On Two
The soft click of Alix’s heels echoed across the polished concrete of Roux Interiors' open-plan office, a rhythmic beat that matched the confidence she was finally starting to feel in her stride. She carried a fabric sample board under one arm, a cappuccino in the other, and a quiet buzz of purpose followed in her wake.
The Roux offices were bright and clean, with floor-to-ceiling windows that flooded the space with natural light. Exposed beams. Brass fixtures. Succulents that somehow always looked freshly misted. It was the kind of place that felt like someone’s Pinterest board had come to life—and Alix belonged here. Not because she was trying to prove something to anyone anymore, but because the work lit something in her. Her hands had stopped shaking before client meetings. Her drafts came faster, cleaner. Her critiques were heard and even respected.
She walked past a few of her coworkers—Carmen from procurement gave her a thumbs up as she passed, likely in reference to the material board Alix had presented that morning. It had been a bold palette: deep aubergine, dusty teal, and aged brass. A year ago, Alix would’ve second-guessed herself. Now? She was leaning into the risk and enjoying the view.
That afternoon, her boss, Renee, waved her over from her desk near the back corner. Renee was stylish as ever in a crisp cream blouse tucked into black high-waisted trousers, her hair twisted back and secured with a tortoiseshell clip. The woman had a way of commanding a room without ever needing to raise her voice.
“Close the door,” Renee said with a small smile, nodding toward the conference nook.
Alix did as she was told and sat across from her, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. She was still in her Roux polo and pressed jeans, but there was a speck of primer on the inside of her elbow from visiting the renovation site earlier that morning. Renee noticed and grinned.
“Been in the trenches again?”
Alix shrugged, smiling. “Old habit. I like seeing how things come together.”
“Good,” Renee said, leaning forward slightly, hands folded. “Because that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Alix sat straighter. Her heart picked up a beat, but she kept her posture neutral, professional.
“We’ve been impressed,” Renee continued. “You’ve been steady, creative, consistent. Clients like you. Vendors respect you. And around here, that’s not nothing. So—we’re looking at ways to keep you past the semester.”
Alix blinked. “Wait… like, full-time?”
“Contract to start,” Renee clarified, with a raised brow. “Still some paperwork to get through. But yeah. We’re offering.”
Alix smiled so wide it almost hurt. Then she reeled it in, trying to temper it. “Wow. Okay. That’s... I mean, yeah. I’d definitely be interested. I’d have to look at the details, but—”
“Relax,” Renee laughed. “You don’t have to sell me on being measured. I saw your reaction. That was the real one. I like that one better.”
Alix let herself laugh, leaning back a little in the chair. There was something weightless about the moment—like a balloon that had finally broken free of the string someone had tied around it.
“Thank you,” she said, voice softer now. “This means a lot.”
Renee nodded. “I know. I’ve seen the shift. You’re different than when you first started. You’re present now. You’re owning things. That matters.”
They sat in silence for a moment, just long enough for the emotion to settle into something solid and grounding.
When Alix stood, Renee handed her a small folder with some onboarding paperwork. “No rush,” she said. “But don’t wait too long either. You’ve got good momentum.”
As Alix walked back to her desk, the afternoon sunlight streaming in caught the edge of her computer monitor, where a muted photo still lingered from her old home screen—a shot of her and Royce at some spring gala, half-dressed up and half-drunk, mid-laugh.
She didn’t click on it. She didn’t even flinch. Instead, she minimized the window, opened her planner, and started listing out specs for next week’s install.
~~~~~~~~~~
The notification buzzed against the nightstand like a hornet trapped in a glass jar. Toni rolled over, bleary-eyed, and blinked at the glow of her phone.
[Deshawn sent you a playlist: “My Girl”]
The title made her stomach tighten.
She slid her thumb across the screen, opened Spotify, and stared at the black-and-red graphic he’d made for it—his face, half-shadowed, overlaid with the words She mine 4L.
The first track came in with no warning—Summer Walker’s voice raw and pleading, crooning about broken promises and not needing anyone but him. The second was a throwback, something by Jodeci, slow and syrupy. The third caught her off guard: a deep cut from a lesser-known rapper, the lyrics brutal in their devotion—I’ll break the world for you, just don’t let it be me you break.
Toni hit pause.
The silence that followed wasn’t relief. It was louder.
Her thumb hovered, then switched playlists. The Drive Home One, the one she used to blast with the windows down, wind rushing in as the city lights blurred past. Lizzo’s “Truth Hurts” crackled through the speaker. Toni braced for the first verse, the one that always made her smirk and sing along.
But the smirk didn’t come.
Not even halfway through the chorus, she closed the app. Her bedroom dimmed again, the only light the pulsing blue from her humidifier in the corner. She set the phone face-down.
She could still hear Deshawn’s voice in the back of her mind, low and velvety—You’re the only girl who gets the soft parts of me. But lately, the soft parts had teeth. Lately, every compliment had a blade stitched beneath it.
She hadn’t told anyone about the playlist. Not her friends. Not Arianna. She hadn’t even saved it. But she hadn’t deleted it either.
Her knee bounced, fast and sharp, like her body was trying to tap out a message her brain wouldn’t say aloud. Her hands shook slightly as she reached for the glass of water by her bed. She drank, but her throat stayed dry.
Down the hall, someone laughed on a phone call. The sound was distant, normal. Safe.
She wasn’t.
Toni pulled the covers over her chest and stared at the ceiling. She tried to remind herself that a playlist wasn’t a promise. But that didn’t stop the lyrics from echoing. And it didn’t stop the feeling that somehow, someone else had started writing the soundtrack of her life—and she didn’t remember giving them permission.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce lay still, flat on his back, eyes locked on the ceiling. The pale amber of the streetlight cut across the room in sharp, uneven stripes—his windows never had blinds, and by now, the light was familiar, predictable. Like the silence that crept in after midnight. Like the ache in his chest that had no clean name.
Hollie was curled into him, her leg slung across his thigh, one hand loosely draped over his stomach like she owned part of him. Her breath was warm against his ribs. She’d fallen asleep quickly, her laughter from earlier faded into soft murmurs and occasional sighs. Her hair smelled like lavender and whatever hairspray sorority girls used to hold everything in place even when nothing really was.
He hadn’t even bothered to turn off the TV. ESPN flickered muted highlights in the corner, looping some Pac-12 game he didn’t care about.
His phone buzzed once on the nightstand.
Then again.
A third time.
Royce didn’t move right away. The number was one he didn’t recognize, but the format made his chest tighten.
Louisiana Department of Corrections — Inmate Call Notification.
He let the fourth ring stretch too long before swiping.
“Yeah.”
There was static. Then that low, steady voice.
“You wanna walk across that draft stage like you got it all figured out,” his father said. “But you breaking apart in places you don’t even know yet.”
Royce stayed silent.
He knew the call wouldn’t be long. Knew the time meant Kevon had probably been pacing in his cell, debating if it was worth it. He hadn’t called in months.
Kevon didn’t wait for a response. “Your mama ain’t perfect. Reg sure as hell ain’t. But that’s blood. You don’t gotta hug ‘em. Just don’t let ‘em die thinking you turned into stone.”
Royce clenched his jaw, eyes narrowing. The ceiling didn’t look any different, but suddenly he couldn’t stand the sight of it.
“I don’t owe him shit,” he said, low. “Neither of them. I ain’t the one who changed up.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Kevon’s voice didn’t rise, but there was iron behind it. “You think I’m calling to defend Reg? I’m calling so you don’t carry this shit like I carried mine. I’m calling so you don’t look up ten years from now and hate who you turned into.”
Royce sat up slowly, moving Hollie’s arm off of him without waking her. He pressed the phone to his ear harder, his voice quiet but sharp. “Why you care now? You ain’t care when you was out here pushing dope. You ain’t care when we was scrounging to make it through shit you started.”
Silence.
Royce thought the call had dropped.
Then his father spoke, quieter this time.
“Because I see it clearer now. And I see you clearer than they do. I see how this gon’ eat you later.”
Royce stared at the floor. His chest rose and fell in slow, uneven beats. His ankle throbbed faintly from practice, but that wasn’t what hurt.
Kevon let the silence linger a few seconds longer, like he knew Royce wasn’t going to say anything else. Then:
“You gone be the last Lafitte man still walking free. Think about what that means.”
Click.
Royce threw the phone.
It ricocheted off the edge of the dresser and clattered across the hardwood, skidding until it disappeared into the dark edge of the living room. Something cracked. He didn’t care.
Hollie stirred, shifting against the sheets. Her voice came out small, groggy.
“What was that?”
Royce didn’t answer. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.
She waited a moment, then rolled back over.
Royce stayed there, the ghost of his father’s words sitting heavy in the room with him.
“You gone the last Lafitte man still walking free.”
He didn’t know if that made him lucky.
Or just next.
Dying to Live
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16848
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16848
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
After Hours
Royce didn’t mean to come. Not really. He’d just been driving after film, not ready to go back to his apartment and sit in silence again. His stomach was on fire, twisting with that kind of hunger that made you angry. And somehow, he ended up in front of the house.
The porch light was off. One of the Halloween decorations still hung from the banister, limp in the breeze.
He rang the bell once and stepped back.
It took a minute, then the door cracked open. Roni peeked out, her bonnet crooked and one sock missing.
“Royce?” she asked, voice small and surprised.
He didn’t answer that. “Tyrell home?”
She shook her head. “Workin’ overnight. Rana’s not here either.”
Royce nodded once and stepped forward. She didn’t move right away, like she was still thinking about whether to let him in.
Then she opened the door wider. “You can come in, I guess.”
The house was quiet, dark except for the lamp in the living room. He walked straight to the kitchen, not waiting for her to follow.
The fridge creaked open. A half-empty bottle of orange juice, a takeout container with “Ty” scribbled on the lid, a jar of salsa, and not much else. It was weird. This house had always been stocked before. At least to him.
He stared into it for a second too long.
Behind him, Roni leaned against the wall in her oversized hoodie.
“We had spaghetti earlier. But I think Rana took the rest for lunch tomorrow.”
Royce didn’t respond. He grabbed a bottle of water and closed the fridge.
When he turned around, she was watching him.
“You okay?” she asked, voice cautious.
He took a drink. “I’m straight.”
Roni shrugged, like she didn’t believe it but also didn’t care enough to press. She scratched her elbow, then said, “You don’t live here anymore, you know.”
It wasn’t mean. Just matter-of-fact. The way little sisters say stuff that hurts without knowing it does.
“I know,” he muttered.
He capped the water and walked to the door. Bent down to put his slides back on.
Roni stood in the hallway, quiet.
When he pulled the door open, she called softly, “Royce?”
He turned.
She looked at him for a long second. “You coulda just texted me.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. So he didn’t say anything at all.
As he pulled out of the driveway, a pair of headlights appeared—Rana’s car easing up to the curb.
They made eye contact through the windshield. Her lips pressed into a tight line. He gave a shallow nod. She didn’t return it.
She parked. He kept driving.
No one waved.
~~~~~~~~~~
The clang of metal echoed softly off the cement walls—one final rep, bar hitting the rack with a muted thud.
Malik exhaled through his nose, steady and controlled, sweat clinging to his forehead and soaking through the back of his long sleeve. The weight room was dead quiet. Lights humming. No music playing, no teammates cracking jokes or shouting max numbers across the turf. Just him. Just iron and breath.
He stayed seated on the bench, letting the silence wrap around him like a second skin. This wasn’t punishment. Not anymore. It wasn’t even for performance. Nevada’s season was already a bust, and no scouts were checking in on a safety from a team with three wins and a burnt-out head coach. Nobody cared what he did out here. Not really.
But lifting gave him something no one could take—a rhythm. A pause between thoughts.
He stood up, arms loose at his sides, and walked to the mirror.
For a moment, he just stared.
The Malik from Louisiana would’ve pulled his shirt up for a progress pic by now—angles right, lighting checked, sweat glistening just enough. Hashtag grind. Hashtag different animal.
But that version of him didn’t exist here. Not in Reno. Not under the chill of high desert winters and quiet locker rooms where no one called him out by name.
He reached for his water bottle, took a sip, then capped it and slung his duffel over his shoulder.
No words. No captions.
Just a small nod at his reflection, like an agreement only he understood.
Outside, the cold bit his face the second he stepped into the parking lot. His breath came out in clouds. The snow was just beginning—thin flurries twisting under the glow of the overhead lamps.
He paused.
Watched them.
They didn’t fall hard or fast, just slow and deliberate. Almost hesitant. Like they were deciding whether to stick or vanish before hitting the pavement.
Malik exhaled again. This time, it felt lighter.
He zipped his hoodie all the way up and pulled the hood over his head. His footsteps crunched lightly as he crossed the lot.
No one honked. No one called his name from across the street. There were no lingering eyes or whispered questions about who he used to be.
And for once, Malik was okay with that.
He was still figuring out who he was becoming. But here, under the dim lights and soft snow, nobody expected an answer.
Just the sound of doors locking behind him.
And the quiet.
Always the quiet.
~~~~~~~~~~
Alix tapped the steering wheel with the side of her thumb, the rhythmic beat barely keeping her tethered to the present. Her other hand rested limply on a lukewarm Cane’s bag in the passenger seat, its grease-stained bottom pressing into a manila folder of swatches she’d forgotten to drop off at Roux Interiors before leaving. The smell of fried chicken and warm crinkle fries filled the car, clinging to the faux leather seats like a comfort she hadn’t earned.
The day had been long. Not dramatic—just quietly draining. Like she’d been running on 15% battery since noon and pretending she was fine. That new assistant designer, Talia, had side-eyed her suggestion to go with a matte brass pull on the Riverbend kitchen remodel like it was a personal offense. She hadn’t even looked up from her iPad when she mumbled, “I just think brushed nickel is more timeless.” Alix had wanted to ask her what she knew about time. Or taste. But instead she nodded, smiled, and went back to her own laptop like her heart hadn’t slipped a little further down in her chest.
Now, driving past the glowing “Baton Rouge General” sign, Alix was coasting in that in-between space—too early to go to bed, too late to pretend she had the energy to clean her apartment or return those emails she’d ignored. Her stomach ached, but it wasn’t hunger. It was restlessness. The kind that made your fingers twitch and your eyes skim playlists without hitting play.
That’s when she saw him.
Co. Walking toward the far end of the parking lot, hands in the pockets of his gray scrub pants, the fabric clinging to him in the late evening humidity. His gait was unmistakable—slouched shoulders, that heavy post-shift lean like the day had settled into his bones.
She turned before she knew why she was turning.
Rolled the window down halfway as she crept beside him. “What, you wear scrubs now just to get girls to trust you faster?”
He didn’t jump. Just looked over with that same tired grin that always made him look a little younger and a little older at once. “Nah. I wear scrubs so I blend in when women stalk me. Camouflage.”
She laughed. Loud. Too loud. And something unclenched in her ribcage.
He leaned down, forearms braced against her window frame. “You lost? Or you just out here trying to see what kind of fast food nurses are into?”
“I’ve got fried chicken and no patience for eating alone,” she said. “Get in.”
He studied her for half a beat, then walked around the hood and climbed into the passenger seat. He moved like someone who hadn’t had a real break all day. The door closed with a soft thunk, and he exhaled as he settled in.
“You eat yet?” she asked, already handing him the Cane’s bag.
“Half a turkey sandwich I stole from the fridge. Might’ve been Tasha’s. I’ll bring her a cookie tomorrow.”
He peeled the foil back from a chicken finger, took a bite, and closed his eyes like it physically hurt to chew. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The silence settled thick, but not uncomfortable.
The kind of silence you could live inside.
They shared the fries without discussion, her reaching for one just as he did and pulling back to let him take it. He glanced over, lifted one for her to grab, and she smiled without thinking.
“No offense,” she said softly after a while, “but you look like shit.”
Co didn’t even blink. “That’s how you know I actually work. Probably smell like it too.”
She nodded, chewing slowly, her tongue numb from the salt and grease. “You always this charming when you're exhausted?”
“I’m better when I’m delirious,” he said. “Keep feeding me and you’ll see.”
She laughed again—quieter now. It hung between them like breath on glass.
Outside, traffic buzzed lazily on the bypass. Inside, the world had shrunk to the soft click of fries being picked from the box, the rustle of a paper bag, the low hum of the car’s air vent.
“You okay?” he asked.
She didn’t answer right away. Just looked down at the cup in her hands, her thumb tracing the condensation ring. “I think so.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It is,” she said. Then added, “But it’s trying to be real.”
He didn’t push. Just nodded and finished the last fry.
They stayed like that—leaned back in their seats, not quite facing each other, the Cane’s bag between them like neutral ground. The kind of moment that felt like it could tip into something more or just evaporate into the ordinary.
“I should go,” she said eventually, her voice thin.
“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
But neither of them moved.
Not right away.
And when she finally did, turning the key in the ignition, he didn’t reach for the door handle until the music started and the headlights lit the lot.
As he got out, he tapped the roof of the car twice. “Don’t let the chicken get cold next time.”
She smiled again. This one stayed with her all the way home.
~~~~~~~~~~
Poochie showed up almost an hour late. His hoodie was damp from the drizzle, his sneakers squeaked on the tile, and he barely made eye contact as he slid past the front door of the trap house and muttered something about traffic on Florida.
Shayla didn’t press him. Not in front of Meech’s cousin, who was sifting through cash on the couch with a cigarette bobbing from his lips. She gave Poochie a quick look and a subtle tilt of her head toward the back hallway. Poochie got the message and disappeared into it.
Royce was perched on the kitchen counter with a plastic cup in his hand, watching it all unfold. He hadn’t asked why they were there, not really. Meech had just said it was a chill night—music, drinks, maybe a little talk—and Royce, still restless from the team’s walk-through earlier that day, had tagged along.
Shayla wandered over after a minute and leaned next to him. Her arms were crossed, and she kept her eyes trained on the hallway like she was tracking something behind the wall.
“Your boy damn near missed the whole thing,” she said under her breath.
Royce sipped his drink and kept his expression unreadable. “He said traffic.”
Shayla gave him a look. “You believe that?”
Royce shrugged. “Ain’t my business.”
Shayla’s eyes flicked to him. “But you here.”
He didn’t respond.
She leaned in just a fraction, her voice low and steady. “You might not think you’re in it. But you in the room. If it go wrong—if they get loud or sloppy or greedy—you don’t get to say, ‘That wasn’t me.’ You in enough to get caught.”
Royce stared ahead, jaw tight. The music from the living room thumped softly through the wall. A couple of guys laughed at something. Somewhere, a microwave beeped.
“I’m just here,” he said.
Shayla pulled away and straightened. “That’s what everybody says. Right until they not.”
She left him there in the kitchen with the red cup in his hand and too many thoughts in his head. Royce didn’t move. Not for a while.
Royce didn’t mean to come. Not really. He’d just been driving after film, not ready to go back to his apartment and sit in silence again. His stomach was on fire, twisting with that kind of hunger that made you angry. And somehow, he ended up in front of the house.
The porch light was off. One of the Halloween decorations still hung from the banister, limp in the breeze.
He rang the bell once and stepped back.
It took a minute, then the door cracked open. Roni peeked out, her bonnet crooked and one sock missing.
“Royce?” she asked, voice small and surprised.
He didn’t answer that. “Tyrell home?”
She shook her head. “Workin’ overnight. Rana’s not here either.”
Royce nodded once and stepped forward. She didn’t move right away, like she was still thinking about whether to let him in.
Then she opened the door wider. “You can come in, I guess.”
The house was quiet, dark except for the lamp in the living room. He walked straight to the kitchen, not waiting for her to follow.
The fridge creaked open. A half-empty bottle of orange juice, a takeout container with “Ty” scribbled on the lid, a jar of salsa, and not much else. It was weird. This house had always been stocked before. At least to him.
He stared into it for a second too long.
Behind him, Roni leaned against the wall in her oversized hoodie.
“We had spaghetti earlier. But I think Rana took the rest for lunch tomorrow.”
Royce didn’t respond. He grabbed a bottle of water and closed the fridge.
When he turned around, she was watching him.
“You okay?” she asked, voice cautious.
He took a drink. “I’m straight.”
Roni shrugged, like she didn’t believe it but also didn’t care enough to press. She scratched her elbow, then said, “You don’t live here anymore, you know.”
It wasn’t mean. Just matter-of-fact. The way little sisters say stuff that hurts without knowing it does.
“I know,” he muttered.
He capped the water and walked to the door. Bent down to put his slides back on.
Roni stood in the hallway, quiet.
When he pulled the door open, she called softly, “Royce?”
He turned.
She looked at him for a long second. “You coulda just texted me.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. So he didn’t say anything at all.
As he pulled out of the driveway, a pair of headlights appeared—Rana’s car easing up to the curb.
They made eye contact through the windshield. Her lips pressed into a tight line. He gave a shallow nod. She didn’t return it.
She parked. He kept driving.
No one waved.
~~~~~~~~~~
The clang of metal echoed softly off the cement walls—one final rep, bar hitting the rack with a muted thud.
Malik exhaled through his nose, steady and controlled, sweat clinging to his forehead and soaking through the back of his long sleeve. The weight room was dead quiet. Lights humming. No music playing, no teammates cracking jokes or shouting max numbers across the turf. Just him. Just iron and breath.
He stayed seated on the bench, letting the silence wrap around him like a second skin. This wasn’t punishment. Not anymore. It wasn’t even for performance. Nevada’s season was already a bust, and no scouts were checking in on a safety from a team with three wins and a burnt-out head coach. Nobody cared what he did out here. Not really.
But lifting gave him something no one could take—a rhythm. A pause between thoughts.
He stood up, arms loose at his sides, and walked to the mirror.
For a moment, he just stared.
The Malik from Louisiana would’ve pulled his shirt up for a progress pic by now—angles right, lighting checked, sweat glistening just enough. Hashtag grind. Hashtag different animal.
But that version of him didn’t exist here. Not in Reno. Not under the chill of high desert winters and quiet locker rooms where no one called him out by name.
He reached for his water bottle, took a sip, then capped it and slung his duffel over his shoulder.
No words. No captions.
Just a small nod at his reflection, like an agreement only he understood.
Outside, the cold bit his face the second he stepped into the parking lot. His breath came out in clouds. The snow was just beginning—thin flurries twisting under the glow of the overhead lamps.
He paused.
Watched them.
They didn’t fall hard or fast, just slow and deliberate. Almost hesitant. Like they were deciding whether to stick or vanish before hitting the pavement.
Malik exhaled again. This time, it felt lighter.
He zipped his hoodie all the way up and pulled the hood over his head. His footsteps crunched lightly as he crossed the lot.
No one honked. No one called his name from across the street. There were no lingering eyes or whispered questions about who he used to be.
And for once, Malik was okay with that.
He was still figuring out who he was becoming. But here, under the dim lights and soft snow, nobody expected an answer.
Just the sound of doors locking behind him.
And the quiet.
Always the quiet.
~~~~~~~~~~
Alix tapped the steering wheel with the side of her thumb, the rhythmic beat barely keeping her tethered to the present. Her other hand rested limply on a lukewarm Cane’s bag in the passenger seat, its grease-stained bottom pressing into a manila folder of swatches she’d forgotten to drop off at Roux Interiors before leaving. The smell of fried chicken and warm crinkle fries filled the car, clinging to the faux leather seats like a comfort she hadn’t earned.
The day had been long. Not dramatic—just quietly draining. Like she’d been running on 15% battery since noon and pretending she was fine. That new assistant designer, Talia, had side-eyed her suggestion to go with a matte brass pull on the Riverbend kitchen remodel like it was a personal offense. She hadn’t even looked up from her iPad when she mumbled, “I just think brushed nickel is more timeless.” Alix had wanted to ask her what she knew about time. Or taste. But instead she nodded, smiled, and went back to her own laptop like her heart hadn’t slipped a little further down in her chest.
Now, driving past the glowing “Baton Rouge General” sign, Alix was coasting in that in-between space—too early to go to bed, too late to pretend she had the energy to clean her apartment or return those emails she’d ignored. Her stomach ached, but it wasn’t hunger. It was restlessness. The kind that made your fingers twitch and your eyes skim playlists without hitting play.
That’s when she saw him.
Co. Walking toward the far end of the parking lot, hands in the pockets of his gray scrub pants, the fabric clinging to him in the late evening humidity. His gait was unmistakable—slouched shoulders, that heavy post-shift lean like the day had settled into his bones.
She turned before she knew why she was turning.
Rolled the window down halfway as she crept beside him. “What, you wear scrubs now just to get girls to trust you faster?”
He didn’t jump. Just looked over with that same tired grin that always made him look a little younger and a little older at once. “Nah. I wear scrubs so I blend in when women stalk me. Camouflage.”
She laughed. Loud. Too loud. And something unclenched in her ribcage.
He leaned down, forearms braced against her window frame. “You lost? Or you just out here trying to see what kind of fast food nurses are into?”
“I’ve got fried chicken and no patience for eating alone,” she said. “Get in.”
He studied her for half a beat, then walked around the hood and climbed into the passenger seat. He moved like someone who hadn’t had a real break all day. The door closed with a soft thunk, and he exhaled as he settled in.
“You eat yet?” she asked, already handing him the Cane’s bag.
“Half a turkey sandwich I stole from the fridge. Might’ve been Tasha’s. I’ll bring her a cookie tomorrow.”
He peeled the foil back from a chicken finger, took a bite, and closed his eyes like it physically hurt to chew. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The silence settled thick, but not uncomfortable.
The kind of silence you could live inside.
They shared the fries without discussion, her reaching for one just as he did and pulling back to let him take it. He glanced over, lifted one for her to grab, and she smiled without thinking.
“No offense,” she said softly after a while, “but you look like shit.”
Co didn’t even blink. “That’s how you know I actually work. Probably smell like it too.”
She nodded, chewing slowly, her tongue numb from the salt and grease. “You always this charming when you're exhausted?”
“I’m better when I’m delirious,” he said. “Keep feeding me and you’ll see.”
She laughed again—quieter now. It hung between them like breath on glass.
Outside, traffic buzzed lazily on the bypass. Inside, the world had shrunk to the soft click of fries being picked from the box, the rustle of a paper bag, the low hum of the car’s air vent.
“You okay?” he asked.
She didn’t answer right away. Just looked down at the cup in her hands, her thumb tracing the condensation ring. “I think so.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It is,” she said. Then added, “But it’s trying to be real.”
He didn’t push. Just nodded and finished the last fry.
They stayed like that—leaned back in their seats, not quite facing each other, the Cane’s bag between them like neutral ground. The kind of moment that felt like it could tip into something more or just evaporate into the ordinary.
“I should go,” she said eventually, her voice thin.
“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
But neither of them moved.
Not right away.
And when she finally did, turning the key in the ignition, he didn’t reach for the door handle until the music started and the headlights lit the lot.
As he got out, he tapped the roof of the car twice. “Don’t let the chicken get cold next time.”
She smiled again. This one stayed with her all the way home.
~~~~~~~~~~
Poochie showed up almost an hour late. His hoodie was damp from the drizzle, his sneakers squeaked on the tile, and he barely made eye contact as he slid past the front door of the trap house and muttered something about traffic on Florida.
Shayla didn’t press him. Not in front of Meech’s cousin, who was sifting through cash on the couch with a cigarette bobbing from his lips. She gave Poochie a quick look and a subtle tilt of her head toward the back hallway. Poochie got the message and disappeared into it.
Royce was perched on the kitchen counter with a plastic cup in his hand, watching it all unfold. He hadn’t asked why they were there, not really. Meech had just said it was a chill night—music, drinks, maybe a little talk—and Royce, still restless from the team’s walk-through earlier that day, had tagged along.
Shayla wandered over after a minute and leaned next to him. Her arms were crossed, and she kept her eyes trained on the hallway like she was tracking something behind the wall.
“Your boy damn near missed the whole thing,” she said under her breath.
Royce sipped his drink and kept his expression unreadable. “He said traffic.”
Shayla gave him a look. “You believe that?”
Royce shrugged. “Ain’t my business.”
Shayla’s eyes flicked to him. “But you here.”
He didn’t respond.
She leaned in just a fraction, her voice low and steady. “You might not think you’re in it. But you in the room. If it go wrong—if they get loud or sloppy or greedy—you don’t get to say, ‘That wasn’t me.’ You in enough to get caught.”
Royce stared ahead, jaw tight. The music from the living room thumped softly through the wall. A couple of guys laughed at something. Somewhere, a microwave beeped.
“I’m just here,” he said.
Shayla pulled away and straightened. “That’s what everybody says. Right until they not.”
She left him there in the kitchen with the red cup in his hand and too many thoughts in his head. Royce didn’t move. Not for a while.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7864
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Royce just craves tragedy 
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16848
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Brushed Past
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djp73
- Posts: 13184
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
ya gotta get a pic of the pick!!
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16848
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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djp73
- Posts: 13184
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
yeah, one of the drawbacks to rtg
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7864
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Brudda finally had himself a GAME.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16848
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Kentucky got brave and got punished.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16848
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47