Laney sat in the chair in her bedroom, legs folded under her, heels pressed into the cushion. The house was so quiet she could hear the clock in the hall through the door, each tick slow and separate. Her eyes stayed on the far corner of the room, on a blank patch of wall above the dresser where the shadows met.
Her wedding ring moved between her fingers. Thumb, forefinger, roll. The band slid over the groove it had left in her skin over the years. Up, down, a soft scrape each time it passed the rough edge of her knuckle.
The room smelled faintly like laundry detergent and the spray she’d used earlier on the comforter. Tommy’s side of the bed sat untouched, his pillow straight. Her gaze stayed on that corner.
She rolled the ring faster. It clicked once against her nail. She’d gone through this already. Confession. Questions. The way everybody stared at her at once. Tommy’s tight mouth. Her father’s voice filling the kitchen. His hand raised, then not just raised.
Her stomach pulled tight. She slowed the ring again. It felt heavier now, just a loop of gold but carrying every word they’d thrown at her. Adulterer. Ungrateful. Disgrace.
She dragged a hand through her hair, starting at her scalp and pulling down to the ends. She leaned back in the chair until her shoulder blades met the cushion and the frame creaked under her weight.
Air left her in a slow push. Not a sigh. Just a release, like her body had too much in it and needed space. She’d done a year of this at the beginning. New marriage. New house. New rules that came with his name and her father’s approval stamped on the top. One year had turned into ten while she smiled through baby showers and ladies’ luncheons and Sunday after Sunday of being put forward as proof that it worked.
If she could get through that first year, she told herself, she could get through the tenth. If she could hold it together for ten, she could stretch it to twenty. Thirty. Whatever number it took so her boys didn’t split their time between houses, didn’t learn what it was to pack a bag on Friday and count days until Sunday night. Whatever number it took so they still saw both parents at the same table.
Her eyes dropped to her hand. The ring lay across her middle finger now. Her nails were short and square, pale pink from the last coat of polish. All but one. The nail on that finger didn’t match. It sat just a bit shorter, the surface less smooth if she looked close, a faint ridge running from cuticle to tip.
She traced it with her thumb. The old memory pressed up against the new skin. The hallway floor under her palm. Her father’s grip in her hair. The way her arm had stretched as she reached for anything she could catch on. The sudden bright flare of pain when the nail tore free, the thin, wet warmth spreading over her hand as he kept dragging.
Heat crawled up her neck. She shut her eyes once, hard. The nail had grown in again. The mark stayed anyway. She pulled in another breath, blunt and flat, and forced her eyes back open.
The corner was still there. She stared through it this time rather than at it.
Hannah’s little car up against the curb. Caine bent at her window, forearms resting on the door, shoulders loose. Hannah laughed at something he said, head tipping back slightly, her ponytail brushing the seat behind her. Their hands brushed when she handed his phone back.
Laney had watched it from across the lot. Walked steady toward her own SUV with her keys in her hand, the strap of her purse biting into her shoulder. She hadn’t slowed, hadn’t turned her head all the way, but her eyes had gone there on their own.
He’d held her gaze over the roof of the car, just for a heartbeat, nothing in his face moving. Then he’d gone back to Hannah like Laney was just another woman crossing the lot, another church member heading home. Whatever they’d done stayed hers to carry.
The ring cut into her skin when she tightened her grip without noticing. Anger rose sharp in her chest, sudden enough that it made her sit up straighter. Her mouth pulled back from her teeth. She could feel the urge move through her body, fast and hot. To hurl the ring at the wall. To slam it down on the dresser.
Her hand lifted an inch, muscles ready to throw, then stopped. The weight of the house pressed in. The boys asleep down the hall. Her father’s face in her mind if she ever dared show up bare-handed.
The heat thinned out. blew through quick, then left that same hollow space in its wake, soft and echoing. Her shoulders dropped. The fight went out of her hand. The ring stayed where it was, caught between her thumb and finger, leaving only a shallow mark when she finally eased her grip.
The emptiness settled in slow. It started behind her ribs and spread, dull and familiar. No rush in it. No sharp edge. Just weight.
Laney slid the ring back onto her left hand. The band found the groove it knew and sat there like it had never left. Her fingers closed once then relaxed.
She shifted in the chair until her spine fit the curve again. Her legs tucked back under her, one ankle hooked over the other. The cushion dipped, then stilled. The clock in the hall kept ticking.
She didn’t chase the thoughts away anymore. She didn’t pull new ones in. She let them pass like distant cars outside, sound without shape. Her eyes returned to the empty corner across the room.
She settled there, breathing in and out, and kept staring across the room.
~~~
Tommy’s rod tip twitched once, then went still again.He shifted his grip on the handle, thumb resting along the cork, eyes on the faint ripple where his line cut into the water. The boat rocked slow under him, just enough that the tackle box at his feet clicked against the metal with each movement. The air sat heavy and damp on his skin, carrying the faint sour of mud and old gas from the motor.
Next to him, Blake jammed his hand into his jacket pocket. The plastic of the jerky bag crinkled loud in the quiet. He dragged it out, pinched the top in his teeth and tore it open, jaw working. A strip of plastic ripped free. He spat it straight into the river without looking, then bit off a piece of meat and started chewing, his mouth wide, smacks echoing over the water. The smell of cheap beef and spice pushed across the short space between them.
Tommy’s eyes slid off his line long enough to cut over at him. “You’re gonna scare the fucking fish away over there chewing like you’re eating cud.”
Blake shrugged, the movement loose, his elbow bumping the side of the cooler. He didn’t bother to close his mouth. “Ain’t no fucking fish out here anyway. We been at it for hours and ain’t got but two fish.”
He jerked his chin toward the cooler between them. The lid sat half-closed, a slick tail just visible where one of the bass shifted in the melt water. The faint thud of it against the plastic echoed up, a dull reminder there was at least something to show for all the sitting.
Tommy snorted and turned his eyes back to the river. He gave his rod a small flick, feeling for weight, thumb pinching the line for any change.
“We?” he said. “You haven’t caught a damn thing. I caught both of those, so if you wanna eat tonight then you might wanna close your mouth when you chewing.”
Blake shook his head, the corner of his mouth tugging up around the jerky. He bit off another piece and chewed louder on purpose, staring out toward the tree line instead of at Tommy. The movement of his jaw never slowed, even when his eyes jumped from shadow to shadow along the bank.
The boat drifted a few feet, the rope on the anchor line tightening with a soft creak. A bird called once from somewhere in the dark, then went quiet. A mosquito whined near Tommy’s ear and he lifted his shoulder, trying to dislodge it without taking his hand off the rod. Blake shifted his foot, his boot scraping against the aluminum as he adjusted the angle of his rod, the bobber sitting lazy on the surface.
He let a few more seconds go by. The quiet sat between them, thick with the slap of water against the hull and Blake’s chewing and the occasional click of Tommy’s reel when he thumbed it.
“I’m surprised you trust Laney enough to leave her at home alone,” Blake said finally.
Tommy huffed out a laugh through his nose. His mouth curled without any humor. He kept his eyes on the water, wrist steady, forearm tense. “Her daddy would probably stone her to death if she fucked up again so soon.”
Blake’s jaw slowed for just a beat. He licked salt from his thumb, eyes sliding over to Tommy’s profile. The skin under his eyes looked bruised in the thin light. “An addiction an addiction.”
Tommy’s grip on the rod tightened. The line gave a little under his fingers as the current pulled. He felt the pulse of it in his palm. “Addiction?” he said. “She’s a fucking coal burning slut. She’s not addicted to anything.”
Blake lifted one hand off his rod, palm out toward Tommy. The jerky bag rustled in his other hand. “You the one that married her.”
Tommy shook his head once, short. The bill of his cap dipped with it. “Yeah, I regret that shit every day.” His jaw worked. “Thought I was gonna get a good wife because she’s a pastor’s daughter. Come to find out, all of them are fucking wastes of space.”
Blake let his hand fall back to his lap. His line sat limp on the water, no tension at all. He scratched once at the inside of his elbow, then dragged his fingers down his forearm before dropping his hand again. He shifted his shoulders, stretching his back until it popped. “Caleb’s not so bad. Once you get past him being pretentious.”
Tommy rolled his shoulders under his T-shirt, one shoulder cracking. He sniffed once, the river air cool in his nose, and kept his eyes forward, the muscles in his forearm standing up a little with how hard he held the rod. “Caleb lets Gabrielle walk all over him. Hardly a man in my eyes. He’s almost as bad as Laney.”
Blake shrugged again. He dragged the tip of his boot along the floor of the boat, scraping at a rust spot until the metal showed brighter underneath. “He keeps letting me stay in his RV.”
Tommy cut his eyes at him then, just a narrow look. The corner of his mouth tugged down. “Speaking of, you gotta stop doing that shit if you wanna stay in my backyard.”
Blake’s shoulders tensed. He rolled the jerky bag shut in his fist, knuckles going white for a second, and stared out over the river, jaw clenched around the last piece of meat he’d taken. “I’m trying.”
Tommy adjusted his feet, planting them a little wider to brace against the boat’s slow sway. His line lay straight across the water. “Stop fucking trying and do it or get the fuck out.”
Blake just shook his head, the movement barely more than a shift of his chin as he looked back down at his motionless bobber. His fingers twitched once against the rod handle, then stilled.
Tommy’s line pulled taut with a bite.
~~~
Caine pushed the office door open with his shoulder and stepped inside, pulling his sunglasses off as he went. The hinges let out a low complaint behind him when the door swung halfway shut on its own.Bethel stood beside his desk instead of behind it, body angled toward the wall. A “new” flat screen hung there, bigger than the old one perched on top of the filing cabinet in the corner under the box fan. The smaller set sat dark and unplugged while the fan pushed warm air around the room and the Braves game rolled through the early innings on the new screen.
On the wall, the stadium sound came thin through the TV speakers, crowd noise and the murmur of an announcer talking too fast. A Mets batter dug his cleats in on the right side of the plate, bat wagging once over his shoulder as he waited on the pitch.
Caine let his sunglasses hang from his fingers as he came up to the chair in front of the desk. He glanced at the new TV, then at the small one on the cabinet, then back at Bethel’s profile.
Bethel leaned a little closer to the screen, hand braced on the edge of the desk. The pitch came in tight, belt high on the inner half. The Mets batter turned and sent it skimming fair up the third base line.
“Well fucking shit fire, son. You gotta put the ball on the outside!” Bethel snapped at the television.
Caine snorted a laugh and dropped into the chair. The cushion sighed under his weight. He let his sunglasses rest in his lap, one hand cupped over them.
Bethel shook his head at the TV for another beat, then reached over to grab the remote. He clicked the volume down and set the remote on the desk, his fingers drumming there once before he turned.
He walked around the corner of the desk to his chair, pants brushing against the drawer handle. The shoes on his feet squeaked once against the tile as he settled in. He lowered himself into the chair, which groaned, and scooted forward until his knees fit under the desk.
Bethel held one hand out across the space between them, palm up.
Caine dug into his pocket, fingers sliding past his keys and folded cash until he found the stiff edge of the money order. He pulled it free, the paper bent at one corner from riding around all morning.
He passed it over, letting it drop into Bethel’s palm. “What y’all do with them supervision fees anyway?” he asked.
Bethel flipped the money order once between his fingers, eyes on the printed amount. His mouth tugged in a small, noncommittal line as he leaned back in his chair.
He reached over and opened the copier lid with his free hand, the plastic hinge popping. “For others, it go to their victims,” he said. He laid the money order face down on the glass and let the lid fall shut. “I don’t know about yours. Ain’t no victims here in Georgia from you.”
“Ain’t none in Louisiana either,” he said. “I ain’t never hurt nobody.”
The copier light slid under the lid in a slow bar. Bethel huffed a short laugh, shoulders moving once. “Sometimes, I think you believe that, son.”
He took the original off the glass, set it on top of a stack of paperwork at the corner of the desk, and slid the copy into a small tray near his keyboard. His fingers moved to the mouse. He clicked through a few windows until a blank receipt template filled the screen.
The keyboard sat just off center. Bethel pulled it toward himself with both hands, then started typing one finger at a time, eyes squinting at the monitor as he hunted for each key.
Caine shifted in the chair, stretching one leg out until his heel bumped the base of the desk. He glanced once at the TV, where the broadcast showed a replay of the hit down the line.
Bethel finished typing and hit enter. The old printer on the filing cabinet coughed to life, gears grinding before paper started feeding through. As it worked, Bethel looked over the top of his monitor at Caine.
“Can I give you some advice?” he asked.
Caine raised an eyebrow, his hand leaving his sunglasses to rest on his knee. “Yeah, go ahead.”
Bethel leaned back in his chair, one hand resting flat on his stomach, the other still on the armrest. A small chuckle sat in his throat before he even got the words out. “Whichever one of them Hadden girls you chasing behind, please stop,” he said. “Make both of our lives easier.”
Caine’s mouth pulled to one side. He lifted both hands, palms out, the sunglasses dangling from his fingers again. “I don’t know why you think I’m doing that.”
Bethel pointed at him with the hand that had been on his stomach. His finger hung there in the air before he dropped it back down.
“You ain’t see how Pastor Hadden come in here, huffing and puffing about you,” he said. “I ain’t got nothing but sons but I used to piss off my wife’s daddy just like that.”
The printer spit the last of the receipt out with a curl at the edge. Caine stayed slouched in the chair, eyes on Bethel now instead of the TV. What the fuck he came talk to you for?” he asked.
Bethel pushed himself forward in the chair, the wheels rolling an inch closer to the desk. He reached back for the printed receipt, tearing it clean along the perforation before setting one copy in front of him. “To see what would happen if he fired you.”
He picked up a nearby pen and tapped the receipt once, then let the pen drop. “Technically I’d have to have you find other employment or violate you,” he went on. “But ain’t nobody stupid enough to not think the school wouldn’t find something for you before the ink settled on that paper. Told him he was just pissing in the wind.”
Caine shrugged, rolling the sunglasses’ arm between his fingers. “Yeah, you ain’t wrong,” he said. “They don’t even like me working at the church. Worried about my arm with all that manual labor.”
Bethel spread both hands out to either side of him, palms up, shoulders lifting in an exaggerated shrug. The gesture sat there for a second, a silent told you before he let his arms fall again.
He glanced once toward the TV, then back at Caine. “I get it,” he said. “Both of ‘em too young for an old man like me, but I got eyes. Both them some hot pieces of ass. Just let it be, for me. You know I hate doing paperwork.”
Caine snorted a laugh. He pushed his hands down on the arms of the chair and rose to his feet, the legs scraping softly against the floor. His sunglasses swung from his fingers.
“I don’t think you gotta worry about any of that no more,” he said.
Bethel pressed his palms together in front of his chest, fingers steepled, then tilted his head back to look at the stained ceiling tiles. “Praise the lord almighty,” he said.
Caine shook his head, a small smile ghosting across his mouth before it faded. He turned toward the door, his footsteps quiet on the tile as he headed out of the office.
~~~
Mireya floated on her back in the pool, arms loose, eyes closed. Warm water held her up and took some of the ache out of her shoulders. The night sat heavy over Trell’s yard, damp air sticking to the strip of skin above the water.On the patio, Trell sat on the edge of a lounger. One foot rested on the concrete, the other on the metal leg of the chair. Two phones lay beside him in a neat line. He had one in his hand, thumb moving steady, the screen flashing across his knuckles each time he sent something off.
She drifted a short path from one side of the pool to the other. Her muscles hummed from the shift she’d just finished, stage sets and VIP rooms still sitting in her body. She let the water slide over her ears, muffling the world until the sounds around the yard narrowed down to the soft pull of the filter.
The back door slid open with a scrape.
Mireya glanced back at the sound, craning her neck to keep her head above the water. Cass and Tiffany stepped out onto the patio, framed by the kitchen light for a second before the door shut again and left them in the dim yard.
Cass cut across the concrete, heels clicking once then dulling where water had splashed. Tiffany walked a half-step behind, eyes on Trell.
Trell finished whatever he was typing, thumb dragging once more before he hit send. He lifted his head, gaze moving from Cass to Tiff and back, jaw tightening a little.
“Fuck you want?” he asked.
Cass wrinkled her nose, like the smell of chlorine bothered her. She jerked her chin toward the water, fingers loose.
“Tell your Mexican to carry her ass inside so we can talk business,” she said.
Mireya rolled over, water lapping against her chest. Trell snorted once and finally looked full at Cass instead of his phone.
“What business we got to talk about?” he asked.
Cass’ eyes went to Mireya, then back to Trell. Tiffany shifted her weight, sneakers scraping against the concrete.
Trell tipped his head toward the pool. “She knows as much about what’s going on as you do,” he said.
Mireya swam toward the edge, strokes unhurried. When she reached the side near them, she let her body float up until her chest met the air. Her forearms folded on the concrete. She rested her cheek on them and stared straight at Cass, face calm.
Cass let her gaze slide over Mireya and the run of her body under the water behind her before she spoke again.
“Sucking niggas dicks to get them to agree to shit and knowing about the fucking business at the same thing, Trell,” she said.
Mireya’s fingers drummed once against the ledge. A drop of water slid down her temple. She didn’t look away.
“Seems to me that sucking dick is the reason you think you’re a boss now,” she said.
Cass sucked her teeth, the sound sharp in the quiet yard. Her hand went to her hip.
“Bitch, fuck you. Ain’t nobody talking to your narrow ass. This grown folk business,” she said.
Trell’s mouth edged toward a grin. He leaned back on his hands, elbows pressing into the cushion, eyes moving between both of them.
Tiffany glanced between Trell and Cass, waiting for somebody to pivot. When nobody did, she cleared her throat and took half a step closer.
“Meechie was just wondering when he’d get his shit,” she said. “He said the streets waiting on it.”
Cass cut her eyes at Tiff, irritation quick, then looked back at Trell. Tiffany shifted back again, one hand smoothing down her top.
Trell dragged his palm over his jaw, scratching his beard. He exhaled through his nose.
“Meechie’s gonna get his shit when he gets his shit,” he said. “He can send some niggas down here to get it for him if he’s in that much of a fucking rush.”
Cass threw both hands out, hands wide.
“Nigga, are you for real?” she said, gesturing toward Mireya.
Mireya pushed off the ledge. Her strokes stayed slow. When her feet found the first submerged rise, she straightened and walked up, water sliding off her and darkening the concrete in a trail behind her.
She crossed to where her towel lay and bent to grab it, turning just enough that Cass could see every inch she’d just called narrow. Droplets fell from her hair and ran down her back. She wiped her face first, then dragged the towel over her chest and stomach in steady passes, eyes never leaving Cass.
Cass’ lip curled. “About time,” she said. “I thought this bitch ain’t understand no English.”
Mireya flipped the towel around her shoulders and stepped into her leggings, one leg and then the other. The damp fabric clung for a second before she tugged it into place over her hips. She picked up her hoodie, shook it out once, and pulled it over her head, hair flattening then falling back when she worked the collar down.
Trell watched all of it, gaze tracking her from pool to towel to clothes. He leaned farther back, shoulders loose.
“You gonna let her talk to you like that?” he asked, eyebrows lifting. “I know my bitch wouldn’t do that.”
Mireya held his eyes for a beat, hearing what he wanted, then turned back to Cass. Her head tilted slightly, weighing it. She shook her head once and walked toward the lounger beside Trell, steps easy, hand reaching back to tug her hoodie straight.
Cass didn’t move out of the way. She grabbed Mireya’s arm just as Mireya started to sink onto the cushion, fingers digging into the sleeve.
“I said get the fuck, bitch,” Cass said.
Mireya looked down at Cass’ hand, the tight grip biting into her skin. She lifted her gaze to Trell. He only shrugged, mouth still curved, not bothering to stand.
Cass’ nails dug in deeper. “You need me to say it in Mexican?” she asked. “Getto your asso insideo.”
Mireya’s jaw worked once. “Get your fucking hand off me,” she said.
Cass laughed, breath hot and close.
“Bitch, ain’t nobody scared of you,” Cass said.
Mireya didn’t reply. She yanked her arm back hard, snapping Cass’ grip, and stepped in with her other hand already moving. Her fist connected with Cass’ face in a short, tight punch. The sound cracked across the yard.
Cass stumbled, heels sliding on the damp concrete. One ankle rolled, her body tipping, but she caught herself. Her eyes watered. She wiped at them with the back of her hand and came right back at Mireya, lungs working fast.
She grabbed the front of Mireya’s hoodie, twisting the fabric in her fist, and swung wild. Her knuckles caught Mireya’s jaw. Pain shot along Mireya’s teeth. Her head snapped sideways. Copper hit her tongue.
They slammed together, bodies locked. Cass swung high at her head, connecting with the crown. Mireya swung back, knuckles hitting Cass right on her ear. Mireya dug her fingers into Cass’ wrist, wrenching at her grip. They bounced off the lounger, one of Trell’s phones skidding off the cushion and clacking against the concrete. Trell shifted his feet out of the way and watched.
Mireya twisted her body and ripped the hoodie free, then hooked her leg behind Cass’. She drove her shoulder into Cass’ chest. Cass’ feet went out from under her and she hit the grass face first with a grunt.
Mireya climbed onto her back before she could roll. Her knees dug into the ground on either side of Cass’ ribs. She pinned Cass’ shoulder down with her left hand and drove her right fist into whatever she could reach. Arm, ear, side of her face. Cass covered up, forearms thrown over her head, muffling most of the blows but not all.
Tiffany’s shout cut across it. “Hey! Hey!” she yelled, shoes slipping as she left the patio.
She wrapped an arm around Mireya’s neck from behind, forearm pressing into her throat as she tried to pull her off. Mireya’s body jerked once with the tug. She drove her elbow back hard. Bone met cartilage.
Tiff’s nose crunched. Her grip vanished. She stumbled away, both hands flying to her face.
“My fucking nose!” she screamed.
Blood leaked fast between her fingers, dripping onto the grass. She bent forward, swaying.
Mireya kept her weight on Cass and put two more hard punches into the side of her head and shoulder. Cass curled tighter, breath scraping out in short sounds.
“Alright, that’s enough. Get off her,” Trell said.
His voice came from the lounger, not much louder than before, but the edge in it cut through the fight. Mireya’s fist hovered for a second, then opened. Her chest heaved. Sweat and pool water soaked the front of her hoodie. She pushed her palms into the grass and rocked back off Cass, rising unsteady to her feet.
She dragged the back of her hand across her mouth and saw red from her split lip smear over her skin. She spat onto the lawn next to Cass, a dark streak on the grass, then pulled in a slow breath.
Cass rolled onto her side, then her knees, wobbling. Dirt and blades of grass stuck to her cheek. Tiffany, still cupping her nose, stumbled over and hooked an arm under Cass’, steadying her. Blood streaked down both of their wrists.
Trell shook his head once, exhaling through his teeth. “Y’all could’ve just said what y’all wanted to say,” he said. “Now y’all all fucked up.”
Cass blinked hard, eyes glassy. Tiff kept her shoulder under Cass, guiding her upright. They swayed at the edge of the grass, both of them breathing hard.
Trell lifted his chin at Mireya. “Come here,” he said.
Mireya stepped around the scattered drops of blood and stopped in front of him, standing between his knees. Her jaw throbbed. Her lip burned, hot and wet.
He reached out and caught her by the chin, thumb and fingers clamping around her jaw. He turned her face a little one way and then the other, looking over the split and the bruise starting under the skin. His grip stayed firm.
“You good?” he asked.
Mireya met his eyes, lip pulled under his hand, pulse still up from the fight.
“I’m straight,” she said.
Trell’s grin widened. He let her chin go with a small push, dropping his hand back to his thigh.
“Look at my bitch, beating bitches’ asses,” he said.
Mireya didn’t answer. She turned and lowered herself onto the lounger beside him, muscles still buzzing.
