American Sun
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djp73
- Posts: 9956
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
American Sun
Camilla gonna be calling them all auntie if they keep showing out with the presents
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12111
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
American Sun
Aye aye aye. It was never stated if Ramon, Tyree and E.J. were in jail for felonies. Could've been some process crime misdemeanors!
Tias*
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12111
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
American Sun
The Devil Knows Your Name, God Calls You By Your Sin
The music pressed at the edges of her thoughts, a throb under everything. Mireya kept her breathing slow and let the beat fade behind the reel in her head. Statesboro ran past in pieces. Camila’s birthday. Sara’s tired smile thawing around the edges. Caine close enough to make the room feel smaller, the old pull waking up in her chest before she could stop it. That feeling was familiar and dangerous. Sweet and heavy.
Her mind argued with her heart in quiet words. Distance stood between them already, and it had only been months. They had both started holding back corners of their lives. Secrets made the space wider. She didn’t want to live on a road that pointed at him. UNO waited. She had promised herself she wouldn’t follow him from place to place. By hook or by crook she was going to that campus. That was the choice. She repeated it until it sounded solid.
A pattern of 808s hit and the song shifted. The room came back into focus. Mireya rose, letting the moment end clean. Her robe sat folded on the end table. She slid it over her shoulders and let the satin fall shut as the light above the mirror warmed the gold in the glass.
The man in the plush armchair leaned forward with a grin. He held out two bills between careful fingers. “A tip, because damn shorty.”
She let Luna answer with a soft curve in her mouth and a grazing touch against his hand when she took the money. The contact stretched just long enough to make him swallow. “Come back and see me again then, papi,” she said, voice low and easy.
He pushed himself to standing, smoothing his shirt. Mireya turned toward the curtain that led back to the hallway. The fabric breathed with the bass from the main floor.
“Hey,” he said. “You ever do a little extra?”
Mireya looked over her shoulder, her smile holding. “What you mean?”
He shifted, eyes dropping and then coming back to her face. “I don’t know. I’d be up for some head. I got money.”
Her smile slipped, not much, just the truth showing at the edges. She shook her head once. “Not me, baby.”
He snapped his fingers like he’d just remembered something important. “Damn, I know that shit fire, too.”
She gave him a small wave with two fingers and stepped through the curtain. The hallway swallowed the rest of whatever he might have said. Cool air hit her arms. The lights were low and red, the kind that hid the scuffs in the paint. Voices from other rooms rose and fell in waves.
In the dressing room the bulbs around the mirrors burned hot and steady. Hairspray hung in the air. The counter was a mess of lashes, brushes, and lipsticks with cracked caps. Mireya took the stool at the vanity next to Jaslene and set the bills flat on the wood.
She leaned close to the mirror. Hair first. The strands had softened at the ends. She twisted a section and pinned it back. The girl in the glass looked like she always did at this hour. Pretty and sharp in the same breath. Tired under the eyes if you knew where to look.
Jaslene glanced over without moving much else. “You look like you ’bout to curse somebody out.”
Mireya kept working, a small shrug rolling one shoulder. “Never know,” she said. “Probably could make some money off that, too.”
Jaslene laughed, bright and quick. “Angry Latina, cursing someone out, naked? Someone definitely got that fetish.”
“One hundred percent,” Mireya said. She lined her lips again and pressed them together. The old heat in her chest cooled as her hands found their rhythm. Powder. Liner. A fingertip to clean the corner. The world narrowed to the face she could control.
A zipper snagged across the room and someone clicked their tongue at it. The vent hummed. The floor vibrated with whatever song had taken over the main stage. Mireya breathed in through her nose and steadied her hand.
She reached for the lash glue and dotted a thin line at the outer edge, counting under her breath until it set.
Fans whispered over the pews. A baby fussed once and settled. Pastor Hadden left his Bible open on the pulpit and stepped down into the aisle, voice even, not pushing against the room.
“Sometimes it ain’t the big falls that wear us down, church.”
Amen rolled from the middle rows. Laney kept her hands folded over the program in her lap, paper warm under her thumbs. The corner of her mouth tried to dip. She caught it and held it flat.
“It’s the little trades we make just to keep the wheels turning.”
He paced past their row. His cuff brushed the wood. Rylee eased her clutch open and slid her phone out beneath it. The screen threw a pale light up at her chin. Her thumbs worked fast.
“You know the kind I’m talking about—when you trade sleep for a few extra dollars.”
Laney let her eyes slide over. She didn’t turn her head. Rylee felt the look. Her thumbs slowed.
“Or peace for attention,” Pastor said, turning on his heel. A ceiling fan clicked once, then settled. Or truth for quiet.”
Rylee tucked the phone back under the clutch. The glow died. Her arms folded neat. A cough rose from the choir loft and hid itself in a handkerchief.
“You tell yourself it’s just for now,” he went on, stopping near the steps, “just till things get easier.”
Laney smoothed the program’s edge until it rasped. The faint tug at her mouth tried her again. She set it back where she needed it, proper.
“But trades got a way of sticking. You give what’s precious for what’s passing and call it balance.”
A soft yes moved up by the organ. Someone’s bracelet chimed when they shifted.
“You say, ‘Ain’t no harm in it,’ till the thing you wanted starts owning you.”
He let that rest. The sanctuary held it. Starch and old wood and glove perfume laid thin on the air. Laney fixed her eyes on the hymn numbers until they doubled, then settled back into one column.
“The Book say every weight ain’t sin,” Pastor said, walking again, “but some weights still slow you down.”
His shoes crossed their row.
“And a soul carrying too much bargain gets tired.”
A baby’s laugh popped bright and made two pews smile before they caught themselves. The organ bench creaked.
“I ain’t here to shame nobody,” he said, gentling the line. “I’m just saying—when the world gets loud and the easy thing look like rest, ask yourself what you’re paying for it.”
Rylee’s knee bounced once under her skirt. Stopped. Laney kept her hands quiet on the program. The small war at her mouth eased and went still.
“Temptation don’t always come dressed in trouble,” Pastor said, hand resting on the open page again. “Most days it look like relief.”
Silence held a breath with him.
“That’s why grace matters,” he finished, softer, “’cause the Lord know what it mean to be tired.”
Heads bowed. The benediction folded over them. Shoes scuffed. Bulletins rustled. People rose and shook hands across aisles. Laney stayed seated until the aisle cleared, then stood when the last hats passed and the row ahead had emptied. She and Rylee moved together toward the doors without a word, close enough to hear the brush of their dresses.
Outside, heat pushed under the porch roof and climbed the steps. The boards held a hundred Sundays’ worth of scuffs. The lot shimmered in hard sun. Conversations broke into small circles. Her parents stood by the rail taking hands, faces open for every “good word today” and every tired request.
Laney didn’t join the greeting line. She took the spot at the porch edge where the shade met the light. Hands crossed over her middle. Rylee hovered, hugged a woman, laughed soft at nothing, then drifted toward the rail to adjust a bobby pin that never sat right. The empty space at Laney’s shoulder stayed a shape she recognized.
“Laney.” Jesse came up from the side, breath quick like he had jogged those last steps. His tie had already slipped crooked. His phone sat face up in his hand. A call on the screen. A girl’s name sat at the top. He tried to keepit casual and failed.
He tipped his chin toward the lot. “Can I get your keys? Gonna sit in the van a minute.”
She looked at the screen, then at him. “Don’t mess up my seats,” she said, the vowels stretched just enough to fit the heat.
“I won’t.” His smile spread as soon as yes landed. The bounce hit his step before she even had the keys clear of her clutch. They clinked when she pulled them free. She held them until his eyes met hers, then let them drop into his palm.
“Thank you,” he said, already turning for the steps.
He took them two at a time and cut across the lot. A girl’s voice leaked thin through the call until the van door shut and swallowed it. Sun flared on the windshield and settled.
Laney’s face didn’t shift. She set the program’s edge to the top rail and pulled it straight with her thumb. Rylee passed behind her back, perfume trailing. Down the steps a child chased a cousin, shoes knocking against wood. Up by the rail, her daddy’s laugh rose and folded into another blessing.
Laney stayed at the porch edge where the shade cooled her shoes and the heat pressed at her arms. Hands crossed over one another. Eyes on the lot and the van and the bright day sitting heavy on everything.
The trunk popped and stuck high. Ramon reached in until he had to duck his head, shoulder grinding into the carpet, hand fishing past a folded blanket and a box of loose sockets. Metal clicked against metal. He pulled the backpack from the far corner and set it on the bumper. Zipper teeth whispered open. Inside, plastic wrapped around plastic and tape. He looked long enough to see what he needed to see. He closed it and slid the strap onto his shoulder.
Tyree watched the street. Two dogs chased a cat across the pavement. E.J. rubbed his palms together and blew out air through his nose, steady. Ramon nodded once at both of them and palmed the trunk down.
They crossed cracked concrete to Trell’s door. Bass pushed under it, thin and eager, the kind a little speaker made when it worked too hard. Someone laughed. Someone said, “Run that back, nigga,” and the door swung open.
Heat and smoke rolled over them. The front room was a fold-out table and a couch trying to be leather. Three men knelt on the floor, dice hitting and skipping, bills fanned into messy stacks. Another man poured amber into a red cup without looking, eyes glued to the throw. A hard six hit and the table popped. Curses landed soft and friendly. The air smelled like weed, cheap cologne, and old fryer oil trapped in somebody’s hoodie.
Ramon kept the bag close to his hip and slid through the room. Tyree and E.J. followed tight. Heads turned and turned back. The song changed and the volume clicked up a hair.
In the back, Trell sat low with one ankle parked over his knee, glass in his hand. The light found the ring on his finger and stayed. Ant stood on the wall behind him, hands behind his back, chin tipped down, eyes watching every face. Dez leaned against the back of the sofa, phone face down on a side table with burn marks along the edge.
Ramon stopped in front of Trell and dropped the strap from his shoulder. He held the bag out by the top seam. Trell didn’t touch it. He cut his eyes at Dez.
Dez took the bag, pulled the zipper in one smooth run, and lifted a brick out. The room didn’t go quiet, but the sound seemed to tilt. The plastic-wrapped block caught the overhead light and held it flat.
Trell looked past the brick to Ramon. “Duke ain’t say how y’all got this back from the A.”
“Driving through the sticks,” Ramon said.
Trell nodded once. “Been good business with y’all boys across the river since Ant got out.”
Ant pushed off the wall, steps unhurried. He dug into his pocket and came up with a tight roll of bills, rubber band biting a groove in the paper. He held it out. Ramon took it and slid it into his own pocket. Ant’s eyes stayed on him a breath longer than the hand-off needed.
From the front room, a shout spiked the noise. Then everything shifted. Three white women walked in single file, skirts short, straps thin, hair sprayed up and bright. The men left the dice where they landed. Cash rose from pockets and palms without anybody saying a word.
Trell leaned back and let a smirk live on his face. “Got the boys something different today. Some country girls from Mississippi. The Delta as they call it.”
Ant tipped his head toward the doorway, then back at the three of them. “Y’all should stick around.”
Ramon met Tyree’s eyes, then E.J.’s. He let a small smile touch one corner and drop off. “Nah,” he said. “We appreciate it though.”
Trell shrugged and turned his glass toward the growing crowd. Dez slid the brick back into the backpack, zipped it shut with the same neat pull, and set the bag on the scorched table. Nobody said anything else to them. Their part here was done.
They walked out the way they came. The front room had shifted into a half circle with the women in the center, bills pinched between fingers, a fresh song knocking against the thin walls. One of the women laughed without smiling and pressed her palm to a man’s chest to move him where she wanted him. Somebody whistled. Somebody said something ugly and soft. Sweat already put a shine on foreheads and collars.
The door gave them back to the street. Heat hit and felt cleaner. Evening hung low, not ready to let go of the day. A breeze dragged a bit of river smell across the block and lost it.
Tyree spat in the dust by the drive and shook his head. “It’s gonna smell fucking crazy in there in about an hour.”
E.J. blew a short laugh through his nose. “Can’t even call that shit a train. That’s a whole ass convoy.”
Ramon snorted, quick and low, and angled to the car. The metal had cooled enough to touch. He unlocked it and dropped into the driver’s seat. The door shut with a solid thump as the others climbed in.
The AC rattled and the blinds threw skinny bars of light across the carpet. Caine sat on the floor with his back against the couch, legs out, a half-empty bottle of water tucked between his ankles. Rylee lay on the cushions behind him, the soft of the couch pushing against his shoulders. Her hand found a lock of his hair and drifted through it without hurry, her fingers moving lazy like she had an afternoon to waste.
“You really gon’ sit in here all day?” she asked, voice easy.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s my day off.”
“Mmm.” She shifted to get comfortable, the cushion breathing under her. “You ain’t even all that tired. All you been doin’ this week is playin’ football.”
He snorted. “You ever did two-a-days?”
She waved a wrist he couldn’t see. “It ain’t that hard to run ’round a lil’ bit extra.”
He shook his head once and let it pass. The TV was on mute, some show about people pulling catfish out a river. A neighbor’s door thudded down the hall and footsteps faded. Rylee’s fingers kept moving. He made a small adjustment forward and settled again, not enough to break her rhythm.
They let the quiet fill up. He took a drink and set the bottle down so the plastic tapped the floor. A ceiling fan clicked somewhere out of sight and kept clicking.
“Heard your baby mama was back in town earlier this week,” Rylee said.
“Yeah,” he said. “It was my daughter’s birthday.”
“Mm.” Her bracelet ticked against the couch when she tucked her hand under her chin. She combed another lock and smoothed it. The show on the screen cut to a commercial he didn’t look at.
“And I heard you actually got friends,” she said after a beat, smile tucked into the words.
He glanced over his shoulder without fully turning. “What you mean?”
“I drove by to drop in on you. Saw you had company. Three boys.”
“Oh.” He faced forward again. “That’s my potnas from New Orleans.”
“You shoulda found time to take ’em out,” she said. “I got friends too.”
He laughed once under his breath. “I don’t think your friends would be their type.”
“We everybody’s type,” she said, rolling her eyes he could hear.
Her hand slid back to his hair. He leaned away a half inch like his body was remembering something, then eased back so her fingers could keep on. She didn’t mention it. The fan clicked. The AC coughed and kept trying.
“You ain’t hungry?” she asked. “We really just gon’ sit in here?”
“It’s Sunday.”
“There’s one that stays open in Hopeulikit,” she said. “We could get a drink, shoot a game.”
He rubbed a palm down his face and let it fall to his thigh. “Nah. I’m good.”
“Suit yourself.” She exhaled and let the air settle. Nails grazed his scalp once, soft. He shifted the smallest amount forward and forgot about it.
Outside, a car door slammed and an engine turned over. The apartment took the sound and let it go. He looked at the blank corner of the TV screen like it held a thought and then didn’t. Her phone buzzed against her thigh. She didn’t reach for it.
“You ain’t even wanna ride?” she said. “Windows down. Little loop. I’ll even drive.”
“I’m straight.”
Her knuckles brushed his shoulder as she resettled her arm, then found another lock and traced it to the end. He sat still. The plastic of the water bottle ticked as it cooled. He tapped two fingers against the carpet one time and stopped.
She sighed, not mad, not even disappointed, just letting the sound answer the room. Her hand stayed in his hair, slow and unbothered, the pads of her fingers tracing away any hurry.
He leaned away a touch without thinking and then settled back into her reach. She kept playing with his dreads, lazy and gentle. And every now and then, he’d shift again.
The music pressed at the edges of her thoughts, a throb under everything. Mireya kept her breathing slow and let the beat fade behind the reel in her head. Statesboro ran past in pieces. Camila’s birthday. Sara’s tired smile thawing around the edges. Caine close enough to make the room feel smaller, the old pull waking up in her chest before she could stop it. That feeling was familiar and dangerous. Sweet and heavy.
Her mind argued with her heart in quiet words. Distance stood between them already, and it had only been months. They had both started holding back corners of their lives. Secrets made the space wider. She didn’t want to live on a road that pointed at him. UNO waited. She had promised herself she wouldn’t follow him from place to place. By hook or by crook she was going to that campus. That was the choice. She repeated it until it sounded solid.
A pattern of 808s hit and the song shifted. The room came back into focus. Mireya rose, letting the moment end clean. Her robe sat folded on the end table. She slid it over her shoulders and let the satin fall shut as the light above the mirror warmed the gold in the glass.
The man in the plush armchair leaned forward with a grin. He held out two bills between careful fingers. “A tip, because damn shorty.”
She let Luna answer with a soft curve in her mouth and a grazing touch against his hand when she took the money. The contact stretched just long enough to make him swallow. “Come back and see me again then, papi,” she said, voice low and easy.
He pushed himself to standing, smoothing his shirt. Mireya turned toward the curtain that led back to the hallway. The fabric breathed with the bass from the main floor.
“Hey,” he said. “You ever do a little extra?”
Mireya looked over her shoulder, her smile holding. “What you mean?”
He shifted, eyes dropping and then coming back to her face. “I don’t know. I’d be up for some head. I got money.”
Her smile slipped, not much, just the truth showing at the edges. She shook her head once. “Not me, baby.”
He snapped his fingers like he’d just remembered something important. “Damn, I know that shit fire, too.”
She gave him a small wave with two fingers and stepped through the curtain. The hallway swallowed the rest of whatever he might have said. Cool air hit her arms. The lights were low and red, the kind that hid the scuffs in the paint. Voices from other rooms rose and fell in waves.
In the dressing room the bulbs around the mirrors burned hot and steady. Hairspray hung in the air. The counter was a mess of lashes, brushes, and lipsticks with cracked caps. Mireya took the stool at the vanity next to Jaslene and set the bills flat on the wood.
She leaned close to the mirror. Hair first. The strands had softened at the ends. She twisted a section and pinned it back. The girl in the glass looked like she always did at this hour. Pretty and sharp in the same breath. Tired under the eyes if you knew where to look.
Jaslene glanced over without moving much else. “You look like you ’bout to curse somebody out.”
Mireya kept working, a small shrug rolling one shoulder. “Never know,” she said. “Probably could make some money off that, too.”
Jaslene laughed, bright and quick. “Angry Latina, cursing someone out, naked? Someone definitely got that fetish.”
“One hundred percent,” Mireya said. She lined her lips again and pressed them together. The old heat in her chest cooled as her hands found their rhythm. Powder. Liner. A fingertip to clean the corner. The world narrowed to the face she could control.
A zipper snagged across the room and someone clicked their tongue at it. The vent hummed. The floor vibrated with whatever song had taken over the main stage. Mireya breathed in through her nose and steadied her hand.
She reached for the lash glue and dotted a thin line at the outer edge, counting under her breath until it set.
~~~
Fans whispered over the pews. A baby fussed once and settled. Pastor Hadden left his Bible open on the pulpit and stepped down into the aisle, voice even, not pushing against the room.
“Sometimes it ain’t the big falls that wear us down, church.”
Amen rolled from the middle rows. Laney kept her hands folded over the program in her lap, paper warm under her thumbs. The corner of her mouth tried to dip. She caught it and held it flat.
“It’s the little trades we make just to keep the wheels turning.”
He paced past their row. His cuff brushed the wood. Rylee eased her clutch open and slid her phone out beneath it. The screen threw a pale light up at her chin. Her thumbs worked fast.
“You know the kind I’m talking about—when you trade sleep for a few extra dollars.”
Laney let her eyes slide over. She didn’t turn her head. Rylee felt the look. Her thumbs slowed.
“Or peace for attention,” Pastor said, turning on his heel. A ceiling fan clicked once, then settled. Or truth for quiet.”
Rylee tucked the phone back under the clutch. The glow died. Her arms folded neat. A cough rose from the choir loft and hid itself in a handkerchief.
“You tell yourself it’s just for now,” he went on, stopping near the steps, “just till things get easier.”
Laney smoothed the program’s edge until it rasped. The faint tug at her mouth tried her again. She set it back where she needed it, proper.
“But trades got a way of sticking. You give what’s precious for what’s passing and call it balance.”
A soft yes moved up by the organ. Someone’s bracelet chimed when they shifted.
“You say, ‘Ain’t no harm in it,’ till the thing you wanted starts owning you.”
He let that rest. The sanctuary held it. Starch and old wood and glove perfume laid thin on the air. Laney fixed her eyes on the hymn numbers until they doubled, then settled back into one column.
“The Book say every weight ain’t sin,” Pastor said, walking again, “but some weights still slow you down.”
His shoes crossed their row.
“And a soul carrying too much bargain gets tired.”
A baby’s laugh popped bright and made two pews smile before they caught themselves. The organ bench creaked.
“I ain’t here to shame nobody,” he said, gentling the line. “I’m just saying—when the world gets loud and the easy thing look like rest, ask yourself what you’re paying for it.”
Rylee’s knee bounced once under her skirt. Stopped. Laney kept her hands quiet on the program. The small war at her mouth eased and went still.
“Temptation don’t always come dressed in trouble,” Pastor said, hand resting on the open page again. “Most days it look like relief.”
Silence held a breath with him.
“That’s why grace matters,” he finished, softer, “’cause the Lord know what it mean to be tired.”
Heads bowed. The benediction folded over them. Shoes scuffed. Bulletins rustled. People rose and shook hands across aisles. Laney stayed seated until the aisle cleared, then stood when the last hats passed and the row ahead had emptied. She and Rylee moved together toward the doors without a word, close enough to hear the brush of their dresses.
Outside, heat pushed under the porch roof and climbed the steps. The boards held a hundred Sundays’ worth of scuffs. The lot shimmered in hard sun. Conversations broke into small circles. Her parents stood by the rail taking hands, faces open for every “good word today” and every tired request.
Laney didn’t join the greeting line. She took the spot at the porch edge where the shade met the light. Hands crossed over her middle. Rylee hovered, hugged a woman, laughed soft at nothing, then drifted toward the rail to adjust a bobby pin that never sat right. The empty space at Laney’s shoulder stayed a shape she recognized.
“Laney.” Jesse came up from the side, breath quick like he had jogged those last steps. His tie had already slipped crooked. His phone sat face up in his hand. A call on the screen. A girl’s name sat at the top. He tried to keepit casual and failed.
He tipped his chin toward the lot. “Can I get your keys? Gonna sit in the van a minute.”
She looked at the screen, then at him. “Don’t mess up my seats,” she said, the vowels stretched just enough to fit the heat.
“I won’t.” His smile spread as soon as yes landed. The bounce hit his step before she even had the keys clear of her clutch. They clinked when she pulled them free. She held them until his eyes met hers, then let them drop into his palm.
“Thank you,” he said, already turning for the steps.
He took them two at a time and cut across the lot. A girl’s voice leaked thin through the call until the van door shut and swallowed it. Sun flared on the windshield and settled.
Laney’s face didn’t shift. She set the program’s edge to the top rail and pulled it straight with her thumb. Rylee passed behind her back, perfume trailing. Down the steps a child chased a cousin, shoes knocking against wood. Up by the rail, her daddy’s laugh rose and folded into another blessing.
Laney stayed at the porch edge where the shade cooled her shoes and the heat pressed at her arms. Hands crossed over one another. Eyes on the lot and the van and the bright day sitting heavy on everything.
~~~
The trunk popped and stuck high. Ramon reached in until he had to duck his head, shoulder grinding into the carpet, hand fishing past a folded blanket and a box of loose sockets. Metal clicked against metal. He pulled the backpack from the far corner and set it on the bumper. Zipper teeth whispered open. Inside, plastic wrapped around plastic and tape. He looked long enough to see what he needed to see. He closed it and slid the strap onto his shoulder.
Tyree watched the street. Two dogs chased a cat across the pavement. E.J. rubbed his palms together and blew out air through his nose, steady. Ramon nodded once at both of them and palmed the trunk down.
They crossed cracked concrete to Trell’s door. Bass pushed under it, thin and eager, the kind a little speaker made when it worked too hard. Someone laughed. Someone said, “Run that back, nigga,” and the door swung open.
Heat and smoke rolled over them. The front room was a fold-out table and a couch trying to be leather. Three men knelt on the floor, dice hitting and skipping, bills fanned into messy stacks. Another man poured amber into a red cup without looking, eyes glued to the throw. A hard six hit and the table popped. Curses landed soft and friendly. The air smelled like weed, cheap cologne, and old fryer oil trapped in somebody’s hoodie.
Ramon kept the bag close to his hip and slid through the room. Tyree and E.J. followed tight. Heads turned and turned back. The song changed and the volume clicked up a hair.
In the back, Trell sat low with one ankle parked over his knee, glass in his hand. The light found the ring on his finger and stayed. Ant stood on the wall behind him, hands behind his back, chin tipped down, eyes watching every face. Dez leaned against the back of the sofa, phone face down on a side table with burn marks along the edge.
Ramon stopped in front of Trell and dropped the strap from his shoulder. He held the bag out by the top seam. Trell didn’t touch it. He cut his eyes at Dez.
Dez took the bag, pulled the zipper in one smooth run, and lifted a brick out. The room didn’t go quiet, but the sound seemed to tilt. The plastic-wrapped block caught the overhead light and held it flat.
Trell looked past the brick to Ramon. “Duke ain’t say how y’all got this back from the A.”
“Driving through the sticks,” Ramon said.
Trell nodded once. “Been good business with y’all boys across the river since Ant got out.”
Ant pushed off the wall, steps unhurried. He dug into his pocket and came up with a tight roll of bills, rubber band biting a groove in the paper. He held it out. Ramon took it and slid it into his own pocket. Ant’s eyes stayed on him a breath longer than the hand-off needed.
From the front room, a shout spiked the noise. Then everything shifted. Three white women walked in single file, skirts short, straps thin, hair sprayed up and bright. The men left the dice where they landed. Cash rose from pockets and palms without anybody saying a word.
Trell leaned back and let a smirk live on his face. “Got the boys something different today. Some country girls from Mississippi. The Delta as they call it.”
Ant tipped his head toward the doorway, then back at the three of them. “Y’all should stick around.”
Ramon met Tyree’s eyes, then E.J.’s. He let a small smile touch one corner and drop off. “Nah,” he said. “We appreciate it though.”
Trell shrugged and turned his glass toward the growing crowd. Dez slid the brick back into the backpack, zipped it shut with the same neat pull, and set the bag on the scorched table. Nobody said anything else to them. Their part here was done.
They walked out the way they came. The front room had shifted into a half circle with the women in the center, bills pinched between fingers, a fresh song knocking against the thin walls. One of the women laughed without smiling and pressed her palm to a man’s chest to move him where she wanted him. Somebody whistled. Somebody said something ugly and soft. Sweat already put a shine on foreheads and collars.
The door gave them back to the street. Heat hit and felt cleaner. Evening hung low, not ready to let go of the day. A breeze dragged a bit of river smell across the block and lost it.
Tyree spat in the dust by the drive and shook his head. “It’s gonna smell fucking crazy in there in about an hour.”
E.J. blew a short laugh through his nose. “Can’t even call that shit a train. That’s a whole ass convoy.”
Ramon snorted, quick and low, and angled to the car. The metal had cooled enough to touch. He unlocked it and dropped into the driver’s seat. The door shut with a solid thump as the others climbed in.
~~~
The AC rattled and the blinds threw skinny bars of light across the carpet. Caine sat on the floor with his back against the couch, legs out, a half-empty bottle of water tucked between his ankles. Rylee lay on the cushions behind him, the soft of the couch pushing against his shoulders. Her hand found a lock of his hair and drifted through it without hurry, her fingers moving lazy like she had an afternoon to waste.
“You really gon’ sit in here all day?” she asked, voice easy.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s my day off.”
“Mmm.” She shifted to get comfortable, the cushion breathing under her. “You ain’t even all that tired. All you been doin’ this week is playin’ football.”
He snorted. “You ever did two-a-days?”
She waved a wrist he couldn’t see. “It ain’t that hard to run ’round a lil’ bit extra.”
He shook his head once and let it pass. The TV was on mute, some show about people pulling catfish out a river. A neighbor’s door thudded down the hall and footsteps faded. Rylee’s fingers kept moving. He made a small adjustment forward and settled again, not enough to break her rhythm.
They let the quiet fill up. He took a drink and set the bottle down so the plastic tapped the floor. A ceiling fan clicked somewhere out of sight and kept clicking.
“Heard your baby mama was back in town earlier this week,” Rylee said.
“Yeah,” he said. “It was my daughter’s birthday.”
“Mm.” Her bracelet ticked against the couch when she tucked her hand under her chin. She combed another lock and smoothed it. The show on the screen cut to a commercial he didn’t look at.
“And I heard you actually got friends,” she said after a beat, smile tucked into the words.
He glanced over his shoulder without fully turning. “What you mean?”
“I drove by to drop in on you. Saw you had company. Three boys.”
“Oh.” He faced forward again. “That’s my potnas from New Orleans.”
“You shoulda found time to take ’em out,” she said. “I got friends too.”
He laughed once under his breath. “I don’t think your friends would be their type.”
“We everybody’s type,” she said, rolling her eyes he could hear.
Her hand slid back to his hair. He leaned away a half inch like his body was remembering something, then eased back so her fingers could keep on. She didn’t mention it. The fan clicked. The AC coughed and kept trying.
“You ain’t hungry?” she asked. “We really just gon’ sit in here?”
“It’s Sunday.”
“There’s one that stays open in Hopeulikit,” she said. “We could get a drink, shoot a game.”
He rubbed a palm down his face and let it fall to his thigh. “Nah. I’m good.”
“Suit yourself.” She exhaled and let the air settle. Nails grazed his scalp once, soft. He shifted the smallest amount forward and forgot about it.
Outside, a car door slammed and an engine turned over. The apartment took the sound and let it go. He looked at the blank corner of the TV screen like it held a thought and then didn’t. Her phone buzzed against her thigh. She didn’t reach for it.
“You ain’t even wanna ride?” she said. “Windows down. Little loop. I’ll even drive.”
“I’m straight.”
Her knuckles brushed his shoulder as she resettled her arm, then found another lock and traced it to the end. He sat still. The plastic of the water bottle ticked as it cooled. He tapped two fingers against the carpet one time and stopped.
She sighed, not mad, not even disappointed, just letting the sound answer the room. Her hand stayed in his hair, slow and unbothered, the pads of her fingers tracing away any hurry.
He leaned away a touch without thinking and then settled back into her reach. She kept playing with his dreads, lazy and gentle. And every now and then, he’d shift again.
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Soapy
- Posts: 12239
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
American Sun
That $300 gonna cost way more than that smh
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redsox907
- Posts: 2197
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
American Sun
Caine seems autistic half the time 
super OCD, detail oriented, doesn't read social situations well, analytical and results driven. Its all adding up.
Mireya dead set on being an independent woman, she going to have to sell that head game at some point if she wants to be on like Alejandra
Anyway, how long until Trell, Ant, and Duke want to know where their weight is hiding out on the trip through the sticks
super OCD, detail oriented, doesn't read social situations well, analytical and results driven. Its all adding up.
Mireya dead set on being an independent woman, she going to have to sell that head game at some point if she wants to be on like Alejandra
not to be on djp - but I'm assuming its supposed to say "how ya'll got this back from the A." Had me confused for a sec. Not three weeks on a throwaway character tho.
Anyway, how long until Trell, Ant, and Duke want to know where their weight is hiding out on the trip through the sticks
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12111
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
American Sun
Why y'all assume they trying to run a scheme on that man?
Not the tismredsox907 wrote: ↑25 Oct 2025, 03:32Caine seems autistic half the time
super OCD, detail oriented, doesn't read social situations well, analytical and results driven. Its all adding up.
Mireya dead set on being an independent woman, she going to have to sell that head game at some point if she wants to be on like Alejandra
not to be on djp - but I'm assuming its supposed to say "how ya'll got this back from the A." Had me confused for a sec. Not three weeks on a throwaway character tho.
Anyway, how long until Trell, Ant, and Duke want to know where their weight is hiding out on the trip through the sticks
His attention to detail was there in season 1 but ramped up significantly in season 2 when he was released from jail and started to resemble OCD. It's a trauma response.
Also, man reads social situations just fine (outside of situations with Mireya which are colored by how he views love). His worldview just alters how/if he reacts to said social sitchs.Mireya said she not relying on no man, cot damn it!
Motherfucker clearly that's supposed to say this
What makes you think Trell and Ant are throwaway characters?
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redsox907
- Posts: 2197
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
American Sun
I don't think they're throwaway characters, I meant the t missing confused me for a second, but not like DJP obsessing over a throwaway character for three weeks.
I have a strong feeling Trell and Ant going to have a big role to play in Caine's and the 3NG gangs life going sideways at some point, Like I said, eventually "through the sticks" isn't going to be enough of an answer for them on where their weight is at, especially if something comes up where it takes longer than normal. Then they'll want to check out Caine etc. etc.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 5318
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
American Sun
The way Caine operates, I don't know how he gets girls fr. Boy got the personality of a broomstick.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12111
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
American Sun
Oooooh.redsox907 wrote: ↑25 Oct 2025, 12:31I don't think they're throwaway characters, I meant the t missing confused me for a second, but not like DJP obsessing over a throwaway character for three weeks.
I have a strong feeling Trell and Ant going to have a big role to play in Caine's and the 3NG gangs life going sideways at some point, Like I said, eventually "through the sticks" isn't going to be enough of an answer for them on where their weight is at, especially if something comes up where it takes longer than normal. Then they'll want to check out Caine etc. etc.
That could be it.
Tall, dark and handsome non-chalant types are in brodie.Captain Canada wrote: ↑25 Oct 2025, 15:49The way Caine operates, I don't know how he gets girls fr. Boy got the personality of a broomstick.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12111
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47