Bus Headed Anywhere
The house reeked of stale beer, resin, and disappointment. The kind of smell that soaked into the walls and lingered long after the music died. There were too many people crowded into a space too small, and none of them seemed to notice—or care—that Poochie had been sitting on that ratty couch for hours, barely moving. The TV blared a rap video that no one was watching, and the beat competed with the low din of scattered conversation, clinking bottles, and slurred laughter.
Poochie sat hunched forward, a half-empty beer clutched in one hand, his eyes unfocused and bloodshot. He looked worn—shoulders slumped, hoodie damp at the collar, his chain sitting dull against a wrinkled shirt. He hadn’t showered that day. Maybe not the day before either.
Natalia sat perched stiffly on the other end of the couch, arms crossed, legs tightly folded. She hadn’t said anything when they walked in together, hadn’t touched him once. But now, she couldn’t keep the words down any longer.
“Babe,” she said, leaning in. “Can we go? I feel like I’m gonna catch something just sitting here.”
Poochie didn’t even look at her. “You can leave if you want,” he muttered, voice dry and distant as he took another sip.
Natalia flinched, her jaw tightening. She ran a hand through her hair, already regretting this. “Seriously? This is who you are now?” Her voice rose above the beat. “You’re just gonna sit in here all night, drinking in a room full of people who don’t give a fuck about you?”
He turned slowly, eyes narrowing. “What’s your fucking problem, man? I ain’t ask you to come with me.”
“My problem is you,” Natalia snapped, loud enough now that Meech and a few of his boys turned to watch. “You think this shit is normal? You think it’s cute? Sulking around and pretending the world owes you something? You’re throwing everything away because you didn’t get your way one time.”
Meech, lounging in a recliner, chuckled. “You gon’ let her talk to you like that, P? Sound like she ain't never believed in you anyway.”
Poochie’s jaw tensed. But he didn’t take the bait. He turned back to Natalia. “You don’t know what the fuck you talking about. You don’t know how hard I been grinding. How it feel to be told you not good enough every time you try.”
She leaned in closer, eyes shining now—not with tears, but anger. “You used to say it was us against the world. Remember that? All those nights we stayed up talking about making it? About proving everybody wrong? And now you’re just giving up? And for what—this?” She swept a hand toward the room, disgust in her voice.
He scoffed, standing up and towering over her. “You a big girl. You’ll manage.”
Natalia stood too, unflinching. “You think I’m leaving you? I already left. You just didn’t notice.”
Poochie’s lip curled. “Then go.”
Natalia stared at him for a long second, then picked up her bag. Her voice shook—not from fear, but from fury. “You need to figure your shit out. Because this? This ain't it. And if you don’t fix it now, you’re gonna wake up one day and realize nobody’s coming to save you. Not from this life. Not from yourself.”
She turned, her heels clacking against the floor as she headed toward the door. As she reached it, she glanced back once more.
“You’re not the only one losing something, Eric. Don’t forget that.”
The door slammed behind her, and the walls shuddered with the force.
Meech chuckled, shaking his head. “Man, fuck that. She don’t know what she talking about. I been telling you—you don’t need her. She one of them 'seen and not heard' bitches, and she don’t realize she don’t need to be seen or heard.”
Poochie didn’t say anything.
Didn’t move.
He just sat back down and stared at the screen. And for the first time that night, he realized it wasn’t the room making him feel sick.
It was himself.
~~~~~~~~~~
The room was functional more than anything—low ceilings, a table of polished oak, muted lighting, no windows. Royce sat at one end of it, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, tracking every move. Across from him, Billy wore a crisp button-up, no tie, reading glasses perched low on his nose as he flipped through a thick packet of documents. Chance Delpit, as always, looked like he belonged somewhere else—leaning back in his chair in a tailored slate suit, tapping on his phone like he wasn’t even part of the meeting he’d arranged.
Royce let the silence stretch.
He wasn’t in a rush.
Billy finally slid the packet forward. “This is the agreement,” he said, measured and direct. “Marketing partnership. Regional campaign. There’s a strong payout attached—high five figures, with backend bonuses depending on activation metrics.”
Royce picked it up, turned the pages.
“I’ve reviewed every clause,” Billy continued. “Clean language. No traps. Limited exclusivity window, which gives you freedom for future deals.”
Royce nodded slowly, flipping past the legal jargon. He wasn’t reading—just scanning, the way you do when the paper’s weight already tells you it’s real.
“Chance facilitated the conversation,” Billy added. “But the deal’s being run through his associate’s firm.”
Royce looked up. “Why not through you?”
Delpit smiled, not even looking up from his phone. “Because I know my lane.”
Billy’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t acknowledge the jab. “My job is to secure opportunities. Yours is to decide if they align with your brand.”
Royce smirked faintly. “Brand.”
Billy gave a quick nod. “You have one. Whether you like it or not.”
Royce went quiet again. Then: “Y’all want me to sign this today?”
“There’s no urgency,” Billy replied. “But I need a decision by end of week. They’re expecting the rollout to begin early summer. I can handle coordination on your end, assuming you're in.”
Royce turned the final page and saw the number. He didn’t react.
He didn’t have to.
Billy gathered his notes. “I’ll send the digital version to your email. Take your time.”
He stood, shook Delpit’s hand with a warm, but transactional, nod, then looked to Royce. “Let me know when you're ready.”
Royce stood, dapped him lightly. “Appreciate it.”
“Keep doing what you're doing,” Billy said, his voice low. “These kinds of rooms? They don’t stay open forever.”
He left without another word.
Delpit waited until the door clicked shut before finally setting his phone down.
Royce looked over. “You could’ve done this without him.”
Delpit raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You got the contacts. The influence. Why loop Billy in if you ain’t have to?”
Delpit leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in front of him. “You know the difference between leverage and loyalty?”
Royce didn’t respond.
Delpit smiled. “Leverage is what gets you in the room. Loyalty is what keeps people from locking the door behind you.”
Royce squinted. “That supposed to mean something?”
“It means I could’ve closed this deal myself. But then Billy’s watching me. Second-guessing. Wondering what he’s missing next time. You keep a man comfortable, he becomes useful. You take from him, you make an enemy.”
Royce nodded slowly, taking that in.
Delpit stood, smoothing out the front of his blazer. “Besides, sometimes you let people win small battles so they don’t notice the war.”
Royce chuckled under his breath. “You always talk like this?”
Delpit grinned. “Only to the ones I think might actually listen.”
Royce pocketed the packet, then paused near the door. “What am I supposed to do with all this?”
“Simple,” Delpit said. “Use it.”
Royce gave him a look. “Use it for what?”
Delpit met his eyes. “To be in control of your future.”
Royce stepped out into the hallway with the paperwork tucked under his arm, his name printed bold across the front.
The weight of the folder didn’t feel heavy.
But the decisions inside it?
They did.
~~~~~~~~~~
The air was still thick from the morning’s humidity, sun just starting to lean west across the neighborhood. A few kids ran barefoot across the patchy grass next door, shouting over a flat basketball. The usual chorus of dogs barked in the background, like they didn’t want Mike to forget where he was leaving from.
Laila stood with her arms crossed, hip leaned against the passenger door of Mike’s beat-up Accord. Her eyes were red—not from crying yet, but from knowing it was coming. She’d been helping him load the car all morning—duffel bags, a plastic bin of hoodies and gym shorts, a busted shoebox of chargers and envelopes. One final bag sat by the curb, zipped shut with a Northwestern State hoodie barely sticking out the side.
Mike stepped out of the house holding a backpack and a case of bottled water. His eyes flicked to Laila, then away again. “That’s it,” he said.
She didn’t move.
He loaded the last of it into the trunk, then closed it with a quiet thunk. His palms were sweating, but not from the heat. He walked around to where she stood and pulled the driver’s door open, but didn’t get in yet.
For a second, neither of them said anything.
Then Laila spoke, her voice tight. “You sure you got everything?”
“Yeah.”
“You double check?”
“Three times.”
She looked down at the cracked concrete beneath their feet. “You got your class schedule?”
“Yeah.”
“Printed out?”
He cracked a tired smile. “You printed it for me, remember?”
Laila tried to smile too, but it didn’t hold.
Mike leaned back against the car. “You mad at me?”
“No,” she said quickly, too quickly.
He nodded, taking it.
“I’m proud of you,” she added. “Like, for real.”
Mike looked at her, brow tense like he wanted to believe it but didn’t trust it fully.
“You got out,” she said, softer now. “You’re actually leaving.”
“I ain’t all the way out,” he said.
“Well, you will be,” she replied. “Just promise me something.”
He raised his eyebrows. “What?”
Laila stepped in closer. “Promise me you won’t come back.”
Mike’s lips parted, but nothing came out.
“I mean it, Mike,” she said. “Don’t come back here. Not just for a weekend, not to ride through. Don’t visit people who don’t want better for you. Don’t answer calls from people who only knew you when you had to hustle. Don’t come back.”
He looked away, jaw tight.
Laila reached out and touched his chest with her fingers, right over his heart. “Promise me.”
He swallowed. “I promise.”
She studied his face. “Say it like you mean it.”
“I mean it,” he said.
Laila nodded and stepped back, eyes glassy now. “Then go.”
Mike leaned in and kissed her, slow and steady, her hand still resting against his chest. He didn’t say goodbye when he pulled away—just opened the car door, climbed in, and turned the key.
The engine rumbled to life. The AC kicked on, but the cabin still smelled like his cologne and something heavier. Like worry.
As he pulled away from the curb, Laila didn’t wave. She just stood there, arms wrapped tight around herself, watching until the car disappeared around the corner.
Mike didn’t look back.
Not until the first red light.
He checked the rearview mirror once.
The road behind him was empty.
He exhaled hard, trying to convince himself it meant something.
His phone buzzed in the cupholder.
Treg: Where my money, nigga?
Mike stared at the message.
Then flipped the phone face down and kept driving.
The road stretched wide ahead, but his hands felt heavier on the wheel.
The bricks didn’t let go easy.
Even when you promised not to come back.
Dying to Live
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16988
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
djp73
- Posts: 13243
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Go make it Mike Mike
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16988
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16988
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Equal Opportunist
The elevator dinged softly as it reached Royce’s floor, and a second later, a knock landed on the door in that half-playful way only family knocks. Not rushed. Not uncertain.
Royce already knew who it was.
He opened the door to find Rana holding Julian on her hip, a diaper bag slung over her shoulder, and Tyrell behind her with foil-wrapped Tupperware in one hand and a plastic bag in the other.
“You look like you’re bracing for impact,” Rana said, stepping inside.
“I knew the food meant a lecture,” Royce replied.
Tyrell laughed. “Damn, at least pretend you’re happy to see us.”
“I am happy. Especially if that’s your red beans.”
“It is,” Rana said, heading straight for the open-plan kitchen like she lived there. “And some cornbread too.”
Julian gurgled in her arms as she shifted him, then reached out toward Royce with one chubby, eager hand. Royce smirked and took him carefully.
“What’s up, little man?” he murmured, bouncing him once on his arm.
Tyrell walked in behind them and nodded in approval. “Still spotless in here. I don’t know how you manage to live like you don’t actually live here.”
Royce shrugged. “I lived in y’all guest room for a year, bruh. You know I don’t like mess.”
“You don’t like other people’s mess,” Rana said, unpacking the food on the counter. “You had a thing about your sock drawer but left everything else to die.”
Royce chuckled, one arm still wrapped around Julian as he peeked into the foil trays. “This chicken real or store-bought?”
“You know better,” she said.
They ate standing around the island, like they always did when they stopped by. No one asked for plates. Royce grabbed clean forks from the drawer and passed them around while Tyrell poured three glasses of cold water from the fridge.
It was easy.
Almost too easy.
And that’s when Rana leaned on the counter and said, “So what’s the plan?”
Royce glanced at her, still chewing. “Plan for what?”
“You’re a junior now. Semester’s over.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You bringing this up with food in my mouth so I can’t argue?”
“Absolutely,” she said, smiling.
Tyrell leaned his elbow on the counter. “You thinking about staying through senior year?”
Royce looked between them. “I don’t know yet. Depends on the season. I got options.”
“You’ve got opportunity,” Rana corrected. “There’s a difference. Degree still matters.”
Tyrell nodded. “Look, we’re not saying don’t go pro. Just don’t leave the door closed behind you. Having that degree changes shit.”
Royce exhaled through his nose. “I ain’t walking away from it. I just ain’t making that decision today.”
Rana didn’t argue, but her silence spoke. She looked at Julian, who had managed to smear cornbread crumbs across Royce’s shoulder.
Royce shifted the baby and said, almost casually, “Y’all know Reg got Hep C?”
Rana blinked. “What?”
“I went to Dixon last week. Pops told me. Said Reg probably got some other shit too.”
She looked down, eyes going distant. “No. I didn’t know.”
Royce studied her face. “You surprised?”
Rana shook her head. “Not really. I was the furthest from him, you know that. Him and I barely talked even before he started disappearing for weeks at a time. I knew about the needles, though. That wasn’t news.”
Tyrell leaned back. “You talk to Kevon often?”
Royce shook his head. “More often than I did when I was a kid.”
There was a pause, quiet except for the soft hum of the fridge and Julian cooing in Royce’s arms.
Then Tyrell moved toward the sink to rinse his glass. He set it down and reached for another cup sitting on the drying rack. A pale pink Stanley cup. Real clean, almost too clean, the kind of cup that didn’t belong in a single guy’s apartment unless someone left it behind.
He turned to Royce with a knowing look. “You got somebody staying over regular?”
Royce glanced at the cup, his face unreadable.
“That’s some other shit I’m not talking about.”
Tyrell laughed. “You don’t gotta tell me. Just know if she leaves one more thing behind, it’s not your apartment anymore.”
“I’m serious,” Royce said. “I’m not talking about that.”
“Alright,” Tyrell said, holding up a hand. “Respect.”
Rana gave Royce a long look, then just said, “Tell Alix thanks for not trashing your kitchen.”
“She don’t live here,” Royce said again, softer.
“I didn’t say she did.”
Julian stirred and started to fuss, so Rana came to collect him. Royce handed him over carefully, fingers lingering for a second on the back of the baby’s neck.
“You sure you’re good?” Rana asked, more serious now.
Royce nodded. “I’m straight.”
Tyrell grabbed the empty food containers, stuffing the foil into the trash on his way out. “Alright, lil’ bro,” he said. “We’ll see you soon.”
Royce walked them to the door. The hallway outside was quiet as usual, polished floors, soft lighting—just like the rest of the high-rise.
“Y’all be safe.”
“You too,” Rana said, adjusting Julian on her shoulder.
When the door closed, Royce turned back into the apartment. The silence settled quick.
He rinsed the forks. Put everything back where it belonged.
Except the pink cup.
He left it in the sink.
Didn’t even move it.
Just let it sit there like it belonged.
~~~~~~~~~~
The pool glittered under the late afternoon sun, each ripple catching light like it was made of glass. The air smelled like sunscreen and citrus seltzers, with just a trace of chlorine drifting up from the deep end. Alix lay stretched out on a lounge chair in her favorite black bikini, sunglasses resting on her nose, one leg crossed over the other, and her hair piled loosely on top of her head.
To her right, Ashlee sipped from a canned cocktail with a pink straw, while Simone scrolled through her phone and Madi rubbed tanning oil along her collarbone. All four of them were reclined like synchronized sun worshipers, skin glowing, drinks sweating in the heat, a portable speaker on the ground pumping out a low-fi playlist heavy on summer beats and airy vocals.
“I’m just saying,” Simone murmured, “if I have to spend summer in Baton Rouge again, I’m gonna cry.”
“You say that every year,” Ashlee replied without opening her eyes.
Madi turned her head lazily. “What happened to you and Trey going to Miami?”
Simone rolled her eyes. “Girl, Trey can’t even plan his meals. Every time I bring up flights, he starts talking about how rent’s due.”
“Sounds familiar,” Ashlee said, raising her drink like a toast.
Then all three of them turned, slowly, in unison toward Alix.
“What?” she asked, pushing her sunglasses up slightly.
“You’re the only one with a boyfriend who has actual income,” Madi said. “We’re just trying to catch a breeze off your lifestyle.”
“Y’all are so dumb,” Alix muttered, smiling anyway.
Simone grinned. “So? You and Royce got anything lined up for summer? Like a trip?”
Alix shook her head, leaning back deeper into the chair. “Y’all keep forgetting he has football. The whole reason he has the money is also why he barely has time. Spring ball runs into summer workouts, and by the time he gets a week off, Coach has already blown up his phone three times.”
“Can’t he just unplug for a bit?” Ashlee asked. “He’s not gonna forget how to tackle.”
“That’s not how it works,” Alix said. “He gets anxious when he’s not doing something. Like... lost in his own body.”
“That sounds... hot,” Simone said under her breath, making them all laugh.
Alix was still shaking her head when a shadow passed in front of them.
“Excuse me,” a voice said—deep, easy, just the right kind of polite to get your attention without sounding practiced.
Alix looked up over the edge of her sunglasses—and paused.
He was tall, lean but solid, maybe a few years older than them. Smooth brown skin, towel slung over one shoulder, athletic shorts riding low on his hips. A thin scar ran along the inside of his left forearm. His eyes flicked briefly across the group before landing on her—and holding. Not rude. Not pushy. But definitely curious.
She noticed.
So did her roommates.
“Any of y’all happen to have a phone charger?” he asked. “Mine just died. Supposed to check in with someone and I don’t want it to be a whole thing.”
“What kind of phone?” Alix asked, already sitting up a little straighter.
“iPhone,” he said, giving a small, sheepish grin. “But like, not the fancy kind.”
“I’ve got one,” she said, standing and brushing off her towel. “In the apartment.”
He nodded, smiling now. “Appreciate it.”
As they walked toward the building, Alix caught him glancing at her again—this time not as quick, not as subtle.
“You might want to watch where you’re going instead of watching me,” she said without turning her head.
He chuckled. “You make it hard not to.”
She glanced back over her shoulder. “That your go-to line?”
“Nah. Just honest.”
They reached the stairwell, and she slowed slightly to let him catch up.
“You new around here?” she asked.
“Few months,” he said. “I’m Jacory, but everyone calls me Co.”
“Alix.”
“Nice to meet you, Alix.”
He stopped a few feet from her front door and waited. Didn’t follow her in.
She noticed that too.
Inside, her apartment was cool and tidy, the charger plugged in beside the couch. She unplugged it, wrapped the cord around her fingers, and stepped back out.
“Here,” she said, handing it over. “Don’t worry about bringing it back. I’ve got more.”
He took it gently, brushing her fingers just enough to make her notice. “I couldn’t do that. Wouldn’t be neighborly.”
She raised a brow. “You live in this building?”
“Couple over. The one with the lopsided stair rail and the door that slams no matter how quiet you try to close it.”
Alix smiled. “I know the one.”
“I run in the mornings,” he said, tucking the cord into his towel. “Might as well give me somewhere to jog to.”
“Uh-huh. So that’s your strategy?”
“Just trying to stay in shape,” he said, half-grinning. “Lot of lifting. Long shifts. People get wild on Friday nights.”
She tilted her head slightly. “That sounds like experience talking.”
“It is,” he said. “You’d be surprised what folks walk into the ER for.”
Alix’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Now that sounds like a story.”
He nodded toward the pool. “Another time.”
As they walked back, she felt him beside her—not too close, but not far either. He peeled off as they reached the gate, walking back to his group with the same quiet ease.
Alix slid back into her lounge chair like nothing had happened.
Ashlee didn’t even look up. “So are we inviting him on the summer trip or what?”
Simone shielded her eyes to squint across the pool. “He’s fine.”
“He’s observant,” Madi added. “He clocked you like you were the only one here.”
Alix picked up her water, sipping slowly. “Y’all are imagining things.”
But her eyes drifted across the pool.
And sure enough—Co looked up from his phone and caught her staring.
He smiled this time.
And this time, she smiled back.
The elevator dinged softly as it reached Royce’s floor, and a second later, a knock landed on the door in that half-playful way only family knocks. Not rushed. Not uncertain.
Royce already knew who it was.
He opened the door to find Rana holding Julian on her hip, a diaper bag slung over her shoulder, and Tyrell behind her with foil-wrapped Tupperware in one hand and a plastic bag in the other.
“You look like you’re bracing for impact,” Rana said, stepping inside.
“I knew the food meant a lecture,” Royce replied.
Tyrell laughed. “Damn, at least pretend you’re happy to see us.”
“I am happy. Especially if that’s your red beans.”
“It is,” Rana said, heading straight for the open-plan kitchen like she lived there. “And some cornbread too.”
Julian gurgled in her arms as she shifted him, then reached out toward Royce with one chubby, eager hand. Royce smirked and took him carefully.
“What’s up, little man?” he murmured, bouncing him once on his arm.
Tyrell walked in behind them and nodded in approval. “Still spotless in here. I don’t know how you manage to live like you don’t actually live here.”
Royce shrugged. “I lived in y’all guest room for a year, bruh. You know I don’t like mess.”
“You don’t like other people’s mess,” Rana said, unpacking the food on the counter. “You had a thing about your sock drawer but left everything else to die.”
Royce chuckled, one arm still wrapped around Julian as he peeked into the foil trays. “This chicken real or store-bought?”
“You know better,” she said.
They ate standing around the island, like they always did when they stopped by. No one asked for plates. Royce grabbed clean forks from the drawer and passed them around while Tyrell poured three glasses of cold water from the fridge.
It was easy.
Almost too easy.
And that’s when Rana leaned on the counter and said, “So what’s the plan?”
Royce glanced at her, still chewing. “Plan for what?”
“You’re a junior now. Semester’s over.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You bringing this up with food in my mouth so I can’t argue?”
“Absolutely,” she said, smiling.
Tyrell leaned his elbow on the counter. “You thinking about staying through senior year?”
Royce looked between them. “I don’t know yet. Depends on the season. I got options.”
“You’ve got opportunity,” Rana corrected. “There’s a difference. Degree still matters.”
Tyrell nodded. “Look, we’re not saying don’t go pro. Just don’t leave the door closed behind you. Having that degree changes shit.”
Royce exhaled through his nose. “I ain’t walking away from it. I just ain’t making that decision today.”
Rana didn’t argue, but her silence spoke. She looked at Julian, who had managed to smear cornbread crumbs across Royce’s shoulder.
Royce shifted the baby and said, almost casually, “Y’all know Reg got Hep C?”
Rana blinked. “What?”
“I went to Dixon last week. Pops told me. Said Reg probably got some other shit too.”
She looked down, eyes going distant. “No. I didn’t know.”
Royce studied her face. “You surprised?”
Rana shook her head. “Not really. I was the furthest from him, you know that. Him and I barely talked even before he started disappearing for weeks at a time. I knew about the needles, though. That wasn’t news.”
Tyrell leaned back. “You talk to Kevon often?”
Royce shook his head. “More often than I did when I was a kid.”
There was a pause, quiet except for the soft hum of the fridge and Julian cooing in Royce’s arms.
Then Tyrell moved toward the sink to rinse his glass. He set it down and reached for another cup sitting on the drying rack. A pale pink Stanley cup. Real clean, almost too clean, the kind of cup that didn’t belong in a single guy’s apartment unless someone left it behind.
He turned to Royce with a knowing look. “You got somebody staying over regular?”
Royce glanced at the cup, his face unreadable.
“That’s some other shit I’m not talking about.”
Tyrell laughed. “You don’t gotta tell me. Just know if she leaves one more thing behind, it’s not your apartment anymore.”
“I’m serious,” Royce said. “I’m not talking about that.”
“Alright,” Tyrell said, holding up a hand. “Respect.”
Rana gave Royce a long look, then just said, “Tell Alix thanks for not trashing your kitchen.”
“She don’t live here,” Royce said again, softer.
“I didn’t say she did.”
Julian stirred and started to fuss, so Rana came to collect him. Royce handed him over carefully, fingers lingering for a second on the back of the baby’s neck.
“You sure you’re good?” Rana asked, more serious now.
Royce nodded. “I’m straight.”
Tyrell grabbed the empty food containers, stuffing the foil into the trash on his way out. “Alright, lil’ bro,” he said. “We’ll see you soon.”
Royce walked them to the door. The hallway outside was quiet as usual, polished floors, soft lighting—just like the rest of the high-rise.
“Y’all be safe.”
“You too,” Rana said, adjusting Julian on her shoulder.
When the door closed, Royce turned back into the apartment. The silence settled quick.
He rinsed the forks. Put everything back where it belonged.
Except the pink cup.
He left it in the sink.
Didn’t even move it.
Just let it sit there like it belonged.
~~~~~~~~~~
The pool glittered under the late afternoon sun, each ripple catching light like it was made of glass. The air smelled like sunscreen and citrus seltzers, with just a trace of chlorine drifting up from the deep end. Alix lay stretched out on a lounge chair in her favorite black bikini, sunglasses resting on her nose, one leg crossed over the other, and her hair piled loosely on top of her head.
To her right, Ashlee sipped from a canned cocktail with a pink straw, while Simone scrolled through her phone and Madi rubbed tanning oil along her collarbone. All four of them were reclined like synchronized sun worshipers, skin glowing, drinks sweating in the heat, a portable speaker on the ground pumping out a low-fi playlist heavy on summer beats and airy vocals.
“I’m just saying,” Simone murmured, “if I have to spend summer in Baton Rouge again, I’m gonna cry.”
“You say that every year,” Ashlee replied without opening her eyes.
Madi turned her head lazily. “What happened to you and Trey going to Miami?”
Simone rolled her eyes. “Girl, Trey can’t even plan his meals. Every time I bring up flights, he starts talking about how rent’s due.”
“Sounds familiar,” Ashlee said, raising her drink like a toast.
Then all three of them turned, slowly, in unison toward Alix.
“What?” she asked, pushing her sunglasses up slightly.
“You’re the only one with a boyfriend who has actual income,” Madi said. “We’re just trying to catch a breeze off your lifestyle.”
“Y’all are so dumb,” Alix muttered, smiling anyway.
Simone grinned. “So? You and Royce got anything lined up for summer? Like a trip?”
Alix shook her head, leaning back deeper into the chair. “Y’all keep forgetting he has football. The whole reason he has the money is also why he barely has time. Spring ball runs into summer workouts, and by the time he gets a week off, Coach has already blown up his phone three times.”
“Can’t he just unplug for a bit?” Ashlee asked. “He’s not gonna forget how to tackle.”
“That’s not how it works,” Alix said. “He gets anxious when he’s not doing something. Like... lost in his own body.”
“That sounds... hot,” Simone said under her breath, making them all laugh.
Alix was still shaking her head when a shadow passed in front of them.
“Excuse me,” a voice said—deep, easy, just the right kind of polite to get your attention without sounding practiced.
Alix looked up over the edge of her sunglasses—and paused.
He was tall, lean but solid, maybe a few years older than them. Smooth brown skin, towel slung over one shoulder, athletic shorts riding low on his hips. A thin scar ran along the inside of his left forearm. His eyes flicked briefly across the group before landing on her—and holding. Not rude. Not pushy. But definitely curious.
She noticed.
So did her roommates.
“Any of y’all happen to have a phone charger?” he asked. “Mine just died. Supposed to check in with someone and I don’t want it to be a whole thing.”
“What kind of phone?” Alix asked, already sitting up a little straighter.
“iPhone,” he said, giving a small, sheepish grin. “But like, not the fancy kind.”
“I’ve got one,” she said, standing and brushing off her towel. “In the apartment.”
He nodded, smiling now. “Appreciate it.”
As they walked toward the building, Alix caught him glancing at her again—this time not as quick, not as subtle.
“You might want to watch where you’re going instead of watching me,” she said without turning her head.
He chuckled. “You make it hard not to.”
She glanced back over her shoulder. “That your go-to line?”
“Nah. Just honest.”
They reached the stairwell, and she slowed slightly to let him catch up.
“You new around here?” she asked.
“Few months,” he said. “I’m Jacory, but everyone calls me Co.”
“Alix.”
“Nice to meet you, Alix.”
He stopped a few feet from her front door and waited. Didn’t follow her in.
She noticed that too.
Inside, her apartment was cool and tidy, the charger plugged in beside the couch. She unplugged it, wrapped the cord around her fingers, and stepped back out.
“Here,” she said, handing it over. “Don’t worry about bringing it back. I’ve got more.”
He took it gently, brushing her fingers just enough to make her notice. “I couldn’t do that. Wouldn’t be neighborly.”
She raised a brow. “You live in this building?”
“Couple over. The one with the lopsided stair rail and the door that slams no matter how quiet you try to close it.”
Alix smiled. “I know the one.”
“I run in the mornings,” he said, tucking the cord into his towel. “Might as well give me somewhere to jog to.”
“Uh-huh. So that’s your strategy?”
“Just trying to stay in shape,” he said, half-grinning. “Lot of lifting. Long shifts. People get wild on Friday nights.”
She tilted her head slightly. “That sounds like experience talking.”
“It is,” he said. “You’d be surprised what folks walk into the ER for.”
Alix’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Now that sounds like a story.”
He nodded toward the pool. “Another time.”
As they walked back, she felt him beside her—not too close, but not far either. He peeled off as they reached the gate, walking back to his group with the same quiet ease.
Alix slid back into her lounge chair like nothing had happened.
Ashlee didn’t even look up. “So are we inviting him on the summer trip or what?”
Simone shielded her eyes to squint across the pool. “He’s fine.”
“He’s observant,” Madi added. “He clocked you like you were the only one here.”
Alix picked up her water, sipping slowly. “Y’all are imagining things.”
But her eyes drifted across the pool.
And sure enough—Co looked up from his phone and caught her staring.
He smiled this time.
And this time, she smiled back.
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 7979
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
#FreeAlix at this point too, goddamn.
-
djp73
- Posts: 13243
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Alix and Co about to be playing doctor
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16988
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
This anti-Black
That would be cheating, sir.-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16988
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Center of Attention
Britni set the last box down with a soft thud and stood for a moment, catching her breath. Sweat clung to the back of her neck, and the high afternoon sun pressed through the living room windows like it was trying to come inside. Her new apartment wasn’t big—just a tidy studio with polished floors, white walls, and one too-short balcony—but it was hers.
Close enough to campus that she could still walk to her favorite café or meet up with Ashanti and Lena for last-minute plans, but far enough that no one was barging in uninvited. She was alone for the first time, and the silence felt strange. Not scary. Just new.
She kicked off her sneakers and started opening boxes one by one. The rhythm calmed her—unfolding books, stacking plates, dropping cutlery into drawers. She made it halfway through the last box labeled Closet/Misc when her hand hit something soft. She tugged it free and froze.
A faded Southern hoodie. Light blue with gold lettering. Worn thin at the collar. A tear in the left cuff.
She didn’t have to unfold it to know.
It was Romeo’s.
…
December 2021
Britni’s parents had gone out for the evening—something formal, some gala or dinner they didn’t expect her to sit through. Romeo had come over the second the door closed behind them. He always liked it there—her parents’ two-story brick house, with the jasmine curling around the front porch columns and the air conditioning always running too cold.
They were sitting on the floor of her bedroom, backs against her bedframe, a half-eaten plate of lemon pepper wings between them and music low from her Bluetooth speaker. Britni wore a soft pink tank top and black joggers; her toes were tucked beneath her. Romeo had on that damn hoodie again, sleeves pushed up to the elbows.
“You cold?” he asked.
She shook her head, but her arms were folded tight against her sides.
He didn’t wait. He pulled the hoodie off and dropped it into her lap.
She looked at him. “I didn’t say I wanted it.”
He smirked. “You never do.”
She slid it over her head. The sleeves hung past her wrists, and it smelled like him—cologne, detergent, something slightly sweet and warm. He grinned.
“Looks better on you anyway.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious. You could wear that every day and I’d still think you look fine.”
Britni rolled her eyes but blushed anyway.
His phone buzzed on the carpet beside him. He glanced at it, sighed, and picked it up. “It’s Royce.”
“What’d he say?”
“Party. Said Donnie’s older brother’s got a house with a pool and they’re letting people slide.”
Britni didn’t answer right away. She leaned back against the bed, tugging at the sleeve.
“You wanna go?” he asked.
She hesitated. “Not really.”
“You scared to get your hair wet?”
“No,” she said quickly. Then, quieter: “I just don’t like being around people who don’t know how to act.”
Romeo tilted his head. “You mean people like my friends?”
She looked at him, lips pressed. “I mean the environment.”
His expression didn’t shift, but something behind his eyes cooled slightly.
“Yeah,” he said after a second. “Okay.”
“You can go, though,” she said. “I won’t be mad.”
Romeo nodded. “I know you won’t.”
He stood and kissed the top of her head, but she could feel the distance starting even then. Like something between them had been named without being spoken.
…
Britni blinked hard and looked down at the hoodie still clutched in her hands.
That had been the last time he wore it. And the last time she ever let herself believe she understood him completely.
She stood slowly and walked to the closet. The apartment was quiet—just the hum of the fridge and the dull murmur of cars rolling by outside. She slipped the hoodie onto a hanger and hung it gently in the corner, like it might shatter if she dropped it.
Then she shut the closet door.
Not to hide it.
Just to keep moving.
~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment was buzzing, but Royce felt like he was standing behind glass.
Laughter echoed off the walls, smoke curled from the blunt being passed near the window, and music thumped hard and steady through the Bluetooth speaker on the counter. Shaq had already opened the second bottle of tequila, and Gio was holding court on the balcony, arguing about something meaningless with too much confidence.
Royce stood in the kitchen, watching it all. Solo cup in hand, jaw set.
This was supposed to help.
The room was full—Jay, Earl, Josh, Dorian, Demar, Gio, Shaq. The new crew. Some had come up from the depth chart, others had transferred in, but all of them looked to Royce now. Not just as a player. As the one who made shit move.
Girls he didn’t know lounged on the couch and leaned against the kitchen island, loud and warm and mostly drunk. Their perfume blurred with cologne, sweat, and something fried someone had brought in from Raising Cane’s an hour ago.
Royce’s phone buzzed.
He pulled it out and read the screen:
Alix: Sorry babe. Family thing tonight.
He stared at the message for a long beat. The air felt heavier suddenly, like the music had pushed everything up against his chest.
Royce: You coming by in the morning?
He set the phone down and exhaled.
Jay wandered over, holding a bottle by the neck. “Your girl with some other nigga?”
Royce shook his head. “Nigga, I ain’t you.”
Jay laughed. “I ain’t never been cheated on. That’s something for you Louisiana niggas. They don’t do that shit in Florida. They know better.”
Royce didn’t answer. He was used to Jay talking. Jay talked a lot.
The reply came.
Alix: Yeah.
That should’ve been enough. He should’ve felt better.
But he didn’t.
He took a sip and turned toward the living room. The laugh track around the poker table had picked up again. Earl was clowning Dorian for folding too early, and Shaq was halfway into a story about a girl who said she’d cook but served rotisserie chicken straight out the bag.
Royce walked over, cup in hand. He posted up near the couch.
“Y’all act like y’all ever pull,” he said. “I throw alley-oops all night and none of y’all catching the shit. Just selling.”
Demar raised an eyebrow. “You talkin’ to us but you ain’t talked to nobody all night. You the one bricking layups.”
Royce smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
He opened his mouth to reply—and stopped.
For a split second, it was like the noise in the room dropped out.
He thought of Alix. Of how she’d curled up next to him the night before, her fingers tracing circles on his ribs while she talked about some river cruise downtown. He hadn’t listened. He’d nodded, kissed the top of her head, and turned over.
His chest tightened—just slightly.
He looked around the room and told himself this was what he needed. Noise. Girls. Friends. Movement. The kind of chaos that kept your hands busy and your thoughts quiet.
Across the room, a girl was sitting with her legs crossed, sipping from a red cup and scrolling on her phone. Long braids, gold hoops, a soft laugh when she said something to the girl beside her. She looked up and caught him watching.
He didn’t smile.
Just walked over.
“Hey,” he said, voice low.
“Hey,” she replied, already sitting up straighter.
“You good?”
“I’m good.”
“You wanna see the rest of the place?”
She tilted her head, lips curled into a faint smile. “You always give the full tour?”
He shrugged. “Depends.”
She stood, slow and fluid, and followed him down the hallway.
The bedroom was dark except for the glow from the hallway. Royce shut the door behind them.
She sat on the edge of the bed. He peeled off his shirt. His heart was beating faster now—not from anticipation, but from something else. Something harder to name.
He reached for her, but for just a second, his eyes flicked to the corner where Alix’s stuff still sat on the desk.
He looked away.
She didn’t ask questions. She wasn’t here for that.
And neither was he.
~~~~~~~~~~
The music was low—real low. Not the kind that made your chest thump or filled the corners of a room with sweat and shouting. Just a smooth, liquid rhythm sliding under the conversations like a secret. The lights in the apartment were dim, but not dark. A few candles flickered along the kitchen counter, giving off the scent of vanilla and clove. There was no smell of weed clouding the air, no spilled liquor on the floor, no boys yelling over each other for shots or aux privileges.
Malik leaned against the arm of the couch, a short glass of something carbonated in his hand, his other thumb grazing the hem of his jeans. There were maybe ten people there—some teammates, a couple of their girlfriends, two girls from the volleyball team, one guy from student government that everyone called Jay Cee for reasons Malik hadn’t figured out yet.
Jazlyn stood near the open kitchen, laughing softly at something one of her friends had said, fingers curled loosely around the stem of a wine glass. She wasn’t dressed up—not really. Just a cream-colored cropped sweater and high-waisted jeans, hoop earrings that caught the candlelight every time she moved her head.
She looked over and smiled. Like she could feel him watching.
Malik sipped from his glass and gave a small nod, playing it cool even though he felt like the quietest person in the room.
Jazlyn made her way over a minute later, slipping onto the couch beside him with a kind of effortless grace. She crossed her legs and glanced at his cup.
“You good?”
“Yeah,” he said, lifting it. “I don’t even know what this is, but it’s alright.”
She grinned. “Sparkling cider. The grown kind. No liquor tonight—Tasha’s in training.”
Malik blinked. “You serious?”
“Dead.”
He chuckled. “This is the chillest function I ever been to.”
“Chill is the goal,” she said, nudging his shoulder. “You don’t always need chaos to have fun.”
“I don’t need chaos,” he said. “I just... know it real well.”
She looked at him, not judging. Just looking. “Well, if you’re bored, we can go.”
“I ain’t bored.”
“Then relax.”
And somehow, he did.
They stayed for another hour—talked, played a card game he didn’t fully understand but somehow still won, and sat through a playlist that leaned more neo-soul than anything he had queued up back home. At one point, someone offered him a seat at the kitchen table for a conversation about redlining and reparations. He declined, politely. Jazlyn winked like she knew he would.
Later, they left together, her jacket draped over one shoulder, his hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets as they walked through the cool Nevada night. The sidewalk was quiet, streetlamps casting long, gentle shadows across cracked pavement. Reno felt different after dark—like the noise in the world turned down just enough to hear your own voice again.
Jazlyn walked a little ahead, then slowed to match his pace.
Malik glanced at her, smirking. “If I make it to the league, I might have to marry you.”
She laughed. Not a surprised laugh—more like she’d been expecting him to say something stupid eventually.
She raised an eyebrow, eyes still on the sidewalk. “I take moissanite.”
Malik blinked. “What?”
She looked at him sideways, smiling. “Not everyone needs diamonds. Moissanite’s just as pretty. Cheaper, too.”
He stared at her for a second. “So that’s a yes?”
“It’s a don’t play with me.”
They walked on in silence for a beat. Malik’s heart was thumping harder than it had at the party. Not in a bad way. In the kind of way that felt like a real heartbeat. Like something waking up again.
She glanced at him again. “You good?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.”
Britni set the last box down with a soft thud and stood for a moment, catching her breath. Sweat clung to the back of her neck, and the high afternoon sun pressed through the living room windows like it was trying to come inside. Her new apartment wasn’t big—just a tidy studio with polished floors, white walls, and one too-short balcony—but it was hers.
Close enough to campus that she could still walk to her favorite café or meet up with Ashanti and Lena for last-minute plans, but far enough that no one was barging in uninvited. She was alone for the first time, and the silence felt strange. Not scary. Just new.
She kicked off her sneakers and started opening boxes one by one. The rhythm calmed her—unfolding books, stacking plates, dropping cutlery into drawers. She made it halfway through the last box labeled Closet/Misc when her hand hit something soft. She tugged it free and froze.
A faded Southern hoodie. Light blue with gold lettering. Worn thin at the collar. A tear in the left cuff.
She didn’t have to unfold it to know.
It was Romeo’s.
…
December 2021
Britni’s parents had gone out for the evening—something formal, some gala or dinner they didn’t expect her to sit through. Romeo had come over the second the door closed behind them. He always liked it there—her parents’ two-story brick house, with the jasmine curling around the front porch columns and the air conditioning always running too cold.
They were sitting on the floor of her bedroom, backs against her bedframe, a half-eaten plate of lemon pepper wings between them and music low from her Bluetooth speaker. Britni wore a soft pink tank top and black joggers; her toes were tucked beneath her. Romeo had on that damn hoodie again, sleeves pushed up to the elbows.
“You cold?” he asked.
She shook her head, but her arms were folded tight against her sides.
He didn’t wait. He pulled the hoodie off and dropped it into her lap.
She looked at him. “I didn’t say I wanted it.”
He smirked. “You never do.”
She slid it over her head. The sleeves hung past her wrists, and it smelled like him—cologne, detergent, something slightly sweet and warm. He grinned.
“Looks better on you anyway.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious. You could wear that every day and I’d still think you look fine.”
Britni rolled her eyes but blushed anyway.
His phone buzzed on the carpet beside him. He glanced at it, sighed, and picked it up. “It’s Royce.”
“What’d he say?”
“Party. Said Donnie’s older brother’s got a house with a pool and they’re letting people slide.”
Britni didn’t answer right away. She leaned back against the bed, tugging at the sleeve.
“You wanna go?” he asked.
She hesitated. “Not really.”
“You scared to get your hair wet?”
“No,” she said quickly. Then, quieter: “I just don’t like being around people who don’t know how to act.”
Romeo tilted his head. “You mean people like my friends?”
She looked at him, lips pressed. “I mean the environment.”
His expression didn’t shift, but something behind his eyes cooled slightly.
“Yeah,” he said after a second. “Okay.”
“You can go, though,” she said. “I won’t be mad.”
Romeo nodded. “I know you won’t.”
He stood and kissed the top of her head, but she could feel the distance starting even then. Like something between them had been named without being spoken.
…
Britni blinked hard and looked down at the hoodie still clutched in her hands.
That had been the last time he wore it. And the last time she ever let herself believe she understood him completely.
She stood slowly and walked to the closet. The apartment was quiet—just the hum of the fridge and the dull murmur of cars rolling by outside. She slipped the hoodie onto a hanger and hung it gently in the corner, like it might shatter if she dropped it.
Then she shut the closet door.
Not to hide it.
Just to keep moving.
~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment was buzzing, but Royce felt like he was standing behind glass.
Laughter echoed off the walls, smoke curled from the blunt being passed near the window, and music thumped hard and steady through the Bluetooth speaker on the counter. Shaq had already opened the second bottle of tequila, and Gio was holding court on the balcony, arguing about something meaningless with too much confidence.
Royce stood in the kitchen, watching it all. Solo cup in hand, jaw set.
This was supposed to help.
The room was full—Jay, Earl, Josh, Dorian, Demar, Gio, Shaq. The new crew. Some had come up from the depth chart, others had transferred in, but all of them looked to Royce now. Not just as a player. As the one who made shit move.
Girls he didn’t know lounged on the couch and leaned against the kitchen island, loud and warm and mostly drunk. Their perfume blurred with cologne, sweat, and something fried someone had brought in from Raising Cane’s an hour ago.
Royce’s phone buzzed.
He pulled it out and read the screen:
Alix: Sorry babe. Family thing tonight.
He stared at the message for a long beat. The air felt heavier suddenly, like the music had pushed everything up against his chest.
Royce: You coming by in the morning?
He set the phone down and exhaled.
Jay wandered over, holding a bottle by the neck. “Your girl with some other nigga?”
Royce shook his head. “Nigga, I ain’t you.”
Jay laughed. “I ain’t never been cheated on. That’s something for you Louisiana niggas. They don’t do that shit in Florida. They know better.”
Royce didn’t answer. He was used to Jay talking. Jay talked a lot.
The reply came.
Alix: Yeah.
That should’ve been enough. He should’ve felt better.
But he didn’t.
He took a sip and turned toward the living room. The laugh track around the poker table had picked up again. Earl was clowning Dorian for folding too early, and Shaq was halfway into a story about a girl who said she’d cook but served rotisserie chicken straight out the bag.
Royce walked over, cup in hand. He posted up near the couch.
“Y’all act like y’all ever pull,” he said. “I throw alley-oops all night and none of y’all catching the shit. Just selling.”
Demar raised an eyebrow. “You talkin’ to us but you ain’t talked to nobody all night. You the one bricking layups.”
Royce smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
He opened his mouth to reply—and stopped.
For a split second, it was like the noise in the room dropped out.
He thought of Alix. Of how she’d curled up next to him the night before, her fingers tracing circles on his ribs while she talked about some river cruise downtown. He hadn’t listened. He’d nodded, kissed the top of her head, and turned over.
His chest tightened—just slightly.
He looked around the room and told himself this was what he needed. Noise. Girls. Friends. Movement. The kind of chaos that kept your hands busy and your thoughts quiet.
Across the room, a girl was sitting with her legs crossed, sipping from a red cup and scrolling on her phone. Long braids, gold hoops, a soft laugh when she said something to the girl beside her. She looked up and caught him watching.
He didn’t smile.
Just walked over.
“Hey,” he said, voice low.
“Hey,” she replied, already sitting up straighter.
“You good?”
“I’m good.”
“You wanna see the rest of the place?”
She tilted her head, lips curled into a faint smile. “You always give the full tour?”
He shrugged. “Depends.”
She stood, slow and fluid, and followed him down the hallway.
The bedroom was dark except for the glow from the hallway. Royce shut the door behind them.
She sat on the edge of the bed. He peeled off his shirt. His heart was beating faster now—not from anticipation, but from something else. Something harder to name.
He reached for her, but for just a second, his eyes flicked to the corner where Alix’s stuff still sat on the desk.
He looked away.
She didn’t ask questions. She wasn’t here for that.
And neither was he.
~~~~~~~~~~
The music was low—real low. Not the kind that made your chest thump or filled the corners of a room with sweat and shouting. Just a smooth, liquid rhythm sliding under the conversations like a secret. The lights in the apartment were dim, but not dark. A few candles flickered along the kitchen counter, giving off the scent of vanilla and clove. There was no smell of weed clouding the air, no spilled liquor on the floor, no boys yelling over each other for shots or aux privileges.
Malik leaned against the arm of the couch, a short glass of something carbonated in his hand, his other thumb grazing the hem of his jeans. There were maybe ten people there—some teammates, a couple of their girlfriends, two girls from the volleyball team, one guy from student government that everyone called Jay Cee for reasons Malik hadn’t figured out yet.
Jazlyn stood near the open kitchen, laughing softly at something one of her friends had said, fingers curled loosely around the stem of a wine glass. She wasn’t dressed up—not really. Just a cream-colored cropped sweater and high-waisted jeans, hoop earrings that caught the candlelight every time she moved her head.
She looked over and smiled. Like she could feel him watching.
Malik sipped from his glass and gave a small nod, playing it cool even though he felt like the quietest person in the room.
Jazlyn made her way over a minute later, slipping onto the couch beside him with a kind of effortless grace. She crossed her legs and glanced at his cup.
“You good?”
“Yeah,” he said, lifting it. “I don’t even know what this is, but it’s alright.”
She grinned. “Sparkling cider. The grown kind. No liquor tonight—Tasha’s in training.”
Malik blinked. “You serious?”
“Dead.”
He chuckled. “This is the chillest function I ever been to.”
“Chill is the goal,” she said, nudging his shoulder. “You don’t always need chaos to have fun.”
“I don’t need chaos,” he said. “I just... know it real well.”
She looked at him, not judging. Just looking. “Well, if you’re bored, we can go.”
“I ain’t bored.”
“Then relax.”
And somehow, he did.
They stayed for another hour—talked, played a card game he didn’t fully understand but somehow still won, and sat through a playlist that leaned more neo-soul than anything he had queued up back home. At one point, someone offered him a seat at the kitchen table for a conversation about redlining and reparations. He declined, politely. Jazlyn winked like she knew he would.
Later, they left together, her jacket draped over one shoulder, his hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets as they walked through the cool Nevada night. The sidewalk was quiet, streetlamps casting long, gentle shadows across cracked pavement. Reno felt different after dark—like the noise in the world turned down just enough to hear your own voice again.
Jazlyn walked a little ahead, then slowed to match his pace.
Malik glanced at her, smirking. “If I make it to the league, I might have to marry you.”
She laughed. Not a surprised laugh—more like she’d been expecting him to say something stupid eventually.
She raised an eyebrow, eyes still on the sidewalk. “I take moissanite.”
Malik blinked. “What?”
She looked at him sideways, smiling. “Not everyone needs diamonds. Moissanite’s just as pretty. Cheaper, too.”
He stared at her for a second. “So that’s a yes?”
“It’s a don’t play with me.”
They walked on in silence for a beat. Malik’s heart was thumping harder than it had at the party. Not in a bad way. In the kind of way that felt like a real heartbeat. Like something waking up again.
She glanced at him again. “You good?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.”
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16988
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Never Turn Back
The garage off North Acadian had the kind of heat that didn’t just sit on your skin—it soaked into your clothes. A box fan buzzed in the corner, spinning slow like it had been through some things. The fluorescent light overhead flickered every few seconds, humming like it was trying to tune into another frequency.
Royce sat on a flipped paint bucket near the back wall, a bottle of water in one hand, his back resting against an unused cooler. Meech leaned against the frame of the open garage door, rolling a blunt like it was part of his rhythm. Poochie stood beside him, hoodie pulled tight despite the heat, sipping from a Styrofoam cup like it was something sacred. Two other guys lingered near a beat-up Buick in the center of the space, casually arguing about NBA draft picks like it mattered.
Royce wasn’t there for the ambiance. He wasn’t really there for Meech either.
He was there because they kept showing up.
Unannounced. Uninvited. Like shadows that didn’t ask permission before falling across your life.
He figured if he brought himself to them, maybe they’d stop creeping up in his world like they belonged there.
“Yo,” one of the guys said, looking up from his phone. “This the kind of bitches y’all be fucking with at LSU?”
Royce blinked. “Which one?”
“The one with the shoes. Purple background. She got the bob cut and them long-ass lashes.”
Royce smirked. “Nah. I don’t fuck with those.”
“Damn. Look like your type.”
“What's that mean?”
The guy grinned. “Pretty, high-maintenance, probably don’t answer texts fast.”
Royce gave a lazy laugh, sipping his water. “Y’all got too much time.”
Meech chuckled, holding flame to the edge of the blunt. “That’s why you here—to remind us how to live with purpose, right?”
Royce shook his head. “I’m here to remind y’all to stop popping up on me.”
“You make it sound like we breaking in.”
“You act like you’re not.”
Poochie hadn’t said much, but his eyes hadn’t left Royce all evening.
Royce clocked it, but didn’t say anything.
Meech exhaled a cloud and passed the blunt down the line.
He looked over at Royce again, more deliberate now.
“So I heard,” Meech said casually, like he was talking about the weather, “you be fucking with white bitches.”
The room quieted just a little—just enough.
Royce blinked. “You heard that?”
“Poochie told me.”
Poochie took another sip from his cup, slow and smooth.
Royce looked between them. “I fuck with who I fuck with.”
Meech raised an eyebrow. “So that’s a yes.”
“It’s a mind your business.”
Poochie chuckled under his breath. “You be the one putting it on IG.”
Royce stared at him. “Nah. Y’all the ones zooming in.”
That got a few laughs from the background. One of the other guys slapped the hood of the Buick.
Meech didn’t smile. “I’m saying, bro. That ain’t a safe look, depending on the room you in.”
Royce leaned forward, elbows on knees. “What room is that?”
Meech shrugged. “Any room where the lights flash blue. You need a girl that don’t fold when shit get real.”
“I don’t plan on being in rooms like that.”
Meech exhaled. “Nobody ever does. But you know better than most—plans don’t mean shit when it go sideways.”
Royce snorted a laugh.
Poochie’s eyes were still on him, like he was trying to find a crack in the surface.
Royce stood up slow, dusting his hands on his shorts. “Y’all good?”
Meech nodded, offering his hand. “Always.”
Royce dapped him. Looked at Poochie. “You straight?”
Poochie didn’t blink. “I’m cool.”
Royce stared a second longer, then turned and walked toward the open door.
The air outside hit him like a wave of freedom.
He got in his car and sat for a moment before starting the engine.
They thought he was slipping. Or soft. Or naive.
But what they didn’t know was that Royce wasn’t just trying to stay clean.
He was just trying to survive.
~~~~~~~~~~
Mike slid the last of his clothes into the dresser, closed the drawer with the back of his foot, and sat on the edge of the twin bed. The mattress was too firm. The whole room smelled like wood cleaner and stale air conditioning—like no one had stayed here in a while.
The summer intersession had barely begun, which meant the dorms were mostly empty. A few guys on the team were around, but he hadn’t seen many of them. Just one awkward nod in the hallway and the slam of a stairwell door echoing two floors up. It was too quiet.
Too still.
He stood, walked to the window, and looked out over the small patch of grass between his building and the dining hall. A squirrel darted through the shrubs. The only other motion was a groundskeeper pushing a leaf blower down the sidewalk even though there were no leaves in sight.
Back in Houma, silence never lasted this long. There was always something—sirens in the distance, music leaking from a car window, the dull roar of someone yelling too close to midnight. Here, it was like someone pressed mute on the world and forgot to take their finger off the button.
Mike grabbed his phone off the desk and tapped the screen.
14 unread messages. All from Treg.
Where you at
Come through, shit was crazy last night
You really just dipped?
Yo you good??
Nigga, answer my texts.
He stared at the last one a moment before swiping left and deleting the whole thread.
His thumb hovered for a second, then he opened his contacts and tapped Laila’s name. The phone rang twice before she answered.
“Hey,” she said, a little breathless.
“You busy?”
“Nah,” she replied. “Just folding laundry and watching my mama’s shows.”
Mike sat back down on the bed. “I don’t like it here.”
He didn’t mean to say it like that. Didn’t mean for it to come out so soft.
But it did.
Laila was quiet on the other end for a moment, then said, “I know.”
“It’s too quiet,” he added. “I don’t know nobody. Ain’t nothing to do but sit in this room and think.”
“It’ll grow on you.”
“I don’t want it to grow on me,” he said. “I want it to feel like something already.”
Laila sighed. He could hear the shifting of clothes in the background, the sound of her settling into whatever chair she always used when she talked to him for real.
“You promised me,” she said gently.
“I know.”
“You told me you wouldn’t go back.”
Mike didn’t respond. He looked around at the blank walls, the unfamiliar carpet, the fire evacuation map taped to the back of the door.
“It’d just be easier,” he said finally. “If I was close to people I know.”
Laila’s voice was calm, but firm. “Easier doesn’t always mean better. You know that.”
He rubbed his palm against the back of his neck. “I ain’t even unpacked everything. Just been walking around campus all day like I’m tryna get lost on purpose.”
“You trying to disappear?”
He let the question hang between them.
Then: “No. Just trying not to think.”
Laila was quiet again.
When she spoke, her voice was softer. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
“But you can’t turn back now.”
He closed his eyes. Let the silence stretch for a few seconds before he nodded—even though she couldn’t see him.
“Yeah,” he said. “Alright.”
“I’ll come see you. You gonna be okay?”
“I think so.”
“Promise?”
Mike hesitated. Then said it anyway.
“Promise.”
The garage off North Acadian had the kind of heat that didn’t just sit on your skin—it soaked into your clothes. A box fan buzzed in the corner, spinning slow like it had been through some things. The fluorescent light overhead flickered every few seconds, humming like it was trying to tune into another frequency.
Royce sat on a flipped paint bucket near the back wall, a bottle of water in one hand, his back resting against an unused cooler. Meech leaned against the frame of the open garage door, rolling a blunt like it was part of his rhythm. Poochie stood beside him, hoodie pulled tight despite the heat, sipping from a Styrofoam cup like it was something sacred. Two other guys lingered near a beat-up Buick in the center of the space, casually arguing about NBA draft picks like it mattered.
Royce wasn’t there for the ambiance. He wasn’t really there for Meech either.
He was there because they kept showing up.
Unannounced. Uninvited. Like shadows that didn’t ask permission before falling across your life.
He figured if he brought himself to them, maybe they’d stop creeping up in his world like they belonged there.
“Yo,” one of the guys said, looking up from his phone. “This the kind of bitches y’all be fucking with at LSU?”
Royce blinked. “Which one?”
“The one with the shoes. Purple background. She got the bob cut and them long-ass lashes.”
Royce smirked. “Nah. I don’t fuck with those.”
“Damn. Look like your type.”
“What's that mean?”
The guy grinned. “Pretty, high-maintenance, probably don’t answer texts fast.”
Royce gave a lazy laugh, sipping his water. “Y’all got too much time.”
Meech chuckled, holding flame to the edge of the blunt. “That’s why you here—to remind us how to live with purpose, right?”
Royce shook his head. “I’m here to remind y’all to stop popping up on me.”
“You make it sound like we breaking in.”
“You act like you’re not.”
Poochie hadn’t said much, but his eyes hadn’t left Royce all evening.
Royce clocked it, but didn’t say anything.
Meech exhaled a cloud and passed the blunt down the line.
He looked over at Royce again, more deliberate now.
“So I heard,” Meech said casually, like he was talking about the weather, “you be fucking with white bitches.”
The room quieted just a little—just enough.
Royce blinked. “You heard that?”
“Poochie told me.”
Poochie took another sip from his cup, slow and smooth.
Royce looked between them. “I fuck with who I fuck with.”
Meech raised an eyebrow. “So that’s a yes.”
“It’s a mind your business.”
Poochie chuckled under his breath. “You be the one putting it on IG.”
Royce stared at him. “Nah. Y’all the ones zooming in.”
That got a few laughs from the background. One of the other guys slapped the hood of the Buick.
Meech didn’t smile. “I’m saying, bro. That ain’t a safe look, depending on the room you in.”
Royce leaned forward, elbows on knees. “What room is that?”
Meech shrugged. “Any room where the lights flash blue. You need a girl that don’t fold when shit get real.”
“I don’t plan on being in rooms like that.”
Meech exhaled. “Nobody ever does. But you know better than most—plans don’t mean shit when it go sideways.”
Royce snorted a laugh.
Poochie’s eyes were still on him, like he was trying to find a crack in the surface.
Royce stood up slow, dusting his hands on his shorts. “Y’all good?”
Meech nodded, offering his hand. “Always.”
Royce dapped him. Looked at Poochie. “You straight?”
Poochie didn’t blink. “I’m cool.”
Royce stared a second longer, then turned and walked toward the open door.
The air outside hit him like a wave of freedom.
He got in his car and sat for a moment before starting the engine.
They thought he was slipping. Or soft. Or naive.
But what they didn’t know was that Royce wasn’t just trying to stay clean.
He was just trying to survive.
~~~~~~~~~~
Mike slid the last of his clothes into the dresser, closed the drawer with the back of his foot, and sat on the edge of the twin bed. The mattress was too firm. The whole room smelled like wood cleaner and stale air conditioning—like no one had stayed here in a while.
The summer intersession had barely begun, which meant the dorms were mostly empty. A few guys on the team were around, but he hadn’t seen many of them. Just one awkward nod in the hallway and the slam of a stairwell door echoing two floors up. It was too quiet.
Too still.
He stood, walked to the window, and looked out over the small patch of grass between his building and the dining hall. A squirrel darted through the shrubs. The only other motion was a groundskeeper pushing a leaf blower down the sidewalk even though there were no leaves in sight.
Back in Houma, silence never lasted this long. There was always something—sirens in the distance, music leaking from a car window, the dull roar of someone yelling too close to midnight. Here, it was like someone pressed mute on the world and forgot to take their finger off the button.
Mike grabbed his phone off the desk and tapped the screen.
14 unread messages. All from Treg.
Where you at
Come through, shit was crazy last night
You really just dipped?
Yo you good??
Nigga, answer my texts.
He stared at the last one a moment before swiping left and deleting the whole thread.
His thumb hovered for a second, then he opened his contacts and tapped Laila’s name. The phone rang twice before she answered.
“Hey,” she said, a little breathless.
“You busy?”
“Nah,” she replied. “Just folding laundry and watching my mama’s shows.”
Mike sat back down on the bed. “I don’t like it here.”
He didn’t mean to say it like that. Didn’t mean for it to come out so soft.
But it did.
Laila was quiet on the other end for a moment, then said, “I know.”
“It’s too quiet,” he added. “I don’t know nobody. Ain’t nothing to do but sit in this room and think.”
“It’ll grow on you.”
“I don’t want it to grow on me,” he said. “I want it to feel like something already.”
Laila sighed. He could hear the shifting of clothes in the background, the sound of her settling into whatever chair she always used when she talked to him for real.
“You promised me,” she said gently.
“I know.”
“You told me you wouldn’t go back.”
Mike didn’t respond. He looked around at the blank walls, the unfamiliar carpet, the fire evacuation map taped to the back of the door.
“It’d just be easier,” he said finally. “If I was close to people I know.”
Laila’s voice was calm, but firm. “Easier doesn’t always mean better. You know that.”
He rubbed his palm against the back of his neck. “I ain’t even unpacked everything. Just been walking around campus all day like I’m tryna get lost on purpose.”
“You trying to disappear?”
He let the question hang between them.
Then: “No. Just trying not to think.”
Laila was quiet again.
When she spoke, her voice was softer. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
“But you can’t turn back now.”
He closed his eyes. Let the silence stretch for a few seconds before he nodded—even though she couldn’t see him.
“Yeah,” he said. “Alright.”
“I’ll come see you. You gonna be okay?”
“I think so.”
“Promise?”
Mike hesitated. Then said it anyway.
“Promise.”
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 7979
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Shout out Malik, my nigga deserved something nice. Mike gotta chill, boy is craving chaos.