Certior Factus
Ramon sat on the trunk of his car, the metal warm under the backs of his thighs. A quarter moved easy between his fingers, edge catching the light each time it rolled over his knuckles.
Tyree’s car was pulled up close. He leaned on his driver’s door, one shoulder against it, the other pushed off just enough to keep his balance. Two white Styrofoam cups doubled up in his hand sweated down the sides. The ice inside knocked together every time he shifted to take a sip.
At the end of the driveway, where the concrete met the street, E.J. walked the same short strip of ground over and over.
Ramon watched E.J. clock another lap. The quarter snagged once on his finger and stalled there.
“Say, nigga. Can you sit your ass down or something?” Ramon called, voice flat. “I’m tired of seeing your bitch ass walking back and forth.”
E.J. didn’t stop right away. He finished the step he was in, heel coming down on the crack again, then looked over his shoulder. His jaw bunched. He dragged his tongue over his teeth but didn’t answer.
Tyree snorted, a rough sound that came out around the rim of his cups. He pushed off the car a little, shoulders rolling as he laughed.
“He still boodaying because his white bitch said she wanna leave his ass,” Tyree said.
E.J.’s head snapped up fully at that. He turned toward Tyree, shoulders squaring, one hand coming out of his pocket with his fingers flexing.
“I’ll bat the piss out you, yeah.” His voice came out louder, carrying a little down the block.
Tyree just shook his head, lips curling. He shifted his weight back against the car, free hand sliding into his pocket.
“Nigga, you can’t fight. Shut yo stupid ass up,” he said. He glanced E.J. up and down once, gaze lingering on the pace grooves starting to show in the dust at the edge of the driveway.
Ramon let the corner of his mouth twitch. The quarter started moving again between his fingers. He watched E.J. stand there, caught between walking and staying, then shook his head.
“I told you the other day, if her ass wanna leave, let her leave, nigga,” Ramon said. “I ain’t on no Tyree shit, but if she running now, she ain’t built to hold you down.”
“Says the nigga sitting outside some bitch house who trying to put us all in jail,” E.J. said.
The quarter stopped between Ramon’s fingers. The little disc of metal sat pressed flat against his thumb. His gaze lifted to E.J., eyes narrowing.
“Hold up.” His voice dropped, the edge sharpening. He slid off the trunk and stood up, hand closing around the quarter. “Watch that bitch shit. I ain’t call that white girl nothing. Call the bitches Tyree fucking bitches. He said that.”
Tyree’s hand came up, palm out, cups balanced in his other hand.
“Bitches is bitches.”
“I ain’t even gonna lie to y’all,” E.J. said. His eyes dropped to a spot on the pavement near his shoe, then back up. “I might go with her.”
Tyree sucked his teeth. He let his head fall back against the top of the car, staring up at the hazy sky before he looked back down.
“Damn, nigga. The pussy ain’t that good. Can’t possibly be,” he said.
Ramon slid the quarter into his pocket. Both hands went to the edge of the trunk as he leaned his weight there.
“It’s for life in this shit, brudda,” he said. “Just like I told that nigga Ant. Ain’t no turning your back on the 3.”
E.J. shifted again, sneaker scraping. His gaze drifted past them, up toward the empty porch, then down the block.
“I could go to Houston or something,” he said. “Clique up with them niggas there.”
Tyree pushed off his car fully now, turning his body to face E.J. square. The cups dangled from his fingers, the liquid inside sloshing.
“So, you gonna follow that white b—girl to Houston and still be on the block?” he asked. “Ain’t she leaving because she scared?”
“I ain’t about to go work at McDonald’s,” E.J. said.
Ramon’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “Then sound like you need to stay your ass where you at, nigga.”
Tyree nodded once, sharp. He tipped his cups toward E.J. like a toast, the ice clicking.
“Facts,” he said. “Let that white girl go. They got plenty of milk in the city. Go get you a Tulane bitch instead.”
E.J. didn’t answer. He turned away from them again, shoulders tight. His feet found the same path.
~~~
Caine sat at the bar with his plate in front of him, the edge of the stool pressing into his thighs. The TV over the bottles ran a baseball game with the sound turned low, crowd noise leaking out in a steady murmur. Silverware clinked from a few tables behind him, the faint scrape of chairs and the soft whine of the kitchen door swinging open and shut.
He picked up one half of his club sandwich and took a bite, bread giving way under his teeth, bacon hard enough to crack. Mayo slicked the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with the side of his thumb and kept his eyes on the bartender as she moved down the length of the bar.
She was talking to a couple of guys three stools over, hand on the tap, ponytail swinging every time she shifted. Her laugh carried just enough to reach him. When she turned to grab two longnecks from the cooler behind her, she bent at the waist. Caine’s gaze followed the line of her back down, the curve of her ass in black jeans. His eyebrows lifted on instinct, a small appreciative tilt.
She straightened, bottles in hand, and walked off toward the other end. The light caught her earrings. Caine took another bite, slow, chewing while his eyes drifted back to the TV.
The stool on his right creaked and scraped against the floor. An arm reached across in front of him, forearm brushing the edge of his plate to grab one of the laminated menus from the holder near the napkins. Caine’s jaw kept moving. He swallowed before he turned his head.
Tommy sat down beside him, the stool complaining again under the shift of weight. The uniform was full on, top tucked clean, name tape across the chest, boots laced tight.
Caine didn’t say anything. He set the sandwich back on the plate, fingers loosening off the bread, and wiped his hand once on his napkin. The TV camera panned across a field of white uniforms and red caps.
“I thought they would have private chefs for your type around here,” Tommy said. He didn’t look over when he said it. He flipped the menu open with his thumb and let it rest against the bar with a soft slap.
Caine snorted a laugh, the sound short. He reached for his drink, condensation already sliding down the glass, and took a sip. “You know who I am and I know who you are,” he said. “Stall me out with the fake intimidation shit. Gonna fuck up my lunch.”
Tommy’s mouth tugged at one corner. He kept reading the menu, eyes tracking the lines. “You know you’re not the first,” he said.
Caine picked the sandwich back up, fingers pressing into the toasted bread, and took another bite. He chewed while he talked, voice easy. “Probably ain’t gonna be the last either,” he said. “Experienced pussy is better pussy anyway.”
He set the sandwich down, wiped his fingers again, and looked over at Tommy full on. “But I heard you don’t be fucking her. So you might not know.”
Tommy finally turned his head, eyes landing on Caine’s face. His expression didn’t move much, just a small flattening around his eyes. “You’re as stupid as you look if you think you have some kind of high ground in this.”
Caine shook his head once, slow. His hand dropped back to the bar and tapped once near his plate.
“Nah, I don’t think that. I just don’t give a fuck. This ain’t no you go low, we go high shit.” He leaned an inch closer, enough that Tommy could smell grease and bread on his breath. “I could get that blonde bitch you be sneaking around with to fuck, too.”
Tommy set the menu down flat on the bar. His fingers smoothed once over the front of it, then he turned on the stool. “This tough guy act is amusing,” he said. “Does that come with the little charges you got? What was it? Possession with intent?”
The question came quiet but pointed. His gaze didn’t leave Caine’s.
The bartender walked up before Caine answered, towel over her shoulder, pen tucked behind her ear. She glanced at Tommy’s uniform, then at his face. “You want anything, hon?” she asked.
Tommy didn’t look away from Caine. He lifted his hand and pointed at Caine’s plate with two fingers. “I’ll have what he’s got.”
The bartender nodded. “Alright, baby.” She wrote it down and moved away, calling the order toward the kitchen window.
Caine watched her go for a second, eyes dropping again to the swing of her hips. He reached for his sandwich and took another bite, chewing while he turned back to Tommy. “Possession? Let’s just say we both been shot at.”
Tommy stared at him, unreadable. The ice in Caine’s glass clicked once as the cube melted and shifted. Somewhere down the bar, someone dropped a fork and muttered an apology. Tommy’s jaw worked once before he shook his head. “I’m not surprised at all.”
Caine’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. He wiped his fingers on the napkin again, folding it once before setting it beside his plate. He looked at Tommy, eyes steady. “I ain’t bothered by you. You just another white man mad because his wife was getting dick punched in her,” he said. “The shit over. If you got a problem with me, talk it out with your crackhead ass brother and fuck outta my face.”
Tommy huffed something that might’ve been a laugh. The corner of his mouth pulled up into a smirk. He gave a small nod. “Same as all the others.”
He pushed back from the bar. The stool legs scraped loud against the floor as he stood. Without another look at Caine, he walked around the curve of the bar and dropped onto an empty stool farther down, back turning into one more body in the room.
The bartender came back to Caine, her tray empty now. She stopped in front of him and tipped her chin toward his glass. “You need a refill on that?”
Caine picked up the glass, the bottom ring of sweat leaving a mark on the wood. He held it out to her without hesitation. “Yeah, thanks.”
~~~
Mireya parked tight against the curb, killed the engine and sat for half a second with her hands still on the wheel. Heat pushed at the glass. The air from the vents faded fast once the car shut off.
“Come on, mi amor.” She twisted in her seat and reached back. “We here.”
Camila kicked her sneakers against the back of the seat once, then leaned forward, arms already reaching. Mireya unbuckled her, slid an arm under her legs and hauled her over the center console into the front. Camila’s hair brushed Mireya’s shoulder, beads clicking against the strap of her bag.
The door gave a soft groan when Mireya pushed it open with her hip. She stepped out, heels touching the warm concrete, and shifted Camila’s weight to one arm. The late light sat low, bright across the front of Sara’s building, turning the railings a dull glare.
“All right, stand up,” Mireya said.
She bent and set Camila on her feet. Camila’s hand automatically went to the side of the car to steady herself. Mireya closed the door with a firm push, checked the lock, then reached down and caught Camila’s small hand.
“Hold on to me, baby,” she said.
Camila’s fingers curled tight around hers. They crossed the short strip of sidewalk and cut along the building toward Sara’s door. Somewhere down the block, a radio played low through an open window, the bass a little fuzzy. The light over Sara’s unit hummed, casting a yellow ring over the door and the welcome mat.
Mireya knocked twice with her knuckles and then turned the knob. “Somos nosotras,” she called, pushing the door open.
Cooler air met them first, scented with onion and something richer underneath. Sara stood at the stove, one hand on a wooden spoon, the other braced at her hip. A pot steamed in front of her, lid tipped just enough for the heat to curl out.
“Abuela Sara!” Camila squealed.
Her hand slipped from Mireya’s and she bolted across the room, sneakers thumping over the rug. Sara’s head turned at the sound. She set the spoon down quick, wiped her palm on a dish towel and squatted, arms already open.
“Hola, bebé,” she said.
Camila crashed into her. Sara scooped her up, arms wrapping around the small body. Camila giggled high when Sara’s fingers found her ribs and tickled, squeals bouncing off the walls. Sara pressed a kiss against her cheek, then another, her nose buried for a beat in Camila’s curls.
“All right, all right,” Sara said, laughing low in her chest as she eased the child back a little. “Go watch TV while I finish cooking.”
She set Camila down on her feet, steadying her with a hand on her shoulder. Camila nodded, eyes already darting toward the living room.
“Okay,” Camila said, and then she was gone, darting around the couch toward the glow of the television. The theme song of a cartoon floated back a second later.
Sara straightened slowly, one hand braced at her thigh for a moment as she pushed up. She turned toward the stove, then shifted her gaze to Mireya still by the door.
“Long night tonight?” Sara asked.
Mireya stepped farther into the apartment, letting the door close behind her with a soft click. She slid the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder and rolled one stiff spot out of her neck.
“Probably,” she said. “I’m not sure yet. Have to see what jobs we’re at.”
Sara lifted her chin, then curled two fingers in a small gesture.
“Come here,” she said.
Mireya crossed the room, the heels clicking against the floor. She came to lean against the counter beside Sara, one hip resting there, arms folding loosely across her chest.
“You need to sleep, mija,” Sara said.
She reached for the spoon again, gave the pot a slow stir. The smell of garlic and browned meat rose up. She glanced at Mireya’s face, eyes taking her in, then went back to the swirl of sauce.
“I can see how tired you are on your face,” she added.
Mireya blew out a breath through her nose and dropped her gaze to the countertop. Her lashes felt heavy over her eyes.
“I’m just trying to get as much as possible before the next semester starts.”
Sara’s mouth tugged, almost a smile, almost something else. Her eyes dropped to Mireya’s hands resting against her own ribs. The nails flashed soft under the kitchen light, a bold glossy color against her skin.
She reached over and took Mireya’s hand gentle in hers, turning it to see better.
“I like this color,” Sara said. “Makes you look all luxurious.”
Mireya’s fingers flexed in Sara’s grip, the acrylic smooth when she ran her thumb over it. She looked down at the set, the shine catching, then snorted a quiet laugh.
“I don’t know if I like it,” she said. “But it might grow on me.”
Sara shrugged one shoulder. “Or you get some different ones.”
She let Mireya’s hand go, fingers trailing off her wrist as she turned back to the stove. She lifted the lid on the pot and tilted it, checking, then set it back down. The simmer smoothed out again.
“Speaking of work,” Mireya said.
She shifted her weight, uncrossing and recrossing her arms. The bag strap creaked quietly where it lay against her shoulder.
“I wasn’t able to get next week off,” she went on. “Can you take Camila to Statesboro?”
Sara turned her head, brow pulling just a little as she looked at her. The spoon paused mid-stir for a beat.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “We can go a different week when you have it off.”
Mireya’s eyes went past Sara, toward the edge of the couch where Camila’s foot was visible, kicking against the cushion in time with whatever she was watching. She pulled in a breath.
“Yeah,” she said. “I don’t want her to miss a whole week with him.”
Sara watched her a second longer, then turned her attention back to the pot. She nudged a piece of meat under the surface with the spoon.
“She likes when the two of you are together.”
Mireya’s jaw moved once, like she might chew on the inside of her cheek, then stopped. She let her hands drop to her sides and hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her jeans.
“I know,” she said. “But you know how work goes.”
Sara set the spoon down on the rest and wiped her hand on the towel hanging off the drawer pull. Then she turned again, closing the small distance between them. Her palm came up to Mireya’s cheek, fingers warm against her skin.
“Take it from me,” she said. “Even when we’re struggling, we can’t let work take over.”
Mireya leaned a fraction into the touch, the muscles at the back of her neck easing. She kept her eyes on Sara’s collarbone instead of her face.
“I’ll make it up to her for her birthday,” she said.
Sara’s eyes softened. She slid her hand from Mireya’s cheek to the back of her head, drawing her in just enough to press a kiss to her forehead.
“I’ll take her,” she said, voice low. “Be safe tonight at work, mija.”
Mireya closed her eyes. For a second she let herself stay there, the warmth of Sara’s mouth at her skin, the steady press of fingers at the base of her skull. The sounds from the living room went faint, her senses narrowing to the smell of food and Sara’s light perfume.
Then she stepped back, lifting her head. Her hand came up halfway, then fell.
“If it’s too late when I get off, I’ll just come back in the morning,” she said.
Sara nodded once, already reaching for the spoon again.
“We’ll be here.”
~~~
Trell stepped out of the back seat of Dez’s car, one hand on the door frame as he let his weight drop onto the hot concrete. The top level of the garage stretched out bare around them, lines of faded white paint, low wall at the edge, sky wide and bright. Wind pushed exhaust and heat up from the street below.
Cass stood a few parking spaces over beside her own car, body leaned into the metal, arms loose at her sides. Her trunk sat popped, lid lifted. Smurf posted a half step behind her at the rear quarter panel, shoulders squared, eyes moving slow from Trell to Dez’s car and back to the ramp.
Trell let the door swing shut behind him with a dull hollow sound. He rolled his shoulders once, getting the ride out of his back. His gaze slid over Cass and landed on Smurf, taking in the way the man stood, the set to his jaw, the hand near his hip.
“I ain’t got Ant with me but you got a nigga with you who might shoot me?” he said, a short laugh caught in his throat. “That’s fucked up, Cass.”
Smurf’s stare didn’t change. He shifted his feet just enough to plant them deeper. Cass’s mouth pulled into the hint of a smile without showing teeth. She tipped her head, eyes cutting up at him through lashes.
Dez shut his own door a beat later and came around to the back, sneakers scuffing the concrete. He popped the trunk and hauled a duffel bag out with both hands, straps creaking under the weight. His fingers tightened on the handles. He paused a second, shoulders tight, then started toward Cass’s car.
As he got closer, Cass straightened off the metal. She looked up fully for the first time. Both eyes sat bruised and dark, skin puffed under them where the color spread. Her bottom lip wore a scab, split line rough against the gloss she’d tried to smooth over it.
“He’s not out here for you, nigga,” she said, chin lifting. “He’s out here because you be letting crazy Mexican bitches sneak people.”
Trell’s gaze stayed on her face. The bruises didn’t move him. He huffed a laugh, breath pushing out quick through his nose. Wind dragged over the deck, catching the sound and thinning it.
“She ain’t sneak you,” he said. “You just don’t know how to fight.”
He snapped his fingers at Dez, a sharp click in the air, then pointed toward Cass’ open trunk. Dez jerked, adjusting his grip on the bag, and cut across the painted lines. The duffel bumped his leg with each step.
“This the shit to give to Tiff for her weird ass cousin,” Trell said to Cass.
Cass watched Dez come around to the back of her car. She didn’t step in to help. She just shifted enough to give him room. Dez swung the bag up and dropped it into the trunk. The thud echoed off the concrete and rolled out toward the empty rows. For a second his hand stayed on the canvas, palm flat, then he pulled it back and wiped it on his shorts.
“Tiff told Meechie what happened with your ho and Meechie said their other cousin Nijah coming down here to get her lick back,” Cass said. Her voice stayed even. “They say she a big bitch. Big six five bitch.”
“You better tell them not to come down here with that fuck shit unless they want to bury they cousin,” he said.
Smurf’s shoulders twitched once, almost a shrug. Cass laughed, the sound rough around the swelling in her face. She brought two fingers up and brushed the edge of her lip, then let her hand fall.
“You in love, nigga?” she asked.
Trell shook his head slowly. He took a couple of steps closer, closing part of the space between their cars, not enough to be in reach, just enough she’d have to look up a little more.
“I decide who touch my property,” he said. “And I said both you bitches just gotta take that L. Next time, maybe jump her so it’s a little fairer for you.”
Cass sucked her teeth, a short sharp click. She turned away from him, snapping her fingers once at Smurf. Smurf moved immediately. He came off the rear of the car and rounded to the driver’s side, hand going to the door handle. Cass walked to the passenger side with her shoulders still loose, coat shifting with her steps. She yanked the door open and dropped down into the seat, bruised eyes disappearing behind the glare on the glass when it swung shut.
Smurf slid in behind the wheel. The car dipped a little with his weight. He pulled the door in, leaving it just short of closed while he watched Trell through the gap, engine still silent.
Dez had drifted back toward Trell, hands empty now. He glanced once at Cass’s car, then at Trell’s face. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips. His fingers brushed over each other, restless, then stilled.
“You gonna tell Mireya they trying to jump her?” Dez asked.
Trell’s head turned, slow. He let his eyes run over Dez once, making the time stretch. The wind tugged at Dez’s shirt, plastering it against his chest for a second.
“Mind your fucking business, nigga,” Trell said. “I done told your ass about asking about my bitch.”
Dez’s jaw tightened. He dropped his gaze to the concrete between them, then off to the side where a cigarette butt sat ground flat near the line of the next space. His shoulders shifted.
Trell turned away from him without another look and started back toward Dez’s car.
Dez shook his head once, a small sharp movement, then fell in behind him, footsteps landing a half beat after Trell’s as he followed him to the car.
Brice Colton went out of his way to do this and almost got the girl raped. Caine fucked a chick who had been throwing it at him for months who said her boyfriend works so he had no reason to think he was associated with the team.
