American Sun

[Caesar]

Descriptus

The lunch rush hadn't started yet. A few booths along the far wall held older men with newspapers and coffee going cold. The staff moved between them slow, refilling without being asked. Outside the windows, the heat had already settled hard on the parking lot, light bouncing white off the hoods of cars and the chrome of a pickup parked nearest the entrance.

Tommy sat with his back to the window. He held his water glass loosely, turning it in a slow rotation on the table, condensation leaving rings on the laminate with each pass.

Across from him, Claire had her salad in front of her. She stabbed a forkful, chewed, and looked at nothing.

"I've been thinking about taking this job in Atlanta," she said. "The firm is looking to expand to get more business in the rest of the Mid-South. It could put me on the fast track to partner."

Tommy grunted. He set the glass down and looked at her. "Why the fuck would you care about being partner or whatever? That doesn't get you any more respect."

Claire raised an eyebrow, held it a beat, then let it go. She speared another bite. "More money, more prestige, and yes, more respect." She chewed before finishing. "It's the whole reason I went into law."

Tommy picked up his water glass one more time, took a sip, and set it down. He leaned back slightly against the booth seat, arm dropping from the table to rest on the back. "Here I was thinking you went into law because you wanted to be a public defender to represent ghetto birds."

Claire continued eating. Her expression didn't shift, didn't register the comment as anything requiring a response. She speared the next bite, brought it to her mouth, and set her fork down on the rim of the bowl when she finished. She picked up her napkin, touched it to the corner of her mouth, and folded it again in her lap before she spoke. "You've been in a mood for a few weeks now. It's getting quite tiring."

Tommy shifted in the booth, weight moving forward onto both elbows. His jaw tightened. "You sleep out in the field for a month without your skin care routine then tell me how you feel about it."

Claire looked up. She held his eyes for a moment before she asked. "Is it the training or that you haven't gotten the reaction you wanted from your wife?"

Tommy's eyebrow lifted. He turned the glass one more time, then set it down and left it. "What reaction do you think I wanted?"

Claire crossed one arm over the other in her lap, posture composed. She shrugged. "Probably begging for forgiveness, groveling, worshipping the ground you walk on." She paused, head tilting a fraction. "All the things you've never gotten from her."

Tommy snorted a laugh. The sound came out short. He looked away toward the window, at the cars baking in the lot, then back at her. "Hardly. I'm not going to lie. I was at least expecting some apology sex. It's all she's good at."

Claire shook her head. "What a romantic."

Tommy held both hands up off the table, a brief open gesture, palms out, then let them drop back to the table. "If I'm going to stay married to her then I might as well look at it as cup mostly empty but something's in it type of situation."

Claire reached for her water. She took a sip, set it back down carefully on the coaster, and pressed the base into the ring it had left until they matched. Her eyes moved from the glass back up to his face. "You let me know if that works out for you."

Tommy smirked at her. "Jealous?"

Claire looked at him across the table. She picked up her fork and took the last bite of her salad, set the fork down on the plate with a small clink, and reached for her napkin. She pressed it to the corner of her mouth once, folded it deliberately, and placed it beside the plate. She smoothed her hand over the fold. When she looked back up at him, her voice was flat.

"I could never be jealous of a woman that's beneath me."

~~~

The computer screen lit up Nevaeh's face as she typed, working through the same fields she'd already filled in twice that morning at two other tabs Laney had pulled up before this one. Name. Prior address. Employment history. The cursor blinked in the references field and her finger hovered over the tab key for a moment before she pressed it and moved past without filling it in.

Laney sat beside her, pulled up close enough to see the screen but angled slightly toward Nevaeh rather than the desk. Her hands rested in her lap, one over the other. She'd stopped directing several fields back when Nevaeh found her rhythm with it and hadn't had to correct anything since.

Nevaeh reached the bottom of the page and stopped. Her hands dropped from the keyboard to her thighs and she sat looking at the submit button. The form was complete except for the references field. Down the hall, a child was laughing at something, high and sudden.

"I ain't gonna lie, Laney, but, you know 'cause of the drugs, that I'm gonna forever piss dirty." Her voice came out flat. "I'm not using anymore, promise. Even when Blake started again. But you know, they just always tell me they'll call me and never call."

Laney nodded. She leaned back in her chair and rested her hands over one another on her stomach. "Ain't nothin' you can do but to try. I been talkin' to Mr. Hartfield and he said he might have somethin' for you. He just gotta see if his son's comin' back home or not."

Nevaeh turned from the screen. "The butcher?"

"Yeah, that's him."

Nevaeh's face pulled together, nose wrinkling, chin drawing back. Her shoulders came up slightly and her hands lifted off her thighs. "I don't know about that. I mean, I'll take whatever, but meat. All the blood? I don't know." She shook her head once, slow. "Isn't it dangerous? Like cutting the meat?"

Laney raised an eyebrow at her. "You got other options you ain't tell me 'bout?"

Nevaeh shook her head. She turned back toward the screen and set her hands on the keyboard, not typing yet. "No, I was just saying."

Laney reached over and took the mouse, minimized the open tab, then brought it back up. "He ain't gonna have you cuttin' meat anyway." She let the mouse go and sat back. "But you gotta find somethin' steady either way."

Nevaeh nodded. She picked up a pen from the cup on the desk, turned it between her fingers, set it back in with a soft click against the others. "Yeah, I know. It's just been hard. Not like blaming anyone else." She pulled her bottom lip in for a second, then let it go. "But I can say that right? Things been hard. Probably my own fault. Definitely my own fault, if I'm being honest." She put her hand flat on the desk and looked at it, fingers spread. "I just don't like the way Josiah look at me like he disappointed."

"Your child ain't disappointed in you." Laney's voice stayed level. "He worried 'bout you. He sees you sick."

Nevaeh looked down at the keyboard. She sat with it, chin low, eyes on the keys. Her finger moved across the space bar once, slow, back to the edge. She nodded to herself, a small motion, then lifted her head.

"Do you worry about that?" She kept her eyes on Laney's face, not the screen. "Your boys seeing that things ain't great between you and Tommy."

Laney paused. Then she shook her head.

"I don't want them to idealize me and Tommy then come to find out that we ain't never really loved each other. That's worse than them just knowin' now it ain't like they're friends' parents' relationships. And hopefully when they get older and start datin', they treat they girlfriends better than they daddy treat me."

Nevaeh took that in. She looked at the side of Laney's face for a moment, mouth like she was going to add something to it, then closed it. "I guess that's one way to look at it."

"Might be the only way given the situation." Laney glanced at the monitor once and nodded toward it. "Your application 'bout to time out."

Nevaeh nodded once to herself. She pulled the mouse over, hovered it above the submit button for a second, then turned her eyes back to the screen.

~~~

The rental smelled like the factory air freshener that came stuck to the dash. Mireya had her back against the door, one ankle crossed over her knee, the bottom of her calf facing her. A bruise sat low on the muscle, dark at the center and yellow at the edges. A reminder of the previous night. She pressed her thumb into it, slow, and held the pressure until the dull ache made her stop.

Through the gas station window she could see Ant at the register, a scratch-off flat on the counter, coin in his hand. Trell was somewhere back in the aisles. Dez stood outside at the pump, one hand resting on the car's roof, watching the numbers roll over on the display.

Two Memphis Police Department cruisers sat nose to nose at the far edge of the lot. Four officers between them, hands loose.

Mireya looked at them for a second, then back at her leg. She pressed her thumb into the bruise once more before uncrossing her ankle and settling back into the seat.

The store door pushed open. Ant came out first, scratching the ticket with his thumbnail as he walked. Trell followed, cracking the seal on a bottle of water, taking a long pull as he stepped off the curb.

Trell looked at Dez. "Hurry the fuck up."

Dez sucked his teeth and didn't look over. The pump clicked and he pulled the nozzle free, hung it back up on the cradle.

Ant dropped into the front seat and pulled his door shut. Trell got in beside Mireya, the car dipping slightly under his weight. His hand landed on her thigh as he reached into his jacket pocket with his other hand and pulled out one of his phones.

Dez got behind the wheel, started the car, and pulled off the pump. He turned out onto the street and merged onto the on-ramp, the interstate opening up ahead of them. The music from his phone came through the car speakers. No one said anything. Ant turned his scratch-off over and read the back, then dropped it between his feet.

Mireya watched Memphis move past her window, the skyline sitting low against the sky, heat shimmering off the asphalt on the overpass. Trell's thumb moved across his phone screen, his hand gripping her thigh.

She glanced up into the rearview mirror and saw the two cruisers from the gas station two cars back, riding in the same lane.

"The cops at the gas station are behind us," she said.

Trell didn't turn. He raised his phone, angling the camera toward the back window, and watched through the screen for a few seconds. He lowered it and shrugged. "Probably gonna pull us over."

Dez's eyes went to the mirror. "The shit for ol’ boy is in the glovebox."

Ant turned his head and looked at him. Then he opened the glovebox. The package sat there, tightly wrapped, a test quantity, white through the plastic. He stared at it for a second. "Why the fuck you didn't put this under the spare?"

"I forgot."

Ant shook his head and closed the glovebox.

The lights came on behind them, blue and red filling the back window.

Dez's hands tightened on the wheel. He checked his mirror, signaled, and switched lanes, bleeding speed as he pulled toward the shoulder.

Trell looked at the back of Dez's head. "Calm the fuck down, nigga. It's three niggas and a Mexican bitch in here. You being nervous gonna have us in jail."

Dez rubbed his palm down his face and looked in the side mirror, watching the cruisers settle in behind them. His hands went back to the wheel at ten and two.

Mireya watched as the cops stayed in the cruisers through the rearview, the wait before they got out. Stretching, stretching. The two of them in the first cruiser in conversation, pointing at the car.

"Give it to me," Mireya said.

Ant turned and looked back at her. "What?"

"Give it to me. Now. Hurry up."

Ant looked at Trell. Trell shrugged.

Ant opened the glovebox, got the package, and passed it back over the center console. Mireya took it. She hocked spit onto her palm, ran her hand over the plastic until it was coated, and set it against her knee. Then she uncrossed her legs and spread them, leaned forward, and slid her hand up under her skirt with the package.

In the side mirror, two of the officers were getting out of the first cruiser.

Mireya stilled. Her jaw set.

Dez hit the button and his window came down. "Afternoon, officer."

The cop at the driver's side bent and looked across the car. "Can you roll down all the windows for me?"

Dez hit the controls and the other three came down in sequence.

The cop straightened and did a slow pass of the car's exterior. "Got a tail light out back there. Can I get your license and registration?"

"It's a rental," Dez said. He reached across and opened the glovebox, pulled the rental envelope from inside, and had his wallet out before the officer finished nodding. He handed it all through the window.

"Sit tight for me." The cop walked back toward the cruiser, his partner following.

Mireya kept her eyes forward on the windshield. She breathed in through her nose, jaw clenched, then began to move again, slow. Her eyes shut. Her fingers worked. A breath came out in a short gasp that she cut off. She sat back, crossed her legs, and rested one arm across her lap lazy, the other holding her head up on the window still.

Trell leaned his arm on the window frame, fingers tapping a slow, light beat on the sill outside. He glanced at her and looked back out.

The two cops came back to the car. "Go ahead and step out for us. Slow."

All four doors opened. They got out into the heat, the noise loud around them, trucks blowing past in the far lanes. The second cruiser had pulled in behind the first and all four officers were out now, spread along the shoulder.

One of them asked, "Y'all got anything in the car or on you that we should know about?"

Dez glanced at Trell, then Ant. He shook his head.

Ant's hands hung loose at his sides. "I'm just here for the Blues, officer."

The second cop, standing near the rear bumper, said, "Turn around real quick so we can be sure."

The four of them turned. The sound of traffic kept on. The cop behind Mireya asked, "You good with me patting you down or you want us to get a woman out here?"

Mireya smiled at the guardrail in front of her. "You good, papi. Do your job."

His hand moved across Mireya's shoulders, then her sides, working down professionally,. She turned. Trell was facing her from a few feet down the shoulder.

His hands, moved across her waist, down the outside of her skirt and stopped. He stepped back. "You can turn around."

The first cop came back around to Dez. "You mind if we have a look in the car?"

Dez shrugged, easy as he could make it. "I mean, go ahead. Like I said, it's a rental."

Two officers moved to the car. One took the front, checking the center console, the glovebox, pulling the visor down. The other ran his hand under both back seats, checked the door pockets. They came back and shook their heads at the other two.

The first cop held the license and rental papers out to Dez. "Make sure you tell them about that tail light."

Dez took it. "Yes, sir."

All four of them got back in. Dez started the car and merged back onto the interstate. The two cruisers rolled up past them in the left lane and kept going, getting smaller in the windshield before moving out of sight.

Mireya watched them go. She waited, eyes on the road ahead, counting distance. When the overpass sign above read a half mile forward, she put her foot flat on the floor, spread her legs, and bent forward. She spit generously onto her fingers first. Her arm went under the skirt. What went in quick came out slower, the angle different, the sound of it audible when it finally came free.

She sat up and took a long breath in through her nose. She held it. Then she let it out and dropped the package on the center console.

Ant leaned over, picked it up, and put it back in the glovebox. He wiped his hand on the front of Dez's shirt, slow and deliberate, fingers dragging. "A bitch got more heart than you, pussy ass nigga."

Dez stared straight ahead, grip white-knuckled on the wheel. He shook his head once.

Trell reached over and put his hand on the back of Mireya's neck, fingers curling in, and pulled her toward him. He kissed her. "That's my fucking bitch."

Mireya smiled. Trell kept his arm around her, pulling her into his side.

~~~

Caine came through the door of the restaurant and a waiter crossing from a side station looked up, recognition moving across his face. He changed course just enough, came over, and dapped Caine up on the move, one quick solid clap, then kept going. Caine kept going too, past the bar and the last few occupied tables, toward the back of the room where two men sat in a booth that faced the wall.

McCray saw him first. He slid out of the booth and got up before Caine reached the table, hand already out, and when Caine met it he pulled him in with his free arm, palm slapping once between his shoulder blades. Across the table, the other man stayed seated, watching with his jacket unbuttoned and his hands loose on the tabletop. His suit ran dark and clean, cut close, and nothing about it had any business in Statesboro, even alongside McCray, who never quite looked like he belonged here either.

"I swear every time I see you it's after you made my job a little easier with a big win," McCray said.

Caine stepped back and let his mouth pull to one side. "I think I make everyone's job easier when I win games. Mine, too."

McCray let out a laugh and slapped him on the back again, harder this time. "Ain't that the truth." He stepped to the side and pointed at the other man, who had stood from the booth. "I know you've been busy with the season and haven't gotten around to reaching out to my guy here. He happened to be out this side the country with some snot-nosed kid from California so I said come on down to Statesboro."

The man reached his hand out. "Tatum Reese. But I guess you already know that from the card this dickhead gave you."

Caine took the hand. "Yeah. Like he said, been busy to start the season."

McCray spread a hand over the table. "Sit down, sit down. We all know how it is." He slid back into the booth, elbows landing on the table, grin still easy. "I just wanted to show you that we really do appreciate you at the Foundation and we're trying to support you however that is, even if that's going on to different pastures after this year."

Tatum took his seat across the booth. He set his hand flat on the table, the other arm on the back of the booth. "Look, we'd all love those stories from thirty years ago to come back, right, but I'm in the realism business. My guy Derrick here, he is too." He glanced at McCray once, then came back to Caine. "You come out and drop your nuts on Houston throwing for three hundred and three, you're not sticking around here in bumfuck Egypt for another season."

McCray leaned back. "Don't count Statesboro out so fast. It's a quaint little town."

Caine leaned back in his chair and looked at McCray. "And what kind of kickback you get for linking us?"

McCray's head went back with the laugh, teeth showing. He pointed at Tatum across the table. "Didn't I tell you this kid was fucking quick? Like he's a businessman or something."

Tatum's mouth lifted at one corner. "I'm his kids' godfather. He doesn't have to buy them as many presents if I make more money. This is all selfish shit from him."

Caine snorted. "I'm gonna keep it a buck with you. I ain't never thought I'd be in a position to even be talking to someone about agents and shit, so I don't know anything about what you do."

Tatum nodded once, fingers closing into a fist then spreading again. "I'm the guy that asks you if you're trying to get paid or if you're trying to get fucking paid." He picked up his water glass, took a sip, set it back down. "Me and my colleagues' goal with our clients is to make sure they don't pull a Nico Iamaleava and let their dad fuck up the bag for them. Sometimes you make more money by shutting the fuck up. And that's a tough sell to a lot of kids."

Caine's eyes stayed on him. "Ain't no one gotta worry about another man fucking up my money."

Tatum pointed at him. "I already like you, kid." He shifted back in the seat and crossed one leg. "Look, like Derrick said, I'm out here talking to Florida and Florida State about this kid out of De La Salle, so this ain't an engagement meeting. More of a 'let's keep talking and see what we can do in December.'"

McCray picked up his water glass and turned it between both hands. He set it back on the ring it had left on the table. "In the meantime, you did hit a bonus last week with that win over Houston, so let me know if you don't have that money in your account by Monday."

Caine glanced over at him once. "I'll let you know." He turned back to Tatum. "Yeah. We'll keep in touch."

The waiter came around the corner and stopped at the edge of the table, order pad already in hand. "Y'all ready to order?"

Tatum reached for the menu and cracked it open, eyes running down the page. "Y'all got anything here that didn't get killed by a farmer's son down the road?"

[Captain Canada]

Naming the FCS quarterback Jimmy Colton is nasty work

[Soapy]

"I could never be jealous of a woman that's beneath me."

fairs

Naming the FCS quarterback Jimmy Colton is nasty work

tryna distract yall from those deep dropbacks against FCS

[redsox907]

her putting the work in her prison pocket is DIABOLICAL

like...there's no saving her anymore



also naming the FCS QB Jimmy is fucking crazy

who hurt you

also - Claire getting tired of ol boy's shtick already. explains why they never got married

[Caesar]

Naming the FCS quarterback Jimmy Colton is nasty work

He got killed just like Jimmy bitch ass.

"I could never be jealous of a woman that's beneath me."

fairs

Naming the FCS quarterback Jimmy Colton is nasty work

tryna distract yall from those deep dropbacks against FCS

None of those dropbacks were more than 4 steps and only a couple were that far. Caine aint Brice. He ain't no bitch. Also, tell Brice that Caine said go dig Jimmy up

her putting the work in her prison pocket is DIABOLICAL

like...there's no saving her anymore



also naming the FCS QB Jimmy is fucking crazy

who hurt you

also - Claire getting tired of ol boy's shtick already. explains why they never got married

Gotta do what you gotta do. Are we sure that Trell wouldn't have made her take the charge anyway? It would've surely been her or Dez.

As said above, he got killed like Jimmy bitch ass

Claire said she not being subservient to no man. It ain't no accident she's reached 30-something years old without a husband or kids.

[Caesar]

Subiit

The courtroom was small, built for arraignments and quick dispositions. Three rows of gallery benches sat empty behind the bar. The air conditioning ran too cold and the fluorescent light above the defense table had a flicker in it that it never quite committed to. Mireya stood beside Markus at the table, hands loose at her sides, her blazer buttoned over a white shirt. The court reporter sat to the right of the bench, hands resting over her keyboard. At the table across the aisle, the assistant district attorney Peter Cointment stood with a folder open in front of him, already talking before the quiet in the room had fully settled.

"Your Honor, the State has spoken with the defendant's counsel and we've agreed to the presented plea deal."

The judge had the file open on the bench. She turned a page, read something, turned another. She didn't look up when she spoke. "Ms. Rosas." She found the line she wanted and looked up then, over her glasses, at Mireya. "Are you able to pay this five hundred dollar fine and commit to attending these anger management classes?"

Markus turned his head toward Mireya, just slightly.

Mireya looked at the judge. "Yes, your honor."

"How do you plea?"

"Guilty, your honor."

The judge's eyes moved back to the file. She pressed the page flat with her palm. "The court reporter will enter a plea of guilty for misdemeanor battery. Charges vacated in two years provided the successful completion of the conditions of the plea deal."

She looked at the court reporter, who gave a short nod and began typing. The gavel came down once, clean, and the judge was already reaching for the next file before the sound had finished.

Markus put his hand on Mireya's shoulder and angled his body toward the aisle. She gathered her things from the table and followed him out through the gate, the wood panel swinging shut behind them on its spring.

The hallway outside held that same institutional cool, tile underfoot and pale walls running toward the building's main entrance. A clerk came out of an office ahead of them and turned the other direction. Their footsteps were the loudest thing in the corridor. Mireya fell into step beside Markus, one hand adjusting the strap of her bag across her shoulder.

"Thanks for helping me," she said.

Markus kept walking. He buttoned his jacket with one hand, briefcase in the other. He glanced over once. "It was Sara that called, so thank her." He looked forward again. "But make sure you go to those classes and pay that fine as soon as you can. You might be able to work out some kind of payment plan if you need it."

"I'm going to do it now."

Markus raised an eyebrow. He held it there for a beat, then let it go. He nodded. "I got a trial to get to." He slowed at a hallway intersection, shifting the briefcase to his other hand. "You take care of yourself. And try to learn how to talk it out for next time."

Mireya snorted.

Markus's mouth turned just slightly before he turned down the left corridor, footsteps already fading against the tile as he picked up his pace toward whatever room had his name on it next.

Mireya kept heading straight, toward the building's front entrance. The hallway widened as it pushed toward the lobby, a few clerks moving between offices, a man in a suit waiting near a bench with a phone to his ear. She had her hand already moving toward her blazer pocket when something in her peripheral vision snagged her and she slowed.

She turned her head to the right.

Jill Babin stood near the corridor wall with her phone pressed to her ear and her free hand laid flat and protective over a belly that was very swollen and very pregnant. Her blazer still fit at the shoulders but pulled open at the front, unable to account for what was underneath it. She was talking fast into the phone and not happy about whatever she was hearing on the other end, her mouth tight, brow slightly drawn, eyes fixed forward on nothing.

Mireya looked at her. The same straight posture, the same set of her jaw showing that righteous indignation. The same woman who’d tried everything she could to send Caine to prison for the rest of his life and then went home and probably didn’t miss a wink of sleep. Standing in a courthouse hallway now with a child coming, in an argument on her phone, hand pressed to her stomach.

Babin's gaze moved during a pause in whoever was talking. It swept the hallway, crossed Mireya's face, and kept going. Not a flicker. Not a catch. She turned back to whatever she was saying into the phone, hand pressing a little firmer over her stomach.

Mireya shook her head once. She turned back toward the entrance and pushed through the door, reaching into the pocket of her blazer for her sunglasses.

~~~

The smell of antiseptic was stronger now than it was when they’d walked into the room the night before.

The monitors beeped in their steady rhythm and the nurses moved with that particular efficiency that made everything feel both managed and urgent at the same time. Saul sat in the chair pulled flush to Ava's bedside, her hand wrapped inside both of his and tried to hold her gaze when she looked at him and tried not to show anything when she didn't.

Ava's face was soaked through, hair pressed flat at her temples, cheeks gone red from the effort she'd been putting out for the last several hours. When a contraction hit, she went tight everywhere at once, neck cording, jaw locked, her grip on his hands going white and seizing. Saul felt the bones of his hand compress and held on anyway, his other hand over the top of hers.

The doctor spoke from the foot of the bed, voice even, the same voice she'd been using all morning, steady and practiced. She gave Ava her instructions and Ava absorbed them and executed, her whole body a single instrument of effort.

One of the nurses glanced up from where she was positioned and her eyes moved to Saul's face for a half second before she was back to what she was doing, hands moving under the drape, her attention completely returned. Saul caught the look and didn't know what to do with it. He held on.

"One last big push," the doctor said. "You've got this. Give me everything."

Ava bore down. Her grip on Saul's hand went past anything she'd done yet, the pressure building past the point where his fingers registered individual sensation and became a single white pressure. He pressed his lips together and held his breath and didn't make a sound.

Then it was over.

The room went quiet. Not the ambient quiet of machines and movement but something else, a specific absence, a gap where a sound should have been and wasn't. Saul heard the monitors. He heard one of the nurses take a breath. He heard his own pulse somewhere near his ears.

Ava opened her eyes. The exhaustion on her face was complete, deep and total, but her eyes were awake and moving and scanning the room. She looked at Saul.

"Why isn't there crying?" she asked. Her voice was wrecked and small. "Why isn't he crying?"

Saul started to push back from her side, his body already moving before his mind had sorted it out. The nurse who'd glanced at him raised one hand, palm out, just a hold, and he stopped. His chair scraped an inch and he stilled.

Ava tried to push herself up onto her elbows. Saul put his hand on her shoulder, fingers pressing gently. "Hey," he said, low, "hey, stay."

"Why isn't my baby crying?" Ava's voice broke on the last word, not in tears but in something that was working toward them. Her hand found Saul's wrist and tightened there.

The second nurse came around to Ava's side of the bed, positioning herself where Ava could see her face. She spoke in that same managed calm, one hand on the bed rail, her voice quiet and direct. She said something about him being okay, about them just getting him settled, about giving it a moment.

Saul looked past her toward the other side of the room. The first nurse had her back to them, her hands working, her shoulders moving in small deliberate motions. He couldn't see past her. He couldn't see anything that told him what was happening and the distance between where he was standing and where she was felt uncrossable. He kept his hand on Ava's shoulder. He kept himself still.

The quiet stretched. The monitor kept its rhythm. Someone's shoe shifted against the floor. Ava's hand on his wrist didn't loosen.

Then it came. Small. The smallest sound he'd ever heard, thin and indignant and new, a single cry that rose and then settled back into a low complaint, just announcement. Presence.

Saul exhaled through his teeth.

The first nurse turned and came toward them, arms cradling the bundle against her chest, the swaddle tight and pale blue. She brought him up to the edge of the bed and held him where Ava could see his face.

"Here he is," the nurse said, and her voice had gone warm. "Just a quiet little fella."

Ava's face changed all at once. The strain and the fear and the hours of effort still lived there but something opened underneath them, something that had been braced against the worst and was now loosening its hold. She laid her head back against the pillow, the tension running out of her neck and shoulders, and looked at her son with her mouth pulling into a smile.

Saul looked at her. He looked at the small face in the swaddle, the tiny nose, the mouth already working around nothing, the eyes not yet open. The nurse shifted him slightly and his head turned a fraction and Saul felt something move through his chest, spreading from that center point out to everywhere else.

He looked at Ava. He looked at his son.

The room kept going around them, the monitors and the nurses and the machine sounds and the overhead lights. All of it still there. All of it further away than it had been a minute ago.

~~~

The stove put off enough heat to make the kitchen the warmest room in the apartment. Outside the window the air was doing its own work, but in here it was the burners, the pot bubbling low on the back, the skillet she had going on the front with chicken browning in oil that popped and hissed when she checked it.

Sara stood over it with her back straight and her sleeves pushed to the elbows, stirring and checking and adjusting the flame by feel more than anything else. The hood fan ran above her. The rice cooker sat on the counter to her right, already on its own timer.

She felt him before she heard him. His hands came in under the hem of her shirt from behind, both palms moving up across her stomach, her sides, his chin finding the curve of her shoulder and settling there. His chest pressed warm against her back.

Sara kept stirring. "If you're not going to help me cook then the least you can do is not hang on me."

Devin laughed, low and close to her ear. "I just can't help it when you look so damn good."

She scoffed and shifted her weight, elbow nudging him slightly. "I look like shit and I feel like it after how hectic work was today." She lifted the spoon and let it rest on the pot's edge, reaching past it to adjust the flame under the skillet.

"This is when you look your best," Devin said. His chin stayed on her shoulder, watching her hands move. "Down to earth and all. Not putting on airs."

Sara's mouth pressed flat. She picked the spoon back up. "Sounds like you're trying to convince me that I need to stop trying. Because it ain't working."

"Nah." He pulled her a fraction closer. "I like that, too."

She rolled her eyes and brought her elbow back, sharp enough to catch his forearm. "Go sit down and let me finish."

He made a sound, not quite a groan, and peeled himself away from her. Two steps back put him at the edge of the counter. He leaned there, one hip against the cabinet, arms crossing loosely over his chest, and looked around the kitchen at what she had going. The pot, the skillet, the rice cooker, all of it timed and staged and already most of the distance through its process.

He looked at her back, at her shoulders moving when she worked, and then his eyes landed on the bag of tortillas sitting near the toaster. He reached over and pulled one out, tore a piece off the edge, and folded it into his mouth.

"You tell your son that you're dating again?" he asked.

Sara didn't turn. She stirred the pot, tapped the spoon against the rim, set it down. "Again? There was no before to say there's an again."

Devin tore another piece from the tortilla and held it. "You know what I mean."

"He's got enough going on in his life." She moved to check the skillet, lifting the lid and letting the steam run off before she set it aside and looked in. She turned the pieces, found the ones that needed more time and left them, the ones that were ready and moved them. "And Caine is slow to trust. That's just not a conversation I think he needs to be having right now." She put the lid back and went back to the pot.

Devin tore another piece from the tortilla and held it between his fingers, turning it without looking at it. "Every son would be slow to trust his mama's new man. But he's grown. He'd understand."

Sara set the lid back in place and moved back to the pot. She stirred and reached past it for the seasoning, shaking it without measuring. "It's not him not understanding that I'm worried about."

Devin laughed, his head tilting. "What is he going to do? Shoot me?"

Sara kept her eyes on the pot. She stirred. She reached for the salt, shook a little in, stirred again. She reached past that for the pepper and shook that in too.

"I wouldn't put it past him," she said without looking up.

The kitchen ran on around the words. The fan overhead. The bubble of the pot. The low tick of the rice cooker counting down. Devin stood where he was at the counter's edge, the half-eaten tortilla still in his hand, and watched the side of her face, the set of her shoulders, waiting for the follow-through. The laugh. The elbow in his side. Some tell that she was giving him a hard time.

Sara lifted the pot's lid, checked whatever was in it, set the lid back down. Her hand moved to the other burner, adjusted the flame a touch lower, and came back to the spoon.

Devin pulled the tortilla bag a little closer and tore off another piece.

~~~

The only sound inside the house was the faint hum of the air and whatever ran low on the TV, volume down enough that it was barely there. Trell sat on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table, one ankle crossed over the other, phones lined up perfectly with the edge.

The front door didn't open. It was thrown. Metal and wood and the noise of someone who had made up their mind before they got out of the car. Trell's eyes cut sideways.

Cass came through with her key still in her hand, ripping it free from the lock, heels hitting the floor in a line aimed at him. Tiff followed a beat behind, stepping across the threshold and looking left then right before she pulled the door shut, quick and careful, checking corners.

Trell looked at them both. He let out a short breath through his nose. "I really need to get a motherfucker out here to change the locks."

Cass sucked her teeth and kept walking until she stopped in front of the coffee table. She held the key up between two fingers. "My name on the deed, nigga. I'll just get another key."

Trell settled back further into the couch, adjusting until his spine found the cushion again. He looked up at her from there, one arm spread along the back of the couch. "Why the fuck you busting into my house like the jakes, Cass?"

Cass turned and pointed at Tiff, the key still in her hand. "Because Tiff told me that Meechie told her that you went up to Memphis to cut him out."

Trell looked at them, expression flat. "I told you I was going up there for that." He dropped his arm from the back of the couch and let it rest on his thigh. "You saying that shit like I did some cloak and dagger shit."

Tiff moved to the side of the room. She crossed one arm over her chest and held the other. "Meechie real mad about that."

"I don't give a fuck." Trell's voice stayed level. "I'm still supplying that nigga. I just don't want to have to go through his ass to get to Terrence."

Cass dragged the accent chair from near the window and dropped into it, knees open, forearms on her thighs, leaning in toward him. Her keys hit the armrest. "See, when them Little Rock niggas come down here to kill your ass because you a snake, you gonna deserve that shit."

Trell waved his hand once, loose from the wrist. "I ain't worried about them country ass niggas."

Tiff's arm tightened across her chest, the other one pressing into it. Her eyes moved to the window and back. "They talking about it, though."

Trell's feet came off the coffee table. They hit the floor without a sound and he leaned forward, elbows going to his knees, and looked directly at Tiff. "Talking about what?"

Cass sat forward in the chair before Tiff could open her mouth. "You wouldn't need to be worried about what niggas talking about doing to you if you wouldn't be doing shit niggas wanna kill you for."

Trell held her gaze, then let it go. He straightened slightly and turned his palm up, easy, the gesture flat. "If them niggas want smoke for that, then they know where I'm at. I ain't hiding."

Cass sucked her teeth. She sat back in the chair and looked at the room around her, at the marble counter visible in the kitchen, at the walls, at the window where the bayou water caught the afternoon light. "Make sure you don't get killed in here so I can take it back and don't need to clean it."

Trell laughed. His feet went back up onto the coffee table, ankles crossing the same way they'd been when they walked in. He lifted his hand and turned it over, wrist dropping, fingers opening toward the door. "Fuck on up out here." He looked at the key still in her hand. "And leave that key."

Cass stood. She looked at Tiff and jerked her head toward the door, one clean motion. Tiff was already moving, and came around the chair toward the entry. Cass walked ahead of her, heels back on the tile, not hurrying, not looking at him again. Her shoulders were straight, her chin level. At the door she stopped with her hand on the knob and turned her head just enough.

"Nigga, fuck you."

~~~

The AC ran steady, pushing cool air through the room in a slow drift. Caine was on the couch with his back against the armrest and his legs stretched out along the cushions, one foot resting on the coffee table. Laney sat straddling his lap facing him, her weight settled easy, her heels hooked loosely at the back of his calves. His hands rested on her thighs, fingers loose. She had her phone up in both hands, thumbs working, brow faint with concentration.

He watched the side of her face for a moment. "Trying to figure out what your cover story is going to be today?"

Laney snorted without looking up. She shook her head once, a small motion. "No." Her thumbs kept moving. "I stuck with what was workin'."

"I'm gonna start thinking you really going up to them people hospital trying to get pregnant."

She looked up from the phone then. The smirk came slow, pulling at one side of her mouth. "You scared to be a daddy again?"

Caine laughed. His hands shifted slightly on her thighs. "More like not trying to fuck with you if you out here trying to find a way to give your husband another kid."

Laney rolled her eyes and dropped her gaze back to the screen. "I'd kill myself before I did that."

"That's a little extreme, ain't it?"

She shrugged, one shoulder. "Gotta do what you gotta do."

She stayed with the phone another few seconds, thumb going still, then set it face down on the cushion beside his hip. Her hand went to her hair, fingers raking through once from the root, then she brought both palms down to his chest and let them rest there, fingers loosely curled, using him as a brace.

She looked at him directly, just holding his gaze. "Maybe I'm tryin' to plant a seed in your head. That when this is all over, you should find somethin' that can last you forever." She let the pause stretch out between them before she finished it. "Not somethin' else like this."

Caine held her eyes. "Ain't nothing wrong with this."

Laney's jaw shifted. "There's plenty wrong with this, Caine. It ain't good for me." Her thumbs pressed lightly against his shirt. "And it ain't good for you. But that's why you want it. Me, too."

He stared at her for a moment. He let the silence sit for a second, then said, "You sound like you been reading self-help books."

Laney laughed, her head dropping forward once before she brought it back up. "Lord. The only thing worse to my daddy than me fuckin' 'round behind my husband's back would be me lookin' for help somewhere other than in Paul's gospel."

Caine shook his head, the corner of his mouth pulling up. "Laney, if I wanted something else then I'd be going get it." His hands moved on her thighs, slow, lazy passes. "I got plenty options out there. I'm fine where I'm at."

She looked at him for a moment, her palms still flat on his chest, studying his face. Then she leaned down. The kiss started slow, mouths barely pressing, and then she deepened it, one hand sliding up to his jaw, holding it there for a full beat before she pulled back. She stayed close.

"You gonna look back on this in a couple years," she said, quiet, "and know that you wasted your time with me."

Caine snorted through his nose. He looked at the ceiling for a second, then back at her face. He didn't say anything.

Laney leaned back until she was upright again, her weight settling, and picked up her phone from the cushion. She unlocked it and something on the screen tightened her expression, mouth going flat.

She shook her head at it, a small motion. Then she glanced up at him. "You want another single mama to fuck? 'Cause this woman Emily I just met at the PTA is gettin' on my last nerve with all this damn complainin'."

Caine raised an eyebrow, tracking the pivot. He let a beat pass. "You trying to pimp me out?"

Laney laughed, her head tilting back for a second. "Jesus would probably forgive me if I shared good dick with other lonely women." She looked back at her phone, still smiling. "'Specially a single one."

[Soapy]

The same woman who’d tried everything she could to send Caine to prison for the rest of his life and then went home and probably didn’t miss a wink of sleep

lack of accountability is astounding

Trell pack finna be potent

[Captain Canada]

Trell catching one to the dome and Mireya spiralling out over it is going to shake the block.

Caine and Laney's entanglement still weirds me out, but alas.

[redsox907]

Trell ain't getting whacked that easy, Caes wouldn't have done all this build up on him just to off him

my money is on Mireya getting caught up in it. I ain't saying he getting murked, but something gonna happen

Laney still stupid. So is Caine. Like the pussy can't be that good boy, you cracking every sorority girl from Statesboro to Athens, yet you content to be the side dude to a woman with 3 kids and a family that would rather string you up?

Also strange that boy Caes and Soap had a baby born on the same day

[Caesar]

The same woman who’d tried everything she could to send Caine to prison for the rest of his life and then went home and probably didn’t miss a wink of sleep

lack of accountability is astounding

Trell pack finna be potent

Did she not????? She was using an unreliable witness to try to give Caine over 100 years.

Trell catching one to the dome and Mireya spiralling out over it is going to shake the block.

Caine and Laney's entanglement still weirds me out, but alas.

Is she not spiraling now?

What if that's the point?

Trell ain't getting whacked that easy, Caes wouldn't have done all this build up on him just to off him

my money is on Mireya getting caught up in it. I ain't saying he getting murked, but something gonna happen

Laney still stupid. So is Caine. Like the pussy can't be that good boy, you cracking every sorority girl from Statesboro to Athens, yet you content to be the side dude to a woman with 3 kids and a family that would rather string you up?

Also strange that boy Caes and Soap had a baby born on the same day

Maybe there's a reason Caine chooses Laney over single, child-less college bitches.

Soapy posted his update second so he copied me.