Caine walked to the door, pulling it open. He stepped back half a stride at the same time Sara and Camila came up out of the glare of the lot.
Camila’s face broke open the second she saw him. Her eyes went wide, dark and shiny, and her mouth pulled up so fast it almost hurt to look at. She pushed off in the last slice of space between them, sneakers scuffing the concrete.
She jumped without slowing down. Caine’s arm came up easy. He caught her under the thighs and lifted, her weight settling against his chest.
He shifted her higher with a small bounce, his other hand bracing on the doorframe for balance a second before he let it go. “Hola, mi vida,” he said, his mouth close to her ear. “¿Cómo estás?”
Camila’s arms looped tight around his neck. Her curls brushed his jaw. She leaned back just enough to see his face, eyes bright, cheeks still flushed from the heat and the quick run. “Bien,” she said, the word round and sure.
Caine huffed out a laugh. His grip under her legs adjusted, fingers pressing into the back of her knees. His brows lifted as he looked at her. “¿Solo bien?” he asked. “No, eres espectacular, ¿no?”
Camila shook her head fast, giggles spilling out. Her small body jostled in his hold, then she tipped forward again, pressing her face into his chest. Her nose pushed into the soft cotton of his T-shirt and she breathed him in.
He let her settle there and turned his head toward Sara. His free hand came up, palm open, fingers crooked in invitation for the bag she had hooked on one shoulder.
Sara’s hand tightened on the strap once before she slid it down and into his. The leather brushed his palm, heavier than it looked. She stepped in closer on the small patch of concrete, the heat of the parking lot rolling in behind her and lifted up on her toes to press a kiss against his cheek.
“There are more bags in the car,” she said, her voice carrying the travel.
Caine stepped back into the apartment, letting the cooler air inside hit the sweat at the back of his neck. He shifted his grip on Camila again, tucking her closer into his side, and used his foot to nudge the door wider so Sara could come in. The bag swung once by his knee as he moved.
He walked the few steps to the counter that separated the kitchen from the small living room and set the bag down beside it. “I’ll get them later unless you need something in there now.”
Sara shook her head once. Her hand came off the door as she closed it behind her. She turned away from it and crossed the short stretch of floor, her sandals making a soft sound as she moved toward the dining table, the strap of her purse sliding down her arm before she caught it.
The chair legs grated a little when she pulled one out. She eased herself down, lowering slow like her back had started to complain back in Atlanta and hadn’t stopped. Once she was in the seat, she stretched both legs out in front of her, ankles crossing, toes flexing in the straps. “The flight from Atlanta to Savannah was bumpy.”
Caine ran his hand over the back of Camila’s head. Her curls were still a little flattened in places from wherever she’d leaned on Sara on the plane. His palm smoothed them anyway, fingers sliding through, nails grazing her scalp just enough that she hummed under her breath and shifted closer.
He watched her face tilt up toward him, eyes half-lidded, then lifted his gaze to Sara. “She was alright with that?”
“She was abuela’s brave soldier,” she said, mouth pulling into a small, proud smile as she looked at Camila.
Camila’s head popped up fully at that. She twisted in Caine’s arms, one knee bumping his stomach. Her hand landed flat against his chest for balance as she pushed herself back a little to see his face. “I was brave, Daddy!”
“Of course, baby,” Caine said. His mouth curved and he bounced her once more, a small lift that made her squeal and then settle again, arms tightening around his neck. “You’re a Guerra. We’re the bravest of the brave.”
Camila nodded hard, satisfied, curls bouncing with the motion.
Sara watched them for a beat, the line of her shoulders loosening as she did. Her gaze shifted from Camila’s face back up to Caine’s. “¿Has hablado con Mireya?”
Caine’s hand on Camila’s back kept its steady path, palm moving slow from her shoulders down to the middle of her spine and back up again. He looked at Sara over the top of Camila’s head. “This morning,” he said. “She said sorry for having to work again.”
“Okay,” she said with a short nod. “Just making sure you spoke to her.”
Caine shifted his stance, setting his weight more fully on one leg. Camila’s sneaker thumped lightly against his hip as she adjusted, her hand sliding down to hook around his thumb. “She still work at that cleaning company, right?”
Sara scratched lightly at the inside of her ankle with the edge of her sandal strap, then let her foot fall flat again. “Yeah.”
Caine dropped his eyes to Camila then. Her smaller hand had closed around two of his fingers, squeezing them in a loose grip while she traced at the knuckles with her thumb, distracted and content. He let her have them, his hand hanging relaxed in her hold as he rocked her just enough to keep her settled on his arm.
“The fuck kind of cleaning they doing that she need to be there?”
~~~
Four jet skis cut across the bay in a loose pack, engines high over the lower rush of water. White spray fanned behind them and broke around the small sailboats scattered farther out.
Mireya rode the lead ski with Trell. Their machine stayed a little ahead of the others, nose lifting and dropping with each patch of chop. She sat straddling his lap, facing him, knees snug outside his hips.
She leaned back over the controls until her spine curved and her head tipped toward the water racing away behind them. Wind hit her full in the face, flattening the open sides of the vest against her and tugging her hair out behind her. Salt touched her lips when she opened her mouth to breathe.
They hit a swell and the front of the ski jumped. Her stomach dropped and then bounced with the landing. A laugh tore out of her, sharp and bright, and came again when Trell took them into the next rise without easing off the throttle. Fine spray reached the bare stretch of her stomach and the tops of her thighs, cold on hot skin.
Her hair whipped across her face. She pulled one hand from his shoulder long enough to drag it back, fingers combing through the snarls the wind had started, then set her palm back on him. Her nails pressed into the muscle there, half steadying herself, half answering the way he held the machine under them.
She twisted at the waist to look at him. The other skis blurred at the edge of her vision, engines pitching higher when they tried to catch up, but her eyes stayed on Trell. Sun picked out the line of his jaw. His mouth was pulled into an easy smile.
He felt her watching and let his gaze drop from the water ahead to her face. The smile deepened when he took her in, from her eyes down over her wet collarbone and the bright straps of the vest clinging to the shapes under it.
His right hand came off the handlebars. The jet ski wobbled once, then steadied on the grip he kept with his left. He slid his free hand across the front of her, palm broad and sure. He dragged it up from the center of her chest, between the tugged-open edge of the life jacket and the line of her necklace, and onto the curve of her throat.
His fingers wrapped around the side of her neck. His thumb rested just under her ear.
Mireya let her chin tip into the contact a fraction. Her hands stayed locked on his shoulders, using him as anchor and answer both. She watched his mouth, the small shifts at the edges of his smile, and felt the faint press of his thumb when they rode over another small lift in the water.
After a moment he pulled his hand away, air cool where his palm had been. He wrapped it back around the handlebar and twisted the throttle harder. The engine’s pitch climbed. He turned the ski toward the pale strip of sand and the low line of buildings crowding the shore.
…
The front of the restaurant was open to the bay, a low rail all that separated the patio tables from the drop to the water. Ceiling fans turned above, pushing warm air around. Sound from outside slipped in easy, the whine of another ski starting, gulls crying, the distant rumble of a ride farther down the pier.
Mireya sat next to Trell at a two-top near the open side. The sun threw broken strips of light across the surface of the bay beyond his shoulder. She’d kicked her sandals off under the table so her toes could grip the cool slats of the floor. A margarita glass sweated on a thin paper coaster by her hand.
She curled her fingers around the stem and lifted it, the cold biting at skin still warmed by the ride. She took a slow sip. Lime and tequila sliced through the salt crusted on her lip from the rim. When she set the glass back down, her gaze drifted past him, out to the water. Boats moved slow, easy lines across the blue. The rental dock sat off to the side, the bright plastic shells of the skis lined up and small from this distance.
She let her eyes sit there a beat, then brought them back to Trell. His chair was pushed a little off the table. His bare shoulders showed a sheen of leftover spray and sweat, tattoos more visible under the sun. One hand rested around his drink, condensation slick on his knuckles.
“What you buttering me up for?” Mireya asked.
Her voice came out smooth. She leaned her forearm on the table as she spoke, nails tapping once against the damp ring her glass had left before she stilled her hand.
Trell laughed, low and easy. He lifted his drink, ice knocking against the side, and took a long swallow. His eyes stayed on her over the rim of the glass, the corner of his mouth still hooked up.
“Ain’t always gotta be work when I take you places, baby. I told you that this was leisure,” he said.
He set the glass back down within reach, his fingers still loose around it. His other arm stretched across the back of her chair.
Mireya watched him for a moment, mouth tilting at the edges. She picked up her own glass again, the movement unhurried, and took another sip before she answered. When she lowered it, she kept the stem caught between two fingers, the base hovering just above the coaster.
“You always doing business, Trell,” she said.
Her eyes held on his for a breath, then slid past his shoulder to the open rail where another table had just been served. The smell of grilled meat and lime drifted over and then away.
Trell gave a small shrug. His hand slipped off his glass long enough for him to wipe his palm on his shorts, then he picked it back up and turned it so the ice shifted with a soft knock. His gaze never left her face.
“Can’t argue with that. Let me say it like this then. I ain’t gonna turn down the opportunity to do business but that ain’t the point.”
He took a short drink after he said it and set the glass down nearer the center of the table. His fingers opened and rested on the wood, loose. The low clatter of silverware and murmur of other conversations went on around them, but they sat in their own small pocket of quiet.
Mireya’s shoulders eased. She looked past him again, out over the bay. The water moved in slow swells, broken only where a boat or board cut through. A light breeze slipped in through the open front and lifted the hair at the back of her neck.
She raised her hand and brushed that spot with her fingertips, feeling the faint echo of where he’d held her on the jet ski.
Trell’s hand went to the back of her neck, settling warm against her skin, and he gave a small squeeze as his thumb made slow, brushing passes along the nape of her neck.
~~~
Laney pulled the front door open before Taela could knock. The wood stuck for half a second against the frame, then gave with a small drag. Warm air slipped in around the edge.
Taela stood on the small slab of concrete, hair pulled up, sunglasses pushed on top of her head. Bo was half a step behind her, their baby in the crook of his arm, a diaper bag strap cutting across his chest.
Laney’s mouth tipped up without her thinking about it. “Come on in.”
Taela brushed past first, her shoulder touching Laney’s for a second. She reached out with her free hand and squeezed Laney’s forearm on the way by. Bo shifted his grip on the baby and followed, turning a little sideways so he didn’t clip the doorframe with his elbow.
Zach stirred at the change in light, face scrunching for a moment. Bo bounced him once, palm firm against the baby’s back, and the boy’s mouth fell open again, head sinking against Bo’s shoulder.
Laney let the door fall mostly closed behind them with a soft thud, then pushed it the rest of the way with the heel of her hand. The hum of the fridge carried from the kitchen.
“Stuff’s over here,” she said, leading them across the living room.
Three canvas bags were lined up along the edge of the table, bulging with soft shapes of folded fabric and whatever else she’d managed to pull from the back of closets.
Laney walked over and set her hand on top of the nearest bag. “You ain’t never gonna need to even think ‘bout lookin’ at Amazon with all this.”
Bo huffed out a laugh as he came up behind Taela. He shifted Zach higher on his chest with a tightening of his arm, then let his free hand fall to his side. “You know Tae doesn’t miss a chance to look for ways to spend my money.”
Taela made a face over her shoulder without turning fully, eyes cutting at him. She reached up to slide her sunglasses off her head and set them on the table, then put her hand on the chair back to steady herself. “Thanks for this,” she said to Laney, rolling her eyes. “I know you always get sentimental about their stuff.”
Laney shook her head, fingers drumming once against the canvas before she stilled them. A little knot of tightness moved through her chest as she glanced at the bags, catching flashes of color where the tops had gapped. “I done took out all the stuff I ain’t got pictures of them in. You got the real second-hand haul.”
Taela’s gaze followed Laney’s for a moment. She reached to touch one of the bag handles, thumb rubbing along the fabric, then let her hand fall away.
Bo stepped closer to the table. He hooked a finger in one of the knotted handles and tugged it open enough to look inside. “Lemme see what kind of treasure trove we working with.”
His fingers disappeared into the bag and came back up holding a tiny red onesie with the UGA logo bold across the chest. He shook it once to open it up, then held it in front of Zach’s body, lining the collar up with the baby’s chin.
“Gotta start dressing him in Bulldogs stuff so he goes to Athens when he’s 18. Safety like his daddy.”
Zach’s hand flexed in sleep and brushed the fabric. Bo chuckled under his breath and shifted his wrist so the onesie swung a little.
Taela rolled her eyes again, this time deeper. She pulled a chair out with a small scrape and sank into it, stretching one leg out under the table. “I named him Zach, so he grows up to be an artist, not some meathead.”
Laney snorted. She hooked a chair with her foot and pulled it out enough to lean a hip against it. “You named him Zach ‘cause you in love with Zach Bryan.”
Bo burst out laughing, head tipping back for a second. He pointed at Laney with the hand still holding the onesie, the red fabric dangling from his fingers. “That’s what I told her, but she wanted to claim it was because she just liked the name.”
Taela shook her head, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth even as she sucked her teeth. She shifted in the chair, adjusting how she held her arms, then rested her forearms on the table’s edge.
“Speaking of football players, how’s you and yours?” she asked, eyes flicking up to Laney’s face. She waved a hand dismissively toward Bo without looking at him. “I done told him everything.”
Laney’s fingers tightened on the back of the chair at that. She drew in a small breath through her nose and let it out, eyes dropping to the bags again. Her thumbnail ran along a wrinkle before she pushed off the chair and straightened her spine.
Bo’s smile faded some. He adjusted his stance, shifting his weight from one foot to the other while still cradling Zach. “For what it’s worth, I ain’t never liked Tommy. Something always been off about him.”
Laney rolled one shoulder in a shrug, the motion more tired than dismissive. She looked past Bo toward the window over the sink, where sunlight fell in a pale strip across the counter. “Ain’t nothin’ to talk ‘bout. That ship done sailed.”
Taela’s brows climbed. She angled her head, studying Laney’s face for a second. Her hand lifted from the table and she tapped a nail lightly against the wood. “You talk to him?”
Laney shifted her weight from one leg to the other, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. “With my mama over my shoulder every second? C’mon. I ain’t tryin’ to get into no more shit over this.”
Taela blew out a breath, lips pressing together before they parted again. She shook her head, her ponytail swaying with the motion. Her fingers picked at a rough spot on the table’s finish, the sound small and scratchy. “I was hoping this would make him divorce you,” she said. “So, you can be free.”
Bo’s mouth twisted. He glanced down at Zach, then back up at Laney. His grip on the baby shifted again, arm tightening across the little body.
“Like I said, something off about him,” he said. “Especially if he’s messing with that woman that law firm got on their commercials? She looks like she’d take out a kidney.”
Taela flicked her hand out toward Bo in a “see” gesture, palm up, nails flashing as she turned it. She leaned forward, forearms pressing harder into the table. “Just file first and then y’all can go your separate ways. You’ll get the boys. Come live in Savannah. We’ll help you.”
For a second Laney didn’t answer. Her jaw worked once. She looked at Taela, then at Bo, then past them to the hallway. Her fingers uncrossed and recrossed against her ribs.
She shook her head, cutting the thought off before it could land anywhere. Turning away from the table, she took a few steps toward the kitchen, heels of her feet soft against the floor. She reached up to touch the edge of the counter as she passed it, grounding herself in the familiar feel of laminate under her palm.
“Y’all hungry?” she asked, opening the fridge with her other hand. “I got some leftovers from last night.”
~~~
Ramon stood behind Nina at the sink with his arms looped around her waist and his head resting on her shoulder. The warm dishwater ran over her hands, plates knocking soft against one another under the foam. He felt her shift her weight from one bare foot to the other, hips fitting back against him while she reached for another plate.
He laughed under his breath, the sound brushing her ear. “Look, think about it,” he said. “If I have a kickback here then you ain’t gonna have to cook for at least two, three days.”
Nina rolled her eyes where he couldn’t see it, only the little lift of her cheek giving her away. She slid the plate through the water, thumb running around the edge, then lifted it to the stream from the faucet. “Not if you niggas cooking all kinds of swine. You know I don’t eat that shit and don’t even like the smell of it in here.”
Ramon tightened his arms once around her, squeezing at the soft of her stomach, then let them loosen. “Nina X over here. Pork chops good as fuck.”
Nina set the plate in the drying rack, fingers careful. Water dripped off the edge and tapped the inside of the sink in a steady rhythm. “Pigs roll around in their own filth.”
Ramon shifted his head on her shoulder, the scrape of his beard catching the side of her neck. His eyes went to the small window over the sink where the light came in muted through the curtain.
“So do cows, bulls, chickens, and every other farm animal,” he said. “And they all taste good when you fucking grill them.”
Nina just shook her head, a small movement that brushed his temple. She turned the water off with a flick of her wrist and reached for the next plate waiting on the counter, the stack already shorter.
A knock sounded at the front door, knuckles solid against wood, cutting through the quiet hum of the fridge and the faint TV noise drifting from the apartment next door.
Nina glanced toward the doorway that led to the small front room, then tipped her chin toward it. “Can you go get that?”
Ramon nodded and loosened his hold on her, palms trailing off her waist. The knock came again, lighter this time, by the time he reached the door.
He pulled it open with one hand, the other braced on the frame. Asia stood on the other side, framed in the hall light. She had on a T-shirt that looked newly washed but still tired at the seams and a pair of jeans that had lost their color in spots, the knees gone pale. Her hair was pulled up, edges fuzzy, and she shifted once on her feet when she saw his face.
Ramon raised an eyebrow at her, his mouth flattening before he spoke. “How you know I’d be here?”
From the kitchen, Nina turned her head, shoulders angling so she could see around the corner. The faucet ran a little harder as the water hit another plate. “Is that Asia?”
Asia lifted her hand and waved at Ramon in a quick shooing motion. She stepped forward half a pace, trying to close the space between them and the doorway.
Ramon shook his head and let out a breath through his nose. He glanced over the top of Asia’s head toward the kitchen where Nina still stood, catching her eye for a second. Then he shifted his body to the side and pulled the door closed behind Asia.
Nina shrugged one shoulder and turned back to the sink, water running again. She reached for the towel to dry her fingers, then looked over at Asia. A stack of papers sat neat on the counter next to the dish rack, edges squared. She nodded toward it. “That’s the stuff for that rehab center.”
Asia walked over, her steps slow but steady, eyes skimming the kitchen as she moved. She reached the counter and set her fingers on the top sheet, running her thumb along the edge of the stack, feeling the slight give of the paper under her nail.
Ramon stayed where he was for a second, then took a few steps back into the kitchen until he could lean his shoulder against the doorframe. His gaze stayed on Asia’s hands. “All of a sudden you open to carrying your ass to one of them people centers?”
Asia sucked her teeth and cut her eyes at him, head turning just enough to throw the look his way. “Shut your ass up, nigga,” she said. “I’m just thinking about it.”
Ramon pushed off the frame and crossed the short stretch of floor back to Nina, the smell of dish soap and lemon cleaner stronger near the sink. He slipped his arms around her waist again and leaned his head on her shoulder, cheek settling in the groove there. “Bitch, you been thinking about it for months. Fuck you mean you just thinking about it?”
Nina huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh and shoved her elbow back into his side, not hard but enough to make him shift. Her hands stayed moving in the water, fingers rubbing along the curve of a bowl. “Stop that.”
She looked over at Asia again. “I called them the other day and they got a few beds so you don’t have to rush.”
Asia nodded once, still tracing the edge of the papers with her thumb. Her gaze slid off them and lifted, taking in the little bits of décor Nina had placed around the kitchen. Her eyes moved past that through the wide opening into the living room. “You have a really nice house, Nina.”
Nina’s mouth softened at the corners. “Thank you.”
She gestured toward the sofa with a small wave of her hand. “You can sit if you want,” she said. “I was just about to cook.”
Asia shrugged, shoulders lifting and dropping under the thin T-shirt. She let go of the papers, leaving them exactly where Nina had put them, and turned toward the living room. “Don’t mind if I do.”
She crossed the room, then dropped down onto the couch. The cushions dipped under her weight as she plopped back, one arm draping along the back of the sofa.
Ramon watched her go from his place by the sink, eyes tracking the path she cut through Nina’s neat space. He looked back at Nina. “You know you gonna have to clean that couch now.”
Nina rolled her eyes again, this time full and obvious. “Shut your dumb ass up and get the chicken out of the fridge,” she said.
Ramon shook his head, a small, sharp movement, and stepped forward toward the open fridge.
~~~
Camila stayed in the open space in front of the bench, a small rubber ball thumping against the ground as she bounced it with both hands. Every time it hit the grass and kicked off to one side, she chased it in a few quick steps, then stopped to glance over her shoulder to make sure Caine was still right where she’d left him.He was. He sat back on the bench with his elbows resting on his knees, forearms loose, his gaze locked on her. Sara sat beside him, one leg crossed over the other, sandal dangling from her toes as she watched her granddaughter trace another short loop with the ball.
Camila’s curls bounced when she jogged, beads clicking soft with each step. The ball slid out of her hands and rolled a little farther this time, nosing toward the bare patch of dirt near the swing posts. She hesitated, checked over her shoulder again, and only when Caine lifted his chin in a small nod did she trot after it and scoop it up.
“I think after this season I’m gonna transfer,” he said, his voice low enough to stay between him and Sara.
Sara kept her eyes on Camila for another beat, watching the girl test the weight of the ball in her hands. Then she shifted her body toward her son, her shoulder brushing his as she angled on the bench. “You didn’t seem so sure the last time we talked.” Her mouth pressed into a line while she studied his face. “And you still don’t know what’s gonna happen in the next few months.”
Caine dragged a hand up through his dreads, lifting them off his scalp to let a little air hit his skin. He shook his head once, locs falling back around his face when he dropped his arm. “Nah. That was before I fucked up.”
Out in the grass, Camila flung the ball straight into the air. It spun crooked, dropped against her chest, and nearly slipped out of her arms. She caught it on the second grab and laughed at herself, then set it back down to bounce again.
Sara’s brow went up, the corner of her mouth twitching like she was bracing for what he was about to say. “Fucked up how?” she asked. Her eyes narrowed a little, and then the answer moved across her face without him needing to give it. She let out a breath through her nose and shook her head once. “That pastor found out you and his daughter were sneaking around.”
Caine leaned back against the bench, spine hitting the wood slats with a dull sound. He stared out toward the far fence, where the grass thinned near the concrete.
“The other sister was mad because I stopped fucking with her.” His hand lifted and cut a short line through the air, then dropped back to his thigh. “She blew the whole shit up.”
“Daddy, look!” Camila called, sending the ball rolling in a crooked path toward him.
He slid one foot forward and stopped it under his shoe, the rubber flattening against the tread. He smiled at her and rolled it under his foot.
Sara sighed, the sound long and heavy in her chest. Her shoulders dipped for half a second, then she straightened and turned fully toward him, knees angling his way. “Te amo mucho, mijo,” she said, tapping two fingers against his arm hard enough to make him turn his head, “but you’re a fucking idiot. I told you last year to stop messing with that woman, but you were with both sisters?”
“Not at the same time,” he said. A beat later, he gave a small shrug, the corner of his mouth pulling. “Mostly.”
Camila reached the bench and slapped both palms against his knee, her grin wide as she looked up at him. Her chest rose and fell quick from the little bit of running. “I made it come to you.”
“Yeah, you did,” he said, dropping his hand to brush her shoulder. He nudged the ball back toward the open grass with the side of his shoe, eyes following it long enough to make sure it tracked away from the sidewalk. “Go on. Keep playing.”
She scooped it up, keeping one hand braced on his leg for balance for another heartbeat. Then she let go and turned, jogging back to the center of the grass, already bouncing the ball again. Every few seconds, her head tipped back.
“And now you want to run,” Sara said, her tone flat, not rising.
“You make it sound worse than it is when you say it like that,” Caine said. “It’s just now I got people out here watching, waiting for me to fuck up. Besides, the school’s plan was for me to play another season here then transfer. I’m just lining all the shit up.”
“I don’t know anything about football and how all that work, but you can’t start making it a habit to run from your problem.” Her hand flattened against her own thigh, fingers spread and tense. “You did it coming here, but that made sense. Roussel would’ve had you back in prison by now. If you leave again, leave because it’s the right decision, not because you got into some shit because you were thinking with the wrong head.”
Caine let that sit between them. His eyes went back to Camila, to the careful way she stayed within a few yards of where he sat, never pushing too far from him. “Yeah, I know.”
Camila bounced the ball as hard as she could and had to sprint a few steps to catch up, her sneakers skidding a little in the grass. The ball slipped from her hands and rolled toward the edge of the sidewalk, picking up speed. She jogged after it, then stopped short and looked over at Caine.
“Mi vida,” Caine called, his voice raising just enough to carry clean across the little yard.
Her head snapped up. She tucked the ball under one arm and ran back toward him, arms pumping. When she reached him, she let her weight fall against his leg, the ball wedged between her side and his knee.
He rested his hand on top of her head, palm spread over her hair, his thumb moving in a slow stroke along her part. His gaze stayed on her face as she tipped it up to him. “If we lived somewhere else, where you want to go? Somewhere cold? See some snow?”
Camila’s nose wrinkled as soon as the word “cold” left his mouth. She shook her head hard enough that a few beads clicked together louder than before.
“No,” she said, stretching the word. She pushed her shoulder a little deeper against his leg and brightened. “Somewhere with big boats!”
Caine laughed. He gave her shoulder a small squeeze and glanced over at Sara, who was already smiling at the answer, eyes soft on both of them. Then he looked back down at his daughter. “You and them damn boats.”
~~~
The bass rolled through the floor hard enough that Mireya felt it in her knees. Lights strobed over the crowd, catching on sweat and glitter and cheap jewelry. Her body stayed pressed back into Trell’s chest, his thighs braced behind hers as she moved her hips slow, then sharper when the beat kicked up.
The skirt barely covered anything when she stood still. With her knees bent and ass rolling into him, it rode higher with every shift. His hand was on her hip, fingers spread, holding her there. The other rested loose at his side for a moment before he slid it in, palm brushing her ribs then up her chest as he pulled her tighter against him.
She let her weight settle into him and turned her head just enough to see the room. Every time she twisted at the waist, her eyes did a sweep.
Yola and Shad were off to the side near one of the VIP rails. The woman between them had a drink balanced in her hand, red straw pressed to her glossed mouth. She leaned in closer to Yola when she laughed at something he said, shoulder almost touching his. Shad stood on her other side, talking, hands moving, but her eyes skipped right over him.
Dez was closer to the bar, one elbow on the counter, his body angled toward a woman in a tight dress. Her hand rested high on his arm, nails bright against his skin. She smiled up at him, mouth wide.
Ant was nowhere. The last time Mireya had seen him, some thin woman had her hand hooked into his pocket and was walking him toward the back. The memory still sat strange. Ant never moved toward any woman back home. Now he was disappearing into the dark with one from a regular club.
Trell’s fingers tightened on her hip and pulled her backward again, snapping her out of it. His chest rose against her shoulder blades when he laughed, breath hitting the side of her neck.
Mireya smiled and dropped down a little lower, letting the music pull her. Her hand slid up his thigh, just for a second, before she set it on the front of his shirt to balance. The crowd pressed in around them, bodies bumping and sliding past, but there was still space where he held her.
His other hand came up, fingers brushing the top of her chest before moving higher. He wrapped his hand around her neck, thumb pressed just under her ear and lifted her head.
He leaned down so his mouth was at her ear, his voice cutting under the music. “I could fuck you right here.”
She laughed, shoulders shaking once against him. Her head tipped back against his shoulder and she glanced past him toward the dark corners of the club.
“I’m sure that ain’t the worst thing that has ever happened in here,” she said.
Trell’s laugh was deeper this time. She felt it in his chest where it touched her back. His hand slid down from her neck, across her collarbone, then back to her hip. From there he let it drop the small distance to her bare thigh where the skirt had ridden up. His palm covered the top of her thigh, fingers grazing inside.
“I know,” he said. “That’s why I had you wear this. Just in case.”
Mireya turned her head, eyes cutting up at him. The lights caught the side of his face, gold glinting at his ear and on his wrist.
“That’s why I don’t have on anything under this,” she said, voice soft but clear enough for him. “Just in case.”
Trell’s mouth curved. He shook his head once, slow, eyes dropping for a second. His fingers slipped higher under the hem and then back out.
He kept the smile when he looked down at her again. She turned her face forward and went back to dancing on him, letting the track run through. Her hands went to her own knees for a moment so she could bend deeper, then slid back up her thighs, drawing his attention there same as anybody else’s nearby.
For the length of a verse, he just held her, his grip firm at her waist, letting her body set the rhythm. The rest of the club blurred to color and noise.
Then his hands tightened and stilled her hips. He stepped around her, one arm braced across her lower back for balance, until he faced her.
He bent down a little so she could hear him. “I gotta go make some calls.”
Mireya looked up at him, breath a little faster from the dancing. Sweat beaded at her hairline and the back of her neck. She nodded once.
“Mm,” she said. “Alright.”
Trell straightened and jerked his chin toward the side where Yola and Shad were still posted up with the same woman. The woman had moved even closer to Yola now, hand light on his arm. Shad talked and laughed, but her body was already turned away.
“Go save Shad’s ass from looking like one of them weird ass niggas,” Trell said. “That bitch don’t want his ass and he can’t see it.”
Mireya let out a short breath that edged toward a laugh and shook her head. She watched Shad a beat longer, saw the way he leaned in when the woman barely looked his way.
Trell stepped out from in front of her to leave, but stopped at her side. He dipped back toward her ear.
“And if he want some more, don’t charge him,” he said.
Mireya’s eyebrow went up. She turned her face toward him, studying his expression in the flashing light.
“Just this time?” she asked.
Trell shook his head. The music shifted to another track, bass line rolling deeper, and it seemed to underline his words.
“Don’t charge the niggas working for me at all no more,” he said.
Her hand went to her hip, fingers pressing into the fabric there. She searched his face the way he so often searched hers.
“Why?” she asked.
He didn’t look away. His eyes ran over her face, down the line of her throat, then back up. Light from the bar caught the metal at his teeth when he spoke.
“’Cause that’s what I said,” he answered. “You gonna go help that nigga out? That shit embarrassing.”
For a second she didn’t say anything. Mireya held his gaze, then nodded. “Yeah, I got him.”
Trell’s mouth pulled wider. He lifted his hand and tapped his knuckles against her chin, soft.
“That’s my bitch,” he said. “My MVP.”
He stepped away into the crowd, shoulders cutting a path. Just before he was out of reach, he brought his hand down and slapped her on the ass, a stinging smack that made the fabric jump against her skin. Then he was gone, the back of his head disappearing past a cluster of people.
Mireya stood still long enough for praise to rise up in her chest then settle again. She tamped it down.
Then she turned toward Yola and Shad.
The closer she got, the clearer it was. The woman had her whole body pointed toward Yola now, her leg crossed so her knee angled away from Shad. Yola said something in her ear and she leaned into him, laughing, showing teeth. Shad stood too close on her other side, drink in hand, trying to talk into the space she’d already given away.
Mireya slipped in between Shad and the woman without asking. She caught Shad’s hand on the way, fingers wrapping around his, and tugged.
He blinked, surprised, but let her pull him. The woman shot Mireya a quick look, eyes bright with relief, then turned even more toward Yola, her smile loosening now that she had the out.
Mireya led Shad a few steps away, out into a pocket of dance floor that had opened up when the crowd shifted. The music hit harder there, speakers closer, bass thudding through her ribs.
She turned around and set her back against his chest, taking his other hand and placing it on low on her stomach. His breath hitched against the side of her head.
Without giving him time to think, she bent at the waist, ass pushing back into him. The movement was slow first, then more in time with the beat. Her hands slid down to her knees, fingers gripping them for balance as she moved.
Behind her, Shad’s hand tightened on her. His body stayed stiff for a second, then he started to follow her rhythm.
She straightened up after a few bars, her back still pressed to his chest. One of her hands reached up and back, fingers finding the back of his neck. She hooked them there and pulled him down closer so her mouth was near his ear.
“She didn’t fucking want you,” Mireya said.
Shad’s breath brushed the side of her face. His voice came quiet, unsure. “Oh. But you—”
“Don’t question it, papi,” she cut in. “Just let it happen.”