American Sun
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 5334
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
American Sun
That boy Caine begging to get caught lacking again
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redsox907
- Posts: 2216
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
American Sun
she deep fried that boy.Mireya didn't react to Leo having a wife and kids, so she knew. I ain't going to say it again - but the writing is on the wall
Caine gonna fuck around and get a case real quick. Homie needs to practice saying the word no in the mirror ffs
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12131
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
American Sun
Man was just taking what he could get out there in west Louisiana.
As long as no one snitches, he should be good, right?
Sara ain't one to play with!redsox907 wrote: ↑30 Jul 2025, 13:41
Mireya didn't react to Leo having a wife and kids, so she knew. I ain't going to say it again - but the writing is on the wall
Caine gonna fuck around and get a case real quick. Homie needs to practice saying the word no in the mirror ffs
Or, she ain't want to prolong the conversation.
Why would he say no to money?
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12131
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
American Sun
Sa Ou Pa Di, Pa Ka Fè Ou Mal
The fieldhouse in July was all echoes and dust between practices, just the hum of the AC fighting a losing battle with the heat. Coach Joseph sat in his cramped office, paperwork stacked in uneven piles, when the silence was cut by a sharp knock and the squeak of sneakers in the hall.
Coach Smith leaned in, face already tight. “Coach, there’s a couple at the front. Probation officers. They asking for you.”
Joseph set down his pen, slow. “Who they here for?”
“Caine. That one, Roussel, he ain’t smiling.”
Coach Joseph stood, rolling his shoulders, the familiar tension knotting up—White men in state seal-emblazoned jackets rarely meant good for boys like his.
In the lobby, William Roussel stood as if he owned the air, shoulders squared, partner beside him with the same bored cop energy. The smell of fried grass and distant traffic drifted in through the open door, but Roussel’s presence pressed the room smaller.
Coach Joseph kept his voice calm. “Y’all looking for me?”
Roussel didn’t bother with small talk. “We need to search Caine Guerra’s locker. Where is it?”
“He’s not here. Practice ain’t for another hour,” Joseph replied, folding his arms.
“That’s fine,” Roussel said, tone cold, “We’re allowed to check anywhere a probationer keeps property. Unless there’s a reason you’d like to tell us we can’t?” His eyes were steady, challenging.
Coach Smith watched, jaw tight, body language sharp. Joseph didn’t blink, refusing to back up. “We keep it locked. Ain’t nothing but gear in there. You got a warrant?”
Roussel smiled, but it was all teeth. “Don’t need one. You know how this goes, Coach. You wanna do this easy or you wanna spend a night in OPP for obstruction?”
A long pause stretched. Joseph nodded at Smith. “Get the keys.”
The hallway felt even more cavernous as they walked, Roussel’s boots ringing loud against the floor, his partner letting his hand brush his gun like punctuation. They stopped in front of Caine’s locker—plain, scraped up, no stickers, just his number stenciled on the door.
Smith fumbled the keys, but his hands didn’t shake. He knew who he was unlocking for.
Roussel stepped close, crowding the space, eyes raking over both coaches before he glanced inside. The locker was nearly empty: helmet, shoulder pads, a beat-up playbook, nothing else.
Roussel frowned, pushing the gear around like he expected something to crawl out. “That it? This all he got?”
Coach Joseph shrugged, face unreadable. “You see what you see. Caine’s quiet. Most them boys take their shit home.”
Roussel snorted. “Guess he keeps the rest somewhere else. Or maybe he knows how to hide things. I’m not surprised.”
Coach Smith stepped in, tone cool. “You want to check under the floor tiles too, or you satisfied?”
Roussel shot him a look, jaw working. “We’ll be in touch if anything turns up. Lotta ways a kid like that can get into trouble. I’d keep a closer eye, if I were you.”
Coach Joseph held his stare. “You’re not, though, Mr. Roussel. You done here?”
Roussel turned away, letting the locker door slam shut behind him, loud in the quiet hall. His partner followed, shoes squeaking as they left, the heavy air filling in behind them.
For a moment, neither coach spoke. Coach Smith finally let out a breath, muttered, “Man’s looking for trouble he ain’t never had to live through.”
Coach Joseph closed the locker, gentle. “Ain’t never a day they aren’t looking to put a young Black man behind bars.”
He watched the sunlight flicker through the narrow window, jaw set, feeling the old anger settle under his skin—the kind that comes from knowing who gets searched, and who gets believed.
The boutique’s air conditioning rattled but barely touched the thick heat seeping in from the street. The walls were a pale, expensive pink, racks neat and curated, each hanger spaced just so. Mireya stood behind the counter, elbows braced on cool marble, her phone lighting her face with flickers from Instagram reels—videos of girls doing their makeup in better lighting, posing in apartments that didn’t smell like someone else’s old takeout. Her skin felt tight with sweat, shirt sticking at the small of her back.
Trina had been gone maybe fifteen minutes now—said something about inventory, but Mireya could hear the distant cackle of her baby daddy on Facetime through the storeroom door. She rolled her eyes, thumbed her phone, and watched the second hand crawl across the register clock. Twenty-two minutes down. Six hours to go.
The bell above the door chimed, crisp and sudden, slicing through the soft loop of indie R&B playing overhead. Mireya straightened, slid her phone under the counter, and fixed her face—neutral, polite, not eager. A girl stepped inside, maybe a year or two older than Mireya, edges laid, gold hoops swinging, her nails perfect and bright coral against the shopping bag she already carried from a store down the block.
The girl didn’t say hello. She drifted toward the wall of rompers, running her hand over the fabric, eyes skimming price tags without really reading them. Mireya tracked her without moving, watching the subtle dance—how the girl glanced at the mirror, checked behind her, weighed the weight of Mireya’s attention.
After a few minutes, the girl picked three dresses and a tank and brought them to the register. She barely looked at Mireya, just nodded toward the back. “Can I try these on?”
Mireya unlocked the dressing room with the little brass key, stepping aside so the girl could slip in. The door shut with a click, and Mireya could hear hangers scrape, the soft thunk of shoes hitting the bench, the whisper of a zipper. She leaned back against the counter, picking at a chip in her nail polish, ears tuned for the particular pause that always came when someone was stashing something away.
It came. A moment longer in the stall, the quiet cough of a bag rustling, then the girl emerged with a practiced nonchalance, two fewer pieces than she’d taken in, the rest hung over her arm.
Mireya let her face go blank. “You found everything you were looking for?” Her voice was light, the script drilled into her by Arelle and repeated until it didn’t sound like a question anymore.
The girl froze, studying her. There was a charged beat—long enough for the truth to hang between them. Her eyes were sharp, maybe tired, maybe hungry, maybe just ready to fight if it came to that.
“You know?” the girl asked, quieter than before.
Mireya nodded, gaze flat. “Yeah. I know.”
A second passed. The girl weighed her, waiting for the threat, the call for a manager, the summons for a backroom confrontation. It didn’t come. Mireya just shrugged, a flick of her wrist, eyes drifting away. “Ain’t my shit.”
The girl laughed, short and delighted. “Damn, I love a real ass bitch.” She reached for her bag, lips curling up. “People in here always act like they top flight security or some shit”
“I just work here,” Mireya said. “Whatever you do is on you.”
Another laugh, this one lighter, the tension gone. “Bet. I’ma remember that.”
She paid for what she brought—cash, crisp twenties that looked like a tip from someone else’s hustle. Mireya rang her up, bagged the items, let the receipt print and slide into the sack. She handed it over, fingers brushing, and the girl winked. “Stay real, mama.”
Mireya only nodded.
The girl was gone in another jangle of the bell, sunlight flaring in and gone just as quick. Mireya exhaled slow, leaned back on the counter, her shoulders dropping. She pulled her phone out again, thumbed past a text from her mom asking about Camila, skipped over another bill notification. Her eyes drifted to the clock.
The store was empty, save for the faint scent of coconut lotion and a stray earring back left on the register. Mireya let herself go loose, scrolling TikTok with the volume low, letting other people’s drama and laughter fill her head for a while.
The heat over Behrman Field pressed down like a hand, thick and smothering. Cleats chewed up the painted turf, sweat trickled beneath pads, and the snap of footballs hitting hands was as sharp as the bark of coaches. At the center, two quarterbacks moved in and out of drills—Caine and Jay, their rivalry simmering just below the surface, hot enough to make everyone nervous.
“Let’s go, let’s go! Full team, move it!” Coach Joseph’s voice rode the wind, already rough with impatience. Helmets knocked as starters and backups lined up; the sound of bodies shifting, breath coming heavy, an orchestra of tension.
Jay took the first set, clapping loudly in the huddle, jaw tight. “Let’s run it fast, don’t slow up for nothing.” He looked around the circle, eyes daring someone to doubt him. The older players—Corey, Derrick—nodded back, silent in their loyalty.
The snap was quick. Jay danced, backpedaled, and fired out to the sideline, but the ball sailed just over Tyron’s fingertips. Tyron threw up his hands in frustration. A few of the younger receivers traded looks.
Coach LeBlanc, whistle clamped between his teeth, shook his head. “Reset! Gotta put it on him, Jay.”
Jay didn’t answer, just bit at his mouthguard and glared at the grass.
Caine stepped in next. Sweat rolled down his temple, mouth dry from the sun and nerves, but he kept his voice low and steady in the huddle. “Trips left, 85 dig—Tyron, look for it.”
His eyes met Tyron’s. A quick nod passed between them, the kind of silent connection you can’t teach.
On the snap, the pocket closed, but Caine kept his feet, eyes scanning. He saw the safety bite down, flicked a pump fake, then zipped it to Tyron breaking inside. This time, Tyron caught it in stride, juked upfield, and the whole sideline popped. Backup DBs smacked each other’s helmets in mock frustration.
Some of the second-stringers started up: “Yessir, Caine!” “He cooking today!” One of the JV kids grinned at his friend, “They better let him take that spot.”
Jay walked off, stiff, chest heaving. “Whole damn sideline acting like y’all know something,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
As the drill continued, so did the subtle war. Every rep, the split between the team deepened—older guys rallying to Jay, younger players and backups rooting for Caine. When Caine made a play, his guys got louder. When Jay faltered, the hush was heavy.
Tempers frayed. At one point, after a busted play where Jay threw behind a slant, Caine called out, “That’s a pick if we running full speed!” His voice was even, but everyone heard the sting.
Jay spun, tossing his helmet. “Shut the fuck up, man! Run your own shit!”
Coach Joseph stalked over, voice low but hard. “That’s enough. Next man up.” He glared at both, holding the silence too long for comfort. “If you can’t handle competition, let me know. I got freshmen want your spot.”
The rest of practice dragged. Every drill felt like a test; every pass, a statement. Sweat blurred vision, pads grew heavy, but no one quit. They were fighting for more than just snaps—they were fighting for the story that would be told about them all season.
Finally, the whistle blew long and shrill. “Take a knee!” Joseph called. Helmets dropped, a circle formed, and the coaches gave their usual wrap-up. But every player knew nothing was settled.
The team broke out—linemen lumbering to the coolers, DBs clowning in little packs. Jay stalked toward the fieldhouse, helmet tucked under his arm. Caine moved slower, letting the buzz of the sideline fade before he made his way inside.
…
The fieldhouse was loud with post-practice noise—showers running, music leaking from a speaker, laughter and half-hearted arguments echoing off cinderblock walls. The sweat smell was ripe and real, mixing with antiseptic and the bitter tang of old tape.
Coach Joseph found Caine at his locker. “Grab Jay. My office. Now.”
Caine nodded, stripping off his pads, hands still shaking with adrenaline. In the small windowless coach’s office, the A/C rattled. Jay was already there, sitting on the edge of a chair, arms folded, jaw locked.
Joseph closed the door, letting the silence gather before he spoke. “Y’all see what’s happening, right?”
Jay glared at the floor. “You mean the sideline acting like I ain’t been here out here starting for two years?”
LeBlanc held up a hand. “It ain’t about years, Jay. It’s about execution. It’s about leadership.”
Caine stayed quiet, posture rigid, eyes on the trophy shelf above Joseph’s head.
Coach Joseph turned to both. “I need leaders. Not drama. You hear me? You pull this team apart, we lose before the first whistle. I ain’t about to watch you fuck up the whole locker room behind egos.”
Jay cut in, voice pitched sharp, “So what—now I’m sharing the job? I been QB1. You talking like I’m just another body.”
Coach Joseph cut him off. “I’m talking like a coach. I’m saying if you don’t bring it every day, you won’t play. That goes for both y’all.”
LeBlanc cleared his throat. “Here’s what we’re doing. Jay, we’re drawing up some packages with you out wide, in motion, in the backfield. Defenses gotta respect your legs. Caine, you stay at quarterback. We’ll rotate. Gives us options.”
Jay sat up, bristling. “That’s trick shit. I ain’t no running back, Coach.”
Joseph’s stare was flat, dangerous. “You are what the team needs you to be. This ain’t about feelings.”
The silence grew thick. Caine felt the pull to speak up, to argue that he’d earned the job, but the memory of his mother’s warnings from long ago—don’t give them a reason to doubt you, just do the work—kept him still.
Coach Joseph looked at Caine. “You got something to say?”
Caine shook his head, voice barely above a whisper. “No, sir.”
Jay slapped his knee, shooting up out of his chair. “Man, whatever. I’m gone.” He brushed past Caine, shouldering him on the way out. LeBlanc followed, giving Joseph a look that said he’d keep watch.
Now it was just Coach Joseph and Caine. The coach’s voice dropped. “You good, son?”
He nodded, but the truth was murkier. “Yeah. I’m good.”
Joseph studied him for a long beat, then gave a short nod.
The backyard behind Trent’s house felt like a holding pen for kids too old for curfew but too young to have anywhere better to go. The chain-link rattled every time somebody shifted in the plastic lawn chairs. A couple cars lined the alley, music thumping out a half-muffled beat. Every now and then, the light above the back door flickered like it was thinking about burning out for good.
Mia and Zoe were perched on a low wall, their knees almost touching, while Trent and Javi stood over by the battered patio table. Saul, too amped up to sit, drifted from the fence to the car and back again, always orbiting close enough to Zoe to make his intentions plain.
He liked how she laughed—loud, loose, mouth open, like she didn’t give a fuck who heard. He liked the way she’d done her hair, little gold hoops in both ears, shorts riding up smooth brown legs. He liked that she was here at all.
He grinned down at her, hands in his pockets, working his jaw the way he did when he was trying to look harder than he felt. “So what, you too good to mess with me tonight, Zoe? I thought you liked a little trouble.”
She rolled her eyes, smile flickering. “I like a man who acts the same whether his boys around or not. But every time I see you, you wanna show out. Maybe you scared to be alone with me.”
Saul leaned in, dropping his voice like he was letting her in on something. “You know I’m as real as it gets. These fools just jealous.” He shot a look at Trent and Javi, daring them to say different.
Javi didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, that’s why you let Pedro sun you every time he talks crazy in front of the squad. You all bark out here but can’t look Pedro in the eye at school. That’s why Zoe laughing at you, man.”
Trent just smirked, arm draped over Mia’s shoulder. Mia glanced at Zoe, her expression reading, “you gonna let him play himself like that?”
Zoe locked eyes with Saul, amused but not cruel. “I’m just saying, if you was really about it, you wouldn’t need an audience. You’d just say what you want and take it.”
Saul bristled, but tried not to show it. “Pedro think he running shit ‘cause nobody’s checked him. I let him think he got it. But he only tough when it’s a crowd—one day he’ll slip.”
Javi scoffed but didn’t press further.
Zoe studied Saul for a second, then gave him a crooked little smile. “Alright, big man. Prove it. Why don’t you walk me to the car, since you got all this talk?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Bet.”
They slipped away from the group, gravel crunching under their sneakers as they cut through the shadows toward the Corolla. Zoe’s perfume—something cheap and sweet—hung in the humid air, mixing with the stink of weed and Trent’s cologne.
Saul’s pulse jumped as he pulled open the car door for her. She paused, half-in, half-out, then caught his gaze. “You got all that confidence, right? Better show me.”
He smiled, nervousness twisted up under the bravado, but he leaned in anyway. “You already know.”
She kissed him, brief and sharp, before pulling away, leaving him grinning in the streetlight. Behind them, Javi’s laughter rang out—half jealousy, half respect. Saul barely heard it. For a second, he felt like maybe, just maybe, he could be the man he kept pretending to be.
But as the night settled, Saul could still feel the weight of Javi’s words, the way Zoe tested him, the world watching to see if he’d ever stop letting someone else write the story for him.
The couch in Mireya’s living room had a broken spring that made it tilt toward the floor, the faux-leather flaking off in thin curls that stuck to your skin when you shifted the wrong way. It was too small for three people, way too small for someone Caine’s height—his legs were draped awkwardly over one cracked armrest, white socks bunched at the ankles, big feet half-hanging off the edge. His head rested on Mireya’s bare stomach, just under her old tank top, rising and falling slow with her breath. The TV flickered, cartoon voices too low to follow, but Camila sat cross-legged on the rug, eyes glued, a half-eaten animal cracker melting between her fingers.
Heat pressed against the apartment windows. One little box fan hummed from the corner, shoving the smell of bleach and old fried rice around the room. Every so often, Mireya reached down and scratched absentmindedly at Caine’s scalp, her fingers dragging slow through his dreads. He didn’t say anything about it, didn’t even look up. They both scrolled their phones in silence, thumbs moving, the screens throwing light on tired faces.
Caine’s phone buzzed. He flinched, just enough for Mireya to notice—she peered down at the top of his head, saw the familiar tension in his jaw. He unlocked it, thumb flicking to Instagram DMs.
Janae: Why you always take days to answer me? It’s like you don’t fuck with nobody fr.
He stared for a second, then sent back a laughing emoji—nothing else. That was the safest thing he could do. He could feel Mireya’s eyes, but she didn’t ask. Not directly. Didn’t need to. She’d seen enough, the way he moved now, always keeping something held back.
Caine thumbed the side of his phone, let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and turned his face up to her.
“Hey… the ACT hard?”
Mireya blinked, still half-scrolling. She looked at him, mouth twitching in a way that almost passed for a smile. Her mind flashed, quick and sharp, to the number on her last score report: fifteen. She’d shoved it in the drawer under Camila’s birth certificate and never looked at it again.
“Nah,” she said, after a pause just a second too long. “Not if you’re prepped. Why?”
Caine didn’t answer right away. He shrugged, eyes drifting back to his phone. “I gotta take it. For a football scholarship.”
Mireya sat up a little, her hand still on his head. “Wait… you? For what?”
He squinted at the TV, at the way Camila’s head lolled side to side, lost in the cartoon’s nonsense rhythm. “Mr. Landry signed me up. Said he gon’ help me… study and shit.”
Mireya swallowed. “You gotta pay for that, right? For the test?”
Caine frowned, rolling his head into her stomach, voice muffled. “Ain’t it free for everybody?”
Her lips rolled into her mouth, teeth biting down hard. She closed her eyes, felt her face heat up—not anger, but something like shame. She remembered the way Ms. Hanley slid that packet across the desk, the way $95 felt like a joke the second time she paid it. Her fingers balled tight on her phone.
“If you get the waiver,” she said, careful not to let it sound like a judgment.
He grunted, neither agreeing nor arguing, and for a long moment, they just listened to the distant squeal of the cartoon and the whir of the fan.
“Why you looking at me like that?” he asked, not moving.
“I’m not,” she lied, flat.
He turned just enough to see her face. “You took it, right?”
She hesitated. “Yeah.” Her throat went tight. She didn’t say the score. Didn’t say she’d bombed it so bad she’d crumpled up the result before her mama could see.
“How you do?”
Mireya forced a shrug. “It’s just a test. Don’t mean nothing if you don’t prep.”
Caine stared at the ceiling, jaw working. “I know you killed that shit. I should pull a Derrick Rose and have you go take mine for me. Just tell them you don’t speak English if they ask how you a woman named Caine.” His lips quirked, but there was no humor in it.
That almost made her smile. Almost.
Camila finally turned, pushing herself up from the rug and stumbling to the couch, arms out. “Mama, up! I wanna be up.”
Mireya started to shift, but Caine only rolled half onto his side, never lifting his head from her stomach. He reached over, one long arm scooping Camila up with practiced ease and pulling her onto his chest. His other arm draped back around Mireya’s waist, pinning himself tighter to her. Camila’s giggle vibrated through all of them as she settled, a warm weight pressed into Caine’s sternum, her head pillowed under his chin.
Caine stayed right where he was, too tall for the sofa, legs still dangling over the armrest. Mireya’s stomach tensed slightly under the weight of his head, but she didn’t move. Her hand, caught between Caine’s dreads and Camila’s curls, went still. For a long moment, none of them spoke, the only sounds the cartoon's murmur and the rhythm of Camila’s breathing as she calmed, safe between her parents.
Mireya looked down at the top of Caine’s head, at Camila’s tiny fist clutching his shirt. The TV’s flickering blue lit the tired brown of her own knuckles. She wanted to say something—anything—to bridge the gap of what had just hung unspoken between them, about the test, about the money, about the slow ache of wanting more for Camila than this. But her mouth was dry, and the words caught.
Caine just lay there, eyes closed, thumb stroking Camila’s back, cheek pressed into Mireya’s skin. He didn’t ask again if she was good. Didn’t tease. His body, heavy and loose with exhaustion, pinned her to the world, his heartbeat a stubborn drum in her ribs.
The apartment felt smaller, suddenly, crowded by all the futures that didn’t fit. Mireya stared up at the ceiling, her vision blurring around the water stains and spidered cracks. She let her hand drift—resting it on Caine’s shoulder, then on Camila’s hair. For a moment, she just let herself be held by the weight of them both.
The cartoon’s theme song faded, replaced by another episode, bright and tinny. Camila’s breathing slowed, almost matching Caine’s. Mireya’s chest ached with how much she loved them, with how tired she was of all the loving and all the losing.
She blinked up at the ceiling, feeling tears threaten but not fall. Caine’s body felt like an anchor—warm, alive, unmovable. She didn’t know if it was comfort or another weight she’d never escape.
The fieldhouse in July was all echoes and dust between practices, just the hum of the AC fighting a losing battle with the heat. Coach Joseph sat in his cramped office, paperwork stacked in uneven piles, when the silence was cut by a sharp knock and the squeak of sneakers in the hall.
Coach Smith leaned in, face already tight. “Coach, there’s a couple at the front. Probation officers. They asking for you.”
Joseph set down his pen, slow. “Who they here for?”
“Caine. That one, Roussel, he ain’t smiling.”
Coach Joseph stood, rolling his shoulders, the familiar tension knotting up—White men in state seal-emblazoned jackets rarely meant good for boys like his.
In the lobby, William Roussel stood as if he owned the air, shoulders squared, partner beside him with the same bored cop energy. The smell of fried grass and distant traffic drifted in through the open door, but Roussel’s presence pressed the room smaller.
Coach Joseph kept his voice calm. “Y’all looking for me?”
Roussel didn’t bother with small talk. “We need to search Caine Guerra’s locker. Where is it?”
“He’s not here. Practice ain’t for another hour,” Joseph replied, folding his arms.
“That’s fine,” Roussel said, tone cold, “We’re allowed to check anywhere a probationer keeps property. Unless there’s a reason you’d like to tell us we can’t?” His eyes were steady, challenging.
Coach Smith watched, jaw tight, body language sharp. Joseph didn’t blink, refusing to back up. “We keep it locked. Ain’t nothing but gear in there. You got a warrant?”
Roussel smiled, but it was all teeth. “Don’t need one. You know how this goes, Coach. You wanna do this easy or you wanna spend a night in OPP for obstruction?”
A long pause stretched. Joseph nodded at Smith. “Get the keys.”
The hallway felt even more cavernous as they walked, Roussel’s boots ringing loud against the floor, his partner letting his hand brush his gun like punctuation. They stopped in front of Caine’s locker—plain, scraped up, no stickers, just his number stenciled on the door.
Smith fumbled the keys, but his hands didn’t shake. He knew who he was unlocking for.
Roussel stepped close, crowding the space, eyes raking over both coaches before he glanced inside. The locker was nearly empty: helmet, shoulder pads, a beat-up playbook, nothing else.
Roussel frowned, pushing the gear around like he expected something to crawl out. “That it? This all he got?”
Coach Joseph shrugged, face unreadable. “You see what you see. Caine’s quiet. Most them boys take their shit home.”
Roussel snorted. “Guess he keeps the rest somewhere else. Or maybe he knows how to hide things. I’m not surprised.”
Coach Smith stepped in, tone cool. “You want to check under the floor tiles too, or you satisfied?”
Roussel shot him a look, jaw working. “We’ll be in touch if anything turns up. Lotta ways a kid like that can get into trouble. I’d keep a closer eye, if I were you.”
Coach Joseph held his stare. “You’re not, though, Mr. Roussel. You done here?”
Roussel turned away, letting the locker door slam shut behind him, loud in the quiet hall. His partner followed, shoes squeaking as they left, the heavy air filling in behind them.
For a moment, neither coach spoke. Coach Smith finally let out a breath, muttered, “Man’s looking for trouble he ain’t never had to live through.”
Coach Joseph closed the locker, gentle. “Ain’t never a day they aren’t looking to put a young Black man behind bars.”
He watched the sunlight flicker through the narrow window, jaw set, feeling the old anger settle under his skin—the kind that comes from knowing who gets searched, and who gets believed.
~~~
The boutique’s air conditioning rattled but barely touched the thick heat seeping in from the street. The walls were a pale, expensive pink, racks neat and curated, each hanger spaced just so. Mireya stood behind the counter, elbows braced on cool marble, her phone lighting her face with flickers from Instagram reels—videos of girls doing their makeup in better lighting, posing in apartments that didn’t smell like someone else’s old takeout. Her skin felt tight with sweat, shirt sticking at the small of her back.
Trina had been gone maybe fifteen minutes now—said something about inventory, but Mireya could hear the distant cackle of her baby daddy on Facetime through the storeroom door. She rolled her eyes, thumbed her phone, and watched the second hand crawl across the register clock. Twenty-two minutes down. Six hours to go.
The bell above the door chimed, crisp and sudden, slicing through the soft loop of indie R&B playing overhead. Mireya straightened, slid her phone under the counter, and fixed her face—neutral, polite, not eager. A girl stepped inside, maybe a year or two older than Mireya, edges laid, gold hoops swinging, her nails perfect and bright coral against the shopping bag she already carried from a store down the block.
The girl didn’t say hello. She drifted toward the wall of rompers, running her hand over the fabric, eyes skimming price tags without really reading them. Mireya tracked her without moving, watching the subtle dance—how the girl glanced at the mirror, checked behind her, weighed the weight of Mireya’s attention.
After a few minutes, the girl picked three dresses and a tank and brought them to the register. She barely looked at Mireya, just nodded toward the back. “Can I try these on?”
Mireya unlocked the dressing room with the little brass key, stepping aside so the girl could slip in. The door shut with a click, and Mireya could hear hangers scrape, the soft thunk of shoes hitting the bench, the whisper of a zipper. She leaned back against the counter, picking at a chip in her nail polish, ears tuned for the particular pause that always came when someone was stashing something away.
It came. A moment longer in the stall, the quiet cough of a bag rustling, then the girl emerged with a practiced nonchalance, two fewer pieces than she’d taken in, the rest hung over her arm.
Mireya let her face go blank. “You found everything you were looking for?” Her voice was light, the script drilled into her by Arelle and repeated until it didn’t sound like a question anymore.
The girl froze, studying her. There was a charged beat—long enough for the truth to hang between them. Her eyes were sharp, maybe tired, maybe hungry, maybe just ready to fight if it came to that.
“You know?” the girl asked, quieter than before.
Mireya nodded, gaze flat. “Yeah. I know.”
A second passed. The girl weighed her, waiting for the threat, the call for a manager, the summons for a backroom confrontation. It didn’t come. Mireya just shrugged, a flick of her wrist, eyes drifting away. “Ain’t my shit.”
The girl laughed, short and delighted. “Damn, I love a real ass bitch.” She reached for her bag, lips curling up. “People in here always act like they top flight security or some shit”
“I just work here,” Mireya said. “Whatever you do is on you.”
Another laugh, this one lighter, the tension gone. “Bet. I’ma remember that.”
She paid for what she brought—cash, crisp twenties that looked like a tip from someone else’s hustle. Mireya rang her up, bagged the items, let the receipt print and slide into the sack. She handed it over, fingers brushing, and the girl winked. “Stay real, mama.”
Mireya only nodded.
The girl was gone in another jangle of the bell, sunlight flaring in and gone just as quick. Mireya exhaled slow, leaned back on the counter, her shoulders dropping. She pulled her phone out again, thumbed past a text from her mom asking about Camila, skipped over another bill notification. Her eyes drifted to the clock.
The store was empty, save for the faint scent of coconut lotion and a stray earring back left on the register. Mireya let herself go loose, scrolling TikTok with the volume low, letting other people’s drama and laughter fill her head for a while.
~~~
The heat over Behrman Field pressed down like a hand, thick and smothering. Cleats chewed up the painted turf, sweat trickled beneath pads, and the snap of footballs hitting hands was as sharp as the bark of coaches. At the center, two quarterbacks moved in and out of drills—Caine and Jay, their rivalry simmering just below the surface, hot enough to make everyone nervous.
“Let’s go, let’s go! Full team, move it!” Coach Joseph’s voice rode the wind, already rough with impatience. Helmets knocked as starters and backups lined up; the sound of bodies shifting, breath coming heavy, an orchestra of tension.
Jay took the first set, clapping loudly in the huddle, jaw tight. “Let’s run it fast, don’t slow up for nothing.” He looked around the circle, eyes daring someone to doubt him. The older players—Corey, Derrick—nodded back, silent in their loyalty.
The snap was quick. Jay danced, backpedaled, and fired out to the sideline, but the ball sailed just over Tyron’s fingertips. Tyron threw up his hands in frustration. A few of the younger receivers traded looks.
Coach LeBlanc, whistle clamped between his teeth, shook his head. “Reset! Gotta put it on him, Jay.”
Jay didn’t answer, just bit at his mouthguard and glared at the grass.
Caine stepped in next. Sweat rolled down his temple, mouth dry from the sun and nerves, but he kept his voice low and steady in the huddle. “Trips left, 85 dig—Tyron, look for it.”
His eyes met Tyron’s. A quick nod passed between them, the kind of silent connection you can’t teach.
On the snap, the pocket closed, but Caine kept his feet, eyes scanning. He saw the safety bite down, flicked a pump fake, then zipped it to Tyron breaking inside. This time, Tyron caught it in stride, juked upfield, and the whole sideline popped. Backup DBs smacked each other’s helmets in mock frustration.
Some of the second-stringers started up: “Yessir, Caine!” “He cooking today!” One of the JV kids grinned at his friend, “They better let him take that spot.”
Jay walked off, stiff, chest heaving. “Whole damn sideline acting like y’all know something,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
As the drill continued, so did the subtle war. Every rep, the split between the team deepened—older guys rallying to Jay, younger players and backups rooting for Caine. When Caine made a play, his guys got louder. When Jay faltered, the hush was heavy.
Tempers frayed. At one point, after a busted play where Jay threw behind a slant, Caine called out, “That’s a pick if we running full speed!” His voice was even, but everyone heard the sting.
Jay spun, tossing his helmet. “Shut the fuck up, man! Run your own shit!”
Coach Joseph stalked over, voice low but hard. “That’s enough. Next man up.” He glared at both, holding the silence too long for comfort. “If you can’t handle competition, let me know. I got freshmen want your spot.”
The rest of practice dragged. Every drill felt like a test; every pass, a statement. Sweat blurred vision, pads grew heavy, but no one quit. They were fighting for more than just snaps—they were fighting for the story that would be told about them all season.
Finally, the whistle blew long and shrill. “Take a knee!” Joseph called. Helmets dropped, a circle formed, and the coaches gave their usual wrap-up. But every player knew nothing was settled.
The team broke out—linemen lumbering to the coolers, DBs clowning in little packs. Jay stalked toward the fieldhouse, helmet tucked under his arm. Caine moved slower, letting the buzz of the sideline fade before he made his way inside.
…
The fieldhouse was loud with post-practice noise—showers running, music leaking from a speaker, laughter and half-hearted arguments echoing off cinderblock walls. The sweat smell was ripe and real, mixing with antiseptic and the bitter tang of old tape.
Coach Joseph found Caine at his locker. “Grab Jay. My office. Now.”
Caine nodded, stripping off his pads, hands still shaking with adrenaline. In the small windowless coach’s office, the A/C rattled. Jay was already there, sitting on the edge of a chair, arms folded, jaw locked.
Joseph closed the door, letting the silence gather before he spoke. “Y’all see what’s happening, right?”
Jay glared at the floor. “You mean the sideline acting like I ain’t been here out here starting for two years?”
LeBlanc held up a hand. “It ain’t about years, Jay. It’s about execution. It’s about leadership.”
Caine stayed quiet, posture rigid, eyes on the trophy shelf above Joseph’s head.
Coach Joseph turned to both. “I need leaders. Not drama. You hear me? You pull this team apart, we lose before the first whistle. I ain’t about to watch you fuck up the whole locker room behind egos.”
Jay cut in, voice pitched sharp, “So what—now I’m sharing the job? I been QB1. You talking like I’m just another body.”
Coach Joseph cut him off. “I’m talking like a coach. I’m saying if you don’t bring it every day, you won’t play. That goes for both y’all.”
LeBlanc cleared his throat. “Here’s what we’re doing. Jay, we’re drawing up some packages with you out wide, in motion, in the backfield. Defenses gotta respect your legs. Caine, you stay at quarterback. We’ll rotate. Gives us options.”
Jay sat up, bristling. “That’s trick shit. I ain’t no running back, Coach.”
Joseph’s stare was flat, dangerous. “You are what the team needs you to be. This ain’t about feelings.”
The silence grew thick. Caine felt the pull to speak up, to argue that he’d earned the job, but the memory of his mother’s warnings from long ago—don’t give them a reason to doubt you, just do the work—kept him still.
Coach Joseph looked at Caine. “You got something to say?”
Caine shook his head, voice barely above a whisper. “No, sir.”
Jay slapped his knee, shooting up out of his chair. “Man, whatever. I’m gone.” He brushed past Caine, shouldering him on the way out. LeBlanc followed, giving Joseph a look that said he’d keep watch.
Now it was just Coach Joseph and Caine. The coach’s voice dropped. “You good, son?”
He nodded, but the truth was murkier. “Yeah. I’m good.”
Joseph studied him for a long beat, then gave a short nod.
~~~
The backyard behind Trent’s house felt like a holding pen for kids too old for curfew but too young to have anywhere better to go. The chain-link rattled every time somebody shifted in the plastic lawn chairs. A couple cars lined the alley, music thumping out a half-muffled beat. Every now and then, the light above the back door flickered like it was thinking about burning out for good.
Mia and Zoe were perched on a low wall, their knees almost touching, while Trent and Javi stood over by the battered patio table. Saul, too amped up to sit, drifted from the fence to the car and back again, always orbiting close enough to Zoe to make his intentions plain.
He liked how she laughed—loud, loose, mouth open, like she didn’t give a fuck who heard. He liked the way she’d done her hair, little gold hoops in both ears, shorts riding up smooth brown legs. He liked that she was here at all.
He grinned down at her, hands in his pockets, working his jaw the way he did when he was trying to look harder than he felt. “So what, you too good to mess with me tonight, Zoe? I thought you liked a little trouble.”
She rolled her eyes, smile flickering. “I like a man who acts the same whether his boys around or not. But every time I see you, you wanna show out. Maybe you scared to be alone with me.”
Saul leaned in, dropping his voice like he was letting her in on something. “You know I’m as real as it gets. These fools just jealous.” He shot a look at Trent and Javi, daring them to say different.
Javi didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, that’s why you let Pedro sun you every time he talks crazy in front of the squad. You all bark out here but can’t look Pedro in the eye at school. That’s why Zoe laughing at you, man.”
Trent just smirked, arm draped over Mia’s shoulder. Mia glanced at Zoe, her expression reading, “you gonna let him play himself like that?”
Zoe locked eyes with Saul, amused but not cruel. “I’m just saying, if you was really about it, you wouldn’t need an audience. You’d just say what you want and take it.”
Saul bristled, but tried not to show it. “Pedro think he running shit ‘cause nobody’s checked him. I let him think he got it. But he only tough when it’s a crowd—one day he’ll slip.”
Javi scoffed but didn’t press further.
Zoe studied Saul for a second, then gave him a crooked little smile. “Alright, big man. Prove it. Why don’t you walk me to the car, since you got all this talk?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Bet.”
They slipped away from the group, gravel crunching under their sneakers as they cut through the shadows toward the Corolla. Zoe’s perfume—something cheap and sweet—hung in the humid air, mixing with the stink of weed and Trent’s cologne.
Saul’s pulse jumped as he pulled open the car door for her. She paused, half-in, half-out, then caught his gaze. “You got all that confidence, right? Better show me.”
He smiled, nervousness twisted up under the bravado, but he leaned in anyway. “You already know.”
She kissed him, brief and sharp, before pulling away, leaving him grinning in the streetlight. Behind them, Javi’s laughter rang out—half jealousy, half respect. Saul barely heard it. For a second, he felt like maybe, just maybe, he could be the man he kept pretending to be.
But as the night settled, Saul could still feel the weight of Javi’s words, the way Zoe tested him, the world watching to see if he’d ever stop letting someone else write the story for him.
~~~
The couch in Mireya’s living room had a broken spring that made it tilt toward the floor, the faux-leather flaking off in thin curls that stuck to your skin when you shifted the wrong way. It was too small for three people, way too small for someone Caine’s height—his legs were draped awkwardly over one cracked armrest, white socks bunched at the ankles, big feet half-hanging off the edge. His head rested on Mireya’s bare stomach, just under her old tank top, rising and falling slow with her breath. The TV flickered, cartoon voices too low to follow, but Camila sat cross-legged on the rug, eyes glued, a half-eaten animal cracker melting between her fingers.
Heat pressed against the apartment windows. One little box fan hummed from the corner, shoving the smell of bleach and old fried rice around the room. Every so often, Mireya reached down and scratched absentmindedly at Caine’s scalp, her fingers dragging slow through his dreads. He didn’t say anything about it, didn’t even look up. They both scrolled their phones in silence, thumbs moving, the screens throwing light on tired faces.
Caine’s phone buzzed. He flinched, just enough for Mireya to notice—she peered down at the top of his head, saw the familiar tension in his jaw. He unlocked it, thumb flicking to Instagram DMs.
Janae: Why you always take days to answer me? It’s like you don’t fuck with nobody fr.
He stared for a second, then sent back a laughing emoji—nothing else. That was the safest thing he could do. He could feel Mireya’s eyes, but she didn’t ask. Not directly. Didn’t need to. She’d seen enough, the way he moved now, always keeping something held back.
Caine thumbed the side of his phone, let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and turned his face up to her.
“Hey… the ACT hard?”
Mireya blinked, still half-scrolling. She looked at him, mouth twitching in a way that almost passed for a smile. Her mind flashed, quick and sharp, to the number on her last score report: fifteen. She’d shoved it in the drawer under Camila’s birth certificate and never looked at it again.
“Nah,” she said, after a pause just a second too long. “Not if you’re prepped. Why?”
Caine didn’t answer right away. He shrugged, eyes drifting back to his phone. “I gotta take it. For a football scholarship.”
Mireya sat up a little, her hand still on his head. “Wait… you? For what?”
He squinted at the TV, at the way Camila’s head lolled side to side, lost in the cartoon’s nonsense rhythm. “Mr. Landry signed me up. Said he gon’ help me… study and shit.”
Mireya swallowed. “You gotta pay for that, right? For the test?”
Caine frowned, rolling his head into her stomach, voice muffled. “Ain’t it free for everybody?”
Her lips rolled into her mouth, teeth biting down hard. She closed her eyes, felt her face heat up—not anger, but something like shame. She remembered the way Ms. Hanley slid that packet across the desk, the way $95 felt like a joke the second time she paid it. Her fingers balled tight on her phone.
“If you get the waiver,” she said, careful not to let it sound like a judgment.
He grunted, neither agreeing nor arguing, and for a long moment, they just listened to the distant squeal of the cartoon and the whir of the fan.
“Why you looking at me like that?” he asked, not moving.
“I’m not,” she lied, flat.
He turned just enough to see her face. “You took it, right?”
She hesitated. “Yeah.” Her throat went tight. She didn’t say the score. Didn’t say she’d bombed it so bad she’d crumpled up the result before her mama could see.
“How you do?”
Mireya forced a shrug. “It’s just a test. Don’t mean nothing if you don’t prep.”
Caine stared at the ceiling, jaw working. “I know you killed that shit. I should pull a Derrick Rose and have you go take mine for me. Just tell them you don’t speak English if they ask how you a woman named Caine.” His lips quirked, but there was no humor in it.
That almost made her smile. Almost.
Camila finally turned, pushing herself up from the rug and stumbling to the couch, arms out. “Mama, up! I wanna be up.”
Mireya started to shift, but Caine only rolled half onto his side, never lifting his head from her stomach. He reached over, one long arm scooping Camila up with practiced ease and pulling her onto his chest. His other arm draped back around Mireya’s waist, pinning himself tighter to her. Camila’s giggle vibrated through all of them as she settled, a warm weight pressed into Caine’s sternum, her head pillowed under his chin.
Caine stayed right where he was, too tall for the sofa, legs still dangling over the armrest. Mireya’s stomach tensed slightly under the weight of his head, but she didn’t move. Her hand, caught between Caine’s dreads and Camila’s curls, went still. For a long moment, none of them spoke, the only sounds the cartoon's murmur and the rhythm of Camila’s breathing as she calmed, safe between her parents.
Mireya looked down at the top of Caine’s head, at Camila’s tiny fist clutching his shirt. The TV’s flickering blue lit the tired brown of her own knuckles. She wanted to say something—anything—to bridge the gap of what had just hung unspoken between them, about the test, about the money, about the slow ache of wanting more for Camila than this. But her mouth was dry, and the words caught.
Caine just lay there, eyes closed, thumb stroking Camila’s back, cheek pressed into Mireya’s skin. He didn’t ask again if she was good. Didn’t tease. His body, heavy and loose with exhaustion, pinned her to the world, his heartbeat a stubborn drum in her ribs.
The apartment felt smaller, suddenly, crowded by all the futures that didn’t fit. Mireya stared up at the ceiling, her vision blurring around the water stains and spidered cracks. She let her hand drift—resting it on Caine’s shoulder, then on Camila’s hair. For a moment, she just let herself be held by the weight of them both.
The cartoon’s theme song faded, replaced by another episode, bright and tinny. Camila’s breathing slowed, almost matching Caine’s. Mireya’s chest ached with how much she loved them, with how tired she was of all the loving and all the losing.
She blinked up at the ceiling, feeling tears threaten but not fall. Caine’s body felt like an anchor—warm, alive, unmovable. She didn’t know if it was comfort or another weight she’d never escape.
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 5334
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
American Sun
Annnnnd the seed is planted.
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redsox907
- Posts: 2216
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
American Sun
Sara ain't one to play with!redsox907 wrote: ↑30 Jul 2025, 13:41
Mireya didn't react to Leo having a wife and kids, so she knew. I ain't going to say it again - but the writing is on the wall
Caine gonna fuck around and get a case real quick. Homie needs to practice saying the word no in the mirror ffs
Or, she ain't want to prolong the conversation.
Why would he say no to money?
[/quote]
Because that money leads him to getting locked up??? Da fuq.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12131
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
American Sun
Because that money leads him to getting locked up??? Da fuq.redsox907 wrote: ↑31 Jul 2025, 19:44Sara ain't one to play with!redsox907 wrote: ↑30 Jul 2025, 13:41
Mireya didn't react to Leo having a wife and kids, so she knew. I ain't going to say it again - but the writing is on the wall
Caine gonna fuck around and get a case real quick. Homie needs to practice saying the word no in the mirror ffs
Or, she ain't want to prolong the conversation.
Why would he say no to money?
[/quote]
Hey man. What's he supposed to do? Run a lemonade stand?
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12131
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
American Sun
Pa Gen Plas Pou Mwen
The mall’s AC hit different in July—too cold after the parking lot, numbing Mireya’s arms the second she stepped inside. Camila’s weight shifted heavy against her hip, head pressed to Mireya’s shoulder, curls damp from the heat and sleep. Angela and Paz led the way, moving with the high, light energy of girls with nowhere else to be. Their voices bounced off marble tile and glass storefronts, every laugh and comment echoing, even though it was just past noon on a Wednesday and the place was nearly empty except for teens and tired mothers.
Angela held up a dress she’d pulled from H&M, already envisioning it for the first day. “Tell me this wouldn’t look bomb with some hoops and those Jordans I got for my birthday.”
Paz reached out, feeling the fabric, her own arms loaded down with shirts. “You about to make the whole class jealous. They’ll say you only wear new shit because your daddy send you child support from Atlanta.”
Angela rolled her eyes, but Mireya saw the pleased little flicker beneath. Mireya shifted Camila on her hip, letting her daughter’s fingers tangle in her gold chain. She was too tired for shopping, her mind always caught on bills and work schedules, but she kept moving, one step behind the others, eyes darting for the nearest bench she could claim for five minutes.
They wandered past the food court—fried chicken, cinnamon rolls, the warm salt-and-grease air making Camila perk up, nose wrinkling as she pointed at the pizza display. “Mommy, can I have one?”
“Not right now, baby,” Mireya murmured, pressing a kiss to Camila’s hair.
Angela glanced back, dress draped over her arm. “Reya, you taking the ACT with us in September, right?”
Mireya shrugged, the motion so practiced it almost felt like breathing. “Yeah. I gotta find a way to pay for prep after spending the money to register again.”
Paz frowned, balancing a stack of tank tops. “But how? Caine got it for free, right?”
“Yeah,” Mireya said. Her voice was quiet, eyes fixed on the neon sign ahead—Victoria’s Secret. “He lives with more people. I guess that’s how. More mouths to feed, more boxes to check.”
Angela pursed her lips, thinking it through. “But if he gets welfare for all them kids, why can’t his mom just claim Camila too? Then you could get the waiver.”
Mireya felt a slow, sour twist in her stomach. She shifted Camila again, freeing her hand. “I don’t know. The state just put her with me, so she’s on my stuff, not his.”
Paz stopped walking, looking right at Mireya, concern shining in her eyes. “You should look into that, Reya. I bet it’d make everything easier. More help, you know? Could get food stamps, even daycare paid for.”
Mireya just nodded, eyes on the glossy floor, watching Camila’s beat-up sneakers dangle. She didn’t say how many times she’d tried to ask at the office, how quickly the answers had turned into paperwork, into numbers she didn’t understand and forms she never finished. She’d heard the word “overpayment” one time, and it was enough to scare her off for months.
Angela’s voice softened. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” The lie barely made it out. “I’ll check into it.”
The four of them drifted into Victoria’s Secret, the lighting too bright, walls lined with pink and gold. Music thumped low, some pop song Mireya barely registered. She was aware of her own reflection in every mirror—hair up in a messy bun, tank top loose, Camila in one arm, purse slipping from her shoulder. She looked like someone’s tired older sister, not a girl starting her senior year.
Angela and Paz dissolved into the racks of bras and bodysuits, giggling over lace and colors, each other’s jokes slipping back and forth in low Spanish and English. Camila twisted in Mireya’s arms, reaching for a sequined clutch on a table. “Can I have it, Mommy? For my doll?”
Mireya shook her head, gently pulling Camila’s hand away. “That’s for grownups, mi amor.”
Across the aisle, a girl—maybe their age, maybe a little older—held a lilac bodysuit up to her chest, angling it for the approval of a boy leaning against the wall. He was all long legs and nervous swagger, eyes darting between the girl and his phone. She posed, hip cocked, a playful smile on her lips as she asked, “You like this one?” He grinned, tongue poking out, gaze sliding over her in a way that made Mireya’s cheeks heat, even from across the room.
The bodysuit was almost $70, the tag a bright pink flag. Mireya caught herself staring—not just at the price, but at the girl herself. The smooth brown of her skin, the way her stomach was bare where her shirt had ridden up, the easy confidence in her posture. Mireya felt a sharp, jealous ache twist under her ribs: not for the bodysuit, but for the freedom to want something just because a boy might say yes. To have money to waste, to stand in bright light and not worry about every dollar, every sideways glance.
She tried not to stare, but her eyes kept drifting back to the way the girl laughed, the soft brush of her fingers against the lace, the small space she took up and made important.
Angela drifted back, arms full of bras, pausing beside Mireya. “Girl, what you looking at?”
Mireya blinked, shook her head, willing her eyes away. “Nothing. Just thinking.”
Angela raised an eyebrow, grin sly. “You need something cute, too. For Caine?”
Mireya’s face burned hotter, and she shrugged. “For who? Caine doesn’t care what I’m wearing. Camila ain’t just fall out the sky.”
Paz reappeared, already laughing, waving a strappy bra like a flag. “We need to get you something red, Reya. Red’s for power.”
Mireya smirked, letting herself sink into the safety of their noise for a moment. She set Camila down, letting her toddle toward a rack of sleep shorts. She scanned the room once more, let her eyes rest on the bodysuit girl for just a second, then forced herself away. She thumbed a pair of sale underwear, soft lace between her fingers, calculating if she could spare five dollars—maybe, if she skipped lunch next week.
Camila tugged at her hem. “Mommy, can I have juice?”
Mireya scooped her up, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “After, baby. Let’s finish with Tía Angela and Tía Paz first.”
The music shifted, a new song thumping through the speakers. Angela looped her arm through Mireya’s, leading her toward the checkout.
“You good?” Angela whispered, voice almost lost under the music.
Mireya nodded, a lie softer than before. She let herself be pulled along, anchored by the familiar warmth of her friends and the weight of her daughter, telling herself—like always—that she could want things later. For now, she’d settle for enough.
The sky was a white-hot sheet above the job site, summer sun warping the air, burning everything it touched. Dust floated off the piles of drywall, settling in the cracks of Caine’s knuckles, powdering his arms and hair. His shirt was soaked through, clinging to his back where sweat pooled and ran, the rough fabric scraping at his skin with every lift.
Caine flexed his fingers and dug them under the edge of a twelve-foot board, muscle and memory working together. He’d carried half a dozen already, feeling the day in his shoulders, the ache in his legs, but he wasn’t about to let the old heads see him struggle. Mr. Leon, face cracked by the sun and laughter, clapped him on the shoulder when he passed. “Slow down, lil’ brudda. Board gon’ still be here after lunch.”
“Ain’t tryna be here after lunch,” Caine shot back, letting the joke land, letting them know he could hang. They laughed, a low rumble, and called him over to help stack another load near the back wall. He moved easy, blending in. He’d started quiet—nodding, listening, keeping his mouth shut—but over the weeks, the crew had taken to him.Caine learned the rhythms, when to joke and when to just grind.
Lunch break came like a breath. The foreman’s whistle cut through the haze, and the crew scattered—some to their cars, some to the shade near the back fence, a couple to the stoop with foil-wrapped sandwiches. The sound of music drifted from someone’s speaker, scratchy with static, Spanish lyrics melting into old soul, Bobby Blue Bland running into Grupo Frontera.
Caine ducked under a live oak at the edge of the lot, the grass patchy but softer than concrete. He dropped down with a grunt, stretching his legs out, feeling the dust cake his jeans. The shade was thin, sunlight flickering through the leaves, but it cooled him enough to close his eyes, breathing slow, counting his heartbeats. For a minute, the city faded—no trucks backing up, no hammers, just the distant thump of a basketball over the fence and the sleepy drone of cicadas.
Grass crunched nearby. Caine cracked one eye, every nerve primed from years of needing to watch his back. He blinked against the light until the shape came into focus—a girl, maybe twenty, hair braided back from her face, gold hoops swinging, brown skin gleaming in the sun. She wore cutoff shorts and a loose white tee, a portfolio tucked under one arm, black paint streaked on the side of her hand.
She didn’t flinch when Caine looked at her. Instead, she sized him up, then held out the folder like a shield. “You want cash or check?”
Caine pushed himself upright, blinking away sleep. He didn’t recognize her, not at first, but something in the shape of her jaw and the way she stood—like she belonged anywhere she landed—clicked. Mr. Lucas’ granddaughter, had to be.
He wiped his palms on his jeans, not sure if he looked respectful or just young. “Cash, if you got it. I ain’t got a bank account.”
She grinned, pulling out a thick envelope, thumbing through crisp bills before peeling off a few hundreds. She counted them quick, then held them out. “That’s what I figured. Pops always keeps a little stash, says you can’t trust no bank with real money.”
Caine took the bills, tucking them into the pocket of his jeans, trying not to look hungry. “Thank you.”
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing, but not unkind. “How old are you, anyway? Pops hiring babies now?”
He tried to laugh it off, but something stung behind his ribs. “I’m a senior at Karr. Seventeen.”
She raised her eyebrows, nodding. “That’s wild. Most seventeen-year-olds I know don’t work. Or if they do, it’s, like, Raising Cane’s or the mall.”
He shrugged. “Ain’t got time to play with chicken tenders. Got a kid and all that. Gotta keep moving.”
She whistled low, some mixture of respect and surprise in her face. “Damn. You got more responsibility than most grown men I know.” She let it hang, eyes flicking over him as if weighing the truth of it.
He nodded, pressing the point away. “You one of Mr. Lucas’ granddaughter, right? You in college?”
“Yeah. Sophomore at South Carolina,” she said, something almost proud in her voice.
He whistled, a little of the old envy bubbling up. “What’s a New Orleans girl doing way out there? Coulda picked Tulane, Xavier, UNO, all that.”
Her smile turned wry, her gaze drifting past him to the field beyond the lot. “Sometimes, you gotta outgrow home, you know? City’ll hold you if you let it. I needed to see what else was out there.”
Caine let the words land, thinking about every night he’d lain awake, wondering if he’d ever get a chance to leave, or if he’d end up just like the men on the block—pacing the porch, watching their years run out. He sat up straighter, squinting through the sunlight. “You like it? South Carolina, I mean.”
She nodded, thoughtful. “It’s different. Slower. Lotta trees. Little country, but… yeah, I do. Feels safe, most of the time. Nobody looking at you sideways unless you say you from New Orleans, then they want to ask if you ever seen a murder.”
He laughed, really laughed, and she joined in, the two of them shaking their heads at the absurdity.
She pushed a lock of braid behind her ear, glancing back toward the trailers where Mr. Lucas’ voice could be heard barking orders. “I gotta go handle paperwork. But, hey, you keep showing up, you’ll get your check on time. That’s how we do.”
Caine watched her start to walk away, the sunlight tracing a halo around her silhouette. He found himself wanting the moment to last, just a little bit longer.
He called after her, voice quiet but clear, “What’s it feel like? Being away from all this?”
She paused, one foot in the grass, glancing back over her shoulder. “Like you get to breathe,” she said. “For real, breathe.”
He nodded, feeling something loosen inside his chest—a possibility, a warning, maybe both.
She offered a small smile, almost soft, and then she was gone, striding back toward the office, portfolio swinging at her side.
Caine lay back, staring up through the leaves, the weight of the cash pressing into his pocket, the promise of another world just barely out of reach, but there all the same. The sounds of the crew drifting over—laughs, stories, a curse as somebody dropped a tool. The city kept on grinding, but for a moment, he let himself just breathe, eyes closed, hope and hunger twined together in the hot Louisiana air.
The yard’s heat pressed down, heavy as a hand on the back of Dre’s neck. Sunlight bounced off the pale concrete and razor wire, bleaching the sky a hard white. Men circled the perimeter in slow, calculated loops—Black and Latin clusters by the fence, the Aryan Nation boys posted up at the weights, guards watching from the tower, bored behind mirrored shades. The air smelled like sweat, cigarettes, and the faint copper tang of old blood—violence always close, always waiting to spill.
Dre drifted from his crew’s shade, working the edge of the court until he spotted Ricardo, leaning back on a busted bench like he owned the yard. Ricardo flicked a glance up, chin tilted, half a smile curling his lips but nothing soft in his eyes.
Dre settled beside him, keeping his gaze out, not on him, back hunched against the concrete heat. They didn’t speak at first. Around them, someone barked a laugh at a dirty joke; somewhere closer, a CO’s voice echoed, sharp and lazy, “Keep it moving, fellas.”
Finally Ricardo spoke, voice low, almost casual. “Any luck on that pack, Dre?”
Dre wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, jaw clenched. “Tried, man. I ain’t got nobody solid in here. You want weed, you can find it. Coke? Maybe, if you got enough to trade. Pills—shit, you gotta know who’s on kitchen or got medical. But real weight? That shit come from the guards. And I don’t know none of them like that. Neither do the folks I know.”
Ricardo sucked his teeth, eyes narrow, unconvinced. “You making excuses, Dre. You been here months, acting like you invisible. You need to get connected, for real. Otherwise, what good are you?”
Dre stiffened, shoulders rolling. “What you want me to do? Flash money I ain’t got? Start waving my nuts at the white boys? They don’t fuck with me, and they don’t like sharing their hustle.”
Ricardo shrugged, mouth twisting. “Then make ‘em fuck with you. Go stab a fucking wood. Prove you not scared. That’s how you get in.”
Dre let the silence stretch, biting down hard on a retort. When he spoke, it was low, voice tight as wire. “Why don’t you stab one, if it’s so easy?”
Ricardo let out a dry laugh, palms up, already rising from the bench. “Because I’m going home, mano. I got a parole date.. You? Shit, I don’t know, Dre. You keep moving like you ain’t got a clock ticking.”
Dre looked up then, anger tightening his jaw. “Don’t act like you the only one trying to get out. I do what I gotta do. But I ain’t tryna catch a new case just ‘cause you scared to put your own hands dirty. I got enough on my jacket.”
Ricardo’s expression flickered—something cold, calculating—then softened into a practiced shrug. “It ain’t about scared. It’s about smart. You help la raza and la raza help you and your people.”
He started to walk away, hands in the air, voice pitched so only Dre could hear. “Don’t take it personal, bruh. Just business. Out here? Everybody’s got something to lose. Just make sure you ain’t the only one left holding the bag.”
Ricardo melted back into his own crowd, leaving Dre sitting in the sun, the weight of the yard pressing down. For a long minute, Dre sat still, eyes unfocused, feeling the sweat drip and the old rage curl in his stomach. He looked around—at the clusters, the guards, the line that separated being a man and being a target. He wanted to say it didn’t matter. But it did.
He stood, rolling his neck, the heat a warning he couldn’t shake. Another day, another debt unpaid, another mark against his name. And as the yard churned on, Dre wondered how long you could keep surviving without turning into what the place needed you to be.
He moved off, slow, blending back into the shade, every step measured, every glance counted—alive, but only just.
The vestibule of Our Lady of Guadalupe felt cooler than the street outside, but only just—a pocket of still air dense with incense, bleach, and the faint, earthy musk of old bricks sweating in the New Orleans heat. Sara’s grip tightened on the fruit basket, the cellophane crinkling loud in her hand as she squinted at the list her mother had scribbled on the torn envelope: bananas, apples, a bright red ribbon around the stem of a pineapple. “For the new priest,” Ximena had said, “and make it look nice.” As if Sara ever showed up somewhere not doing the most for family.
She left the basket in the sacristy, muttered a few words to the altar boys scurrying past, then stepped out into the late afternoon, the sun already dipping behind the black iron fence, its glare making the chipped white of the church sign glow. Sara rubbed her forehead, squinting, already dreading the walk home with her feet aching, her back sore from a week’s worth of doubled shifts. Her shirt clung damp under her arms, and she could feel a bead of sweat trickle slow down her spine.
Halfway down the block, she caught sight of Maria moving in the opposite direction, purse clutched tight, her walk all business, all purpose. Maria’s hair was pulled severe, the ends frizzed out from the humidity, her lips pressed so tight they were nearly white. She didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge Sara except for the way her jaw flexed.
Sara nodded, making the effort. “Buenas tardes, Maria,” she called, voice clipped but polite.
Maria walked past like she didn’t hear, eyes fixed straight ahead, mouth a flat line. The air between them thickened, as if the street itself had paused to see who’d break first.
Sara stopped in the shadow of the church wall, annoyance flaring in her chest. She turned, planting her feet, not about to let it slide. “You can’t even be cordial at fucking church, Maria? ¿En serio?”
Maria halted mid-step, back rigid. She spun on her heel, words sharp as glass. “Don’t act surprised. You smell like weed. I can smell you before I see you. You think that’s right, walking up to the house of God like that?”
Sara rolled her eyes so hard her head tilted back, catching a patch of sky already bruising with dusk. “Please. You always got some holier-than-thou shit to say. It don’t help nobody, Maria. Nobody in your house, nobody in mine. I’m tired of it.”
Maria’s hands tightened around her bag. Her voice dropped low, venom and pain all tangled together. “We don’t need to see eye-to-eye, Sara. It’s only a matter of time before your Caine disappears on Mireya and Camila. Just like whoever got you pregnant did to you. Just like he did to Caine. Patterns, Sara. Some people just run.”
The words struck, quick and cold, but Sara didn’t blink. She stepped forward, chin lifted, her voice turning to steel. “Where’s Mireya’s father, then? Back in Mexico with some new puta, sí? Ain’t seen his face in how many years? You and me, Maria, we’re not as different as you want people to think. But I bet that eats you up inside. That’s why you stay so bitter. That’s why you can’t even say hello.”
For a moment, the street was all cicadas and the faint clang of the streetcar turning two blocks over. Maria’s face burned with humiliation and anger, but she said nothing, just stared with something raw and ancient behind her eyes.
Sara gave her a hard, tired smile—one part pity, one part dare. She turned and walked off, the slap of her sandals echoing in the silence, leaving Maria alone in the shadow of the church with all her righteous anger curling, useless, around her feet.
Sara kept her head high, shoulders squared, not bothering to look back. There were too many women in this city carrying the same old wounds, she thought. Some just hid it behind prayer. Some just kept walking.
The sky over Metairie was streaked violet and bruised with sunset by the time Caine punched out, his hands still caked with the chalky dust of drywall and his shirt clinging wet across his shoulders. The jobsite looked half-swallowed by shadows—stacks of board leaning against the fence, trucks nosed in crooked, the distant clang of someone’s radio blurring with the evening hum of the I-10. He rolled his neck, wiped grit from his brow, and walked slow across the gravel lot to the battered Buick, every bone in his back protesting the weight he’d carried all day.
He was almost at the car when he saw them: Ramon’s black Altima idling across the street, the glossy paint catching the last of the light. Tyree was behind the wheel, seat leaned low, his face shadowed but the outline unmistakable—shoulders hunched, jaw twitching with the old restlessness. E.J. sat in the back, window cracked just enough to let the cigarette smoke drift out, his laugh cutting through the dusk as he leaned over the seat. Ramon stood outside, trunk open, already eyeing Caine with that half-grin that meant trouble or payday—usually both.
Caine stopped in the middle of the lot, just long enough to let them know he’d seen them, then popped the trunk on the Buick with a sharp clack, not a word spoken yet. Ramon motioned to Tyree, and the three of them moved—two duffel bags yanked from the Altima, their shapes too heavy and sagging in a way Caine had learned to recognize. E.J. swung his around like it was nothing, eyes never still, watching for any sign of a problem in the sleepy stretch of old Metairie ranch houses and quiet streets.
“Look at you,” Tyree said, grinning as they came up, “Hood ass Uber.”
Caine shrugged, holding the trunk open. “Just don’t scratch my shit.”
Ramon didn’t waste time—bags in, trunk down. He slid into the front passenger seat, already peeling off his gloves and tossing them into the footwell. Tyree and E.J. climbed in the back, squeezing together, Tyree’s knees jammed up against the seat.
E.J. gave a quick tap to the headrest. “Let’s roll, big dog.”
Caine drove, silent, letting the engine rattle them out of Metairie and onto the highway, the sky darkening to a deep, smoky blue overhead. The car filled with the smell of old sweat, drywall dust, the metallic tinge of something heavier from the duffel bags—guns, money, dope, or all of it at once. Nobody talked for the first few miles, tension stitched tight between the seats, the unspoken truth of what they were moving hanging over them like humidity.
Only when they crossed the river—lights of cars crossing the river on the Huey P. in the distance—did Ramon finally break the silence, voice soft but carrying.
“We good. Ain’t nobody on our ass.”
Caine just grunted, eyes on the road, knuckles pale against the wheel.
They dropped down the ramp into Bridge City, the world getting smaller, meaner: trailers huddled in rows, streetlights flickering out one by one, the road patched with tar and old promises. The trailer park lay just past the levee, the river a black wall behind it, the air thick with the tang of diesel and rot.
Caine pulled up slow, headlights off, letting the Buick glide to a crawl at the edge of the park.
Ramon pointed to a battered single-wide two rows in. “That’s the one. Pull in behind the old Camry.”
E.J. snickered. “Look at this ghetto ass shit. Watch out for the possums, C.”
They got out—Ramon and E.J. hoisting the duffels, moving quick up the walk to a trailer half-lit from inside. Caine watched them go, letting the weight of the night settle into his chest, eyes scanning the shadows for anything off. Tyree hung back, bouncing his leg, fingers drumming on the seat.
“Go park at the cul de sac,” Ramon said, his voice low but firm. “Wait till you see us wave. Don’t move till then.”
Caine nodded, rolled the Buick down the gravel lane, heart ticking faster with every second. At the end of the street, he eased the car into a pocket of dark, engine off, heat pressing in heavy. Tyree twisted sideways, stretching out as best he could, cracking jokes to break the nerves.
“So for real, man—what’s it like having a kid?” Tyree asked, his voice loose, testing. “You wake up at night? Change them little diapers and shit?”
Caine snorted, head back against the seat. “What you asking for? You trying to baby trap some bitch?”
Tyree grinned, teeth flashing. “Shit, you know that’s a cheat code. You get a baby, she stuck with you at least three years, maybe more. Just gotta make her love your ugly ass.”
Caine shook his head, laughter coming out rough, tired. “Don’t wish that on yourself, brudda. That shit ain’t cute. You gotta feed her, keep her outta trouble, make sure she don’t end up hating your stupid ass. You ready for all that?”
Tyree laughed, but softer now. “You right. I’ll keep the rubbers on me to fuck these hoes.”
Caine’s smile faded as he scanned the trailers again—something off in the angle of two houses across the street, a flash of metal in the narrow gap between them, too careful to be a neighbor taking out the trash. He stilled, gut tight.
Tyree caught it. “What’s up, bro?”
Caine didn’t answer, just reached down, fingers searching under the torn floor mat until they closed around the cold metal of the pistol Ramon had handed off weeks before. He slid it out, kept it low, breath slow and measured.
“Get in the driver’s seat,” Caine said quietly, not looking away from the window. “But don’t start the car.”
Tyree’s eyes went wide. “Yo—”
“Just do it. If something happens, you get outta here. I’ll catch up.”
Tyree nodded, slid over, his hands tense on the wheel. Caine opened the door, stepping out into the sticky dark, every sense turned up loud. The grass was wet against his sneakers, the hum of a bug zapper cutting through the night, some kid’s TV murmuring behind a thin window. He kept to the shadows, ducking behind a row of trash cans, moving fast but quiet, crossing the short strip of backyards, fences half-collapsed and patchy weeds clutching at his ankles.
He circled behind the trailers he’d spotted—no lights in the windows, but the sense of someone waiting, of trouble coiled tight. Sure enough, a man in a dirty Saints tee, pale and drawn, crept between the trailers, shotgun low but ready, eyes fixed on the trailer where Ramon and E.J. had gone in. His whole body was wired, every step a calculation.
Caine closed the distance in silence, nerves humming, the world narrowing to a tunnel. He pressed the pistol hard to the back of the man’s neck, voice low and mean, no room for fear.
“Might wanna put that shit down,” Caine said.
The man stiffened, head snapping up, a short, shivery breath hissing out.
“Don’t yell,” Caine said, forcing calm he barely felt. “Just drop it.”
The man’s hands shook, but he bent slow, setting the shotgun down with a muffled thunk. Caine nudged him with his knee. “Lay down. Flat.”
He complied, face pressed to the ground, trying to look back out the corner of his eye. Caine grabbed the shotgun, checked the safety, then tucked his own pistol in his waistband. His heart thumped wild, sweat breaking cold along his back.
He heard the trailer door open, footsteps thudding, and caught the flash of Ramon waving in the dark—job done, all clear. Tyree drove up, slow, headlights off, the Buick barely making a sound.
Caine jogged back, shotgun low at his side, keeping to the shadows. He slid into the backseat just as Ramon and E.J. piled in, empty bags slumping to the floor.
“What the fuck?” E.J. barked, confusion snapping in his voice.
Caine said nothing, just glared out the window, breathing hard.
Tyree whooped, throwing his fist against the headrest. “Nigga used that quarterback vision! Seen that setup coming a mile away!”
Ramon’s face twisted into a grin, all adrenaline and relief. “That’s why we bring you, C. Always two steps ahead.”
Caine shook his head, hand tight around the shotgun. “Let’s go before these meth heads realize we ain’t dead.”
They peeled out, gravel spitting under the tires, nobody saying shit until the lights of the bridge came back into view. The city was a different thing from across the water—lights smeared gold on black, the levee a long, silent witness. Caine’s hands ached from gripping the gun.
They pulled up at a service road near the river. Caine climbed out, the shotgun dangling by the stock. He pulled off his shirt, wiped every surface he’d touched, then jogged down a narrow trail, the brush slapping at his legs. The Mississippi was a wide, black ribbon under the moon, silent and implacable. Caine swung the shotgun once, twice, then flung it as far as he could, the splash lost in the night.
When he came back, Tyree had already slid into the backseat, breathing hard, face split with nerves and awe. Caine slid behind the wheel, jaw clenched.
Ramon pulled a fat roll from his pocket, peeling bills with the practiced thumb of someone who’d done it a thousand times. He handed over three hundreds, the paper soft with wear.
“Keeping us alive out here. For real.”
Caine nodded, the money disappearing into his pocket as fast as he could blink.
He put the car in drive, the Buick creaking as he pulled off. The river at their backs, they drove toward the lights of the East Bank—no words, just the steady thrum of the city and the shared, wordless knowledge that nothing would ever be simple, not for any of them. Not in this life.
As they merged back into traffic, sweat sticky on his skin and every nerve wound tight, Caine felt the old weight return—the cost of seeing too much, of being the one who never missed a play, not on the field, not on these streets. The city flashed by in streaks of neon and shadow, and somewhere behind them, the Mississippi rolled on, carrying secrets and sins out into the endless dark.
The mall’s AC hit different in July—too cold after the parking lot, numbing Mireya’s arms the second she stepped inside. Camila’s weight shifted heavy against her hip, head pressed to Mireya’s shoulder, curls damp from the heat and sleep. Angela and Paz led the way, moving with the high, light energy of girls with nowhere else to be. Their voices bounced off marble tile and glass storefronts, every laugh and comment echoing, even though it was just past noon on a Wednesday and the place was nearly empty except for teens and tired mothers.
Angela held up a dress she’d pulled from H&M, already envisioning it for the first day. “Tell me this wouldn’t look bomb with some hoops and those Jordans I got for my birthday.”
Paz reached out, feeling the fabric, her own arms loaded down with shirts. “You about to make the whole class jealous. They’ll say you only wear new shit because your daddy send you child support from Atlanta.”
Angela rolled her eyes, but Mireya saw the pleased little flicker beneath. Mireya shifted Camila on her hip, letting her daughter’s fingers tangle in her gold chain. She was too tired for shopping, her mind always caught on bills and work schedules, but she kept moving, one step behind the others, eyes darting for the nearest bench she could claim for five minutes.
They wandered past the food court—fried chicken, cinnamon rolls, the warm salt-and-grease air making Camila perk up, nose wrinkling as she pointed at the pizza display. “Mommy, can I have one?”
“Not right now, baby,” Mireya murmured, pressing a kiss to Camila’s hair.
Angela glanced back, dress draped over her arm. “Reya, you taking the ACT with us in September, right?”
Mireya shrugged, the motion so practiced it almost felt like breathing. “Yeah. I gotta find a way to pay for prep after spending the money to register again.”
Paz frowned, balancing a stack of tank tops. “But how? Caine got it for free, right?”
“Yeah,” Mireya said. Her voice was quiet, eyes fixed on the neon sign ahead—Victoria’s Secret. “He lives with more people. I guess that’s how. More mouths to feed, more boxes to check.”
Angela pursed her lips, thinking it through. “But if he gets welfare for all them kids, why can’t his mom just claim Camila too? Then you could get the waiver.”
Mireya felt a slow, sour twist in her stomach. She shifted Camila again, freeing her hand. “I don’t know. The state just put her with me, so she’s on my stuff, not his.”
Paz stopped walking, looking right at Mireya, concern shining in her eyes. “You should look into that, Reya. I bet it’d make everything easier. More help, you know? Could get food stamps, even daycare paid for.”
Mireya just nodded, eyes on the glossy floor, watching Camila’s beat-up sneakers dangle. She didn’t say how many times she’d tried to ask at the office, how quickly the answers had turned into paperwork, into numbers she didn’t understand and forms she never finished. She’d heard the word “overpayment” one time, and it was enough to scare her off for months.
Angela’s voice softened. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” The lie barely made it out. “I’ll check into it.”
The four of them drifted into Victoria’s Secret, the lighting too bright, walls lined with pink and gold. Music thumped low, some pop song Mireya barely registered. She was aware of her own reflection in every mirror—hair up in a messy bun, tank top loose, Camila in one arm, purse slipping from her shoulder. She looked like someone’s tired older sister, not a girl starting her senior year.
Angela and Paz dissolved into the racks of bras and bodysuits, giggling over lace and colors, each other’s jokes slipping back and forth in low Spanish and English. Camila twisted in Mireya’s arms, reaching for a sequined clutch on a table. “Can I have it, Mommy? For my doll?”
Mireya shook her head, gently pulling Camila’s hand away. “That’s for grownups, mi amor.”
Across the aisle, a girl—maybe their age, maybe a little older—held a lilac bodysuit up to her chest, angling it for the approval of a boy leaning against the wall. He was all long legs and nervous swagger, eyes darting between the girl and his phone. She posed, hip cocked, a playful smile on her lips as she asked, “You like this one?” He grinned, tongue poking out, gaze sliding over her in a way that made Mireya’s cheeks heat, even from across the room.
The bodysuit was almost $70, the tag a bright pink flag. Mireya caught herself staring—not just at the price, but at the girl herself. The smooth brown of her skin, the way her stomach was bare where her shirt had ridden up, the easy confidence in her posture. Mireya felt a sharp, jealous ache twist under her ribs: not for the bodysuit, but for the freedom to want something just because a boy might say yes. To have money to waste, to stand in bright light and not worry about every dollar, every sideways glance.
She tried not to stare, but her eyes kept drifting back to the way the girl laughed, the soft brush of her fingers against the lace, the small space she took up and made important.
Angela drifted back, arms full of bras, pausing beside Mireya. “Girl, what you looking at?”
Mireya blinked, shook her head, willing her eyes away. “Nothing. Just thinking.”
Angela raised an eyebrow, grin sly. “You need something cute, too. For Caine?”
Mireya’s face burned hotter, and she shrugged. “For who? Caine doesn’t care what I’m wearing. Camila ain’t just fall out the sky.”
Paz reappeared, already laughing, waving a strappy bra like a flag. “We need to get you something red, Reya. Red’s for power.”
Mireya smirked, letting herself sink into the safety of their noise for a moment. She set Camila down, letting her toddle toward a rack of sleep shorts. She scanned the room once more, let her eyes rest on the bodysuit girl for just a second, then forced herself away. She thumbed a pair of sale underwear, soft lace between her fingers, calculating if she could spare five dollars—maybe, if she skipped lunch next week.
Camila tugged at her hem. “Mommy, can I have juice?”
Mireya scooped her up, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “After, baby. Let’s finish with Tía Angela and Tía Paz first.”
The music shifted, a new song thumping through the speakers. Angela looped her arm through Mireya’s, leading her toward the checkout.
“You good?” Angela whispered, voice almost lost under the music.
Mireya nodded, a lie softer than before. She let herself be pulled along, anchored by the familiar warmth of her friends and the weight of her daughter, telling herself—like always—that she could want things later. For now, she’d settle for enough.
~~~
The sky was a white-hot sheet above the job site, summer sun warping the air, burning everything it touched. Dust floated off the piles of drywall, settling in the cracks of Caine’s knuckles, powdering his arms and hair. His shirt was soaked through, clinging to his back where sweat pooled and ran, the rough fabric scraping at his skin with every lift.
Caine flexed his fingers and dug them under the edge of a twelve-foot board, muscle and memory working together. He’d carried half a dozen already, feeling the day in his shoulders, the ache in his legs, but he wasn’t about to let the old heads see him struggle. Mr. Leon, face cracked by the sun and laughter, clapped him on the shoulder when he passed. “Slow down, lil’ brudda. Board gon’ still be here after lunch.”
“Ain’t tryna be here after lunch,” Caine shot back, letting the joke land, letting them know he could hang. They laughed, a low rumble, and called him over to help stack another load near the back wall. He moved easy, blending in. He’d started quiet—nodding, listening, keeping his mouth shut—but over the weeks, the crew had taken to him.Caine learned the rhythms, when to joke and when to just grind.
Lunch break came like a breath. The foreman’s whistle cut through the haze, and the crew scattered—some to their cars, some to the shade near the back fence, a couple to the stoop with foil-wrapped sandwiches. The sound of music drifted from someone’s speaker, scratchy with static, Spanish lyrics melting into old soul, Bobby Blue Bland running into Grupo Frontera.
Caine ducked under a live oak at the edge of the lot, the grass patchy but softer than concrete. He dropped down with a grunt, stretching his legs out, feeling the dust cake his jeans. The shade was thin, sunlight flickering through the leaves, but it cooled him enough to close his eyes, breathing slow, counting his heartbeats. For a minute, the city faded—no trucks backing up, no hammers, just the distant thump of a basketball over the fence and the sleepy drone of cicadas.
Grass crunched nearby. Caine cracked one eye, every nerve primed from years of needing to watch his back. He blinked against the light until the shape came into focus—a girl, maybe twenty, hair braided back from her face, gold hoops swinging, brown skin gleaming in the sun. She wore cutoff shorts and a loose white tee, a portfolio tucked under one arm, black paint streaked on the side of her hand.
She didn’t flinch when Caine looked at her. Instead, she sized him up, then held out the folder like a shield. “You want cash or check?”
Caine pushed himself upright, blinking away sleep. He didn’t recognize her, not at first, but something in the shape of her jaw and the way she stood—like she belonged anywhere she landed—clicked. Mr. Lucas’ granddaughter, had to be.
He wiped his palms on his jeans, not sure if he looked respectful or just young. “Cash, if you got it. I ain’t got a bank account.”
She grinned, pulling out a thick envelope, thumbing through crisp bills before peeling off a few hundreds. She counted them quick, then held them out. “That’s what I figured. Pops always keeps a little stash, says you can’t trust no bank with real money.”
Caine took the bills, tucking them into the pocket of his jeans, trying not to look hungry. “Thank you.”
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing, but not unkind. “How old are you, anyway? Pops hiring babies now?”
He tried to laugh it off, but something stung behind his ribs. “I’m a senior at Karr. Seventeen.”
She raised her eyebrows, nodding. “That’s wild. Most seventeen-year-olds I know don’t work. Or if they do, it’s, like, Raising Cane’s or the mall.”
He shrugged. “Ain’t got time to play with chicken tenders. Got a kid and all that. Gotta keep moving.”
She whistled low, some mixture of respect and surprise in her face. “Damn. You got more responsibility than most grown men I know.” She let it hang, eyes flicking over him as if weighing the truth of it.
He nodded, pressing the point away. “You one of Mr. Lucas’ granddaughter, right? You in college?”
“Yeah. Sophomore at South Carolina,” she said, something almost proud in her voice.
He whistled, a little of the old envy bubbling up. “What’s a New Orleans girl doing way out there? Coulda picked Tulane, Xavier, UNO, all that.”
Her smile turned wry, her gaze drifting past him to the field beyond the lot. “Sometimes, you gotta outgrow home, you know? City’ll hold you if you let it. I needed to see what else was out there.”
Caine let the words land, thinking about every night he’d lain awake, wondering if he’d ever get a chance to leave, or if he’d end up just like the men on the block—pacing the porch, watching their years run out. He sat up straighter, squinting through the sunlight. “You like it? South Carolina, I mean.”
She nodded, thoughtful. “It’s different. Slower. Lotta trees. Little country, but… yeah, I do. Feels safe, most of the time. Nobody looking at you sideways unless you say you from New Orleans, then they want to ask if you ever seen a murder.”
He laughed, really laughed, and she joined in, the two of them shaking their heads at the absurdity.
She pushed a lock of braid behind her ear, glancing back toward the trailers where Mr. Lucas’ voice could be heard barking orders. “I gotta go handle paperwork. But, hey, you keep showing up, you’ll get your check on time. That’s how we do.”
Caine watched her start to walk away, the sunlight tracing a halo around her silhouette. He found himself wanting the moment to last, just a little bit longer.
He called after her, voice quiet but clear, “What’s it feel like? Being away from all this?”
She paused, one foot in the grass, glancing back over her shoulder. “Like you get to breathe,” she said. “For real, breathe.”
He nodded, feeling something loosen inside his chest—a possibility, a warning, maybe both.
She offered a small smile, almost soft, and then she was gone, striding back toward the office, portfolio swinging at her side.
Caine lay back, staring up through the leaves, the weight of the cash pressing into his pocket, the promise of another world just barely out of reach, but there all the same. The sounds of the crew drifting over—laughs, stories, a curse as somebody dropped a tool. The city kept on grinding, but for a moment, he let himself just breathe, eyes closed, hope and hunger twined together in the hot Louisiana air.
~~~
The yard’s heat pressed down, heavy as a hand on the back of Dre’s neck. Sunlight bounced off the pale concrete and razor wire, bleaching the sky a hard white. Men circled the perimeter in slow, calculated loops—Black and Latin clusters by the fence, the Aryan Nation boys posted up at the weights, guards watching from the tower, bored behind mirrored shades. The air smelled like sweat, cigarettes, and the faint copper tang of old blood—violence always close, always waiting to spill.
Dre drifted from his crew’s shade, working the edge of the court until he spotted Ricardo, leaning back on a busted bench like he owned the yard. Ricardo flicked a glance up, chin tilted, half a smile curling his lips but nothing soft in his eyes.
Dre settled beside him, keeping his gaze out, not on him, back hunched against the concrete heat. They didn’t speak at first. Around them, someone barked a laugh at a dirty joke; somewhere closer, a CO’s voice echoed, sharp and lazy, “Keep it moving, fellas.”
Finally Ricardo spoke, voice low, almost casual. “Any luck on that pack, Dre?”
Dre wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, jaw clenched. “Tried, man. I ain’t got nobody solid in here. You want weed, you can find it. Coke? Maybe, if you got enough to trade. Pills—shit, you gotta know who’s on kitchen or got medical. But real weight? That shit come from the guards. And I don’t know none of them like that. Neither do the folks I know.”
Ricardo sucked his teeth, eyes narrow, unconvinced. “You making excuses, Dre. You been here months, acting like you invisible. You need to get connected, for real. Otherwise, what good are you?”
Dre stiffened, shoulders rolling. “What you want me to do? Flash money I ain’t got? Start waving my nuts at the white boys? They don’t fuck with me, and they don’t like sharing their hustle.”
Ricardo shrugged, mouth twisting. “Then make ‘em fuck with you. Go stab a fucking wood. Prove you not scared. That’s how you get in.”
Dre let the silence stretch, biting down hard on a retort. When he spoke, it was low, voice tight as wire. “Why don’t you stab one, if it’s so easy?”
Ricardo let out a dry laugh, palms up, already rising from the bench. “Because I’m going home, mano. I got a parole date.. You? Shit, I don’t know, Dre. You keep moving like you ain’t got a clock ticking.”
Dre looked up then, anger tightening his jaw. “Don’t act like you the only one trying to get out. I do what I gotta do. But I ain’t tryna catch a new case just ‘cause you scared to put your own hands dirty. I got enough on my jacket.”
Ricardo’s expression flickered—something cold, calculating—then softened into a practiced shrug. “It ain’t about scared. It’s about smart. You help la raza and la raza help you and your people.”
He started to walk away, hands in the air, voice pitched so only Dre could hear. “Don’t take it personal, bruh. Just business. Out here? Everybody’s got something to lose. Just make sure you ain’t the only one left holding the bag.”
Ricardo melted back into his own crowd, leaving Dre sitting in the sun, the weight of the yard pressing down. For a long minute, Dre sat still, eyes unfocused, feeling the sweat drip and the old rage curl in his stomach. He looked around—at the clusters, the guards, the line that separated being a man and being a target. He wanted to say it didn’t matter. But it did.
He stood, rolling his neck, the heat a warning he couldn’t shake. Another day, another debt unpaid, another mark against his name. And as the yard churned on, Dre wondered how long you could keep surviving without turning into what the place needed you to be.
He moved off, slow, blending back into the shade, every step measured, every glance counted—alive, but only just.
~~~
The vestibule of Our Lady of Guadalupe felt cooler than the street outside, but only just—a pocket of still air dense with incense, bleach, and the faint, earthy musk of old bricks sweating in the New Orleans heat. Sara’s grip tightened on the fruit basket, the cellophane crinkling loud in her hand as she squinted at the list her mother had scribbled on the torn envelope: bananas, apples, a bright red ribbon around the stem of a pineapple. “For the new priest,” Ximena had said, “and make it look nice.” As if Sara ever showed up somewhere not doing the most for family.
She left the basket in the sacristy, muttered a few words to the altar boys scurrying past, then stepped out into the late afternoon, the sun already dipping behind the black iron fence, its glare making the chipped white of the church sign glow. Sara rubbed her forehead, squinting, already dreading the walk home with her feet aching, her back sore from a week’s worth of doubled shifts. Her shirt clung damp under her arms, and she could feel a bead of sweat trickle slow down her spine.
Halfway down the block, she caught sight of Maria moving in the opposite direction, purse clutched tight, her walk all business, all purpose. Maria’s hair was pulled severe, the ends frizzed out from the humidity, her lips pressed so tight they were nearly white. She didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge Sara except for the way her jaw flexed.
Sara nodded, making the effort. “Buenas tardes, Maria,” she called, voice clipped but polite.
Maria walked past like she didn’t hear, eyes fixed straight ahead, mouth a flat line. The air between them thickened, as if the street itself had paused to see who’d break first.
Sara stopped in the shadow of the church wall, annoyance flaring in her chest. She turned, planting her feet, not about to let it slide. “You can’t even be cordial at fucking church, Maria? ¿En serio?”
Maria halted mid-step, back rigid. She spun on her heel, words sharp as glass. “Don’t act surprised. You smell like weed. I can smell you before I see you. You think that’s right, walking up to the house of God like that?”
Sara rolled her eyes so hard her head tilted back, catching a patch of sky already bruising with dusk. “Please. You always got some holier-than-thou shit to say. It don’t help nobody, Maria. Nobody in your house, nobody in mine. I’m tired of it.”
Maria’s hands tightened around her bag. Her voice dropped low, venom and pain all tangled together. “We don’t need to see eye-to-eye, Sara. It’s only a matter of time before your Caine disappears on Mireya and Camila. Just like whoever got you pregnant did to you. Just like he did to Caine. Patterns, Sara. Some people just run.”
The words struck, quick and cold, but Sara didn’t blink. She stepped forward, chin lifted, her voice turning to steel. “Where’s Mireya’s father, then? Back in Mexico with some new puta, sí? Ain’t seen his face in how many years? You and me, Maria, we’re not as different as you want people to think. But I bet that eats you up inside. That’s why you stay so bitter. That’s why you can’t even say hello.”
For a moment, the street was all cicadas and the faint clang of the streetcar turning two blocks over. Maria’s face burned with humiliation and anger, but she said nothing, just stared with something raw and ancient behind her eyes.
Sara gave her a hard, tired smile—one part pity, one part dare. She turned and walked off, the slap of her sandals echoing in the silence, leaving Maria alone in the shadow of the church with all her righteous anger curling, useless, around her feet.
Sara kept her head high, shoulders squared, not bothering to look back. There were too many women in this city carrying the same old wounds, she thought. Some just hid it behind prayer. Some just kept walking.
~~~
The sky over Metairie was streaked violet and bruised with sunset by the time Caine punched out, his hands still caked with the chalky dust of drywall and his shirt clinging wet across his shoulders. The jobsite looked half-swallowed by shadows—stacks of board leaning against the fence, trucks nosed in crooked, the distant clang of someone’s radio blurring with the evening hum of the I-10. He rolled his neck, wiped grit from his brow, and walked slow across the gravel lot to the battered Buick, every bone in his back protesting the weight he’d carried all day.
He was almost at the car when he saw them: Ramon’s black Altima idling across the street, the glossy paint catching the last of the light. Tyree was behind the wheel, seat leaned low, his face shadowed but the outline unmistakable—shoulders hunched, jaw twitching with the old restlessness. E.J. sat in the back, window cracked just enough to let the cigarette smoke drift out, his laugh cutting through the dusk as he leaned over the seat. Ramon stood outside, trunk open, already eyeing Caine with that half-grin that meant trouble or payday—usually both.
Caine stopped in the middle of the lot, just long enough to let them know he’d seen them, then popped the trunk on the Buick with a sharp clack, not a word spoken yet. Ramon motioned to Tyree, and the three of them moved—two duffel bags yanked from the Altima, their shapes too heavy and sagging in a way Caine had learned to recognize. E.J. swung his around like it was nothing, eyes never still, watching for any sign of a problem in the sleepy stretch of old Metairie ranch houses and quiet streets.
“Look at you,” Tyree said, grinning as they came up, “Hood ass Uber.”
Caine shrugged, holding the trunk open. “Just don’t scratch my shit.”
Ramon didn’t waste time—bags in, trunk down. He slid into the front passenger seat, already peeling off his gloves and tossing them into the footwell. Tyree and E.J. climbed in the back, squeezing together, Tyree’s knees jammed up against the seat.
E.J. gave a quick tap to the headrest. “Let’s roll, big dog.”
Caine drove, silent, letting the engine rattle them out of Metairie and onto the highway, the sky darkening to a deep, smoky blue overhead. The car filled with the smell of old sweat, drywall dust, the metallic tinge of something heavier from the duffel bags—guns, money, dope, or all of it at once. Nobody talked for the first few miles, tension stitched tight between the seats, the unspoken truth of what they were moving hanging over them like humidity.
Only when they crossed the river—lights of cars crossing the river on the Huey P. in the distance—did Ramon finally break the silence, voice soft but carrying.
“We good. Ain’t nobody on our ass.”
Caine just grunted, eyes on the road, knuckles pale against the wheel.
They dropped down the ramp into Bridge City, the world getting smaller, meaner: trailers huddled in rows, streetlights flickering out one by one, the road patched with tar and old promises. The trailer park lay just past the levee, the river a black wall behind it, the air thick with the tang of diesel and rot.
Caine pulled up slow, headlights off, letting the Buick glide to a crawl at the edge of the park.
Ramon pointed to a battered single-wide two rows in. “That’s the one. Pull in behind the old Camry.”
E.J. snickered. “Look at this ghetto ass shit. Watch out for the possums, C.”
They got out—Ramon and E.J. hoisting the duffels, moving quick up the walk to a trailer half-lit from inside. Caine watched them go, letting the weight of the night settle into his chest, eyes scanning the shadows for anything off. Tyree hung back, bouncing his leg, fingers drumming on the seat.
“Go park at the cul de sac,” Ramon said, his voice low but firm. “Wait till you see us wave. Don’t move till then.”
Caine nodded, rolled the Buick down the gravel lane, heart ticking faster with every second. At the end of the street, he eased the car into a pocket of dark, engine off, heat pressing in heavy. Tyree twisted sideways, stretching out as best he could, cracking jokes to break the nerves.
“So for real, man—what’s it like having a kid?” Tyree asked, his voice loose, testing. “You wake up at night? Change them little diapers and shit?”
Caine snorted, head back against the seat. “What you asking for? You trying to baby trap some bitch?”
Tyree grinned, teeth flashing. “Shit, you know that’s a cheat code. You get a baby, she stuck with you at least three years, maybe more. Just gotta make her love your ugly ass.”
Caine shook his head, laughter coming out rough, tired. “Don’t wish that on yourself, brudda. That shit ain’t cute. You gotta feed her, keep her outta trouble, make sure she don’t end up hating your stupid ass. You ready for all that?”
Tyree laughed, but softer now. “You right. I’ll keep the rubbers on me to fuck these hoes.”
Caine’s smile faded as he scanned the trailers again—something off in the angle of two houses across the street, a flash of metal in the narrow gap between them, too careful to be a neighbor taking out the trash. He stilled, gut tight.
Tyree caught it. “What’s up, bro?”
Caine didn’t answer, just reached down, fingers searching under the torn floor mat until they closed around the cold metal of the pistol Ramon had handed off weeks before. He slid it out, kept it low, breath slow and measured.
“Get in the driver’s seat,” Caine said quietly, not looking away from the window. “But don’t start the car.”
Tyree’s eyes went wide. “Yo—”
“Just do it. If something happens, you get outta here. I’ll catch up.”
Tyree nodded, slid over, his hands tense on the wheel. Caine opened the door, stepping out into the sticky dark, every sense turned up loud. The grass was wet against his sneakers, the hum of a bug zapper cutting through the night, some kid’s TV murmuring behind a thin window. He kept to the shadows, ducking behind a row of trash cans, moving fast but quiet, crossing the short strip of backyards, fences half-collapsed and patchy weeds clutching at his ankles.
He circled behind the trailers he’d spotted—no lights in the windows, but the sense of someone waiting, of trouble coiled tight. Sure enough, a man in a dirty Saints tee, pale and drawn, crept between the trailers, shotgun low but ready, eyes fixed on the trailer where Ramon and E.J. had gone in. His whole body was wired, every step a calculation.
Caine closed the distance in silence, nerves humming, the world narrowing to a tunnel. He pressed the pistol hard to the back of the man’s neck, voice low and mean, no room for fear.
“Might wanna put that shit down,” Caine said.
The man stiffened, head snapping up, a short, shivery breath hissing out.
“Don’t yell,” Caine said, forcing calm he barely felt. “Just drop it.”
The man’s hands shook, but he bent slow, setting the shotgun down with a muffled thunk. Caine nudged him with his knee. “Lay down. Flat.”
He complied, face pressed to the ground, trying to look back out the corner of his eye. Caine grabbed the shotgun, checked the safety, then tucked his own pistol in his waistband. His heart thumped wild, sweat breaking cold along his back.
He heard the trailer door open, footsteps thudding, and caught the flash of Ramon waving in the dark—job done, all clear. Tyree drove up, slow, headlights off, the Buick barely making a sound.
Caine jogged back, shotgun low at his side, keeping to the shadows. He slid into the backseat just as Ramon and E.J. piled in, empty bags slumping to the floor.
“What the fuck?” E.J. barked, confusion snapping in his voice.
Caine said nothing, just glared out the window, breathing hard.
Tyree whooped, throwing his fist against the headrest. “Nigga used that quarterback vision! Seen that setup coming a mile away!”
Ramon’s face twisted into a grin, all adrenaline and relief. “That’s why we bring you, C. Always two steps ahead.”
Caine shook his head, hand tight around the shotgun. “Let’s go before these meth heads realize we ain’t dead.”
They peeled out, gravel spitting under the tires, nobody saying shit until the lights of the bridge came back into view. The city was a different thing from across the water—lights smeared gold on black, the levee a long, silent witness. Caine’s hands ached from gripping the gun.
They pulled up at a service road near the river. Caine climbed out, the shotgun dangling by the stock. He pulled off his shirt, wiped every surface he’d touched, then jogged down a narrow trail, the brush slapping at his legs. The Mississippi was a wide, black ribbon under the moon, silent and implacable. Caine swung the shotgun once, twice, then flung it as far as he could, the splash lost in the night.
When he came back, Tyree had already slid into the backseat, breathing hard, face split with nerves and awe. Caine slid behind the wheel, jaw clenched.
Ramon pulled a fat roll from his pocket, peeling bills with the practiced thumb of someone who’d done it a thousand times. He handed over three hundreds, the paper soft with wear.
“Keeping us alive out here. For real.”
Caine nodded, the money disappearing into his pocket as fast as he could blink.
He put the car in drive, the Buick creaking as he pulled off. The river at their backs, they drove toward the lights of the East Bank—no words, just the steady thrum of the city and the shared, wordless knowledge that nothing would ever be simple, not for any of them. Not in this life.
As they merged back into traffic, sweat sticky on his skin and every nerve wound tight, Caine felt the old weight return—the cost of seeing too much, of being the one who never missed a play, not on the field, not on these streets. The city flashed by in streaks of neon and shadow, and somewhere behind them, the Mississippi rolled on, carrying secrets and sins out into the endless dark.
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redsox907
- Posts: 2216
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
American Sun
Man this boy acting like his PO ain’t itching to put his ass back in the bing
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12131
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47