Cass turned the SUV down the row of storage units and drove slow, tires grinding over loose asphalt. The units ran identical on both sides, corrugated metal doors painted the same faded orange, numbers stenciled in white near the top of each one, a few with padlocks visible, most looking untouched.
She pulled to a stop at the far end where the row dead-ended against a chain-link fence topped with razor wire and killed the engine. She sat for a second with her eyes on the mirrors, checking the lane behind her, then grabbed her purse off the passenger seat and got out.
The air was cool and carried the faint smell of rust and standing water from the drainage ditch behind the fence. She dug into her purse as she walked, fingers sorting past her phone and a pack of gum until they found the key and fit it into the padlock. The shackle popped when she turned it. She worked the lock off the latch, set it on the ground beside her foot, bent down, gripped the handle at the bottom of the door, and shoved it up hard enough that the rollers caught twice before the metal folded back on itself and stayed.
Racks lined both walls of the unit with garment bags hanging from them in tight rows, the plastic sheeting catching what light came through the entrance. Men's clothes on the left, women's on the right, tags from designers she'd memorized years ago peeking out where the plastic didn't cover all the way. Two safes sat side by side on the concrete at the back, the one on the left tall and narrow with a keypad on its face, the other shorter and squat with a combination dial.
She reached up and pulled the door back down behind her, the metal hitting the concrete with a dull bang that killed the daylight and moved through the dark toward the back wall with her hand out until her fingers found the pull chain for the overhead bulb. One tug and the yellow wash jumped over everything, shadows swinging behind the racks before they settled.
She knelt in front of the shorter safe with her knees pressing into the cold concrete and spun the dial right, then left, then right again, each number hitting its stop with a click she felt more than heard. The handle gave when she pulled it down and the door swung open to rows of vacuum-sealed bricks packed tight against each other, plastic shrunken around the bills so the denominations showed through in compressed stacks.
She counted the rows with her eyes, then stood and walked to the rack on the right side of the unit where a Birkin tote hung from the end of the rod by its handles, lifted it off, and carried it back to the open safe.
She pulled the bricks out one at a time and loaded them into the tote, each one dense and firm in her hand, the plastic slick under her fingers as she filled the bottom of the bag first and then stacked the next layer on top, pressing them down to make room. When the safe was empty she ran her palm flat across the back corners to make sure nothing sat behind the last row, then closed the door and spun the dial.
The gun safe's keypad glowed faint green when she stood in front of it and punched in four digits with her thumb. The lock released with a heavy thunk and the door swung open on handguns sitting in foam cutouts along the interior shelves.
She reached in and took two pistols, turned each one in her hand to feel the weight, then set them into the tote on top of the sealed money and pressed the gun safe's door shut until the handle caught.
She carried the tote back toward the entrance with the weight of it pulling at her shoulder, reached up for the pull chain with her free hand, and tugged it. The bulb cut out and left her in the dark for the two steps it took to bend down and roll the door up from the inside, metal scraping along its track until daylight flooded back in across her shoes and the concrete floor.
~~~
Ramon stood near the edge of the yard with a cup in his hand, his back to the chain-link fence that separated the property from the sidewalk. The house behind him pushed bass through every window and crack in the siding, the walls vibrating with it, and bodies filled the yard in clusters that shifted and reformed every time someone moved toward the coolers or the card table set up near the driveway.
Cars lined both sides of the street with their doors open, music competing from three or four systems at once until none of it won and all of it blended into a single wall of sound that sat heavy in the air.
Tyree leaned against the hood of a Charger parked at the curb with his drink in one hand and a woman backing into him, her hips rolling slow against his thighs while her phone stayed in her other hand, screen glowing against her palm. He let her work, his free hand resting on her shoulder, his chin lifted while he watched ther.
Zo stood a few feet off with a woman tucked into his side, her arm looped through his, her nails catching the light from the porch every time she shifted her grip. Peewee and Chris flanked them, both newer, both trying to look comfortable in the space the older members carved out for them.
Peewee sipped from stacked double cups, the syrup pulling slow through the ice as he tilted them back. He lowered the cups and ran his tongue across his bottom lip. "You'd think with all the money niggas making that we could at least make sure they got enough bitches for everyone."
Ramon snorted a laugh into his cup.
The woman next to Zo turned her head. "Who you calling a bitch, nigga?"
Peewee looked at her over the rim of the cups. "You, bitch."
She pulled her arm free from Zo's and started to step away, but Zo caught her by the waist and pulled her back against him before she got a full step off. "Chill out." He paused just long enough for her to look up at him. "Bitch."
She rolled her eyes and stayed where she was, her arm folding across her chest, her weight settling back into his side.
Tyree grabbed the woman dancing on him by the hip and moved her to the side, guiding her off him with one hand until she stood next to the car instead of against him. "Unless you ready to get fucked, you gotta give me a bit."
She laughed, loud and unbothered, and leaned against the fender with her arms crossed. Her eyes stayed on him.
Ramon looked at Tyree but kept his voice loud enough for the rest of them to hear it over the music. "Trell fucking with them bitch ass niggas from 110."
Tyree's jaw shifted and he straightened off the hood of the Charger. "Who told you that? That nigga Ant's nigga?"
Zo's eyebrows pulled together. "Fifth Ward Ant gay?"
"He fucking a tranny bitch," Tyree said.
Chris shook his head once. "That don't mean he gay. That's a woman."
Tyree sucked his teeth and pointed at Chris with the hand holding his drink, the liquid sloshing once against the rim. "Shut your ass up, new nigga. That shit gay."
The woman leaning against the Charger tilted her head toward Tyree. "Y'all niggas stuck in the 50s. All women are women."
The woman under Zo's arm didn't hesitate. "Bitch, that's a nigga."
Tyree turned to Zo with his palm open toward both women. "C'mon. We gotta switch."
Ramon waved his hand, cutting through whatever was about to come next. "That ain't the fucking point, nigga. Dez bitch ass told me. We can't be getting no work for a nigga fucking with the other side."
Tyree took a drink and let the cup come down slow. "It don't even matter. Duke ain't gonna green light that nigga. You might as well say he in the 3 at this point."
"I wasn't saying we need to go kill that nigga tonight, bruh." Ramon shifted his weight against the fence, the chain-link pressing into his back through his shirt. "I'm just putting it out there that he doing business with the opps."
"Dez ain't no reliable source either," Tyree said. "That nigga a pussy."
Ramon nodded, his cup resting against his thigh. "I know. We gotta wait and see before we take it to Duke."
The conversation died there and the party filled the gap back in, bass and voices and the scrape of someone dragging a cooler across concrete. Peewee let the lull sit for a few seconds, then looked up from his cups.
"Ain't Fifth Ward Ant supposed to be some kind of crazy stepper?" he asked. "And he be getting dick punched in him?"
Ramon looked down at the ground and shook his head.
Tyree turned on Peewee. "Nigga, why you worried about if a nigga getting fucked? That shit gay, too."
Peewee's shoulders came up. "I was just asking."
Zo looked down at the woman still holding on to his side and tipped his head toward Peewee and Chris. "See how these new niggas be acting?"
~~~
Mireya had her back against Caine's chest, her hips rolling into him with the bass that shook through the floor and up through the soles of her shoes. Bodies packed the living room shoulder to shoulder, the air thick with sweat and cologne and the sharp bite of whatever someone had spilled near the speakers.
She dropped low and came back up slow, her hand finding his thigh on the way, her shoulders working against him in a rhythm that came from knowing he was watching. Caine held his cup up over the crowd with one hand and kept the other on her hip, his fingers pressing into the skin exposed there between her jeans and hoodie, his eyes on the curve of her ass as she moved.
She turned around to face him with a smile already set on her mouth, reached up behind his neck with one hand, and pulled his head down until her lips were close enough to his ear that the music couldn't swallow what she said. "Me alegra ver que sigo poniéndote a mil, incluso con tu blanquita."
Caine laughed, the sound vibrating against her fingers where they pressed into the back of his neck. "Como si no te estuvieras mojando solo de pensarlo."
Mireya leaned back far enough to look him in the eyes and winked, slow and deliberate, then reached over and took his cup out of his hand. She looked down into it, swirled what was left, and said, "You need another drink."
She tipped the cup back and finished it in one long pull, then handed the empty cup back to him with both eyebrows raised.
Caine put his hand at the small of her back and steered them both through the house, cutting between groups that closed behind them as fast as they opened. Guys reached out to dap him up as he passed, hands appearing from the crowd to catch his fist or his palm, voices calling his name or just nodding when their eyes met.
A cluster of girls near the hallway watched him come through, their conversation dying mid-sentence when they saw Mireya's hand hooked into his back pocket, and their eyes lingered for a second before they turned away and picked back up where they'd left off.
The kitchen was louder than the living room in a different register, all voices and laughter and the crack of someone slamming a can on the counter. Caine found the bottles lined up near the sink, poured Mireya's drink first and handed the cup to her, then refilled his own, the liquor catching the overhead light for a second before he capped it.
Mireya took a sip, then tilted her head toward the back door. "C'mon, let's go outside for a minute. It smell like dog in here."
Caine laughed and followed her through the back door into the yard where the air hit them cold and clean after the heat inside. They found a corner near a stack of old pallets leaning against the fence, away from the knots of people smoking and talking closer to the house.
Caine sat down on the pallets, the wood creaking under his weight, and Mireya stepped between his feet and faced him with her cup held against her chest, his knees pressing against the outside of her thighs.
"Do you get tired of everyone being all in your face every day?" she asked.
Caine shook his head. "It ain't that bad. It's just after the games when everyone on ten. That shit will die down by the morning."
Mireya nodded and took a sip of her drink, her eyes drifting to the side where a couple sat tangled together in a busted lawn chair, mouths pressed together, hands moving under clothes. She watched them for a second, then turned back to Caine. "You remember when you had your first game at Carver and you were up all night because you were scared that you were going to fuck up?"
Caine sucked his teeth. "I ain't never been scared. Don't start lying on me now. I'm gonna have to get on IG and talk about my bitter baby mama."
Mireya smacked him on the chest with her free hand, the sound flat against his shirt. "Don't call me that."
Caine held his hands up, cup tilting in one of them. "You know what I meant."
Mireya's mouth softened but her eyes stayed on his, something moving behind them. "Sometimes, I don't even recognize you. When I'm here? Everyone knows you."
"Think they know me," Caine said. He gestured around them with his cup, taking in the yard, the house, the noise spilling from every window. "Most of these people know I play football good. That's it."
Mireya nodded, bringing her cup back to her lips for another sip, her throat working as she swallowed. "And it's going to be more people wherever you go right?"
Caine shrugged, his hands settling back on his knees. "Depends on where I go. They got big schools in little towns."
Mireya snorted a laugh. "You ain't going to another little town." The laugh left her face and she looked away from him, past the fence, past the yard, at something that wasn't there. "Sometimes, that's what I'm worried about the most. You not recognizing me anymore."
Caine's eyebrows pulled together. "¿A qué te refieres?"
Mireya looked back at him, her eyes finding his and holding there. "Tengo algo que decirte."
Caine set his cup down on the pallets beside him and put one hand on her hip, the other coming up to her face. His palm cupped her cheek and his thumb moved back and forth along her jaw, slow and steady, his eyes searching hers for whatever she was carrying. She stared at him, her mouth open just enough that the words should have come next, and then she closed it. Her jaw worked once under his hand.
She shook her head. "Nevermind, it's nothing."
"Puedes contarme lo que quieras," Caine said.
Mireya leaned into his hand for a moment, her cheek pressing into his palm, her eyes closing. Then she reached up and pulled his hand away from her face, folding her fingers through his and bringing their joined hands down to her side. "Lo sé. It was just something about Camila. You know she's been acting out lately."
Caine stared at her for a long moment, his eyes still on hers, reading whatever she was and wasn't giving him. Then he nodded. "We can talk about it in the morning before y'all go."
Mireya smiled, the tension in her face loosening as she nodded over her shoulder toward the street. "Let's go to your Lexus and have some fun, papi."
Caine smiled. "Papi, huh?"
Mireya laughed and grabbed his hand, pulling him up off the pallets and toward where he'd parked.
~~~
Trell sat low in the patio chair with his glass resting on the armrest, his fingers loose around the rim, the ice shifting every time the condensation made the glass slip a fraction against his skin. Ant sat beside him in the other chair with his own drink balanced on his thigh, his legs stretched toward the fence where the yard ended and the bayou began.
The pool between them and the water sat dark and still, the underwater lights off, the surface catching nothing but the glow from the kitchen window behind them. Past the fence, the bayou moved slow and black under the trees, the current pulling leaves along in a line that disappeared where the streetlight from the opposite bank didn't reach.
Trell lifted his glass and took a sip, the whiskey warm going down, then set it back on the armrest and looked out at the water. "You remember when we were like 7, 8 years old and that motherfucker Jakoby started talking all that shit when we were playing 21?"
Ant snorted a laugh, the sound coming through his nose before it reached his mouth. "Yeah, I remember that bitch ass nigga. He said you were cheating because you kept hand checking him."
Trell's chest moved with the laugh before it came out. "I was handchecking him. We wasn't playing ball in no gym with white folks, the fuck he thought shit was?"
"Nigga ain't never let that ass whupping go, even when we got to high school," Ant said. He turned his glass in his hand, the ice knocking once against the side.
"That's because I kept fucking his bitch." Trell lifted one finger off the glass and pointed it at nothing in particular, the gesture idle, aimed at the memory more than the yard. "Everytime that nigga put out there he had a new lil' yeah, I went after her to fuck. Worked every fucking time."
Ant tilted his head back against the chair. "Except for that one bitch. What was her name? Kimonie?"
Trell sucked his teeth. "She ain't want to let a nigga hit for nothing. Talking about she saving herself for marriage." He shook his head once, slow, his jaw working around the memory. "Got her ass when we were at Dillard, though. Bitch wasn't even no virgin."
Ant shook his head and brought his drink to his mouth, taking a long sip that let the conversation sit where it was for a few seconds. The bayou kept moving behind the fence, the current dragging something through the reeds that scratched once against the posts and then went on. He lowered the glass and held it in his lap.
"Jakoby was the first nigga I shot, too," Ant said.
Trell nodded, his eyes still on the water. "I missed that nigga. Hit his homeboy. K'von?" He paused, his thumb rubbing the edge of the glass. "I actually saw that nigga the other day, standing on the corner with his little cardboard box trying to get money."
"Should've killed that nigga so his people ain't have to see him on the corner like a clucker," Ant said.
"Facts."
Trell set his glass down on the table between their chairs, the base landing with a soft tap against the metal. He looked over at Ant. "We been in this shit for a long time, brudda."
"Going on 15, 20 years," Ant said.
Trell reached into his pocket and pulled out a key, small and brass, the kind that fit a lockbox. He held it between his thumb and index finger for a second, then slid it across the table toward Ant, the metal scraping faintly against the surface until it came to rest near Ant's glass. "That's for you. Just to let you know I know you a day one nigga."
Ant looked at the key on the table, then reached for it and picked it up. He turned it over between his fingers, feeling the teeth against the pad of his thumb, the weight of it barely there but the meaning sitting heavier. He slid it into his pocket and let his hand come back to his drink. "Talking like you worried that nigga Meechie gonna kill you."
Trell snorted a laugh that rolled up from somewhere deep in his chest. "Fuck no. I ain't made it this far to be taken out by no nigga that probably done fucked on his cousin."
Ant's laugh came quieter, a low chuckle that shook his shoulders once before it settled. "Appreciate it, though, brudda."
Trell reached across the table and Ant met him there, their hands clasping and pulling once before they let go. Trell picked his glass back up off the table, the condensation wetting his fingers, and brought it to his mouth for another sip, his eyes drifting back to the bayou where the dark water kept moving past the fence, carrying whatever it carried without stopping.
~~~
Rylee lay across the bed with her phone held above her face, thumb dragging slow through posts and stories she'd already half-seen, the screen bright enough to wash the rest of the room out. Her hair was still pinned from the night and the makeup she hadn't taken off sat dry and cracked at the corners of her eyes. She'd kicked the covers down to her waist at some point and her legs were bare against the sheets, one foot hanging off the edge of the mattress.
She dropped the phone onto her chest and reached over to the nightstand, pulling the drawer open. Her fingers found the joint and the lighter by feel, the weed rolled tight in a cone she'd tucked in there two days ago. She sat up against the headboard, brought the joint under her nose, and inhaled.
Her stomach turned before the smell even finished registering. She gagged hard, her throat clenching, her chin dropping toward her chest as her body tried to reject something that hadn't entered it. She blinked the water from her eyes and held the joint out at arm's length, staring at it. Her eyebrows pulled together. She brought it back under her nose, slower this time, just barely grazing the paper with her upper lip as she inhaled again.
The second pass was worse. Her stomach heaved up into her ribs and she clamped her mouth shut, swallowing against it, the back of her hand pressing hard into her lips until the wave passed and left her sitting there with spit pooling under her tongue and her breath coming sharp through her nose.
Her eyes moved across the room, landing on nothing, skipping from the closet door to the window to the dresser and back while her thumb was already moving on her phone. She opened the period tracker app and stared at the calendar, the colored dots and circles mapped out across the weeks. She counted the days from the last mark, her thumb tapping along the row, then counted them again.
She dropped her head into both hands, fingers pressing into her temples, the joint still pinched between two of them, the phone face-up in her lap with the calendar glowing.
"Fuck."
…
The pharmacy bag crinkled against Rylee's wrist as she came up the porch steps to Laney's house. She stopped at the door and looked back over her shoulder toward the driveway, scanning for Tommy's truck. The spot where he parked sat empty, oil stain visible on the concrete even in the dark. She turned back to the door, dug her key out of her pocket, and fit it into the lock.
The door swung open and the alarm started its entry countdown, the beeping steady and sharp in the front hall. She stepped inside, shut the door behind her with her hip, and crossed to the panel on the wall. She punched in the code and the beeping stopped, leaving the house quiet.
She stood in the hallway and listened, hearing nothing but the refrigerator humming from the kitchen and a clock ticking from somewhere deeper in the house. No footsteps overhead, no television, no water running. She started down the hall toward the guest bathroom, her shoes pressing into the carpet, the pharmacy bag held tight against her side. She slipped through the bathroom door and pulled it closed behind her, the latch catching with a soft sound.
She set the bag on the counter and pulled out the box, turning it over once to find the opening, then tore the cardboard along the seam. The test came out in its foil wrapper and she peeled that open too, the plastic stick landing in her palm. She read the instructions on the back of the box even though she already knew, then set the box down and went to sit on the toilet.
When she finished, she set the test face-up on the counter next to the sink and sat back down on the closed lid, her hands folded between her knees. The bathroom was small enough that she could see the result window from where she sat, the little oval still blank, the liquid moving through the strip at a pace that was the opposite of how bad she needed to know.
She watched it. One line appeared first, faint and then darker as the dye settled, a single vertical mark in the left side of the window. She kept her eyes on the right side. The seconds pulled and stretched and the test sat there with its one line and its empty space and then the second line came in, thinner at first, bleeding into focus until it matched the first, the two of them sitting parallel and certain in the little window. The digital reader below it filled in a beat later. PREGNANT.
Rylee rolled her lips into her mouth and pressed them together, her jaw tightening around whatever sound she'd been about to make. She reached for the test, picked it up, opened the cabinet under the sink, and tossed it into the garbage can on top of the trash bag lining. The cabinet door swung shut.
She grabbed her phone off the counter and walked back out of the bathroom, down the hall, through the front room. She punched the alarm code back in, opened the front door, and stepped out onto the porch with her arms wrapped around her stomach, the pharmacy bag left behind on the counter where she'd set it down.
