination table with her legs hanging off the edge, the paper crinkling under her every time she shifted. She kept her hands in her lap, fingers threaded together, thumbs pressing against each other.
The doctor stood close, gloved fingers pressing along the ridge of Mireya's cheekbone. The pressure sent a pulse of heat through the swelling that ran from her temple to her jaw. Mireya breathed through her nose and held still. The doctor's other hand came up and tilted Mireya's chin, turning her face toward the overhead light.
The doctor's fingers walked down the line of her jaw, firm, methodical, pressing at the hinge where her mouth opened. Mireya's teeth clenched and released. The doctor paused, pressed again, watching Mireya's face for a flinch. Mireya gave her nothing.
"Does this hurt?" the doctor asked.
"It's sore."
The doctor moved lower, two fingers tracing the bruise that wrapped under Mireya's ear and down the side of her neck. She pressed there, lighter now, feeling for something beneath the skin. Mireya's pulse pushed against the doctor's fingertips. The paper crinkled again as Mireya adjusted her weight off the hip that ached.
"Turn for me."
Mireya turned. The doctor lifted the back of her shirt and pressed along her ribs, each touch landing on a different patch of soreness. Left side. Lower back. The skin there felt tight and hot. Mireya's stomach muscles pulled when the doctor hit a spot just below her last rib. She breathed out slow and kept her jaw set.
"Any trouble breathing?"
"No."
The doctor came around to face her again, peeling off one glove and reaching for the chart on the counter. She clicked a pen and made a note, eyes moving between the page and Mireya's face.
"How did you say this happened again?" The doctor's voice carried a careful, even tone. "We can get you some help if someone did this to you."
Mireya looked at her., expression flat. "I didn't say how it happened."
The doctor set the pen down. Her hand stayed on the chart. "I don't want to get into your business, Ms. Rosas, but we can get you to an ER to do a more extensi..."
Mireya raised her hand, cutting the air between them. "I do OnlyFans. Someone asked for a custom video, and we got a little too into it. That's it."
Her hand lowered back to her lap. She watched the doctor's face rearrange itself, watched the concern flatten into something more uncertain, the professional mask slipping for just a second before it reset.
The doctor paused. "Oh." She picked the pen back up and clicked it twice. "I thought—"
"I know what you thought." Mireya's voice stayed level. "Do you see anything wrong?"
The doctor shook her head, glancing down at her notes. "Just some significant bruising on your face, legs, side and back. Nothing I'm presently concerned about, but I'd suggest monitoring it. If you notice any changes in vision, any sharp pain when you breathe, or blood in your urine, go to an ER."
Mireya nodded once. She reached over to the chair beside the table where her hoodie sat folded with her keys on top. She pulled it over her head in one motion, arms threading through, the fabric catching on the knot of her hair before she tugged it free.
"Can I get a DoxyPEP script?"
The doctor's pen stopped. She looked up, one eyebrow lifting. "Are you concerned you've been exposed?"
Mireya met her eyes. The overhead light caught the swelling across her cheekbone, the purple deepening where it pooled near her eye socket. Her face stayed composed, mouth set, chin steady.
"Like I said, we got a bit too into it. Better safe than sorry."
The doctor held the look a beat. Mireya sat with her hands folded over her keys in her lap, the metal warm from the examination room's stale heat, and waited for the doctor to write.
The pen moved across the prescription pad. The doctor tore the sheet along the perforated line and held it out. Mireya took it between two fingers, folded it once, and slid it into the front pocket of her hoodie.
"Pharmacy on the first floor can fill that," the doctor said. "If you need anything else—"
"I'm good." Mireya slid off the table. Her sneakers hit the linoleum and a dull ache ran up through her thighs and settled in her lower back.
She gathered her bag from the floor, looped one strap over her shoulder, and walked toward the door.
~~~
Caine pushed the front door open and stepped out into parking lot. Ramon and Tyree walked toward him, duffel bags slung over their shoulders.Ramon dapped Caine up. Tyree followed, handing him one of the two duffel bags he carried first before doing the same.
"Y'all good?" Caine asked.
Ramon nodded. Tyree adjusted the strap on his shoulder and tilted his head toward the door.
Caine led them back inside. He pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. Ramon took the one across from him. Tyree swung the duffel off his shoulder and passed it to Caine, who caught it by the strap and set it on the floor beside his chair. Tyree dropped into the last seat, the legs scraping floor as he scooted forward.
Caine rested his elbows on the table. "What y'all gonna do with this shit when I transfer?"
Tyree laughed, his head tipping back. "We gonna start routing the work through wherever you go, nigga. So, make sure you don't go to Nebraska."
Caine shook his head. "I'm straight on country towns after two years here."
Ramon leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the top. "I been noticing that you starting to talk with one of them twangs like these country niggas. Don't even sound like you from the city no more."
"Boy, fuck you."
Ramon and Tyree both laughed. Ramon's came out easy, his shoulders moving with it. Tyree slapped the table once with his palm.
Ramon rubbed the back of his neck. "This shit gonna be winding down anyway. I don't think we gonna be making too many more runs to the A."
Caine raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
Tyree's jaw shifted. He sat forward, his forearms coming flat against the table. "Because that pussy ass nigga we getting the work for working with the opps."
Caine looked at Ramon. "Trell fucking with who?"
"110," Ramon said. "Recruiting niggas out that shit."
Tyree looked at Caine. "You know Trell?"
Caine nodded. "Mireya dating him."
Tyree held both hands out, palms up, fingers spread. "Hold out. You telling me your baby mama dating a hood nigga like that?" He sat back and let his tongue press against the inside of his cheek. "Shit, if I knew it was like that I could've kept it in the family."
Caine stared at him. "Really, motherfucker?"
Tyree laughed, the sound rolling up from his chest. "I'm just fucking with you, nigga. Your girl and Ramon's girl off limits. Don't mean I can't acknowledge they fine."
Ramon shook his head. "But not E.J.'s girl?"
Tyree waved his hand, dismissive. "She white. You can't claim no exclusivity to that. That's what Elijah Muhammad said."
Caine laughed and tapped Ramon on the shoulder with the back of his hand. "He a Muslim now." He looked at Tyree. "You supposed to make that change in prison, bruh."
"It don't matter when," Tyree said. He crossed his arms over his chest. "I can't fuck with no Yakubian princesses. Especially blondes with no ass."
Ramon snorted a laugh. "She got a little ass."
Tyree shook his head. "Negative ass. Taylor Swift build."
Caine turned back to Ramon. "So, what y'all doing about Trell playing both sides the fence?"
Ramon exhaled through his nose. "I don't know yet. It's Duke's call. If I even bring it to him."
"I told you the whole way up here," Tyree said, pointing at Ramon, "just tell him that and that Ant a fucking faggot."
Caine raised an eyebrow.
Tyree turned to him. "His number two fuck niggas."
Caine looked over at Ramon.
Ramon shook his head. "Transwomen."
"Niggas," Tyree said.
He pointed at Caine. "Ain't a nigga someone with a dick?"
Caine held his hands up. "This too much for me. What happened to just selling drugs, hitting licks and spinning on motherfuckers? Shit used to be a proper profession."
Ramon and Tyree laughed.
~~~
Laney had the end-of-year giving statements spread across her desk in two stacks, one reconciled and one not. Her pen moved down the column, ticking off each entry against the deposit slips paper-clipped to the back.Her father opened the door. "Delaney, can you come see me for a moment?"
Laney nodded, capped her pen, and followed him out. The two of them walking in silence.
Marianne stood near the front pew with her purse still on her shoulder, arms crossed. She looked at Laney when they came through the side door.
Laney raised an eyebrow. Her mind went straight to Tommy. Whether he'd told them about the tubal. Whether he’d told them that the fertility clinic appointments were a cover-up to carry on her affair.
Pastor Hadden stopped in front of the pulpit. He looked up at the stained glass window above it for a moment, hands clasped behind his back. Then he turned.
"I'm thinking about getting a second church."
Laney glanced at Marianne, then back at her father. "I thought you were thinkin' 'bout retirin'."
Pastor Hadden nodded. "I still am, but I need to give whoever replaces me a chance to settle in while I'm still around to provide spiritual guidance."
Marianne shifted her weight. "We always hoped that it would be Caleb that would take over the congregation, but as we know, your brother is a much more worldly man."
"So, you gettin' someone from outside?" Laney asked.
"It was always going to be someone from outside as soon as Caleb decided that he wanted to pursue other opportunities and went off to college," her father said.
Laney tamped the annoyance at that statement down before it reached her face.
"I'm guessin' that I fit into this somehow."
Pastor Hadden nodded. "I'll need you to manage both churches and help us vet a second pastor. I've reached out to a few friends in ministry around the area and found a handful of young men who are looking to take that next step."
"Managin' this one is already a lot of work," Laney said.
"It'll just be for a few years until your sister gets married and stops chasing things not meant for her," Marianne said.
Laney couldn't stop the laugh. It came out through her nose, short and sharp. She pressed her lips together and looked at the carpet.
Pastor Hadden let it pass without mention. "We'll have one in this Sunday to feel out."
Laney opened her mouth. Another challenge forming on her lips. Instead, she closed her mouth and nodded.
"However I can help."
Pastor Hadden nodded and gestured for Marianne to walk with him. They started up the aisle. Marianne fell in beside him, her hand finding his elbow.
They passed Laney, and her father stopped. He leaned toward her, close enough that she could smell his cologne.
"I made sure none of these men fit your predilections so you don't forget your vows again."
Laney glanced over at him. He held her eyes for a beat, then straightened and walked on. Marianne didn't look back. The side door opened and closed.
Laney stood in the aisle. She looked up at the cross. Then her eyes dropped to a pew three rows back on the left side. She looked at it for a long time. Then she turned and walked out of the sanctuary.
~~~
Caine walked into the conference room and clocked the setup. Umbrella lights on stands framed two chairs facing each other with about four feet between them, the overhead fluorescents killed so the only light came from the set. A camera on a tripod sat off to the side with a red light already blinking.
Noah stood against the far wall with his arms folded, phone in his hand. The journalist was younger than Caine expected, already on her feet and crossing toward him with her hand out.
"Hey, Caine. I'm Jamie." Her grip was firm, quick. She let go and stepped back, clasping her hands together in front of her. "Noah said he told you that you'd be talking to one of our sports guys, but we think this is a chance for something more on you the person. No one knows you beyond football."
Caine shrugged. "Ain't much about me beyond that. I play football, try to not drive my mama crazy and try to be a good father to my daughter."
Jamie's eyebrows lifted and she looked over at Noah. Noah shrugged, his thumb still scrolling on his phone. "It's his choice what he wants to talk about."
Jamie turned back to Caine. She studied him for a second, recalibrating. "How old is your daughter?"
"Four."
"If you're okay with it, that's what I'd like to ask you about. Then we'll talk about your childhood a bit and we'll wrap up with football so our sports team gets their football story."
"I'm cool with that."
Jamie smiled. "Wonderful. Let's get started." She gestured toward one of the chairs.
Caine sat down and Jamie handed him a lapel mic. He took it without looking at it, clipped it to the collar of his hoodie, fed the wire down under the hood and out the bottom with his free hand, looped the slack once so it didn't pull, and tucked the battery pack into his back pocket.
Jamie watched him do it. "You've done a few of these," she said.
"A few."
She sat down in the other chair, crossed one leg over the other, and settled a small notepad on her knee. She clicked her pen once and looked over at the cameraman. He adjusted something on the side of the lens, checked the viewfinder, and dropped a thumbs up.
Jamie squared herself toward Caine. "Can you say and spell your name for me and tell me what you do?"
Caine nodded. "Caine Guerra. C-a-i-n-e. G-u-e-r-r-a. I'm the quarterback at Georgia Southern University." His voice was even, flat, the cadence of someone on autopilot.
Jamie smiled. "You can tell you've done that a lot."
Caine snorted a laugh. He shifted in the chair, his shoulders settling back, one ankle crossing over his knee.
Jamie glanced down at her notepad, then back up. "So, we were talking before and I learned that you're a father. I don't think a lot of people know that about you. Why don't you tell me about that? How do you balance being an elite college quarterback while being a parent and trying to be a student?"
Something in his face changed. His jaw loosened. His shoulders dropped. His hands came off the armrests and settled together in his lap, fingers lacing. The smile that came was different from anything he'd given since he entered the room. It started in his eyes and spread slow, pulling at the corners of his mouth before it got there.
"Camila's mi vida. Sorry, speaking in Spanish, my life. Everything I do is for her..."
His voice carried a softness that hadn't been there earlier. He leaned forward in the chair, elbows finding his knees, talking with his hands now. Jamie nodded along, pen still, letting him go.
~~~
Mireya walked from the car with Camila's hand in hers, the girl's fingers wrapped tight around her index and middle like she was holding a railing. Camila's backpack bounced against her shoulders with each step, the straps too long, the bottom of it hitting the backs of her thighs.
Mireya pulled her phone out with her free hand and thumbed open the group chat. She typed that she wasn't coming in tonight, that she had finals in a week and needed to study. She sent it without reading it back, and the replies started stacking before she could get the phone into her pocket. She left them unread, sliding the phone in and kept walking.
"Mami, I think when I grow up I wanna be a bird."
Mireya laughed. She looked down at Camila, her mouth pulling wide, her eyes bright, holding it for Camila. "Why you want to be a bird, mi amor?"
"So, I can fly all over the world and see what I want to see."
Camila said it with her chin up, announcing it to the sidewalk and the parked cars and anyone else who might need to know. Mireya squeezed her hand.
"You gotta be a big bird then. Like an eagle. So, your wings are strong enough to go far."
Camila gasped, her whole body pulling up taller. "Un aguila. Like daddy!"
Mireya nodded. "You, too. From me. Remember I showed you Mexico's flag?"
Camila nodded so hard her ponytail swung. "Un aguila real."
Mireya smiled. "That's right, mi amor. You're already an eagle so you can go wherever you want, baby."
Camila smiled back at her, teeth showing, the gap where she'd lost one on the bottom making the grin lopsided. She swung Mireya's hand between them as they reached Sara's door.
Mireya knocked twice and pushed the door open. "Soy yo."
Sara looked up from the couch and stood, crossing toward them. Camila broke free from Mireya's hand and ran to her.
"Abuela Sara, mami said I'm an eagle!"
Sara laughed, bending to catch her. "I see it. Look at that beak!"
Camila giggled, pressing her face into Sara's stomach.
Sara smoothed Camila's hair back and tilted her chin toward the couch. "Go put your show on while I talk to mami."
Camila nodded and took off for the couch, climbing up and pulling a pillow into her lap. The remote was already where she'd left it last time.
Mireya's face dropped. The brightness she'd been holding since the car emptied out of her expression as soon as the back of the couch blocked Camila's view of her. Her mouth went flat and the light disappeared from her eyes.
Sara walked over to her, stopping close. "¿Estas bien, mija?"
Mireya nodded. "Simplemente cansado."
Sara studied her face. Mireya held still under it, her jaw set, her hands in her hoodie pocket.
"I can keep her for the night so you can get some sleep," Sara said.
"No, I'll manage."
Sara stared at her for another moment. "Okay. Just text me if you change your mind."
"Will do. I'll call you when I'm on my way home from work."
Sara nodded. "Be safe."
Mireya turned and walked out of the apartment. She got three steps down the walkway before Sara's voice came from behind her.
"Mireya."
She kept going, her stride not breaking. Sara stepped out of the apartment and reached for her, fingers tapping her shoulder.
Mireya's body locked. She spun fast, her hand closing around Sara's forearm, grip hard, eyes blown wide, breath coming in sharp through her nose. Her other hand came up between them, fingers clenched into a fist, ready to strike. She looked left, then right, scanning the walkway and the lot beyond it before her eyes came back to Sara's face.
Sara stood still, not pulling away. She put her other hand over Mireya's where it gripped her arm, her palm warm and steady.
"It's just me, mija. You still have her bag."
Mireya's chest was moving fast. She looked down at her hand on Sara's arm, at the white showing in her knuckles, and released her grip finger by finger. She pulled the backpack strap off her shoulder and held it out. "Sorry. Jumpy."
"¿Ha pasado algo?"
Mireya shook her head. She ran her hand through her hair, pushing it back off her forehead. "Just all these stories about the crime in the city recently. I'm fine. I'm fine. Really. I'm fine." Her hand stayed in her hair for a beat too long before she dropped it. "I'm fucking fine. No, estoy bien."
Sara took the backpack and looped the strap over her own shoulder. "Okay. You're fine. We'll be here when you get home, okay?"
Mireya nodded. "Sorry, again. I'll call you when I get off."
"Okay, mija."
Sara stood in the doorway and watched Mireya walk back to her car.
~~~
Trell sat in the chair with his back to the wall, one ankle crossed over his knee, his phone face down on the armrest beside him. Ant stood behind his left shoulder, arms folded, spine flat against the drywall. The room in front of them had turned into something between a block party and a strip club. Bass rattled the windows in their frames, the speakers stacked in the corner pushing enough volume that conversation only worked if you leaned in close enough to feel someone's breath.
Trell's crew spread across the furniture and the floor, bottles passing between hands, smoke layering the air thick enough that the ceiling fan just pushed it in circles. Strippers worked the middle of the room and the laps on the couch, their bodies catching what light made it to the floor from the lights. Other women moved through the edges, drinks in hand, laughing at whatever the crew was saying to them between pulls of liquor and blunt smoke.
Yola had a girl on each side of him on the far couch, one of them pouring Hennessy into a red cup he held out without looking at her. Scotty sat on the floor with his back against the wall, rolling a blunt on his thigh, head nodding with the beat. Shad was up, watching a stripper on her knees in front of him, his grin wide enough to split his face.
Trell watched all of it, his eyes moved across the room in a slow sweep that started at the front door and ended at the hallway to the back, tracking the bodies and the bottles and the noise with the same attention he gave a block when he drove through it.
He glanced over his shoulder. Ant was already looking at him. Trell lifted two fingers off the armrest and curled them toward himself.
Ant leaned down, turning his head so his ear came close to Trell's mouth. The bass swallowed the space between them and everything else.
"You find anything about where Cass ran off to?" Trell asked.
"Not yet."
Trell nodded once, his jaw shifting. "Let me know. That bitch gotta die."
"I got you."
Ant straightened and settled back against the wall, his arms refolding across his chest, his eyes returning to the room.
Trell reached over to the table beside him and picked up the glass of whiskey sitting on its edge. The ice had melted down to slivers. He brought it to his mouth and sipped, the liquor catching the light amber before he tipped it back. He lowered the glass to the armrest and kept it there, his fingers loose around the base, and watched his crew celebrate what they'd earned him.
