The bar was loud — all sticky floors, neon lights, and bass so heavy it rattled the soles of her shoes.
Bodies pressed together, laughing, spilling drinks, shouting conversations across the tight air.
Alix threw her head back and laughed along with Madi, Simone, and Ashlee, even though she hadn’t caught the last punchline.
It didn’t matter. None of it really mattered.
She tilted her half-empty drink against her lips, the rum burning hotter than usual, the lime biting harder.
It felt good. The buzz, the noise, the bright fake glow of it all.
It felt better than thinking.
Better than looking at her phone for the tenth time, the screen still stubbornly blank.
She slipped it back into her purse before she could embarrass herself.
Again.
The group moved through the crowd like a school of fish — gliding, bumping shoulders, grabbing each other’s wrists to pull in tighter whenever someone got swept too far.
Alix let herself float with it.
After all, LSU had just beaten Old Dominion. Royce had played well — not a career game, but solid enough that he'd be mentioned in the postgame write-ups.
She’d sent the text around nine: "Proud of you
."Short. Simple. Honest.
And two hours later, still no answer.
"Another shot!" Madi shouted, dragging them toward the bar.
Alix followed, smiling too brightly, clapping her hands like she meant it.
They ordered a round of something sickly sweet and dangerous. When the bartender slid the glasses across the sticky counter, Alix tossed hers back without flinching, chasing the burn with a laugh.
Ashlee leaned into her ear. "You good?"
Alix nodded quickly, too quickly. "I’m great."
Ashlee grinned and pulled her toward the dance floor without pressing it. Alix let herself get lost in the beat, moving with the music, arms thrown up, hair sticking slightly to the back of her neck.
The world blurred in a way that made everything feel softer, safer. If she didn’t stop moving, she didn’t have to think about it.
Didn’t have to wonder why he couldn’t take two seconds to answer.
Didn’t have to wonder when she’d become optional.
An hour later, they tumbled into an Uber, crammed into the backseat like kids after curfew.
Ashlee’s boyfriend, Jason, had come out late to meet them, and now sat with Ashlee half in his lap, his arm slung around her waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Madi and Simone dozed against each other, drunk and content.
Alix sat by the window, forehead pressed lightly to the glass, feeling the night slip by in dark blurs of trees and streetlights.
She didn’t mean to look.
Didn’t mean to notice.
But when she glanced across the seat, she saw the way Jason was looking at Ashlee — not with lust, not even with pride — but with a kind of simple, steady wonder.
Like she mattered.
Like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.
Alix turned back to the window, the cold biting at the side of her face.
She swallowed against the sudden lump rising in her throat, blaming the alcohol, blaming the night, blaming anything but the truth that pressed in close:
When had Royce stopped looking at her like that?
Had it been a slow drift?
Had she missed it happening?
Had he ever?
Or had he stopped seeing her altogether, so quietly that she hadn’t even noticed until now — sitting in a backseat she didn’t want to be in, in a city that suddenly felt too big, too cold?
She slid her phone out of her purse again, her thumb moving without thinking.
Still no new messages.
Still no sign he’d even noticed.
For a second, she hovered over the screen — tempted to text again, tempted to remind him.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she turned the phone face-down in her lap, closed her eyes, and let the miles pass without trying to chase after anything.
For the first time, she let the thought settle:
Maybe she was already invisible.
Maybe he just hadn't bothered to tell her yet.
~~~~~~~~~~
The club was thick with bass, heavy enough to make the air vibrate in Royce’s chest.
Flashing lights stuttered across the darkened room, cutting across the sea of bodies pressed together on the dance floor — all sweat, perfume, cologne, and the faint, sharp smell of spilled liquor.
Royce stood near the VIP section with Eric, Demar, and Jay, a half-empty bottle of champagne sweating on the low glass table beside them. Someone had peeled the velvet rope back without even asking — a silent invitation.
Everyone knew who they were now.
Especially him.
"Man, you see that one?" Eric laughed, elbowing Royce as a girl in a tight green dress angled herself closer to their booth. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled, slow and deliberate, like she knew exactly what she was doing.
Royce smirked, dragging his gaze across the room with the kind of easy, heavy-lidded attention that made girls straighten their backs and lean in instinctively.
He didn’t wave her over. Didn’t have to.
Another group of girls lingered by the far end of their section, pretending to take selfies, but stealing glances toward him between snaps.
He could feel it — the pull. The way they looked at him like he already belonged to the future they could imagine: NFL contracts, glossy magazine spreads, a chance to say they knew him before the world did.
Demar clapped Royce on the back, laughing. "Shit, bro, you about to need a velvet rope just to breathe."
Jay poured more champagne into Royce’s glass without asking. "Better get used to it. They see April already. All they looking at is dollar signs."
Royce didn’t say anything. Just leaned back against the couch, letting the music thump through his bones, letting the night stretch long and slick around him.
It was easy. Too easy.
Girls brushed past the booth, "accidentally" bumping into him. A flash of lip gloss. A hand lingering too long on his arm. A laugh a little too loud at something he didn’t even say.
Tonight, he welcomed it — all of it.
It was better than sitting in his apartment waiting for a text. Better than replaying arguments in his head.
Better than wondering if Alix was already pulling away for good.
Tonight, there was no wondering.
Tonight, it was simple: he was the one they were chasing.
One girl in particular caught his eye — a tight, tan mini-dress, curly hair piled high, sharp eyes that didn’t dart away when he caught her staring. She smiled slow, like she knew she’d been seen, and sauntered over without a word.
She leaned in close enough that he could smell the sugary tang of her drink.
"You’re him, right?" she said, voice barely audible over the music.
Royce tilted his head lazily, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Who you think I am?"
She laughed — not nervous, not unsure. She pressed her hand lightly against his chest, her nails tracing the stitching of his designer shirt.
"Somebody about to be rich," she teased.
Royce chuckled, low and easy, letting the comment roll over him like water.
He could feel the eyes on him — from her, from her friends, from the other side of the club. He could feel the hunger. The calculation.
He didn’t hate it. Didn’t resent it.
In some way, he needed it tonight.
Needed to be seen. Wanted. Chased.
Even if it was shallow. Even if it wouldn’t mean shit in the morning.
He slipped an arm casually around the girl’s waist, pulling her a little closer. She didn’t resist.
Eric and Jay whooped from the couch, raising their glasses in mock salute. Demar just shook his head, laughing into his drink.
Royce tipped his glass back, swallowing the last of the champagne in one burning gulp.
The music kept pounding. The lights kept flashing. The world kept spinning.
And somewhere deep in his chest, the part of him that still cared about being loved — really loved — slipped another inch out of reach.
Tonight, it was enough to be wanted.
Tomorrow could wait.
~~~~~~~~~~
The parking lot was half-lit by a single flickering streetlamp, the light stuttering across cracked concrete and oil stains that looked like old blood under the glow.
Beyond the reach of the lamp, the world faded into shadows — broken fences, overgrown lots, the distant thud of a bass line leaking out of a house party somewhere down the block.
It was late. Late enough that even the regular noise of Baton Rouge had gone thin.
Poochie stood with his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his hoodie, his weight shifting from foot to foot in small, restless movements. Every few seconds he glanced around the lot — not obvious, but not smooth either. Like he couldn’t decide if he was supposed to be playing it cool or watching for headlights.
Across from him, Meech leaned against the hood of his car, arms crossed over his chest. His face was unreadable, the way it always was when he was working something out in his head.
Shayla leaned against the passenger door, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t move much. Just watched — the kind of stillness that said she saw more than she let on.
Meech nodded once, slow and deliberate. "Time to step it up."
The words hung there, heavy in the thick night air.
Poochie shifted again, kicking at a loose pebble on the ground. "Step up how?"
Meech smiled — not wide, not warm. Just a thin stretch of mouth that didn’t touch his eyes.
"More pickups. Bigger numbers. More eyes on the street. Ain’t nobody gonna give us shit if we don’t take it."
Poochie nodded, quick. Too quick. His jaw worked like he wanted to say something — maybe wanted to push back — but he swallowed it down, ducking his head and pretending to study the ground instead.
Shayla watched him, one eyebrow twitching upward just slightly.
Meech caught it, too.
"You got a problem?" Meech asked, voice easy. Deceptively easy.
Poochie shook his head. "Nah, man. I’m good."
"Good," Meech said, pushing off the car with his palms. He stepped closer, his sneakers scraping softly against the concrete. "Cause being a bitch ass nigga get you killed. Or worse — get everybody else killed."
The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be.
Poochie forced a smile — a thin, sick thing — and nodded again.
Meech clapped him on the shoulder, firm enough to make Poochie sway a little. "You ready, right? I ain’t drag you back into this for you to be a pussy."
Poochie straightened. "I’m ready."
Meech studied him for a long second — a sharp, cutting glance that peeled back layers without permission.
Then he looked over at Shayla.
"You good too?"
Shayla held his gaze for a breath longer than she should have. Then she nodded once, slow and deliberate.
"I’m good," she said.
Her voice didn’t shake. But it didn’t have to for the message to land.
She didn’t trust him. Not all the way. Maybe not anymore.
Meech didn’t push it. Just smirked like he knew something nobody else did and turned back toward his car, fishing out a cigarette and lighting it with slow, careful motions.
The flame briefly lit his face — all sharp edges and quiet menace — before the darkness swallowed him up again.
"Be ready for the call," he said around the cigarette. "Ain’t no next time if you freeze up."
Poochie nodded hard enough it looked like it hurt.
Shayla said nothing.
Meech dropped the cigarette to the ground, grinding it under the heel of his boot as he slid behind the wheel.
The car engine rumbled to life, headlights cutting a harsh white path across the empty lot.
Poochie and Shayla stood there for a moment after Meech pulled off, the taillights shrinking into the dark.
Finally, Shayla pushed off the car and started walking toward her own ride.
"You good?" Poochie called after her, his voice smaller now, almost boyish.
Shayla turned, gave him a long, wary look — the kind that said she already knew how this story ended.
"Be sure you are," she said.
Then she got into her car and drove away, leaving Poochie standing alone in the fractured light, kicking dust into the cracks while the night closed in around him.
