Set Piece
Royce was stretched across the couch when his phone buzzed. Face down, one sock half off, an ice pack pressed lazily against his knee. The TV was on, muted—some show he wasn’t really watching flickering in the background. His body still carried the echo of that morning’s lift, and every joint felt like it had a grudge.
The screen lit up with an unsaved numer.
He let it ring twice before answering.
“What?”
Poochie’s voice came through with that jittery enthusiasm he always had when he was either high or about to ask for something. “What you doing, bruh?”
Royce didn’t even sit up. “Sleeping, nigga. It ain’t been that long since you played football. You know how spring go.”
“I got a quick thing. Need help moving a couch. Ain’t heavy.”
Royce stared at the ceiling. “You called me to move some fucking furniture?”
“It’s already moved, basically. We just need a body there. You don’t even gotta touch it.”
Royce rubbed his eyes. “Then what you calling me for?”
“Because you look like you belong there. It’s a vibe thing.”
Royce blinked slowly. “That sound like some shit you say right before a setup.”
Poochie laughed. “Come on, man. It’s legit. Ain’t even like that. One stop. In and out.”
A long pause.
Royce exhaled through his nose. “You gonna have to pay me, man.”
Poochie didn’t hesitate. “I got you.”
Royce sat up halfway, ice pack sliding to the floor. “Gas and food. And I ain’t carrying shit.”
“Bet,” Poochie said. “We’ll scoop you tomorrow.”
Royce hung up and stared at the wall for a beat.
Then he muttered, “Dumbass,” under his breath, not sure if he meant Poochie or himself.
~~~~~~~~~~
Mike was sitting at the back table in the library, the kind with the chipped corner and the chair that rocked even when you didn’t move. His backpack was open beside him, books stacked neatly but untouched, laptop open with a blank Google Doc blinking like a slow, unimpressed metronome.
His phone buzzed on the table.
A number with a Houma area code.
He didn’t have to open it to know who it was.
He just stared at the screen, thumb hovering above it.
Then he hit delete.
Didn’t read it. Didn’t need to.
But the words clung anyway—like smoke in fabric.
Where’s my bread.
Mike swallowed hard, jaw tightening as he reached into the front pocket of his binder. He pulled out a folded scrap of paper, the kind of lined notebook sheet you scribble on in a rush. The ink was smeared, edges soft from being opened and closed too many times.
At the center, circled in black ballpoint pen three times over: $1,200
He stared at the number like it had weight. Like it might drop through the table if he let it sit long enough.
The number had been there for months. The debt itself even longer. A small favor that snowballed into something more. Treg hadn’t said when he’d come calling. Just that he would.
And now, he had.
Mike pressed the slip flat against the inside of his binder and closed it slowly. The sound of the latch felt louder than it should’ve.
He packed up his things with quiet efficiency, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he made his way out of the library into the crisp air.
Later that night, the dorm lobby buzzed with weekend energy—music leaking from someone’s speaker, the scent of cologne and cafeteria fries mingling in the air. Laughter echoed down the hallway.
“Yo, Mike.”
He turned.
Jaylen stood at the elevators in jeans and a designer hoodie, sneakers still squeaky clean.
“You coming to Trace’s? Whole team sliding.”
Mike shook his head, keeping his voice light. “Nah. I got reading.”
Jaylen smirked. “On a Friday?”
Mike shrugged. “Exams don’t take themselves.”
“Suit yourself.”
The elevator dinged.
Jaylen was gone.
Mike turned and walked the other way, past the vending machines, past the girls putting on lip gloss in the lobby mirror, past the kid juggling a speaker and a bottle in the same hand.
He didn’t go to his room.
He went outside instead, where it was quiet.
Where no one was watching.
He sat on the low stone wall near the courtyard and stared at nothing in particular.
Not because he had work.
Not because he was tired.
Because the truth was simpler than that.
He didn’t want to be seen. Not tonight.
Not with something like $1,200 taped inside his binder like a ticking clock.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce sat behind the wheel of his Audi in the dealership parking lot for a full minute before turning the engine off. The car was still spotless—black on black, with smoked rims and interior leather that looked as untouched as the day he got it. No dents. No scuffs. Nothing to suggest anything was wrong.
But the car didn’t feel like his.
It never did.
He leaned back, fingers still curled around the wheel, eyes tracing the edges of the dash. A gift from Billy when they started making money together.
Now he had money—real money. NIL contract signed, wired, and already sitting in his account, the kind of money that made people look at him differently. That made him look at himself differently.
He wasn’t borrowing anyone’s status anymore.
He could own his.
Royce stepped out, shut the door behind him, and headed inside.
The dealership was cool and quiet, the floors gleaming, the air crisp with a faint smell of new tires and citrusy showroom polish. A wall of windows let in thick sunlight, catching the angles of the parked cars like they were sculptures instead of machines.
A man in a blue button-down and a sharp fade walked over, the smile already forming before he spoke.
“Afternoon, boss. Looking for something in particular?”
“Something that’s mine,” Royce said. “Not borrowed.”
The salesman grinned, sensing the tone. “We got plenty of those.”
They walked the lot, past the rows of Camaros and Chargers, SUVs that screamed family money, luxury sedans that whispered it. Royce didn’t flinch at the sticker prices. Didn’t ask about financing. Just moved like someone who’d already made up his mind.
They reached a white Corvette with black trim and red brake calipers. It gleamed under the sun like it was daring someone to try and find a flaw.
Royce paused.
That was the one.
Inside, the salesman typed with quick fingers, tapping through digital forms and dealership disclaimers. Royce sat across from him, arms folded, still in workout clothes—black hoodie, gold chain tucked just under the collar, watch glinting under the overhead lights.
The salesman finally looked up. “And how were you thinking about financing?”
Royce leaned forward, pulled his phone from his pocket, unlocked it, and handed it over. The screen showed the banking app open. Seven figures. No commas needed to feel the weight.
“I’m not.”
The man blinked.
Royce leaned back. “I’m paying for it. Now.”
The salesman stared at the screen for a second longer than necessary, then nodded slowly, recognition settling in.
“I knew you looked familiar,” he said. “You the linebacker. LSU. Lafitte, right?”
Royce gave a small nod.
The man smiled wider. “Knew it was either that or one of them rappers. TBG, gang! Good season. Hell of a game against Clemson.”
Royce didn’t puff up. Didn’t grin.
He just said, “Appreciate it.”
The salesman clicked through a few more screens, then stood to shake his hand. “You want us to deliver it, or you driving off today?”
Royce rose too, voice even. “Today.”
Outside, the Corvette purred low as Royce slid into the driver’s seat. The leather was still cool, the touchscreen blinking awake, and the wheel fit in his hands like it was cut just for him.
He didn’t blast the music. Didn’t peel out.
He pulled out slow, easing onto the street like a man who didn’t need to be loud to be seen.
This one was his.
No strings. No whispers.
Just a clean title.
And his name on it.
~~~~~~~~~~
The coffee shop was tucked into the corner of a quiet street near campus, half-hidden by the overhang of a live oak and a crooked stop sign. Inside, it smelled like burnt espresso and sage, the walls covered in mismatched flyers and art prints that bled together under string lights and neon signs. A mic stand stood at the front of the room like a confession booth. The crowd was mostly students—some slouched into armchairs, some perched cross-legged on the floor. A few were just there for the cheap coffee and the excuse to linger.
Toni stepped in quietly, her jacket pulled tight against her ribs, hoodie underneath, head low. She didn’t stop to look around. Just scanned the room once, spotted an open seat in the back corner, and made her way toward it. She sat without taking off her coat.
Arianna was already on stage.
She hadn’t seen Toni come in—or at least, she hadn’t let on that she had. Her braids were pulled back tonight, the ends curled softly, her hoops glinting under the single spotlight. She wore a black long-sleeve shirt tucked into high-waisted jeans, no makeup except for the faint sheen on her lips.
Her voice carried low and even into the mic. Not trying to be dramatic. Just deliberate.
The poem was called Inheritance.
And it didn’t start soft.
“I come from women who teach with silence.
Who braid your hair tight enough to keep the pain in.
Who say ‘I love you’ through full plates and full schedules.
Who build walls around the people they care about
And call it a house.”
Toni felt the words before she understood them.
She sank deeper into her seat.
Arianna didn’t look toward the back. Not once. She read with her chin high, hands loose at her sides, not performing so much as letting something finally bleed out. Her voice cracked just slightly on the third stanza, but she didn’t flinch.
“They told me love meant protection.
That you keep your people close and the world out.
But what about when the hurt comes from inside the house?
What then?
What are you supposed to inherit?”
Toni sat still. Her nails dug softly into her palms. A girl two seats over wiped her eye. Someone else whispered “damn” under their breath.
But Toni didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
At the end, Arianna let the silence sit. Let the crowd breathe in what she’d just pulled from the air.
Applause followed, loud and messy and full of all the things people didn’t know how to say back.
Toni clapped once.
Softly.
No one saw.
Arianna stepped offstage and walked straight toward the back—not to Toni, but to the side exit. She moved through the crowd without pausing. A couple people patted her shoulder. One hugged her.
But she kept moving.
She hadn’t performed for Toni. That was clear.
But Toni had heard her anyway.
And that was something new between them.
Not a reunion. Not a reconciliation.
Just a shift.
A quiet understanding that whatever Arianna was becoming, she was doing it her own way now.
Not by pulling Toni with her.
But by walking ahead. And leaving space.
In case Toni ever chose to follow.
Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16879
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7877
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
One cousin losing sleep over $1200 and the other a millionaire driving a brand new Corvette paid in straight cash? Crazy.
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Soapy
- Posts: 16641
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
Captain Canada wrote: ↑22 May 2025, 13:13One cousin losing sleep over $1200 and the other a millionaire driving a brand new Corvette paid in straight cash? Crazy.
I'm never wrong, just early.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16879
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Captain Canada wrote: ↑22 May 2025, 13:13One cousin losing sleep over $1200 and the other a millionaire driving a brand new Corvette paid in straight cash? Crazy.
Mike trying to be a man and didn’t tell Royce he need some money. Can’t help if you don’t know he is needed.Soapy wrote: ↑22 May 2025, 15:05Captain Canada wrote: ↑22 May 2025, 13:13One cousin losing sleep over $1200 and the other a millionaire driving a brand new Corvette paid in straight cash? Crazy.
I'm never wrong, just early.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16879
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
The Fall
Royce opened the door to the morning like he didn’t trust it.
The sky was dull, the kind of overcast that didn’t promise rain, just mood. The sidewalk outside his apartment complex was still wet from a light mist that must’ve passed through earlier. His keys jingled in his pocket as he stepped out, hoodie thrown over a plain white tee, hood up even though the air wasn’t cold enough for it.
He wasn’t thinking about anything.
Not football. Not NIL.
He was just walking toward the day.
That was when he saw them—Poochie, Meech, and someone else he didn’t recognize, all leaned up against the side of a black Suburban parked on the curb like they were waiting for a bus. Poochie stood with one sneaker balanced on the bumper, checking his phone. Meech looked like he hadn’t slept—hood up, hands in his pockets, jaw flexing every few seconds.
“Bout time,” Poochie called.
Royce didn’t say anything. Just kept walking, hands in his pockets, eyes low.
Meech stepped forward, nodding toward the back of the truck. “You gon’ ride with us?”
“I’m taking my car,” Royce muttered, not even glancing their way.
Poochie blinked. “Where it at?”
“Where it’s always at.”
That was all he said.
A breath passed.
Poochie looked at Meech, then back at Royce. “Aight. Follow us then.”
But Royce had already stopped listening. Something didn’t sit right. Not the way Poochie kept glancing around. Not the tension in Meech’s shoulders. Not the fact that this felt like a drop, not a move.
He paused at the curb. One foot still on the sidewalk.
That was when the black Escalade pulled in fast—too fast.
Blue and red lights lit up before Royce even turned his head. A screech of brakes. Another cruiser behind it. Officers out with guns drawn, shouting commands that blurred together like thunder.
“Hands up!”
“Turn around!”
“Do not move!”
Meech and the other dude ran.
Poochie froze. Royce just stood there—calm, hands already out, jaw clenched.
The air was cold with adrenaline. His palms went to the back of his head.
They cuffed him without incident.
Didn’t even rough him up. Didn’t need to.
He didn’t say a word as they walked him to the cruiser.
Behind him, he heard the passenger door of the Suburban pop open. One of the officers pulled out a gym bag and unzipped it right there in the street. Plastic bundles inside.
Poochie turned his face to the sidewalk.
They’d been planning to put it in Royce’s car.
But his car wasn’t parked there.
He hadn’t brought it.
The cruiser door slammed.
From inside, the windows fogged slightly from Royce’s breath. He leaned his head back against the seat and stared straight ahead, past the glass, past the sirens, past the officers pacing in and out of frame.
He didn’t ask what this was.
He already knew.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t beg. Didn’t curse.
But in his chest, something cracked—not loudly, not fast. Just enough to remind him that the fuse Meech had lit back in December had finally reached its end.
And it could’ve been him in that truck.
It almost was.
~~~~~~~~~~
The tire gave out just after midnight.
Not with a bang, not even a thump—just a soft stutter in the steering wheel and the kind of uneven pull that told Toni something was wrong before she fully accepted it. She eased the car to the shoulder of a dimly lit road just outside their neighborhood, her hazard lights blinking too bright in the silence.
Her phone battery was at 7%.
Deshawn didn’t answer.
She stared at the screen for a while, then tried again. Two rings. Voicemail.
She didn’t bother leaving one.
Toni slumped back in her seat, thumb tapping lightly against the steering wheel. For a moment, she considered walking. It wasn’t far. Fifteen minutes, maybe. Twenty if she avoided the shortcut she didn’t feel safe taking at this hour.
Instead, she opened the rideshare app.
The car arrived in seven minutes—a white sedan, clean enough, with a plastic hula girl dancing on the dashboard and gospel playing quietly through the speakers.
The driver was a Black woman, maybe in her forties, with locs pulled into a loose bun and clear gloss on her lips. She smiled when Toni got in.
“Long night?”
Toni offered a nod. “Yeah.”
“Shit, you and me both,” the driver said, easing back onto the road. “I just dropped off a whole bridal party at the casino. Bunch of drunk women in matching robes and zero sense of direction.”
Toni gave a small laugh, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“You don’t talk much, huh?” the woman asked, glancing at her in the mirror.
“Not tonight.”
The driver nodded like she understood. “That’s alright. Some nights don’t need noise.”
They drove in silence for a few minutes. Streetlights passed overhead like slow blinks. The roads were empty now, the city caught between its late-night hum and its early-morning hush.
“You from around here?” the driver asked.
Toni hesitated. “Yeah.”
“Nice to be close to home. My daughter moved to Baton Rouge for school. Miss her like hell.”
Toni stared out the window, hands curled in her lap. She wanted to ask what that kind of love felt like—safe, steady, unconditional—but the words stuck.
Instead, she said, “Hope she’s doing alright.”
The driver smiled. “She’s trying. That’s all we can do.”
When they reached the complex, the porch light was still off. No movement behind the curtains. No sound.
Toni hesitated with her hand on the door handle.
“Thanks,” she said softly.
“You take care of yourself, baby,” the driver replied. “Whatever’s waiting in there, don’t let it change who you are.”
Toni looked up, eyes catching the woman’s in the mirror.
It was the kind of thing her Ma Beulah might’ve said, if things had been different. If she’d known how.
She nodded once, stepped out, and closed the door gently behind her.
The car pulled off, taillights disappearing down the block.
Toni walked to the base of the driveway and stopped.
She didn’t go in.
Just stood there in the quiet, keys gripped tight in one hand, the cold of the metal biting her palm.
She looked at the door, the porch, the window where the curtain never closed right.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t text Arianna.
She didn’t move.
The night wrapped around her like a thin coat, offering no warmth, but covering her all the same.
And still, she stood.
Holding the keys to a place that never felt like hers.
~~~~~~~~~~
Effie sat on the edge of her bed, knees pulled to her chest, hoodie sleeves wrapped around her hands like armor. Her room was dark except for the blue-white glow of her desk lamp, which lit only the corner of her notebook and a photo she hadn’t meant to find that day.
It had been buried at the bottom of a box—beneath old class folders, outdated planner pages, and a crumpled acceptance letter she’d never framed. She didn’t even remember putting it there.
Paz was in the picture, smiling with her whole face, a cheer bow crooked on her head, one sock higher than the other. Effie was beside her, making a peace sign like a joke. Neither of them had been looking at the camera.
She stared at it now, the edges soft from time and the weight of things never said.
Effie pulled her phone off the nightstand, opened her voice memo app, and hit record.
She didn’t plan it.
The words came slow at first, like they were unraveling from somewhere deep.
“Hey.”
She waited.
Let the silence be part of it.
“I know it’s dumb, talking like this. I know it’s late. But I’ve been thinking about you a lot. About that night.”
She swallowed, throat tight.
“I still don’t know if I did the right thing, leaving when I did. You were always so good at pretending you were okay. You made it easy to believe it. Or maybe I just needed it to be easy.”
Effie leaned forward, resting her forehead against her knees. The quiet whir of the fan filled the background.
“You didn’t even make it out of high school.”
Her voice cracked there.
Not a sob. Not a wail.
Just a small splinter in the sentence that felt too heavy to say cleanly.
“I’m sorry.”
She didn’t explain what for.
Didn’t have to.
She let the silence ride out a few more seconds, chest rising and falling with the weight of it.
Then she tapped stop.
The file saved automatically: Voice Memo 3:17 AM.
Effie stared at it.
Thumb hovering over the trash icon.
But she didn’t delete it.
Didn’t play it back either.
She just locked the screen, set the phone face down on the nightstand, and crawled under the covers.
Her pillow was cold. The way she liked it.
She closed her eyes and curled toward the wall.
And for the first time in weeks, she slept.
~~~~~~~~~~
The light in the holding room was the kind of fluorescent that made time feel slower—flat and humming and too white. Royce sat on a metal bench, arms folded, hoodie pulled low over his forehead. He hadn’t spoken in over an hour, not since they uncuffed him and left him alone in the room with a Dixie cup of water and a warning not to touch anything.
He hadn’t.
He didn’t ask what they’d found in the truck. He already knew.
He didn’t ask where Poochie and Meech were. He already knew that too.
What he didn’t know—what he hadn’t prepared for—was how fast the lawyers showed up.
It was still dark out when the door opened and two men in suits stepped in, sharp silhouettes that looked too polished for a precinct this dusty. One of them adjusted his cufflinks before speaking.
“Royce Lafitte?”
Royce looked up. “Yeah.”
“I’m James Laurent. This is Ellis. We work with Mr. Delpit.”
The other man gave a nod, already flipping through a folder.
“You’re being released,” Laurent continued. “No charges. BRPD doesn’t have enough to tie you to what was found.”
Royce blinked slowly. “That’s it?”
Laurent’s mouth twitched. “They’ll say you were detained for questioning. You’ll be home before sunrise. But you need to understand something…”
Royce leaned back, eyes heavy.
“You’re on the edge of a very different kind of scrutiny now,” Laurent said. “We’ve kept the story quiet—for now. The official report won’t name you beyond ‘brief detainment.’ But there will be eyes on you.”
He paused, measuring Royce’s silence.
“We strongly recommend you don’t leave town for a while. It’ll be bad optics.”
Royce didn’t flinch. Just nodded once.
And like that, he was free to go.
No charges filed. No statement given.
…
When he got back to his apartment, he didn’t bother turning the lights on. He tossed his keys into the bowl by the door and dropped onto the couch with a weight that didn’t belong to just his body. His phone buzzed every now and then—texts he didn’t open, notifications he swiped away.
He stared at the ceiling, still in the hoodie from the night before, sneakers kicked halfway off.
At some point, there was a knock. Low. Even.
He didn’t need to check who it was.
When he opened the door, Chance Delpit stood on the other side, holding two coffees. His coat collar was turned up against the chill, his expression calm but alert, like a man who’d been up since before the trouble started.
“Morning,” Delpit said, stepping inside without waiting.
He set the coffee on the counter. Royce followed him, slower.
“You sleep?”
Royce shook his head.
Delpit nodded like he expected that. “Didn’t think so.”
They stood in the kitchen for a moment, the silence between them not uncomfortable, just full.
Delpit finally broke it.
“They’re booked. The other ones.”
Royce leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “I figured.”
“You’re not named in anything. No charges filed. But you’ll need to lay low for a minute. Let the story die.”
Royce looked down, jaw tight. “It already out?”
“Not really. A line in the police logs. ‘Royce Lafitte temporarily detained for questioning.’ That’s it.”
He slid one of the coffees toward Royce. “We kept it clean.”
Royce picked it up but didn’t drink.
Delpit studied him for a second, then said, “You understand how close that was?”
Royce nodded. “Yeah.”
“You’re not a civilian anymore, Roye. People don’t see a college kid when they look at you. They see a headline. A payday. A target. Doesn’t matter what you didn’t do.”
“I know.”
Delpit softened then, his voice dipping.
“This isn’t about scaring you. I’m not here for a lecture.”
Royce looked up.
“I just want you to understand what we’re building. This path you’re on, it’s not just to keep your name clean. It’s so you can choose what kind of man you get to be. Not the one you almost became. The one you’re becoming.”
Royce blinked slowly, something tight flickering in his chest.
Delpit reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a folded page from a local blog.
“They’re already speculating what you’ll do next season. You’re not invisible anymore. Which means no more room for almost.”
He laid the paper on the counter.
Royce didn’t read it. Just stared at it for a long second, then muttered, “This fucking shit, man.”
Delpit nodded.
“This fucking shit indeed.”
Royce held the coffee a little tighter.
“Three fucking times,” he said, voice low. The shooting. The bar. Now, this.
Delpit said nothing. Just stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder in the quiet kitchen, a steady presence in the swirl of everything.
Then he clapped a hand lightly on Royce’s back.
“Take today. Breathe. Don’t let a bad night ruin everything.”
Royce nodded again.
Not fast.
Not defiantly.
Just enough to show he understood.
Because this time, he truly did.
Royce opened the door to the morning like he didn’t trust it.
The sky was dull, the kind of overcast that didn’t promise rain, just mood. The sidewalk outside his apartment complex was still wet from a light mist that must’ve passed through earlier. His keys jingled in his pocket as he stepped out, hoodie thrown over a plain white tee, hood up even though the air wasn’t cold enough for it.
He wasn’t thinking about anything.
Not football. Not NIL.
He was just walking toward the day.
That was when he saw them—Poochie, Meech, and someone else he didn’t recognize, all leaned up against the side of a black Suburban parked on the curb like they were waiting for a bus. Poochie stood with one sneaker balanced on the bumper, checking his phone. Meech looked like he hadn’t slept—hood up, hands in his pockets, jaw flexing every few seconds.
“Bout time,” Poochie called.
Royce didn’t say anything. Just kept walking, hands in his pockets, eyes low.
Meech stepped forward, nodding toward the back of the truck. “You gon’ ride with us?”
“I’m taking my car,” Royce muttered, not even glancing their way.
Poochie blinked. “Where it at?”
“Where it’s always at.”
That was all he said.
A breath passed.
Poochie looked at Meech, then back at Royce. “Aight. Follow us then.”
But Royce had already stopped listening. Something didn’t sit right. Not the way Poochie kept glancing around. Not the tension in Meech’s shoulders. Not the fact that this felt like a drop, not a move.
He paused at the curb. One foot still on the sidewalk.
That was when the black Escalade pulled in fast—too fast.
Blue and red lights lit up before Royce even turned his head. A screech of brakes. Another cruiser behind it. Officers out with guns drawn, shouting commands that blurred together like thunder.
“Hands up!”
“Turn around!”
“Do not move!”
Meech and the other dude ran.
Poochie froze. Royce just stood there—calm, hands already out, jaw clenched.
The air was cold with adrenaline. His palms went to the back of his head.
They cuffed him without incident.
Didn’t even rough him up. Didn’t need to.
He didn’t say a word as they walked him to the cruiser.
Behind him, he heard the passenger door of the Suburban pop open. One of the officers pulled out a gym bag and unzipped it right there in the street. Plastic bundles inside.
Poochie turned his face to the sidewalk.
They’d been planning to put it in Royce’s car.
But his car wasn’t parked there.
He hadn’t brought it.
The cruiser door slammed.
From inside, the windows fogged slightly from Royce’s breath. He leaned his head back against the seat and stared straight ahead, past the glass, past the sirens, past the officers pacing in and out of frame.
He didn’t ask what this was.
He already knew.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t beg. Didn’t curse.
But in his chest, something cracked—not loudly, not fast. Just enough to remind him that the fuse Meech had lit back in December had finally reached its end.
And it could’ve been him in that truck.
It almost was.
~~~~~~~~~~
The tire gave out just after midnight.
Not with a bang, not even a thump—just a soft stutter in the steering wheel and the kind of uneven pull that told Toni something was wrong before she fully accepted it. She eased the car to the shoulder of a dimly lit road just outside their neighborhood, her hazard lights blinking too bright in the silence.
Her phone battery was at 7%.
Deshawn didn’t answer.
She stared at the screen for a while, then tried again. Two rings. Voicemail.
She didn’t bother leaving one.
Toni slumped back in her seat, thumb tapping lightly against the steering wheel. For a moment, she considered walking. It wasn’t far. Fifteen minutes, maybe. Twenty if she avoided the shortcut she didn’t feel safe taking at this hour.
Instead, she opened the rideshare app.
The car arrived in seven minutes—a white sedan, clean enough, with a plastic hula girl dancing on the dashboard and gospel playing quietly through the speakers.
The driver was a Black woman, maybe in her forties, with locs pulled into a loose bun and clear gloss on her lips. She smiled when Toni got in.
“Long night?”
Toni offered a nod. “Yeah.”
“Shit, you and me both,” the driver said, easing back onto the road. “I just dropped off a whole bridal party at the casino. Bunch of drunk women in matching robes and zero sense of direction.”
Toni gave a small laugh, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“You don’t talk much, huh?” the woman asked, glancing at her in the mirror.
“Not tonight.”
The driver nodded like she understood. “That’s alright. Some nights don’t need noise.”
They drove in silence for a few minutes. Streetlights passed overhead like slow blinks. The roads were empty now, the city caught between its late-night hum and its early-morning hush.
“You from around here?” the driver asked.
Toni hesitated. “Yeah.”
“Nice to be close to home. My daughter moved to Baton Rouge for school. Miss her like hell.”
Toni stared out the window, hands curled in her lap. She wanted to ask what that kind of love felt like—safe, steady, unconditional—but the words stuck.
Instead, she said, “Hope she’s doing alright.”
The driver smiled. “She’s trying. That’s all we can do.”
When they reached the complex, the porch light was still off. No movement behind the curtains. No sound.
Toni hesitated with her hand on the door handle.
“Thanks,” she said softly.
“You take care of yourself, baby,” the driver replied. “Whatever’s waiting in there, don’t let it change who you are.”
Toni looked up, eyes catching the woman’s in the mirror.
It was the kind of thing her Ma Beulah might’ve said, if things had been different. If she’d known how.
She nodded once, stepped out, and closed the door gently behind her.
The car pulled off, taillights disappearing down the block.
Toni walked to the base of the driveway and stopped.
She didn’t go in.
Just stood there in the quiet, keys gripped tight in one hand, the cold of the metal biting her palm.
She looked at the door, the porch, the window where the curtain never closed right.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t text Arianna.
She didn’t move.
The night wrapped around her like a thin coat, offering no warmth, but covering her all the same.
And still, she stood.
Holding the keys to a place that never felt like hers.
~~~~~~~~~~
Effie sat on the edge of her bed, knees pulled to her chest, hoodie sleeves wrapped around her hands like armor. Her room was dark except for the blue-white glow of her desk lamp, which lit only the corner of her notebook and a photo she hadn’t meant to find that day.
It had been buried at the bottom of a box—beneath old class folders, outdated planner pages, and a crumpled acceptance letter she’d never framed. She didn’t even remember putting it there.
Paz was in the picture, smiling with her whole face, a cheer bow crooked on her head, one sock higher than the other. Effie was beside her, making a peace sign like a joke. Neither of them had been looking at the camera.
She stared at it now, the edges soft from time and the weight of things never said.
Effie pulled her phone off the nightstand, opened her voice memo app, and hit record.
She didn’t plan it.
The words came slow at first, like they were unraveling from somewhere deep.
“Hey.”
She waited.
Let the silence be part of it.
“I know it’s dumb, talking like this. I know it’s late. But I’ve been thinking about you a lot. About that night.”
She swallowed, throat tight.
“I still don’t know if I did the right thing, leaving when I did. You were always so good at pretending you were okay. You made it easy to believe it. Or maybe I just needed it to be easy.”
Effie leaned forward, resting her forehead against her knees. The quiet whir of the fan filled the background.
“You didn’t even make it out of high school.”
Her voice cracked there.
Not a sob. Not a wail.
Just a small splinter in the sentence that felt too heavy to say cleanly.
“I’m sorry.”
She didn’t explain what for.
Didn’t have to.
She let the silence ride out a few more seconds, chest rising and falling with the weight of it.
Then she tapped stop.
The file saved automatically: Voice Memo 3:17 AM.
Effie stared at it.
Thumb hovering over the trash icon.
But she didn’t delete it.
Didn’t play it back either.
She just locked the screen, set the phone face down on the nightstand, and crawled under the covers.
Her pillow was cold. The way she liked it.
She closed her eyes and curled toward the wall.
And for the first time in weeks, she slept.
~~~~~~~~~~
The light in the holding room was the kind of fluorescent that made time feel slower—flat and humming and too white. Royce sat on a metal bench, arms folded, hoodie pulled low over his forehead. He hadn’t spoken in over an hour, not since they uncuffed him and left him alone in the room with a Dixie cup of water and a warning not to touch anything.
He hadn’t.
He didn’t ask what they’d found in the truck. He already knew.
He didn’t ask where Poochie and Meech were. He already knew that too.
What he didn’t know—what he hadn’t prepared for—was how fast the lawyers showed up.
It was still dark out when the door opened and two men in suits stepped in, sharp silhouettes that looked too polished for a precinct this dusty. One of them adjusted his cufflinks before speaking.
“Royce Lafitte?”
Royce looked up. “Yeah.”
“I’m James Laurent. This is Ellis. We work with Mr. Delpit.”
The other man gave a nod, already flipping through a folder.
“You’re being released,” Laurent continued. “No charges. BRPD doesn’t have enough to tie you to what was found.”
Royce blinked slowly. “That’s it?”
Laurent’s mouth twitched. “They’ll say you were detained for questioning. You’ll be home before sunrise. But you need to understand something…”
Royce leaned back, eyes heavy.
“You’re on the edge of a very different kind of scrutiny now,” Laurent said. “We’ve kept the story quiet—for now. The official report won’t name you beyond ‘brief detainment.’ But there will be eyes on you.”
He paused, measuring Royce’s silence.
“We strongly recommend you don’t leave town for a while. It’ll be bad optics.”
Royce didn’t flinch. Just nodded once.
And like that, he was free to go.
No charges filed. No statement given.
…
When he got back to his apartment, he didn’t bother turning the lights on. He tossed his keys into the bowl by the door and dropped onto the couch with a weight that didn’t belong to just his body. His phone buzzed every now and then—texts he didn’t open, notifications he swiped away.
He stared at the ceiling, still in the hoodie from the night before, sneakers kicked halfway off.
At some point, there was a knock. Low. Even.
He didn’t need to check who it was.
When he opened the door, Chance Delpit stood on the other side, holding two coffees. His coat collar was turned up against the chill, his expression calm but alert, like a man who’d been up since before the trouble started.
“Morning,” Delpit said, stepping inside without waiting.
He set the coffee on the counter. Royce followed him, slower.
“You sleep?”
Royce shook his head.
Delpit nodded like he expected that. “Didn’t think so.”
They stood in the kitchen for a moment, the silence between them not uncomfortable, just full.
Delpit finally broke it.
“They’re booked. The other ones.”
Royce leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “I figured.”
“You’re not named in anything. No charges filed. But you’ll need to lay low for a minute. Let the story die.”
Royce looked down, jaw tight. “It already out?”
“Not really. A line in the police logs. ‘Royce Lafitte temporarily detained for questioning.’ That’s it.”
He slid one of the coffees toward Royce. “We kept it clean.”
Royce picked it up but didn’t drink.
Delpit studied him for a second, then said, “You understand how close that was?”
Royce nodded. “Yeah.”
“You’re not a civilian anymore, Roye. People don’t see a college kid when they look at you. They see a headline. A payday. A target. Doesn’t matter what you didn’t do.”
“I know.”
Delpit softened then, his voice dipping.
“This isn’t about scaring you. I’m not here for a lecture.”
Royce looked up.
“I just want you to understand what we’re building. This path you’re on, it’s not just to keep your name clean. It’s so you can choose what kind of man you get to be. Not the one you almost became. The one you’re becoming.”
Royce blinked slowly, something tight flickering in his chest.
Delpit reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a folded page from a local blog.
“They’re already speculating what you’ll do next season. You’re not invisible anymore. Which means no more room for almost.”
He laid the paper on the counter.
Royce didn’t read it. Just stared at it for a long second, then muttered, “This fucking shit, man.”
Delpit nodded.
“This fucking shit indeed.”
Royce held the coffee a little tighter.
“Three fucking times,” he said, voice low. The shooting. The bar. Now, this.
Delpit said nothing. Just stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder in the quiet kitchen, a steady presence in the swirl of everything.
Then he clapped a hand lightly on Royce’s back.
“Take today. Breathe. Don’t let a bad night ruin everything.”
Royce nodded again.
Not fast.
Not defiantly.
Just enough to show he understood.
Because this time, he truly did.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16879
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Echo Chamber
The air was damp with the kind of stillness that came right before sunrise—cool and heavy, like the world hadn’t decided whether to wake up or not. Royce sat on the low concrete ledge near the entrance to his apartment complex, hoodie pulled over his head, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed like the streetlight above him was too much.
It wasn’t cold, not really. But he still hadn’t stopped shivering.
Not from the night before.
Not from the way the sirens had sounded behind him.
Not from the metal cuffs or the quiet in that back room at the station.
Not from the fact that no matter how clean the lawyers kept it, he knew what it had almost been.
He wasn’t supposed to be here.
Here meaning out.
Here meaning alive.
Here meaning not locked in a cell while someone else answered for decisions that could’ve had his name on them.
The stillness gnawed at him.
He took out his phone and stared at the screen, thumb hovering.
Effie
He didn’t overthink it. Just typed:
You busy? Can you come through?
She responded after three minutes.
Sure. I’ll leave in a bit
He didn’t text back.
Didn’t need to.
Ten minutes later, he heard the sound of tires crunching over gravel. A car door shutting gently. Soft footsteps cutting across the wet pavement.
He didn’t lift his head until she was already standing in front of him.
Effie wore black leggings and a sweatshirt two sizes too big, hood pulled over her hair, drawstrings half-knotted. Her keys dangled from one finger, her face unreadable in the low light.
She didn’t say anything.
Just looked at him.
Royce tilted his head slightly and gave a quiet exhale.
“You ever feel like it don’t matter how far you run?” he asked, not really looking at her.
The words weren’t loaded with drama. They weren’t even sharp. They just hung there, tired. Honest. Like they’d been sitting on his chest all night and finally slipped out because she was the only one he could say them to.
Effie’s eyes didn’t blink. She just stepped closer.
“It matters who you run with,” she said.
Calm. No pause. Like she’d thought about it before.
Royce looked at her then—really looked at her—and nodded, slowly.
“Yeah,” he said, voice dry. “I get that.”
Effie didn’t respond.
She sat down next to him on the ledge, leaving just enough space for the silence to breathe. Her knee pulled up, her hands tucked into her sleeves, body leaning forward slightly to mirror his without matching it too exactly.
They sat like that for a long time.
Not touching. Not talking.
Just there.
A soft breeze stirred the trees above them. A porch light flickered across the lot. Somewhere a baby cried in one of the upstairs units, muffled through thin walls. The city, still half-asleep.
Effie glanced up at the building once, then down at her shoes.
She didn’t push him to talk.
Didn’t ask for the story.
Didn’t need to.
And Royce didn’t offer it.
Because the weight wasn’t in the details.
It was in the quiet.
And she was the only one who seemed to understand that the silence wasn’t empty.
It was survival. Stillness. Breathing room.
He leaned back against the brick wall behind him, staring out toward nothing, and for the first time in the last twenty-four hours, he didn’t feel like he was falling through space.
Effie was still beside him.
No promises. No questions.
~~~~~~~~~~
The restaurant was small and low-lit, the kind of tucked-away spot Alix would’ve never found on her own. Wood paneling, flickering candles at each table, a menu written in looping cursive on the wall. She sat across from Co, the hum of conversation around them blending with soft music from the corner speakers—something jazzy, smooth, forgettable.
Her plate was barely touched.
Her phone, face down on the edge of the table, might as well have been burning a hole through the linen.
It had started buzzing an hour before they left her apartment—first a text from Ashlee:
Did you see Twitter??
Then another from Simone with a screenshot: A blurry photo. A tweet: “Sources say LSU linebacker Royce Lafitte was briefly detained yesterday morning. Developing.”
No context. No charges. Just his name trending beside phrases like "questioned in narcotics investigation” and “Another criminal at LSU.”
She hadn’t clicked the hashtag.
She didn’t want to.
She told herself it didn’t matter—that she wasn’t a part of that story anymore—but her fork had stilled midair when she saw the words. Her appetite vanished. Her breath slowed.
And now, here she was, sitting across from Co, pretending she could taste the salmon on her plate.
He’d noticed the shift. Of course he had.
“You good?” he asked, his voice soft but direct.
Alix looked up, blinking. “What?”
“You’ve barely said anything since the drinks came. I ain’t known you that long, but I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re spiraling in your head.”
She forced a laugh. Too thin. “I’m not spiraling.”
He raised an eyebrow, resting his elbow on the table, his posture relaxed but his eyes steady.
She reached for her water, sipped, then set it down without drinking.
“It’s just work,” she said, keeping her voice level. “I had a client try to cancel their install today because they didn’t like how the rug looked on Pinterest.”
Co tilted his head. “So it’s work stress.”
Alix nodded quickly. “Yeah. That’s all.”
She didn’t meet his eyes.
Co didn’t push, but something shifted in his expression—a quiet understanding that she was lying to protect something, or someone. He didn’t know what, and she wasn’t ready to say. So he just leaned back, took a breath, and changed the subject.
“I’m off Thursday,” he said, casually. “You wanna go to the botanical garden? I think I need to be around things that don’t talk for a minute.”
She smiled at that. A real one, small and grateful.
“Yeah,” she said. “That sounds perfect.”
He nodded, and the moment passed like a cloud across the sun—just enough to dim the light, but not enough to kill it.
They finished their meal. She still didn’t eat much.
But she kept pretending she was okay, and he kept pretending he believed her.
Neither said Royce’s name.
But he was there—between them, like smoke.
And Alix wasn’t sure if she hated herself more for still caring… or for not reaching out.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce sat in the dark, back pressed against the wall of his bedroom, knees bent, phone resting loosely in his palm. The lights were off, the TV still on in the living room playing a game he’d stopped watching an hour ago. His hoodie was half-zipped, the fabric stretched from where he’d pulled at it absentmindedly, again and again, like he was trying to loosen something that wouldn’t unstick.
The phone buzzed.
New voicemail: 1
No caller ID. Just a familiar area code. One he knew without thinking.
He stared at the screen for a long time. Thumb hovering over the play button.
Finally, he pressed it.
There was a pause at the beginning. The kind of breath someone takes when they don’t know if they should be calling at all.
Then her voice.
Low. Raspy. A little slower than he remembered.
“This Ma. I, uh… I heard about what happened.”
A pause.
“I don’t want nothing.”
Another pause, heavier this time.
“Just… just be careful. That’s all.”
Then the line went dead. No goodbye. No I love you. No anger. Just the soft hum of a woman who didn’t know how to love loud anymore.
Royce stared at the screen.
Listened to the silence after the message like it held something she couldn’t say.
His chest was tight.
Not from the message.
From how little it hurt to hear it.
He sat there another few seconds, thumb over the screen.
Then he swiped left and tapped Delete.
Gone.
No copy saved. No response given.
He dropped the phone on the floor beside him, leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes.
The room was too quiet again.
Too still.
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t try to fill the silence.
He just sat there, in the quiet aftermath of something that had once mattered more than it did now.
And tried not to feel what he’d already learned how to live without.
The air was damp with the kind of stillness that came right before sunrise—cool and heavy, like the world hadn’t decided whether to wake up or not. Royce sat on the low concrete ledge near the entrance to his apartment complex, hoodie pulled over his head, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed like the streetlight above him was too much.
It wasn’t cold, not really. But he still hadn’t stopped shivering.
Not from the night before.
Not from the way the sirens had sounded behind him.
Not from the metal cuffs or the quiet in that back room at the station.
Not from the fact that no matter how clean the lawyers kept it, he knew what it had almost been.
He wasn’t supposed to be here.
Here meaning out.
Here meaning alive.
Here meaning not locked in a cell while someone else answered for decisions that could’ve had his name on them.
The stillness gnawed at him.
He took out his phone and stared at the screen, thumb hovering.
Effie
He didn’t overthink it. Just typed:
You busy? Can you come through?
She responded after three minutes.
Sure. I’ll leave in a bit
He didn’t text back.
Didn’t need to.
Ten minutes later, he heard the sound of tires crunching over gravel. A car door shutting gently. Soft footsteps cutting across the wet pavement.
He didn’t lift his head until she was already standing in front of him.
Effie wore black leggings and a sweatshirt two sizes too big, hood pulled over her hair, drawstrings half-knotted. Her keys dangled from one finger, her face unreadable in the low light.
She didn’t say anything.
Just looked at him.
Royce tilted his head slightly and gave a quiet exhale.
“You ever feel like it don’t matter how far you run?” he asked, not really looking at her.
The words weren’t loaded with drama. They weren’t even sharp. They just hung there, tired. Honest. Like they’d been sitting on his chest all night and finally slipped out because she was the only one he could say them to.
Effie’s eyes didn’t blink. She just stepped closer.
“It matters who you run with,” she said.
Calm. No pause. Like she’d thought about it before.
Royce looked at her then—really looked at her—and nodded, slowly.
“Yeah,” he said, voice dry. “I get that.”
Effie didn’t respond.
She sat down next to him on the ledge, leaving just enough space for the silence to breathe. Her knee pulled up, her hands tucked into her sleeves, body leaning forward slightly to mirror his without matching it too exactly.
They sat like that for a long time.
Not touching. Not talking.
Just there.
A soft breeze stirred the trees above them. A porch light flickered across the lot. Somewhere a baby cried in one of the upstairs units, muffled through thin walls. The city, still half-asleep.
Effie glanced up at the building once, then down at her shoes.
She didn’t push him to talk.
Didn’t ask for the story.
Didn’t need to.
And Royce didn’t offer it.
Because the weight wasn’t in the details.
It was in the quiet.
And she was the only one who seemed to understand that the silence wasn’t empty.
It was survival. Stillness. Breathing room.
He leaned back against the brick wall behind him, staring out toward nothing, and for the first time in the last twenty-four hours, he didn’t feel like he was falling through space.
Effie was still beside him.
No promises. No questions.
~~~~~~~~~~
The restaurant was small and low-lit, the kind of tucked-away spot Alix would’ve never found on her own. Wood paneling, flickering candles at each table, a menu written in looping cursive on the wall. She sat across from Co, the hum of conversation around them blending with soft music from the corner speakers—something jazzy, smooth, forgettable.
Her plate was barely touched.
Her phone, face down on the edge of the table, might as well have been burning a hole through the linen.
It had started buzzing an hour before they left her apartment—first a text from Ashlee:
Did you see Twitter??
Then another from Simone with a screenshot: A blurry photo. A tweet: “Sources say LSU linebacker Royce Lafitte was briefly detained yesterday morning. Developing.”
No context. No charges. Just his name trending beside phrases like "questioned in narcotics investigation” and “Another criminal at LSU.”
She hadn’t clicked the hashtag.
She didn’t want to.
She told herself it didn’t matter—that she wasn’t a part of that story anymore—but her fork had stilled midair when she saw the words. Her appetite vanished. Her breath slowed.
And now, here she was, sitting across from Co, pretending she could taste the salmon on her plate.
He’d noticed the shift. Of course he had.
“You good?” he asked, his voice soft but direct.
Alix looked up, blinking. “What?”
“You’ve barely said anything since the drinks came. I ain’t known you that long, but I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re spiraling in your head.”
She forced a laugh. Too thin. “I’m not spiraling.”
He raised an eyebrow, resting his elbow on the table, his posture relaxed but his eyes steady.
She reached for her water, sipped, then set it down without drinking.
“It’s just work,” she said, keeping her voice level. “I had a client try to cancel their install today because they didn’t like how the rug looked on Pinterest.”
Co tilted his head. “So it’s work stress.”
Alix nodded quickly. “Yeah. That’s all.”
She didn’t meet his eyes.
Co didn’t push, but something shifted in his expression—a quiet understanding that she was lying to protect something, or someone. He didn’t know what, and she wasn’t ready to say. So he just leaned back, took a breath, and changed the subject.
“I’m off Thursday,” he said, casually. “You wanna go to the botanical garden? I think I need to be around things that don’t talk for a minute.”
She smiled at that. A real one, small and grateful.
“Yeah,” she said. “That sounds perfect.”
He nodded, and the moment passed like a cloud across the sun—just enough to dim the light, but not enough to kill it.
They finished their meal. She still didn’t eat much.
But she kept pretending she was okay, and he kept pretending he believed her.
Neither said Royce’s name.
But he was there—between them, like smoke.
And Alix wasn’t sure if she hated herself more for still caring… or for not reaching out.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce sat in the dark, back pressed against the wall of his bedroom, knees bent, phone resting loosely in his palm. The lights were off, the TV still on in the living room playing a game he’d stopped watching an hour ago. His hoodie was half-zipped, the fabric stretched from where he’d pulled at it absentmindedly, again and again, like he was trying to loosen something that wouldn’t unstick.
The phone buzzed.
New voicemail: 1
No caller ID. Just a familiar area code. One he knew without thinking.
He stared at the screen for a long time. Thumb hovering over the play button.
Finally, he pressed it.
There was a pause at the beginning. The kind of breath someone takes when they don’t know if they should be calling at all.
Then her voice.
Low. Raspy. A little slower than he remembered.
“This Ma. I, uh… I heard about what happened.”
A pause.
“I don’t want nothing.”
Another pause, heavier this time.
“Just… just be careful. That’s all.”
Then the line went dead. No goodbye. No I love you. No anger. Just the soft hum of a woman who didn’t know how to love loud anymore.
Royce stared at the screen.
Listened to the silence after the message like it held something she couldn’t say.
His chest was tight.
Not from the message.
From how little it hurt to hear it.
He sat there another few seconds, thumb over the screen.
Then he swiped left and tapped Delete.
Gone.
No copy saved. No response given.
He dropped the phone on the floor beside him, leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes.
The room was too quiet again.
Too still.
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t try to fill the silence.
He just sat there, in the quiet aftermath of something that had once mattered more than it did now.
And tried not to feel what he’d already learned how to live without.
-
djp73
- Posts: 13187
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Royce SHOOK!
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 7877
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Boy lucky as hell 
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16879
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16879
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47