The showroom smelled like new leather and carpet adhesive. Nike had stripped the space down to white walls and portable lighting rigs, a backdrop of seamless paper curving from floor to ceiling at one end where a photographer tested angles with a light meter. Racks of sneakers lined the far wall in colorful rows, each pair tagged and catalogued. A handful of people moved through the room, some already styled and waiting, others talking to staffers holding tablets.
Caine stood off to the side with his hands in his jacket pockets, taking it in. Tatum had texted him the address yesterday afternoon with no explanation beyond "be there at 10."
A woman with a headset and a lanyard walked toward him, tablet tucked under her arm. She smiled, practiced and steady, the warmth worn thin from repetition. "We'll get you fitted so we can start getting the stills."
Caine followed her past a makeup station where a man was brushing powder across someone's forehead, past two racks of clothing wrapped in garment bags, to a couch set against the wall beneath one of the lighting rigs. A stylist was kneeling in front of a young woman, holding a sneaker against her foot while she sat back with one leg crossed over the other.
"Stefano will take care of you," the staffer said and walked off.
Caine sat down on the opposite end of the couch. The rack of shoes behind the stylist was organized by size, the tags dangling from laces in neat plastic sleeves. Stefano didn't look up. He was adjusting a strap on the woman's shoe, murmuring something about the tongue sitting too high.
The woman looked over at Caine. She had box braids pulled into a loose knot on top of her head, gold hoops, a cropped Nike windbreaker over a sports bra.
"You get used to it," she said.
Caine gestured toward Stefano. "It ain't this that I'm trying to get used to. It's my agent telling me the day before shit that I need to be somewhere."
She laughed, a short sound, genuine. "You right. You might never get used to that."
She held out her hand. "I'm GiGi."
Caine shook it. "Caine. GiGi your real name?"
She shook her head, laughing again. "No, my name's Gayle. But ain't it all about brand? Gayle don't sound like a rapper."
Caine held his hands up. "Neither do GiGi. That sound like a white chick walking down Rodeo Drive with a little Pomeranian in her purse."
Gayle sucked her teeth and leaned back into the couch. "Don't do me like that. What you do?"
"Football."
She stared at him for a moment, taking in his features then she gestured to his face. "You look too young for the league. USC? UCLA?"
Caine laughed, shaking his head. He rubbed at his chin, a faint bit of stubble there. "That's them good genes I got from mi mama. USC."
Gayle slapped her thigh. "Damn, I can't fuck with you. I had a thing with a dude who went to UCLA."
"You said had and I ain't worried about it if he can't fight. And that sound like a motherfucker who can’t fight."
Gayle rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth turned up. "It wasn't nothing like that. Just some high school stuff."
Caine waved it off. "Then that don't count. I only count my lil’ yeahs from when I graduated.”
“Lil’ yeahs? Oh, you one of those Louisiana niggas. No wonder you sound like that.” Gayle laughed, her heard tipping back as she did.
Caine put his hand over his heart, feigned hurt on his face. “Sound like what? Now, you doing too much. Especially because I know you got at least two, three bounce samples in your catalog.”
She rolled her eyes. “Ain’t nobody trying to copy y’all music. We got our own style out here.”
“Alright then.” He reached into his pocket for his phone and leaned toward her, holding it between them. “Let me see if you good or an industry plant. Give me some shit to listen to.”
She raised an eyebrow. “An industry plant. Nigga.” Still, she looked at him then the phone and started naming some of her songs.
~~~
Autumn cut across the quad toward Salvatori Hall with her bag over one shoulder and her phone in her hand. The sun sat flat and white above the buildings, pale light that made everything look overexposed without giving off any heat. A few students passed her going the other direction, backpacks heavy, headphones in.
She took the side path along the east face of the building where the concrete narrowed between a service entrance and a row of bike racks. A maintenance cart was parked against the wall, orange cones stacked in the bed.
She walked past it and came out on the far side where the EV charging station lot opened up, a row of spaces marked with green-painted curbs and thick black cables running from silver posts to the cars plugged into them. Half the spots were full.
She walked down the row, her bag shifting against her hip with each step. A white Hyundai. A gray Rivian with a campus parking permit stuck crooked on the windshield. A blue BMW with the charging port still blinking green. Her sneakers scraped the asphalt and she could smell the faint chemical sweetness of hot rubber and brake dust baking off the pavement. Three spaces down, a black Tesla sat with the driver's side window rolled all the way down, the glass disappearing into the door panel.
She turned between the BMW and a Kia, stepped over a charging cable that crossed the lane, and came alongside the Tesla. She leaned down next to the open window, one hand flat on the roof, the metal warm under her palm.
Miles looked over at her from the driver's seat. He had on a heather crewneck and a gold chain tucked inside the collar. His seat was reclined a few inches, one hand resting on the center console.
"You lucky I'm not in my other car or I would've had to up that fye on you," he said.
Autumn sucked her teeth. "I'd smack you in the mouth if you even thought about that."
Miles grinned. Autumn didn't.
She held her hand out through the window. "You got what my daddy wanted me to bring to Riverside?"
Miles reached over to the passenger seat. A catalog envelope sat on top of a folded jacket. He picked it up and held it out to her, pinching it between two fingers at the corner. "You know where you going with that?"
Autumn snatched it from his hand. The envelope was heavier than it looked, something rigid inside, maybe a binder or a set of documents pressed flat in a sleeve. She tucked it under her arm.
"You're talking about something my daddy told me to do. Obviously, I fucking know."
Miles held his hands up. "Just making sure."
He let that sit for a second, then leaned back over the passenger seat again. When he came back up he was holding a bakery box, white cardboard with a stamped logo on the lid, a thin piece of tape sealing the front flap. He held it out through the window with both hands. "I stopped in Santa Clarita on the way down. Remembered you liked that one bakery there."
Autumn looked at the box. The logo was faded green script, a place her father had randomly stopped at years ago on the way to Sacramento and it’d become a once-a-month staple. She looked at Miles. His expression was still easy, still half-smiling, the chain catching light where it met the collar of his shirt. He held the box steady, waiting.
She sucked her teeth again. "Nigga, I don't want that. Don't do any boyfriend shit with me thinking you're being slick. You enjoy that on your way back to Sacramento, Miles."
Miles pulled the box back slowly and set it on the passenger seat. He tapped the lid with two fingers, a soft double beat against the cardboard. "No good deed, huh?"
Autumn straightened up and her hand slid off the warm roof. She turned and walked back down the row of cars, her stride even, the envelope pressed flat against her ribs under her arm. A charging cable hummed in one of the posts she passed.
When she reached the sidewalk, she pulled her phone from her back pocket and opened the group chat without breaking stride. Her thumb moved across the keyboard.
She typed: anybody wanna take a ride with me to riverside
She hit send and kept walking.
~~~
Mireya knocked twice with the side of her fist, Camila's hand in hers. The house sat back from the street behind a short brick walkway, the front framed by ivy that had crept up both sides of the entryway and spread across most of the wall, thick enough to hide the brick underneath. Light came through the canopy of a live oak near the curb and threw long shadows across the walkway. Camila pulled forward against Mireya's grip, craning her neck to follow the ivy up toward the roofline, her head tilting all the way back.
"Look, mami. It's fancy."
Mireya looked down at her and smiled. Camila's eyes were still tracing the vines, her free hand pointing up at where the leaves curled around the edge of a window frame. Mireya squeezed her hand.
"I know, mi amor."
The door opened, and Sara stood in the entryway in a loose cotton shirt and jeans, barefoot on the hardwood, her face breaking into something warm and immediate when she saw the two of them on the step.
"It was unlocked, mija."
Mireya shrugged, one shoulder lifting and dropping.
Camila pulled her hand free from Mireya's and launched herself at Sara, crashing into her legs hard enough to make Sara step back and catch her balance against the doorframe. She wrapped her arms around Sara's thighs and tilted her head up.
"Abuela Sara! This daddy's new house?"
Sara laughed, bending down, one hand coming to rest on the back of Camila's head, her fingers spreading through Camila's hair. "Ours, baby."
The three of them walked inside. Camila stopped in the middle of the room. Her mouth hung open. She turned in a slow circle, her sneakers squeaking on the hardwood, taking in the space above her, the staircase to the left, the open kitchen visible.
"It's like daddy's house in California!"
Mireya had stopped a few steps behind Camila, her arms crossing over her chest, one hand gripping the opposite elbow. Across the room, a set of glass doors ran along the back wall, floor to ceiling, the frames thin and dark. Through them she could see the backyard. Grass. Concrete. The edge of a pool, the water flat and pale blue, the surface catching a strip of sun from over the roofline.
Her pulse climbed. She could feel it in her neck first, then behind her eyes. Her breathing shortened, each inhale catching high in her chest before it got all the way down. She ran a hand through her hair and the strands felt slick between her fingers, wet, clinging to her knuckles as she pulled them through. Her hand came back down to her side and she watched the tremor in it, the shake running from her wrist into her fingertips, the fingers curling and uncurling on their own.
Sara looked over. Mireya was standing with both feet planted, her weight locked into her legs, her shoulders hiked up near her ears, her arms tight across her body. Her eyes were fixed on the back of the house, unblinking. The color had gone out of her face.
Sara crouched down in front of Camila, putting herself between the girl and whatever was happening behind her. She put a hand on Camila's arm and turned her gently toward the staircase.
"Go upstairs and pick your room so we can decide how we're going to decorate it."
Camila's attention shifted instantly, her eyes going wide. "Can I have aguilas?"
Sara smiled at her. "Whatever you want, we'll get daddy to get it for you."
Camila cheered, a small private celebration with her fists pumping at her sides, already turning toward the stairs before Sara had finished talking. She broke into a run.
"Cuidado."
Camila slowed at the bottom step. She pressed her palm flat against the wall and took the stairs up carefully, one at a time, her other hand gripping the banister. Her footsteps moved overhead, thumping from room to room, each one farther from the staircase. A door opened somewhere above them. Then another.
Sara stood and crossed the room to Mireya, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. Mireya’s eyes were still locked on the glass doors, on the yard beyond them, on the water. Sara put her hand on Mireya's shoulder. She could feel how rigid Mireya was underneath, her whole body drawn tight, the muscles in her shoulder knotted up against Sara's palm. Sara moved her hand up and cupped Mireya's cheek, turning her face gently.
"Mija, ¿estás bien?"
Mireya's whole body flinched. Her eyes broke from the doors and scattered across the room, sweeping the ceiling, the walls, the floor, the staircase, not landing on anything. Then they found Sara standing in front of her and stopped. Mireya blinked. Blinked again. She pulled in a breath that filled her chest this time, her shoulders dropping an inch as the air went in.
"I'm fine."
Sara kept her hand on Mireya's face and didn't speak.
"I'm fine. I'm fine."
Sara ran her thumb slowly across Mireya's cheek, catching the wet trail there, a single line that had run from the corner of Mireya's eye down to her jaw. Mireya didn't react to it. Sara wiped it away and lowered her hand.
"You know you can move in here with me, right?"
Mireya shook her head. "Caine doesn't want me here."
"Not only is that not true, but I wouldn't give a fuck if he didn't."
Mireya snorted a laugh. It came out short and raw, more breath than sound. "Might be a hard sell when you're arguing with rapper baby mamas."
Sara raised an eyebrow. "¿Qué?"
Mireya flipped her phone over in her hand and opened Instagram. She scrolled down her timeline, her thumb swiping past stories and reels, the screen reflecting off her face in the dim front room. She stopped on a post from a sneaker influencer, a photo of Caine sitting on a couch next to a woman in a cropped Nike windbreaker. They were mid-conversation, Caine leaning slightly toward her, the Nike branding visible on the backdrop behind them. The caption tagged the woman as GiGi. Mireya turned the screen toward Sara and held it there.
Sara looked at the picture. She studied it for a moment, her expression flat, and then waved it off with the back of her hand. "Parece que le gustan los viejos."
Mireya pressed her lips together, holding back whatever was behind them.
Sara's face shifted. The humor left it and something heavier settled in. She looked at Mireya directly. "I mean it, mija. There is enough space here for you."
"Thanks. I just like my own space."
Sara nodded, slow, her jaw working for a second before she spoke. "Okay, but the offer stands."
"I'll be back to pick her up after work."
Sara stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Mireya, pulling her in close. Mireya's body went rigid for a beat. Her arms stayed at her sides, her chin lifting away from the contact, her shoulders bracing against it. Then something in her chest gave. Her forehead dropped onto Sara's shoulder. Her arms came up, slowly, and her hands pressed flat against Sara's back. Sara's hand came up and moved over Mireya's hair, smoothing it down from her crown to the nape of her neck, steady and slow.
"I wish you'd let me in, mija, but I understand. Solo quiero que sepas que te amo muchísimo."
Mireya nodded against her shoulder. Her fingers curled into the fabric of Sara's shirt. "Y yo a ti."
Sara stepped back, holding Mireya's face between both hands. She looked at her, her thumbs resting just below Mireya's cheekbones, and smiled. Then she leaned forward and pressed her lips to Mireya's forehead, holding them there for a long moment before pulling back.
"Be safe at work, mija."
~~~
Darius picked the ball clean out of the UCLA guard's hands at halfcourt, tipping it loose and pushing it out in front of him before the defense could turn around. He took two dribbles through the open floor, the Galen Center already rising around him, and gathered at the dotted line. He went up with one hand, arm behind his head and threw it down hard enough that the rim shook and the backboard flexed on its stanchion, the ball snapping through the net and bouncing high off the hardwood beneath.
He landed and pounded his chest with his fist, once, twice, then turned toward the USC student section and shouted into the noise, his mouth wide open, the veins in his neck standing out under the arena lights. The building answered him. The student section was on its feet, the bleachers shaking under the stomping, the sound rolling down from the upper deck and pooling on the floor where it pressed against Caine's chest.
Caine stood with his arms crossed, watching from the floor section in front of the first row of the student section, right near UCLA's bench. He was packed in tight with Cam, Derron, Angel, Alonzo, and Rachaad, shoulder to shoulder with a cluster of other USC athletes who'd been funneled into an improvised overflow area behind the courtside seats. The gym was stuffed past capacity for the rivalry game, every seat taken, people standing in the aisles, the heat from the crowd thick enough that Caine could feel it on his arms through his hoodie.
UCLA brought the ball up. Their point guard crossed halfcourt and called a set, holding up two fingers. The offense spread. A forward set a screen at the elbow and the shooting guard curled off it to the wing, catching the pass in rhythm and squaring up behind the arc. He let it go with a clean release and the ball hit the front of the rim, bounced up off the backboard, and came down into a Trojan forward's hands. The USC bench jumped off their seats. The forward turned and pushed it up the floor.
They worked the ball around the perimeter, swinging it from wing to wing. The shot clock counted down on the stanchion above the basket. The point guard drove left, drew a defender, and kicked it back out to the top of the key. Darius was already moving. He came off a screen at the elbow, his defender trailing a step behind, and caught the pass a foot behind the three-point line. He was still in motion when he turned and fired, his release high, his follow-through holding in the air after the ball left his hand. The ball arced up under the lights and dropped through the net without touching anything. The mesh barely moved.
The PA announcer's voice cut through the building, distorted through the speakers. "Threeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"
The student section blew up. Cups went flying. A shoe came over someone's head and landed on the stairs. Cam threw an arm around Caine's shoulders and pulled him sideways, shouting over the noise. "That nigga cold!"
Caine couldn't help but to smile, his arms still crossed, shaking his head while Darius backpedaled on defense with three fingers up on each hand, pointing them at the UCLA bench as he crossed halfcourt.
UCLA's coach was already standing, his clipboard in one hand and the other slashing through the air. The whistle blew. Timeout. The arena music kicked in overhead, bass thumping through the floor, and the cheerleaders jogged onto the court with their poms. The Bruins players walked toward their sideline with their heads down, grabbing towels off the chairs, pulling at their jerseys. One of them sat down and put a towel over his face.
Rachaad stepped forward out of the group and leaned his body around the two LAPD officers stationed at the edge of the floor section, the ones posted between the USC students and the UCLA bench to keep the gap clear. He cupped his hand around his mouth.
"Hey! Say bitch!"
One of the UCLA benchwarmers on the near end of the sideline turned around. He was a white kid, tall and narrow in the shoulders, his warmup shirt hanging off his frame, looking like he'd been assigned to the roster by someone who owed his father a favor. He blinked at Rachaad.
Rachaad didn't wait. "Y'all dig y'all bitch ass homeboy Stefan up yet?"
The kid turned fully and stepped toward the police line, his face flushing from his jaw up to his temples. He leaned forward. "Man, fuck you. You mad y'all garbage."
"Bet y'all won't fight about it!"
The two LAPD officers shifted. They stepped laterally, putting their bodies between Rachaad and the bench, their hands moving to their belts out of habit. The closer one, a thick man with a shaved head and a vest over his uniform shirt, held his hands out at his sides, palms open. His body language was more tired than anything else.
"C'mon, man. Can we get an easy night?"
Rachaad held one hand up, his face still pointed past the officer toward the UCLA bench. "You got it, 5-0. Officer Tenpenny looking ass."
The officer shook his head and turned back to face the court. His partner said something under his breath. Rachaad stepped back into the group, rolling his neck, the grin still on his face.
Caine gestured toward the UCLA bench with his chin. "What's that about?"
Rachaad shook his head. "Ain't shit. Nigga who used to play with them a couple years back got his ass gunned down trying to play gangster behind a bitch."
Alonzo leaned in from behind Cam's shoulder. "It was that Alexis bitch, right? The one who got paralyzed?"
Derron kissed his knuckle and made the sign of the cross, pressing his fist to his chest before he spoke. "God save me, but all I know about that bitch is I fucked the shit out her a couple times."
Cam reached over and dapped him up, laughing, his other hand on his stomach. "Me too. Beat all that bitch doonies down."
Caine shook his head, snorting a laugh. "Diabolical work. Was that before or after she got paralyzed?"
Angel said, "Pussy still good even if it don't really work."
They all looked at him. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, his expression flat, like he'd said something about the weather. Then they started laughing, all of them at once, Derron doubling over, Cam's arm still around Caine's shoulders, Rachaad's head tipped back, as the referees walked to the scorer's table and signaled the end of the timeout.
~~~
Saul lay on his side with Ava's back pressed against his chest, his arm draped over her waist, his hand resting flat against her stomach. The room was dark, blinds down but not fully closed, and a thin line of streetlight came through the gap at the bottom and stretched across the carpet. Angel's crib was against the far wall, the mesh side facing the bed, the shape of it barely visible in the dark. Saul could hear the boy breathing, the small wet rhythm of it, steady and even.
He was somewhere between sleep and awake when something pulled him out. A sound. Not loud. Not close. He opened his eyes and Ava shifted against him, her shoulders tightening, her head lifting off the pillow an inch. They both looked toward the crib. The room was still. Angel hadn't moved. The breathing from the crib was the same.
Ava settled back down. "Must've been a car."
Saul nodded against the pillow. He closed his eyes and let his head sink back into it, his arm still over Ava, his fingers curling against the fabric of her shirt where it bunched at her hip. The house was silent again. The heater clicked on somewhere down the hall, a low hum that vibrated through the wall behind the headboard.
He was almost under again when Ava's hand reached behind her, sliding between their bodies. Her fingers moved over the front of his shorts, slow, deliberate, her palm pressing flat against him through the cotton. Saul opened his eyes.
"You wanna?"
Ava nodded, her head moving against the pillow. "We gotta be quick."
She turned onto her back and Saul leaned over her, one hand on the mattress beside her head, his other hand finding her jaw in the dark. He pressed his lips to hers. Her mouth was warm and dry from sleep. She kissed him back and it shifted fast, her hand coming up to the back of his neck, pulling him down, her lips opening against his. He kissed her harder and she matched it, her teeth catching his bottom lip. Her breathing changed.
She reached down between them and pushed his shorts and boxers down past his hips. He shifted his weight to one arm and reached under her sleep shirt with his free hand, his fingers hooking the waistband of her panties and pulling them down. She lifted her hips off the mattress to help, and he dragged them past her knees. She kicked them off under the sheet.
Saul moved between her legs, his knee widening them, his hand pressing against the inside of her thigh to open her further. He could feel her breathing against his neck, fast and shallow. He shifted his hips and reached down to guide himself in.
A whimper came from the crib.
Saul dropped his head. His forehead pressed against Ava's collarbone, his body going still above her. The sound was small, a single note, one Angel made in his sleep when he was cycling between dreams.
Ava's hand came up to Saul's shoulder. Her fingers pressed into the muscle there, holding him in place. Her whisper was barely a sound. "Wait. He might just be dreaming."
They didn't move. Saul held himself up on his arms, his weight suspended, his face against Ava's neck. The crib was silent. Five seconds. Ten. The heater hummed. Saul could feel Ava's pulse against his chest, her heartbeat fast and close to the surface.
"Okay, hurry."
Saul started to shift his weight. He moved his hand back down between them.
Angel wailed.
It came all at once, the full open-mouthed cry that meant he was awake, the one that started in his chest and came out loud enough to fill the room. His legs kicked against the crib mattress and the whole frame shook, the joints creaking.
Saul dropped his head again, this time into the pillow beside Ava's face. "Maldita sea, mijo."
He rolled off Ava onto his back. The sheet twisted around his legs. He stared at the ceiling, the plaster catching the thin line of streetlight, Angel's crying filling the room in waves. Each breath the boy took was a reset before the next one came louder.
"You want me to get him?"
Ava shook her head. She reached down and pulled her panties back on from wherever they'd ended up in the sheet, tugging them up under her shirt. She slid out of the bed on her side, her feet hitting the carpet, her shirt falling to the tops of her thighs. "You got him last time."
"Alright."
Ava walked around the foot of the bed to the crib. She leaned down and lifted Angel out, her hands sliding under his arms, his body small against hers as she brought him up to her chest. His crying shifted when she held him, the wailing breaking into shorter bursts with gaps between them. She pressed her lips to the top of his head and shushed him, one hand cradling the back of his neck, the other arm hooked under his legs. She walked out of the room and into the hallway, her footsteps soft on the carpet, the sound of Angel's whimpering moving away toward the kitchen until it was just the edges of it coming back through the open door.
Saul lay on his back for a moment. Then he sat up and grabbed his boxers and shorts from where they'd been pushed down around his thighs. He stood, pulled them up, and lay back down. He reached over to the nightstand and picked up his phone. The screen lit up his face in the dark. 5:47 would come early. He checked the alarm, saw the toggle switched on, set the phone back down on the nightstand, and closed his eyes.
~~~
Mireya pushed through the back door of the venue with Jaslene and Liana behind her. The parking lot was half-empty, the asphalt slick from an earlier rain that had already stopped, the air thick and cool against their skin after hours inside under the lights. Mireya had her bag over one shoulder and her keys already in her hand. The three of them walked side by side toward the row of cars along the back fence, their shoes tapping unevenly on the wet ground.
"Y'all want to go grab something to eat?"
Liana shook her head. "I can't. I got an exam to study for tomorrow."
Mireya sucked her teeth and looked at Jaslene.
Jaslene smiled, her bag swinging at her hip. "You know I never turn you down, mi amor."
Mireya laughed. "You turn me down plenty. For a lot of shit."
Jaslene leaned into her shoulder, her voice dropping. "No cuando se trata de lo que quieres comer."
Mireya gave her a look, her eyebrows lifting, her mouth pressing flat to keep the smile from spreading.
Liana rolled her eyes, her head tilting back. "I don't know what you said but y'all fucking sickening."
Mireya and Jaslene laughed. Liana waved at them over her shoulder as she cut left toward her car, her shoes splashing through a shallow puddle. "I'll catch y'all tomorrow after my exam."
Mireya and Jaslene kept walking toward the end of the row. Mireya's car was three spots down. The car next to it, Brooke's, had its windows rolled down, the interior light on. Sydney was in the backseat, leaned forward over the center console. Brooke was in the driver's seat, her phone in her hand. C.J. was in the passenger seat with her feet up on the dash.
Sydney leaned further over the console. Her head dipped and she snorted hard, a sharp wet sound that carried across the empty lot. She came back up wiping her nose with the heel of her hand, sniffing twice, her jaw working.
Mireya shook her head as she reached her car door. "Fucking junkies."
Brooke looked over from the driver's seat, her eyes cutting toward Mireya through the open window. "Shut the fuck up before I beat your ass."
Mireya turned her whole body toward Brooke's car. "I wish you would get out of that fucking car."
Jaslene was already at her own driver's door on the other side of Mireya's car. She looked over the roof. "¿Quieres enfrentarte a ellos?"
Mireya kept her eyes on Brooke's car. "Eso depende de ellos."
C.J. shifted in the passenger seat, pulling her feet off the dash. "That's why I hate working with them. They always speaking that spic shit."
Mireya moved before the last word finished leaving C.J.'s mouth. She stepped to the open passenger window and reached inside, her hand coming across fast and open, catching C.J. flush across the mouth. The sound of it was sharp and flat in the parking lot. C.J.'s head snapped back.
"I already told your fucking ass not to disrespect me."
C.J. grabbed her lip with both hands, her fingers coming away and checking for blood. Brooke threw her phone onto the dash. "Bitch, we gonna fuck you up."
Mireya stepped back into the open lane of the parking lot, away from the car, her arms at her sides, her bag dropped at her feet. She gave them space, room to get out if they wanted to.
It wasn't Brooke who moved first. It wasn't C.J. The back door swung open and Sydney came out, her jaw still tight from the line, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She stood on the asphalt with her fists balled at her sides.
Mireya laughed. She pointed at Sydney and looked over at Jaslene across the roof of her car. "Fuck that crackwhore think she gonna do?"
Sydney said, "Fuck you," and ran at her.
She hit Mireya low, her shoulder driving into Mireya's midsection, and the two of them went down hard. Mireya's back slammed against the concrete and the air left her lungs in a single forced exhale, her mouth opening but nothing coming in. Her head bounced off the asphalt. Sydney was on top of her, her knees digging into Mireya's hips, her hands grabbing at Mireya's shirt.
Mireya got her arms up and tried to hook her leg around Sydney's to flip her off. Sydney threw a punch that went wide and caught Mireya on the forearm. She threw another that grazed off Mireya's bicep. A third landed on Mireya's stomach, a dull thud through her side that made her teeth clamp together. None of them were clean. Sydney was swinging from her shoulder with no aim, her fists loose, her weight shifting with every missed shot.
Brooke and C.J. pushed their doors open. Brooke got one foot on the asphalt.
Jaslene came around the back of Mireya's car. The switchblade was already out, the blade flicked open, the metal catching the parking lot light. She held it low at her side, her grip relaxed, her body between them and the fight on the ground.
"Don't be stupid, putas."
Brooke stopped. She put her hands up, palms out, and leaned back against the doorframe.
C.J. stepped forward, her chin up, her lip still swelling from where Mireya had hit her. "You're not going to do anything with that."
Jaslene tilted her head. "You want to take that bet?"
Brooke grabbed C.J.'s arm and pulled her back toward the car. C.J. shrugged her off but didn't step forward again.
On the ground, Mireya got her hips free. She bridged hard, planting her feet flat on the concrete and driving upward. Sydney pitched forward and Mireya rolled her, reversing positions. She got on top with her knees on either side of Sydney's stomach, her shins pressing flat against the asphalt, her weight pinning Sydney down. Sydney's hands came up to grab at Mireya's wrists but Mireya pulled her right arm back and punched her in the jaw.
Sydney's head turned sideways against the concrete. Her hands stopped grabbing and came up to cover her face, her fingers spread over her nose and cheeks, her eyes squeezed shut. Mireya kept throwing. Her fists came down on Sydney's forearms, her wrists, the gaps between her fingers, each punch landing with a sound that echoed off the cars on either side of them.
