Ok I just read Everything Except The Signatures! Girlie you know you can write. I need the full fic now. How do you kno what to say in your writing? I want to write but I kno I canāt do it.
Omgoodness, thank you! š„¹š
Donāt say you canāt! You definitely can. I tried writing for Pretty Little Liars š«£ back in the day, and that shit was so cringe. š„“ I told myself I would NEVER write again unless I was being graded for it. š
But then Annie x Smoke graced my movie screen, and after reading all the amazing fics people were writing for them, I found myself wanting to try again. Thatās when I fell back in love with writing.
So I say all that to say: Never Say Never. If you find something you truly love, you might surprise yourself with what youāre willing and able to do. š
Annie, an 18-year-old from New Orleans, moves to Clarksdale with dreams of building a life all her own. There she meets Smoke, a 21-year-old war veteran with a dangerous reputation. What grows between them is sweet, sticky, and Southernā a smoldering love set against a world of bootlegging, Hoodoo, and blues.
Chapter 7
Contains: Explicit language, slow-burn/build romance, mentions of Hoodoo
Word Count: 9.9k
š This chapter really turned me every way but loose because it went a completely different direction than I originally planned, but it's necessary in kickstarting things between the two of them. Please let me know what you think in the comments! & Sidenote: The Harvest Party is coming up soon!
Masterlist
The hands of the grandfather clock ticked quietly in the front room of the boarding house, but to Annie it sounded like gunshots.Ā
It was late.Ā
The house had fallen into its nighttime rhythmā mostly quiet except for the random sounds of boarders stirring in their rooms. A cough from behind a closed door. The creak of a bed frame. The slow pouring of water into a basin. The smells of supper still lingered like they always did this time of night, settling into the walls like a layer of time. The fragrant aroma of clove hung over top of everything, bursting through the air every time Aunt Della parted her lips. She chewed on it slowly. Methodically. Watching Annie as her fingertips smoothed gently over the leather of the sketchbook cover.Ā
Annie sat on the couch across from her. Her eyes looked full of possibility as she flipped through the paper, the corners of the pages sitting crisp beneath her thumb.
Something was on Aunt Dellaās mind.Ā
Annie could feel the warm flush of her skin cooling under the quiet intensity of her gaze.
Her voice broke through the silence. āHe been cominā āround a lot lately.āĀ
There it was.Ā
Annie looked up.
Aunt Della stirred her drink in her hand, ice cubes clinking against the sides of the mug. āHow you feel ābout that?ā she asked. Then she took a sip.
Annieās head lowered. Her first instinct was to not respond. Her second was to deflect. Her third was to ask why.Ā
āBaby,ā Aunt Della probed. āI been alive too long. I know what it means for a man to stand around tryinā to make himself useful.ā She crossed one leg over the other, her ankle bouncing with anticipation like she knew this was going to take a while.
Annieās mouth curved despite herself. She turned a page in her sketchbook, smoothing the spine down harder than necessary with her palm.Ā
āYou like him?āĀ
Annie still couldnāt look up. It was like her words got stuck in her throat. The more Aunt Della talked, the more Annie felt caught off guard.
āAnnie Royal, I aināt talkinā to myself,ā she said sternly.
Annieās head snapped up. She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. āI donāt know,ā she said finally, in a hushed tone.
Aunt Della rolled her eyes. She let the words sit between them long enough for Annie to hear how untrue they sounded.Ā
āYes you do,ā she answered back.Ā
Annie looked down again, her throat tightening with something she didnāt have the name for. Aunt Della watched her for a moment, admiring how softly the lamp light curved around the edge of her face. It was smooth. Innocent. There was a vulnerability in her that she wanted to protect. But as much as she wanted to shield her, she knew she needed to be ready for the day the world came knocking.Ā
But she was so young. Barely 18.Ā
She remembered herself at that age. She remembered how quickly she got swept up in her husbandās kind words and gentle eyes like it was yesterday.
It happened so quickly. Marriage. Mississippi. A son.Ā
She thought about the day her husband came back from town hall with the deed to their house. He painted the outside a rich buttery yellow and whitewashed the shutters with a puffed up chest. Dug out the underground storage with his bare hands, a shovel, and a strength that could only be explained by a feeling heād never experienced before in his lifetime. Pride. Ownership.
The boarding house became a sanctuary without a steeple. They took in anybody who needed a hot meal and a place to lay their heads. Musicians, preachers, teachers, people trying to get up North. And two little boys trying to escape their fatherās fists.
Elijah and Elias.
She met them young. Back when their father, Adam Moore, went door-to-door in town, strumming his guitar and sipping hooch straight from the bottle while his young sons walked around hungry.Ā
She knew them before they went by Smoke and Stack. Then she watched them earn those nicknames in blood, gunpowder, and grit. And now Smoke was coming around her sisterās granddaughter. Her only great-niece.Ā
She watched Annie nervously brush her thumb against the edge of the sketchbook and sighed. āI aināt tryna fuss at you,ā she clarified. āI just wanna know where your headās at, and how you feel when heās around.āĀ
A moment passed. Then two.Ā
Aware.Ā
Thatās how Annie felt when he was around.
Aware of herself. Aware of him. Aware of the space between one breath and the next. Like something inside her had started listening before she knew that there was sound.Ā
Loose.
Not in the way men and women meant when they whispered about such things.Ā
But in a way that words just came out of her mouth before she could stop them. She couldnāt carry on with him like she could with Aunt Della right nowātaking the hard parts and making them sound just right so she didnāt reveal too much too soon. He got the truth before she could dress it up. And she hadnāt taken the time to figure out why quite yet. And that scared her. But it made her feel something else, too.
Seen.
She was holding back. Aunt Della could see that with her eyes closed. She could see the wheels turning in Annieās head like she never got a chance to sit with her feelings long enough to name them. But she already had her answer. It was in the way she held the sketchbook to her chest before remembering she wasnāt alone.
She tried a different angle.Ā āHe good to you?āĀ
āYes, maāam.ā Annie could reply quickly when she could answer without thinking too hard.Ā
āRespectful?ā
āYes, maāam.ā
āHe pressure you?ā
āNo, maāam.ā
āI feel likeāā Annie paused, embarrassed by the honesty that sat right on the tip of her tongue. She was fighting to keep it to herself. Not because she didnāt want to be honest, but she felt like words couldnāt do her thoughts justice. And she felt foolish that she felt any kind of way to begin with. āHe makes me feelā¦.ā
Aunt Della let out a sigh. āYou aināt gotta explain it yet. Sometimes when the feelingās good, you canāt explain it right away. You gonā find the right words when you ready.ā
Annie nodded once. āYes, maāam.āĀ
āYou intact?āĀ
āYes maāam.ā Heat climbed up her neck as she held the sketchbook to her chest.
āDonāt let him take it, if thatās not what you want.ā
āYes maāam.āĀ
A quiet beat passed. āIf it isāā Her breath hitched when she cut herself off.Ā
It felt like the room held its breath. Annie, too.Ā
āNevermind.ā Aunt Della shook her head like she regretted saying anything.
Annie frowned, her lips poking out. āWhat is it?ā She asked. Her voice was cautious, but not in the way it had been earlier. It was more braced than anxious.Ā
Aunt Della looked at Annie with a fierce protectiveness. āWhat you think about him?ā she asked quietly.
Annie twisted her lips, searching for something that wouldnāt feel foolish the second it came out of her mouth. āAt first I just thought he was quiet,ā she said finally. āNot empty quiet, but the type of quiet thatās always holdinā somethinā back.ā
Aunt Dellaās eyes stayed on her.
āBut when heās with me, when he look at meā¦ā Annieās voice softened despite herself. āIt feels likeā¦the rest of the world disappears. And itās just us. Just me and him. And he can let go.ā
Aunt Della didnāt answer immediately, and her face didnāt change. The silence felt worse than being questioned. āAnd how you think he feels about you?āĀ
āUmmmā¦.ā Her eyes flitted around the room nervously.
āThe truth do just fine.ā
Aunt Della set her mug down on the coffee table with a soft thump. Then she sat back and crossed her legs again, twirling that ankle in the air in slow, deliberate circles.Ā
āTruth isā¦ā Annie started. āI think heās taken a shine to me. He got me this.ā She rubbed the cover of the sketchbook, her cheeks warm flushed with warmth and a hint of embarrassment trying to explain herself. āHe comes around, he sits with me, he listensāreally listensāto what I say. And he donāt forget,ā she said, remembering the note he left her, and the conversation that sparked the words he left.
āWhatās all this?ā Smoke asked, gesturing to the drawings sprawled across her quilt under the magnolia tree.
āDrawings,ā she replied sarcastically.
Smoke sucked his teeth. āI know that,ā he tutted. āWhat they for?āĀ
āHelps my memory. Drawinā things. Writinā them down.ā
āSo you remember what they look like?ā
āKinda. So I remember what they for.ā
Annie glanced over, bracing for laughter, amusement, or even teasing. She got none of it. When she found Aunt Dellaās eyes she wasnāt smiling. She didnāt laugh. She almost looked sad, but not in a way Annie fully understood.Ā
She simply crossed her arms across her chest and arched a brow in challenge. āSo you think that meansā¦what?āĀ
The bluntness felt like a physical thing. It cut sharply through the room like a knife slicing through a thick fog.
Annie blinked. āMaāam?āĀ
āYou think every man who buys you a little somethinā or listens to you talk, means to do right by you?āĀ
Annie blinked twice this time.
All of a sudden, she felt every bit of eighteen.Ā
Not a child anymore, but not grown in the ways the world seemed to demand all at once.Ā
Smoke wasnāt the first to come around. She had a few who called on her back in New Orleans. Always respectfully, always in the proper way.Ā
She had a freedom up here that she didnāt have living under the roof of her very protective family, and that freedom allowed her to get to know Smoke in a way that would have been damn near impossible back home.Ā
But he was always respectful. Never pushed. Always made sure she felt comfortable. That meant something to her. Time. Energy. Intention.
She kept getting four when she added two and two together.
But maybe Aunt Della was trying to tell her she wasnāt too good at math.
āIāve known the twins since they were real young. Seen āem grow into bright young men. Good-lookinā young men that every woman in this town want a piece of.ā She paused. āAnd men like Smokeā¦they can make a girl feel like the whole world done gone quiet around her. But that donāt mean the world aināt there no more.āĀ
Annieās ears had already perked up at the mention of his name. But now she listened even more intently.Ā
Aunt Dellaās gaze sharpened. āDonāt assume nothinā based on a manās silence. Youāll get yourself in trouble fillinā in blanks that aināt yours.ā
The flame of the oil lamp shifted behind its glass, throwing a soft tremble across the wall. āYou got dreams. Hopes. You want your own shop right?ā
Annieās chin lifted with a defiant certainty. āYes maāam.ā
āGood. Donāt you put that on hold for him, or any man. If he really likes you, he wonāt keep you from it.ā Her voice got lower, like she wanted to say something hard but make it sound sweet. āSmoke aināt a man who say much unless he mean it. But if a man really wants you, heās gonna spell it out plainly.ā
The words moved through Annie slowly, crawling up her spine and down her chest where her heart thumped a little faster. She traced her thumb along the back cover, feeling the grain of the leather beneath her fingertip.Ā
The ceiling creaked softly above them. Another lodger, maybe. Or just the house settling into itself. Crickets chirped low in the grass while the night wrapped around them, fully aware of what truth hid behind her silence. It chose not to soften it.Ā
āI understand,ā she finally said, quietly.
āNow goneā to bed. I know you tired.āĀ
Aunt Della stood. Annie did, too. Aunt Della turned towards the kitchen, then thought better of it and turned to grab Annieās forearm before she got too far. She grabbed her face gently, staring at Annie with warm brown eyes. āI aināt sayinā all this to scare you. Iām sayinā it ācause I love you.āĀ
The tightness in her chest eased a bit. āWhat were you gonna say, when you stopped yourself?ā
Aunt Dellaās eyes softened. āItās not for me to say,ā she said softly. āBut youāll find out soon enough.ā
She pulled her into a hug then released her. Annie moved slowly towards the staircase, purse slung tightly over her shoulder, sketchbook secured underneath the crook of her arm.Ā
āGoodnight Aunt Della,ā she called out.
āGoodnight, Annie.āĀ
Annie started up the stairs. Halfway up she paused, her fingers tightening their grip on the banister. She looked back toward Aunt Della who was halfway to the kitchen.Ā
āThank you,ā she said, just loud enough so she could hear it.
The night was dark and tonight that darkness felt loaded. The sky was bare. No stars, just an endless stretch of shadow that pressed against the windows, barely softened by the faint glow of the waning moon.Ā
Annie laid in her bed just staring. First she counted the cracks in the ceiling. Then she traced the lines on the walls with her eyes.
The words of Aunt Della replayed in her head. That and the feeling that something laid quietly underneath their conversation. Something Aunt Della knew and refused to say.Ā
Two questions came to mind.Ā
What was Aunt Della holding back from telling her?Ā
What made her change her mind?
It took a while for Annieās eyes to get heavy while her thoughts refused to shut off. Something settled in her bones at that moment.Ā
Somewhere beyond the boarding house, SmokeāElijahāhad come and gone and left something behind. Something more than just a pretty sketchbook and a thoughtful note.Ā
Morning light came soft through the windows, a pale gold that stretched across the floorboards, taking on the pattern of the lace curtains. Annie stood at her dresser with her nightgown hanging off one shoulder, a satin scarf sliding slowly down her braids.Ā
She counted under her breath, the silver coins plunking against the thin metal of the container where she kept her money. It was a tea tin, a small one that smelled like mint no matter how many times she tried to air it out. The last coin clinked against the others in the tin. She closed the top of it, taking a moment to write the total on the back cover of her sketchbook. She kept a running tally there, one that she copied over from a piece of scrap paper she used to keep track of her earnings before last night.Ā
Annie set Smokeās note on her dresser. She traced her fingers over the words, brushing her hand over his name on the paper. The ink pooled thickest where he dotted his āi,ā and when she touched it, it stained the part where flesh met fingernail. Aunt Dellaās words from last night crossed her mind as she watched the ink bloom and spread across her fingertip before slowly sinking into the skin.Ā
Crossing the room, she knelt near the loose floorboard in the corner that lifted without a creak. She tucked the tin into the hollow space and started to fit the wood back into place. Then she hesitated. Not because she doubted herself, but because she wanted to imagine what it would be like for a spell. Her own shop. A modest house with blue paint. Sheād sell and barter healing herbs and medicines that ward off sickness and bad spirits, the shelves lined top to bottom with jars, vials and bottles of them. A long table, polished smooth by her own hands, would stretch proudly across the front room where sheād serve meals to sharecroppers and passing workers. Dried roots tied in bundles would hang from the rafters in a shed off to the side. People would come to fill their bellies and stay for something more.
That was hers.Ā
Annie left New Orleans before dawn, dust kicking up from the soles of her shoes and darkening the hem of her dress. She kept her money folded small, eyes cast down the way she was told to when she was traveling alone. A few things she held close to her chestā her great-grandmotherās bible, some knick-knacks, and a few letters. A burlap sack hung from her shoulder, holding some other possessions she held dear. An old trunk held the rest.
The Mississippi River laid before her, wide and brown. She boarded a boat with other people heading upriver, women with their satchels, men with their hats pulled low to keep the mosquitos away. Annie hung onto the railings, watching the trees dip their roots in the water, their branches swinging heavily in the wind like theyād seen too much. The depot was next. When she boarded the train, she closed her eyes and said a prayer underneath her breathā one for the journey, one for the destination.Ā
She spent the night in a Colored waiting room with families piled on top of each other and solo travelers with tired eyes wearing all their possessions.
The next day was another train. Cotton fields stretched wide beyond the thick glass of the windows, the grim landscape broken only by oak trees and tiny shacks lined up in a row. They passed by another stretch of land mostly hidden behind the treeline, but she could feel itā water, soil, roots, foundation.Ā
An elderly man, skin the color of pralines, sat on his porch watching the train go by. Striped overalls with the clasps unbuckled, white shirt with the sleeves rolled, straw hat, heavy work bootsā but what caught her attention was his eyes. One was completely covered in cataracts. The other one looked sharp enough to hold the sight of four people. The man sucked on a stick of sugarcane while a hound dog sat by his side, tongue out, panting hard under the burn of the Mississippi sun.
Then he was gone.Ā
All that remained were the muted shades of nature as the train trekked through the countryside.Ā No house. No dog. No sugarcane. But Annie could remember every detail, even the dusty blue denim of the manās overalls. And the expectant look in his eye.
She woke up with a jolt, spine snapping straight where she was slumped over in her seat.
The train cabin was quiet. Most people were asleep, some lingering in the corners, some just starting to wake up. Nighttime was on the horizon. Shades of orange and pink swallowing what was leftover from the day.Ā
āHow long I been out?ā she asked the woman next to her.
The woman thought for a moment. āSince we got on, I reckon.āĀ
āI been sleep this whole time?ā
āMhmm,ā she confirmed. āMustāve had you a long dayā¦āĀ
āMustāveā¦ā Annie frowned, rubbing the sleep from her drowsy eyes. She looked out at the land through the thick, cloudy windows of the train cabin, and the land looked back.Ā
Time passed and she still remembered it all. The land. The house. The way the sun slanted just right through the trees. The man. How he looked like he was waiting for something. How real he felt, even after she realized she was dreaming. When she finally pressed the floorboard back into place the room became itself again. A bed. A dresser. An altar. And a young woman kneeling on the floor daydreaming about possibilities.
One state over, the road began to flatten towards Memphis. It was bad in places, rutted deep from wagons, farming equipment, and animal hooves. Dust rose up behind the truck in low brown puffs, sparkling in the light before disappearing up into the trees.
Smoke drove with both hands steady on the wheel. Stack rode beside him, one arm hanging lazily out the window, hat tipped low against the glare.
āSo you gonā tell me?ā
āTell you what?ā
Stack sucked his teeth. āDonāt do that.ā
Smoke kept driving. Stack waited him out. That was the thing with twins, when one soul splits into two. Silence didnāt work on somebody who already felt it on the inside.
āAnnie,ā Stack blurted after a while.
Her name shifted something in the cab. Stack could tell by the way Smokeās eyes narrowed slightly, his hands tightening around the wheel all of a sudden, the leather groaning under the force of his grip.Ā
āWhat about her?ā
Stack barked out a laugh. āSo, itās like that?ā
The road curved just ahead of them, pecan trees crowding close to the edge on either side of the road like they were trying to listen in on their conversation.Ā
āI talked to Della,ā Smoke admitted. He looked over to Stack, whose smile eased a bit where he sat.
āAbout?ā
Smoke didnāt reply.
Stack sat up fully. Back straight, slouch gone. āFor real?ā
Smoke shot him a look.Ā
Stack leaned back slightly, studying the side of Smokeās face. āDamn,ā he trailed off. āWhat she say?āĀ
It was the day before they were set to head to Memphis, and the early evening sun poured molten gold through the back windows, warming the floorboards of Dellaās kitchen. Smoke stood in front of the counter watching her slice a batch of onions. Della stood on the other side, her arm moving like the wheels of a locomotive, the movement slow, methodical, and sharp because sheād done this a thousand times.Ā
āI been meaninā to ask you somethinā,ā he said, voice steady.Ā
Della kept her pace, she didnāt slow or stop. āThat right?ā
āThatās right.āĀ
āThis ābout my girl?ā
āIt is.ā
Della stopped what she was doing. She wiped the knife off on a kitchen towel, then set it down on the counter.
āI was hopinā I could court Annie,ā Smoke said firmly. āProper like.āĀ
āWhat you know about courtinā a woman proper?ā Della asked. She crossed her arms.Ā
Smoke took his lick. He didnāt flinch.
āShe aināt just anybody,ā Della said before he could respond.
āI know,ā Smoke replied. Something in him leaned forward before his body did. āI wanna do it right. If sheāll have me.ā
Della looked over Smoke carefully. For the lie in his eyes. For the joke tugging at the corner of his mouth. For the doubt in his posture. āYou talk to her ābout this already?ā
āNot yet.ā
āYou need to.ā
āI will. Wanted to ask you first.āĀ
She eased her weight off one hip, and put it on the other. āShe ain't built for no half steppinā.ā
āI donāt do half.ā
Dellaās eyes narrowed for a second, then relaxed. āThat girl want somethinā of her own,ā she said. āDonāt know if she told you that yet.ā
āShe did.ā
āWell.ā Her voice came out soft but sharp. āShe got powerful hands. Hands that aināt meant to be locked up under some manās roof waitinā for permission. If you wanna court her, you better not try to shrink her.ā
āI wonāt,ā Smoke replied.Ā
Della picked up her knife again. She sliced into an onion slowly, the thin, methodical rhythm of metal hitting wood echoed in the otherwise quiet room.Ā
Lodgers started to walk in from their work shifts, heading to their rooms or back out to the porch where a few of them were squatting over a dice game. A few of them poked their heads into the kitchen to ask about supper.Ā
Smoke hadnāt moved an inch. He waited quietly, letting the silence sit between them, more for him than her.
āYou like her,ā she said. It wasnāt a question. She didnāt even need to ask. She could see it. Feel it, even.Ā
āYes maāam.ā
āHow much?āĀ
āI care about her. Wanna see her more. Respectfully.āĀ
Dellaās nose wrinkled. āYou serious?ā
āI am,ā he said with finality.Ā
Something passed through Dellaās eyes as she looked him over carefully, from head to toe. It didnāt feel like judgment. It was something Smoke didnāt have a name for. He raised a brow, a silent question.
āStill seeinā other women?ā
āNo, maāam.āĀ
āAināt what I heard.ā
Confusion. It spread slowly across his face like the petals of a night-blooming flower before turning into something darker. Smoke flexed his hands at his sides before clasping them firmly in front of himself. āWhat you heard?ā he asked, inclining his head.
āLittle here, little there,ā she admitted. She tilted her head. āMay not be loud, but I can hear whispers just fine.āĀ
Smokeās jaw worked. He shook his head once, firmly. āIt aināt true.ā
āIt aināt?ā
āI aināt lyinā,ā he stated simply. āSince I started spendinā more time with Annie, Iāve only been seeinā her.āĀ
āThen why they still talkinā?ā
Smoke sighed, running a hand down his face. āI donāt know,ā he shrugged.
Della sucked her teeth. She looked away, then looked back. āThat donāt answer my question.āĀ
Her eyes got a little sharper, then. Defensive. She folded her arms across her chest, pushing back.
Smoke looked like he was racking his brain for the answer. When it clicked, let out a ragged, frustrated breath through his nose. āI guess, I aināt really end it the way I should,ā he confessed.
Dellaās voice went up a whole octave. āYou guess?ā she asked incredulously.Ā
āHow you tryna court Annie, when you canāt even end somethinā proper? What happened?āĀ
āI stopped reachinā out,ā he explained. āAināt seen āem, none of that.ā He sighed into his words. His voice tight, but firm. āThought that was it. I moved on, figured they did, too.āĀ
āYou figured wrong,ā she corrected. āYou leave one woman guessinā, donāt come over here askinā me for permission to leave another one guessinā.āĀ
Smoke nodded, the muscle in his jaw fluttering. āI won't. Iāma clear it up. Before I bring anything to Annie.āĀ
āDonāt lie to me,ā Della started.Ā
āMiss Dellaāā he started.Ā
She searched his eyes. āElijah,ā she said, in a tone that sounded like a warning.
Smokeās gaze didnāt waver. He looked at her firm, steady, unblinking. āI mean to do right by her. I wouldnāt be askinā you if I didnāt.āĀ
Della sighed. āAlright.āĀ
Smokeās face relaxed.Ā
āThereās rules.ā
āOkay.āĀ
āHandle that business, first.āĀ
āTrust me, I will,ā Smoke said, nodding once.
Della picked her knife back up, turning it sideways so she could start dicing the onions. āYāall been kissinā?āĀ
He wasnāt about to lie. He didnāt lie anyways, not when it mattered, but especially not to a woman who could put a root on him with one hand, and chop an onion clean down the middle with the otherāat the same time. āYes maāam,ā he admitted.Ā
She didnāt flinch. āThat it?ā
āYes maāam.ā
āMhmm,ā she muttered. āNo funny business in my house,ā she warned, pointing the tip of the knife towards him.Ā
āYou aināt gotta worry about that.āĀ
āI know,ā she said warmly. āNot with you.ā
āCan I leave this for her?ā
Smoke held up a thin, black leather covered book.
āWhat is it?ā
His jaw worked. āIt's for her drawings,ā he said simply. āSo she can keep 'em all in one place.ā
āI will,āĀ she said. She could feel the tenderness in his words, even though he tried to hide it.
Smoke let out the breath heād been holding since he walked up the steps of her porch with a gift and a question. āThank you.āĀ
āDonāt thank me yet,ā she said, sweeping the diced onions into a bowl with the edge of her blade. āThat girlās heart is her own. She gotta say yes, first.ā
āSmoke.ā Stackās voice came out quiet.Ā
Smoke slowed without thinking. He cursed under his breath, sitting fully forward in his seat.Ā
Up ahead, the road dipped towards a narrow wooden bridge that laid over a stretch of shallow, muddy water. Off to the side, something rose from behind the cotton fields.Ā
Dust. It came from the far side of the bridge, lifting faintly through the trees along with the sound of a mule dragging something through dirt.Ā
Smoke eased the car to a stop beneath the shade just before the bridge. Stack moved from the passenger seat and stalked towards the edge of the field, his body loose in the way men looked when they were prepared not to be. He looked for what didnāt belong while Smoke stayed behind the wheel listening for it.
Wind rustled through the leaves, a dry, papery sound that blew through the acres of cotton plants. Sharecroppers that sang hymns and blues songs as they moved down the line. They picked cotton with tired, calloused hands, the cost of their labor paid in bright red splotches of blood that dripped from their fingers, staining the stark whiteness of the cotton bolls. A vulture circled overhead, then found its prey. It swooped down, its wings spreading menacingly slow as its talons gripped the rung of abandoned machinery.
Stack walked back to the truck with the cautious confidence he carried no matter how many times theyād taken this route. His face didnāt show it, but his eyes stayed sharp. āJust some nigga on a wagon,ā he said, waving it off.
Smoke looked back, looked towards his brother, looked towards the bridge, flexed his hands on the wheel, then steadied.Ā
Memphis appeared thirty minutes later.Ā
The city smelled like hot grease and opportunity. The sound of brass instruments hung heavy in the air, cutting through all the cigar smoke and pipe exhaust. A band played on the street once they turned the corner, a crowd of people gathered around them tossing money, dancing, and singing. Vendors lined the streets selling all kinds of treats, both savory and sweet, shouting their prices above all the noise.Ā
There was a lightness here.Ā
But Stack hadnāt spoken since they crossed that bridge.
āJust say it,ā Smoke muttered.
āSay what?ā He spoke with his usual slick tone, toothpick hanging out the corner of his mouth like he knew something you didnāt.Ā
āWhatever it is.āĀ
Stack grinned. He rolled the toothpick around his mouth. Cleared his throat. āIām just thinkinā.ā
Smoke waited.
He rubbed a hand over his freshly lined up goatee. Smiled again, wider this time, his gold fronts shining in the late afternoon. āYou aināt seenā¦you know?ā
Smoke didnāt even let the question linger in the air. āNo.ā
Stack didnāt back down. āLast I heardā¦ā
Smokeās brows pulled together. āIt aināt true,ā he said flatly.Ā
āI knew she was full of shit.ā He shook his head in disgust. āShe gonā be pissed, though.āĀ
āWho, Annie?ā
Stack looked over. āNah.ā He shrugged. āI mean, maybeā¦ā He shook his head again. āI mean...āĀ Ā
āNigga.ā
Beale Street pulsed around them. A saxophone blared loudly on the sidewalk. The sultry voice of a woman floated out from the open door of a juke they passed by.Ā
āLook at my nigga tryna be serious,ā Stack teased, clapping his brother on the shoulder. āI mean you was born serious butā¦āĀ
āAightā¦.ā Smoke mumbled.Ā
āFor real," he continued. Voice lighter now, but not unserious. āIām happy for you brotha.ā
Smoke didnāt answer.
Stack leaned back in his seat, arms folded behind his head as the truck slowed in front of The Monarch. The juke joint was already breathing through the walls. Music, laughter, and the smell of fried food spilled out into the street.Ā
āYou know she good for you, right?āĀ
Smokeās eyes cut over.Ā
Stack lifted a hand. āIām beinā serious,ā he said with a grin.
āI aināt ask you for all that,ā Smoke grumbled. He pulled the brake and cut the engine. āI just need you to be serious ābout this business we ābout to handle.āĀ
Stack smoothed out his suit jacket before climbing out first. āNigga, Iām always serious āboutāā He cut himself off. His grin widened. āOh, you really like her huh.āĀ
Smoke stepped out after him, shutting the truck door harder than necessary. āShut up, Stack.ā
Stack only laughed as he headed towards the door of the joint. Smoke followed behind him, both brothers disappearing into the smoky mouth of the juke.
They waited until the boarding house was empty. Breakfast was long over, the kitchen back to the way it looked before the lodgers ran through it in the morning. The floors were swept, shelves dusted, dishes washed, dried, and stacked neatly in the cupboard. Flour dust hid between the cracks of the table no matter how many times it was wiped down, a chipped blue bowl full of onions and garlic hiding most of that. A heavy cast iron pan hung over the stove with something in it that would cook low and slow until supper.Ā
Annie stood in the kitchen with her sleeves rolled past her elbows, wiping down the edge of the table. Aunt Della watched her from across the kitchen, tending an arrangement of calla lilies in a slender glass jar. āReady?ā
Annie looked up from wiping a stubborn corner of the table. āYes.ā
āNervous?ā
Annie rung the rag out, twisting it once and dropping it in the wash basin. āA little.ā
The kettle hissed softly behind them, steam reaching up towards the ceiling in white, pillowy puffs. A burst of bright, mid-morning light flooded the room through the curtains, catching the edge of a jar of dried bay leaves that sat near the windowsill and the fur of Felix who was curled up with his paws tucked under him like he was waiting on this exact moment. He purred gently, the sound a sharp contrast to the kettle whose whistle was now piercing the air.
āCome on,ā Aunt Della said, leading her towards the lean-to in the backyard.
The space was narrow and dark even though the sun was high, only slivers of light peeking through the cracks in the siding. The shelves held various grooming items needed for a house full of men. Lye soap, oils and tonics, shampoos and aftershave. A galvanized tub sat in the middle of it all. Aunt Della moved two small crates aside in the corner of the room. Annie looked down, her mouth dropping open when she caught the glint of the iron ring hidden between the floorboards.
āDonāt just stand around catching flies,ā Aunt Della threw over her shoulder. She was already bending over as quickly as she could for her age, hooking two fingers into the ring and pulling up.Ā
āWhatās down there?ā She bent down to help her.Ā
āYou ābout to find out.ā
The wood lifted from the floor with a low groan and a whistle of trapped air that escaped like the room was letting out a breath. The smell of something earthy and darkāroots, clay, old wood, and something more sharpāhit them with the first whiff that rose from beneath the ground. Aunt Della lowered herself carefully onto the first step then looked back, a lit oil lamp secure in her hands. āMind your skirt,ā she told Annie. āAnd close the door behind you.ā
Annie gathered the length of her skirt, wrapping it twice around her hand. The stairs creaked beneath her feet, each one more narrow and steep the deeper she moved below the boarding house. The hum of the street disappeared first. Then the sounds of the backyardāchickens, birds, bees and the breeze.Ā
Then the daylight.Ā
Annie paused at the bottom to take in all that she could see from the stretch of Aunt Dellaās oil lamp. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crowded with everything from bottles to tins to roots dark and twisted that reached into the soil like fingers.Ā
Aunt Della led her to a door. They had to be underneath the front porch of the house, Annie thought to herself. She unlocked the room, a heavy oak door fitted with two heavy padlocks, and guided them inside.
More shelves.
Glass jars caught the flickering flame of the lamp in dull flashes. They were lined up along the walls, filled with graveyard dust, mandrake, cinquefoil, High John, and camphor. A stack of bones too small for Annie to name. A brown bag of black mustard seeds, blue glass beads, river stones smooth as polished teeth, and an assortment of other things.Ā
Aunt Della set the lamp on a low table in the middle marked with knife nicks and stains like old wounds. On it sat a mortar and pestle, a ledger book with a cracked spine, a fountain pen, three small bowls, and a white candle burned low in its dish.Ā
āThis where we gonā start.ā
Annie looked around, wrapping her arms around herself. āThis all yours?ā
āItās all mine,ā Aunt Della confirmed. āTake a seat.ā She gestured for Annie to sit on one of two cushions around the table and moved to one of the shelves. She glanced at a bundle of dried leaves, touching them lightly with two fingers before bringing it back to the table. āSome of this belonged to my mama. Some of it from women I met along the way. Women whose names donāt get spoken much anymore.āĀ
She opened the ledger to a blank page, then pushed it to the corner of the table. āFirst thing you learn aināt gonā be what does what, itās gonā be what not to touch.āĀ
Annieās eyes narrowed.
āThereās stuff that heals and stuff that calls. Calling is where it gets tricky. You can call luck, love, happiness. You can call something darker. Something that settles. Something that unsettles. The thing that gives you mercy can be the same one you beg for mercy. It all depends on which hand holds it.āĀ
Annie absorbed as much as she could while her gaze drifted around the room. This room felt smaller, not because of its size, but because of what it held. Most things felt familiar, a few things did not. It was the few things that didnāt, that unsettled her.Ā
She thought of her grandmother. Of the stool in her apothecary. Sometimes sheād sit there all day, just watching. Reaching for things out of curiosity and being told ānot yetā so often that it became part of her rearing.Ā
Aunt Della must have seen something cross her face, because her voice softened. āYou know more than you think,ā she said.Ā
āThen why do I feel like I donāt know anythingā¦all of a sudden?ā
She paused. And thenā āLemme show you.ā Aunt Della reached for a jar of something dried and fragrant hidden under a strip of blue fabric. She set it on the table. āName it.ā
Annie tried to peer through the glass. The leaves were green, obviously. Smooth, and curled at the edges, from what she could see. She opened the jar carefully and sniffed the fragrance that wafted through her nose. The smell was earthy. Sharp. āSage?ā she asked.
Aunt Della gave her a look.
āNot sage,ā Annie winced.
Aunt Della paused a moment. āYou know that aināt no damn sage.ā
Annie brought the jar to her nose again. She took a deeper whiff. It smelled different this time, something warmer and sweeter. Familiar, but not from the kitchen. āBoneset?ā she guessed.
āYou askinā or tellinā?āĀ
āTellinā,ā she said, twisting the lid closed and setting the jar down.
Aunt Della waited a moment for Annie to second guess herself. She didnāt. āThere she is.ā
Annie smiled despite herself.Ā
āWhatās it for?ā
āFevers and aches,ā Annie began. āUnless you take too much.āĀ
Aunt Della hummed as she shuffled through theĀ jars, vials, and pouches littered on the shelves. āEvery living thing got a spirit,ā she started. āIt had a spirit āfore it had a name.āĀ She continued on. āIts smell will tell you its name. But its spirit, thatāll tell you what it wants.ā She looked at Annie closely, eyes narrowing. āThis,ā she tapped her temple, āis how you learn the spirit of a thing.āĀ
She reached behind her without looking, pulled another jar down, and set it on the table in front of Annie. āName it.ā
They went on like that for a while, one jar after another. Some Annie knew right away, some she hesitated on, and some that made her feel straight foolish when Aunt Della corrected her.
āDonāt just guess ācause you wanna be right.ā
āI wasnāt!ā
āYou was.āĀ
Annie huffed softly, frustrated.Ā
āYou gotta learn how to trust yourself, baby. Like when you close your eyes to draw.ā
Aunt Della turned her back to the shelf, her eyes sweeping over her collection until she landed on a small bundle wrapped in red thread. She placed it on the table without a word.
āGonā head. Pick it up,ā she insisted.Ā
Annie hesitated at first. Her fingers wrapped around it gently, something tightening low in her belly once it touched her palm. Whatever was inside the cloth was hidden, but she could feel the weight of what she held in her hands.Ā
āWhat?ā Aunt Della challenged her. āTell me how it feels.āĀ
Annie rubbed her thumb along the fabric. āThis one feelsā¦like it wanna be left alone,ā she said breathily.
The flame of the oil lamp that sat on the low table shifted, flickering once then standing stillābut it wasnāt from any wind.Ā
There was no wind down here.
Just darkness, soil, and walls that held their breath like lungs.Ā
Aunt Della watched her for a moment, then reached out and took it from her. Annieās hands felt lighter instantly.Ā
āWhat was that?ā Annieās eyes lifted, following the bundle.
āNot today.ā
āReally?ā
āI said,ā Della repeated. āNot today.ā She sat back down. āLesson number two. Curiosity donāt mean permission.ā
āYes, maāam.ā
āPower aināt always in what you can hold. Sometimes it lies in what you know to leave alone when you aināt ready. When it aināt ready.āĀ
She looked up to the ceiling. āThey know?āĀ
Aunt Della snorted. āMen donāt notice half of whatās goinā on.ā
Annie laughed and Aunt Della smiled back, pulling the ledger towards the edge of the table. The pages were filled with names, dates, ingredients, measurements, and notes. Some in Aunt Dellaās hand, others in foreign script. Most of the entries were normal: fever, toothache, bad blood, sleeplessness. Others were less common: keep someone away, restore peace to a home, stop a tongue from speaking ill, return what was sent. Annie traced a line without touching it. Her pulse felt different as her finger hovered over the script. Slower, heavier, like something had reached up and guided her hand.Ā
Aunt Della flipped to the next page of the ledger, tapping a blank line on the page once with her finger. āWhen you open a door with your name on it, you better know what you sellinā. You aināt just sellinā an herb. Aināt just sellinā a bottle. You sellinā a promise.ā
āA promise?ā
āWhen a womanās hurt and she comes to you for helpā¦she aināt just lookinā to buy a root. Sheās lookinā to buy trust. Silence. The hope that somebody knows what to do with what she canāt carry alone anymore.ā
Annie thought about the women slipping through her grandmotherās door. Their faces covered with veils, hands holding tight onto coins, voices just above a whisper. She drew them sometimes while she sat in the corner on that stoolānot just their faces, but the changes. How they came and how they left.Ā
Aunt Della pushed the pen, ink, and the ledger on the table right in front of Annie. āWrite todayās date.ā
le 31 octobre 1919
Annie wrote it in her best script. When she put the pen down she felt different somehow, like she had crossed a threshold she didnāt even know was there.Ā
Aunt Della moved the ledger away to let the ink dry and the moment settle. Then she stood, took down another jar from the shelves, popped off the lid, and set it in front of her.Ā
āName it.ā
Annie lifted the jar to her nose, but this time she didnāt rush.
She smelled first.Ā
Looked second.Ā
And listened to whatever quiet thing inside her answered third.
It took Smoke three attempts to light his cigarette.
It was later that same evening. He stood on the second-floor balcony of the Greenwood House. It sat on the corner of Hernando and Beale; the place he and Stack stayed every time they came down to Memphis. The clink of utensils and the hearty smell of andouille sausage and gumbo drifted out the open windows of the porch and floated upward to where he stood outside, making his stomach twist with hunger.Ā
An older woman named Mrs. Johnson owned the place and knew them well, often turning a blind eye to whatever they (Stack) got up to when they came down for business.Ā
āThis aināt no whorehouse! You want a whorehouse, there's plenty of them down the street! Tryna soil my good furniture. The sheets is one thing, but I catch one of them hussies on one of my couches, Iāll put you out on ya ass in the middle of the night with just ya draws on!ā
Smoke held a lighter in one hand, an unlit cigarette in the other, rolled up tight with the special New Orleans blend of tobacco laced with a little grass that he got from Bo every other week.
His thumb slipped on the spark wheel on his first try.
His hand shook suddenly on the second.Ā
He gripped the base harder, clenching his teeth on the third try. An eruption of flint and fuel sparked a flame that burned bright and angry against the setting Memphis sun and the backdrop of Beale Street.
Smoke brought the cigarette to his mouth, its red ember heating the inside of the palm.Ā
He exhaled with relief.Ā
It felt like a betrayal. That a white manās war was the reason his hands had a mind of their own sometimes. The lack of control that had him shook. Angry.
He took another drag to calm his nerves, his thoughts searching for somewhere soft to land.
Annie.
Heād seen her walk into some shop on Issaquena a few weeks back. Long blue dress with buttons down the middle. Curved just right over her hips and thighs. Like it was painted on.Ā
Smoke took another hit, blood sparking heavy with desire. He let the smoke filter through his nostrils when he exhaled. He inhaled it back through his nose, letting the fumes settle deep and spicy in his chest.
He had to think about something safer.
Like lips or eyes.
But Annieās lips? And Annieās eyes?
Her lips were dangerous. Soft, fluffy, inviting. Sweet.
He thought about how his name slipped out of them like it was the best thing she ever tasted.
āSmoke,ā sheād drawl. It melted on the tip of her tongue like a scoop of her favorite ice cream from downtown, her Louisiana lilt drawing out the o, making her lips form a perfect circle like she wasā
āYou good?āĀ
The sound of familiar steps made him turn his head to the side.Ā
It was Stack.Ā
āYeah,ā Smoke said, flexing his hands at his sides. āFood ready yet?ā
āJust about. She puttinā dishes out and shit.ā Stack turned to walk away. Then he paused. Turned back. āShe made sweet potato pie, too.āĀ
Smoke snuffed out his cigarette and hurried his ass downstairs.Ā
One Week Laterā¦
It was lunch hour. The dining area at Blackbird was packed full of hungry customers, unbridled laughter, and the smell of frying oil. Annie weaved expertly through the tables and around the booths like she belonged there. Since she started working there, sheād already found her own rhythm even though she only worked a few times a week. She was keeping up with the seasoned waitresses, the ones who didnāt write orders down and could balance two serving trays and a pot of coffee with one hand. She was doing so well that even Mr. Hightower was impressed with how she held her own, even with the sudden increase of diners from out of town.
Especially peopleās relatives from up north.
There wasnāt a family in Clarksdale who didnāt have somebody who went north for better opportunities, higher wages, and more or less, more freedom. Annie heard the stories. Walk off a train, walk into a stockroom or a shipyard and find work that pays four times what youād earn in the fields or as a domestic down south.Ā
And now she was looking at them sitting in the booths, laughing with their friends and family while showing off their fancy cars, shiny shoes, and new clothing.Ā
That āNorthernā polish.Ā
Stack had that type of polish. Always kept a waistcoat. Always wore real goldāchains, pocket watch, gold fronts. Shoes always shined like they were polished by the sun.Ā
Smoke didnāt dress like his brother, but he had a way about him too. His clothes werenāt flashy, but they were clean. Neat. He kept a wristwatch instead of a pocket one. One with a black leather strap, smooth bezel, and a nice engraving carved on the back. But he still had a ruggedness about him that she liked...a lot.
She wondered if their ātravelsā ever took them up north. Pittsburgh, Detroit, Chicago. She knew theyād been to New York. Smoke told her that. Spent some time in Harlem staying with Aunt Dellaās son before they shipped off to war.
Annie didnāt know exactly what they got up to when they went out of town, but she wasnāt wet behind the ears. She didnāt need all the details to know the shape of danger. The town knew what the SmokeStack twins were; they earned those names here. Even if the town knew to not go into detail about what they did to earn them. But there were rumors.
Especially about the women they dealt with.
Stack was the womanizer. Annie knew that the minute she first met him at the train station. He had a mouth so slick, he could make a woman apologize to him for breaking her own heart. Smoke was a little different. Quieter about his, at least. But quieter didn't mean it aināt exist. Where Stack left noise, Smoke left silence. The type of silence that was hard to measure sometimes. And with silence came people trying to fill that empty space with their own version of the truth. So they whispered.Ā
āSo-and-so saidā¦but you aināt heard it from me.ā
āHe donāt talk as much as Stack, but he aināt no saint.ā
Aunt Dellaās words came to mind. About things being spelled out plain and not assuming attention meant intention. But Annie wasnāt so sure if it was a warning, or just plain words of wisdom.
Was she just another woman in a line of quiet whispers?
āAnnie!ā It was Mr. Hightower.
She looked up.Ā
āYou been wipinā the same spot for a minute, now.ā
āIām sorry.ā She shook her head a little, plopping the rag in the bucket.Ā
āI need you to dump the coffee in the back please,ā he requested, walking off.Ā Ā
Annie sighed. āYes, sir.ā
She made her way to the back, coffee pots in one hand and a bucket of hot, soapy water in the other. She set the bucket by the back door and walked outside.Ā
The back alley smelled like cigarettes and old food.Ā
Annieās nose wrinkled as she walked over to the trash receptacles before getting startled by a raccoon that darted out from under one of the trash bags. She managed to dump the coffee out without splashing it all over her shoes. The cool, brown liquid pooled on the ground for a minute before seeping into the dirt, the coffee grounds scattering across the wet surface like ash.
Fourth Street was alive. Wagons, voices, music, smoke drifting up from cigarettes and woodstoves. Smoke had finished one last piece of business near Fourth Street. He stepped out of the back room of a building and onto the street, money folded tight in his pocket, hat sitting low on his head. He stepped off the curb and crossed the street, slowing right in front of Blackbird Cafe. He stopped. Looked through the windows casually, trying to be subtle. He wasnāt. The writing and the glare from the sun made it hard to see, but he found her instantly.
Annie was behind the counter, but her head turned towards the kitchen. Probably listening to one of the cooks talking shit from the back like they always did. He saw her shoulders shake and her head dip forward like she was laughing at something one of them said. But when she turned back around, the smile on her face broke the room open.Ā
Something struck him low in the chest. A possessive tightening pull on his ribs. Annieās eyes shifted. She looked around the restaurant. Through the other waitresses that darted around her, through the people in the dining area. They kept on moving until they finally found him.Ā
Her face went blank for a second and he thought his chest would cave in. Then it softened, then the corner of her mouth lifted slowly. Just for him. That was enough for him to walk inside before he even realized what he was doing.
The cafe got quieter when he walked in. Conversations lulled, laughter turned into low chuckles that turned into throats clearing. Men nodded to him. Either out of respect, fear, or something else. Smoke took a seat at the counter and watched as Annie made her way over with a coffee pot in her hand.
āAfternoon,ā she said softly.
āAfternoon.ā
āYou hungry?ā
āCoffeeās fine.ā
She took a mug from the shelf behind the counter, placed it in front of him, and started pouring. The coffee spilled into the cup dark and hot, steam rising off the top before dissolving into the air like the things left unspoken between them.Ā
Smoke wrapped his hands around the mug and took a sip. Warmth settled into his palms and spread throughout his chest. And it wasnāt from the coffee. āThank you,ā he said, voice low.
āMy pleasure,ā Annie giggled. āHow was your trip?ā
āLong.ā
āThat it?ā
āMostly.ā
Annie didnāt push. She studied him for a second, topping off his coffee and wiping down the countertop while the diners went back to their own conversations and meals. She thought about saying more. She decided not to. It was too quiet now. Too many ears perked up. She reached behind the counter again, this time to pull out a clean napkin.
āThank you,ā she said as she set the napkin down next to his mug.
āFor what?ā His eyebrows pulled together.
āThe sketchbook,ā Annie said incredulously, head cocked to the side.
Smokeās mouth twitched. āYou welcome.āĀ
āMhmm.ā She rolled her eyes playfully.
āYou been good?ā His voice was rough when he asked that question.Ā
She tapped her fingers slowly on the counter as he set his mug down. Annie leaned forward on her hands. Smoke leaned forward on his arms. Annie looked at Smoke. Smoke looked at Annie.Ā
āBeen great,ā she said finally. Her lips were pursed in that playful way he liked. āYou?ā
Smokeās eyes moved over what he could see of her from his seat at the counter. Slowly.Ā
āBetter now.āĀ
She raised a brow. āOh yeah?ā
āWouldnāt say it if I didnāt,ā he said casually. He kept his eyes on hers.Ā
Her mouth dropped open, whatever she was fixing to say right on the tip of her tongue when Sheilaās voice from the kitchen made it snap shut.Ā
āTable six, order up!ā Followed by two dings.
Annie turned around, quickly sliding the plates of hot food from the pass-through window onto her serving tray. She moved from behind the counter to a table with hot food and a smile brighter than the sun reflecting off the windows. Smoke watched her working, stealing glances over the rim of his mug. Every so often while she was taking an order, or refilling a coffee, sheād look over at him like she could feel his eyes on her, then quickly look away. When it started to get busier and she couldnāt steal a look at him, he felt something. Like a dull ache.Ā
He stood as Annie finally circled back to where he was sitting, stretching his arms above his head.Ā
āYou leavinā?ā
Smoke nodded. āGot some business to handle.āĀ
He put his money on the counter, their hands meeting when she reached for it before he had pulled his hand back. The contact made them both still. Their index fingers brushed against each other where they touched for a second before pulling away completely. Their eyes met again.
āIāll see you,ā Smoke said.
āOkay,ā she replied. It was just above a whisper.
He wasnāt finished. āSoon.ā
Their eyes held, the contact lingering for a moment like they both had something they wanted to say but knew it wasnāt the moment.Ā
Smoke slipped away, steps light even though he carried weight. Annie watched the door swing shut behind him, letting in a flash of air and street noise before locking it out again. She stood behind the counter still, fingers resting on the money heād left on the table, feeling the ghost of where his finger rubbed the side of hers. She stood there for a second, letting it sink in. Two seconds went by, then three. Then she snapped out of it, pulling herself back into what she was there forā the money.Ā
āFelicia!ā Annie called for her as she carried a tray over her shoulder. āTable four said they want two more sodas!āĀ
āGot it,ā Felicia huffed.Ā
The bell above the door rang again. Annie moved quickly, sat the diners at a table, pulled out her pen and pad. She gave recommendations, talked up the specials. She even took on an extra tableāa party of six that started off with a round of drinks.Ā
She kept herself busy. There was no such thing as a quiet moment during a lunch rush. But every time she looked out into the street, she thought of him. Coming through like he owned the place. Leaving something behind every time he walked out.Ā
ā
Smoke was far enough away that he couldnāt see her clearly through the window anymore. Just movement and light and the shape of her passing between the tables. Blackbird stayed loud and alive behind him. Annieās world now. Part of it, anyway. The more Smoke saw her, the more he wanted to be that other part. Not keep her waiting. Not tuck her away.Ā
Della was right. Just wanting her wasnāt enough. Other men wanted her, too. He saw the way their gaze would follow her around as she moved around the cafeā¦until they saw him. He heard about the one at the theater. And the preacher. But he knew she needed to hear it from him soon.
When they stared at each other before he left Blackbird, the look in her eyes held a question. One he didnāt have to ask to know. He knew one thing, he was gonna set shit straight before she was left guessing what kind of man had walked into her life.
as a writer, itās very important that you know this: whenever you tell yourself āthis will only be one-chapter-longā that is a lie. your brain is lying to you. it wonāt, in fact, be just a short one-shot