“Erik, why don’t you want Kaya to have a car?” Jamil asked.
The brown couch I sat on was cozy, the pillows filled with various flowers and Que dog symbols. The pillow I got him for his Founder’s Day was one I was holding now, a memory of happy times. A picture of his family, him and his wife, stood beside the neutral purple chair he sat in.
I had that once, too.
And yet you excitingly ruined it, and all to have bragging rights of breaking a girl’s back and still “having it”, isn’t that right, he goaded. These days all Kill ever did was taunt me.
She could hurt herself, her brother is the better driver, I can drive her, she gonna try and sneak boys and girls in her car-, my thoughts were cut off.
Jamil already knew the answer to his question.
“Erik-,” he started but I cut him off.
“If Kaya gets a car then I won’t see her anymore.”
Flashes of heels, dressers that rocked as if there weren’t two peoples’ clothes in them, and tears, so many tears raced past my mind. Fast, too fast. Over the past ten years I’ve had so many times where I almost forgot the last moment her and I had where I had access to her, even if it was just her despondency. Her amusement. Me on my knees amused her, though it broke the heart of our children who watched. A moment I wrote down, down to the color and time of day to remember. The only torture I ever thought I deserved.
I watched patience settle over Jamil’s face, and I almost smiled. This was something I knew I would never lose.
“Is this the part where you tell me I need to move on?” I implored my therapist.
“Yes, right before you tell me you have and you are just actively choosing to love her anyway,” he patiently responded. His response was exactly what I’d expected, and yet still it gave me no peace. Peace was foreign in every way and had been for a while.
“Erik. I want you to be honest. Have you been following our plan? Taking up hobbies, constantly checking yourself on why you enjoy these hobbies?” he asked to which I nodded my head.
I thought about the paintings I had in my home. The set of drums in the music room. Robots scattered in my office. An office that held pictures from a wedding and a few first dates. The music room that held the videos filled with “I love you’s” and “forevers” that fell short yet seems to fill me to this moment.
“Doc can I ask you something?” I inquired to which he nodded his head.
“Was it ever possible that we would work out? With all the trauma I had, was I always going to self-destruct? Run away?” I asked. This question had been asked before, but my thoughts on it had changed. “Is that a black people thing, that we don’t get to rest and be easy, even with the people we love?” I pressed on, not waiting for his response.
Jamil tilted his head to me. He understood my fears, as I had been struggling for a minute now. Every session was about Kaya wanting a car, and every session I had told him over and over that I didn’t want her to have one because I didn’t want her to drive off and not look back.
Jamil was perceptive and did not give me a reprieve. He stared into my eyes and looked back at his family pictures my eyes kept flickering to. His eyes turned sad and unwilling, but he had nothing to worry about. Nothing could break my heart. It was still in shredded pieces on the floor of my dining room, still pumping after collecting ten years of tears.
“Erik, you don’t want Kaya to have a car because drop-off’s are the only time you have contact with your ex-wife,” he stated bluntly.
I stared back. It amused me that he believed I had no idea of this. This cat and mouse game him and played over this topic went round-and-round. This statement still, however, squeezed my heart. Jamil became blurry and something hot rushed down my face.
Summary : When Elijah blew Annie’s light out, Isaac was the one who lit it again. Her man was good in bed, extremely fine, smart, a provider. Their love, or so they call it never been under hardship, until now. The twins were back in Delta, Annie gave herself a mission : avoid Smoke and make sure Stack keeps his big running mouth shut about their little adventure, by all means.
It’s a 4 parts story. I’ll upload when I’m done with it (T-T). If you want to be tag tell me. Below is my general taglist.
Danni Rose swore she’d never fall for Elias “Stack” Moore—her cocky high school rival turned unexpected boss. But when her long-time boyfriend leaves town and she picks up a bartending job at Cypress Lounge, Stack is the last person she expects to answer to.
He’s all quiet heat and sinful stares.
She’s all sharp edges and buried feelings.
Now they're working side by side with a tension thick enough to cut.
They’ve got history, chemistry, and no business falling for each other.
But some tangles? You don’t come back from.
Characters: Elias "Stack" Moore x Danni Rose (OC) (Modern AU)
Themes: Angst, Fluff, Mention of Abuse, Mention of Cheating, Enemies to Lovers, Vulgar Language, Sexual content & more...
Rowe & Greene Therapy Office
Friday at 10:30am
STACK SESSION
“Elias.”
Dr. Rowe’s voice broke through the quiet, patient and steady, a subtle invitation instead of a command.
Stack smirked, tilting his head. “Stack. Everyone calls me Stack. Trust me, you don’t want to sound like my dad.”
Her lips quivered in the faintest smile, but her gaze stayed steady. “All right, Stack. How’s your week been?”
“Busy,” he said, letting his fingers drum a restless rhythm against the armrest. “Club’s slammed. Smoke’s out with Annie tonight, so I’m running the floor solo. Women in my life don’t complain.”
Dr. Rowe tilted her head, notepad balanced loosely in her lap. “You’re deflecting. I asked how you feel.”
Stack’s smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes. Feel? Dangerous word. He shifted his weight, settling deeper into the leather chair like it could hold the answer for him.
“I feel fine,” he said lightly, as though the word could slide past her ears unnoticed. “People leave. Things happen. I take care of my people. That’s feeling enough.”
Her gaze held him. Calm. Unyielding. “You’ve built a life around taking care of others, but rarely yourself. That doesn’t erase the question.”
He gave a small scoff, but his jaw flexed.
“Okay,” she continued evenly, “last time we spoke about your father blaming you for your mother’s death. Do you still believe him?”
Stack’s eyes flickered toward the window, his smirk gone. The muscles in his jaw worked tight, his voice low. “Man been dead for nearly ten years, Doc. Ain’t much point in still believin’ or not believin’ him.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Her tone was calm, steady, with no room to slip away.
He exhaled through his nose, a slow, sharp breath. “…Some days I think maybe he was right. Other days, I know he was just drunk and needed somebody to bleed on.”
“And which day is today?”
Stack’s lips curved into that half-smirk again, but this time it sat crooked, unsteady. “Today I don’t give a damn.”
Dr. Rowe studied him, her silence deliberate. She wrote something down, then looked back at him. “You care more than you admit. That wound. Your father’s words bleeds into the way you see yourself, Stack. Especially when it comes to love.”
“Love?” He laughed once, a sharp sound, dismissive. He leaned back, stretching an arm across the chair like he owned the room. “I’m good on that subject. Don’t need it. Don’t trust it.”
Her brow arched slightly. “Then why bring up Annie last session?” she asked softly. “You told me she was ‘good for your brother.’ That she steadied him. Your voice softened when you said it.”
His smirk faltered for a split second, so quick most wouldn’t catch it—but she did. He shifted, looking at the ceiling like it might rescue him. “…Annie was… different. She always had this way of makin’ Smoke walk lighter, like the weight of the world didn’t crush him so much when she was around. She was his calm before the storm.”
“And how did that make you feel?”
Stack’s throat worked. His fingers stilled against the armrest. “…Happy for him.”
Her gaze sharpened, though her voice stayed gentle. “Only happy?”
The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating. His shoulders rose and fell, breath slower now, heavier.
Finally, he spoke, his tone flat, like the words had teeth. “When we were kids, I… liked Annie. Nothin’ serious, just a crush. But I knew better. She only had eyes for Smoke. She always would. And that was fine. He deserved her.” He paused, voice dropping, softer now, almost boyish. “Sometimes I just wondered… if anyone could ever look at me like that.”
The confession hung in the air, raw and unpolished.
Dr. Rowe leaned forward, her pen forgotten, her voice almost a whisper. “And what if they could?”
Stack let out a bark of laughter, but it rang hollow, bouncing off the quiet office walls. “Then I’d probably run the other way. Ain’t no point lettin’ somebody close enough to tear you apart.”
Her eyes stayed on him, calm as ever. “Not every storm has to destroy, Stack. Some storms bring rain—life, growth. Maybe one day, you’ll stop running and let someone see you.”
He shook his head, looking away, jaw tight. The smirk slipped back on, but it was weaker this time, more armor than truth. “…Maybe.”
Dr. Rowe didn’t look away. “Maybe,” she echoed softly. “But I hear something else in your words, Stack. It isn’t just about Annie. It’s about your brother.”
Stack leaned back, arms spread wide, his grin sliding into place like a cigarette between his lips. “Smoke? He’s my ace. Always has been. He’s the one folks notice when we walk in a room. Me? I’m the good-lookin’ shadow standin’ next to him. Works out fine—he draws the fire, I enjoy the show.”
His tone was slick, playful, but his knee bounced a restless rhythm.
“You admire him,” Dr. Rowe said steadily.
Stack chuckled, the sound low and vulgar. “Admire? That’s what you say about a man’s suit or a woman’s ass, Doc. I don’t admire him. He’s my brother. Some days he’s the reason I breathe. Other days, I could strangle him with my bare hands. That sound like admiration to you?”
“Sounds like love,” she answered, calm as ever.
The smirk slipped, just for a second, before he replaced it with a wider grin. “Love. That four-letter scam that makes men write bad raps about and women cry in their wine. Not my scene. I deal in other things—whiskey, music, a good fight, maybe a softer body now and then if the night’s right. All that? Real. Love? Fairytales.”
“Humor again,” Dr. Rowe observed softly. “Deflection. You turn pain into a punchline.”
Stack pressed his hand over his heart dramatically, leaning forward with a crooked grin. “Well damn, Doc, you caught me. You should come by the club sometime. I do stand-up right before the girls hit the stage.”
Her lips twitched, but she didn’t laugh. “You do the same thing there, don’t you? At the club. You keep it loud, fast, vulgar—so no one notices the quiet. The stillness. The place where you’re not smiling.”
Stack’s grin stiffened. He shifted in his seat, rubbing a thumb against the armrest. “…Ain’t nobody comin’ to my club for quiet, Doc. They want the music loud, drinks strong, and somebody to make ‘em forget their sad little lives for a night. I just provide the service.”
Her gaze didn’t move. “And when do you forget yours?”
That question hit like a jab to the ribs. He leaned back, looking at the ceiling, lips pulling into that signature half-smile. “I don’t forget. I drink. I fight. I fuck. Same result, less thinking.”
She let the vulgarity pass without flinching. “And after?”
Stack’s smile faltered. His voice came quieter, flat. “…After, it’s just me. No crowd. No women. Just me.”
“Lonely,” she supplied.
He barked a laugh, but it rang hollow. “Lonely’s cheaper than therapy.”
“You’re here,” she reminded him gently.
His eyes flicked to hers, sharp but uncertain, before darting back to the window. “…Court ordered. Don’t flatter yourself.”
Dr. Rowe didn’t rise to the bait. Her voice softened. “You’ve built your armor well—charm, jokes, that crooked smile everyone falls for. But armor isn’t the same as skin. One protects. The other feels.”
For once, he didn’t smirk. He stayed quiet, his jaw tight, his fingers drumming slower and slower against the chair.
Finally, he muttered, almost to himself, “…If I let it feel, it might not stop.”
Dr. Rowe leaned forward slightly, her voice calm but piercing. “And maybe that’s where you start healing, Stack. Not with the smile, not with the jokes. But with the part of you that’s still bleeding.”
He swallowed hard, forcing the grin back onto his face, though it didn’t quite fit this time. “…You really know how to kill a man’s mood, Doc.”
She smiled faintly, unfazed. “I’m not here to kill your mood. I’m here to help you find the man behind it.”
Stack laughed again, but his eyes betrayed him. They were heavy, tired, carrying more truth than he’d ever say out loud.
Behind the wall. The same office. A different room.
DANNI SESSION
Danni crossed one leg over the other on the chair, arms folded tight across her chest. Her dark curls were piled into a messy bun that was already starting to slip, and she looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. But her sharp brown eyes told a different story—she was paying attention, even if she pretended not to.
“So, Danni,” Dr. Greene said, her voice calm, steady, the kind of tone that felt like it could wait forever. “How are you feeling this week?”
“Like I need a margarita,” Danni shot back without missing a beat, her tone dry as ever.
Dr. Greene’s lips curved slightly. “That’s an honest answer. But what’s under it?”
Danni sighed loud enough to fill the space, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “Fine. I feel… tired. Tired of people thinking I’m supposed to settle for less than I deserve. Tired of wasting time on men who swear they love me but can’t stay faithful for more than a weekend.”
“You mean Devante,” Dr. Greene said gently.
Danni’s jaw tightened, her arms pressing firmer against her ribs. “…Yeah. Him.”
“Two weeks since the breakup.”
“I was finished the moment I saw him with her. In our bed.” Her voice cracked on the word our, but she smoothed it over with a scoff. “But he keeps calling, keeps showing up in my head like a bad commercial I can’t mute. I blocked every number he had, and somehow he still finds ways to reach out. He’s like gum on the bottom of your shoe. You think you scraped it all off, but nope—still there. Still sticking.”
Dr. Greene tilted her head. “Do you miss him?”
Danni let out a sharp laugh. “Miss him? No. I miss the idea of him. The promise of what I thought we had. The version of him I made up in my head, not the liar who couldn’t even keep it together in our own apartment.”
Dr. Greene nodded slowly. “That’s an important distinction. The version of him you wanted versus the version you had.”
Danni tapped her nails against the armrest, her tone clipped. “Story of my life, really. Expectation versus reality. And reality always wins.”
Dr. Greene leaned forward slightly, eyes intent. “What do you think it is you keep going back to in men like him?”
Danni tilted her head, smirk curling. “Mm, I don’t know. Bad decisions? A hobby?” Her voice was cool, but the tightness in her shoulders betrayed her.
“You hide behind humor,” Dr. Greene observed. “But under the sarcasm, I hear a woman afraid she’ll never be chosen properly. Truly.”
The words hung heavy. Danni’s eyes flicked away, her smirk faltering. “When I was younger… my best friend Keisha—well, ex-best friend now—she had this way of making me feel small. Like if I liked someone, it was laughable. Like I’d never be anybody’s type. And I believed her for a long time.”
Her voice cracked, just once.
Dr. Greene’s tone softened. “And now?”
Danni straightened in the chair, biting her lip before forcing the smirk back into place. “Now I know I’m beautiful. Smart. Funny. I know I deserve someone who actually sees me. But some nights…” She trailed off, the words heavier now. “Some nights I wonder if Keisha was right. If I’ll always be the girl nobody picks first.”
“Do you really believe that?” Dr. Greene asked carefully.
Danni shook her head, slow. “Not all the time. But it sneaks in. Like a splinter you thought you pulled out but it’s still buried deep. Every time I catch my reflection, I know I’m not that insecure girl anymore. But when somebody walks away or cheats? Feels like proof she was right all along.”
Dr. Greene leaned forward. “And what if the problem isn’t you, Danni? What if you’ve simply been choosing men who confirm an old lie you haven’t let go of yet?”
“I’m saying maybe you’ve been chasing the wrong kind of attention because deep down, you don’t believe you’re worthy of the right kind.”
The words lodged deep in her chest, heavier than she wanted to admit. She forced a crooked smile, that armor sliding back into place. “So what? You think Prince Charming’s out there somewhere, ready to come sweep me off my feet? I call bullshit.”
Dr. Greene smiled softly. “Not Prince Charming. Someone real. Someone who sees all of you—the sarcasm, the humor, the brilliance, and the hurt. And chooses you anyway.”
Danni gave a dry laugh, shaking her head. “Sounds like a unicorn.”
“Not a unicorn,” Dr. Greene countered gently. “A man. A man who exists in the same world you do. What if someone already sees you, Danni—and you just don’t see him yet?”
Danni’s brows arched, sarcasm snapping back into place like armor. “Then he better speak up quick. ’Cause I don’t chase ghosts.”
The clock on the wall chimed softly, ending the session. Danni stood, adjusting her purse strap with a huff, rolling her eyes at herself.
Therapy always left her rawer than she wanted to admit, peeling back layers she spent years perfecting. But walking out into the hallway, she couldn’t shake the weight of Dr. Greene’s words. Not Prince Charming. Someone real.
●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●
Mrs. Magnolia Diner
The bell above the door sang its familiar jingle as another set of customers strolled in, but Danni barely looked up. She was halfway through refilling a table’s teas, mind moving faster than her hands.
Across the counter, Candi slid into her section with a grin, blonde braids stuck under her visor, order pad already in hand. “Girl, I swear, if you scrub that counter any harder, you gonna buff it down to the wood.”
Danni gave her a look, rag paused mid-swipe. “I like my reflection shining back at me. Makes up for what’s missing in my life.”
“Oh, don’t start.” Candi leaned an elbow against the counter, voice dropping. “You still thinking about that Memphis boy?”
Danni’s jaw flexed, but she kept her smile practiced for the customers. “Not thinking. More like… dodging. Blocking. Pretending he don’t exist.”
“Uh-huh. Two weeks of blocking numbers and ducking calls ain’t pretending. That’s work.”
Danni shot her a side-eye as she slid a plate of catfish across to a waiting table. “Well, it’s the only workout I’m committed to right now.”
Candi chuckled, but her gaze softened. “You did the right thing. Throwing him out? Best move you ever made. Man didn’t deserve you, Danni.”
For a moment, Danni’s mask slipped. She busied herself rearranging straws in the dispenser, but her voice dropped low. “Don’t mean it don’t hurt like hell, Candi. Thought I had forever lined up, and he went and handed it to somebody else.”
Candi reached across the counter and squeezed her wrist. “Yeah, but now you got freedom lined up. Don’t waste it hiding in this diner. Maybe try go back into nursing.”
Before Danni could reply, the bell over the door rang again, and they both straightened. A couple of regulars waved, pulling them back into motion.
The hours blurred into the rhythm of plates, orders, and laughter. Still, every now and then, Candi found Danni’s eye and tossed her a look that said: You need a night out. A real one.
By late afternoon, when the rush slowed, Candi slid into the booth across from Danni during their break, sipping a Dr. Pepper.
“So,” she said, tapping her straw against the cup, “Cypress tonight. My cousin Pearline’s is singing. I’m going, no question. And you’re coming with me.”
Danni groaned, leaning back against the booth. “Candi—”
“No excuses,” Candi cut her off. “Don’t even start. I know your Netflix queue isn’t that important.”
Danni smirked, swirling the ice in her tea. “You ever think maybe I like my little bubble? No drama, no mess, just me?”
“Uh-huh. Except drama keeps finding you whether you leave the house or not. Might as well have good music and tequila when it shows up.”
That earned a laugh out of Danni, a real one that loosened something in her chest. She shook her head. “You’re a menace, you know that?”
Candi’s grin widened. “I’m the best kind of menace. The kind that gets you out that house and back in the game.”
Danni didn’t promise, but the thought lingered as she tied her apron tighter and headed back to the floor. Maybe she would go. Just for Pearline. Just for the music.
And maybe… just to feel like her world wasn’t stuck on pause.
The lull after the lunch rush hung in the air, the kind of quiet where the hum of the overhead lights felt louder than it should. Danni wiped down her section, moving on instinct, her mind still chewing over Candi’s insistence about Cypress Lounge.
Candi leaned against the counter, sipping her soda with a smirk. “You know, you act like the universe don’t hear you—but then it pulls stunts like this.”
Danni frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Candi tilted her chin toward the door. “Speaking of the devil.”
The bell jingled, and in walked Elias “Stack” Moore. Black Ray-Bans covered his eyes, but that grin—crooked, knowing, dangerous—was visible from across the room. He carried himself like he owned the space without even trying, broad shoulders rolling loose beneath his dark Henley. Heads turned, but he seemed oblivious, tugging the sunglasses down just enough to scan the room.
Danni’s rag stilled on the counter. Her throat went dry, but she masked it with a scoff. “Oh, hell.”
“Uh-huh,” Candi drawled, eyes dancing between them. “Hell looks real good in shades.”
Danni rolled her eyes, but heat prickled the back of her neck as Stack slid into a booth, one arm stretching across the back like he had all the time in the world. He didn’t see her right away. He was too busy flashing that easy smile at the waitress passing him a menu.
Candi nudged Danni with her elbow. “Well, don’t just stand there. Somebody’s gotta serve him.”
“I’d rather serve a rattlesnake,” Danni muttered, grabbing her notepad anyway.
Still, when she finally moved toward him, her steps slowed, her sarcasm ready like armor. She knew Stack’s type. She’d known it since high school. Trouble wrapped in charm. Smiles sharp enough to cut. And yet, her chest tightened in the same frustrating way it always had.
Stack leaned back in the booth, one arm stretched lazily across the top, sunglasses pushed up on his head now. He looked like sin dressed in denim and confidence. Casual, comfortable, and far too aware of the effect he had when he smirked at whoever dared cross his path.
Danni walked over with her notepad in hand, her face schooled into something cool and unimpressed. Inside, her pulse ticked up, but she’d be damned if he’d see it.
“Well, look who wandered in,” she drawled, stopping at his table. “It’s just you? Damn. Where big Daddy Smoke at?”
Stack’s grin slipped clean off. His jaw ticked, eyes narrowing. “Stop callin’ my brother that. And for the record? My brother’s taken. So go find yourself somebody else to throw your ass at.”
Danni barked a laugh, sharp and unbothered. “Jealous much? Relax, Stack. Let your brother get some love too. You can’t hog all the pussy in Delta.”
Candi, wiping down the counter nearby, nearly choked on her gum. “Lord have mercy…” she muttered, eyes sparkling like she was front row at a show.
“Also don’t worry your pretty little head about what I call your brother at night,” Danni teased, smirk tugging at her lips.
Stack leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low and cutting. “You’ve got a fuckin’ mouth on you, don’t you?”
Danni cocked her head, letting her smirk bloom. “I sure fuckin’ do.” She leaned in just enough to mock him with her tone, pen poised over her pad. “Now, what can I get your, fuckin’ ass?”
Stack sat back, jaw ticking, his grin gone. He looked her over slowly, from the tilt of her chin to the sway of her stance, before taking off his sunglasses. “Don’t know how the hell Mrs.Magnolia keeps you around. Where is she, anyway? ’Cause I definitely need her to fire your ass.”
Danni barked out a laugh, sharp and unbothered. “Go ahead, Stack. March back there and tell Magnolia her best damn waitress needs to be fired. See how far that gets you.”
His grin came back then, slow and dark. “Smart mouth, sharp tongue, zero respect. You’re damn lucky you’re easy on the eyes, or you’d have been outta here years ago.”
Danni leaned closer, resting one hand on the table, her smile pure venom. “Aw. Did you just admit you think I’m cute? Careful, Stack. Might slip and sound like a decent nigga.”
The heat between them thickened, the kind that made the air hum.
Stack dropped his sunglasses on the table, leaning forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You keep pushing me, Danni, and one of these days, you’re not gonna like what happens.”
Her heart stuttered, but her smirk never faltered. She tilted her head, lips glossed and glinting under the fluorescent lights.
“Oh, baby, I don’t like you already. Nothing new there.”
For a second, they just stared—hatred, challenge, and something hotter smoldering beneath it.
For a beat, the air between them vibrated, sharp as a live wire. Stack’s crooked grin crawled back across his face, slow and deliberate, like the words rolled right off him and landed somewhere he didn’t mind. He sat back again, eyes glittering with something between irritation and intrigue.
“Coffee and apple pie.” he said finally, dragging the word out. “Coffee. Hot. Strong. Like me.”
Danni scribbled without looking up. “Mm-hm. More like burnt and bitter.”
Candi snorted loud enough for the nearest booth to turn their heads, and Danni spun on her heel before Stack could fire back, curls bouncing as she walked away.
Stack watched her go, that grin refusing to fade now. He wasn’t used to being needled like this. Most people giggled, bent, folded. Not Danni. She pushed back, sharp as glass. And damn if it didn’t make him want to lean in closer just to see how deep she could cut.
Danni slid a plate of apple pie and the mug of coffee onto the table a little too hard, close enough that it sloshed. “Here. Hot, black, bitter. Just like you.”
“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
“I know I’m funny,” she said, smirk tugging at her lips. Danni straightened, chin tilted high. “Enjoy your coffee. Try not to choke on your ego.”
Stack watched Danni’s back as she walked away, curls bouncing with every step like they were mocking him. His jaw ticked, crooked grin gone now, replaced with the kind of scowl he usually saved for men who didn’t pay their tabs.
Couldn’t stand her.
Didn’t know what her damn problem was.
Danni met him blow for blow, every word out of her mouth dipped in vinegar, and still she strutted off like she’d won something.
“Woman thinks she bulletproof,” he muttered, stabbing his fork into the pie like it had done him wrong. “She ain’t.”
He took another bite, bitterness sitting on his tongue heavier than the coffee. He set the fork down, shaking his head. Whatever. He had bigger things to think about than some mouthy waitress who clearly woke up mad at the world.
His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. Evening creeping closer. The lounge would be filling up soon—tables packed, glasses clinking, music spilling through the doors. And this time, he’d be running it solo.
Smoke was out with Annie, dressed to the nines, chasing something that looked too damn close to happiness. Stack could still see him adjusting his tie in the mirror before heading out, leaving Stack to hold the line.
He leaned back in the booth, running a hand over his jaw. “Yeah, tonight’s on me.”
He didn’t mind the weight—he was good at it. Running the floor, keeping the wolves in line, making sure every deal behind closed doors stayed neat, quiet. That was his lane. That was where he thrived. But still… sometimes it gnawed at him. Smoke had Annie. He had that soft place to land. Stack had a crooked grin and a long night ahead of him.
His gaze drifted back to the counter where Danni stood, laughing at something Candi said. For reasons he didn’t care to name, the sound grated on him.
He pushed his coffee aside, sliding out of the booth. Enough wasting time here. The lounge was waiting, and unlike Danni, it didn’t talk back.
His gaze drifted back to the counter where Danni stood, laughing at something Candi said. Her head tilted back, curls slipping from her bun, mouth wide with a real laugh she hadn’t shown him once.
And for reasons he didn’t care to name, the sound grated on him. Irritated him more than it should.
She could laugh easy with everybody else, but with him? Nothing but fucking sass.
Stack finished his coffee and his pie and decided it was time to go.
Stack scooted out the booth, the legs scraping the tile. He tugged his sunglasses off the table, slipping them back on as he stalked toward the counter. Each step felt deliberate, a slow roll of his shoulders, his boots hitting the floor like punctuation marks.
Candi noticed first, her grin slipping into a wary smirk. “Oh, Lord. Here we go.”
Danni turned, smirk fading into something cool and sharp when her eyes landed on him. “You done terrorizing that pie, or you want me to fetch you another victim?”
Stack slapped a couple of bills down on the counter, the sound sharp against the laminate. “Pie was cold. Coffee worse. Service?” His eyes rolled dramatically. “Don’t even get me started.”
Danni arched a brow, folding her arms. “Funny, ‘cause that plate looks empty to me. Guess your mouth didn’t mind too much.”
Stack leaned in just enough for only her to hear, his voice a low rumble. “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. I chow things down all the time that ain’t worth keepin’.”
Her lips curved into a venomous smile. “Good for you.”
For a beat, neither moved—his grin sharp, her glare sharper. The tension pulled tight enough to snap.
Finally, Stack pushed back, straightening to his full height. He slid his change off the counter and tucked it into his pocket, not bothering with a tip. “Keep the attitude. You’re already overpaid.”
He pivoted toward the door, swagger casually.The bell jingled as the door swung shut behind Stack, and the low hum of the diner returned. Danni let out a scoff, tossing the rag onto the counter with more force than necessary.
“Cheap motherfucker,” she muttered, watching through the window as his car eased out of the lot.
Candi burst out laughing, nearly spilling the rest of her Dr. Pepper. “Girl, you came at him the whole time he was sittin’ in here. Man couldn’t even order pie without you tryna cut him.”
Danni’s eyes narrowed, but the smirk tugging at her lips gave her away. “Whose side you on?”
“Neither,” Candi said, holding up her hands like she was innocent. “I’m just sayin’—Stack seemed pretty cool. Definitely a player, but a cool one.”
Danni rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “Girl, you just wanna fuck him.”
Candi choked on her soda, laughing so loud a couple of regulars glanced over. “Maybe in the past,” she admitted, fanning herself with her order pad. “But I got me a new boo thang now, thank you very much.” She leaned closer, eyes dancing. “Anyway… question is...are you comin’ to the lounge tonight?”
Danni groaned, dragging a hand over her face. “ Here we go again…”
But Candi just grinned, tapping her straw against the cup like a drumroll, waiting for the answer.
Candi leaned forward, grin never slipping. “Don’t act brand new. I already told you tequila’s on me.”
Danni snorted, reaching for the coffee pot like she needed something to do with her hands. “You think tequila’s gonna fix my life?”
“Maybe not,” Candi shot back, “but it’ll sure make you forget about Memphis nigga for a couple hours. And after the way you was jawin’ at Stack just now? I think you need it.”
Danni froze, side-eye sharp as a blade. “You tryna say he got under my skin? ‘Cause he didn’t.”
“Mhm.” Candi sipped her soda slow, eyes sparkling with mischief. “That why you still talkin’ about him when he long gone?”
Danni rolled her eyes, lips twitching despite herself. “You’re impossible.”
“Thank you,” Candi said sweetly, leaning back in the booth. “So what’s it gonna be, girl? You comin’ or not?”
Danni thought about it, her gaze drifting to the window where Stack’s car had disappeared minutes ago. Her chest still hummed with leftover irritation that felt suspiciously close to adrenaline. She shook her head, muttering, “Ain’t no reason for me to go to that lounge.”
Candi smirked, pouncing. “Except to see Pearline sing. And maybe to prove to yourself you can walk in there, have a good time, and not let no man—past or present—mess with your head.”
Danni sighed, tying her apron tighter like it could anchor her. “I’ll think about it.”
Candi clapped her hands once, triumphant. “That’s a yes. Don’t worry! I’ll pick your outfit. Something that makes Stack choke on more than just his coffee next time.”
Danni’s mouth fell open before she burst out laughing, swatting at Candi’s arm. “Girl, you are outta pocket.”
“Maybe,” Candi said, eyes glinting. “But I ain’t wrong.”
●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●
The Cypress Lounge pulsed with energy, the air thick with the scent of liquor and perfume, laughter curling around the steady hum of the bassline.
Stack barely had time to breathe. He moved from the bar to the back hallway to the stage and back again, every step measured, every word clipped but smooth. He broke up two arguments, kept the bartenders from drowning in orders, and made sure the floor stayed moving. With Smoke gone, everything fell on him, and he handled it like a man holding court.
Which meant he didn’t notice when Danni and Candi slipped in through the doors.
The two women wove through the crowd, sliding into a booth near the stage. The lights painted everything amber and red, the tables packed shoulder to shoulder, the chatter rising and falling like waves.
“Mm-hm,” Candi said, fanning herself with the cocktail menu. “See? This is what I’m talkin’ about. Good music, good drinks, fine men everywhere.”
Danni smirked, scanning the room. “Yeah, and ninety percent of those fine men already got a woman on their arm.”
“Don’t matter.” Candi winked, grabbing Danni’s hand. “Tonight, we ain’t chasing nothin’. We just vibin’.”
Danni laughed, shaking her head as a waitress dropped off two cocktails. She sipped hers slow, letting the tart bite of tequila roll across her tongue. For the first time in weeks, her chest felt a little lighter.
A familiar squeal cut through the crowd, and Candi’s head whipped around. “Pearline!”
Her cousin was heading toward the stage, sequins glittering under the dim lights. She carried herself like she owned the mic before she even touched it.
“Cuz!” Pearline leaned over the edge of the booth, hugging Candi tight, then flashing Danni a wide smile. “You made it! Both of y’all did. Lord, I was hopin’.”
“Girl, you better sing the roof down tonight,” Candi said, eyes glowing with pride.
“You know I will.” Pearline grinned, brushing her curls back as the band began tuning. “Glad y’all came. Sit tight, first set’s about to start.”
She gave Danni a warm nod before striding toward the stage.
Candi clapped her hands like an excited child. “See? Worth it already.”
Danni sipped her drink, her lips curving despite herself. The room was alive, the air thrumming, and for once, she wasn’t thinking about Devante. She wasn’t thinking about heartbreak. Not even about that crooked smile she’d faced earlier in the diner.
The room buzzed as Pearline’s band settled into their groove, the first notes spilling warm and sultry into the air. Danni and Candi clinked glasses, laughing as the lights dimmed and Pearline leaned into the mic with a smile that could stop traffic.
The crowd leaned in, drawn to her voice, but across the room, someone else’s gaze was fixed on Danni.
Francisco.
He sat at a corner table with a few men from town, nursing a whiskey he hadn’t paid for yet. His eyes narrowed as he watched her laugh, head tilted back, curls spilling over her shoulders. It had been months since he’d seen her, but nothing about the sight softened the sour twist in his chest.
He slid his phone out of his pocket under the table, thumbs moving quick.
She’s here. Cypress Lounge. 146 River Lake Street. Come through.
A smirk tugged at his lips as he hit send, the message winging its way straight to Devante’s phone. Francisco knew damn well Devante had been trying to get in touch. Calls, messages, even showing up at her aunt house in Jackson. And now? Devante was back in town, restless and reckless.
Francisco leaned back in his chair, tucking the phone away. He didn’t wave, didn’t approach, didn’t let Danni know he was even there. He just watched her sip her drink, laugh with her friend, and glow under the dim lights. Unaware that a storm was already rolling her way.
On the stage, Pearline hit her first high note, the crowd erupting with cheers. Danni clapped, smiling for real this time, free for once.
Pearline’s voice filled the lounge like honey over gravel, smooth and powerful, sliding right into the bones of the crowd. Applause rippled, whistles cutting through the music, but Danni just sat back in the booth, a slow smile tugging at her lips.
“See?” Candi shouted over the music, eyes sparkling. “Didn’t I tell you she was gon’ kill it?”
Danni lifted her glass in a toast, cheeks warming with tequila and good company. “All right, I admit it. You were right.”
Candi gasped, pressing a hand to her chest dramatically. “Say it again. Louder.”
“Don’t push it,” Danni shot back, but she laughed, the sound loosening her chest. The music, light, and a sisterhood that made her forget everything.
She leaned back, letting the sound wash over her, eyes closing for a beat as Pearline’s voice soared.
Across the table, Candi grinned wide. “This is it, girl. This is freedom. Ain’t no Memphis nigga here. Ain’t no drama here. Just us.”
Danni nodded, sipping slow. She wanted to believe it. For a few minutes, she almost did. The bass throbbed under her skin, Pearline’s voice wrapped her in velvet, and the energy of the room carried her higher than she’d felt in months.
What she didn’t see—what she didn’t know—was Francisco’s eyes still locked on her from across the lounge, his smirk curdling with each laugh she let loose. His phone was already back in his pocket, the text long sent.
But for now, Danni lived in the moment, clapping and cheering as Pearline hit another run that had half the room on their feet. She leaned into Candi, shoulder bumping hers. “You happy now?”
Candi raised her glass high, grinning. “Ecstatic. And if you don’t dance before the night’s over, I’ll drag you to that floor myself.”
Danni rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at her lips. For once, she felt like herself again. Sharp, alive, and untouchable.
Things were running smooth tonight, smoother than he expected with Smoke out. The floor stayed busy but steady, bartenders moving fast, servers hustling, music flowing just right. Stack leaned against the end of the bar, one hand wrapped around a glass, scanning the room with the easy patience of a man who knew chaos always waited two steps behind a good night.
He spotted one of the younger bartenders hustling past with an empty tray. Stack caught his arm with a nod toward the door. “Go tell Cornbread to keep that line outside tight. I don’t want nobody cuttin’, and I damn sure don’t want no fights spillin’ into my street. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” the kid said, already moving.
Stack watched him push through the crowd, then turned back to survey the room. Cypress wasn’t just a lounge, it was a machine. A living, breathing beast. And tonight, every gear was grinding just right under his hand.
He downed the last swallow of his drink and set the glass aside, his crooked grin sliding into place as he strolled across the floor. Customers called his name, women leaned in, men slapped his back like old friends. Stack gave them all what they wanted—a flash of teeth, a quick joke, a warning glance when needed.
Business as usual.
But under it all, he felt that itch he always did when Smoke wasn’t around. That weight of holding it all down by himself. He was good at it. Hell, nobody did it better, but there was a difference between good and easy.
Stack stopped near the stage, eyes sweeping over the crowd one more time. Pearline’s voice soared, riding the band’s groove, pulling cheers from every corner of the room. The energy was high, electric, and he couldn’t help the smirk tugging at his lips. Nights like this reminded him why they built Cypress.
He rolled his shoulders, loosening the tension in his back, and nodded to himself. “Yeah. We good. Real good.”
Stack shifted through the crowd until he ended up in front of the stage, one hand resting on the rail as Pearline’s voice soared through the mic. The band was locked in tight, the bass thrumming steady, the sax sliding like smoke through the room. The crowd was eating it up, hands clapping, heads nodding, bodies swaying with every note.
From this spot, Stack could see everything. The front row of dancers pressed close to the stage, the bartenders hustling at the far end of the room, the line of booths along the wall. He scanned like a hawk, every detail clocked and filed away.
That’s when he saw her.
Danni.
She was bathed in the stage lights spilling across the room, curls shining, smile loose and easy as she leaned into Candi. She clapped for Pearline, swayed in her seat, her laughter cutting through the hum like a damn spotlight.
Stack’s jaw worked. He didn’t move, didn’t take a step her way. But his eyes stayed fixed. Watching. Analyzing.
This wasn’t the sharp-tongued waitress at Magnolia’s, snapping at him with vinegar on her tongue. This was a woman out in her element confident, beautiful, soaking in the night like it was hers.
And it pissed him off more than he could explain.
She could shine for everybody else, but for him? Nothing but smoke and daggers.
Stack dragged his eyes back to the stage, clapping once for Pearline as if he’d been focused on her the whole time. He wasn’t about to give Danni the satisfaction of thinking she’d gotten under his skin.
He adjusted his stance, squared his shoulders, and let the music pull the crowd tighter. The lounge was his to control, his to protect.
And if that meant keeping one sharp-tongued waitress at arm’s length, even if she was sitting there looking like sin in the spotlight, so be it.
Pearline held the last note like velvet wrapped in steel, the crowd erupting into whistles and applause as she smiled into the mic.
“Thank y’all, Delta,” she said, waving toward the tables. “It’s been a blessing. Goodnight.”
The band eased off, and the DJ slid in with a quick shout-out before spinning the next track. A hard beat dropped, followed by a familiar hook that rattled the speakers.
“Shake your tambourine, go and get yourself a whistle…”
Candi squealed, nearly spilling her drink. “Ohhh, this my song!”
Before Danni could protest, Candi was already tugging her arm. “Come on, girl, get up. Don’t you dare sit through Eve. Not in this place, not tonight.”
Danni laughed, shaking her head as she set her glass down. “Lord, you gon’ have me out here lookin’ crazy.”
“You already look good, so shut up and move.”
Candi pulled until Danni slid out of the booth, her sneakers squeaking against the floor as she let herself be dragged toward the dance floor. The crowd shifted, bodies pressing in, the beat thumping in their bones.
Candi was already moving, hips swaying, braids swinging under the neon lights. She grabbed Danni’s hands, forcing her into the rhythm, laughing when Danni finally gave in.
And she did.
The tequila loosened her limbs, the bass pulled her forward, and the laughter that spilled out of her chest felt freer than it had in weeks. She swayed with Candi, mouthed the words, let her body catch the beat.
Candi leaned close, shouting over the music. “See? I told you! Tequila, music, and a little Eve will fix anything!”
Danni threw her head back, laughing, the lights flashing across her face. For a moment, nothing else existed.” You definitely were right about tonight.”
Stack worked the bar like he’d done it a hundred times before—hands moving fast, bottles flipping, drinks sliding across the counter without spilling a drop. The orders came hard and heavy after Pearline’s set, but he thrived in the chaos. This was his kingdom, and behind the bar he was untouchable.
At least, until the beat switched.
The DJ dropped Eve’s “Tambourine” and the crowd roared like the roof might lift off. Stack glanced toward the dance floor out of habit, eyes skimming the movement—making sure nobody was gettin’ too wild, no drunk fool causing trouble.
That’s when he saw her again, but dancing this time.
Stack froze mid-pour, liquor sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glass before he snapped back and set it down. His jaw clenched.
The crowd swallowed her, but his eyes stayed locked, tracing every turn of her shoulders, every curve of her movement. It burned him, how easy she looked, how alive she was without even trying.
One of the barbacks bumped his arm. “Boss, you good?”
Stack’s grin snapped back in place, sharp and thin. “Yeah. Keep pourin’. Don’t let the line back up.”
Even as he grabbed another bottle, his eyes cut back across the room, narrowing when he caught sight of Danni again. She was trouble, plain and simple. Trouble with a smile. Trouble with hips. Trouble he had no business watching.
The afternoon sun pressed heavy against the porch roof, warping the boards until they creaked beneath Annie’s steps. A bowl of green beans rested on her lap, but her fingers had slowed. Every few snaps, her gaze flicked toward the road, half-hidden by the leaning fence and thick summer brush. Dust hadn’t stirred there in days.
The breeze carried the faint scent of ironweed and damp cotton. Somewhere down the hill, a mule brayed. The same one that called out every morning, every evening steady, and predictable. Everything else had shifted.
She hadn’t seen Smoke since that night at the pond. Since Stack’s voice had come low and urgent—We got moves to make. She hadn’t slept much since either.
Behind her, the screen door creaked open. Mama Odette stepped out, slow and sure, wiping her hands on her apron. Her eyes followed the line of Annie’s.
“You gon’ stare that road into bringin’ him back?” she asked gently.
Annie didn’t answer. Just snapped another bean clean in half and dropped it into the bowl. The rhythm of it grounded her……barely.
“Man don’t always come when you want,” Mama Odette went on. “But when he hurt? When he half broken and don’t wanna show it? That’s when he come crawlin’ back through them trees, pretendin’ he ain’t limpin’.”
Annie glanced up. “You seen him?”
Mama Odette shook her head. “Not yet. But I seen women waitin’. You carryin’ the look of one.”
The green beans blurred for a moment, but Annie blinked it away.
“I’ll finish supper,” Mama Odette said, voice softening. “Don’t snap nothin’ you can’t cook.” She stepped back inside, door swinging behind her.
Annie sat still a moment longer. The sun edged lower behind the trees, turning everything a deeper gold. A single bead of sweat traced down her spine. She pushed the bowl aside and rose, wiping her hands on her skirt.
She didn’t know where he was. But something in her stomach deep and low told her it was time to find out.
_________________________________________________
The knock came soft but quick. Three raps, then one more after a beat…..impatient. Annie didn’t wait for Mama Odette to answer. She was already at the back door, drying her hands on the edge of her apron.
When she swung it open, Stack stood on the other side, one arm pressed against the doorframe. His shirt was damp with sweat, collar loose, a faint streak of dried blood near the shoulder. He looked worn, eyes darker than usual, voice rough with whatever he hadn’t said yet. Not his usual sharp and put together self.
“You alone?” he asked looking behind Annie.
Annie stepped back without answering. He came in, not all the way, just far enough to lean his weight against the kitchen wall.
“You here for food or trouble?” she asked.
Stack let out a sharp breath that passed for a laugh. “Neither. I’m here for him.”
Her stomach tightened. “Elijah?”
He gave a short nod. “Got himself banged up a few days back. Rib’s cracked, I think. Might be worse, but he won’t let me look. Been holed up out near the tree line, in that old trapper shack.” He looked at her fully then. “Said not to tell you.”
Annie wiped her hands slow and steady, but her heart kicked against her chest. “Then why you here?”
“‘Cause I ain’t built to watch him like that,” Stack said, his voice rough around the edges. “He thinks restin’ is enough, but I seen the way he winces when he breathe too deep. He barely sleepin’. Don’t wanna eat. Don’t want nothin’.”
He paused, jaw tightening as he looked away. “Won’t let me help. But he might let you.”
A beat passed. Then, quieter, almost like he wasn’t sure he believed it himself:
“Word is… you got that hoodoo touch. That maybe you can heal what don’t show on the outside.”
He met her eyes again. “I dunno what y’all do, but I’ll take whatever you got if it means he stop lookin’ like death waitin’ at the do’.”
She grabbed her satchel off the hook near the door without another word, slipping in clean cloths, a jar of salve, and the small pouch of dried willow bark Mama Odette had given her weeks ago “just in case.”
Stack glanced toward the front room. “You tellin’ her?”
His voice dropped slightly, wary.
Through the doorway, the soft creak of old wood rose and fell in rhythm. Mama Odette sat in her rocker, just inside the shadows, hands folded in her lap, eyes half-lidded but watching all the same.
Annie shook her head. “No need. She already know.”
_________________________________________________
They left through the back, silent as the shade creeping over the yard. The air thickened as they moved into the woods, cicadas buzzing low and lazy, distant thunder rumbling somewhere beyond the hills. Stack led the way, fast but not careless, glancing over his shoulder now and then to make sure she kept up.
Annie followed close, branches scratching her arms, skirt catching on roots. She didn’t complain. Every step deeper into the trees pressed heavier on her chest, but she didn’t slow.
Under her breath, she prayed in her Creole language: soft and urgent. “Papa Bon Dieu, kenbe li. Fè li byen. Kite mwen rive a tan.”
Lord, hold him. Let him be okay. Let me get there in time.
After a while, Stack spoke, voice low, not quite meeting her eyes. “That night by the pond… I shouldn’t’ve pulled him off like I did.”
He paused, boots crunching over pine needles. “Wasn’t nothin’ bout you. We had business, you know? The kind that don’t wait.”
Annie didn’t answer, and her pace didn’t falter. They were going to him. And that was the only thing that mattered.
The shack leaned sideways, half-swallowed by pine and kudzu. Tin patched the roof in places, nailed down hard but rusting at the edges. Annie paused at the clearing’s edge, heart thudding louder than her footsteps. Stack stood beside her, chewing the inside of his cheek, gaze fixed on the crooked door.
“He in there,” he said quietly. “Ain’t moved much since yesterday.”
Annie stepped forward.
The air inside was thick—stale sweat, old wood, damp earth. A slant of light cut through a break in the boards, landing across the cot shoved up against the wall. Smoke lay there, shirt open, skin slick with sweat, one arm slung across his ribs. His eyes were closed, but they cracked open the second her foot hit the floor.
He tried to push himself up. Failed.
“I told him not to bring you,” he muttered.
Annie knelt beside him, ignoring the way his body tensed.
“And I told him I wasn’t askin’ you,” she said, voice low.
She peeled back the soiled bandage, careful not to tug the raw skin beneath. Her breath caught.
The bullet had torn a deep path through the flesh of his side, just below the ribs. It wasn’t bleeding anymore, but the skin around it was red and angry, swollen at the edges. Bruising spread in dark purples and sickly yellows like ink spilled under his skin. The wound had sealed some, but not clean.
Before she did anything, Annie bowed her head and placed a hand just above the wound. Her voice dropped to a low murmur, and she began to pray in Creole—soft, rhythmic, words calling on something old to guide her hands.
Then, without hesitation, she opened the salve and dipped two fingers in.
Smoke’s breath hitched as she spread it gently across the gash. He didn’t cry out, but his jaw clenched, and his hand gripped the edge of the cot.
”Hurts to breathe?” she asked.
He nodded once, slow.
“Your rib’s bruised,” she murmured. “Might be cracked.”
Stack stayed near the door, arms folded. “Told him that.”
“You hush,” Annie said, without looking up.
Stack held his hands up and backed out without a word. The shack settled into stillness, broken only by Smoke’s strained breath and the soft scrape of Annie rewrapping the bandage.
She reached for the water canteen he’d left nearby and held it to his lips. He drank a little, then turned his face away.
She didn’t press.
It was the first time in days he wasn’t burning. Her hands were cool, steady. Every touch was careful. He didn’t know what to do with that.
Didn’t know what to do with her sitting in the dirt beside him, braids tucked tight, eyes fierce even when her hands were gentle. She didn’t ask him what happened. Didn’t flinch when she saw the bruises or the scar at his collarbone.
He hated that she saw him like this, laid bare and broken. But a part of him… the quiet part… was glad she came.
Once she finished, she leaned back on her heels and looked at him.
“You don’t get to die,” she said.
Smoke’s brow lifted, just a little. “That a rule you got?”
“No. That’s a promise I’m keepin’.” She paused. “You can break down. You can fall apart. But you don’t get to give up.”
He stared at the ceiling, chest rising slow.
“Would’ve been easier,” he whispered.
Annie’s voice came soft. “Not for me.”
She stood then, wiped her hands on her apron, and left the salve by his bed.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said. “And the day after, if I have to.”
Smoke didn’t answer. But as she reached the door, she heard it—barely.
“Thank you.”
She didn’t turn around. Just stepped back into the heat of the woods, heart heavier now but clearer than it’d been all week.
__________________________________________
The train thundered louder now, wheels shrieking around the bend. Shadows flickered between pine trunks. They had one shot.
Smoke adjusted the strap across his chest, the revolver warm against his side. Stack crouched ahead, eyes narrowed, lips moving around a toothpick.
“You ready?” Stack asked without looking back.
Smoke didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to be ready. He just needed to move.
They broke from cover at a sprint. Gravel kicked up under their boots. The train groaned as it slowed to take the curve, slow enough to catch, fast enough to take a man’s arm clean off.
Smoke caught the side ladder first, heaving himself up. Stack climbed behind him. The metal rungs burned under his grip, wet from dew. His coat flapped in the wind as he hauled himself onto the narrow platform between cars.
They slipped through the coupling gate, boots silent now. The payroll car was marked with white chalk at the base, just like Bo’s cousin said. Inside: two guards. One near the crates, the other standing with a shotgun resting across his chest.
It happened fast.
The first guard turned, eyes going wide. Smoke raised his hand, just enough to motion him quiet.
Too late.
The Colt .45 revolver jerked up.
The gunshot ripped through the car, loud and close. Smoke felt it before he heard it. Heat tore through his side, searing flesh. His vision whited out for a second, then narrowed to a pinpoint.
He didn’t fall.
He moved.
His fingers found his own revolver on instinct, smooth and cold in his grip. He ducked low, brought it up, and fired. Once to the thigh, center mass. The guard crumpled, dropping his gun in the process, but he didn’t stay down. He crawled toward the gun.
Smoke stepped forward, blood soaking through his shirt. He aimed again no hesitation. Bullet to the neck. The man jerked once and went still, blood pooling beneath him, dark and spreading.
The second guard reached for his holster. Stack took care of that one, three shots, fast and messy.
“Shit,” Stack breathed, checking the corners. “You good?”
Smoke didn’t answer. His fingers tightened on the revolver, still raised. Blood dripped from his side, warm against his hip. His knees buckled, but he stayed upright through grit alone.
He holstered the gun with one hand, grabbed the nearest bag of money with the other. Stack grabbed a bag too.
Then everything spun.
He hit the floor hard. Wood splinters bit into his shoulder. Stack’s hands were on him fast.
“Come on, mane. Don’t do this now.”
Smoke tried to speak, but the pain closed in tight. All he could see was the ceiling of the car slipping past, plank by plank, as Stack pulled him toward the door.
“We jumpin’,” Stack growled. “Don’t care if I gotta throw you off.”
Smoke gritted his teeth. “Leave ‘em. The bags. Drop ‘em.”
Stack didn’t. He never did.
The last thing Smoke remembered before the world cracked open beneath him was the wind howling through the car and the weight of blood soaking into his coat.
__________________________________________
He opened his eyes again, breath shallow.
The wound still burned. The pain hadn’t faded, not really. He was lucky the gun only grazed him. But it wasn’t the gunshot that haunted him, it was how steady his hand had been. How easily that second shot left his pistol, split the man’s throat, and sent him down without a second thought.
He didn’t even blink.
And that was what made him sick.
Not the blood. Not the killing.
The calm.
He flexed his fingers around the edge of the cot, eyes on the ceiling, and whispered to no one, “Ain’t supposed to be this easy.”
But it was.
And that’s what scared him most.
Some men had to work themselves up to take a life.
He didn’t.
Never had, not since……Daddy.
Sometimes he wondered if the devil didn’t crawl in him young and laid up quiet in his chest, waiting for moments just like this. Moments where death came too quick, too clean.
Too natural.
Maybe that calm wasn’t his at all.
Maybe it was borrowed from something darker.
Something that liked the killing.
___________________________________________
Annie had kept her word. She came back, just like she said she would. Each morning, just after sunrise, she walked that worn path through the woods, basket in hand, heart beating louder the closer she got to the shack. She cleaned his wounds, changed the bandages, stirred broth and laid cool cloths against his brow. Never rushed, never faltered. She spoke soft when she spoke at all, sometimes humming under her breath while she worked, her voice acting as another kind of balm.
And when he got strong enough to sit up on his own… strong enough to rinse his face and eat without wincing… she stopped coming.
But before that, on the last morning she came, Annie lingered by the door longer than usual. She had just set down a bowl of fresh washwater, her hands still damp from wringing the cloth, when her voice broke the quiet.
“Smoke….” she said softly, not looking at him at first. “Will you tell me what happen’?”
Smoke didn’t answer, didn’t even look up. He dipped the cloth into the water and wrung it out slow, methodical. His jaw flexed once. Then again.
Annie’s fingers twisted in the edge of her skirt. She hadn’t wanted to ask, but the silence had been pressing heavier with each visit. Folks in town had started whispering—rumors carried on porches and passed in low tones while she made her rounds, visiting families in need, dropping off root tonics and bitter teas, blessing doorways with chalk and ash. A train robbed. Blood spilled. The names weren’t said out loud, but the glances lingered when she walked by, and her stomach had sunk every time she heard the word bandits floating through the air.
She swallowed. “I ain’t askin’ to pry. Just been… hearin’ things.”
Still, he said nothing.
She finally looked at him then—really looked. His face was leaner now, the gauntness had started to lift from his face, but his eyes had that same far-off look. Guarded.
“Elijah,” she said softly, but with a weight behind it that made him look up.
Smoke met her gaze. He held it. Long enough for her to see the weight he carried behind his silence. Then he shook his head once, slow. Not in denial, but saying everything she already knew to be true with his eyes.
Annie’s throat tightened. She nodded, more to herself than to him, and gathered her things without another word.
That was the last time she came.
__________________________________________
But four days later….he came to her.
Didn’t say nothin’ at first. Just appeared at the edge of the yard, leaning against the split rail fence, shirt wrinkled, coat slung loose over one shoulder. The bruises were still there, painted dark beneath his skin, but the way he stood silent, watching…was steadier than before.
Annie didn’t call out. Didn’t wave him over.
She just left the gate open.
That became the rhythm.
He never knocked. Never asked to stay. But some mornings, he was already on the porch before she finished setting the basin out. Some nights, she’d find him by the well, filling the bucket without being told. He didn’t talk much, never did, but his presence filled the space between chores, between meals, between breath and silence.
They moved around each other with a kind of quiet understanding.
One afternoon, she found him sitting on the porch bench, sharpening her kitchen knife against a flat stone, the strokes slow and even. His coat was folded beside him, a sprig of sweetgrass tucked into the brim of his hat. He didn’t look up when she stepped outside. Just handed the knife back, edge gleaming.
Another day, she handed him a bowl of purple hull peas and two enamel pans. He sat cross-legged under the cedar tree while she worked on her stitching nearby. He shelled every last one, hands steady despite the healing wound beneath his ribs.
Not once did he flinch.
When it rained, they stood just inside the doorway, watching the drops hammer the porch roof. Annie’s hair was pinned back in two neat plats, the ends curling from the humidity. Smoke didn’t speak, but his eyes traced the raindrops sliding down the column of her throat, lingering at her collarbone.
Annie saw it and didn’t look away.
At dusk, they took slow walks to the edge of the cotton fields. She pointed out the owl that nested near the well. He listened. Once, she reached for his arm when the path dipped steep, and he let her. His skin was warm, dry beneath her palm.
She told him about her mother in bits.
How the fever took her before the doctor could arrive. How Mama Odette had stepped in, raised her up quiet and firm, taught her healing by smell and texture instead of books. How they’d left Louisiana because the wrong man got angry. He came asking for something darker—power, protection, maybe revenge. Mama Odette turned him away. Said their gifts weren’t meant for spite. That’s when his voice turned acidic, and his eyes followed Annie too long.
Annie dreamed of fire that night. Of men with torches. By morning, they were gone.
Smoke didn’t ask questions. Just nodded once, slow.
She never told anyone those things, not even Mary.
But she told him.
Not because he asked, but because he stayed.
In those days, they didn’t speak much. But the silence had shape, soft at the edges, warm in the middle.
He never asked what she saw in him. She never asked where he went at night.
But they kept finding their way back to the same place.
________________________________________
The night was still.
Cicadas had quieted, leaving behind only the low hum of crickets and the slow creak of trees settling into darkness. Moonlight slipped between the clouds, casting the yard in silver. Annie’s lamp had gone out more than an hour ago.
Still, Smoke stood beneath her window.
He hadn’t meant to come. But his feet didn’t ask permission.
The porch steps held his weight without complaint. He leaned against the post, one hand curled around the beam, the other in his coat pocket. His hat was off, tucked under his arm. The healing wound in his side tugged every time he breathed too deep, but he didn’t care. Not tonight.
He just needed… stillness. Something that didn’t feel earned through violence.
The window creaked open.
Annie’s face appeared; half-shadowed, half-soft. Her eyes flicked over him, calm but alert, braid draped over her shoulder.
“You lost?” she asked, voice barely louder than a breeze.
Smoke didn’t answer at first. Then, “Didn’t feel right bein’ nowhere else.”
A quiet pause.
“You want me to open the door?”
He shook his head. “Window’s fine.”
She hesitated, then stepped back.
Smoke climbed through, careful of the frame, boots landing soft on the wooden floor. The room smelled of rosewater and clove. A folded quilt rested at the foot of the bed. A single candle sat half-melted on the nightstand but hadn’t been lit.
She sat cross-legged on a small woven rug beside the bed, gesturing for him to join her. He did, slow and stiff, his shoulders grazing the wall as he settled. For a long moment, neither spoke.
The silence wasn’t awkward. She reached for his hand. Not urgently. Not to fix anything.
Just because.
He let her.
Her fingers traced the inside of his palm barely there, but steady. His hand was warm, rough, callused in places. Hers was soft but strong, the kind of strength that didn’t show itself unless you were paying attention.
“You always come when the world’s too loud?” she asked, almost smiling.
Smoke swallowed. “You the only quiet I know.”
They sat like that until the crickets faded into frogs. Until the candle guttered in its holder. Until the ache in his ribs faded into something easier to bear.
And then when the air between them thickened with everything they hadn’t said he turned toward her.
She met him halfway.
Their mouths met slow. No hunger. No rush. Just a pull, gentle and certain. Her hand rose to his jaw, fingertips brushing the spot just beneath his cheekbone. His lips were cracked, warm, careful. He kissed her the way a man kisses when he’s afraid he might not get another chance.
She kissed him back with quiet resolve. No fear. No hesitation. Her chest pressed against his lightly, and he steadied her waist with one hand, more to anchor himself than to lead. She’d never kissed a boy before, but somehow, with him, it felt like breathing. Natural. Certain.
He kissed her with his whole body, even the broken parts. She kissed him with the steadiness of someone who chose this moment long ago.
Smoke kept his forehead near hers, eyes still half-lidded, the space between them warm and humming. One of his hands lifted, slow and careful, and he brushed his knuckles along her cheek, soft and caressing.
“You okay?” he asked, voice low and rough with something tender underneath.
Annie blinked, her lashes brushing his skin. Then she gave the smallest nod, her cheeks warming. A shy smile tugged at the corner of her mouth; half-embarrassed, half-sure as she looked down, her fingers playing with the hem of her nightgown.
They didn’t speak afterward. Just stayed seated, knees touching, heads bowed, breathing the same air.
When he left near dawn, he didn’t go far.
He just sat on the porch until the sky began to pale.
__________________________________________
The house was still.
Annie stood barefoot on the porch the next morning, shawl wrapped around her shoulders. The wood beneath her feet held the last of the night’s chill. Somewhere behind her, Mama Odette stirred in her sleep, but the rest of the world hadn’t woken yet.
She’d come out for air, heart still fluttering from the kiss—and then, there he was.
Smoke sat on the bottom step, arms resting on his knees, hat pulled low.
Annie stepped down, quiet.
He didn’t look at her, but he didn’t need to. She could feel it, his awareness of her, always tuned in, always just beneath the surface. She sat beside him, knees close but not quite touching.
A rooster crowed in the distance and mist clung to the grass.
Annie glanced at him. “You sleep at all?”
He shook his head, eyes still forward.
She didn’t press.
The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, but the light was starting to catch at the edges of things, touching the tips of the trees, warming the roof shingles, slipping over the field in a slow golden crawl.
Smoke finally spoke, voice rough.
“I ain’t never had peace.”
Annie waited.
He rubbed a hand over his face, slow. “Even when I was little. Even when things was quiet, it was never peaceful. Felt like somethin’ always waitin’. Round the corner. In the house. In me.”
She looked at him then. Steady. “You ever think maybe peace don’t come loud? Maybe it just sits down and waits for you to notice it?”
Smoke didn’t answer. But his hand found hers again, this time without hesitation.
Fingers interlaced, knuckles brushing.
They sat that way until the light broke full across the yard, warm and wide and full of promise.
I know I’m missing more, but PLEASE forgive me. I had to make a list so I could remember names. If you are not on this list, please let me know and I will add you. 💜💜💜💜
Black Butterfly @kitesatforestp - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
