That’s the dude that walked into a haymaker at the fight right?
Solid game again.
American Sun
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djp73
- Posts: 9982
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
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djp73
- Posts: 9982
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
American Sun
Caught up again. 
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12130
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
American Sun
Beats me.djp73 wrote: ↑Yesterday, 17:59Who don’t love pancakes?Caesar wrote: ↑05 Nov 2025, 21:23The Flesh is Strong
Camila blinked, sat up a little, curls wild. She rubbed her stomach, serious. “My tummy talkin’.”
Mireya smiled, exhaustion softening for the first time that morning. “What’s it saying?”
Camila thought for a beat, lips pursed, then grinned wide. “Pancakes.”
Game update mixed in seemed to flow fine, some physical separation between the last scene and the game images would be good. I’d even have the game images in the next post personally. Hell of a game. “Keep god first.”
Not going to be posting three pictures in a post by itself but thanks for the CC. Hey man, had to keep Dabo realistic.
They tried to steal an SUV from Mr. Landry.
Yeah, fuck off Paz!
Yeah, fuck off Maria!djp73 wrote: ↑Yesterday, 18:28
https://m.imdb.com/name/nm0583593/
Maria is jealous. She can fuck off too.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Byrd_Gang
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12130
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
American Sun
God Has Nothing for You
Ramon had the TV turned low, sound just above the hum of A/C. The morning news rolled B-roll of a flooded street in some far flung city. He let it move without really seeing it. The room still held the clean citrus Nina liked. He sat sunk into the couch, feet flat, remote face down on his thigh.
In the kitchen Nina tapped the coffee maker to life. Water clunked through, hot and steady. Cabinets clicked soft as she reached for a mug. She didn’t come out yet.
“You find Junebug?”
Her voice carried over the counter. He didn’t answer right away. The news switched to a story about a school board fight and then back to weather. He kept his eyes on the corner of the screen where the time sat.
“You still on that?” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Because he needs to be taken off the streets before he hurts somebody else.”
Ramon rubbed his jaw once and let his hand fall. “There’s worse niggas doing worse shit,” he said. “You ain’t sending me behind all of them.”
Spoons knocked inside a drawer, metal on metal. Nina set one down. “Because I haven’t found who they are yet,” she said. “That doesn’t change that Junebug out here beating women and exploiting them.”
Ramon blinked slow. “Ain’t I worse?” he asked, eyes still on the screen. “I meant what I said about how Junebug gotta be handled in the end.”
Steam rose behind him. Nina’s breath came through it, a quiet sigh. He heard her palm wipe over her face. “It’s complicated with you,” she said. “That’s it. It’s just complicated. But you know men like that are worse. They don’t got a bottom to get to. There is no ‘this too much even for me.’ I like to think there’s some things you wouldn’t do even if the things you do are bad enough.”
He turned the volume down another notch until the closed captions were the only voice in the room. “I ain’t never going to be selling hoes,” he said, steady. “If that’s what you mean.”
“Yeah, I know because of—”
“Yeah.”
The word stopped her. She came out of the kitchen and crossed to him, knees brushing the coffee table as she sat on it. Heat from the mug curled up between them. She set it down beside her thigh, both hands empty so she could look at him head on.
“Ramon,” she said, slower now. “I just need a win here.” Her eyes held his without hard edges. “Doing what I do, I’m always on the wrong end. Always after. After somebody got hurt. After somebody got shot and killed. I can save Candy and those other women now. I need to do this.”
He watched the steam drift off the coffee and thin into nothing. “You know they just gon’ end up back on the stroll for somebody else, right?”
“Maybe,” she said. “But that’s a decision for them to make.”
A car rolled past outside and bass smudged the window glass for a second. She didn’t break eye contact. He could smell the coffee. He let that ride and didn’t show it.
The TV ticked into commercials. For a beat the room was only AC and two people breathing under it. Nina’s shoulder lifted then eased as if she had been holding the whole block up and finally set it down. He leaned back until the cushion sighed and then sat forward again, elbows on his knees, palms together. Nina picked the mug up and took one sip, too hot, and set it back with a careful clink. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t beg. She just kept her body still.
“I keep thinking about the woman who didn’t come to me,” she said, voice even. “About if somebody had stepped in for her.”
He cut his eyes to the TV, then to the door, measuring nothing in particular. He sat with that, the shape of it simple and heavy.
He nodded once, small. “Alright.”
Morning heat already sat on the bricks, the kind that made the air slow. Caine and Donnie cut across the quad where the grass wore paths from everybody taking the same shortcuts. Donnie kept talking with his hands, shoulders rolling like he was still in pads.
“Bruh, you shoulda told me,” Donnie said. “You get back from Alabama and got something put together. I’m right down the street.”
“I ain’t have nothing set up,” Caine said. His voice stayed easy. “My potnas had something set up. I ain’t know nothing until I walked through the door.”
Donnie stared ahead, shaking his head like that answer offended him on principle. “But you knew about it then. You coulda hit me up. Text, something.”
Caine dipped his chin at the sidewalk seam and stepped over it. “You gotta let this go, man. It been a whole week.”
Donnie waved that off like time didn’t apply. “I gotta make sure you remember your boys next time you got five bitches ready to fuck in your apartment.”
Caine huffed a laugh and kept moving. “Alright, alright. I got you, bruh.”
They passed the shade line and the sun found their faces again. A bike bell rang somewhere behind them. A golf cart buzzed by with boxes stacked on the back and a girl in a polo holding them steady. Donnie wiped his forehead with his forearm and side-eyed Caine one more time, like to lock in the promise.
The door to a hall pushed open ahead and a small group spilled out. Rylee caught sight of him first. Her head snapped up, then she was already breaking off, boots quick on the concrete, ponytail swinging.
Caine cut a look at Donnie. “I’ma catch up with you.”
Donnie laughed, big, like he had been waiting to say it. “That’s what you get for fucking with all these white girls.”
Caine shook his head, mouth still pulled up. Donnie peeled off toward the science building, still grinning and talking to himself.
Rylee came right up into his space, breath quick from crossing the walk. “You been hidin’,” she said. “You got back with your baby mama? That why you been distant with me?”
He kept his eyes steady on hers. “Nah. I ain’t. I been busy with football. I told you that a couple weeks ago.”
She folded her arms high under her books. The campus breeze pushed warm across them and set the paper edges fluttering. “You cain’t be that busy. You only got, what, two classes on campus?”
“Three.”
She rolled her eyes so hard it was a blink turned long. “Mm-hm. I just don’t understand what changed. You actin’ real different all of a sudden.”
Caine lifted a shoulder. “You the one said you wasn’t looking for anything serious. It sound like you walking that back.”
“I wasn’t. But I wasn’t expectin’ to be the one gettin’ ghosted either.”
He smiled at that. “That’s crazy you mad because you ain’t ghost me first.”
She shifted her weight and scuffed a heel against the concrete, a thin grit-sound under it. “I know my worth. But I’m gon’ need you to figure out your schedule, because these other boys round here just ain’t doin’ it for me.”
A group of students swung around them loud and then faded, leaving the smell of cheap body spray and cafeteria fries. Caine lifted both hands a little. “I ain’t making no promises. I’ll see what I can do.”
Rylee narrowed her eyes like she was measuring the truth in that. “Remember I know where you live, Caine.”
“That you do.”
She let her arms drop and looked past him a beat at the field house down the path, the banners flapping soft. “We goin’ to the bars after the game Saturday. It’s at home, so I don’t wanna hear no excuses.”
The stadium sat off in the heat haze, quiet now, all that noise waiting. Caine nodded once. The answer was already inside him. Mireya and Camila would be in town by then. His mama too. No room for bars.
Rylee studied his face, as if she wanted to drag a yes out of it. She didn’t get one. A bird lifted off the live oak and tracked a shadow across their shoes.
“We’ll see,” he said.
Mireya’s eyelids felt heavy, grit at the edges from nights that bled into mornings. She yawned once behind the back of her hand, jaw tight, then blinked through it and reread the same paragraph to make it stick.
Her laptop fan gave a soft whine. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and scrolled down her notes. Dates. Terms. Short phrases she could memorize quick. A highlighter lay uncapped by her wrist. She capped it without looking and set it parallel to the pen. The clock on the corner of the screen slid forward by a minute and she let it go.
Eyes found her from off to the side. She felt it before she looked. When she lifted her head, Jordan angled into the row, grin already there, sliding into the seat next to her. He leaned close enough that his voice didn’t have to carry, breath faint with coffee.
“You never answer my texts,” he whispered.
She kept her eyes on the laptop and tapped the trackpad to keep the screen awake. “I told you that I’m busy all the time. It’s not my fault you didn’t believe me.”
“Well, I’m not taking no for an answer this weekend,” he said, still low. “I’m taking you out, so pick out something nice and tell me where to pick you up.”
She shook her head once. “I can’t this weekend.”
“I think you’re just trying to let me down easy.”
Mireya looked up at him, the blue light of her screen catching in his eyes. “I did tell you that you weren’t my type. Twice.”
“What’s not to like about me?”
“I don’t date white guys.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Have you ever tried?”
She shook her head and went back to scrolling, eyes tracking the paragraph she’d left, cursor blinking on a line she needed to hold. “Same way I know I wouldn’t put raisins in potato salad.”
Jordan’s laugh jumped a little too loud. A student two tables over cut them a quick glance full of heat. He lifted his hand in apology, palm out, shoulders up in a small sorry. The room’s quiet closed back over them.
“So, what’s the reason you can’t this weekend then?” he said, voice back down where it belonged. “Work?”
“Nope. I’ll be out of town.”
“Somewhere with a beach and a lot of alcohol?”
“No beaches. Statesboro, Georgia.”
“That’s a random place to be going.”
She nodded, slow. “My child’s father goes to school there. Plays quarterback for their team. My daughter likes watching him play.” She let that sit between them and checked her notes again, making sure the cursor stayed where she wanted it, fingers steady on the trackpad.
He nodded like he needed a second to fit the pieces together. His eyes flicked to the backpack at her feet, to the neat stack of printouts by her elbow, back to her face. “So, you’re a mom. That’s why you’re so busy.”
“Yep, that’s part of it.”
A smile spread across his face, lazy and sure. “Well fuck. I’m supportive of single moms. Y’all always got the best snacks.”
She ran a hand down her face and breathed out. “Dios mio.”
“Oh, and you speak Spanish? I ain’t going nowhere until you say yes, mami.” He set his phone on the table and opened it, thumb already moving. He leaned back in the chair, settling in, one knee bouncing once before he stilled it. The chair creaked and then settled too.
Mireya watched his screen catch light on his knuckles, the glow fighting the overhead buzz, then rolled her eyes and turned back to her laptop. The paragraph waited.
The field still held the heat of bodies and drills. Helmets clacked as players drifted toward the gate. The air smelled like cut grass and rubber and the faint sting of bleach from the training room door propped open across the way. A smattering of local media lingered near the sideline with their cameras down, waiting for any loose quote.
“Guerra,” Coach Aplin called. “Hang back a minute.”
Caine slowed and turned. Coach Fatu stood with him, hands on his hips, the whistle at his chest still. They walked him a few steps down the boundary line, out of the angle of the cameras. The field paint curled a little under his cleats. He let his breath settle.
Aplin’s voice stayed even. “We’ve been discussing it and we’re going to give you more leeway to make some calls on the field,” he said. “Nothing major, but just to see what you can handle.”
Caine nodded once. He kept his eyes on Aplin, then on Fatu. “I’m ready for whatever y’all need me to do.”
Fatu’s mouth tipped like he might smile. “We know you are,” he said. “I’m not going to lie, you’ve impressed us so far, but you have to keep it going. Keep making sure that you don’t have any distractions outside of the white lines so you’re focused on getting better, more comfortable with the speed of the game at this level.”
Sweat ticked from Caine’s temple into his beard. He felt the thud of his heart, steady from the last team period, not racing. “I’m all in, Coach,” he said. “Ain’t got nothing outside of this to worry about.”
Fatu looked him over once more and gave a short nod. The whistle bumped his chest when he exhaled.
Aplin clapped his shoulder pad. “That’s what I like to hear, son. Go ahead and go get some sleep. Be here early for the walkthrough. We’ll discuss some changes for Saturday.”
“Alright, Coach.”
They held him another second in a pocket of quiet that felt smaller than the rest of the field. Out past them, a kicker thudded a last ball that rolled dead inside the five. The reporters shifted, bored, then turned back to the gate. A group of freshmen jogged by with helmets balanced on fingertips, voices up and loose now that the whistle was done.
Caine slid his helmet to his side and backed a step, reading their faces. Aplin was already turning toward Fatu, eyes narrowed, the quick talk starting up between them again.
The rubber track around the field burned through his socks as he crossed it. He let his shoulders drop a notch and rolled his neck once. A breath of cooler air came from the tunnel that led to the locker room. He could taste salt on his lip when he licked it. The noise of practice thinned. Over his shoulder the whistles were quiet, just the scrape of cleats and a water cooler slosh.
The day sat heavy but clean in his chest. His legs felt good. The install had made sense. He could see where the leverage would be and how to turn it into easy yards. He pictured it, not letting the picture pull him out of his stride.
The walkway kinked and ran between a cinderblock wall and the chain link that hugged the practice field. Paint flaked off the fence poles. A cicada buzzed hard in the oak past the locker room door. The sun slid behind a thin smear of cloud and the light went flat.
Behind him, Aplin’s voice rose for a second, then faded back into conversation with Fatu.
“Caine,” someone called. A voice from the corner where the fence curved toward the stadium lot. “Caine. You got a second?”
He turned his head, not his body. Two men stood near the shadow of the gate. They were in polos with a touch more shine than team issue, watches catching the light. One raised a hand. The other smiled like a neighbor at a cookout.
“Promise we won’t keep you,” the first one said. “Minute tops.”
Caine glanced back down the walkway. The locker room door sat open, cool and dark past it. He could hear a laugh from inside and the hiss of a shower starting. He looked back at the field. Aplin and Fatu were at the numbers, heads bent together. Neither of them looked his way.
He shifted the helmet in his hand and rolled his shoulders again. He touched the edge of the door with his eyes and weighed it. Then he shrugged, easy. He stepped off the line of the walkway and cut toward the corner where the men waited, the gravel popping under his cleats as he walked over.
Trell watched the room without moving much. The club sat in an event hall, transformed just like Boogie said. The air ran warm with bodies and smoke. Two stages split the attention. On the far one Mercedes spun slow through blue light, her hair catching and throwing it. On the nearer stage Luna worked the pole like it was built from her shoulder down through her hip, money floating down and sticking where sweat had already mapped her.
Ant sat to Trell’s right, angled where he could keep eyes on the door and the bar. Boogie had the outside spot in the booth and leaned forward on his forearms, chin lifted.
“That lil’ bitch got some skill, huh?” Boogie said, his voice up just enough to be heard under the bass. “You know she ain’t even been stripping that long? That’s why she be draining a nigga pockets.”
Dez nodded, eyes on the stage. “Yeah, she real good.”
Trell only nodded. He watched her hook her legs around the pole, spinning around it with her arms over her head and she laid back, the line of her body unbroken.
…
Down on the floor a few men stood close to the stage, bills pinched loose, moving with the beat. Liana finished on a lean and a laugh slid across her face.
Mireya gathered as she went, tapping bills into a neat stack with the heel of her hand. When the track clipped out she scooped the last of it with a foot sweep and stepped off, knees loose, her face lifted toward the hallway light. She took the short path behind the speakers and reached the curtain that shielded the dressing room entrance. A bartender, hair twisted up with a pen stuck through it, caught her eye.
“Hey, Luna—corner booth been asking for you,” the woman said, chin tipping toward the shadows where Trell’s table sat.
Mireya followed the point and saw them there. Trell in the middle. Ant to the side. Boogie grinning already. Dez in profile. She ran the strap of her bag through her fingers once and pushed the curtain enough to slide the stack through to a shelf. The bag thunked in a way that pleased her. She shrugged into her robe without tying it, white lining cool against heat on her back.
She crossed the floor. The bass rolled up through her feet. She put a smile on and let it reach her eyes.
Boogie spoke first. “You got time for me tonight?”
“For you? Always, papi,” she said, the warmth real enough.
Trell lifted two fingers without looking at Boogie and Dez, dismissing them with a wave of his hand.
Boogie nodded but pushed himself out, shoulders rolling. He stopped close enough for his cologne to try and fight the smoke.
“I got some money for you later, baby,” he said.
Mireya smiled at him and let him go. Dez slid out behind, eyes still trying to stay on her. Ant stood too, but he didn’t drift far. He took the nearest table where he could see everything, chair tilted back a little.
Trell gestured to the booth, his gaze on her. “Sit with me.”
“That costs money, baby.”
A smirk showed without changing the rest of his face. He reached into his pocket and brought out a roll held tight. The rubber snapped once against his thumb. He peeled a hundred and set it on the table, then pushed it across a little with his finger.
She took the bill and slid into the booth. She didn’t tie the robe. She let the light hit where it wanted. He watched. She watched him back.
“You’re intriguing to me, Luna,” he said.
“Is that a good or a bad thing?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Why do you dance?”
She leaned on one hip and crossed her legs, body turned toward him, the robe resting careless. “Because I like money. Why do you sell drugs?”
One eyebrow went up. Amusement moved his mouth just enough. “How you know that’s what I do? I could just be another businessman.”
She shrugged and let silence do part of the answer. “Let’s just say I have experience with your type.”
He turned the question back on her. “Is that a good or a bad thing?”
She smiled. “I haven’t decided yet.”
He let that sit a beat and then leaned an inch closer, elbows still off the table. “I want to see you outside of this.”
“You can just text Whisper again for that.”
“Not like that.”
He pulled a phone from his pocket and unlocked it, then set it in his palm and held it toward her.
“I’m not looking to be saved,” she said.
“Good,” he said. “Because I ain’t looking to be either.”
She took the phone after a second. Her thumb moved quick and sure. She handed it back.
“You put your real name?”
She shook her head.
He laughed, low. The roll of cash appeared again. He peeled two more hundreds and passed them over. She took them and tucked them flat beside the first, then slid all three under her thigh into the robe’s pocket.
“See you soon, Luna,” he said.
He stood out of the booth without crowding her. Ant was already up, chair legs thumping once soft as they came down. Trell moved toward the exit and Ant fell into step behind him, the space around them opening without anyone asking it to.
Mireya watched them leave, then slipped out of the booth herself and headed back toward the dressing room.
Laney shot up out of sleep with her heart thudding in her throat. The room was dark except for the glow of the nightlight out in the hall. Her hand slid to the other side of the bed and met only cool sheet. She let out a breath, shoulders easing as the dream let go of her—Caine’s weight, Caine’s heat—just a dream.
A sharp crack split the quiet. Then laughter, loose and bright, right under the window. She pushed the curtain edge with two fingers and leaned to see. The camper light burned yellow in the dark. Blake sat on the steps, shoulders hunched, a glow at his fingers as smoke drifted up and flattened in the damp air. A woman turned slow circles in the patch of yard beside him, arms out like the night might catch her and spin her the rest of the way.
“Damn it,” she whispered. She jammed her feet into slippers, tugged the hem of her sleep shirt down, and moved through the hallway on the balls of her feet. The back door latch clicked. Humid air pushed into the kitchen. She eased the door wide and stepped out, letting it fall soft behind her.
Grass crunched under her soles as she crossed the yard. Blake saw her and jerked up fast, palms lifting.
“It’s just a cigarette,” he said. “It’s just a cigarette.”
Her finger came up, steady as a nail. “I told you not to have nobody else out here. What is she doin’ here?”
Blake rolled one shoulder, smoke curling from his lips. “We were talking about the kid.”
The woman stopped spinning and squinted toward the porch light. When she recognized Laney, her face split wide in a grin that pulled at cracked lips.
“Hey, Laney!” she chirped and moved in like she meant to hug.
Laney’s palm came up and held the air between them. The woman’s breath carried sweet rot and old sugar. The camper light made the blue of her eye makeup float over the hollows.
“Where the fuck is your child, Neveah?” Laney asked, each word clipped.
Neveah blinked and turned her head like the answer might be posted somewhere on the fence. “He—”
“With your mama,” Blake said, quiet, not looking at Laney.
Neveah pointed from him to Laney, nodding too hard. “Yep. With my mama.”
Laney held them in a stare that didn’t move. The yard hummed with crickets. A moth tapped the camper light. Blake shuffled a foot on the step.
“Get your shit and get out,” she said to him.
She turned to go, brushing past the smell of smoke. The grass was damp and cold through the thin rubber of her slippers. Blake jogged two steps and swung around into her path, hands up.
“I didn’t do anything,” he said. “I told her the other day I was here and she just showed up like this. What am I supposed to do?”
Laney’s hand cut back toward Neveah without looking. “This is your fuckin’ fault. You started her on it. You kept her on it. She ain’t been sober in years ’cause of you.”
“Alright, alright,” he said, palms out, voice pulling thin. “But if you throw me out, she’s going to drive home. You want her to drive like that?”
Laney’s head turned because she couldn’t help it. Neveah tried to twirl again and caught her own ankle, tipping. She tumbled to one knee and laughed into the dirt. The laugh kept going a second too long. She pushed up, missed, then finally found her feet and stood swaying, smiling at nothing.
Laney drew a long breath through her nose. She stepped around Blake, shoulder bumping his arm as she went.
“Keep it fuckin’ down,” she said. “My children are sleepin’.”
She reached the porch and took the steps up. The door’s paint was cool under her palm. The kitchen light threw a thin rectangle over the mat. She pulled the door in and closed it with a careful hand, wood kissing wood more than slamming. The latch settled.
Through the glass, the yard flattened into shapes. Blake stood where she left him, watching the door. Neveah tilted toward him, hair frizzed out, the jacket sliding off one shoulder. Her voice came across the yard small and puzzled.
“Why she mad?”
Ramon had the TV turned low, sound just above the hum of A/C. The morning news rolled B-roll of a flooded street in some far flung city. He let it move without really seeing it. The room still held the clean citrus Nina liked. He sat sunk into the couch, feet flat, remote face down on his thigh.
In the kitchen Nina tapped the coffee maker to life. Water clunked through, hot and steady. Cabinets clicked soft as she reached for a mug. She didn’t come out yet.
“You find Junebug?”
Her voice carried over the counter. He didn’t answer right away. The news switched to a story about a school board fight and then back to weather. He kept his eyes on the corner of the screen where the time sat.
“You still on that?” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Because he needs to be taken off the streets before he hurts somebody else.”
Ramon rubbed his jaw once and let his hand fall. “There’s worse niggas doing worse shit,” he said. “You ain’t sending me behind all of them.”
Spoons knocked inside a drawer, metal on metal. Nina set one down. “Because I haven’t found who they are yet,” she said. “That doesn’t change that Junebug out here beating women and exploiting them.”
Ramon blinked slow. “Ain’t I worse?” he asked, eyes still on the screen. “I meant what I said about how Junebug gotta be handled in the end.”
Steam rose behind him. Nina’s breath came through it, a quiet sigh. He heard her palm wipe over her face. “It’s complicated with you,” she said. “That’s it. It’s just complicated. But you know men like that are worse. They don’t got a bottom to get to. There is no ‘this too much even for me.’ I like to think there’s some things you wouldn’t do even if the things you do are bad enough.”
He turned the volume down another notch until the closed captions were the only voice in the room. “I ain’t never going to be selling hoes,” he said, steady. “If that’s what you mean.”
“Yeah, I know because of—”
“Yeah.”
The word stopped her. She came out of the kitchen and crossed to him, knees brushing the coffee table as she sat on it. Heat from the mug curled up between them. She set it down beside her thigh, both hands empty so she could look at him head on.
“Ramon,” she said, slower now. “I just need a win here.” Her eyes held his without hard edges. “Doing what I do, I’m always on the wrong end. Always after. After somebody got hurt. After somebody got shot and killed. I can save Candy and those other women now. I need to do this.”
He watched the steam drift off the coffee and thin into nothing. “You know they just gon’ end up back on the stroll for somebody else, right?”
“Maybe,” she said. “But that’s a decision for them to make.”
A car rolled past outside and bass smudged the window glass for a second. She didn’t break eye contact. He could smell the coffee. He let that ride and didn’t show it.
The TV ticked into commercials. For a beat the room was only AC and two people breathing under it. Nina’s shoulder lifted then eased as if she had been holding the whole block up and finally set it down. He leaned back until the cushion sighed and then sat forward again, elbows on his knees, palms together. Nina picked the mug up and took one sip, too hot, and set it back with a careful clink. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t beg. She just kept her body still.
“I keep thinking about the woman who didn’t come to me,” she said, voice even. “About if somebody had stepped in for her.”
He cut his eyes to the TV, then to the door, measuring nothing in particular. He sat with that, the shape of it simple and heavy.
He nodded once, small. “Alright.”
~~~
Morning heat already sat on the bricks, the kind that made the air slow. Caine and Donnie cut across the quad where the grass wore paths from everybody taking the same shortcuts. Donnie kept talking with his hands, shoulders rolling like he was still in pads.
“Bruh, you shoulda told me,” Donnie said. “You get back from Alabama and got something put together. I’m right down the street.”
“I ain’t have nothing set up,” Caine said. His voice stayed easy. “My potnas had something set up. I ain’t know nothing until I walked through the door.”
Donnie stared ahead, shaking his head like that answer offended him on principle. “But you knew about it then. You coulda hit me up. Text, something.”
Caine dipped his chin at the sidewalk seam and stepped over it. “You gotta let this go, man. It been a whole week.”
Donnie waved that off like time didn’t apply. “I gotta make sure you remember your boys next time you got five bitches ready to fuck in your apartment.”
Caine huffed a laugh and kept moving. “Alright, alright. I got you, bruh.”
They passed the shade line and the sun found their faces again. A bike bell rang somewhere behind them. A golf cart buzzed by with boxes stacked on the back and a girl in a polo holding them steady. Donnie wiped his forehead with his forearm and side-eyed Caine one more time, like to lock in the promise.
The door to a hall pushed open ahead and a small group spilled out. Rylee caught sight of him first. Her head snapped up, then she was already breaking off, boots quick on the concrete, ponytail swinging.
Caine cut a look at Donnie. “I’ma catch up with you.”
Donnie laughed, big, like he had been waiting to say it. “That’s what you get for fucking with all these white girls.”
Caine shook his head, mouth still pulled up. Donnie peeled off toward the science building, still grinning and talking to himself.
Rylee came right up into his space, breath quick from crossing the walk. “You been hidin’,” she said. “You got back with your baby mama? That why you been distant with me?”
He kept his eyes steady on hers. “Nah. I ain’t. I been busy with football. I told you that a couple weeks ago.”
She folded her arms high under her books. The campus breeze pushed warm across them and set the paper edges fluttering. “You cain’t be that busy. You only got, what, two classes on campus?”
“Three.”
She rolled her eyes so hard it was a blink turned long. “Mm-hm. I just don’t understand what changed. You actin’ real different all of a sudden.”
Caine lifted a shoulder. “You the one said you wasn’t looking for anything serious. It sound like you walking that back.”
“I wasn’t. But I wasn’t expectin’ to be the one gettin’ ghosted either.”
He smiled at that. “That’s crazy you mad because you ain’t ghost me first.”
She shifted her weight and scuffed a heel against the concrete, a thin grit-sound under it. “I know my worth. But I’m gon’ need you to figure out your schedule, because these other boys round here just ain’t doin’ it for me.”
A group of students swung around them loud and then faded, leaving the smell of cheap body spray and cafeteria fries. Caine lifted both hands a little. “I ain’t making no promises. I’ll see what I can do.”
Rylee narrowed her eyes like she was measuring the truth in that. “Remember I know where you live, Caine.”
“That you do.”
She let her arms drop and looked past him a beat at the field house down the path, the banners flapping soft. “We goin’ to the bars after the game Saturday. It’s at home, so I don’t wanna hear no excuses.”
The stadium sat off in the heat haze, quiet now, all that noise waiting. Caine nodded once. The answer was already inside him. Mireya and Camila would be in town by then. His mama too. No room for bars.
Rylee studied his face, as if she wanted to drag a yes out of it. She didn’t get one. A bird lifted off the live oak and tracked a shadow across their shoes.
“We’ll see,” he said.
~~~
Mireya’s eyelids felt heavy, grit at the edges from nights that bled into mornings. She yawned once behind the back of her hand, jaw tight, then blinked through it and reread the same paragraph to make it stick.
Her laptop fan gave a soft whine. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and scrolled down her notes. Dates. Terms. Short phrases she could memorize quick. A highlighter lay uncapped by her wrist. She capped it without looking and set it parallel to the pen. The clock on the corner of the screen slid forward by a minute and she let it go.
Eyes found her from off to the side. She felt it before she looked. When she lifted her head, Jordan angled into the row, grin already there, sliding into the seat next to her. He leaned close enough that his voice didn’t have to carry, breath faint with coffee.
“You never answer my texts,” he whispered.
She kept her eyes on the laptop and tapped the trackpad to keep the screen awake. “I told you that I’m busy all the time. It’s not my fault you didn’t believe me.”
“Well, I’m not taking no for an answer this weekend,” he said, still low. “I’m taking you out, so pick out something nice and tell me where to pick you up.”
She shook her head once. “I can’t this weekend.”
“I think you’re just trying to let me down easy.”
Mireya looked up at him, the blue light of her screen catching in his eyes. “I did tell you that you weren’t my type. Twice.”
“What’s not to like about me?”
“I don’t date white guys.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Have you ever tried?”
She shook her head and went back to scrolling, eyes tracking the paragraph she’d left, cursor blinking on a line she needed to hold. “Same way I know I wouldn’t put raisins in potato salad.”
Jordan’s laugh jumped a little too loud. A student two tables over cut them a quick glance full of heat. He lifted his hand in apology, palm out, shoulders up in a small sorry. The room’s quiet closed back over them.
“So, what’s the reason you can’t this weekend then?” he said, voice back down where it belonged. “Work?”
“Nope. I’ll be out of town.”
“Somewhere with a beach and a lot of alcohol?”
“No beaches. Statesboro, Georgia.”
“That’s a random place to be going.”
She nodded, slow. “My child’s father goes to school there. Plays quarterback for their team. My daughter likes watching him play.” She let that sit between them and checked her notes again, making sure the cursor stayed where she wanted it, fingers steady on the trackpad.
He nodded like he needed a second to fit the pieces together. His eyes flicked to the backpack at her feet, to the neat stack of printouts by her elbow, back to her face. “So, you’re a mom. That’s why you’re so busy.”
“Yep, that’s part of it.”
A smile spread across his face, lazy and sure. “Well fuck. I’m supportive of single moms. Y’all always got the best snacks.”
She ran a hand down her face and breathed out. “Dios mio.”
“Oh, and you speak Spanish? I ain’t going nowhere until you say yes, mami.” He set his phone on the table and opened it, thumb already moving. He leaned back in the chair, settling in, one knee bouncing once before he stilled it. The chair creaked and then settled too.
Mireya watched his screen catch light on his knuckles, the glow fighting the overhead buzz, then rolled her eyes and turned back to her laptop. The paragraph waited.
~~~
The field still held the heat of bodies and drills. Helmets clacked as players drifted toward the gate. The air smelled like cut grass and rubber and the faint sting of bleach from the training room door propped open across the way. A smattering of local media lingered near the sideline with their cameras down, waiting for any loose quote.
“Guerra,” Coach Aplin called. “Hang back a minute.”
Caine slowed and turned. Coach Fatu stood with him, hands on his hips, the whistle at his chest still. They walked him a few steps down the boundary line, out of the angle of the cameras. The field paint curled a little under his cleats. He let his breath settle.
Aplin’s voice stayed even. “We’ve been discussing it and we’re going to give you more leeway to make some calls on the field,” he said. “Nothing major, but just to see what you can handle.”
Caine nodded once. He kept his eyes on Aplin, then on Fatu. “I’m ready for whatever y’all need me to do.”
Fatu’s mouth tipped like he might smile. “We know you are,” he said. “I’m not going to lie, you’ve impressed us so far, but you have to keep it going. Keep making sure that you don’t have any distractions outside of the white lines so you’re focused on getting better, more comfortable with the speed of the game at this level.”
Sweat ticked from Caine’s temple into his beard. He felt the thud of his heart, steady from the last team period, not racing. “I’m all in, Coach,” he said. “Ain’t got nothing outside of this to worry about.”
Fatu looked him over once more and gave a short nod. The whistle bumped his chest when he exhaled.
Aplin clapped his shoulder pad. “That’s what I like to hear, son. Go ahead and go get some sleep. Be here early for the walkthrough. We’ll discuss some changes for Saturday.”
“Alright, Coach.”
They held him another second in a pocket of quiet that felt smaller than the rest of the field. Out past them, a kicker thudded a last ball that rolled dead inside the five. The reporters shifted, bored, then turned back to the gate. A group of freshmen jogged by with helmets balanced on fingertips, voices up and loose now that the whistle was done.
Caine slid his helmet to his side and backed a step, reading their faces. Aplin was already turning toward Fatu, eyes narrowed, the quick talk starting up between them again.
The rubber track around the field burned through his socks as he crossed it. He let his shoulders drop a notch and rolled his neck once. A breath of cooler air came from the tunnel that led to the locker room. He could taste salt on his lip when he licked it. The noise of practice thinned. Over his shoulder the whistles were quiet, just the scrape of cleats and a water cooler slosh.
The day sat heavy but clean in his chest. His legs felt good. The install had made sense. He could see where the leverage would be and how to turn it into easy yards. He pictured it, not letting the picture pull him out of his stride.
The walkway kinked and ran between a cinderblock wall and the chain link that hugged the practice field. Paint flaked off the fence poles. A cicada buzzed hard in the oak past the locker room door. The sun slid behind a thin smear of cloud and the light went flat.
Behind him, Aplin’s voice rose for a second, then faded back into conversation with Fatu.
“Caine,” someone called. A voice from the corner where the fence curved toward the stadium lot. “Caine. You got a second?”
He turned his head, not his body. Two men stood near the shadow of the gate. They were in polos with a touch more shine than team issue, watches catching the light. One raised a hand. The other smiled like a neighbor at a cookout.
“Promise we won’t keep you,” the first one said. “Minute tops.”
Caine glanced back down the walkway. The locker room door sat open, cool and dark past it. He could hear a laugh from inside and the hiss of a shower starting. He looked back at the field. Aplin and Fatu were at the numbers, heads bent together. Neither of them looked his way.
He shifted the helmet in his hand and rolled his shoulders again. He touched the edge of the door with his eyes and weighed it. Then he shrugged, easy. He stepped off the line of the walkway and cut toward the corner where the men waited, the gravel popping under his cleats as he walked over.
~~~
Trell watched the room without moving much. The club sat in an event hall, transformed just like Boogie said. The air ran warm with bodies and smoke. Two stages split the attention. On the far one Mercedes spun slow through blue light, her hair catching and throwing it. On the nearer stage Luna worked the pole like it was built from her shoulder down through her hip, money floating down and sticking where sweat had already mapped her.
Ant sat to Trell’s right, angled where he could keep eyes on the door and the bar. Boogie had the outside spot in the booth and leaned forward on his forearms, chin lifted.
“That lil’ bitch got some skill, huh?” Boogie said, his voice up just enough to be heard under the bass. “You know she ain’t even been stripping that long? That’s why she be draining a nigga pockets.”
Dez nodded, eyes on the stage. “Yeah, she real good.”
Trell only nodded. He watched her hook her legs around the pole, spinning around it with her arms over her head and she laid back, the line of her body unbroken.
…
Down on the floor a few men stood close to the stage, bills pinched loose, moving with the beat. Liana finished on a lean and a laugh slid across her face.
Mireya gathered as she went, tapping bills into a neat stack with the heel of her hand. When the track clipped out she scooped the last of it with a foot sweep and stepped off, knees loose, her face lifted toward the hallway light. She took the short path behind the speakers and reached the curtain that shielded the dressing room entrance. A bartender, hair twisted up with a pen stuck through it, caught her eye.
“Hey, Luna—corner booth been asking for you,” the woman said, chin tipping toward the shadows where Trell’s table sat.
Mireya followed the point and saw them there. Trell in the middle. Ant to the side. Boogie grinning already. Dez in profile. She ran the strap of her bag through her fingers once and pushed the curtain enough to slide the stack through to a shelf. The bag thunked in a way that pleased her. She shrugged into her robe without tying it, white lining cool against heat on her back.
She crossed the floor. The bass rolled up through her feet. She put a smile on and let it reach her eyes.
Boogie spoke first. “You got time for me tonight?”
“For you? Always, papi,” she said, the warmth real enough.
Trell lifted two fingers without looking at Boogie and Dez, dismissing them with a wave of his hand.
Boogie nodded but pushed himself out, shoulders rolling. He stopped close enough for his cologne to try and fight the smoke.
“I got some money for you later, baby,” he said.
Mireya smiled at him and let him go. Dez slid out behind, eyes still trying to stay on her. Ant stood too, but he didn’t drift far. He took the nearest table where he could see everything, chair tilted back a little.
Trell gestured to the booth, his gaze on her. “Sit with me.”
“That costs money, baby.”
A smirk showed without changing the rest of his face. He reached into his pocket and brought out a roll held tight. The rubber snapped once against his thumb. He peeled a hundred and set it on the table, then pushed it across a little with his finger.
She took the bill and slid into the booth. She didn’t tie the robe. She let the light hit where it wanted. He watched. She watched him back.
“You’re intriguing to me, Luna,” he said.
“Is that a good or a bad thing?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Why do you dance?”
She leaned on one hip and crossed her legs, body turned toward him, the robe resting careless. “Because I like money. Why do you sell drugs?”
One eyebrow went up. Amusement moved his mouth just enough. “How you know that’s what I do? I could just be another businessman.”
She shrugged and let silence do part of the answer. “Let’s just say I have experience with your type.”
He turned the question back on her. “Is that a good or a bad thing?”
She smiled. “I haven’t decided yet.”
He let that sit a beat and then leaned an inch closer, elbows still off the table. “I want to see you outside of this.”
“You can just text Whisper again for that.”
“Not like that.”
He pulled a phone from his pocket and unlocked it, then set it in his palm and held it toward her.
“I’m not looking to be saved,” she said.
“Good,” he said. “Because I ain’t looking to be either.”
She took the phone after a second. Her thumb moved quick and sure. She handed it back.
“You put your real name?”
She shook her head.
He laughed, low. The roll of cash appeared again. He peeled two more hundreds and passed them over. She took them and tucked them flat beside the first, then slid all three under her thigh into the robe’s pocket.
“See you soon, Luna,” he said.
He stood out of the booth without crowding her. Ant was already up, chair legs thumping once soft as they came down. Trell moved toward the exit and Ant fell into step behind him, the space around them opening without anyone asking it to.
Mireya watched them leave, then slipped out of the booth herself and headed back toward the dressing room.
~~~
Laney shot up out of sleep with her heart thudding in her throat. The room was dark except for the glow of the nightlight out in the hall. Her hand slid to the other side of the bed and met only cool sheet. She let out a breath, shoulders easing as the dream let go of her—Caine’s weight, Caine’s heat—just a dream.
A sharp crack split the quiet. Then laughter, loose and bright, right under the window. She pushed the curtain edge with two fingers and leaned to see. The camper light burned yellow in the dark. Blake sat on the steps, shoulders hunched, a glow at his fingers as smoke drifted up and flattened in the damp air. A woman turned slow circles in the patch of yard beside him, arms out like the night might catch her and spin her the rest of the way.
“Damn it,” she whispered. She jammed her feet into slippers, tugged the hem of her sleep shirt down, and moved through the hallway on the balls of her feet. The back door latch clicked. Humid air pushed into the kitchen. She eased the door wide and stepped out, letting it fall soft behind her.
Grass crunched under her soles as she crossed the yard. Blake saw her and jerked up fast, palms lifting.
“It’s just a cigarette,” he said. “It’s just a cigarette.”
Her finger came up, steady as a nail. “I told you not to have nobody else out here. What is she doin’ here?”
Blake rolled one shoulder, smoke curling from his lips. “We were talking about the kid.”
The woman stopped spinning and squinted toward the porch light. When she recognized Laney, her face split wide in a grin that pulled at cracked lips.
“Hey, Laney!” she chirped and moved in like she meant to hug.
Laney’s palm came up and held the air between them. The woman’s breath carried sweet rot and old sugar. The camper light made the blue of her eye makeup float over the hollows.
“Where the fuck is your child, Neveah?” Laney asked, each word clipped.
Neveah blinked and turned her head like the answer might be posted somewhere on the fence. “He—”
“With your mama,” Blake said, quiet, not looking at Laney.
Neveah pointed from him to Laney, nodding too hard. “Yep. With my mama.”
Laney held them in a stare that didn’t move. The yard hummed with crickets. A moth tapped the camper light. Blake shuffled a foot on the step.
“Get your shit and get out,” she said to him.
She turned to go, brushing past the smell of smoke. The grass was damp and cold through the thin rubber of her slippers. Blake jogged two steps and swung around into her path, hands up.
“I didn’t do anything,” he said. “I told her the other day I was here and she just showed up like this. What am I supposed to do?”
Laney’s hand cut back toward Neveah without looking. “This is your fuckin’ fault. You started her on it. You kept her on it. She ain’t been sober in years ’cause of you.”
“Alright, alright,” he said, palms out, voice pulling thin. “But if you throw me out, she’s going to drive home. You want her to drive like that?”
Laney’s head turned because she couldn’t help it. Neveah tried to twirl again and caught her own ankle, tipping. She tumbled to one knee and laughed into the dirt. The laugh kept going a second too long. She pushed up, missed, then finally found her feet and stood swaying, smiling at nothing.
Laney drew a long breath through her nose. She stepped around Blake, shoulder bumping his arm as she went.
“Keep it fuckin’ down,” she said. “My children are sleepin’.”
She reached the porch and took the steps up. The door’s paint was cool under her palm. The kitchen light threw a thin rectangle over the mat. She pulled the door in and closed it with a careful hand, wood kissing wood more than slamming. The latch settled.
Through the glass, the yard flattened into shapes. Blake stood where she left him, watching the door. Neveah tilted toward him, hair frizzed out, the jacket sliding off one shoulder. Her voice came across the yard small and puzzled.
“Why she mad?”
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djp73
- Posts: 9982
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
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djp73
- Posts: 9982
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42