I know Annie wasn’t stack’s favorite person, but I feel if anyone else messed with her he’d be on their ass
Tuckin’ Tail
Club Juke. Best damn spot in all the Delta.
Boards underfoot worn smooth from boots and heels, the air was full of sweat, smoke, and the sweet burn of corn liquor. A guitar cried somewhere on stage, the strings bending low, droning while Delta Slim’s voice dragged behind it, heavy as Delta mud after a storm. Laughter rolled through the saw mill, loud and easy, slipping between the clink of glasses and the drag of feet.
Behind the bar, Annie Moore moved like she owned every inch of it.
And technically, she did.
Dark skin dewy from sweat, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, apron tied tight across her generous waist. She poured with a steady hand, slid plates down the counter, and kept one eye on the kitchen door and the other on the busy room. Catfish crackled in the back, grease popping, collard greens steaming in big iron pots and her special gumbo sitting hot in pre made bowls for people to grab easy. Club Juke smelled like salt, spice, musk, and something strong enough to make a man forget his name for a while.
“Two more beers,” somebody called.
“I heard you the first damn time,” Annie shot back, already reaching for the bottles, “You gon’ get ‘em when I get to you.”
The man at the bar ain’t like that.
He was big enough through the shoulders, skin a deep brown dulled by travel dust, hat tipped low. He slammed his glass down harder than needed, liquor sloshing over the rim.
“Damn prices too high for this weak pour,” he groaned, loud enough for folks to hear, “And this the best damn juke!? Better than Messangers? ‘Cause of some twins that ain’t been ‘round for years?”
Annie didn’t even look up at first.
“Then don’t drink it.”
That got a few chuckles. From the ladies helping to cook to the two men helping to serve drinks.
The man leaned forward, close enough to crowd her space, “I said, you chargin’ too damn much.”
Now she looked at him. Slow. Unblinking. Her eyes cut up at him sharp as the straight razor between her bosom.
“And I SAID you ain’t got to spend it.”
A few heads turned. The blues didn’t stop on account of the growing altercation but it shifted enough to where folks were listening now.
The man smacked his black gums, reached out, fingers brushing the edge of her apron, like he meant to grab hold. Like he meant to control her. As if he knew the type of woman he was dealing with. See, Annie ain’t one to control. Damn sure ain’t one to grab onto like her husband wasn’t in the back room yoking some nigga up over a dice game. Because Smoke don’t wait. He don’t ask questions.
That was the wrong move.
Before Annie could even pull back, reach between her breasts for her razor, a hand came out of nowhere. A heavy hand with a gold and onyx signet ring and thick fingers caught the man by the wrist.
Tight. Almost cutting the man’s circulation.
Stack.
He had been leaning off to the side, half in shadow, Italian wine in his hand, watching the room the way he always did. With a smirk and shimmering eyes. Tall, broad through the chest, skin rich and smooth under the lantern lights, vest hanging open and the top few buttons of his shirt undone like he wasn’t trying too hard to be his usual put together and dapper self. His face held that easy look like he was just another man enjoying the festivities. Toothpick rolling between his teeth.
It dropped quick.
“Let her go,” Stack warned.
It was quiet for a beat.
The man tried to pull his hand free. Couldn’t.
“I’m just talkin’, twin,” he said, voice already losing some of that bite.
Stack set his Italian wine down with a barely audible clank. His jaw ticked and the faintest wolfish grin appeared. One he’d given many men from the Jim Crow South to the Windy City with skyscrapers instead of plantations—nothing different—men he’d gutted like fish and littered with bullets.
Then, the blade appeared. A switchblade with his name engraved. Small. Clean. Flash of metal glinting before it pressed up under the man’s jaw, right at the soft of his throat.
It felt as if the entire room froze. Blues kept playing, but it was softer now, careful not to turn up like it knew better than to get in the way.
Stack leaned in closer, his chest almost to the man’s, voice low enough that the man had to listen hard if he knew what was good for him.
“You don’t talk wit’ your hands on her.”
The blade pressed just a little. Only a little.
A thin line opened on the man’s skin. Not deep, just enough to sting. To draw blood. Just enough to let him feel it.
The man was frozen.
Stack’s eyes stayed on him, calm and cold, “You got a problem with the price, you walk ya’ ass out that door. You don’t reach for her. You don’t raise your voice at her. You don’t do nothin’ but pay or leave. You understand me, nigga?”
The man swallowed careful, throat tight against the edge of steel.
“Yeah…yeah, I hear you, twin.”
“Good.” Stack leaned in a fraction more, “run your mouth again in here, I won’t stop at a nick.”
Stack pulled the blade back like he was giving the man a clean shave. A swipe that dragged skin and some of his stubble with it.
The man stumbles away quick, hand flying to his throat. Pride already bleeding worse than the skin. He grabbed his hat off the floor, didn’t look at nobody, and pushed through the crowd, out into the night. Cornbread chuckled at the door. Eyes following the man’s retreating body up the dirt road.
And just like that, the room breathed again. Music picked back up. Preacher Boy Sammie kept strumming that guitar and Delta Slim sang a blues song about a woman in red at the crossroads while making that harmonica whistle. Laughter followed, a little louder now like folks shook off what they just saw.
Stack wiped the blade on a cloth, slow and easy, then tucked it away like it was nothing.
Annie was watching him. That same side eye she always gave him like she was weighing whether to be annoyed or impressed.
“Coulda handled that, Elias.” Annie said. Reaching for another glass.
Stack leaned his hip against the bar, picking his drink back up, “I know you could.”
She poured corn liquor into the class with a steady hand. Stack’s tongue dragged over the golds on his top teeth with a slight suction before he took a sip of wine.
“Then why you step in?”
Stack took another sip, eyes on her over the rim, “‘Cause he ain’t know that.”
Annie huffed, but there was something lighter in it now. She nudged him with her elbow as she passed, just enough to bump him off balance a little.
“Always doin’ the most.”
“Always fixin’ what need fixin’.” Stack shot back.
He lets that line sit a second, watching her move—how she pours, how she keeps the whole place in her hands without looking like she trying. Then, he leans in just a touch, voice low enough to stay between them.
“Truth be told…you like it a little,” he says, mouth curving, “me steppin’ in, cleanin’ up after you.”
Annie cuts her eyes at him, sharp, already reaching for another bottle.
Stack doesn’t back off.
“Don’t worry,” Stack adds, easy as breath, “I ain’t gon’ let it go to my head…long as you keep runnin’ things in my Juke like you do, sis.”
That grin stays there—slick, knowing—like he expects her to snap back at him.
Annie reached down, quick and smooth, and pulled that straight razor from where she kept it tucked between her breasts, the blade catching a thin line of light as it snapped open.
“Stack,” Annie said, calm as anything, “let me do my work ‘fore I cut yo’ black ass.”
A couple folks at the bar leaned back just a little.
Stack put his hands up in surrender but he didn’t flinch. If anything, his grin spread wider, eyes dropping from half a second to where she pulled it from before lifting back to her face.
“See,” he spoke, amused, “that right there is why I stepped in.”
She sucked her teeth, nudging him with her elbow as she turned back to the bottles.
“And that right there is why I don’t need you to.”
Stack let out a low laugh, lifting his glass again, settling in like he planned to stay right where he was, just close enough to watch her work, just far enough not to get cut.
She paused, just for a second.
Then, softer, under her breath, “Thank you.”
Stack didn’t make a big thing of it. Didn’t look at her long. He simply shrugged, one shoulder, voice smooth.
“You my sister. We can’t be in the same room without us arguin’ but I love ya’…and what’s Smoke’s is mine to protect so.”
Annie glanced at him again, something warm flickering behind her eyes before she turned back to her work.
“Boy, go on somewhere,” she said, but there was no edge to it this time.
Stack smiles to himself, lifting his glass as the music rolls on.
The door at the far end slammed open hard enough to rattle the frame.
Smoke came through it fast. Sleeves rolled past his elbows, shoulders squared, cigarette hanging from his mouth, the tip burning bright in the dim. The smell of gunpowder, the iron tang of blood, and sweat clung to him, sharp as hell over the liquor and grease already thick in the air. He cut through the room without asking nobody to move.
Folks moved anyway.
His eyes found Annie first.
“Annie,” Smoke called, voice raspy and low but carrying, “You straight?”
Annie didn’t stop moving. She poured drinks, slid plates across the bar, stirred pots of collards while moving her hips to the music.
“I’m good,” she said.
Smoke stepped up closer, gaze dragging over her quick, checking, making sure, “I need to put a bullet in a nigga or what?”
A couple men at the bar went real still at that. They remember Smoke shooting Terry and his buddy outside of Bo and Grace Chow’s colored grocery in town.
Annie shook her head, wiping her hands on her apron, “No. Stack handled it.”
Smoke’s eyes shifted.
They landed on Stack, standing easy against the bar like he ain’t just cleared the room ten minutes ago. That same calm sitting on him, drink in hand, shoulders loose.
Smoke squinted at him, cigarette smoke curling up past his face.
“Handled how?”
Stack’s mouth pulled into a grin, lazy and pleased with himself. He tipped his glass back, swallowed, then glanced over at Annie before answering.
“Pulled my blade out my boot,” he said, voice smooth, “sent him on his way with his tail tucked between his legs like a Mississippi donkey.”
Smoke looked between them.
Once.
Then again.
His eyes narrowed a little more, something unreadable moving behind them.
“Ya’ll being civil?”
Annie let out a short breath through her nose, turning back to the bar.
“Don’t start.”
Stack gave a low chuckle, shaking his head.
“Man came in here actin’ like he forgot where he was. I reminded him.”
Smoke took the cigarette from his mouth, ash dropping to the floor as he watched them both another second. Then, he stepped in, closer to Annie, voice dropping just for her. A voice he knew to put on for her.
“You sure you good, baby?”
Annie met his eyes, this time steady.
“I said I’m good.”
A beat passed. Her eyes trailed over his frame before dragging back up to his eyes. Smoke’s gaze remained locked on her face.
Smoke nodded once.
He flicked the rest of his cigarette down, grinding it under his boot, then glanced back at Stack.
Smoke didn’t turn away right off. He shifted like he was about to head back into the room, then stopped shot beside Stack instead, stepping in close. Close enough that their shoulders brushed. Close enough that whatever he said didn’t belong to the rest of the room.
His voice dropped.
“Bo came to me ‘bout that man.”
Stack tilted his head just a little, listening.
Smoke kept going, eyes forward, scanning the crowd like he was talking about nothing at all.
“Got his name. Know where he work. Field hand out past the east road. Sunup to sundown type.”
A chilling pause.
“He banned,” Smoke said, “From Club Juke, from anywhere got our hands on it.”
Stack’s jaw shifted, a quiet nod.
“If I catch him in passin’,” Smoke added, voice going colder, “I’m gin’ blow his top off.”
No raise. No heat. Just fact.
Stack let out a soft breath though his nose, something like approval sitting in it.
“I’ll make sure he don’t step through that door again.”
Then, he moved to go.
Stack’s voice followed him, light, teasing, cutting through the edge just enough to bend it.
“You sure Annie won’t kill him first?”
Annie giggled. She glanced over at her husband with them eyes that got her whatever she wanted. And it worked every time. Stack took a swig of his wine, dimples deep.
“Try not to cut up all my customers.” Smoke said.
Stack smirked.
“Tell ‘em to act right and don’t be cuttin’ up in our Juke.”
Smoke’s mouth twitched, just barely, before he turned back toward the back room, already listening for the next problem waiting to rise.
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