Trell woke slow, the weight of the silk sheets warm across his waist, the fabric cool where it touched his bare shoulders. The room held quiet in a way his name almost never did. No thump of bass. No dice hitting the floor. Just the low whisper of the air conditioner and the faint, distant hum of the city outside thick walls.
He stared up at the ceiling a second, eyes adjusting to soft morning light. The paint up there was clean, edges sharp where crown molding cut the corner. No water stains. No cracks spidering out over him. Every line in the room was like that. Straight. Intentional. The framed prints on the wall sat level. The dresser held nothing but a watch case and a glass tray. Not a shoe out of place on the floor.
He rolled to his side and reached for the nightstand. Three phones sat stacked neat, black rectangles with different weight in the hand. He picked them all up, thumb finding the familiar chips and hairline crack on one of the cases without looking. One stayed personal, one stayed for business, one stayed for things in between. He didn’t need to check them yet. If something was burning, Ant would have come through the door before the sun.
The sheets slid off his legs when he stood. The floor under his feet stayed cool, polished wood taking his weight without a sound. He crossed the room, shoulders loose, and pushed the bedroom door open with his wrist so the phones didn’t slip.
The hallway smelled faintly of the cleaner the maid had used last time. Citrus, not bleach. The walls were white and bare, corners straight. Nothing to catch dust. Nothing to catch on a warrant.
In the kitchen, the light got brighter. Marble ran the length of the counters, veined and glossy, the island wide enough to hold a spread. The fixtures over the sink and the island were black polished nickel, matte and expensive in a way that didn’t scream. He set the phones down in a row on the counter where he could see them and reached for the coffee maker.
He filled it from the tap, water running cold over his fingers, then measured grounds out by habit. Just like the white powder he used to measure. The machine clicked when he set the pot back, a red light blinking to life. He hit the switch and let it start its slow drip.
Trell planted his hands on the edge of the sink and looked out the window. The backyard opened clean, green trimmed close around an in-ground pool with water so still it looked hard. Light caught the curves of the tile and ran along the metal rail. Beyond the fence, Bayou St. John lay flat and brown-green, moving slow under the morning. A bird skimmed the surface and kept going. On the opposite bank a house caught the sun on its windows and threw it back like a mirror.
Steam started to rise behind him. The smell of coffee cut through the air. He let his shoulders drop half an inch and stayed where he was, watching nothing in particular, just owning the quiet.
A knock sounded at the front door. Not urgent. Two short raps, then one heavier one.
Trell straightened and reached for one of the phones. He thumbed it awake, found the app, and tapped. The lock clicked loud down the hall even in all that softness.
He didn’t move toward the door. The house was small enough on this side that he could hear Ant come in. The hinges whispered. Shoe soles hit tile. A second later Ant’s voice carried.
“I don’t know why you get this shit.”
Ant stepped into the kitchen with the paper in his hand, the plastic wrap already beaded with dew from the driveway. He lifted it once, then let it fall onto the island so it skidded a little across the marble.
Trell turned from the window, one corner of his mouth lifting. He picked up the newspaper, peeled the plastic off, and balled it in his hand before dropping it in the trash under the sink. The newsprint left a faint ink smudge on his thumb.
“Just to remind myself I got enough money to waste,” he said.
He flipped the paper open with a practiced snap and let it fold across his palm. Ant leaned against the island, elbows spread. His eyes stayed on Trell, not the headlines.
“Them eses from out Texas hit me up last night,” Ant said. “Said they’ll be passing through on the way to Miami tomorrow.”
The coffee machine popped and hissed. Trell’s gaze moved across the front page, catching pictures he didn’t care about, a column about some council meeting, a weather box. He nodded once, not looking up yet.
“When they get here, take Dez, Boogie and Yola with you,” he said.
Ant’s jaw flexed. “You know Dez always freeze up in them situations. That nigga soft.”
Trell didn’t answer that right away. His eye caught a bold print line running across the top fold. He pointed at it with two fingers, newspaper crackling as he did.
“Look at that,” he said. “Raising our fucking taxes again to pay NOPD.”
He let the paper sag at the middle, then folded it over on itself and set it down on the island, headline hidden now. He crossed back to the coffee pot and reached for a mug from the cabinet above. The coffee poured dark and steady, steam fogging the inside of the cup.
“Peanut put Dez on,” he said, watching the stream. “He alright for what he do.”
Ant snorted under his breath. “Well, Peanut ain’t around no more.”
Trell cut his eyes over his shoulder and then turned away again. He filled the cup just short of the brim and set the pot back. The machine gurgled once in protest and went quiet.
He wrapped his hand around the mug and walked back to the window. The glass warmed his palm. Outside, the pool sat blue and still. The bayou moved on without him. He nodded once, more to the room than to Ant.
“Nah, he ain’t,” Trell said. “But take Dez anyway. I need everyone else ready at the cookhouses.”
Ant rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek, then gave a short nod. “Alright.”
For a second neither of them said anything. The house held that pause different than the Marrero spot ever could.
“You want me to roll with you when you go to Galvez depending on when them niggas gets here?” Ant asked.
Trell turned from the window, mug halfway to his mouth. He took a slow sip, the coffee biting his tongue. He swallowed and set the cup down with a muted tap.
“Nah,” he said. “I’m gonna fly solo. We family over there.”
Ant held his eyes a beat, weighing that, then gave another nod. He shifted his weight off the island, palms hitting the marble once before he let them fall to his sides.
Trell picked up one of the phones, glanced at the screen long enough to see the time, then set it back. He rolled his shoulders, the easy stretch of a man with things to do, and turned toward the hall again.
“Let me get ready,” he said. “Then we’ll go to Marrero.”
He walked out of the kitchen, bare feet quiet on the floor. The hallway narrowed the sound, made his steps sound even calmer. Ant’s voice followed him.
“You want to get some entertainment for the Mexicans while they here?”
Trell didn’t answer. The question sat there. An idea unfolded clean, simple, as he moved. He let a chuckle slip out low in his chest, the corners of his mouth pulling up as he turned into the master suite and headed for the bathroom to start his day.
~~~
Caine walked the length of the broken fence with a hammer hooked through his back pocket and a box of screws in his hand. The boards the four-wheeler had taken out lay scattered in the grass, one split down the middle, another bent at the nails. Fresh ruts cut through the dirt where the kids had swung wide through the pasture and clipped what he’d fixed last time.
He set the box down by one of the posts and braced his foot against a loose board. The wood was rough under his palm when he picked it up, sun-baked and splintered at one end. He lined it up against the upright post, shoulder and forearm working to hold it in place while he reached for the drill sitting on the ground beside him.
Music filled his ears from his AirPods, the beat steady enough to fall in with the rhythm of his work. The drill bit bit into the wood when he pulled the trigger. The sound carried sharp through the quiet field. He sank one screw, then another, feeling the board pull tight to the post. Sweat ran down the back of his neck and soaked the collar of his T-shirt.
He shifted to the next gap in the fence. The pasture stretched open in front of him, grass rolled flat where the four-wheeler had chewed it up, patches of green starting to push back through the brown.
Even with the music up, he heard the side-by-side before he saw it. The engine’s low growl cut under the song, closer with each second. He finished driving the last screw in the board he had in his hands before he reached up to tap his phone through the pocket and let the volume drop down.
He didn’t look back right away. He bent to grab another board, propped it under one arm, and walked it down to the next gap. Gravel crunched off to his left, then softened when the tires left the drive and rolled onto the packed dirt near the trees.
When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Laney swing the side-by-side under the shade of a pecan tree nearest the fence. Dust settled slow around the wheels. She cut the engine and leaned back in the driver’s seat, one elbow hooked on the edge. With her other hand she lifted a bottle of water where he could see it, then let that hand drop to her lap, the bottle standing upright against her thigh.
He set the board down by the posts and brushed his hands off on his jeans. The hammer bumped against his leg as he walked toward her, the air under the tree a little less harsh even if it was still hot enough to sit in his chest. He stopped close enough to lay his forearms along the roof of the side-by-side and leaned in over her, looking down.
“Making sure I ain’t fall out out here?” he asked, mouth tugging up at one corner.
Laney smiled, easy. “You been workin’ here long enough that I know this ain’t gon’ kill you.”
Caine let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, but I played a whole football game two days ago. Running, getting hit, everything.”
She tilted her head, eyes running over him quick. “You wouldn’t’ve been gettin’ hit if you weren’t holdin’ on to the ball so long.”
He rolled his shoulders once. “I’ll let Coach know you said I gotta work on my processor… even though I threw four of them thangs.”
Laney shook her head, still smiling. “My old coaches used to tell me you done as an athlete as soon as you start thinkin’ you can’t be coached.”
“Is that right?” he said.
She nodded, chin up. “That’s why I was four stars and you were one.”
He brought a hand to his chest, fingers spread, and leaned across the roof a little farther, playing it up. “It be your own people.”
She laughed for real then, the sound quick and bright in the quiet pasture. The hand resting in her lap lifted, the bottle of water coming up with it. Condensation had soaked the label and slicked across her fingers.
She held the bottle out toward him. He reached for it, hand closing over the wet plastic. Her grip stayed firm under his. For a second neither of them moved, the bottle caught between their palms.
“I have ‘bout thirty minutes before I have stuff to do,” Laney said.
Caine’s eyebrows went up. “Yeah?”
She gave a small nod, eyes steady on his face.
“I thought you wanted to slow down?” he said.
“This is slow,” she answered, voice even.
He watched her, his arms still resting on the roof, feeling the heat of the metal through his skin. He stayed close enough to feel the fan of her breath when she let it out.
“You sure?” he asked.
Laney’s mouth tightened at one corner. “Caine, if you keep askin’ if I’m sure, I’m gon’ change my damn mind.”
He nodded once, the point taken. His hand eased on the bottle and this time she let it go. The plastic was cold against his palm, the water sloshing soft inside. He leaned back enough to set it on the fender of the side-by-side. The metal there had been in the sun long enough to warm the air around it.
Laney shifted in the seat, scooting back until her shoulders found the rest. Her knees slid apart a touch, making space. Without taking her gaze off him, she reached down for the hem of her skirt.
~~~
Mireya rested her head against the cool metal frame by Parkway’s window, eyes half-closed as the smell of fried shrimp and toasted bread crowded the air. The lunch rush kept the place loud, trays hitting counters, order numbers shouted over the steady churn of the fryers. Her body felt too heavy for how early it still was. The flight back from Statesboro clung to her legs, her shoulders, the back of her neck. Even thinking about the trip made her want to sink deeper into the wall behind her.
She stifled a yawn, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.
Jaslene slid her sunglasses up onto her head and eyed her. “Dios mío, mami. I would’ve stayed home today. Every college student skips class, no?”
Mireya let out a tired breath that could’ve been a laugh. “I don’t know how Liana does it. I’m not even in the really hard classes yet and I’m always tired.”
“Liana don’t got un bebé,” Jaslene said, as if that explained everything. It did.
“Yeah,” Mireya said quietly. “You not wrong.”
Their number crackled through the overhead speaker. Jaslene bumped Mireya’s arm with her hand. “C’mon, chica.”
They wove through the crowded line. A man in paint-stained jeans stepped back so they could pass. Someone at the counter called out over clanging metal, sliding their order onto the service shelf. Jaslene grabbed the tray without missing a beat, the two po-boys wrapped tight in paper already staining through with gravy and oil.
They found a small table near the back window, two mismatched chairs pushed under it. Mireya dropped her bag to the floor and sat with a slow exhale she didn’t mean to let out.
Jaslene sat across from her and nudged one wrapped sandwich her way. “Roast beef for you, mami.”
Mireya unwrapped the po-boy, the steam and smell hitting her at the same time. She took a bite and let her jaw unclench around the bread.
They ate in silence for a moment, letting the noise of the place fill whatever they didn’t say. A kid fussed at the table behind them until his mother handed him a pickle. A couple in line bickered about how long the wait was.
Mireya wiped her fingers on a napkin. “Was the money good this past weekend?”
Jaslene stopped mid-chew, rolled her eyes, and shook her head so hard her earrings swung. “Fuck no. We were on the North Shore, and you know how they are. Only wanna give money to Hayley, C.J., Brooke, y Maren.”
Mireya groaned, leaning back against the chair. “I wonder why.”
“Right?” Jaslene said, snorting a soft laugh. “Only want the güeritas.”
Mireya smiled into her sandwich.
“One of those guys from the bachelor party was there, though,” Jaslene said, wiping her fingers on a napkin and leaning in. “The one from a few weeks ago?”
Mireya nodded. “I remember. What’d he say?”
“He asked about you,” Jaslene said. “Wanted the Sol y Luna special again.”
Mireya let out a short laugh, but something pulled at her thoughts. That night, the two of them moving together. She shook her head, the sound catching in her throat. “And what you told him?”
Jaslene lifted her shoulders in a shrug, bracelets sliding up her arm. “Told him to come see us again this week and he can get just that.”
Mireya shot her a look, squinting. “You setting that man up for disappointment.”
“Why?” Jaslene held her hands out. “We made good money off that. And it wasn’t even bad. Mami, I’ve done worse for less.”
“That’s not exactly a great review, Jas.”
Jaslene waved her off. “Ay, por favor. Look, we could double our money. I’m just saying you could take an extra night off if we do this. At least some hours.”
Mireya paused, thumb brushing along the edge of her paper wrapper.
Jaslene leaned forward until her bracelets pressed the table. “Listen.” Her voice softened but stayed direct. “I know we haven’t known each other long, but I do consider you una amiga. Real close. I wouldn’t suggest doing this with most anyone else.”
Mireya wiped her fingers with another napkin. “I don’t know,” she said. “Ale would’ve come running at the mention of money.”
Jaslene barked a laugh. “Yeah. But she bites.”
Mireya laughed harder than she had all morning, leaning forward with a hand over her mouth.
Jaslene smiled at the reaction, then tapped the table once with her nail. “Una semana,” she said. “If we don’t make more, we call it quits.”
Mireya looked down at her sandwich, at the smear of gravy across the paper, then back up at Jaslene.
She lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “Alright,” she said. “One week.”
~~~
Caine sat in the second row of the meeting room with his forearms resting on the narrow desk, legs stretched just enough to keep his knees from locking. Light from the projector washed the front wall in green and white, frozen on the last frame of the Houston game. On the screen, Trey’Dez still had the ball tucked in, one foot dragging inside the back of the end zone.
Coach Aplin stood under the screen with the remote in his hand. “Last one,” he said.
He tapped the button. The image jumped back to pre-snap. Georgia Southern sat in heavy, motion shifting across the formation. Caine watched his own helmet on the film dip, then step back into the fake. Aplin let it run through the mesh with David, linebackers biting, then hit pause again right as Caine rolled and reset his feet.
“You sold it,” Aplin said, voice flat. He drew a small circle with the laser in front of Caine’s frozen legs. “Then you made yourself space. That’s why we get this.”
He clicked ahead. The ball left Caine’s hand on screen and cut to Trey’Dez, who slid across the back line free. Touchdown. The scoreboard in the corner ticked over to 40-17 before the image froze.
A low murmur went through the room. Caine kept his face even, pen still parked in the crease of his notebook.
“Good job,” Aplin said, eyes still on the screen. “That’s it for today. Remember, we got the bye. We’re only going on the field twice this week. You don’t get less work, you just get different work. Be locked in.”
He reached back and flipped the lights up. The sudden brightness made the projector fade to a ghost image before it went black. Chairs scraped. Plastic binders snapped shut. Caine stood with everybody else, sliding his packet into the folder and tucking his pen into the spirals.
“Tomorrow at four,” Aplin added. “On time.”
Guys started filing toward the door in loose rows. Dillon ended up just behind Caine with Terrell a step behind him, both of them carrying their packets under one arm.
They hit the aisle. Dillon leaned in, voice low enough not to carry. “So when you gon’ tell everybody you transferring?” he asked.
Caine paused long enough to cut a look over his shoulder. “What you talking about?” he said.
Terrell smirked, his steps unhurried. “We got a pool going on when you gonna transfer,” he said. “We just waiting on you to make it official.”
Caine rolled his eyes and kept walking. “Ain’t nobody been thinking about transferring,” he said. “We ain’t played nothing but four games.”
The hallway opened up outside the meeting room, overhead lights buzzing, the smell of detergent and grass stain ground into the carpet. Caine stayed straight, moving with the flow, Dillon and Terrell pacing tight behind him.
“Yeah, and you been balling in all of ’em,” Terrell said. “That’s why we got the pool going. I just wanna let you know that you the homie and you should announce any decision on December 2nd, December 12th, or December 22nd so I got enough time to cope with you leaving.”
Caine sucked his teeth, the sound quick under his breath. “Y’all on some other shit,” he said.
Dillon laughed. “Nah, it’s just the facts of life,” he said. “Either you or Weston outta here. Weston ain’t playing, so ain’t no one gonna want him. So it gotta be you.”
They banked around the corner toward the exit that fed into the players’ lot. Posters lined the wall, old shots of bowl games and conference titles, faces of guys who had already come and gone. Caine let his eyes slide past them without stopping.
“What days you got?” he asked Dillon.
“December 10th,” Dillon said, lifting his packet like a trophy. “Big money right there.”
Caine shook his head. “Ain’t nobody picked my birthday?” he said.
Behind him, Terrell reached over and slapped Dillon in the chest with the back of his hand. “Why ain’t nobody think of that?” he said. “Y’all slipping.”
Dillon snapped his fingers once, like he could pull the date back into his hand. “Damn,” he said. “Could’ve had easy money.”
Caine’s mouth pulled up at one corner. “I hope somebody put money on me staying,” he said. “Because like I said, ain’t nobody thinking about transferring.”
They pushed through the double doors into another short hallway that led toward the main lobby. The air shifted cooler there, less sweat, more of the faint chemical clean from the floors. Voices from other rooms mixed together, laughter echoing off the cinderblock.
Donnie, Dwight, and Kordell stood up ahead near the intersection, leaning against the wall under a flat-screen with the ESPN ticker running. Dwight spotted them first, lifted a hand, and waved them in.
“We going grab some grub,” Dwight called. “Y’all in?”
Caine angled toward them without breaking stride, packet still tucked under his arm. Behind him, Dillon and Terrell fell in line, their voices picking back up.
“We gotta add where you going to the pool too,” Dillon said.
“Yeah,” Terrell said. “Destination bets. I got LSU off top.”
Caine kept walking toward Donnie and them as they talked, the words hanging between all of them on the way down the hall.
~~~
Mireya lay on her side with a throw pillow wedged under her cheek, Netflix rolling through another episode she barely tracked. The light from the TV washed the living room in a low, flickering blue. The corner where Camila kept her toys was a small explosion of plastic and paper, dolls tipped over beside a crate of markers.
Camila sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, knees spread, coloring book abandoned beside her. She had a sheet of printer paper instead, the edges already soft from being moved around. Her curls shook every time she pressed the crayon down, tongue sticking out the side of her mouth. Every few seconds she made a little sound under her breath, half hum, half commentary to herself.
Mireya’s phone buzzed again against the coffee table. The vibration traveled through the wood and into her forearm where it draped over the edge. She didn’t move. The screen lit up, bright in the dim room, then went dark again.
Messages stacked there. Angela sending a picture. Paz dropping some TikTok link with fifteen crying-laughing emojis. Her dancer friends bullshitting, joking about their next play to get money. Another reminder from the online portal about an assignment due Wednesday. She let them all sit. The past few weeks had been nothing but movement—Statesboro and back, nights at the club, mornings in class, being a mother amidst all of it. Tonight, she had promised herself she wasn’t doing anything but watching whatever Netflix put in front of her.
The phone buzzed again, harder this time because it had slid closer to the edge. She sighed and reached out, fingers closing over it. The banner on the lock screen said Jordan.
He had blown her up enough that her thumb almost went to his thread on reflex. She unlocked the phone and opened it anyway.
You free for a lunch date tomorrow?
The text sat over three earlier ones she hadn’t answered, little blue bubbles waiting. She stared at it. A beat passed. Then another. It would be easier to just say something, shut it down, stop having to see his name pop up every few hours.
Her thumbs moved.
can’t. I got class from 12-2.
She watched the dots appear under it almost immediately.
A picture came through first, some meme of a man laid out on a floor, hand to his chest, fake dead. Right under it:
Guess I’m just going to have to catch you sitting in the UC and scoop you up from there when I know you’re not busy.
She huffed out a small breath that might have been a laugh. The corner of her mouth twitched.
Guess so.
She hit send, then backed out of the thread before she could talk herself into adding anything else. The screen showed more notifications waiting. She locked it instead and set the phone back on the coffee table, face down this time.
“What you drawing, nena?” she asked, shifting onto her back. Her voice reached over the TV’s low chatter.
Camila held the paper up over her head to show her, not turning around. “Boat!” she announced, loud, then dropped it back to the floor and went right back to scribbling. Blue lines cut across the page in heavy streaks. A brown shape rode on top, crooked but confident.
Mireya smiled at the ceiling. “Muy bien, mi amor.”
Her eyelids slipped lower. The couch cushion dipped under her, familiar now, the give of it molded to the way she crashed here between classes and shifts. She tucked her hand under her cheek, letting the show on the TV keep talking in the background.
The phone buzzed again.
She almost ignored it. Then she leaned over, reaching blindly until her fingers found the edge and dragged it toward her. She flipped it over, expecting Jordan again. Or one of the girls. Or some reminder she didn’t want.
An unsaved number sat at the top of the screen.
Come take a ride with me tomorrow, Luna.
Her brows pulled together. For a second she just stared at the words, brain slow from the almost-nap she’d been sliding into. Then the name clicked in the back of her head at the same time her thumb moved.
Who this?
She added the question mark and sent it.
The reply came fast enough that she knew whoever it was had been waiting on her.
Trell. I imagine you don’t give your number out to too many people to not remember who you did give it to.
She let out a small breath through her nose.
I don’t. But I’m busy tomorrow.
Her thumb hovered before she sent it. Then she hit send and let the phone rest on her thigh.
It buzzed again almost right away.
Until when?
She stared at the question. Her first answer came easy.
I don’t know.
She typed it, watched the words sit there in the bubble.
The next message from him slid in quickly again.
Yes, you do, Luna.
She rolled onto her side and typed again.
2.
She added nothing else. Just the number.
He took a little longer this time.
Where will you be? I’ll pick you up.
She didn’t want him knowing that she was a student. Didn’t want the other students seeing her with someone any one who’d been around the block a bit would know was a drug dealer.
No, I’ll meet you.
Her thumb hesitated for a beat over the send button, then pressed down. The message whooshed off.
Bet. I’ll drop the lo tomorrow. See you soon, Luna.
The last part sat there. She watched it until the screen dimmed itself.
She tapped the thumbs up reaction, the tiny icon popping over his last text, then set the phone back down on the coffee table. Her hand stayed there for a second, palm flat against the glass, as if she might pick it up again and undo all of it with a different answer.
Camila hummed on the floor, her crayon making soft, stuttering sounds as it crossed the paper. “Boat,” she whispered to herself again.
Mireya pulled her hand back and tucked it under the pillow. After a few moments, she settled deeper into the couch and turned her face toward the TV, letting Netflix pull her attention back into the glow.
All correct.