American Sun

[Caesar]

everytime I see a post, come into the thread, and there's no update

My bad bro

[Caesar]

Hoc Sufficit

Caine sat in the middle row of the film room with the lights off and the projector humming. The Georgia Southern logo had long since given way to cut ups of his season, drive after drive stitched together until the snaps blurred. The screen washed the room in a dull light that left the corners in shadow. A legal pad sat on the desk in front of him, lines already crowded with tight handwriting.

He ran the clip back again with the remote in his hand. Freeze. Rewind. Play. The same second quarter throw from James Madison, field side hitch on third and six. On the screen he saw his feet set a shade late, shoulders a hair open, ball drifting just far enough inside that the corner had a chance to drive and get hands on it. First down anyway, but it cost the yards after that should have been there.

He scribbled a note under the last one and flipped back to the start of the series. The paper already held corrections on protections, little arrows where his eyes had gone to the wrong safety, tiny circles around windows he wanted to hit sooner.

The building around him was only starting to wake up. Out in the hallway, a vacuum whined, cut off, then started again farther down. Somewhere above the ceiling tiles the AC chugged and then settled into a low whir. The faint smell of last night’s coffee drifted in from the staff room, sour and familiar.

He clicked to the next cut. Fourth quarter against Marshall this time, high red zone. On the screen he took the snap, opened left, held the safety with his eyes, then came back to the post. He watched his front foot land just outside the hash and watched the ball hang a beat longer than he liked before it climbed. Touchdown. He knew the result. It was still too long.

He wrote, Ball out half beat sooner. Trust read. No extra hitch.

His pen left a small groove in the paper where he pressed harder. He flipped back in the pad to make sure he hadn’t already written the same line three pages ago. He had. It stayed anyway.

The projector fan blew warm air against his knuckles when he reached up to shield his eyes for a second. He rolled his shoulders once and sat forward again, elbows on the desk, remote steady in his right hand.

He switched playlists to the self scout cut up, every incompletion stacked one after the other with no touchdowns to break the rhythm. First play was from Louisiana. Quick game to the boundary, ball thrown high enough that the receiver had to climb and tap toes instead of catching and turning. He watched his wrist position in the frame, the way the ball left his hand with just a little extra juice.

He skipped ahead three clips to a sack. App State, third and four. The protection was sound. He had David in the flat and Trey’Dez on the shallow. On the screen he looked at the post one beat too long, waiting on a window that never opened, then tucked the ball and ate the hit.

He stopped it right before the contact and rewound to the top. This time he watched his eyes instead of the rush, tracing them with the pen on the pad. One. Two. Three. Wait. He drew a line from the post to the shallow with a little X over the half second he wanted back.

His pen moved faster now, the notes shortening to codes he knew he’d understand later. P for patience in the pocket when he bailed too early. A small S when his shoulders slipped out of line. SC when he didn’t trust the check and held the original call too long. The pad filled toward the bottom of the page.

Voices floated faint through the door as someone passed by, two staffers trading quick talk about recruiting. A printer started up somewhere nearby and spit paper in sharp bursts. The hallway lights under the door grew brighter as the sun cleared the trees and the building moved into its day.

The door hinges out in the hall creaked, a louder sound than the others had been. Steps approached, two sets, easy and unhurried. The murmur of conversation came with them, one voice higher, one lower, both carrying the tone of people who had done this walk a thousand mornings already.

Caine kept the clip running long enough to see the incompletion finish. Then he hit pause and let the picture freeze on his follow through, arm extended, ball already gone and wrong.

The footsteps passed the room, then stopped. He heard the small squeak of shoes backing up. The door eased open another inch, letting a line of real light into the dark.

Coach Aplin leaned into the doorway first, coffee in hand, polo collar sharp. Coach Fatu stood just behind his shoulder with his own cup, the steam already gone, eyes taking in the screen and then the notebook in front of Caine.

Caine met them with a small nod.

Aplin’s brow ticked up, grin sitting easy at the corner of his mouth. “You good?”

“Yeah, coach,” Caine said. “Just ain’t got class until later so I figured I’d come do some extra film.”

Aplin looked back at Fatu. Fatu tipped his chin once and took a slow sip, the paper cup making a soft crackle where his fingers pressed.

“Alright then,” Aplin said. “We’ll let you get back to it. Make sure you keeping those grades up. Last thing I want is to go into next season and find out my quarterback is ineligible because he didn’t get the right sorority girl to do his papers for him.”

Caine let out a short laugh. The sound cut a thin line through the hum of the projector. “Got it, coach.”

Aplin shook his head once, still smiling, and backed out into the hallway. Fatu gave Caine one more quiet look, then followed Aplin down the corridor. Their voices dropped to a low murmur again, shoes soft against the tile until the sound faded.

The film room settled back into its own noise. The fan pushed warm air. The AC droned above. The clip waited on the screen, Caine’s arm frozen in the air, feet still a step too close together.

He sat there for one breath, pen resting against the pad, eyes on the paused frame. The hallway light under the door narrowed as it swung fully shut again.

Then he rewound the play and went back to work.

~~~

Students streamed out of the classroom in a staggered line, a short burst of cooler air hitting the hallway before it settled back into the usual stale hum. Mireya stepped out with her backpack strap cutting into one shoulder, Sena at her side. Around them, the last few students drifted out in clumps, shoes scuffing the floor, voices bleeding together and then apart again.

“Did you understand anything that she was saying at the end of all of that?” Mireya asked.

Sena’s eyebrows pulled together. She let out a breath that was almost a laugh as she shook her head. “No, but I’ve never been good with all the history stuff. There’s a reason I want to be a nurse and part of that is because I don’t have to remember which president got impeached for having his asshole played with.”

Mireya huffed out a laugh, the corner of her mouth lifting. “I don’t think that has happened.”

“Yet,” Sena said, smiling.

They joined the slow current of bodies moving toward the front doors. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Someone’s backpack brushed Mireya’s elbow. A boy in a hoodie jogged past them on the stairs, taking them two at a time, the slap of his sneakers echoing off the walls.

When they stepped outside, the air felt different. February cool but still New Orleans heavy, damp around the edges. The sound shifted too, opened out, cars on the street in the distance, a stray horn, the chop of voices spreading across the concrete and grass.

They headed toward the quad without talking for a moment. The sun caught on the glass of the newer buildings, throwing back sharp flashes that made Mireya squint. She pushed her hand into the pocket of her hoodie.

“Can I just say that I always love your outfits?” Sena said.

Mireya looked down at herself. Hoodie soft, the small logo stitched at the chest. Jeans that hit right at her waist and hugged her thighs.

She shrugged. “Thanks, but this was just thrown together.”

Sena rolled her eyes and tipped her head. “Yeah, okay. Everyone else is wearing Lulu and Fleurty Girl thrown together. Not.” She flicked her fingers in a small gesture that traced Mireya’s frame. “This.”

Mireya laughed, the sound quick, pulled out of her. “Well, feel free to ask me to borrow anything you like.”

Sena sucked her teeth, amused. “As if I can pull this stuff off like you.”

“You don’t know until you put it on,” Mireya said.

Sena only shook her head, already backing away a step as they reached the edge where the paths split. “I’m gonna head to the library. See you tomorrow?”

Mireya nodded and lifted her hand in a small wave. “See you tomorrow.”

Sena pivoted toward the library, slipping her earbuds in as she walked. Mireya watched her for a second, then turned and cut across the quad.

The grass ran flat and patchy in places, a mix of winter tired and student shortcuts worn into it.

Mireya shifted her backpack higher on her shoulder and kept moving. Her eyes tracked the path in front of her, then drifted ahead to the cluster of buildings on the other side. The union sat there, glass and brick, throwing back the gray sky and the faint reflection of people going in and out.

Out of the corner of her eye, motion pulled her attention. Tyree stepped out of one of the buildings flanking the quad, door closing behind him with a thud that barely cut through the campus noise. He had a scratch-off card in one hand, a coin in the other, the silver dust flaking onto his fingers as he dragged the edge across the little boxes.

He checked the lines fast. For a second his shoulders stayed up, waiting. Then his face dropped and his head dipped. The card arced toward the trash can near the sidewalk. It clipped the rim and slid down inside.

He lifted his head again and scanned the quad. His gaze caught on her. His whole expression shifted.

“Hey, wait up, Mireya!” he shouted, hand already up.

She slowed without stopping and he cut across the grass, the soles of his sneakers whispering against it. He jogged the last few steps and fell in beside her, smile already in place.

“You know I’m still waiting for you to hook me up with one of your friends,” he said.

Mireya snorted a small laugh out of her nose. “I don’t set motherfuckers up. You’re just going to have to find them somewhere and spit some game.”

Tyree spread his hands out at his sides. “But I gotta be in the same room with them to spit some game and that’s where I need you to help a nigga out.”

She shook her head, mouth curving but not giving him what he wanted. The breeze shifted and carried the fry oil smell from the union toward them, mixing with the faint exhaust from a bus that had just pulled off from the stop on the street.

They walked a few more steps, the concrete under their feet spotted where old gum had been scraped off and forgotten. Tyree dug into his pocket and flicked the edge of the coin against his knuckles before he shoved it away again.

“Oh, by the way,” he said, tone sliding toward casual, “one of my homegirls been looking for a job. You pretty much the only chick I know with a job.”

“That’s fucking sad, Tyree,” Mireya said.

He huffed, unfazed. “I don’t know why you got one either. Caine got that munyun. But that ain’t the point right now. You think you can get her put on where you at?”

Mireya raised an eyebrow, turning her head just enough to look at him. “At McDonald’s?”

“Yeah,” he said, as if that part should have been obvious.

“Or at Academy?” she asked.

Tyree’s eyebrows pulled together. He turned his head, really looking at her now. “You got more than one job?”

Mireya sucked her teeth. “You can tell Paz that I’m still fucking cleaning toilets for a living.”

“Ain’t nobody said nothing about no Paz,” Tyree said.

“You still fucking her?” Mireya asked.

He nodded once. “Yeah, but I’m trying to help my homegirl.”

Mireya shook her head and cut her path toward the union, angle sharper now. “Bye, Tyree.”

Tyree threw his hands out, voice lifting after her as she walked away. “I’ll even take the white girl now! Help a nigga out!”

~~~

Traffic inched forward in fits. The heater pushed lukewarm air at his shins. The sky hung low and gray, the kind of day that never really warmed up even with the sun out somewhere behind the clouds.

Kevin Gates rapped from the speakers, the bass a steady thud under the words. Ramon had one hand on the wheel, the other drumming time against his thigh as he rapped along under his breath. He knew the cadence better than the lyrics. His mouth moved around the lines anyway, sound low, more rhythm than anything else.

Up ahead, the light at the intersection flipped yellow. Cars eased through until it went red and the line stopped again. A horn blared from a lane over. Someone leaned out a window to cuss. The city sounded half awake, half hungover, buses hissing as they pulled away from stops, a siren whining faint in the distance before dropping out.

His phone buzzed in the cup holder.

Ramon glanced down. Nina’s name sat over a bubble of text.

Can you grab some chicken thighs and andouille on your way home? I wanna make gumbo this weekend.

He tapped at the screen.

Yeah, but Ima be late tonight. Business.

He hit send. Another buzz came quick. A single thumbs up sat under his message. No extra words.

The light shifted green. The line lurched. Ramon slid the phone back into the cup holder and let his foot ease off the brake. His car rolled forward, engine humming steady.

As he crossed the intersection, his gaze pulled right. A gas station sat on the corner, concrete lot, two islands of pumps. Cars sat crooked at a few of the pumps. The small store stood behind dirty glass, hand-lettered signs taped to the door.

On the far side of one pump, a beat-up car sagged on tired shocks, paint oxidized to a dull, uneven color. A man in a heavy jacket stood at the pump, one hand on the nozzle, eyes on the numbers. Asia leaned against the passenger door, hip pressed to the metal, arms folded over her chest.

Her jacket hung open, zipper broken or just ignored. Her shirt clung thin to her, the neckline stretched. Her jeans hugged narrow hips that had fallen sharper.

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He flicked on his blinker and cut across the lane, earning another horn blast behind him. He swung into the station, tires thumping over the lip between road and lot, and pulled around to the other side of their pump.

The hose looped between them. Gas fumes sat heavy in the cold air. A loose plastic bag blew across the concrete before snagging under a rusty bumper.

Ramon put the car in park and killed the music. The sudden quiet made the hum of the pump louder, the click of the numbers rolling, the faint slap of traffic just beyond the curb.

He pushed his door open and climbed out, hoodie shifting over his waistband. The wind cut across the lot, more damp than sharp. He pulled the door shut with a dull thunk.

Asia clocked him as soon as he straightened. Her eyes tracked over the car first, then up to his face. Her mouth curled around a half smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Come here,” Ramon said.

He didn’t raise his voice, but it carried across the short space between them.

The man at the pump turned his head, taking in Ramon, the car, the set of his shoulders. He was older, gray in his beard, belly pushing the front of his jacket out. His jaw tightened.

“Hey, get your own, buddy,” the man said. His hand tightened on the pump handle.

Ramon stepped in closer to the pump. The hose cut a soft barrier between them, rubber flexing. He lifted the edge of his hoodie with two fingers. The grip of the gun sat snug against his waist, metal dull under the station lights.

“You wanna go there, old ass nigga?” he asked. His voice stayed even. “We could take it there.”

The man’s gaze dropped. Stuck on the gun. His throat moved once, a hard swallow. The pump clicked, tank full, the numbers freezing. He slid the nozzle back into its holster with careful hands and wiped his fingers down the leg of his jeans.

“Uh, no,” he said.

He stepped around Asia, one hand brushing her elbow, turning her away from the car like she was something fragile he didn’t want to break. He opened the driver’s door, slid in, and pulled it shut. The engine turned over. A second later, the car rolled off fast, tires squealing a little as he shot toward the exit and back into traffic.

Asia watched the car go, lips pressed together. Then she cut her eyes back to Ramon.

“You just made me lose fifteen dollars,” she said.

Ramon didn’t answer that. He looked her over instead. The jacket that didn’t match the weather. The dirt on the knees of her jeans. The way her shoulders folded in.

“Why you ain’t been back to talk to Nina?” he asked.

Asia’s shoulders hitched a little. She pushed off the car and shifted her weight, sneaker scraping across concrete.

“She seem like a bougie ass bitch,” Asia said. “One of them bitches who only care about making themselves look good.”

Ramon’s jaw worked. He stepped around the pump so they stood on the same side, concrete slick with patches of old oil between them.

“You know that’s my girl you talking about,” he said.

Asia lifted her hands, palms out, bracelets clinking around her wrist. “I’m just saying,” she said. “She do.”

Ramon stared at her for a beat, then let it go. His breath left him in a slow exhale that clouded faint in the cold air.

“Where you been staying?” he asked.

Asia rolled her eyes, bored. Her fingers tugged her jacket tighter across her chest.

“When I can find the money,” she said, “the InTown in Gretna. But your ass just made me lose fifteen dollars, nigga. Now, I gotta work twice as hard to turn some tricks.”

The words came out flat. She said them the way somebody listed off errands. Her gaze had already started to wander, tracking the cars that pulled in, the men who stepped out.

Ramon sucked his teeth. The sound cut through the hiss of the pumps. He reached into the pocket of his hoodie and dug around until his fingers brushed paper. He pulled out a twenty, folded once, and held it between two fingers.

Asia’s eyes dropped to the bill. Her mouth twisted.

“It’s seventy-five dollars,” she said.

“No, it ain’t,” Ramon said.

She squinted at him. “How you know?”

“Because it ain’t,” he said. “You taking this or nah?”

For a second, it looked like she might argue more. Then she stepped in fast, snatched the bill from his hand, and shoved it down the front of her shirt. Her fingers pressed it flat against her skin for a moment before she pulled her hand back out.

“You need to go talk to Nina again,” Ramon said. “I’ll give you the weekend but next week.”

Asia waved a hand through the air.

“I’ll do it when I do it,” she said. “Ain’t like you paying a bitch nothing to waste my time over there.”

Ramon shook his head and turned back toward his car. The wind pushed the smell of gas and exhaust up into his face. He wrapped his fingers around the handle and pulled the door open.

“Make sure you get your ass to that motel,” he said over his shoulder. “It’s supposed to be cold as fuck this weekend.”

Asia had already started moving, hips angling toward another pump where a different man stood, card in the machine, eyes on the screen. She called back without looking at Ramon.

“Yeah, whatever, nigga.”

Ramon watched her walk for a moment, the way her steps tipped a little to one side, the way she adjusted her jacket with one sharp tug. Then he got in his car, shut the door, and eased back out of the lot, merging into the slow, thick line of traffic that waited for the next light to change.

~~~

Sara’s couch had finally broken in enough that it didn’t feel like a stranger. The cushions dipped under both of them, her weight curled into Devin’s side, his hand resting light at the curve of her hip over soft cotton. The movie washed over the room, sound turned down low so it was more murmur than dialogue, blue light flickering across the walls and the bare stretch of floor between the coffee table and the TV.

Devin’s phone buzzed against his thigh.

He shifted just enough to slide his hand away from her hip and pick it up. The light from the screen lit his face for a moment, cutting a sharp line across his cheekbone. His eyes flicked down, then his thumb moved fast over the screen. Before Sara could catch more than the shape of a text bubble, he turned the phone over and set it face down on his knee. His arm dropped back around her, hand falling where it had been.

She settled again. Let her head rest against his shoulder. Watched the movie without really seeing it. The warmth of him at her side stayed steady.

The phone buzzed again.

This time he didn’t move as quick. His fingers tightened once on her hip, then eased. He picked the phone up, a small breath pushing out of him that was not quite a sigh. Another glance at the screen. Another short reply. The phone went back down, face pressed to his jeans.

Sara watched his reflection in the dark line of the TV frame. The angle made his jaw look tense even when his mouth stayed soft.

After the third time he did it, she slid her hand over his wrist.

“You need to go?” she asked.

Her voice came out low, almost threaded into the sound from the movie. Still, he looked down at her like she had turned the volume all the way up.

He nodded once before he caught himself and shook his head. “Nah, nah. I’m good,” he said. “I’m just waiting for a client to respond about an offer they got from a buyer.”

The words came smooth, the way he talked about work when he wanted her to understand but not worry. On screen, someone laughed and music swelled. Sara cut her eyes away from the TV and over toward the clock on the end table.

The red digital numbers glowed back at her. Eight something. The little dots between hour and minute blinked on and off.

“At eight at night?” she asked.

Devin laughed, a short sound from his chest. He lifted one shoulder and let it fall, the shrug sliding under her cheek. “Folks buying and selling houses aren’t working us normal people hours,” he said. “They’re probably talking it out with the wife to see if the numbers make sense.”

Sara let her gaze drop to his hand where it rested on her. The pad of his thumb brushed once over the seam of her shirt, a small absent circle.

“Ah,” she said. “I got you.”

He nodded and turned his face back toward the TV. The blue light caught the edge of his lashes. For a few minutes, nothing moved except the pictures on the screen.

Then his phone buzzed again.

He didn’t even try to hide it this time. His hand left her hip. He reached for the phone, eyes already going there before it finished vibrating. The screen glow lit up his palm. The crease between his brows deepened for a second.

“You can get it if you need to get it,” Sara said.

She didn’t move away from him. Her head stayed on his shoulder, but her eyes were on his face now, not the TV.

Devin shook his head at first. “It’s fine,” he said. The word sat there a beat. Then he pushed his palm against his thigh and stood up, easing himself out from under her with a care that kept from jostling her too much. “I’m just gonna text him back real quick.”

The loss of his weight changed the shape of the cushion under her. Cool air slid into the space where his body had been. Sara shifted, pulling her knees up a little, arms wrapping around them out of habit more than anything else.

Devin walked into the kitchen. The overhead light in there clicked on, a softer yellow than the TV’s blue. It spilled just far enough to catch the edge of his shoulders as he leaned against the counter, head bent over his phone. His fingers moved quick. His mouth was set in a line that didn’t match the easy voice he used when he talked about commissions and closing costs.

Sara looked back at the TV, then reached for the remote and hit the power button. The movie cut off mid-scene. The apartment fell into a quieter quiet. The AC hummed from the vent. Somewhere outside, a siren wailed and faded.

By the time she looked back, Devin was at the front door, phone lifted to his ear.

“I’m gonna just take this out here,” he said.

He didn’t wait for her to answer before he stepped out. The door clicked shut behind him, not loud but final. Through the front window, past the thin curtains, she could see his figure move to the side, pacing along the short stretch of sidewalk in front of her unit. His shadow crossed the glass in long passes, back and forth.

Sara leaned forward and set the remote on the table. Her phone sat next to it, screen dark. She picked it up, the case warm under her palm from where it had been resting near her thigh. Her thumb woke the screen.

The thread with Nicole was already near the top. She tapped it open. The last message there was from earlier that day, some joke about a client at the firm.

Sara stared at the empty message bar for a second, the cursor blinking. Her eyes flicked toward the window again. Devin lifted his hand while he talked, fingers cutting little shapes in the air she couldn’t hear. His mouth moved, fast, then paused as he waited.

She typed, Can you look and see if Devin has a record?

Her fingers hovered over delete out of long habit. Asking felt heavy, even through glass and distance and a screen.

She hit send.

The message shot up the thread. The tiny “delivered” note popped under it. Sara’s thumb rubbed along the edge of the phone while she waited. The seconds stretched. The only sound was the AC and Devin’s muffled voice through the door when he turned just right.

Nicole’s reply came in with a small buzz against Sara’s palm. She glanced down. A single magnifying glass emoji sat under her question.

Sara let out a breath and put the phone back down on the coffee table, face up this time. She slid down into the corner of the couch, turning so her shoulder pressed against the armrest. Her elbow found a spot there, and she rested her head on her hand. The fabric under her skin felt rougher than the pillows, but it kept her propped just right to see the door and the window at the same time.

Outside, Devin’s pacing slowed. His shadow crossed her line of sight one more time, then stopped. His voice dropped low enough that even the shape of it disappeared.

She watched the door until it opened.

He stepped back in with his head slightly bowed, thumb sliding across the screen as he ended the call. The cooler night air slipped in around his body before the door shut again. He tucked the phone into his pocket in one smooth motion, like he didn’t plan on needing it again.

“Everything okay?” Sara asked.

Devin looked over at her and smiled. It reached his eyes enough to show up in the small lines at the corners. He nodded. “Yeah, all good,” he said. “Just had to talk the seller down from pulling out of the deal altogether.”

He crossed the room and sat down next to her again. The couch dipped under his weight. This time, instead of reaching for her hip, he slid his arm around her shoulders. His hand rested on the top of her arm, fingers light.

Sara picked up the remote again and pointed it toward the TV. The movie jumped back to life, sound low, light filling the dark glass in front of them. For a few moments, neither of them said anything. The room sat in the soft hum of the AC and the faint noise of the city outside.

“You look tired,” Devin said after a while. His voice had dropped lower, closer. “You wanna go lay down?”

Sara shook her head without looking up. “I’m good right here,” she said.

Devin watched the side of her face as she watched the movie again. Her lashes cast thin shadows on her cheeks in the low light from the lamp. His mouth pressed into a line, then eased as he turned his head forward again. His eyes went back to the TV where the movie kept moving across the screen.

~~~

Caine and Laney had slid into the corner booth a while ago, the leather still warm from the last folks who sat there. The bar in Swainsboro hummed around them, TVs hung up over the bar stacked with different games and highlights, the sound turned down under country and old Atlanta tracks leaking from the ceiling speakers. Fryers hissed behind the counter. Somebody laughed big near the pool table.

Laney sat pressed into his side, thigh against his, her shoulder tucked under his arm. Her hair brushed his bicep every time she shifted. Condensation slipped down the side of her margarita glass and spread in a wet ring on the table. His Long Island leaned close to his other hand, the ice already cloudy.

“I’m tryin’ to tell you that it’s harder to hit a baseball, softball, whatever than it is to throw a damn football,” she said.

“I’m telling you that you don’t know what you talking about,” Caine said. “You ain’t never had no three hundred and fifty pound motherfucker running at you trying to give you CTE while you supposed to be throwing that bitch.”

He felt her laugh against his side before he heard it, a shake from her ribs into his. She pushed at his stomach with the back of her hand.

“You ain’t never tried to hit no damn ball thrown at eighty, ninety miles a hour either,” she said, “but that ain’t stoppin’ you from thinkin’ you know what you talkin’ ‘bout.”

Caine let the corner of his mouth pull up.

“When my mama and Camila leave this weekend,” he said, “we can hit up a batting cage and I’ll show you that ain’t nothing to it.”

She snorted, tipping the margarita to her mouth. Salt brushed her lip. When she lowered the glass she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and looked up at him with one eyebrow raised.

“Fine,” Laney said. “If you don’t hit three outta ten then we ain’t fuckin’ for a week. You just gonna be eatin’ pussy.”

Her eyes didn’t move off his when she said it. The corner of her mouth twitched like she was already halfway amused by herself.

Caine waved his free hand. “Fuck no. That’s a lopsided bet,” he said. “Ain’t hitting three hundred some Hall of Fame shit?”

Laney shrugged, small and slow, with her whole body pressed up on him. “If it’s so easy, you should be able to hit three out of ten,” she said.

He sucked his teeth, but the sound came out light. The TV over the bar cut to a highlight package, colors flashing across the room. Voices rose near the door where some guys in Georgia gear came in loud and then spread toward the back, bringing cold air with them for half a second.

Caine slid his arm off Laney’s shoulders and pushed himself out of the booth. “Gotta piss,” he said. “Be right back.”

She leaned back to give him room, her knees brushing his as he stood. “Mm-hm. Don’t get lost,” she said.

He huffed a quiet breath and headed for the hallway near the restrooms, weaving between tables. The smell shifted as he moved, from fryer oil and citrus to the sourer edge of spilled beer near the bar. He kept one hand in his pocket, head dipped under the lights.

Laney watched him go. She reached over to his glass once he disappeared around the corner, curling her fingers around the sweating plastic and bringing it close.

She took a sip and cringed as the mix hit her tongue, liquor sitting heavy under the sweet. “Ugh,” she murmured to herself, setting it back down. Her tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth.

She pulled in a breath and leaned back against the booth, lifting her own glass for a longer drink from the margarita. The cold slid easier, tang and tequila cutting through the churned-up air. Her phone sat on the table face up. She tapped the screen, thumb quick, checking for any text from Tommy about the boys.

Nothing.

She checked the time, then the top of the screen, waiting half a beat. The little bar stayed clear. She locked the phone and flipped it face down, placing her hand over it for a second before moving it out of the way.

Around her the bar settled into a steady weeknight rhythm. A couple at the booth by the window sat on the same side, heads bent close over a basket of fries. Two older men at the bar argued soft over whatever game was on. The waitress who had dropped their drinks earlier passed by with a tray loaded up, the smell of wings and ranch trailing behind her.

Laney let her shoulders ease back into the corner, her back pressed to the leather. She let her gaze wander toward the front, more out of habit than anything else.

She saw Elston as soon as he stepped through the door.

He came in with a woman at his side, Mae, her hair done up, a jacket pulled tight. Elston’s hat sat low on his head, brim shadowing his eyes. He scanned the room by instinct, eyes moving over tables and faces, and Laney felt the shift in her body before her mind named him.

Her mouth pulled in. She rolled her lips into her mouth and moved, sliding across the booth to the opposite side so the high back shielded more of her from the door. Her margarita glass scraped a little on the table as she dragged it with her. She set it down on the new side and tucked herself in, shoulders more turned toward the wall.

Caine came back before long, the hallway light behind him. He wiped his hands on the front of his jeans once, then reached their booth. He paused when he saw she had moved.

His eyebrow went up. “You good?” he asked.

Laney jerked her chin toward the other side. “Sit there,” she said, nodding to the spot across from where she had settled.

He did what she told him, sliding into the seat with his back now more to the rest of the room, facing her. His arm stretched along the back of the booth, fingers brushing the leather instead of her shoulder this time.

“You good?” he asked again, quieter.

Laney’s eyes flicked past his head, toward the bar. “A couple people I know just walked in,” she said.

His gaze started to turn over his shoulder.

“Don’t fuckin’ look,” she said under her breath.

He checked himself, stopping halfway, and kept his eyes on her instead.

“Know how?” he asked.

Laney kept her voice even. “Just from ‘round the way. Back when I was partyin’, you know.”

Behind him, at the bar, Elston shifted his weight. He turned a little to the side, some motion in the room pulling his attention. His gaze caught on Caine’s profile first, the younger man’s face turned just enough. Then Elston’s eyes tracked past him, to the familiar slope of Laney’s shoulder and the line of her back.

Laney let herself glance over her own shoulder. For a second their eyes locked, that same shared recognition sliding into place. Elston tipped his head once and pushed his hat up with two fingers in a small greeting. His mouth shifted into a grin that held more history than noise. He gave a little shake of his head as he turned back toward Mae, settling on a stool at her side.

Laney sighed, the breath coming out through her nose. She leaned back against the booth again, shoulders sagging half an inch.

“Think he’s going to say shit?” Caine asked.

Laney shook her head. “That’d mean remindin’ his wife about the few times we fucked back in high school,” she said.

Caine let out a short laugh and reached for his drink. He picked up the Long Island and knocked back what was left, ice clinking against his teeth. “I’m starting to think Blake was right about you having a type,” he said.

Laney rolled her eyes, sliding around the booth once more so she ended up on his side again, close enough to catch the warmth off him. The movement pulled a soft rustle from her jeans against the seat.

Caine reached down to her hand, fingers catching at hers for a second before he let go and found her left ring. He slipped her wedding band off gentle and slipped it into her pocket with two fingers, the metal a small weight against the denim.

Laney looked at him, brow creasing. “What you did that for?” she asked.

“In case you see anyone else you know,” he said.

She sucked her teeth and shook her head. The margarita glass was light now when she lifted it. She drank the rest, the last swallow warm from sitting.

Laney set the empty glass back down on the table and leaned back into his side, the ring gone from her hand, the noise of the bar closing around them as she leaned back into his side.

~~~

The restaurant’s noise sat low under everything. Forks hit plates. Glass tapped against glass. Closer to the bar a laugh rose and dropped again. Soft light washed over white tablecloths and the slow path of servers moving between tables. Every time the front door opened, a slice of damp New Orleans air cut through the cool before the glass shut and pressed it back out.

Trell sat on the banquette side of the table, shoulder to the wall, bourbon glass resting loose in his hand. The ice had already thinned in it, the amber turned cloudy where water cut through. He watched Mireya from across the small spread of silver and china as she cut into the piece of meat in front of her. The knife slid through with barely any pressure. Sauce dragged in a dark line across the plate.

The dress he had picked sat on her like it knew her already. Thin black straps crossed once high between her shoulder blades and disappeared down the open run of her back. The fabric dipped low in front. Each time she reached for her fork, the neckline shifted just enough to remind him how little cloth sat between her and the room.

Cool air found the bare stretch of her spine and the tops of her shoulders. Goosebumps pricked along her skin where the dress left it open. She ignored the chill and focused on getting the bite to her mouth without dragging the sauce across the tablecloth.

She felt the weight of his eyes long before she looked up. Mireya lifted her head, chewing slow, and caught him staring at her instead of his drink.

“What?” she asked.

Trell tipped the rim of the glass toward her, the gesture small but lazy, as if it took in her whole body. His eyes slid from her face to the swell of her chest.

“I did good buying that dress for you,” he said. “You look sexy as fuck in it.”

Mireya dropped her gaze, taking in the cut of the dress again. The front dipped deep enough that if she leaned forward too far she would be out of it. The hem rode high on her thighs where she sat.

“Yeah,” she said. “But you wasn’t worried about me being cold as fuck in it.”

He snorted a laugh, short and rough. “I ain’t worried about you being comfortable,” he said. “I’m worried about you looking good for me.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Glad I could be of service,” she said.

She speared another piece of steak and brought it to her mouth. The meat was tender enough that she didn’t have to work at it, something she noticed even as she tried not to. The seasoning sat heavy on her tongue, rich and salty

The candle sitting between them had burned low, wax pooled at the base of the little glass. Its flame threw a soft glow over the center of the table and lifted a light sheen on her glossed lips. It caught the shimmer she had brushed over her cheekbones before she left the apartment.

The waiter stepped up then, stopping just short of the table. He kept his hands light at his sides, napkin folded over one forearm.

“Can I get y’all anything else right now?” he asked.

Trell didn’t move his gaze off Mireya. He only flicked his chin in her direction.

“Whatever she wants,” he said.

Mireya shook her head once. “I’m good for now,” she said. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” the waiter answered. He gathered the empty bread plate with a smooth motion and moved on to the next table. His shoes made almost no sound on the tile.

Mireya set her fork down, the metal resting at an angle against the china. She leaned back in her chair for a moment, letting her shoulders ease now that she wasn’t lifting her arms.

“What I do for you to be so nice to me tonight?” she asked.

Trell gave a small shrug, mouth pulling into a curve that stopped short of a full smile.

“I can’t just do nice shit for you because I want to do nice shit for you?” he asked.

She let out a soft breath through her nose, not quite a laugh.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess you can.”

He set the bourbon down. The glass made a dull sound against the table. Then he leaned forward, both elbows settling on the edge of the cloth. The move pulled him closer to her, cutting down some of the distance the table set between them.

“I just want you to know how much I appreciate you,” Trell said. His voice dropped a little, even though nobody sitting near them seemed to be paying them any attention. “I know shit ain’t always easy fucking with me, but you a ride or die type. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg on top you being fine, smart, a hustler. I like you being around me.”

The words landed clean. Mireya felt something in her chest loosen at the sound of him naming out loud what he liked about her.

She felt herself smile. It came small and easy. Her mouth softened. Her eyes lingered on his for a few seconds longer than she meant them to.

“And I think you deserve to have someone do shit for you from time to time,” he went on. “You always the one making niggas feel good. Tonight, a nigga gonna make you feel good.”

Her hand drifted toward her plate again, fingers brushing the handle of the fork. She looked down for a second at the food in front of her. The steak. The neat pile of vegetables. The portion of potatoes.

“I’m just not used to this,” she said.

Trell laughed once, the sound low. He shook his head.

“You gonna have to get used to it then,” he said. “You not no Ramen noodle eating bitch no more.”

That pulled a real laugh out of her. She shook her head, shoulders moving, the straps of the dress shifting against her skin.

“I never been a Ramen noodle eating bitch,” she said. “I was a ground meat on tortillas eating bitch.”

He lifted his glass again.

“Ain’t eating that shit no more either,” Trell said.

She cut another piece and ate, letting the flavor sit heavy in her mouth. Her tongue moved across her teeth to catch the last of the sauce.

Trell watched until she swallowed. When he spoke again the tone had changed again, casual but too deliberate to be random.

“When you getting back from seeing that square ass nigga in Georgia?” he asked.

The knife in her hand touched down on the plate and stayed there. She looked up at him and caught the slight tilt of his head, the way his mouth carried just a hint of a smile at the corners.

“Sunday,” Mireya said.

She forced her shoulders to stay loose and went back to drawing the knife through the food. In her chest, she waited for the other part. The name of a city. A house. A person he wanted met for reasons that had nothing to do with dinner.

Trell nodded once, more to himself than to her.

“I want you to meet someone,” he said.

Her eyes came back up to his face. He met them, steady.

“Not someone you gotta fuck,” he said. “Someone outside the life.”

She lifted one eyebrow, head tilting just a little.

“Who?” she asked. “You ain’t got a kid or nothing, huh?”

Trell laughed, shaking his head. The sound was short and real. He leaned back an inch, shoulders relaxing.

“Nah,” he said. “This old woman from the neighborhood who looked out for me and Ant when we were coming up. Closest thing I got to a mama.”

He said it easy, but the words carried more than ease. The light caught the side of his face when he turned his head slightly. His hand rested next to the glass, fingers spread.

Mireya watched him for a few seconds, taking in the way he held the memory. She searched his face, looking for the twist that said he was about to pivot back into business. It didn’t come.

“Okay,” she said.

The word came out simple. She gave a small nod to match it.

Trell leaned back fully then, spine against the banquette, arm stretching out along the backrest. The corner of his mouth lifted again into something satisfied.

“Get you some dessert or something,” he said, chin tilting toward the folded menu near her elbow.

She snorted, reaching again for her fork instead of the card with the dessert list.

“You know I can’t dance if I’m fat, right?” she said.

“You’d figure it out,” Trell said.

Mireya rolled her eyes and went back to her meal.

[Soapy]

Laney kept her voice even. “Just from ‘round the way. Back when I was partyin’, you know.”

[redsox907]

Devin definitely hiding something. I'm thinking ex wife with a kid or something like that, not dangerous. Whole thing reeked of an argument between parents about custody or some shit. Had a few of those

Trell softening Mireya up after slutting her out all weekend. Don't get used to the wining and dining, he gonna have trains lined up soon boo

[Captain Canada]

How Devin can't realize that Sara really doesn't rock with him is beyond me?

Mireya will do almost anything for someone to be nice to her and that's so sad.

Still waiting on that other shoe to drop when it comes to Caine/Laney

[Caesar]

Laney kept her voice even. “Just from ‘round the way. Back when I was partyin’, you know.”

A white girl can't catch a vibe?!

Devin definitely hiding something. I'm thinking ex wife with a kid or something like that, not dangerous. Whole thing reeked of an argument between parents about custody or some shit. Had a few of those

Trell softening Mireya up after slutting her out all weekend. Don't get used to the wining and dining, he gonna have trains lined up soon boo

We shall have to see.

Trell said she could get both. Wined and dined then a train ran on her.

How Devin can't realize that Sara really doesn't rock with him is beyond me?

Mireya will do almost anything for someone to be nice to her and that's so sad.

Still waiting on that other shoe to drop when it comes to Caine/Laney

She does rock with him. Just not at the speed he wants to rock with her. And he being shady now.

150 chapters in, he finally got it She just wants to be loved.

They can't have a beautiful love story ending?

[Caesar]

Dum Licuit

Caine heard the knock right before Camila’s laugh. He pushed himself up from the couch, wiped his palm absently on his shorts, and crossed the small living room.

He unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.

Sara stood closest to the frame, shoulders already pulled in from the chill. Mireya was just behind her with Camila hooked on one hip, curls wild from the drive, a pink jacket half-zipped.

Before anyone spoke, Camila twisted hard. She wiggled out of Mireya’s arms, feet thumping against Mireya’s thighs as she kicked free. The second her sneakers hit the sidewalk, she bolted the short distance to him.

“Daddy, up,” she said, fingers grabbing for his shirt.

Caine couldn’t help the laugh that came out of him. “Aight, aight. Come on, mamas.” He bent and scooped her up, settling her on his forearm like he’d been waiting with that space open for her. She wrapped both arms around his neck and buried her face into the side of it, breath warm against his skin, her little hands locking tight at his nape.

“Hi, mijo,” Sara said as she and Mireya stepped past him into the apartment.

She reached around Camila’s body, hugging Caine in close from the side. Her cheek brushed his jaw when she kissed him. “She missed you, mijo. Couldn’t stop talking about it all the way here.”

Caine tightened his hold on Camila for a second and let the door fall most of the way shut with his foot. “Y’all the ones said y’all needed a break from coming here every week,” he said. “I was fucking with it.”

Sara gave him a quick look at his language, mouth pulling, then rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Don’t start,” she said, already shifting around him toward the hallway. “I have to use the bathroom.”

Mireya lingered a step inside, hand on the strap of her bag. Her cropped Golden Goose sweater hit just above her ribs, soft gray with the logo small at the hem, and the black leggings under it cut clean down to her sneakers.

Caine shifted Camila higher on his arm, then reached out with his free hand and caught Mireya’s fingers. He pulled her toward him until she bumped his chest.

“Come here,” he said.

His arm slid around her lower back, palm resting low on her hip. Despite herself, she leaned into him, hip finding his, shoulder brushing his chest, the smallest exhale leaving her as she let her weight settle there.

He glanced down at her outfit again. “¿Cuándo empezaste a usar esto?” he asked, mouth curving.

Mireya lifted one shoulder. “Depop tiene buenas ofertas,” she said, tone light.

He laughed, a low, familiar sound against her hair. “¿Y de quién es la feria que estás utilizando para esos buenos negocios?”

She didn’t even blink. “Tuyo, por supuesto.” Her mouth tugged a little higher at one corner. “Espera a ver la lencería que compré.”

Caine’s hand tightened at her back, pulling her closer into his side. Camila stayed latched to his neck, content, weight solid and warm.

“Oh yeah?” he said, voice dropping without him meaning it to.

The sound of wheels rattling over concrete cut through the room. Something hard bumped a crack outside, then rolled again. Caine’s head turned toward the door on reflex.

Through the narrow window beside it, he caught the sight of a suitcase tilting behind a body jogging across the parking lot. Saul came into view, hoodie half-zipped, shoulders working under the weight of his own bag as he made his way toward the unit.

Caine’s brows pulled in. “What’s he doing here?” he asked, eyes still on the glass.

Mireya followed his look and blew out a slow breath. “Your mamá just showed up with him,” she said. “I didn’t ask.”

Saul hit the walkway and lifted his hand once in a small wave before opening the door the rest of the way and stepping inside, dragging the suitcase over the threshold so the wheels didn’t bang the frame.

“Oye, primo,” he said, a little out of breath but smiling. “You good?”

Caine shifted his grip on Camila and straightened, letting his arm fall from Mireya’s back but keeping her close at his side.

“Yeah,” he said with a short nod. “C’mon. We letting the heat out.”

Saul stepped in farther and pulled the door in behind him until it latched.

Sara came out of the hallway then, drying her hands on a towel. She clocked Saul by the table and Caine with Camila anchored on his forearm and Mireya at his side, then stepped aside for Mireya to pass.

“I’m gonna use it,” Mireya said, nodding toward the bathroom.

She slipped under Caine’s arm, fingers skimming his wrist as she went, and disappeared down the short hall.

Saul took an open chair at the kitchen table, legs scraping a protest against the floor. He set his phone face down, then braced his forearms on his thighs, hands linked, eyes moving between Caine and the trophies over the fridge.

Caine shifted his weight and walked them over toward his mother, planting a few quick kisses on Camila’s forehead on the way. She giggled against his neck, arms squeezing tighter, her sneakers thumping gently against his side.

“Fuck is he doing here?” Caine asked Sara, keeping his voice low.

Sara gave him a look for the language again, but softer this time. “You need to talk to him,” she said.

“¿Sobre qué?” he asked.

Sara leaned around him to see past his shoulder. “Saulito,” she called, voice warm. “Tell Caine.”

Saul rubbed the back of his neck, fingers worrying at the edge of his. His knee bounced once under the table, then stilled.

“So, uh,” he said, eyes landing on Caine and skimming away before coming back, “I kinda got, I mean, I got my girlfriend pregnant.”

The words hung for a second.

Caine looked from Saul to Sara. She just lifted one shoulder in a small shrug, hands open. He looked back at Saul, took in the tight set of his mouth, the way he held himself on the edge of the chair.

Caine huffed out a laugh. “Who the fuck let you lay on top of them and knock them up?” he asked.

Sara’s palm found the back of his head in a quick smack. “Basta ya,” she said, giving him a warning look.

Saul let the joke slide. He kept his focus on the floor for a beat, then lifted his gaze again. “I was wondering if I could, like, talk to you,” he said. “Sometimes this weekend. If it’s cool. About like, being a dad.”

Caine felt Camila shift against his chest, her fingers opening and closing on his collar. He glanced down at her curls spread against his shirt, then back at Sara. She held her hand out, flat, palm up toward Saul.

He let out a slow breath through his nose. “Yeah, I got you, primo,” he said. “Tomorrow, we’ll go grab something to eat or some shit.”

Saul’s shoulders dropped a fraction. He smiled, relief clear on his face. “Thanks, bro,” he said.

Caine just nodded once. He leaned back a little to get a better look at the small face pressed against his neck. “You miss me, mi vida?” he asked.

Camila nodded against his skin without lifting her head.

Caine laughed, the sound low and easy in his chest.

~~~

Trell stood along the back fence with one shoulder touching the post, the mug warm in his hand. The morning still carried leftover cold from the night. It moved off Bayou St. John in small cuts, sliding through the fence and under the hem of his hoodie. He watched the water instead of the houses across it, eyes on the slow pull of the current and the weak strip of light running along the surface.

The grass in the yard was short and damp. Dew clung to the blades and darkened the toes of his slides. Behind him the pool sat flat and pale, the winter color on it dull. Leaves that had blown in overnight floated near the edge, gathered against the skimmer basket because nobody had fished them out yet. The trees lining the fence showed more branch than green, leaves just starting to come back in on the skinny tips.

He lifted the mug and took a long sip. The coffee was hot and strong, bitter in a way he knew. It spread warmth down his chest and pushed back at the cold sitting under his skin. He let the air sit in his lungs for a second before he exhaled, breath a faint cloud that vanished quick.

Behind him he heard the back door open. The sound of it sliding along the track cut across the quiet. Another second and there were footsteps, two sets, heels and sneakers knocking against the concrete of the patio. The rhythm said they weren’t in a hurry.

Trell didn’t turn right away. He took another drink first, finished the swallow, then turned his head and his body slow.

Cass crossed the yard in a straight line, a long coat open enough at the bottom to show the dress under it, bare legs catching the cold air. Her hair was tied up, edges laid, lips already glossed. The woman beside her, the one she’d brought to the trap, Tiff, walked a half step back, two small duffel bags hooked in her hands. They bounced against her calves each time she stepped. Both women followed the path around the pool, skirting the water without looking down at it, attention on him.

Trell watched them come, mug lifted at his chest. His face stayed easy and unreadable.

“You ditch that nigga you had watching your back for a bitch?” he asked when they got close enough.

Cass’s mouth twitched. She glanced at Tiff once, then held a hand out toward him, palm up. “That’s no way to speak to a lady early in the morning, Trell,” she said.

He didn’t answer. He took another sip instead, eyes on her over the rim of the mug.

Cass let her hand drop. “I brought you something ‘cause I need you to flip this,” she said.

Tiff moved as Cass spoke. She stepped away from them to one of the loungers near the pool and set both duffel bags down on the cushion. The zipper sounded loud in the yard when she pulled it, teeth separating in a clean line. She reached in and came back up with a vacuum sealed stack of money. The plastic caught the weak sun and flashed once.

Trell’s gaze tracked the brick of cash from the bag to Tiff’s hand. He let his eyes pass over her face after, taking her in now that she was closer

“That’s a lot of fucking money for someone just robbing crackers in the Quarter,” he said.

Cass’s head tipped, chin lifting with it. “Tiff’s cousin lives in Little Rock and he’s been hooking her up with some work to move,” she said. “So, we not just robbing them crackers. They buying powder from us, too.”

Trell shifted his attention to Tiff again. “Little Rock, huh?” he asked.

Tiff nodded once. “He a little country, but he got some niggas he know in Memphis and they front him,” she said. Her fingers adjusted on the stack, thumbs pressing into the plastic, checking the give without really looking at it.

“What’s his name?” Trell asked.

“They call him Meechie,” Tiff said.

The breeze came across the yard again, colder in the space between them now that they were quiet. Trell’s hoodie moved a little at the hem. He didn’t look away from Tiff until he was ready.

He pushed off the fence and walked over to the lounger. The duffel bags sat open, dark mouths showing rows of plastic-wrapped money inside. He reached in and pulled out another stack, tossing it in his hand just enough to feel the weight and density. The bills thudded soft against his palm.

He dropped the stack back in the bag and smoothed the top of it with his fingers, then flipped the flap closed without zipping it. The smell of the bayou came in on the next wind, damp and faintly sour, mixing with the sharper scent of coffee drifting up from his mug when he picked it back up.

Cass watched him from a few feet away, arms crossed under her chest now, coat gaping open. Tiff stayed where she was, chin a little higher, waiting.

“So, you gonna help us or not?” Cass asked.

Trell looked at her over the rim again, face still even. “Let me think about it,” he said.

Cass breathed out through her nose, a small sound. She cut her eyes at Tiff, then back to him. “We could help you think about that a little quicker,” she said.

One of his eyebrows lifted. “That’s what we doing this morning?” he asked.

Cass’s mouth curved. She turned a little, putting her back to the fence and the bayou, and lifted her hand in a lazy wave for Tiff to follow. “We gonna go have some fun in your bed,” she said. “You can come if you want.”

Tiff grabbed the handles of the duffel bags again, but left them on the lounger for the moment. She fell in behind Cass as they headed back across the yard. The two of them cut the same path they’d taken in, feet whispering over the grass, then the flat clap of soles on concrete as they hit the patio.

Trell watched them until the sliding glass door opened again. Cass didn’t look back when she pulled it. Tiff only glanced once over her shoulder, a quick measure, before she stepped inside behind her. The door shut, muting the house again, his yard falling back to quiet.

He let the quiet sit. The bayou moved on at its same slow pace. A bird cut over the water in the distance, wings working slow in the cold.

Trell shifted the mug to his other hand and reached into his pocket. One of his phones sat there, case familiar under his fingertips. He pulled it out, unlocked the screen with his thumb, and opened the thread he wanted.

His thumbs moved without hurry. See if anyone know a nigga named Meechie in Little Rock, he typed to Ant.

He hit send and watched the message go through, the screen washing it in blue. He didn’t wait for the dots to pop up. He slid the phone back into his pocket, the weight of it settling against his thigh, and then he pushed off the fence and started walking toward the house himself.

~~~

Caine sat with his back to the brick wall, chair tilted just enough that he could stretch his legs under the metal table. The air carried grease and cilantro and the faint sweetness of frozen margarita mix from inside. The Tex-Mex spot’s front window was open, workers sliding paper-lined baskets and foil-wrapped burritos across the counter to a steady line of students. The speaker over the window played some pop song he didn’t know, bass thin under the tinny vocals.

Girls in oversized sweatshirts and tight leggings clustered in front of the window, shuffling forward, phones in hand. A couple of them already had their food and were walking back toward the tables, laughing at something on a screen, ponytails swinging. The patio buzzed with conversation, metal chairs scraping against concrete.

Saul sat across from Caine, tray pushed closer to the middle of the table than to himself. He kept looking past his food, eyes tracking the groups of college girls as they crossed the patio. His gaze followed the way the leggings fit, the curve of asses when they turned, the way they leaned into each other as they talked.

Caine watched him look for a second, then shook his head.

“Ain’t you just tell me yesterday that you got a kid on the way,” he said, “and you out here looking at all this sorority girl ass?”

Saul tore his eyes away and laughed, shaking his head. “You know New Orleans isn’t the same way,” he said. “Not like this.”

Caine picked up his taco, the tortilla already softening where the juice had soaked through. He took a bite, chewed once, then spoke around it. “If you looking for white bitches, just say that, bruh.”

Saul’s mouth pulled into a grin. “Well, my girl is white.”

Caine frowned, cutting his look across the table at him. “Thought you was with that Black chick? Zoe, right?”

Saul shook his head, the smile dimming. “Nah, we broke up,” he said. “She didn’t like what I said after we were having sex and the condom broke.”

Caine snorted a short laugh, eyebrows pulling up. “¿Qué coño has dicho?”

Saul leaned back in his chair a little, shoulders hunching up. “That it wouldn’t be so bad if she got pregnant.”

Caine stared at him. The noise of the patio kept going around them, but the space between the two of them tightened. He didn’t say anything for a long beat. Then he slapped the taco down into the tray, meat spilling out onto the paper.

“Bruh, that’s fucking wild,” he said. “Why the fuck would you say that?”

Saul lifted his hands halfway, then dropped them to his thighs. “Because it was true in my head.”

Caine let out a heavy breath, looking away for a second toward the line at the window. A girl in a sorority T-shirt stepped up to grab her order, laughing with the worker handing it to her. He dragged his attention back to Saul.

“That don’t make it any less fucking stupid,” he said. “Her ass was probably scared and you up there saying dumb shit.”

Saul just shrugged, mouth pressing flat. His tray still had untouched tacos on it, steam fading off the meat in the cool air.

A group at the next table over burst out laughing, one of the girls nearly tipping her drink. The hard plastic cups on their table knocked together. One of them pushed her chair back and stood, brushing crumbs off her leggings, then walked toward the condiment station near Caine and Saul’s table.

The salsa trays sat between their baskets. The girl paused, then leaned in toward Caine, body angling over his shoulder, the press of her torso brushing his arm. She smelled like vanilla and cheap perfume.

“You using this?” she asked, pointing at the salsa verde in front of him.

Caine shook his head. “Nah.”

He picked up the little plastic cup and held it out to her. Their fingers brushed when she took it from him. She smiled at him, eyes sticking on his face just a second longer than polite. “Thanks,” she said, then turned and walked back to her table.

Saul watched her go, then looked back at Caine with a crooked grin. “You’re like a celebrity or some shit around here, huh?”

Caine sucked his teeth. “Or some shit,” he said.

Saul sat back and looked around again, taking in the hats and jerseys, the Georgia Southern logos everywhere.

“I should’ve kept playing soccer when I was a kid,” he said. “I could be like you.”

Caine laughed, shaking his head. “Ain’t nobody watching college soccer like that, primo.”

Saul nodded once. “Yeah, you right.” He went quiet for a second, then asked, “So, how’d you manage it? Being a father so young.”

Caine’s face flattened. “Carjacking motherfuckers,” he said. “Slanging dope. That’s how. Don’t do what I did. You about to graduate, be 18. Just go apply to a fucking job.”

Saul picked at the edge of his napkin, rolling it between his fingers. “What if that’s not enough?” he asked.

Caine leaned back in his chair, the metal creaking a little. “Your girl. She come from a good family?”

Saul nodded. “Yeah. Her mom is like a teacher and her dad works for the parish in Ascension.”

Caine reached for his taco again, fingers smearing through the spilled filling as he gathered it back into the tortilla. “Then ain’t no such thing as not enough,” he said. “They gonna have it.”

Saul’s jaw worked. “I don’t want to feel like a deadbeat though,” he said.

“If you working, you ain’t a deadbeat,” Caine said.

Saul hesitated, then pushed his tray back an inch. “What if I sold a little weed?” he asked. “Nothing serious. Just to get some extra money.”

Caine laughed, low, shaking his head. “You ain’t built for that.”

Saul frowned. “I know this dude Ethan that I go to school with,” he said. “Some white boy. He sells weed. He ain’t no gangster.”

“I still wouldn’t do it,” Caine said.

“C’mon, man,” Saul said, leaning in a little.

Caine wiped his thumb along the side of his taco where the salsa had dripped and then licked it off. “Where Ethan get his weed?” he asked.

Saul shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know him like that.”

Caine watched him for a second. “Find out,” he said. “Get that person to cut Ethan off. Sell to Ethan. No one else.”

Saul blinked, head tilting. “How I’m supposed to do that?”

Caine paused, gears turning in his head. “Just get me a name,” he said. “I’ll get it handled.”

“How?” Saul asked.

Caine shook his head once, cutting the question off. “Just make sure you ain’t got no guns and no money with the work,” he said. “Never have all that shit in the same place.”

Saul nodded slowly. “Aight.”

Caine opened his mouth, caught himself, then shook his head. “Get a fucking job though,” he said.

Saul huffed a small laugh and was about to say something back when a girl walked past their table, her leggings bright and tight, hair shining in the sun. His eyes tracked her automatically.

Caine just shook his head.

~~~

Mireya sat sunk into the deep gray couch in Caine’s living room, the laptop balanced across her thighs. The screen’s glow washed over her face, highlighting the tight line of her mouth and the small furrow in her brow. Her fingers hit the keys in fast bursts, stopping only long enough for her to reread a sentence, delete half of it, and start again. The paper’s deadline sat at the back of her mind.

The apartment around them was open and quiet. The big window behind the loveseat pulled in a pale strip of afternoon light, cutting across the rug and the low coffee table between the two couches. The TV on the wall stayed off, its black surface reflecting a faint, warped version of the room. Camila’s toys were stacked in a plastic bin under the window, a doll stroller tipped on its side next to it from where she’d abandoned it before her nap.

Sara sat on the loveseat, legs curled under her, toes hidden in soft socks. Her back rested against the armrest, one arm along the top of the cushion, hand hanging near her shoulder. She watched Mireya more than anything else in the room, eyes tracing the way her shoulders rose and fell, the way her jaw tensed when she focused too hard. The heater hummed through the vents overhead, pushing warm air across the open space.

Mireya stopped typing long enough to reach forward and grab the energy drink from the coffee table. The can was cold against her palm, condensation damp on the side. She tipped it back and chugged half in one go, the sugary carbonation burning the back of her throat and settling on her stomach in a hard lump. When she lowered the can, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and set it back down with the other two empties, the metal clinking softly.

Down the short hall, a soft sound came from the bedroom. A rustle of sheets, a low thump of a small heel tapping the mattress or the wall. Camila. Mireya’s head snapped up. Her fingers pushed into the couch cushion as she started to stand.

Sara lifted a hand, palm out, fingers spread. “Siéntate, mija,” she said. “Voy a ver cómo está.”

Mireya held her eyes for a second, then let herself sink back into the couch. “Okay,” she said quietly.

She dragged the laptop a little closer and forced her focus back to the paragraph on the screen. The words blurred for a moment, then snapped back into place as she blinked. Her fingers went back to the keys, typed a line, erased half, then typed again. Sara’s footsteps padded down the hall, then faded when she slipped into the bedroom to check on Camila.

The silence settled again. The heater clicked off. Somewhere outside, a car rolled by on the access road, tires grinding over gravel. Mireya’s phone vibrated against the coffee table, a small insistent buzz that rattled one of the empty cans beside it.

She glanced at it, then reached out and picked it up. The lock screen lit with Jordan’s name and a new message. She opened the thread. One word waited for her there, flat and dry, matching every text he’d sent all week. No joke. No question. No warmth.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard for a heartbeat. Her mouth pulled tight. Then she shook her head and set the phone back down, this time face down, shoving it away from her notebook with a short flick of her fingers. The laptop screen pulled her back in.

Sara came back into the living room and lowered herself onto the loveseat. She let out a small breath as she settled, tucking her feet back under her. “She’s still asleep,” she said. “Just a little tossing and turning.”

“Gracias,” Mireya said, eyes still on the screen even as her shoulders eased a fraction.

Sara watched the side of her face for a moment. “How much do you have left?” she asked.

Mireya blinked, thrown. “Of what?”

Sara nodded toward the laptop. “The paper, mija.”

“Oh.” Mireya looked back at the document, at the scroll bar that showed more blank space than she liked. “A couple pages, probably.”

Sara studied her eyes, the way she kept blinking hard like she was trying to clear grit from them. “Take a break,” she said. “Estás cansada. I can see it on your face.”

“I gotta finish this by midnight tomorrow,” Mireya said.

“Then you have thirty something hours to finish a couple pages,” Sara said. “Take a break, mija.”

The math sat there, solid and immovable. Mireya knew Sara was right. The ache behind her eyes made it truer. She let out a long sigh and tipped her head back against the cushion for a second, staring up at the ceiling. “Fine,” she muttered.

“Ven acá,” Sara said.

Mireya closed the laptop halfway so the light dimmed but didn’t disappear, then slid it to the side on the couch. Her thighs felt hot where it had been resting. She stood, joints stiff from sitting too long, and walked the short distance across the rug to the loveseat.

Sara pointed at the stretch of rug in front of her. “Sit.”

Mireya sank down onto the floor with her back to the loveseat, legs crossed, knees brushing the edge of the coffee table. She rested her hands on her thighs, fingers splayed, then curled them in and out while she adjusted her weight.

Sara leaned forward and placed both hands gently on top of Mireya’s head. Her fingers slid through her hair in slow passes, smoothing. She ran her hands over her scalp a few times, feeling for where the part wanted to sit, then separated sections with patient pulls.

“You’re burning yourself out, Mireya,” Sara said.

“I’m managing,” Mireya said.

“I know,” Sara replied. “But you’re not living.”

A sound left Mireya that was half laugh, half exhausted exhale. “Lo sé,” she said. “Siento como si me estuviera muriendo.”

Sara’s fingers kept moving, sectioning off a strand on each side, crossing them over the center, pulling the braid tight enough to hold but not enough to hurt. The weight of it grew at the back of Mireya’s neck with each pass.

“I worry about you,” Sara said after a moment. “Sometimes, more than Caine. I just don’t want to see anything happen to you.”

“I’m fine,” Mireya said automatically. “Lo prometo. I just need to get through this next year then I can apply at LSUHC and I can slow down.”

“A year is a long time to wait to slow down,” Sara said.

Mireya lifted one shoulder in a small shrug and let it fall. Her hands curled into fists on her thighs, nails pressing into the fabric of her leggings. She stared at the coffee table in front of her, at the stack of articles, the half-empty can, the closed laptop, all of it sitting there waiting.

Sara smoothed a hand over the braid she’d formed so far, then went back to working it lower. “I saw tu mamá,” she said. “Have you spoken to her recently?”

Mireya shook her head. “Last month,” she said. “She wants me to let her claim Camila on her taxes but fuck her.”

Sara let out a quiet laugh that still had an edge of sympathy in it. “I can’t say I’ve never said the same thing about Maria,” she said.

Mireya’s throat tightened. “I just don’t understand what I ever did to her,” she said. “Why I’m never good enough.”

Sara’s hands stopped in the middle of the braid. The apartment went very still. The heater wasn’t running. The only sound was the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the muffled traffic outside.

Then Sara leaned down, arms slipping around Mireya’s shoulders. She pulled her close, chest against Mireya’s back, and rested her cheek on top of Mireya’s head. “Lo eres,” she said softly. “Eres más que suficiente, mija.”

Mireya’s eyes burned. She reached up fast and ran her fingertips under them, wiping away the tears before they could fall all the way down her cheeks. A small laugh broke out of her as she tried to shake off how exposed she felt. “You know what you’re doing back there?” she asked, voice roughened but teasing.

Sara placed a soft kiss on the top of her head, lips brushing the place where her hair parted, then sat back again. Mireya felt her hands return to the braid.

“I know enough that you’ll have to pay me like the women you got doing your hair now,” Sara said, laughing.

~~~

Laney stood at the stove with a wooden spoon in her hand, heat from the front burner warming her face. The big pot nearest her rolled at a steady simmer, steam pushing the kitchen air heavier. Oil popped in a skillet on the back eye, cutting through the smell of onions and garlic with something sharper. A thin film of condensation clung to the lower panes of the window over the sink.

From outside, the thud of a baseball hitting leather kept cutting in. Knox’s voice called out, then Braxton answered, higher, excited. Tommy’s deeper shout followed once, giving some quick instruction Laney didn’t bother to make out. Blake’s laugh carried faintly on top of it all. Every few seconds the ball smacked into a glove again.

Taela leaned against the counter a few feet away, hip pressed to the edge, ankles crossed. Her elbows rested behind her on the laminate, palms flat. She watched Laney move between the stove and the counter with the kind of lazy focus that still registered everything. The overhead light threw a soft glow over the room, catching on the metal edges of mixing bowls and the side of the fridge.

Outside, one of the boys yelled loud enough that both women glanced toward the window. A flash of a red jacket cut across the narrow square of glass, then disappeared.

“You figure out what you’re gonna do about Claire?” Taela asked, nodding toward the glass.

Laney pulled the spoon through the pot one more time, then turned down the flame. She stepped sideways, picking up the empty bowl she’d used to mix the batter earlier. Bits of flour and egg clung to the sides. She carried it to the sink, turned the water on cold, and held it under the stream.

“I swear that motherfucker is tryin’ to have that bitch replace me,” she said.

The water beat against the bowl, knocking loose the last of the batter. Laney ran a sponge around the inside once, twice, then set the bowl upside down on the towel beside the sink. She shook the water from her fingers and went back to the stove.

“As if she could replace you,” Taela said. “As if she’d want to. That’s why she ran the first time, isn’t it?”

Laney picked the spoon back up and gave the pot another slow stir, watching the bubbles shift to make sure nothing stuck. “I ain’t never blamed her for that,” she said. “I woulda if I coulda, you know that.”

Taela’s gaze shifted from the pot to Laney’s face and back. Outside, a glove popped again, followed by Knox’s voice, calling for someone to throw it right. The rhythm of it all kept going, background to the quiet in the kitchen.

“You could get the boys in a divorce,” Taela said. “No judge’s gonna give a man who might get sent to the desert at a moment’s notice custody.”

Laney shook some of the steam away with a tilt of her head and reached for the handle of the back skillet. “I ain’t doin’ that neither,” she said.

Taela’s mouth pressed into a line. “It don’t make not a lick of sense for both of y’all to be fucking other people and staying with each other.”

Laney didn’t look up. She flipped the food in the skillet with a practiced flick of her wrist, listening for the change in sound when it settled back into the hot oil.

“I don’t know if he fuckin’ Claire,” she said.

Taela rolled her eyes, pushing off the counter a little and then letting her weight fall back against it. “He’s definitely fucking Claire,” she said. “No woman is driving here from Savannah every night just to hang out.”

Laney reached for the other pot to shift it further from the heat and her bare fingers brushed the hot metal. Pain bit in immediate and sharp.

“Shit,” she snapped, jerking her hand back.

She shook it once on instinct, then crossed to the sink fast, bumping her hip against the cabinet door on the way. She twisted the faucet handle hard toward cold and jammed her fingers under the stream. The shock made her suck in a breath. Red bloomed across the skin where it had touched the pot.

“I just need her to fuck off,” she said, staring at her hand under the water. “I feel like he’s usin’ this as a way to get back at me. For Caine.”

The name hung there. Outside, the ball hit a glove with a hollow smack. One of the boys whooped.

Taela shook her head. “More reason to just get a fucking divorce, Laney,” she said. “It’s been almost ten years. You think this is going to get better?”

Laney didn’t answer her right away. She shut off the water, shaking the drops from her fingers, then reached for a dish towel and wrapped it around her hand, pressing gently. The stove hissed behind her, still working. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure nothing was about to burn, then turned back.

Before she could speak, there was a knock at the front door. It was more of a quick rap than a full knock, and the door handle turned right after. The hinges creaked and the door opened.

“Knock, knock,” Gabrielle called, poking her head in before stepping fully into the entryway.

Laney lifted her chin toward her. “Come on,” she said, waving her in with her good hand.

Gabrielle walked in carrying a paper grocery bag, one arm wrapped around it to keep it steady. The cold outside clung to her clothes and hair for a second before the warmth of the kitchen washed over it. She crossed to the counter and set the bag down with a soft thud, the top folding open just enough to show the edges of vegetables inside.

“Your mama told me to bring this to you,” she said. “Your daddy and Caleb are back there talking business and you know how they get.”

Laney left the towel wrapped around her fingers and walked over. She pulled the top of the bag open wider and looked inside. Green bell peppers and a small sack of potatoes sat on top, heavy and familiar.

“Thanks,” she said.

She glanced toward Taela, then back to Gabrielle, lifting her chin between them. “Y’all met before, right?”

Taela nodded. “I was at their wedding, remember?”

Gabrielle’s face brightened in recognition. “And when we went to Pensacola that one time right when me and Caleb started dating,” she said.

Laney snorted, the sound cutting through some of the heaviness that had been sitting in her chest. “The time that Taela almost drowned ’cause she was drinkin’ too much,” she said.

Taela huffed out a laugh. “There are a lot of times that I almost drowned from drinking too much,” she said. “It’s just par for the course at this point.”

Laney rolled her eyes and turned back toward the stove, switching the burner under the skillet a notch lower. Gabrielle laughed, the sound quick and bright in the space.

“I hope I wasn’t interrupting y’all,” Gabrielle said.

Laney waved her wrapped hand through the air like she was brushing the thought away. “We was just talkin’ ’bout kids,” she said. “Nothin’ important.”

Gabrielle looked over at Taela, eyes softening. “Oh, right,” she said. “You just had your first. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Taela said. “I know I still look like I’m pregnant.”

“Please,” Gabrielle said. “You look great. I keep telling Caleb it’s time for us to have some, but all that sitting down he does at work, those swimmers might not work anymore.”

Laney let out a real laugh at that, glancing back over her shoulder. “Better tell him to start goin’ for runs then,” she said.

“Only thing Caleb runs is his mouth,” Taela said.

“And my last nerve,” Gabrielle added.

The three of them laughed, the sound filling the kitchen and spreading out toward the window where the boys kept throwing the ball.

~~~

Caine lay on his back in the dark of his bedroom, the ceiling fan moving a slow circle overhead. The light from the hallway was off, so the only glow in the room came from the small crack under the door and the faint strip of orange from the parking lot lights pressing through the blinds. Camila was stretched across his chest, her small body heavy and warm. One of her hands rested against his collarbone, fingers loose, her breath puffing out in soft little bursts that lifted and fell against his T-shirt.

On his other side, Mireya had slipped into the space that was already shaped to her. Her leg was thrown over his, bare skin against his shin. Her head rested on his other shoulder, hair spilling across his arm, the braid Sara had done earlier still holding. Her arm was draped across his stomach and part of her phone was trapped under her forearm, pressed against the mattress.

They’d fallen into it without talking. He’d carried Camila in from the living room after she’d gone limp against him, her curls damp from her bath, lashes already heavy. Mireya had pulled the covers down, and when he lay back, she just followed, folding into him. The same as always. No discussion. No plan. Just gravity.

He stared up at the fan and let his hand rest at Camila’s back, feeling the slow climb and fall. He knew every part of that weight. The way her head fit under his chin. The way Mireya’s knee caught the outside of his thigh.

Mireya lay there with her cheek against his shoulder, eyes open in the dark. The room was quiet, the kind of quiet that came late when even the neighbors had run out of things to do. She could hear the hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the faint buzz of the heater kicking on again. All of it ran under the sound of Caine’s heartbeat under Camila’s ear and the deeper pull of his lungs. Her leg tightened around his once, loosening again.

Every time she ended up here, they slid into the same shape. His chest under Camila. His shoulder under her face. Her leg slung over him, like her body didn’t believe they were broken up even if her mouth kept saying they were.

Under her arm, her phone buzzed. The vibration pressed into the mattress and into her forearm. She shifted, careful not to jostle Camila. Her hip rolled back just enough to free her arm. Caine’s shoulder dipped under her for a second, then settled again.

She slid her hand down the sheets until her fingers closed around the phone. The screen lit up, blue light cutting against the dark. She squinted and lifted it, angling it so it didn’t shine in Camila’s face.

The group chat sat at the top of the notifications. She opened it with a thumb.

Alejandra had texted first.

One of y’all hoes missing money. Mireya.

Another bubble followed right under it.

We got a private to work.

Bianca had answered.

Jas gonna be missing money too without her partner in crime.

A third bubble had popped up from Jaslene.

More than money.

Mireya’s mouth tugged at the corner. She snorted once under her breath, the sound brief and quiet so it didn’t shake Camila. She pressed her thumb to Jaslene’s line and sent a small heart up over it, the reaction floating next to the words. Then she let the chat sit. The others could talk it through.

Beside her, between her shoulder and his rib cage, Caine’s phone started to vibrate against the mattress. He shifted his arm just enough to reach across himself, lifting his hand off Camila’s back for a moment. She didn’t stir. He dug under the edge of the pillow until he found the phone, pulled it out, and tilted the screen toward him.

Laney’s name sat at the top. A short line under it. Nothing heavy.

His mouth pulled into a small smile. He typed a quick reply with his thumb. When the message sent, he watched the bubbles blink, then disappear. He locked the phone and let it drop to his side, then set it on the nightstand without reaching far.

Mireya’s fingers went up to her hair. She slid them along the length of the braid, following the path Sara had made earlier in the living room. It had loosened some, but the pattern was still there, tight enough to hold. She flipped it over her shoulder so it lay across her chest, the end landing near Camila’s arm. For a second she just looked at it in the faint light, feeling the way it tugged at her scalp where it started.

She lifted her head a little off his shoulder. “I have something to tell you,” she said.

Caine’s fingers stilled on Camila’s back. He turned his head on the pillow until he could see her face.

“Dime,” he said.

Mireya dropped her gaze to Camila. The little girl’s lips were parted, breath steady. Her curls were spread over Caine’s chest and across the top of his shirt. There was a softness to her face that never lasted when it was just one of them alone with her. It only showed up like this, when all three of them were there.

She looked back up at him. The words sat heavy on her tongue for a second.

“I’m seeing someone,” she said.

Her hand tightened slightly on the sheet. A part of her waited for him to jerk his chest up, to shift Camila off, to raise his voice. She caught her own breath waiting.

“I know,” Caine said.

She blinked. Her eyebrows pulled together. “Your mamá told you?”

He shook his head once against the pillow. “I figured it out months ago,” he said. “Always looking at your phone, smiling and shit.”

She thought about the way she’d caught herself grinning at texts from Trell in the middle of the day, or at some stupid line from Jordan. The way her thumbs moved quicker when it was one of them. She hadn’t thought he was paying attention. Her eyes searched his face in the dim light.

“You don’t care?” she asked.

“I ain’t say that,” he said. “I said I knew. I know we can’t be together.”

The words landed flat between them. Camila slept on, keeping the weight of both of them pressed into the same mattress. Mireya’s gaze dropped back to the line of his shirt, to the rise and fall under their daughter.

“Yeah,” she said.

Caine let the quiet hang there for a moment. His hand went back to moving on Camila’s back, slow circles, the pattern as steady as his breathing.

“I have something to tell you, too,” he said.

Her eyes came back up to his. The room held still.

“Me too,” Caine said.

“La mujer de la Iglesia,” Mireya said.

His mouth twitched. He nodded.

“How’d you know?” he asked.

“The way she looks at you,” Mireya said. “She’s married, isn’t she?”

He nodded again.

Mireya snorted, the sound low in her throat. “Somos gente jodida,” she said.

Caine’s chest shook under Camila. He laughed, just enough to break the tightness that had settled in his shoulders.

“Should we not be laying in bed together then?” she asked, watching him.

He lifted one shoulder as much as he could with their daughter asleep on him. “We weren’t worried about that before, were we?” he said. “What difference it make now?”

Mireya let out a breath and rolled onto her back for a second, her leg still hooked over his. She turned her head toward the door. Through the crack, she could see the faint wash of light from across the hall. It hit the far wall in a long, soft rectangle, pale against the dark. Sara was still up in the second bedroom. TV on. Light bleeding under the door.

Mireya rolled back toward Caine and tipped her chin toward the little girl on his chest. “Trae a Camila a tu mamá,” she said.

A smile spread across Caine’s face, slow but clear in the low light. He slid his hand from Camila’s back to her side, easing his arm out without jolting her. Then he shifted his weight, scooting down and to the side, careful not to let her head loll too far. She murmured once in her sleep but didn’t wake.

He gathered her up against his chest, one arm under her legs, the other supporting her back, and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. The floor was cool when he set them down. He stood, moved around the edge of the mattress, and headed for the doorway. The light from the hall caught the side of his face as he opened the door and stepped out, his shadow passing over the wall before he crossed the hallway toward Sara’s room.

Left alone on the bed, Mireya reached for her phone again. She picked it up to toss it onto the nightstand. The screen lit as she lifted it, another notification sliding down from the top.

Trell.

The text preview sat there, waiting.

She didn’t open it. Her thumb swiped the notification away before she could read more than his name. She told herself she’d get to it later and set the phone down on the nightstand, face down, then let her hand fall back to the empty space where Caine and Camila had been.

[djp73]

Somos gente jodida

[redsox907]

Caine a dumbass for trying to get Saul set up. Either Saul gets plugged, or he gets so much attention suddenly being the plug that he bails on ol girl

Cass trying to get Trell to wash the money she stole from him?

Jordan suddenly suspicious of his lil mexican dime piece eh? Sounds like after his conversation with big sis he ain't so keen on la prostituta

Still don't trust Gabrielle. The timing of her suddenly wanting to be all buddy buddy with Laney is sus

Mireya and Caine both admit they seeing other people and that gets the hot and bothered to fuck

[Captain Canada]

First and foremost, I knew Mireya's motivation from the very beginning: doesn't make how she gathers it any less pathetic

Caine acting a little backwards towards Saul. He knows Saul ain't made for this, but will do anything to do right by his family. He going to get in over his head and end up in the bayou, that's for sure.

Sox made a good point, I don't like how Gabrielle is suddenly turning it on lately, but I'm hoping its genuine but the masochistic Caesar going to end up shuffling her off in some traumatic way.