youngho!reader grabbing smoke’s dick and him reprimanding her for not having manners and asking for what she wants like a big girl
Down
This is degrading kink at its finest so read at your own discretion please and thank youuuuuu 😌
Short little drabble 😝
Smoke was currently focused on the heavy steel of his pistol.
Click-slide
He was stripping his weapon down for cleaning. He didn’t want to leave any traces of blood or brain matter from the nigga he had to off for trying to rob one of his trap houses while he was out of town doing business with his twin. His large, calloused fingers moved with ease over the metal. Smoke was dressed down in a black beater that strained against the massive breadth of his chest and matching lounge pants that clung to the heavy weight between his thighs.
And he was stiff because of the fine ass Trini occupying his space.
Kizzy Shantel.
She had been a colorful blur in his peripheral for the last hour since returning from a mini shopping spree with his money, her bags still sitting on the floor near the front door. She was wearing a lime green, ribbed micro-set that was barely there, the top containing two bee stings and the bottoms hugging the wide, rounded flare of her hips and the projection of her ass. She’d been dancing, humming a slow soca tune and tossing out bratty comments in her melodic voice, trying every trick in her book of defiance to break his concentration.
Smoke didn’t look up. His expression was a mask of calm, predatory focus but his jaw tightened as she stepped closer. The moment he set the slide down to reach for a cleaning cloth, she moved with a bratty, impatience, she got down on her hands and knees and crawled across the carpeted floor and slid between his massive thighs. Without a word of greeting by or a hint of patience, she reached up and shoved his hand aside, her small palm clamping firmly around the bulge in his pants. Kizzy gave it a firm squeeze, feeling the sheer girth and the distinct curve of him. She looked at him with those coy, almond eyes framed with hybrid lashes, voice a thick, sugary purr.
“Why you so busy?”
Smoke went completely still.
She let out a needy moan, rubbing her palm up and down the length of him, trying to force him to pay attention to her. She pouted, looked up at him with doe eyes, bit the corner of her lip when she finally found his tip and started stroking it with her thumb.
Smoke’s hand shot down like a viper. His thick fingers locked around her in a grip that was bordering on painful. He yanked her hand away from his crotch, forcing her to release a tiny squeak. Before she could even gasp, Smoke stood and began backing her against the wall, pinning her wrists high above her head. She looked up at him, confidence flickering as she saw the look in his eyes—dark, assessing and completely dominant.
“Who the fuck told you that you could touch me without permission? Who taught you to just reach out and grab what you want without asking?” Smoke’s voice was a low, rumbling vibration that seemed to rattle her bones. He leaned in with his chest crushing her breasts, his size and smell overwhelming her. “You actin’ like a spoiled lil’ girl, Kizzy and we both know I don’t reward bad behavior.”
Kizzy began to squirm, her breath hitching. The thrill of his aggression hit her instantly turning her legs to jelly.
“I just wanted you…” she whimpered, her voice softening, becoming small and pleading.
“You wanted me? Then use your words “ Smoke commanded, his grip on her wrists tightening just enough to remind her that he owned every inch of her. Smoke pressed his lower body forward, grinding his big, fat dick right against her stomach. He was letting her feel the massive, curved length of him pulsing through the fabric. “Ask me properly. Like a big girl. Tell me exactly what you need, and tell me why you deserve it after bein’ so fuckin’ rude.”
Kizzy was in heat. She had been circling him for the last twenty minutes. She could feel the throb between her thighs, pussy dripping a steady stream of slickness that made the lace uncomfortable against her clit. She didn’t want to wait for him to finish cleaning his Glock she wanted that thick, curved dick inside her NOW.
The reaction was instantaneous.
Kizzy blinked, chest heaving, eyes wide and glazed with lust. “Daddy, I just—”
Smoke looked down at her, his expression devoid of warmth. “You actin’ like a thirsty lil’ hoe, Kizzy. Where da fuck are your manners? You think you can just reach out and grab whatever you want whenever you feel a lil’ itch in your pussy?”
Kizzy whimpered, the degradation sending a fresh surge of wetness. “No, Daddy…”
“That’s a ‘no, Daddy’ for what?” Smoke growled, his grip tightening. “I asked you a question. Do you got manners, or do I need to teach you how to behave?”
“I…I don’t have manners.” Kizzy whispered, her voice trembling.
“Exactly. You just a hungry lil’ bitch,” Smoke muttered, his eyes darkening. He released her wrist only to slide his hand onto the back of her platinum-blonde hair, gripping the short strands and pulling her head back so she had to look up at him. “Now, since you wanna act like a brat, we gon’ do this properly. You gon’ ask me for what you want…and you gonna ask like a big girl, using your words…so I know how much you really need it.”
Kizzy swallowed hard, her plush lips parting. “Please…can I have it?”
Smoke’s face remained stone-cold. “Have what? Be specific. I don’t do vague. Tell me, what you craving, lil’ slut?”
“I…I want your dick.” She moaned, her body shaking.
“Your dick?” Smoke mocked a cruel smirk touching his lips. “Which part of it? You want the head? You want the whole fat length of it? Tell me how you want it, Kizzy. Do you want it in your mouth? Do you want it stretchin’ your tight, little pussy? Or do you want me to shove it up your ass ‘til you can’t walk?”
Kizzy gasped, her eyelids fluttering, teeth chewing into her bottom lip. “I want it all…I want your big..fat…dick in my pussy, Daddy. Please.”
“Is that all?” Smoke asked, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a velvety threat. “You just want it ‘in’ you? You want me to just slide it in and be done wit’ it? Or do you want me to fuck you ‘til you dumb? Want me to treat you like the lil’ hoe you is? Want me to stretch you out ‘til you leakin’ my cum from every fuckin’ hole?”
“Yes! Yes—please.” She cried out, hips instinctively bucking against him, trying to get closer to him.
“Slow down.” Smoke commanded, his voice snapping her back to attention. “I ain’t tell you to move. Now…answer me truthfully…are you so dick-hungry that you’d do anything I tell you to do just to get a taste? Would you let me use you however I want…for as long as I want…just for one inch of this dick?”
“I’ll do anything, Daddy.” Kizzy sobbed, voice thick with arousal. “I’m your down bitch, Daddy. Please…I’m so wet…I need you.”
Smoke leaned back, his eyes scanning her trembling form from her heaving breasts to the soaked lace of her teddy.
“You pathetic.” He whispered, though the look in his eyes was purely possessive. “A dripping…needy…lil’ hoe. Now, stay right there. I’m gon’ decide if you been good enough to actually get what you beggin’ for.”
Summary: When the preacher’s wife starts protesting outside The Blackline, Stack Moore mocks her from the shadows until her holy fire turns to something hotter. Plain and pious, Sister Marigold Baptiste hides a body made for sin, and Stack makes it his mission to break her righteousness down to the bone. Their hate burns into obsession, and soon she’s sneaking out in her Sunday whites to be devoured in the dark. He fucks the holy out of her and sends her home to her husband full of his cum, knowing she can’t bear children but she can carry the weight of his sin.
The last lick of Sammie’s guitar echoed like a ghost in the rafters. The crowd erupted. Cheers and hoots and drunken applause filled the cabaret thick. Someone let out a sharp whistle. Another slapped the top of the upright piano hollering, “That’s the blues, boy! That’s the blues!”
Delta Slim hollered behind Sammie, laughing so hard he almost fell off the bench. Sammie lowered his guitar, his chest rising fast with adrenaline and sweat. And joy. Real joy. To be seen, heard, and appreciated. His fingers tingled from the strings.
And then…he saw her.
Evangeline.
Not far from the bar, standing between two other girls who clapped and hollered with the rest of the room. She wasn’t hiding now. Her chin was up, dress pressed just right against the lines of her body, dark curls pinned back with a silver clip.
She waved. Shy-like.
It hit Sammie like a second solo.
He stepped off the stage and cut through the crowd toward her. Voices called at him as he passed—praises, back slaps, someone offering him a smoke and another a glass of rye, but Sammie barely heard them.
“You came,” he said, voice still a little breathless.
Evangeline folded her arms, pretending not to be impressed. “I did,” she said, slow and honeyed. “You gon’ get me and my girls a drink, Preacher Boy?”
Sammie grinned. “‘Course.”
Evangeline smiled back, pleased, then turned and ushered her girls toward the bar like royalty leading her court.
They made their way through bodies pressed close, past a man in suspenders slow-dancing with a girl in nothing but beads and a feather boa, past women draped across velvet chairs with slits up their thighs and men watching from the shadows.
“Pippy,” Sammie called once they reached the bar, “make them what you made me earlier.”
Pippy—brown-skinned and quick-handed with a gold tooth in her grin—saluted him with a muddler already in motion. “Comin’ up, sugar.”
The drinks slid across the bar, cold and fizzy with dark liquor and citrus. The girls giggled and sipped, their eyes wide at the debauchery happening all around them.
“Lord,” one whisperered, “that man got his whole hand up her skirt.”
The other covered her mouth and said, “This place ain’t no juke joint. It’s a damn brothel!”
Evangeline didn’t say a word. She sipped her drink, eyes fixed on Sammie’s profile.
“You ain’t from around here,” she spoke eventually, her voice low enough for his ears only. “How you know the Smokestack Twins?”
Sammie leaned on the bar, close. “They my cousins. Blood.”
That caught her attention. Her gaze sharpened.
“Oh,” she said, tilting her head. “You must be bad just like them, huh?”
Sammie laughed. “Nah, I’m a college boy, not a gangster.”
“That’s alright.” Her lips curled slow. “I like ‘em smart. Means you can talk to me while you in it.”
Sammie blinked. Froze. Didn’t breathe.
The sentence struck him dead-center.
Evangeline giggled, bold and pretty. Then, before he could recover, she reached for his wrist.
“Put that guitar down, Preacher Boy,” she said, tugging gently. “Come dance with me.”
Sammie set the guitar behind the bar and let her pull him through the crowd. The music was faster. Dirty and grinding. Bodies were pressed like sweat and sugar. Evangeline didn’t care that everyone was watching. She turned to face him, arms draped over his shoulders, hips moving in time with the bass. Sammie swallowed hard and let his hands rest at her waist. She smelled like night jasmine and pink peppermint.
“I been watchin’ you since you stepped on stage,” she whispered, lips just at his ear. “Thought you was shy. But now?” Evangeline rolled her hips into his. “I think you just needed somebody to make you move.”
The bass was thick as syrup, the snare drum snapping like a belt in the dark. A woman moaned on the record, low and drawn out. Evangeline’s hips circled in slow figure-eights, dragging Sammie into her gravity. She turned around without warning, her back pressing to his front like it had always belonged there. And then, she rolled her ass against him.
Sammie’s hands froze mid-air, unsure where to stand. She didn’t give him time to figure it out. Evangeline dipped lower, grinding back with a smooth, steady push, the curves of her body dragging over the front of his slacks. She kept one hand lifted in the air, the other sliding down the slope of her own hip, guiding the movement like music was pouring through her fingers.
Sammie inhaled hard through his nose. His eye were wide, palms sweating, heat galloping. He gripped her waist before he even knew he’d done it.
That made her smile.
Evangeline leaned her head back against his shoulder. Her voice was honeyed, the words teasing the shell of his ear.
“Mmm,” she hummed, “you still sure you ain’t bad?”
Sammie swallowed. “Not like them.”
“Then you might wanna let go of my hips,” she whispered, rotating even deeper against him, “cause you holdin’ me like you tryna get me pregnant.”
Sammie damn near stopped breathing.
Behind him, the crowd blurred into heat and howling. Somewhere to the left, a woman cackled as she poured moonshine down her chest for a man to lick. Over by the piano, Delta Slim was laid back with his mouth open, watching them with a lazy grin and one lifted brow like well damn.
Evangeline kept winding. Kept moving slow, dragging her ass over Sammie’s growing hard-on like she meant to mold him right there on the floor.
Sammie leaned in, lips barely brushing the curve of her neck. “You tryna get me in trouble?”
She smiled without looking back. “You already in it, Preacher Boy.”
Then, she backed it up again but harder this time. Sammie groaned under his breath, low and shaken.
“Damn.”
Evangeline laughed, swaying her hips. “You cussin’ now?”
“I’m thinkin’ ‘bout worse.”
“That so?” She turned her head enough to meet his eyes. “Like what?”
Sammie answered with his hands gripping her tighter. The look in his eyes told him everything. Evangeline—sweet little thing in a Sunday-best silhouette and soul made of trouble—just kept on grinding.
The blues got nasty.
A woman’s voice crawled through the speakers, half growl, half sigh.
🎶 He left me achin’, legs still wide…put his name where I used to cry…ooh, I ain’t never touched the floor since then… 🎶
The crowd whooped. A man slapped the table and hollered. Someone popped a garter off a thigh and twirled it like a lasso. But Sammie Moore wasn’t paying attention to none of that. His world had narrowed to Evangeline. To the rhythm of her body. To the scent of her skin like shea butter and girlhood wrapped into one big naught bow. To the way she ground slow and deep, like every roll of her hips was a scripture only he was allowed to read.
Sammie was hard now. There wasn’t no denying it.
And Evangeline felt it.
Pressed flush against her backside. And she didn’t shy from it or stiffen or pull away. She simply pushed back into it. Danced deeper. Dipped lower. Her ass dragged slow over the length of him like she was tracing her name into his lap. Her fingers reached behind to brush his thigh, soft and slick, like she wanted to feel how hard she was making him. Sammie clenched his jaw, sweat beaded at his temple.
“You feelin’ okay back there, college boy?” She teased, voice coy.
“You gon’ kill me,” Sammie breathed.
Evangeline tilted her head just enough to look up at him, lips parted, lashes heavy, “then die real slow.”
Her girl friends at the bar were too caught up to notice. One was perched on a man’s lap, laughing with her mouth open and a whiskey shot in her hand. The other was tucked into a booth corner, letting a smooth-talking Kat reed her peach slices from the peach cobbler Aunt Pearl and Minnie cooked up. Nobody was paying Evangeline any mind.
And that was just how she liked it.
Sammie’s hands started to roam a little. His palms slid from her waist to her hips, then back again. His fingers flexed against the curve of her lower belly like he wanted to hold the heat she was working into him.
🎶 Told him baby slow down, let it burn…now I beg just to take my turn… 🎶
“You ever been dry-humprd in front a crowd before?”
Sammie choked a laugh. “No ma’am.”
“Well…” she rolled again, this time extra slow, her ass fitting into his lap like a final puzzle piece. “You bein’ real polite about it.”
Sammie growled. Actually growled.
His hands gripped tighter. More bold. More needy. He pressed his mouth to her shoulder, just breathing, trying to hold himself together. Trying not to rut against her like every man in the room wasn’t watching. But Evangeline? She ended him right on the fucking edge. Teeterin’. Drenched in sweat. She liked the way his fingers twitched every time she bent deeper. The way his voice got stuck in his throat. The way he kept whispering her name.
“Evangeline…”
She turned around. Face to face with him now. Arms loose around his neck. Sammie’s lips were parted and his eyes were dark with desire.
“You alright?” She asked, syrup-sweet.
Sammie nodded once. Then again. “Yeah. I just…”
He trailed off, breath catching as her hips gave one last grind, barely there, slow as molasses sliding down a glass.
She smiled. “You thinkin’ ‘bout what I said earlier?”
Sammie blinked. “W-What?”
“That you could talk me through.” Evangeline said, voice soft and teasing.
Sammie’s throat bobbed.
“I been listenin’,” she whispered, pulling him a fraction closer by the lapels of his jacket. “ her fingers brushed his. “I bet you could make me cry out without even fuckin’ me.”
Sammie sucked in a breath so sharp it made his shoulders rise.
Evangeline just smiled like the devil knew her name.
Sammie’s heart was beatin’ like a snare drum. Fast. Irregular. Hot behind his ribs. Evangeline’s lips were so close to his he could count each lash hair.
“You okay, Preacher Boy?” she whispered, tilting her chin up so her lips brushed his cheek.
“I’m fine,” he lied.
She hummed. “You don’t look fine.”
He didn’t. His jaw was tight. His hands had started trembling just a little. And his dick? Still stiff and pressed against her hip beggin’ for relief. Evangeline dragged one perfectly manicured finger down the middle of his chest, slow like a match being struck.
“Let’s go somewhere quiet,” she said, like she was asking him what time it was. Like it wasn’t laced with temptation. “Just to cool off. Ain’t tryna get you in trouble.”
“Cool off,” he repeated.
She nodded. Innocent smile. But her eyes? They were anything but.
“You trust me, don’t you?”
Sammie hesitated. Swallowed hard. Then nodded. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
She turned, grabbed his hand, and started walking past the laughing girls at the bar, past Stack’s piano man and the clapping crowd, past the booth with folks too deep in their own pleasures to notice. And Sammie followed like a lamb led not to slaughter but to something just as dangerous. They moved through the hallway behind the bar, where the walls were painted burgundy and the air smelled like cedarwood and spilled liquor. One of the girls working the floor raised a brow as they passed and smirked, turning back to her client.
When they reached the back stairs, Evangeline paused, looking at him over her shoulder. “You sure you can behave, college boy?”
Sammie looked at her.
At those eyes.
At those lips.
At the slight shake of her shoulders as she laughed softly and took another step up.
“No,” he said. “Not even a little.”
And that made her smile even wider.
“Good.”
She opened the doo and slipped inside.
The room she led him to wasn’t much, just a tucked-away dressing suite with soft lighting, a velvet chaise, and not enough ventilation. The window was cracked, letting in the humidity of the Delta night and the scent of magnolia from the trees outside. There was a mirror on one wall and a half-empty wine glass on the vanity, left behind by someone who wasn’t coming back anytime soon.
Evangeline clicked the door shut behind them.
Sammie stood still. Back straight. Breath tight. Hands in fists like he didn’t trust ‘em. Like if he so much as blinked wrong, he’d ruin it all.
“C’mere,” she said.
He did.
She stepped close, right into his space. Slipped one hand up his chest. Took her time smoothing his collar down with her fingers, like she was just straightening him up. But it wasn’t that. She looked at him the whole time and when she reached the middle of his chest, she pressed her palm flat and said, “You nervous.”
“I ain’t,” he lied again, voice low.
She tilted her head, smiling like she didn’t believe a word.
“You been watchin’ me since I walked in.”
“Maybe.”
“You hard as a rock down there, preacher boy.”
He exhaled sharp through his nose, lips parting. Sammie didn’t deny it.
Evangeline leaned up slow and kissed him. Full on the lips like heat curling from a matchbook, low and steady. Sammie didn’t move at first, too stunned by the feel of her lips—warm, plush, with a hint of cherry gloss and something wilder underneath. But then his hands found her waist. And she moaned just a little into his mouth, and that cracked him wide open. Sammie kissed back with everything he’d been holding in since the moment he first saw her. Their mouths worked slow but deep, open-mouthed, breath mingling between them. He gripped her tighter at the waist, pulled her in flush and she melted, curling her fingers around his neck, her thigh slipping between his legs. Evangeline smiled when she felt him twitch before she broke the kiss and looked at him, her eyes half-lidded, lips wet, voice like honey over a flame.
“You gon’ let me touch you?”
Sammie nodded, throat thick.
“Words, preacher boy.”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes…you can touch me.”
She kissed him again, but this time her hands roamed—curious, unhurried, exploring his chest through his shirt, then slipping lower, fingertips brushing the waistband of his trousers.
“You ever been touched by a girl like me?” she whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
He swallowed. “No.”
Her hand moved over the bulge pressing desperate and heavy beneath his slacks. “You ever cum from just a hand?”
“Not like this.”
She grinned. “Then hush.”
And her hand dipped slow—no rush, no shame—just a girl and a boy in the dark, heat blooming between them, her fingers wrapping gentle around the part of him that throbbed with every pulse. She stroked him through the fabric.
Up. Down. Slow.
His eyes fluttered shut.
Evangeline leaned into his ear. “Breathe.”
And he did. Heavy. Wanting.
All for her.
Her hand moved slow, fingers easing over the outline of him like she was memorizing the shape and weight of it. Not stroking hard. Just…learning.
Sammie’s eyes fluttered open at her question.
“If you ain’t been touched like this…” Her voice was low, almost teasing. “That must mean you a virgin?”
His breath caught.
She didn’t say it loud. Didn’t laugh or pull back. Just let it hang there between them, soft and smoky. Sammie hesitated. His jaw tensed like he might lie again. But then her thumb brushed just beneath the head, right through the fabric, and he exhaled hard. Honest.
“Yeah.”
Evangeline blinked once, gaze searching his face. Then she smiled. Slow and pretty.
“Mm. That why you act so shy with me?”
“I ain’t shy wit’ you girl.”
“No?”
“I just—” He paused, swallowed. “I just ain’t done this before.”
She leaned in, mouth brushing his. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”
She kissed him again, more mouth than tongue. It was the kind of kiss that could teach a lesson without saying a word. His hands slid to her hips. Gripped like he didn’t want her to float away.
“You want me to stop?” she asked against his lips.
He shook his head. “Hell no.”
“Tell me what you want then.”
He opened his eyes—dark, wide, and vulnerable in a way that tugged at something low in her belly.
“I don’t know. Everything, baby.”
Evangeline grinned. “That’s alright. I do.”
She took his hand and slid it up under the hem of her dress. No panties. Warm skin. The swell of her thigh, the dip between.
His breath hitched.
“You wanna learn?” she whispered.
His voice was a rasp. “Yeah.”
She guided his fingers between her folds, helped him find that soft, wet place he’d only dreamed of.
“That’s me,” she whispered. “That’s what you do to me.”
His fingers twitched.
“You feel how warm I am?” she asked.
He nodded, entranced.
Her hips rolled slow into his hand, showing him how she liked it, how to follow her rhythm.
“Don’t rush. Just feel me.”
And so he did.
Evangeline moaned low, soft and breathy, her forehead pressing to his. They stayed like that for a long while, hands exploring, lips brushing, breath mingling. Her hips moving gentle over his fingers, and his dick straining in his pants like it could feel everything she felt.
She nuzzled his jaw, whispering, “Preacher boy got his hands baptized tonight.”
And he let out a broken little laugh. Aroused. In awe.
“Say it,” she murmured, teasing his earlobe with her teeth. “Tell me this feel good.”
“It feel…real good. Better than my mama’s black eyed peas.” he breathed.
Evangeline smiled, then kissed his throat. “Good. ‘Cause I ain’t done with you.”
Evangeline pulled away from him suddenly. She backed up a step, then turned and climbed onto the low table beside them, perching there like she knew exactly what she was doing. The hem of her dress slid higher as she settled, knees parting just enough to make Sammie’s breath stutter.
“You think they gon’ find us in here?” she asked, tone lazy, almost bored.
He swallowed. “No.”
She smiled at that.
Her hands went to her thighs, thumbs hooking the fabric, lifting it just enough to show him what she wanted him to imagine—dark curls and wet pussy.
Sammie froze.
He’d never seen a woman offer herself like that. Not with confidence. Not with curiosity instead of fear.
Her legs opened wider. “Look,” she said softly.
His chest rose and fell like he’d just run a mile. She placed both feet up into the low table, causing her knees to spread wider. There was enough light shining in that room to see what she was offering up to him. A deep plum-colored pussy with lips that resembled a wishbone and a little button. Tight coils matted with her essence.
“Here it is. All open for you. Look at it...it’s gettin’ wet just ‘cause you lookin’. I can feel myself achin’ for you. You see how it’s twitchin’? That’s ‘cause I want you inside me so bad I can hardly breathe. Come on, baby, touch it. See how soft it is…”
“Evangeline…”
She tilted her head. “You gon’ show me just what Preacher Boy been wantin’ since he saw me?”
He nodded, honest. “Fuck Yes.”
That pleased her.
She leaned back on her palms, unbothered, completely aware of the effect she was having.
“Good,” she said. “Means you still listenin’.”
His eyes dragged back up to her face, like he was afraid if he kept looking he’d lose himself completely. He saw the way she was offering herself to him. She looked confident and sultry and the sight of her pussy—pink, plump, and glistening with a dew that smelled like wild honey and musk—made his blood roar in his ears.
Without a word, he sank to his knees. The movement was like a man approaching an altar. Sammie wanted her to feel every second of the anticipation, to feel the heat radiating off his body as he settled between her legs. He gripped her thighs, his fingers calloused from strumming his guitar digging into her soft skin, anchoring her in place.
Then, he leaned in and pressed his face directly into her.
Evangeline let out a soft moan, her hips jerking upward. She hadn’t expected the suddenness of it. Sammie didn’t start with a kiss, he started with a long, slow lap of his tongue, starting from the very bottom of her opening and dragging it all the way up to her clit.
“Oh! Oh, shit!” she damn near cried, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "What you doin’? What you...oh, Preacher Boy!”
Sammie was too busy tasting her. She tasted like the earth after a summer rain—sweet, salty, and intoxicating. He groaned deep in his throat, a primal sound that vibrated against her flesh, and then he dove back in.
He began to eat her with a hunger that shocked her. He wasn't just licking, he was devouring that sweet pussy. He used his tongue like a muscle, swirling it in tight, heavy circles around her clit, pressing hard enough to make her vision blur. Then, he flicked his tongue rapidly, a rhythmic, drumming sensation that sent electric shocks straight to her belly.
The sounds filled the secluded space with a wet, sloppy noise of his tongue sliding over her drenched folds, the rhythmic slurp-slurp of him drinking her in, and the desperate, broken moans escaping her throat.
“You...you ain’t never...how you do that?” she sobbed, her head tossing from side to side. “It feel too good! Stop...no, don’t stop! Please, baby, don’t you dare stop!”
He responded by burying his face deeper, his nose pressing into her soft mound while his tongue pushed deep inside her, mimicking the motion of a dick. He sucked her clit right into his mouth, pulling on it with a firm, steady suction that made her back arch.
“Lord have mercy!” she moaned, her voice cracking. “Y-You eatin’ me up! You eatin’ m-me right out my skin, baby! I can’t…I can’t take it! It's too much!”
Sammie came up for air enough to look her dead in the eyes with her pussy juice all over his face.
“You came here askin’ fa’ me to tear ya’ ass up now you can’t take it?”
She stared down at him with a perplexed expression. Pussy pulsing in his face.
“Thought you was stronger than that Evangeline. This tongue too much, darlin’?”
Evangeline released a shuttering breath “I—”
“Don’t talk. Just keep your legs open and get this pussy ate.”
Sammie buried his face again, pushing Evangeline’s legs up by the backs of her thighs. She gasped and with nowhere to run she could only sit there with her legs spread open like the fast tail gal she is.
Sammie could feel her pulsing against his lips, her pussy twitching and clamping down on his tongue in waves whenever he stuck his tongue in her. He didn’tlet up. He increased the pace, his tongue working with a disciplined, brutal precision, swirling and flicking, sucking and licking until she was nothing but a shaking mess of nerves.
“Sammie, FUCK,” Evangeline melted against his mouth, staring down at the top of his head with blurry eyes. “W-Why you ain’t t-tell me you eat pussy l-like this?”
He shoved her legs back in response. So far back her knees touched her shoulders. Evangeline whimpered, watching Sammie eat her pussy like he’d been out of a meal for days. He puckered his lips and kissed her lips, sealing his lips around her clit and giving it a nice wet kiss that forced her to beg.
“Sammie, PLEASE—”
Sammie could taste the climax building in her, the flavor of her juices changing, becoming sharper and sweeter. He let out a muffled growl against her skin and gave one final, powerful suction on her clit, holding it there until she finally broke.
Evangeline let out a long, guttural moan, her thighs attempting to lock around his head and squeeze him tight as her orgasm ripped through her. She sobbed his name, her body shuddering in violent peaks, while he stayed right there, refusing to move, licking every last drop of her sweetness from her skin until she finally slumped back, breathless and ruined. It was as if the noise of The Blackline returned. Evangeline had to blink to focus. Remember where she was.
Sammie lingered for a moment, his face still glistening with the sweetness of her, before he looked up at Evangeline. His eyes were dark, heavy with a hunger that hadn’t been fully sated just because she’d come. He leaned in, his mouth crashing against hers in a kiss that was greedy and desperate, tasting himself on her lips. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a claim, his tongue pushing deep into her mouth, swirling against hers as if he wanted to swallow her whole.
When they finally broke apart, both of them breathless, Sammie rested his forehead against hers. His voice was a low, rough rumble thick with lust.
“Tell me the truth, Eva,” he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. “Did I eat that pussy good? I mean...I was the only man to ever do it right for you, wasn’t I?”
Evangeline let out a soft, airy giggle, her chest heaving as she looked up at him with eyes that were wide and glazed. “Yes, Sammie...oh, yes you did.” She reached up, tracing the line of his jaw with a trembling finger. “I swear, the minute my pussy came out, you turned into a different man. I ain’t know you had that kind of devilry in you.” She shifted beneath him, her legs still draped loosely over his shoulders, a playful, daring glint entering her eyes. “Maybe next time...your cousin could join in.”
Sammie froze, his expression shifting to one of pure perplexity. He pulled back just an inch, frowning. “My what?”
“Stack,” she whispered, the name sounding like a sin on her tongue. “I bet he’s the one who taught you how to eat pussy that good. He look like the type of man who knows exactly where to put his tongue.”
Sammie stiffened, the thought of sharing her—of having Stack’s eyes, lips, tongue on her wet, open folds—sent a jolt of possessiveness through him. He ain’t like the idea. Not one bit. He shifted his weight, his voice turning gruff.
“Stack?” Sammie scoffed, shaking his head. “Baby, Stack got a whole house full of women. He got more pussy than he know what to do with. Why you can’t just have me and be satisfied?”
Evangeline didn’t shrink back. Instead, she arched her back, pressing her chest toward him, her voice growing firm, laced with a newfound rebellion.
“‘Cause I’m tired, Sammie,” she said, her voice ringing with a sudden clarity. “I’m a sheltered church girl. I done had folks tellin’ me how to sit, how to speak, and what I should and shouldn’t be doin’ with my own body. I’m done with it.” She looked him dead in the eye, her gaze hungry and defiant. “If I wanna get my pussy ate by two men at once, I can. If I wanna get fucked blind by two men in some smoky back room after a dice game, I can. If I wanna get down to the nastiest, filthiest blues there is...then that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”
Sammie stared at her for a long beat. The distant sound of a harmonica drifting through the walls. Slowly, a smirk spread across his face, and he let out a low, knowing chuckle.
“I hear you, Eva,” he said, his eyes softening with a shared understanding. “Lord knows I can relate. Bein’ the son of a preacher...I been pretendin’ I ain’t got a taste for the sin.”
Sammie’s expression hardened, a flash of that raw, possessive instinct crossing his face. He pinned Evangeline more firmly against the surface beneath her, his voice dropping an octave into a warning growl.
“But you ain’t gettin’ your pussy ate by Stack. No,” Sammie stated firmly, the finality in his tone leaving no room for argument. “I don’t care how much of a rebel you feelin’ like. That part of you is off-limits to him.”
Evangeline let out a melodic, teasing giggle, her chest heaving against his. She looked up at him, her eyes dancing with mischief as she felt the heat of his body pressing into her. “My, my…my. You only known me a day and already you claiming this pussy?”
Sammie didn’t blink. Eyes intense and blazing with desire. He leaned down, lips brushing against hers, his voice a low, dangerous vibration.
“You tellin’ me it ain’t mine? ‘Cause the way you was shakin’ while I was down there…felt like you belonged to me.”
The tension snapped like the string on a guitar and they crashed together again this kiss was different—less about hunger and more about ownership. It was deep, wet, and demanding, their tongues tangling in a fierce battle for dominance. Sammie’s hand slid down, gripping her hip with. Force that would surely leave a mark, pulling her flush against his hardness.
Just as Sammie began to move his hand back toward her wet pussy, the heavy wooden door swung open with a loud thud against the wall. A man and a woman stumbled in, practically falling over one another. They were locked in a desperate embrace, the man’s hands shoved deep up the woman’s dress, her head thrown back with a loud, needy moan of pure ecstasy. They were so blinded by their own lust that they didn’t even notice Evangeline and Sammie in the room for the first few seconds, their breathing heavy and synchronized.
Sammie broke the kiss, blinking and letting out a sharp exhale. He looked at the newcomers, then back at Evangeline, who was breathless and flushed. A small, amused smile played on Sammie’s lips. He started to pull his clothes back together, helping Evangeline to stand and smooth out her dress. They both started to laugh—a low, shared chuckle at the absurdity of the timing.
“Seem like the spirit of the blues is movin’ through folks tonight.” Sammie whispered in her ear, giving her backside a firm, possessive smack as he guided her toward the exit.
Evangeline giggled, leaning into him as they slipped out the door, leaving the other couple to their own private sanctuary of sin.
The music hit harder than before, drum and bass slick with sweat. The blues curled around bodies too caught in the night to care who watched. The Blackline had grown louder, hotter. No longer as immersing but boiling over.
Sammie reached for Evangeline’s hand again as they walked along the shadowed hall and back into the chaos of the main floor. Sammie was still warm from their moment tucked away. Evangeline couldn’t help but grin just thinkin’ about it.
“C’mon,” she whispered, leaning toward him. “Introduce me to them cousins of yours. The infamous gangsters.”
Sammie laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really wanna meet them?”
Evangeline raised a single brow. “‘Course I do. Maybe they can share some wild stories about Preacher Boy.”
Sammie shook his head. “This the wildest thing I done did, Eva. Less you wanna hear about how Stack teased me growin’ up. And Smoke keepin’ an eye on me like he my daddy instead of my cousin.”
Sammie started to guide her across the floor, weaving past hips and heels and slick backs, past the perfume of lust and liquor. Just as they approached the far side of the room, Evangeline caught sight of something that made her steps slow. Her body went still mid-stride and her eyes narrowed.
There, in the corner booth veiled by beaded strings and red lamplight, sat Sister Marigold Baptiste. First Lady of the church. Preacher’s Wife. Purity Teacher. Her Mentor.
She didn’t just sit—she perched. Relaxed and glowing in a satin-black dress that clung to every curve like it had been poured on her. She was angled on Stack Moore’s lap, his hand stroking the bare skin of her thigh like it belonged to him. His mouth brushed her neck slow and greedy. Marigold tipped her head to the side, sipping from the glass he’d offered, her lips painted the color of garnet wine.
She looked…decadent. Drunk on something far deeper than bourbon.
Evangeline was frozen. She stared with a shocked gaze
And then, so did Marigold.
Their eyes locked across the room like a shot fired.
In an instant, Marigold froze mid-sip. Her lashes fluttered, lips parted in surprise and guilt as the glass hovered just beneath her mouth. The booth around her blurred. She was no longer in The Blackline, not in her lover’s lap or on his tongue. She was standing back in that purity classroom, bam in the rows of wide-eyed girls, speaking of obedience, respectability, restraint.
Evangeline’s gaze sliced through her.
Sammie leaned in, confused. “You okay?”
Evangeline didn’t respond. Her smile had vanished. The flirt gone out of her hips. The phantom sensation of Sammie’s tongue vanished.
Sammie followed her gaze.
“Oh, that’s Marigold. Stack says she’s a Preacher’s wife. You know her?”
“Excuse me,” Evangeline said, already moving.
She slipped away before he could follow, cutting through the crowded room with a sharp elegance that only made the sting worse. As if an invisible camera followed her every move, she brushed past patrons with hurried movements until she disappeared down another hall that led to more rooms.
From the booth, Marigold slid stiffly off of Stack’s lap. Her heat raced.
“Where you goin’, Goldie?” Stack asked, voice slick with curiosity, the imprint of her body still on his leg.
“Bathroom,” she said without looking back.
Her heels clicked quick on the wooden floor, fast enough to betray the panic under her ribs. The red lights pulsed overhead like they knew her name, like they saw everything. Marigold eased toward the guest hall, the narrow corridor just past the end of the bar. Her eyes scanned every corner, every face. Evangeline was nowhere in sight.
That was, until she felt a pull. It wasn’t physical but unmistakable. A sensation of being watched. Not by strangers but by truth itself.
She turned a corner and there it was.
A hand reached out from the shadows, caught her wrist, and dragged her inside a narrow passage near the bathroom door.
Beneath the noise were the sounds of the trade. A muffled scream of pleasure echoed from a doorway they passed, followed by the wet, slapping sound of skin hitting skin. A woman’s voice, strained and needy, called out a man's name, her voice breaking into a high-pitched keen that signaled a climax. The scent of musk and sex clung to the wallpaper, a constant reminder that in this house, every shadow held a secret and every room was a playground for the flesh.
And Sister Marigold Baptiste was standing in it. Standing in the one place she’d sworn was Satan’s playground.
Evangeline let go of her wrist with a shove that was more insult than force.
For several long seconds neither of them spoke.
Marigold stared at the young woman she’d known since she was a child. She remembered scraped knees after church picnics. Braiding her hair before Christmas pageants. Holding her tiny hands during altar prayer.
Now those same hands rested on hips full of defiance.
Evangeline looked at her as though she’d never seen her before.
“No.”
The word came out as a laugh.
A bitter one.
“No…no, I don’t believe this.”
Marigold swallowed.
“Evangeline—”
“No.” Another laugh. “You don’t get to start with my name.”
Marigold searched her face. “I know what this looks like.”
“What it looks like?” Evangeline’s eyebrows lifted. “It looks exactly like what it is.”
Her eyes traveled slowly over Marigold. The satin-black dress. The glossy finger waves. The wine-dark lipstick. The diamonds catching every sliver of light.
“You look beautiful.” The compliment wasn’t kind. It was sharpened into a blade. “So beautiful I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Marigold instinctively folded an arm across herself. Because suddenly, it felt as though it exposed everything.
“Evangeline…”
“You told us.” Her voice cracked. “You stood in front of all us girls every Wednesday and told us women who came here sold pieces of themselves.”
Marigold closed her eyes.
“You told us this place was the Devil’s playground!!!” Another step. “You told us if we respected ourselves, we’d never walk through these doors!!!” Another. “You looked me in my face and said purity wasn’t just what we did. It was who we were!!!”
Each sentence struck harder than the last.
Marigold felt every one.
“I believed you.”
That hurt most. Because it was true.
Marigold’s lips trembled. “I…I did believe it.”
Evangeline laughed again. “Oh, I know you did.” She gestured back toward the crowded room. “Then I see you sittin’ on Stack’s lap.”
Marigold flinched.
“I see him holdin’ you like you belong there.” Another step. “I see you drinkin’ from his glass.” Another. “And the way he was lookin’ at you…” She shook her head. “He wasn’t lookin’ at the First Lady.” The words hung between them. “He was lookin’ at his woman.”
Marigold’s throat tightened. “I never meant—”
“You never meant what?”
“For this to happen.”
Evangeline barked a laugh. “Hell already done broke loose in the both of us.”
Marigold stared at her.
“You just too scared to admit yours.”
Marigold reached for her gently. “Evangeline…listen to me.”
“NO!!”
“I need you to.” Marigold’s eyes glistened with unshed tears.
“No.” Her eyes watered. “You don’t get to tell me what I need anymore.”
Marigold’s hand slowly fell back to her side. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Says you? Really? Who the fuck are you to tell me where I ain’t outta be?!” Evangeline scowled. “Wait until they hear about this. Their precious First Lady committing adulterous acts and drinking the devil’s juice and sittin’ on a pimp’s lap.”
Marigold shook her head. “Evangeline please don’t say anything! Promise me you won’t—I—I can explain—”
“That you been feeding us lies to make up for your own sins? Tellin’ us about how we shouldn’t fall into temptation and defile the Lord so you feel less guilty?”
Marigold looked toward the doorway. “This place. It changes people.”
Evangeline followed her gaze before looking back. “It changed you.”
The sentence landed like a slap.
Marigold couldn’t deny it.
She couldn’t.
Not after everything. Not after Stack. Not after discovering desire inside herself. Not after choosing to return.
Evangeline’s eyes softened for only a heartbeat. Then they hardened again.
“You know what hurts?”
Marigold looked up.
“I wasn’t shocked you were here.” She paused. “I was shocked you looked…happy.”
Marigold’s breath caught.
“I ain’t never seen you smile like that.” A long silence followed. Evangeline’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Now I know.”
Marigold felt tears prick her eyes. “Evangeline…”
“No.” She shook her head once. “I don’t know whether to hate you…” Her voice broke. “…or feel sorry for you.” Evangeline leaned in closer, her breath warm against Marigold's cheek. “So tell me, Sister...when Stack burying his dick deep inside you...which part of the scripture you reciting then? Or do you just save the prayers for the mornings after?”
Marigold flinched, her composure finally fracturing. Her hand flew up to push Evangeline away, but it wasn’t a strong push, it was a desperate, trembling gesture. “Stop it! You don’t understand the pressures I face. The things I have to do to keep that place runnin’, to keep the girls safe—”
“DON’T LIE TO ME!!” Evangeline shouted, the sudden volume echoing in the small space. “Don’t you dare wrap your lust in a cloak of sacrifice. You ain’t doing this for the girls. You doin’ it because you love the taste of the sin you tell everyone else to fear. You a fraud, Marigold. A beautiful, polished, lying fraud. And I hope Naomi stay far away from you. She told me about what happened.”
Marigold shut her eyes. “Eva, let me explain—”
“YOU LET HIM PUT HIS HANDS ON HER! You let him hurt your niece! How could you?!—”
“I DIDN’T KNOW! Okay?” Marigold cried. “I didn’t know Obadiah struck her! I didn’t know ‘till it was too late—”
“Oh please, shut the fuck up. Save your tears, Sister. You and that husband of yours wanna preach about who’s worthy of making it to heaven? Look at ya! First your sister, then Naomi—”
“She told you about Esther?”
“How the church got her institutionalized? How she lost custody of Naomi? ‘Course she did. I’m more family to her than you ever was.”
As if a switch flicked in Marigold’s brain, her eyes turned cold. Resentful.
“You don’t get to stand there and talk about my family. You don’t know the first thing about family, Eva.”
“Just like you don’t get to stand in a classroom and tell me what I should do wit’ my body when you in here every night getting torn a new hole by Stack Moore? Really? Least my family fight for me. Can’t say the same for you. Daddy ain’t love you, momma had no backbone. Niece hate you. Sister too strung out on whatever meds they feedin’ her up in Pline Buff. Husband won’t touch you.”
“Shut up—”
“I rather be a whore who knows she a whore than a saint who just a liar in a fancy dress,” Evangeline countered, her voice dropping back to that lethal, quiet hiss.
The slap that came from Marigold’s hand was a sharp, wet crack that cut right through the muffled roar of the band playing in the main room. Evangeline’s head snapped to the side, her cheek instantly blooming into a hot, stinging bruise. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the ringing in her ears and the heavy, ragged breath coming from Marigold.
Marigold’s hand was trembling, her fingers splayed as if she could still feel the impact of Evangeline’s skin. The “First Lady” looked fractured. The wine-dark lipstick that usually defined her poised, authoritative mouth was slightly smudged, and her eyes—those wide, soulful eyes that had once looked at Evangeline with such sisterly warmth—were now swimming in a mixture of rage and absolute devastation.
Evangeline stayed frozen, her face turned away, a slow, jagged smile spreading across her lips. She could taste a copper tang of blood where her tooth had nicked the inside of her cheek. The pain was a grounding wire, pulling her deeper into the spite that had been festering in her gut for years.
Slowly, Evangeline turned her head back. She didn’t recoil. Instead, she leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, venomous hiss that barely carried over the sound of a trumpet.
“There she is,” Evangeline whispered, her eyes scanning Marigold’s satin-black dress, the way it clung to hips that had spent too many Sundays hidden beneath layers. "There’s the woman the church built. The one who knows exactly how to handle something she can’t control. A firm hand, right?”
Marigold flinched as if she’d been struck. She stepped back, her heels clicking sharply on the hardwood floor, her chest heaving under the black fabric. “I–Eva I’m so sorry—please forgive me.” Marigold closes her first. “I thought I…I thought if I taught you to follow the path—”
"The path to where, Marigold?! To a pew in a church where you can preach purity while your pussy drip for a man who sell girls by the hour?!” Evangeline stepped forward, invading Marigold’s space, her presence aggressive and suffocating. “Go ‘head! HIT ME AGAIN!”
“Stop it!” Marigold cried, the sound breaking into a sob. She reached out, perhaps to push Evangeline away or perhaps to grab her, but her grip was weak, her fingers clutching at the air. “You don’t know the weight I carry. You don’t know what it’s like to hold a whole community together while you falling apart inside!!”
“I know what it’s like to be lied to,” Evangeline countered, her voice hardening. She reached up, slowly wiping the blood from her lip with her thumb, then looked at the red stain with a cold curiosity. “I know what it’s like to watch you tell us girls—sweet, naive sisters—that our bodies were temples, while you were treatin’ yours like a public house. And Naomi...god, Marigold. You let that girl run because she saw the rot in you. She saw the hypocrisy before any of us did. She warned me to get out.”
Marigold’s face went slack. The fire vanished, replaced by a hollow, haunting grief. She looked small, the glossy finger waves and the expensive dress feeling like a costume that no longer fit. She opened her mouth to speak, to defend herself or perhaps to beg, but no sound came out.
Evangeline saw the break. She felt the victory, but it tasted like ash. She leaned closer, her breath warm against Marigold’s ear, her tone shifting from rage to a cruel, intimate tenderness.
“You can slap me until my face is blue, Marigold. But every time you close your eyes, and every time you feel Stack hands on you, you gon’ see me. You gon’ remember that I know exactly who you are.”
Evangeline pulled back, giving Marigold one last, assessing look from the polished toes of her shoes to the trembling line of her jaw. Without another word, Evangeline turned her back on the First Lady and walked toward the noise of the party, leaving Marigold standing alone, shaking in her black satin, the silence of the corridor heavier than any scream.
For the first time in years, Marigold Baptiste realized something she had never allowed herself to imagine. The girls had been watching her every bit as closely as she’d been watching them. The First Lady had fallen from the pedestal she’d spent half her life standing on.
Marigold allowed her tears to fall freely. She placed both palms against the porcelain basin to steady herself. Finally staring at her reflection, she barely recognized the woman staring back. Her finger waves were still immaculate, each glossy curve resting exactly where Cordelia had pinned it. Garnet lips framed a mouth that had spent the evening smiling in ways she never thought possible. Diamonds winked beneath the light every time her breathing hitched.
She looked beautiful. But she had never felt uglier.
Her chest rose sharply as she reached for the towel hanging beside the washstand and dabbed beneath her eyes before any more tears could ruin the careful work Peaches had done.
“You weren’t teachin’ purity…”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“You were teachin’ us how to become you.”
The words refused to leave.
She leaned forward, lowering her forehead until it nearly touched the mirror.
What had she become?
The question frightened her because she no longer knew whether it came from God…or from Obadiah.
A careful knock sounded against the door. Marigold straightened immediately, swallowing every ounce of grief she could force back down.
“I’m alright,” she called, though no one had asked.
The latch turned.
Stack eased inside, closing the door behind him quietly. He took one look at her, and that was all it took. His easy grin had disappeared. He stood within the doorway, not moving to rush or crowd her. The bourbon he’d been drinking was long forgotten. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his pressed trousers as he studied the woman before him.
Marigold busied herself smoothing wrinkles that weren’t there.
“I’ll be out in just a minute.”
Stack remained silent, his eyes studying her. She reached up to fix one of the clips in her hair, though she didn’t need to because they were perfectly placed. Anything to keep her hands occupied. To keep from looking at him.
“You ain’t gotta hide from me.” His voice was soft and gentle.
That nearly undid her.
She finally looked over.
“I’m not hiding.”
“No?” A small smile touched one corner of his mouth. “It must be somebody else standin’ in front of me then.”
Despite herself, the faintest breath of a laugh escaped her. It disappeared almost as quickly as it came.
“I’m fine.”
Stack held her gaze.
He knew. She could see it. He knew she wasn’t.
He crossed the room until only a step separated them.
“You cryin’?”
“No.”
“You mad?”
“No.”
“You scared?”
Her answer caught. “…No.”
He nodded once. “Alright.”
That surprised her. He didn’t argue or press or tease. It was just…alright.
Marigold blinked. “Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?”
“I already did.”
“I didn’t tell you.”
“You didn’t.”
Stack looked at her the way he always did, not searching for perfection, not measuring her against a standard she could never reach.
Only seeing her.
“I ain’t gon’ make you talk before you ready, baby.”
Her shoulders sagged. Marigold expected interrogation. Correction. To defend herself. Instead…she’s been given room. That almost felt foreign to her.
“I failed somebody tonight.”
The confession slipped free before she could stop it.
Stack’s expression softened. “You think so.”
“I know so.”
He let those words rest where they landed. He didn’t chastise her. Tell her she was wrong. Tell her she was right. He stepped closer and reached up, gently straightening one diamond earring that had shifted during the evening, his fingertips barely brushed her skin.
“You still wearin’ the whole world on your shoulders.”
She looked down. “I don’t know how to stop.”
“I know.” His thumb lingered beneath her chin just long enough to lift her eyes back to his. “But you don’t gotta carry it by yourself.”
The tears threatened again. She blinked them back with stubborn determination.
“If I tell you…”
“You don’t have to.”
“What if it changes the way you look at me?”
A quiet chuckle escaped him. “Goldie.” He smiled then. Small. Certain. “I been lookin’ at you the same way since the first time you and them church biddies stood outside my do’ tellin’ me to repent.”
She smiled faint. Her lips quivered. She wanted to believe him. More than that…she wanted to believe herself worthy of it. Instead, she reached up and rested her hand over his just for a second. Long enough to steady herself.
“I need another minute.”
“You got ten.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “I’ll keep ‘em from botherin’ you.” He turned toward the door. Before opening it, he glanced back once more. “You come back when you ready.”
Then, he was gone, the latch clicking softly behind his retreating frame.
Marigold released the breath she’d been holding and closed her eyes once again.
She never noticed the other pair of eyes watching from farther down the corridor. Hidden where the hallway bent into darkness,
Mirabel remained perfectly still. Eavesdropping.
She had seen Evangeline shove the First Lady against the wall.
Seen the slap.
Heard raised voices sharpened by hurt until they became impossible to untangle.
Now, she had watched Stack Moore walk into that bathroom after her. Watched him leave with tenderness written plainly across his face.
She stood there, hands folded neatly before her, committing every look, every silence, every secret to memory.
Some truths were far more useful…when nobody knew you were the one carrying them.
Evangeline stumbled a step, her senses reeling from the wreckage of her blow up with Marigold. As she stood there, the world she was born into. The one she was made to conform to. A world of starched collars, hushed prayers, and the suffocating expectation of purity. It all felt like a thin veil that had finally been ripped away.
Around her, The Blackline was a riot of brown skin and perspiration. The blues weren’t just playing, they were vibrating through flesh and bone, a dirty, low-down moan of a saxophone that sounded like it was having an orgasm. Folks weren’t just dancin’. They was grindin’, hips locked, bodies sliding against one another with hungry friction. Evangeline saw a man with a wide grin and a gold tooth pull a woman’s skirt up to her waist, his large hand disappearing under the fabric to squeeze a heavy, rounded cheek with a possessive grip that made the woman throw her head back and howl with laughter.
To her left, a card game was erupting. A man slammed his palm against the wooden table with a sound that cracked like a gunshot over the music, sending dice and coins scattering. The men around him weren’t fighting with hate but with a raw, boisterous energy, voices deep as they shouted insults and jokes that would have made a deacon faint.
Then, there were the curtains. Heavy, velvet drapes that partitioned off small corners of the room. They ain’t hide much. Evangeline watched the silhouettes pressed against the fabric. The violent thrusting of a man’s hips. The arch of a woman’s back. The frantic movement of hands clutching at hair and skin. Wet, slapping noises, guttural moans, and the occasional sharp cry of pleasure that cut through the music. Blatant. Obscene. Honest.
The smell of the place wrapped around her. A heady, intoxicating cocktail of expensive pomade, pungent cigar smoke, and the mouth-watering scent of Aunt Pearl’s kitchen. Plates of fried catfish and collard greens piled high with smoked turkey were being passed around, the grease glistening on fingers and lips. Folks was eating with a primal intensity, laughing with their whole bodies, doubting over in fits of genuine, unburdened mirth.
Evangeline felt strange, trembling sensation in her gut. Since she was a little girl, she’d been taught to walk the “right” path, a version of holiness that felt more like a cage every day. Been taught to look at people like this with pity. And to see Sister Marigold give into her hidden desires left her confused and angry. Looking at the raw, sweating, fucking, laughing chaos of The Blackline, she could see no judgement here. No one was pretending to be a saint while hiding a secret in the dark. The sin was out in the open, worn like a badge of honor, and in that openness, there was a terrifying, electric kind of peace.
She watched a woman lean back in a chair, legs spread wide, laughing as she fed a piece of corn bread to a man who looked at her with pure, uncomplicated lust.
This is it, Evangeline realized, the thought echoing in the hollow space where her faith used to be. This is what it looks like to actually be alive.
It wasn’t just a juke. Or a brothel. It was a sanctuary of the flesh. For the first time, the word ‘freedom’ didn’t feel like a Sunday school lesson. It felt like the heat of a stranger’s hand on a hip, the smell of grease and sex, and the courage to be exactly as broken and hungry as everyone else.
Sammie Moore stood near the edge of the stage with his guitar resting comfortably against his shoulder, still riding the rush of applause and his first taste of pussy that refused to leave his chest and his tongue. Every few seconds someone stopped him with a pat on the back. A handshake. A clap on his shoulder.
“Damn, boy! You sure can play!”
“You had Delta Slim grinnin’.”
“That guitar talk back to you.”
Sammie smiled through every compliment, thanked every stranger, but his eyes kept drifting over their shoulders.
Searching.
Soft-blue dress had been easy enough to find.
But now…nothing.
Despite that, Sammie caught himself smiling anyway. She was probably making him wait on purpose. That seemed like something Evangeline Monroe would enjoy. Sammie finally excused himself and began weaving through the crowded room. Cards slapped against green felt. Dice bounced across polished wood. Women laughed and moaned with their heads thrown back. Someone carried two platters of fried catfish through the crowd while another hurried past balancing slices of sweet potato pie.
Sammie circled once, then again.
Still nothing.
His smile began to fade.
Near the bar, he spotted the two young women who had arrived with her earlier. They stood shoulder to shoulder, wrapping light shawls around themselves while glancing nervously toward the front entrance.
Sammie approached. “Evenin’ again, ladies.”
The girls looked up.
“Oh,” one of them said with relief. “Hi, Sammie.”
“You seen Evangeline?” Sammie asked.
“The girls exchanged a look.
“We was just lookin’ for her ourselves.”
“Thought she came back wit’ ya’ll.” Sammie said
“Naw. She wandered off after…somethin’.”
“After what?” Sammie questioned.
“She shrugged. “Don’t know. She looked pretty upset. I tried to wave her over and she just kept on walkin’.”
The second girl sighed, chewing the inside of her cheek.
“We can’t stay much longer.”
“Our mamas think we sleepin’ over at my auntie’s house. If we don’t get back ‘fore sunrise…” she winced. “Lord.”
“The whole neighborhood gon’ know we snuck out.” The other friend said.
Sammie glanced across the room again. “I’ll find her.”
“You tell her we had to leave?”
“We sure didn’t wanna but…we told Eva that we can’t stay too long.”
“Our daddies…” one of them shook her head. “They’ll turn us black and blue if they find out.”
Sammie cringed at that last part. But ultimately, he nodded his head with understanding.
“I’ll tell her. Ya’ll get home safe now.”
The girls thanked him before hurrying toward the entrance, pulling their shawls tighter as one of the doormen quietly unlatched the door for them. For a second, Sammie simply stood there. He looked toward the stage. Toward the card tables. Toward Delta Slim and Aunt Pearl talking close. Toward the staircase where Violet stood, Smoke beside her puffing on a cigar like he was her watch dog.
Still no Evangeline.
Then, he saw her.
Marigold.
She emerged from the hallway near the guest rooms, composed once more, though something about her expression seemed…heavier than before. Her lipstick had been touched up. Her shoulders were square. Only the faint puffiness under her eyes hinted that something heavy was on her mind. Sammie brightened immediately and walked toward her.
“Miss Marigold.”
Marigold turned at the sound of her name.
“I’m sorry to bother you.”
“You aren’t a bother at all, Sammie.”
Sammie glanced over his shoulder, still hoping to catch sight of dark-brown skin and a flirty grin.
“I can’t seem to find Evangeline.”
The name struck her like a pebble dropped into still water. Barely noticeable from the outside. Impossible to ignore beneath the surface.
“Evangeline?”
“I done checked the dance floor. The bar. The stage. I ain’t checked none of the rooms down here but they seem to be occupied. Upstairs ain’t been checked. Her friend had to head home. They was lookin’ for her too.”
Concern settled quietly across Marigold’s face. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“A little while ago. We was supposed to meet back up.” Sammie rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish smile trying to return. “I reckon I might’ve got caught up wit’ folks tryna talk to me after I played.”
Marigold looked across the crowded room. The celebration carried on without interruption. She could spot Stack laughing with Cornbread at the bar over a glass of bourbon.
“I’ll help you.”
Sammie’s shoulders relaxed. “You will?”
“Of course. Evangeline is one of the youth at church. Her well bein’ is just as important to me as is to you, Sammie.” Marigold offered him a reassuring smile, though unease had already begun coiling inside her chest. “If she’s still here, we’ll find her.”
Marigold grabbed Sammie by the hand as they stepped into the current of bodies moving through The Blackline. Sammie searched with hopeful eyes. Marigold searched with growing dread. Neither of them noticed that, across the room, someone else had quietly begun watching the search unfold.
Someone only Liza June could see.
Stack peeled himself away from the bar with the last swallow of bourbon still warm in his chest. His eyes drifted toward the hallway leading toward the bathrooms.
Goldie should’ve been back by now.
He frowned.
As he crossed the floor, Peaches breezed past carrying a tray stacked with condoms and fresh drinks, hips rocking to the band without missing a step.
“Peach.”
She looked over one glistening shoulder. “Mhm?”
“You see Goldie, tell her quit hidin’ from me and come on to my office.”
Peaches smirked. “You done got needy.”
“I been needy.”
Peaches laughed. “I’ll tell her, baby. Maybe I should warn her you primmed and ready then, huh?”
Stack shot her a lazy grin and kept walking.
As he walked, the scent of fried catfish, greens, and fresh cornbread drifted from the kitchen. As he passed the swinging door, something caught the corner of his eye. Stack stopped and backed up. He pushed the kitchen door open just enough to peek inside.
Delta Slim had Aunt Pearl backed against one of the prep tables, grinning from ear to ear while she cupped the old pianist’s face with both hands and kissed him like she’d been waiting all week to do it. Delta Slim chuckled into the kiss. Aunt Pear swatted his shoulder without ever pulling away.
Stack pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lord have mercy.”
Neither of them heard him. Stack pushed the door shut with a quick thump.
“Ain’t nobody wanna see all that.” His head shook as a laugh escaped him. “Two old folks actin’ like they sixteen.”
Still smiling to himself, he adjusted his jacket and continued down the hallway toward his office, unaware that before the night was over, laughter would be the last easy thing anyone remembered.
Stack’s polished shoes stopped dead on the worn floorboards. There was a girl huddled in the corner. She wasn’t just any stray, Stack recognized her to be the girl Sammie been checking for since he showed up in Little Rock. Her shoulders were drawn tight like she was still trying to fold herself smaller while her face told a different story. Split lip. Purple blooming under one eye. Marks that didn’t come from no fall.
“You alright, sugar?” His voice came out low and careful.
Evangeline dragged the heel of her hand across her wet cheeks, sniffling hard. “I’m fine. Just fine, Mr. Stack.”
Stack stepped closer, the wall sconce from the hallway catching the damage. His jaw worked once.
“Somebody put hands on you?”
Evangeline remained silent. She looked past him like the wall might swallow her whole.
“What’s your name?”
“Evangeline.”
Stack studied her. “If you walk out them doors lookin’ like that, word gon’ travel faster than a rumor in a choir loft.” He said. “And if it gets back to your people that you was here…” he let the rest hang. They both knew what that meant.
“I’m not going back home.” She spoke, but it was so low Stack had to strain his ears to catch it.
“Where my cousin at?” The question came out tight. Deep in his gut he knew Sammie wouldn’t raise a hand to a woman, he knew better than to do no shit like that. But the marks on her face made his fingers itch anyway.
“I don’t know.” She whispered.
Stack exhaled through his nose and opened his office door, the hinges giving a soft groan. Warm lamplight spilled across a heavy desk cluttered with loose papers and an ashtray still smoking.
He nodded inside. “Come on. ain’t nobody need to see you like this.”
Evangeline hesitated, then stepped past him. Stack cracked the door behind them, cutting most of the noise from the hall. Stack stayed by the door a moment, watching her take in the room, her eyes darting over the velvet sofa, the half-empty bottle of whiskey, the coat rack heavy with his good jackets.
“Go on, sit.” Stack said. “Ain’t gon’ bite.”
Evangeline lowered herself onto the edge of the sofa, her fingers twisting in her lap. Stack crossed to the desk, poured himself a finger of whiskey into a glass, and took a sip. His gaze drifted back to that split lip.
“You don’t gotta tell me what happened.” He said, after a beat. “But if somebody’s puttin’ hands in you, you best believe they gon’ answer for it.”
Evangeline’s wet eyes tracked him from head to toe before pulling away.
Stack eased himself onto the edge of the heavy desk, one polished shoe braced against the floor, the other dangling. He watched her for a moment, finger tapping the glass, the wheels in his head turning. Hoping Sammie ain’t got nothing to do with her hurtin’.
“Who hit you, Evangeline?” Stack’s voice stayed low, almost gentle.
She kept her eyes on her lap, shoulders shaking, fresh tears sliding free.
Stack let out a slow breath through his nose. He set his glass aside and pushed off the desk. The door to the back room creaked as he disappeared inside. When he came back, he carried a damp cloth and a small chunk of ice wrapped in it. He held it out without a word.
Evangeline took it with trembling fingers and pressed the cold against her swollen cheek. Stack lowered himself onto the sofa beside her, close enough that the cushion dipped under his weight.
“One of them boys out front?” he asked. “Say the word and I’ll handle it. Get you home safe, no questions asked.”
Her face crumpled again. The tears came harder, silent and hot. Stack reached over and laid his palm between her shoulder blades, rubbing slow circles through the thin fabric of her dress. Stack just stayed there, unsure of what to do other than go out and ask around. Surely, if an altercation did occur, he would have known.
“Did some man try and come on to you?” Stack asked.
Evangeline sniffled, rubbing her eyes. Eyes that kept betraying her as they swept over Stack’s body. The feeling of his hand making her feel fuzzy.
“Wasn’t nothin’ like that. I…”
“Funny thing ‘bout nothin’. It usually leave folks lookin’ like somethin’ happened.” His voice never rises. “You ain’t gotta explain it to me.” Another pause. “Just don’t sit here thinkin’ somebody got the right to leave their fingerprints on your life. Folks’ll have you believin’ love always come with a hard hand. I should know.”
Evangeline crumbled. She leaned her head against Stack’s shoulder, her tears soaking into the silk of his shirt.
“Shhh, hey now…it’s alright. Listen, why don’t I go look for Sammie. See if we can sort this out—”
Her hand slid down between his legs, fingers closing around the softened outline of his dick through the fabric of his trousers. Stack shot to his feet so fast the sofa scraped back an inch.
“What the hell you doin’, girl?”
She stayed where she was, eyes puffy, lips trembling. “I always wanted to know what it was like to be with one of the Smokestack Twins. You been so kind to me, Mr. Stack.”
Her fingers went to the buttons of her dress. She started working them open.
Stack’s voice came sharp. “Keep that dress on.”
“What? You don’t wanna make me feel better?”
Stack looked away. He swiped at his nose and then made his way to the door. “Not like this. I ain’t who you think I am. I’m many things but not this. Button that dress back up.”
Evangleine laughed, a bitter little sound that didn’t reach her eyes. “Since when does Stack Moore turn down some pussy?”
Stack was seeing red. He crossed the room in three strides and reached for the door, “I’m gettin’ Aunt Pearl to take you home—”
Before he could open the door it swung open.
Sammie and Marigold stood right there in the hallway. Sammie’s eyes went straight to Evangeline’s open dress, skin showing beneath, the bruise on her face. His jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped.
Marigold stepped inside first. “What’s going on in here?”
Stack looked from Sammie, to Marigold, to Evangeline.
“Found her outside my office banged up. Somebody hit her—”
“Evangeline, everything alright?”
Sammie crossed the room to her. Evangeline stood abruptly, turning away to fix herself.
“Eva—”
“STOP! I’m fine. I ain’t fuck your cousin, Sammie. If that’s what you worried about.”
Sammie frowned. “You think that’s what I care ‘bout right now? Your face—”
“Ask Sister Marigold why my face look like this.”
Stack and Sammie turned their eyes onto Marigold.
“I struck her.” Marigold confessed. “I ain’t mean to—”
“You meant to. Just like you meant to ruin our lives. Wait till I tell everyone that you fuckin’ a pimp in a pussy house. That image you worked so hard for gon’ burn so bright everybody in Little Rock gon’ see it.”
Evangeline stormed past Sammie and bumped Marigold’s shoulder. Sammie grabbed her wrist but Evangeline wiggled her arm out of his grip and stormed out of the office. He was on her heels like a bloodhound with a fresh scent. Stack and Marigold stood frozen for a moment before following them.
“Eva! Come on, now. We can talk about this—”
“Stop following me, Sammie!”
“Listen, whatever happened, we can help. You ain’t gotta go through this alone—”
She turned as though she meant to leave, but Sammie stepped into her path. He didn’t grab her this time. He simply stood there, concern plain in his eyes.
“Talk to me.”
Her laugh came again, full of pain. “Why?”
“‘Cause somethin’ happened.”
“You don’t know what happened.”
“No. But I know you hurtin’.”
The tenderness in his voice hurt worse than an accusation could have. Evangeline’s chin trembled before she caught it between her teeth. She wanted him to be foolish. She wanted him to flirt, to say something smooth, to give her an excuse to laugh at him and walk away. Instead, he looked at her like her tears mattered.
“You don’t even know me.” She said.
Sammie lowered his voice. “Maybe not yet.”
“There ain’t gon’ be no yet.”
His brows furrowed. “What that mean?”
“It mean you need to stop lookin’ at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m somethin’ sweet.”
“You are.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know enough.”
“No, you don’t.” Her voice sharpened, cutting through the music between them. “You met me on a sidewalk licking ice cream. You saw me in a pretty dress, let me dance on you, kissed me a little, sucked my pussy, now you think you know what kind of girl I am.”
“I never said that.”
“You ain’t have to, Sammie.”
Sammie’s expression softened further, which only made her angrier.
“Evangeline, I ain’t tryin’ to judge you.”
“Everybody says that right before they do.”
“I ain’t everybody—”
“You a preacher’s son.”
“I ain’t my daddy—”
“You still got his Bible all through you!”
The words struck him, though he tried not to show it.
“What would your daddy think if he found out you been licking pussy? You hangin’ ‘round The Smokestack twins? You performing blues music in a Juke full of the drunk and the frisky, huh? I’d get out while I still can. At least you got time for savin’.” Evangeline rubbed quickly beneath one eye. “Go enjoy your birthday. They threw this whole night for you. Got women in there that know exactly what you want and how to give it to you.”
“I was lookin’ for you.”
“Well, stop.”
Sammie went still. Evangeline drew a breath that trembled all the way down.
“I got somebody anyway.”
Sammie’s face changed. Only slightly. A tiny glimpse behind his eyes.
“You got a man?”
“That’s what I said.”
Sammie searched her expression, perhaps waiting for the teasing curl of her lips or a wink that would reveal the game. None came. Evangeline forced herself to hold his gaze until the lie settled between them.
“Why you ain’t say that before?”
Evangeline scoffed. “I ain’t owe you my whole life story.”
“I know…”
“Then quit askin’.”
Sammie nodded slowly. “Alright.”
His acceptance should have brought relief. Instead, it left her feeling hollow. Evangeline looked at him properly thenz at the college pin on his lapel. At the faint sheen of perspiration resting along his temple. At the gentle hands that had gripped her waist and pinned her legs in that dressing room. He had looked at her as though she were worth discovering. That was precisely why she had to push harder.
“Go find you somebody more suitable.” She said. “Some good little college girl. Some little church girl from back home. A girl who writes letter and sit quiet while you play. Somebody worth your time.”
Sammie’s brows drew together. “Why you talkin’ like you ain’t?”
She looked away.
“Evangeline—”
“Just leave me alone, Sammie.”
He could hear the plea beneath the anger. He could also hear his father’s voice from years ago, insisting that women needed correction when their emotions carried them too far. Jedediah would have followed. Cornered. Demanded answers until there was no room left for anything but obedience.
Sammie would not become that man.
Evangeline stepped around him and headed toward the front of the room.
Sammie turned after her. For one breath, he followed. One step carried him into the stream of dancers before he stopped himself. She had asked him to leave her alone. Whatever had transpired between her and Marigold, she didn’t want him beside her while she carried it.
“Preacher Boy!”
A hand clapped his shoulder from behind. Someone called for another song. Delta Slom lifted both hands from the piano and shouted that the birthday boy owed the room one more number. Sammie glanced back at them, then toward Evangeline. She had already disappeared among the bodies. He stood there another second, torn between instinct and respect, before lowering his head.
She needed time.
He would find her later.
The office door had scarcely stopped rattling from Sammie and Evangeline’s hurried exit before things settled uneasy. Marigold stood in the middle of the room, arms wrapped tightly around herself, staring at the open doorway as though Evangeline might suddenly appear again.
“I struck her.” Her confession came with shame. “So hard.” Her voice wavered. “I have never laid my hands on one of my girls.”
Stack remained where he was beside his desk. He said nothing.
Marigold laughed once, though it carried no humor. “I looked at her…” she swallowed. “…and all I could see was myself.” She pressed trembling fingers against her lips. “I became exactly what she accused me of.”
Stack watched her for another moment before speaking.
“No.”
She lifted weary eyes toward him.
“You became somebody who lost hold of herself.”
The distinction did little to comfort her. A fresh wave of shame crossed her face. Then, another thought entered.
“What if she tells? What if she tells everybody?” Marigold whispered. “The congregation…my husband…those girls…” she shook her head. “My whole life…”
Stack’s answer came without hesitation. “Then she tells.”
Marigold stared at him as though he’d struck her himself.
“That’s all you got to say?”
“What else you want me to say?” Stack tilted his head.
“You don’t understand—”
“I understand just fine.”
“No. You don’t. They’ll talk.”
“They might—”
“They’ll rip me apart.”
“They might.”
“My girls won’t listen to another word I say—”
“Maybe.”
Each answer landed heavier than the last. Frustration finally overtook her.
“You don’t care.”
Stack’s brow lifted.
“You think this some kind of joke.”
“I think it’s the truth.”
Marigold shut her eyes. “I could lose everything.”
“You already losin’ it, Goldie.”
She blinked. “What?”
“You hate hearin’ the truth.”
“I do not—”
“You do.” His voice never rose. “You hate any truth that asks somethin’ of you.”
Marigold shook her head fiercely. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Stack.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking’ ‘bout.” He took one measured step toward her. “You spend time worryin’ ‘bout what everybody else think, you ain’t ask yourself what you think in a long while.”
Marigold felt the walls closing in.
“I need to go.”
She turned for the door. Before her fingers reached the knob, Stack crossed the room. He opened the door first, glanced into the hallway, then quietly shut it again.
The lock clicked into place.
Marigold stared. “What are you doin’?”
He motioned toward the chair opposite his desk.
“Sit.”
“I said I need to leave.”
“I heard you.”
“Move.”
“No.”
She searched his face, waiting for the arrogance she had come to expect from men who gave orders. It wasn’t there.
Only patience.
Only resolve.
Her shoulders sagged. The fight left them. Slowly, she lowered herself into the chair. Stack remained standing for a long moment before finally asking the question that had lived behind his eyes for weeks.
“Why you still with him?”
Marigold looked down at her hands.
No answer came.
He asked another. “Why you still tied to that church?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it again. Words that had once come so easily refused to appear.
Duty. Marriage. Calling. Obedience.
Each felt thinner than the last.
Stack watched the realization cross her face.
“You keep tellin’ me what you scared of losin’.” He leaned against the edge of his desk. “Tell me one thing over there that’s still holdin’ on to you.”
Marigold searched for it. For something. Anything.
Obadiah. No. Her marriage. No. The church building. No. Her title. No. Only faces came. The young women. Bible lessons. Hospital visits. Meals delivered to grieving families.
Evangeline.
The thought struck so sharply she rose from the chair.
“I can’t do this.”
She hurried to the door and unlocked it before Stack could stop her. The knob turned. She stepped into the hallway. Behind her came his voice, carrying just enough amusement to make her stop for the briefest second.
“Runnin’ again?”
She closed her eyes.
“Thought we was past that.”
Marigold looked back over her shoulder. The glare she gave him carried exhaustion more than anger. Then, she walked away. She moved quickly through the back corridors until the music softened behind thick walls. The warmth of the kitchen met her first. Pots soaked in wash tubs. The smell of cornbread still lingered in the air. Alma Rose stood at one sink with her sleeves rolled high, drying heavy platters while Aunt Pearl wiped down one of the long preparation tables, humming softly beneath her breath. Both women looked up together. One glance was all Aunt Pearl needed.
“What happened?”
Marigold tried to answer but nothing came. She lowered her eyes instead.
After a long silence, she managed quietly, “Aunt Pearl…”
The older woman set the rag aside. “Mm-hmm?”
“Would you…” Her voice nearly broke. “…would you mind drivin’ me home?”
Concern settled across Aunt Pearl’s face, but she asked no questions.
“Course I will.” She untied her apron and handed it to Alma Rose. “You finish up in here for me, baby.”
Alma Rose nodded. “I got it.”
Marigold waited near the back door while Aunt Pearl gathered her things.
Just as Aunt Pearl reached for her coat…
The church bell rang.
One slow toll.
Its sound rolled through the kitchen walls and settled over every pot, every plate, every tired pair of hands. Even Alma Rose’s rag stilled against the china. Marigold felt the sound settle somewhere deep inside her chest. Aunt Pearl quietly slipped her coat over her shoulders.
“Come on, baby.”
Marigold nodded.
Neither woman spoke as they stepped out into the Arkansas night.
Behind them, The Blackline laughed.
Across the street, the bell rang again.
The Rise of First Blood
Evangeline moved without purpose through The Blackline, letting the crowd swallow her. She passed couples with their foreheads pressed together, women laughing over cards, men losing money with good humor and ordering another round. The room that had seemed scandalous when she first entered now looked different through the sting of her tears.
She saw a young woman sitting beside the stage with her face buried against Peaches’ shoulder. Peaches did not tell her to straighten up. She did not tell her that tears invited weakness or that grief could be prayed away. She stroked the woman’s back and listened while she cried, her full attention offered without correction.
Near the bar, a patron reached for one of the dancers. The woman caught his wrist, shook her head, and continued past him. He lifted both palms, accepted the refusal, and turned back to his drink. No one dragged her aside. No one asked what kind of woman denied a man after accepting his attention. At a nearby table, Aunt Pearl set down a plate in front of a girl who had been too busy working to eat. She fussed over her until the girl took the first bite, then walked away satisfied. The Blackline contained vice. Evangeline could see it clearly. Liquor poured faster than water. Clothes fell open. Money passed between hands for pleasures no church woman would name aloud. Yet beneath all of it lived something she had not expected to find.
Choice.
The realization disturbed her more than the obscenity. Marigold’s face returned to her. Garnet lips. Black satin. Her body settled on Stack Moore’s lap while he kissed her neck and whispered filth no doubt. The look of shock on her face when she’d locked eyes with her. The woman who had once warned Evangeline that wickedness entered through open doors had looked more alive in that booth than she ever had standing beside Obadiah.
Evangeline hated her for it. She envied her for it too. That truth was harder to bear.
She drifted closer to the entrance, wrapping her arms around herself. The mark on her cheek and the split in her lip had begun to ache now that the adrenaline has settled. Everything she had said to Marigold returned in jagged pieces, crueler now that the anger had faded. She remembered Marigold’s face after the slap, the horror and regret that followed it.
She had wanted the First Lady to hurt.
And she had succeeded.
It had not made anything better.
Across the room, tucked behind a veiled alcove, Liza June sat with her cards gathered loosely in both hands. She had stopped reading them some time ago. Lana had wandered away to tend to a John, leaving her alone with the spread and the company no one else could see.
Louisa Fields, one of the spirits, had remained near the piano after Sammie finished playing. The Harris twins had stood together beside an empty booth, their fingers linked. Clarene Bell watched the stage with a longing that had survived her body. Larissa Boone lingered near the wall, stern and watchful. Cressida Weatherford stood closest to Marigold as she surfaced without Stack, her weathered hands held near her sides.
Then, Louisa turned toward the front door.
The Harris twins followed.
Clarene lowered her head and went after them.
Larissa crossed the room with the grave composure of a woman answering a summons.
Liza June straightened.
The spirits did not disappear. They moved through the living crowd, passing between dancers and tables without disturbing cloth or flesh. Every one of them traveled in the same direction.
Her cards tightened between her fingers.
“Where ya’ll goin’?”
None turned.
One card slipped free and landed face up on the table.
Death.
Liza stared at it.
Ordinarily, she would have scolded anyone foolish enough to fear the card. Death did not always mean a grave. It could mean change, release, one life ending so another might begin. Tonight, the image looked different.
Cressida remained behind for one final heartbeat. Her eyes found Marigold across the room. The First Lady was scanning the crowd beside Sammie now. Both of them searching for someone they could no longer see. Then, Cressida looked toward Liza.
No chant came this time. No words formed inside her mind. The old woman simply closed her eyes.
Grief moved across her face before she turned and followed the others.
Liza’s stomach tightened. She didn’t rise or follow. She remained perfectly still while the dead passed through the front door.
Evangeline reached it moments later.
The doorman recognized her from when she came in and tipped his hat. “Headin’ out, Miss?”
“Just need some air.”
“Friends left some time ago.”
Evangeline glanced back into the room. Her girls had gone. She figured as much. They were past their curfew. She spotted Sammie with his guitar, forcing a smile on his face. Evangeline nearly called his name. The thought rose to her lips. Then, Pride swallowed it.
“Actually, I think I’m a head home. Thanks anyway.”
The doorman opened the door. “Have a good evening.”
Music poured into the night around her, bright and lively for a few seconds before the heavy door closed and reduced it to a muffled pulse behind brick. West Ninth had thinned considerably. Storefronts sat dark behind their glasses. Stratton’s three pale circles across the pavement, leaving stretches of shadow between them. The August heat had not broken, though the night breeze cooled the tears drying on Evangeline’s face. Across the narrow lane stood Greater Calvary Holy Temple Church of Deliverance. It’s white exterior looked gray beneath the moon. The iron fence bordered rows of lilies that appeared colorless at this hour. High above the street, the bell tower cut into the skit like a raised finger demanding silence.
Evangeline turned away from it.
She walked slowly, without any true destination. She didn’t want to go back home. To face her mother’s judgment or her father’s hand. She only wanted distance form Marigold, from Sammie’s kindness, from the music that had reached into her chest and stirred feelings she was not prepared to name.
Behind her, the dead emerged through The Blackline’s closed door.
Louisa came first, small and barefoot, ribcage visible above her nightgown; malnourished. The Harris twins walked behind her, still holding hands, translucent and water-soaked, dripping constantly, leaving puddles wherever they moved. They still wore the same swollen, bluish features with their hair plastered their face and clothing clinging like wet rags. Clarene had bruising around her neck and walked with a wobble. Larissa carried a medicinal scent mixed with the old communion wine sweetness. Other spirits joined them, spirits tied to the patrons, the musicians, the kitchens and the old streets beneath Little Rock. Faces from lives already lived. Shapes belonging to years not yet born.
Cressida came last.
The formed a silent procession several paces behind her, keeping pace as she crossed beyond the strongest reach of The Blackline’s lights. Evangeline felt the change without understanding it. The fine hairs along her arms lifted. She glanced over one shoulder.
The street appeared empty.
She rubbed her palms over her sleeves and kept walking. The music weakened with each step Evangeline took until that world became no more than a distant rhythm carried through the night.
Evangeline paused beside the church fence.
A lily had fallen onto the pavement. She nudged it with the toe of her shoe, then looked toward the road leading home.
“Miss Monroe.”
The voice came from behind her.
Evangleine turned.
Deacon Josiah Wells stood beneath the nearest streetlamp. She had known him most of her life. He had carried her on his shoulders during church picnics when she was small and slipped peppermint candies into her palm after services. Tonight he wore a dark suit buttoned to the throat, his hat held respectfully against his chest.
The tension left her shoulders.
“Deacon Wells.”
“Your mama and daddy been worried.”
Her gaze dropped. “They know I’m gone?”
“They know enough.”
“I was fixin’ to head home.”
“I figured as much.” He gave her the same patient smile she remembered from childhood. “Come on, then. I’ll see you there safe.”
Evangeline glanced toward The Blackline. She thought of Sammie. She thought of going back inside and telling him the truth, at least enough of it to apologize. Then, she pictured her father waiting at home.
“I can walk.”
“At this hour?” Deacon Wells chuckled softly. “Your daddy would have my hide if I let his girl cross town alone.”
The words sounded reasonable. Familiar.
She stepped toward him.
The spirits stopped.
Every one of them.
Louisa’s face tightened with fear. The Harris twins drew closer together. Clarene opened her mouth though no sound passed through it. Larissa reached for Evangeline and met only distance.
Cressida raised both hands. The hands that had delivered children, closed wounds, calmed fevers and helped women survive the touch of cruel men.
They could do nothing now.
Evangeline had nearly reached Deacon Wells when another man stepped from the deeper shadow beside the church steps. Then, a third appeared near the gate.
Her pace slowed. “Who they?”
Wells’ smile remained, though all warmth had left it.
“Church business.”
“At this time of night?”
“You been keepin’ late hours yourself.”
Something in his voice changed her breathing.
Evangeline stepped backward.
Wells reached for her arm.
She jerked away. “Don’t touch me.”
The men moved at once.
One caught her from behind. A broad hand covered her mouth before she could scream. She kicked backward, heel striking bone, and heard someone curse. Her teeth closed against the palm over her lips.
“Hold her.”
Evangeline twisted hard enough to tear one sleeve at the shoulder. She clawed at the arm trapping her, eyes fixed on The Blackline’s entrance only yards away.
The music continued behind the walls. She tried to call Sammie. Only a broken sound escaped beneath the man’s hand.
Deacon Wells seized her legs as the others lifted her from the pavement. Her eyes widened. Not with confusion anymore.
With recognition.
The spirits crowded around them, reaching, grieving, powerless. Cressida stood closest, her hands pressed against Evangeline’s face without being felt.
The girl fought until a dark cloth was forced over her nose and mouth.
The church bell tolled once.
Evangeline’s body went slack.
The men carried her through the iron gate. Behind them, the fallen lily lay crushed against the pavement. And across the lane, The Blackline kept singing.
Morning came. It slowly settled over the carriage house behind The Blackline. Thin ribbons of sunlight caught lazy flecks of dust that drifted through the warm air. The fragrance of old cedar, worn leather, hay, faint traces of manure, and machine oil. An empty wagon leaned against one wall beside stacked feed crates and coiled harnesses that hadn’t seen a horse in years.
Beyond the open doors crowded with overgrown grass, life had already begun again. Minnie laughed and cooed in the kitchen. A pan clanged against a stove, probably Aunt Pearl frying up some bacon fat fritters. Delta Skim tested a few wandering notes on the piano before deciding against a tune to play tonight. Cornbread was snoring in one of the guest rooms, causing some of the girls to groan about missed sleep because of a grisly bear. The little white kitten, Trouble, darted across the courtyard chasing something only he could see.
The world had moved on accordingly.
Sammie had not.
He sat alone on an overturned crate with his guitar resting across his lap. It had once belonged to Smoke and Stack’s father before the brothers placed it in Sammie’s hands years later, telling him every instrument deserved another voice.
This morning it felt heavier than usual. His fingers wandered over the strings, searching for something familiar. A blues progression found its way beneath his fingertips before faltering halfway through. He tried again. Stopped again. But nothing sounded right. Sammie’s thoughts refused to stay on the music. Instead, they drifted back to the night before.
Evangeline laughing. Evangeline dancing. The sharp wit behind every smile she sent his way. Then…her face after everything had unraveled. The bruise. It wasn’t the mark itself, or that Marigold had struck her. It was the way she reacted. She hadn’t looked surprised. She didn’t seem to care that she’d been hit in retaliation. She looked…ready. As though somewhere in her life she’d already learned what it meant to brace herself before a hand came.
That was the part Sammie couldn’t shake.
He drew a slow breath and rested both hands across the guitar. He allowed himself to be swallowed by silence before it was broken by footsteps crunching across the gravel outside.
“They teach y’all that at college?”
Sammie looked up.
Stack leaned against the doorway with a steaming mug balanced in one hand. His hat had been traded for a neatly combed head of conked hair, his suit coat abandoned somewhere inside. Suspenders crossed a white shirt rolled neatly to his forearms. But the gold on his fingers and around his neck never left him. He was Elias Moore after all.
Stack nodded toward the guitar. “Or you tryin’ punish that poor thing?”
A corner of Sammie’s mouth lifted despite himself.
“I ain’t punishin’ it.”
“Mmm.”
Stack wandered inside without waiting for permission and lowered himself onto a crate beside him. He took a sip of his chicory coffee mixed with a little melted chocolate. He looked out through the open carriage doors, his eyes tracking Trouble trying to catch dragonflies. They simply breathed beside each other, Stack taking sips of his coffee and Sammie plucking the strings with his thumb. Stack had always known when silence needed company more than conversation. After a while he nudged Sammie’s shoulder.
“She got you all tangled up already?”
Sammie gave a quiet scoff. “Ain’t like that.”
“If you say so, lil’ nigga.”
“It ain’t.”
Stack smiled into his coffee but let the denial pass. Another stretch of quiet settled between them. Finally, Sammie spoke.
“I keep thinkin’ about her.”
“The girl?”
Sammie nodded. “I keep seein’ that look on her face. The way she…” His voice lowered. “She looked…broken.” He swallowed. “Not because of Marigold.”
Stack turned his head. “What you mean?”
Sammie stared down at the strings. “I don’t know.” He searched for the words. “Sum’ just ain’t right.”
Stack didn’t rush to answer. He simply listened.
Sammie let out a tired breath. “I don’t know. Just…it bothered me.”
“It ought to.”
Sammie looked over.
Stack rested his elbows on his knees, turning the coffee mug slowly between his palms.
“World got a habit of puttin’ too much on folks before they old enough to carry it.” He looked toward the bright morning outside. “Sometimes somebody cross your path and all they leave you with is a question.”
Sammie frowned. “What kinda question?”
Stack’s gaze stayed fixed ahead. “The kind you spend years answerin’.”
The words lingered between them.
Sammie looked back down at the guitar.
“You ever have somebody just…” He hesitated. “…walk out your life before you figured ’em out?”
Stack chuckled softly. “More than once.”
There was something unreadable behind the smile that followed. Before Sammie could ask anything else, Stack clapped both hands against his knees and stood.
“That’s enough of this.”
“What?”
“You.” Stack pointed at him. “You in your big cousin’s house actin’ like somebody done stole Christmas.”
Sammie laughed. A real laugh this time, though it still carried a trace of weariness.
“I ain’t actin’.”
“You absolutely actin’.”
Stack reached over and caught him in a loose headlock, rubbing the top of his head with his knuckles until Sammie pushed him away.
“Man, quit.”
“There he is.” Stack grinned. “I knew you was still in there somewhere.”
Sammie shook his head, trying not to smile.
“You supposed to be celebratin’.” Stack slung an easy arm across his shoulders and steered him toward the open doors. “You a college man now. A bluesman. My lil’ cousin. Ain’t no room ‘round here for mopin’ all day.”
They stepped into the morning together. Trouble darted past their feet and damn near leaped up the steps into the kitchen.
Stack leaned close, lowering his voice as though conspiring to rob a bank.
“Aunt Pearl got sweet potato biscuits coolin’ in that kitchen.”
Sammie raised an eyebrow. “So?”
Stack looked over both shoulders with exaggerated caution.
“I heard tell she made peach preserves too.”
A grin finally spread across Sammie’s face.
“You know she gon’ fuss.”
“Only if she catch us.”
They crossed the courtyard shoulder to shoulder, laughing quietly like two boys about to steal something they both knew they’d be forgiven for before supper.
Stack moved like a shadow, his broad shoulders hunched as he crept toward the cooling rack. He didn’t make a sound, his movements were fluid and practiced while Sammie hovered just behind him, his eyes darting toward the doorway. Stack’s large hand shot out, snatching a golden-brown sweet potato biscuit still steaming from the oven. He grabbed another for Sammie, pressing it into his cousin’s palm with a wicked, knowing grin. Using his thick fingers, Stack split the biscuit in half and walked over to the peach preserves, using a tiny, sterling silver engraved spoon to scoop some onto the biscuit. Sammie held his own biscuit out and stack gave him a dollop.
“Hush now,” Stack whispered with a low, gravelly voice. “‘Fore Pearl catch us and use that bread paddle to whip us.”
Sammie snorted a laughter while Stack masked his by taking a bite of the buttery delight. Peach preserves danced across his tongue and made his eyes roll shut.
They retreated from the kitchen, sneaking through the back hallway and slipping into the main area of The Blackline. The main area held the aftermath of a crowded room with floorboards scarred by years of dancing boots and spilled liquor. On stage, Delta Slim sat at the upright piano, his dark fingers dancing over the keys in a slow, mourning melody that seemed to pull the very soul out of the keys.
A few paces away, Aunt Pearl stood still as a statue. Her dark skin was etched with the lines of a hard-lived life. Her gaze was fixed on Delta with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. She watched him play with a look that hovered somewhere between love and a deep, aching grief.
Stack leaned in close to Sammie, the biscuit halfway to his mouth. He lowered his voice, a playful glint in his whiskey-colored eyes.
“I tell ya’, Sammie…I seen ‘em last night,” Stack whispered, glancing back at Pearl. “Caught ‘em in the kitchen. Delta and Aunt Pearl was tongue-kissing like two teenagers who just found out the preacher went to sleep. Thought they was gon’ swallow each other whole.”
Sammie almost choked on a piece of biscuit, his eyes widening. “Aunt Pearl? Swear? She too strict for that.”
“Strict in the light, maybe,” Stack chuckled, his deep dimples popping. “But the dark do something to a person. Make ‘em remember things they tried to bury.” Stack paused, his expression softening as he watched the two of them. “I wonder how they even started. You don’t just look at a man like that unless there’s a whole lifetime of ghosts between you.”
A heavy sigh sounded beside them. Minnie stepped into the light, her shoulders slumped and her eyes heavy with a bone-deep weariness. Her dark skin looked matte when the light hit it and she moved with a slow, dragging gait of someone who hadn’t seen a bed in twenty-four hours. She didn’t say where she’d been, but the way she rubbed the small of her back and the distant, exhausted look in her eyes hinted at her night spent pacing a floor.
Minnie overheard them and let out a dry, raspy laugh. “Ya’ll talkin’ ‘bout ghosts now? You ain’t gotta wonder, Stack. Pearl used to be the star of the show.”
Stack raised an eyebrow. “The star?”
“Mm-hm,” Minnie nodded leaning against a pillar. “She told me sum’ she ain’t never share before. Back in the day, Pearl had a voice that could make the devil weep. She used to sing them old ragtime songs—fast, filthy, full of life. Delta there? She said he was the heart of the band. They was thick as thieves, those two. Had a fling that set the whole Delta talking.”
Sammie looked from Minnie to the piano. “What happened?”
Minnie’s expression dimmed. “Life happened. Delta got caught up in some trouble and needed to on the chain gang. Gone for years. Just like that. Pearl…she ain’t hear nothin’ for a long time. Word got back that he and his buddy Rice had been hanged by the state. Pearl took that news and buried it deep. She married a good man, had her boy, and tired to forget the sound of that piano.”
Stack watched Delta hit a low, resonant chord. He saw the way Pearl’s chest hitched, a small sharp intake of breath.
“Seein’ him walk back through those doors.” Minnie continued softly. “It ain’t just bring back the love. It opened up every old wound she ever managed to scab over. It’s a heavy thing, comin’ back from the dead.”
Stack just stood there, chewing the last of his biscuit, watching the silent communication between the woman and the musician. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. It wasn’t a cruel one. It was the smile of a man who understood that the most powerful desires were the ones that survived the impossible.
Sammie’s expression turned thoughtful, almost tentative. He looked at his cousin—this man who seemed to glide through life with an effortless, seductive confidence, always surrounded by laughter and the scent of expensive pomade and women’s perfume.
“Stack,” Sammie started, a small, teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You always out here playin’ the field, keepin’ every girl from here to Chicago guessin’. You ever think you gon’ actually find love? Or you just gon’ keep collectin’ ‘em like stamps?”
Stack let out a loud, booming laugh that bounced off the scarred floorboards, his deep dimples carving into his cheeks. He slapped his thigh, his eyes sparkling with amusement. Delta Slim and Aunt Pearl looked over like they’d been interrupted. Minnie walked away with a shake of her head towards the kitchen to start prepping for the night’s opening.
“Find love?” Stack chuckled, shaking his head. “Boy, you talkin’ like I’m some lonely soul wanderin’ the wilderness. I got love in spades.” Stack gestured broadly with a large hand, encompassing the room. “I got you, I got Smoke—even if that man act like a stone wall half the time. And I got my girls, them sweet twins. I got more love than I know what to do with, Sammie. Why trade a whole garden for one single rose when I can have the whole damn field?”
Sammie didn’t seem convinced. He let the silence stretch for a second before his voice dropped an octave, becoming a soft, pointed needle.
“What ‘bout Marigold?”
The laughter didn’t vanish but it froze. The playful light in his eyes dimmed into something guarded, something unreadable. The name hung in the air between them, heavy and thick, clashing with the mournful chords of the piano. For a heartbeat, the mask of the charming rouge slipped, revealing a glimpse of the man who knew exactly how dangerous a woman like Marigold could be. And exactly how much he craved that danger.
Stack cleared his throat, his jaw tightening as he straightened up. He didn’t look at Sammie, instead focusing his gaze on the doorway, his voice returning to its usual smooth, dismissive rumble, though the warmth was gone.
“I got shit to do,” Stack muttered, pushing off the pillar. He didn’t linger, turning on his heel to make a quick exit. As he walked away, he tossed a hand back over his shoulder, his tone returning to a forced, teasing edge. “Go on now. Go find yourself some stag films and a bottle of corn liquor. Put some hair on that chest ‘o yours ‘fore you start gettin’ all poetic on me.”
A few blocks over, Marigold scarcely slept. The dawn had come pale and slow through the bedroom curtains, finding her already awake, sitting upright with the blankets gathered around her waist. Obadiah had risen before first light as he always did, his side of the bed left neat and undisturbed, the lingering scent of his shaving soap hanging faintly in the room. He’d come home late, Marigold faking sleep to avoid him. She remained where she was long after he had gone. Her cheek rested against her fingertips and every time she closed her eyes, she saw Evangeline. Not the girl laughing with Sammie. Not the girl slipping through the doors of The Blackline.
The girl in that narrow hallway. Eyes shining with hurt. Voice trembling beneath anger.
You weren’t teachin’ us. You were teachin’ us how to become you.
Marigold squeezed her eyes shut. Then came another.
Naomi was right.
Her stomach tightened.
Naomi. Esther.
The wounds she had spent years trying to bind together with prayer and patience had been ripped open in the span of a few cruel minutes. Evangeline had spoken their names like accusations. Like Marigold had stood by while both of them slipped beyond her reach.
Had she?
The question refused to leave.
She rose at last, bathed, dressed simply, and tied her hat beneath her chin with hands that would not stop fidgeting. She intended to make her usual house visits that morning. Instead, her feet carried her somewhere else.
She needed to see Evangeline. Needed to apologize. Needed to explain. Or perhaps…she simply needed to know the girl had made it home. That thought settled uneasily in her chest. She couldn’t stop thinking that Evangeline had returned safely…and would tell someone where she’d seen the First Lady the night before. Marigold hated herself for thinking it. More than that, she hated that the thought had come before anything else. She whispered a prayer beneath her breath as she walked. The prayer wasn’t for protection. It was for forgiveness.
The Monroe home sat undisturbed beneath the morning sun, its white paint weathered by Arkansas summers and damp winters alike. A pair of rocking chairs rested on the porch, one still gently swaying as though someone had only recently risen from it. Marigold climbed the steps, and for a moment she almost turned around.
What if Evangeline refused to see her? What if Ruth answered with questions Marigold couldn’t bear?
She lifted her hand anyway. Three soft knocks.
Tap tap tap.
Footsteps approached from inside. The door opened.
Ruth Monroe stood there, and Marigold knew instantly something was wrong. Ruth’s eyes were swollen. They weren’t red from a restless night. They were red from crying. Her apron had been thrown on carelessly over yesterday’s dress, and her hair, usually pinned with meticulous care, had begun slipping loose around her temples.
“Ruth…” Marigold’s voice softened. “I came to—”
Ruth looked at Marigold with the bewildered expression of someone whose world no longer obeyed reason.
“You ain’t seen her…have you?”
The question struck like cold water.
Marigold frowned. “Seen?”
“Evangeline.”
A hollow ache opened beneath Marigold’s ribs.
“I thought she’d be here.”
Ruth shook her head slowly. “She never come home.”
The words settled between them. Heavy. Impossible. Marigold searched Ruth’s face for the certainty that this was all a misunderstanding. Perhaps she’d stayed with cousins. Perhaps she’d gone to one of the girls from Bible study. Perhaps…
Ruth lifted a trembling hand.
There was an envelope in it. Its edges had already softened from being unfolded and folded again.
“I found this on her bedside table this mornin’.”
Marigold looked down. Across the front, written in familiar handwriting, was one simple word.
Mama.
“I went to wake her,” Ruth whispered. “Her bed…it hadn’t been slept in.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “This was sittin’ underneath her Bible.”
Marigold felt something inside her sink. Like a stone disappearing beneath dark water.
Ruth held the letter against her chest. “She says she left.” Her voice broke. “She says she needed to find herself.”
Somewhere beyond the yard, a mockingbird sang as though the morning had begun like any other.
Marigold looked toward the open doorway, into the little house she had visited so many times over the years. She could almost picture Evangeline as a child racing through those rooms with ribbons flying behind her.
Then, her thoughts returned to the night before.
To the hallway. To the slap. To the hurt in Evangeline’s eyes.
A terrible guilt settled over her. She had come to ask forgiveness.
Instead…
She found only absence.
“Come on in.”
Marigold hesitated only a moment before crossing the threshold. The Monroe joke carried all the familiar comforts she’d known for years. The smell of coffee lingered in the kitchen. There was a half-finished basket of mending rested beside Ruth’s favorite chair. Family photographs lined the mantel with polished silver frames that caught the light.
Nothing changed. Yet everything had.
Ruth closed the front door behind them but didn’t sit. And wandered into the parlor, one hand wringing the folded letter while the other worried at the edge of her apron.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” Her voice shook. “I just…I keep thinkin’ maybe she’ll come through that front door and fuss at me for worryin’.”
Marigold removed her gloves, buying herself a moment to steady the knot in her chest.
“Had anyone else seen this?”
Ruth shook her head. “No. My husband left before daylight for the mill.” She swallowed. “He still think she asleep.” Her eyes filled again. “I don’t know how to tell him.” The words barely made it out. “He—he already think we been losin’ her.”
Marigold stepped closer. Ruth had always been the steadier parent. Gentle where her husband was firm. Patient where he was quick to correct. Seeing her come apart unsettled something deep inside Marigold.
“May I…?” Marigold nodded toward the letter.
Ruth looked down at the page for a long moment before placing them into Marigold’s hands.
“I’ve read it so many times I know every word by heart now.” Ruth drew a shaky breath that never quite settled.
Madigold unfolded the paper with great care. The handwriting was unmistakably Evangeline’s. Neat. Rounded. Carefully practiced. Marigold could tell from the years spent in purity class walking the rows between desks, staring down over the girls’ shoulders as they wrote brief essays on how to remain sacred and serve the Lord.
She began reading.
Mama,
I’m sorry. I know I disappointed you and Daddy more times than I can count. I don’t fit here anymore, and I don’t think I ever will. I need to figure out who I am without everybody tellin’ me who I’m supposed to be. Please don’t come lookin’ for me. I’m safe. I just need somewhere I can breathe. Maybe one day you’ll forgive me. Tell Daddy I’m sorry. I love you.
Evangeline.
Marigold lowered the page but did not immediately look up. It sounded…possible. Painfully possible. And painfully familiar. Every line echoed the frustration Evangeline had carried for months. Yet something about it sat strangely against Marigold’s heart.
Ruth managed a weak, watery smile through her tears.
“The handwriting’s hers.”
Karigold looked back down. “It certainly looks like it. I recognized it the second I opened it.”
Ruth laughed softly, though there was no joy in the sound.
“Funny thing is…” she wiped beneath her one eye. “When she was little, she would dot all her little i’s with Tony circles.”
Marigold glanced up. “Circles?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Ruth smiled at the memory. “Little bitty things.” She held her fingers barely apart. “Looked like she’d sprinkled flower petals all over her schoolwork. I used to tell her nobody’d take her serious writin’ like that.” Another quiet laugh escaped her. “I guess she finally outgrew it.”
Marigold’s eyes drifted back to the page. Each lowercase i wore an ordinary dot. Perfectly ordinary. She folded the letter carefully along the original crease before returning it to Ruth.
“I hope that’s all it is.”
Ruth clutched it against her chest again. “I keep tellin’ myself she’s eighteen. Maybe she just…” her voice cracked. “…needed to leave.”
Marigold reached out and gently covered Ruth’s trembling hand. “I…I know this is hard.”
Ruth looked at her with eyes full of questions no mother should ever have to ask.
“You think she gon’ come back?”
Marigold opened her mouth. No answer came. Instead, she gave Ruth’s hand the smallest reassuring squeeze she could manage.
“I pray she does.”
Even as the words left her lips, an uneasiness settled deeper inside her. She could not shake the memory of the last thing Evangeline had said before walking away.
SOMETHING'S COMING SOON! I KNOW I KEPT Y'ALL WAITING FOR SO LONG. BUT HERE'S A SNEAK PEAK TO HOLD Y'ALL OVER.
The flash of the nightclub lights was the first thing that registered to you. Blues, purples, and reds illuminated the dancing bodies in a seductive glow. You watched, almost hypnotized by the rhythmic movement of bodies on the dance floor. Grabbing your drink, you take another sip. Glancing down at your body, you see you’re dressed in one of your favorite going-out outfits. Spinning in your seat at the bar, you take another look out on the dance floor. The seductive beat had people moving to the beat, almost hypnotizing you.
In the middle of the floor stood a man, moving so seductively your jaw dropped. His hips moved in tandem to the beat. Broad shoulders bare, you can just make out the ‘eye of Horus’ tattoo glinting under the strobe lights. The black wife-beater clings to his muscular frame. A silver Cuban link chain adorns his neck. The shimmer of the diamonds makes you bite your lip. His hips command the dance floor, all the surrounding women looking like lions ready to attack a gazelle. Before you know it, your glass is empty. With a brief sigh, not wanting to take your eyes away from the Adonis before you, you turn back around to grab the bartender’s attention.
…
Stack was having a ball; there were so many honeys out tonight, and he couldn’t decide who to take home with him. The music was bumpin’, drinks were flowin’, and vibes were high. He didn’t want the night to end. Having forgone his button-up, he stood in the middle of the dance floor in just a wife-beater, dancing like it was 1985.
“Yo, Stack! Check out that queen at the bar,” one of his homeboys shouts over the thumping bass. Stack turns, his eyes scanning the bar looking for someone new. Then his eyes met you, well, more specifically your ass because you were turned around. Your backside sat heavily clad in your cheetah-print capris. The backless top you wore showed off your curves and a really intricate cherry blossom tattoo. Your hair pressed bone straight, a contrast to the slight humidity on the dance floor. And your pretty feet in a pair of kitten heels. Stack pulled his bottom lip in between his teeth. With a deep breath, he gulped down the rest of his drink before heading towards the bar. Towards you.
Oookaaaaaayyyyy so let me know what y'all think. Do we want more??
I hope you guys remember me. It's been so long since I have last posted a chapter update. I think my las update was for Christmas...Yikes. Anyway, after reading over my draft that has been sitting and collecting dust in the docs, I was forced lovingly convinced to post again. I was also bullied suggested to cross post on Ao3 so I'll be working on that.
Anyways, enough rambling!
9k+ words
NoVaR3ads0ne - Wattpad (Recommended to refresh your memory)
Chapter Warnings: No warnings for this chapter :D
Enjoy!
Chapter four:
Free For A Day
October 15, 1932
Part I of A Night to Remember
The various bumps in the road did little to calm the strong cramps in Evelynn’s stomach.
Each jolt of the car sent a dull, pulsing ache through her lower belly, the pain blooming and retreating in slow, cruel waves. The road was uneven, more dirt than intention, and Smoke took it carefully, but even careful wheels couldn’t smooth out ruts that had been worn deep by wagons, boots, and years of neglect. Evelynn pressed her palm against her abdomen, fingers curling into the fabric of her skirt, breathing through it the way Granny had taught her.
In through the nose.
Out through the mouth.
Slow.
Measured and quiet.
It didn’t help much; the ache lingered, stubborn as a bruise, dragging her awareness inward until the passing trees blurred together into dark streaks. Every cramp stretched the ride longer than it had any right to be—made the distance between home and the Juke feel like a test she hadn’t studied for.
Annie noticed.
She always did.
Her hand reached over and rested gently on Evelynn’s knee, not demanding attention, just a warm, steady contact. The gesture carried no words, only her presence. Evelynn exhaled softly at it, letting her shoulders loosen a fraction.
“You alright?” Annie asked, voice light, careful not to make it a thing.
Evelynn nodded, though the movement sent another ripple of discomfort through her.
“Yeah…just… body bein’ rude,” she murmured.
Annie huffed a quiet, sympathetic breath. Her thumb gave Evelynn’s knee a brief, reassuring pat before retreating, the warmth lingering even after her hand was gone. The quiet settled between them after that, comfortable and unforced. The road kept speaking in its low rattles and bumps, but something in Evelynn had steadied. She let her gaze drift past the windshield, past her own reflection in the glass, and outward.
The trees thinned first as sunlight broke through in wide, unapologetic sheets, washing the road ahead in a pale gold glare that made Evelynn squint. The air shifted with pine and shade, more open, carrying the faint scent of dust and river damp and something metallic beneath it all. Smoke eased the car around the final bend. The old mill sat low and wide against the stretch of land like it had grown there stubbornly. The boards were still weathered from their former life; some of the windows had been busted, catching sunlight and throwing it back bold as a promise. Evelynn’s stomach clenched again, but this time the ache tangled with something else.
Anticipation.
They weren’t the first to arrive. A wagon full of men rolled in just ahead of them, their faces weathered, hands calloused, laughter loud and unguarded in that way men laughed when they’d survived a long day’s work and believed themselves owed a night of noise and drink. Their boots hit the dirt almost in unison when they dismounted, already calling greetings toward the building like the Juke might answer back.
And just beyond them—
“Here comes trouble,” Annie murmured, a smile tugging at her mouth.
Stack’s familiar shape cut across the yard, his coat slung loose over one shoulder, hat tipped back just enough to show the sharp line of his grilled grin. Sammie walked beside him, guitar slung over his back, his energy buzzing bright and restless even from a distance. Delta Slim followed more slowly, harmonica already hanging from his neck like an extension of himself, his gait loose and unhurried. Cornbread trailed last, already eyeing the building as if it owed him something.
The car slowly rolled to a stop, and before Evelynn could fully gather herself, Stack spotted them and lifted a hand in greeting.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he called, striding closer, “If it ain’t our lil’ lucky charm.”
Evelynn smiled despite herself. Stack had always spoken to her as if she were something solid, as if she were meant to be there. Not fragile. Not temporary.
Stack reached the car before Smoke had fully killed the engine, already pulling the passenger door open with a flourish like he’d been appointed to the task. He offered Evelynn a hand as she shifted toward the edge of the seat, his grin crooked with practiced charm.
“Good to see you 'gain, Stack,” she said as she climbed out, bracing herself briefly against the door frame when another cramp tightened low and sharp.
Stack noticed, but like his brother, he didn’t make it loud. Instead, he stepped closer and dropped his voice, the grin softening into something fond and familiar.
“You look like the road tried to fight you.”
“It ain’t won yet,” Evelynn replied, earning a low chuckle from him.
“Atta girl.” He smirked before making his way to assist Annie out of the truck.
Sammie approached her next, bright as a struck match.
“Evelynn! You made it,” he said, his arms already lifting to pull her into a hug.
She stepped into it easily as she answered.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
As she wrapped her arms around him, her attention caught on the familiar sight of his guitar slung over his shoulders. The worn strap crossed his chest, the instrument resting against his back like it belonged there as much as he did.
"You plan on strummin' that guitar tonight?"
“Soon as they let me,” he said, beaming.
Before Sammie could say more, another presence edged into the circle, quieter and older, carrying its own gravity. A dry sound followed, half scoff, half sigh.
“Sir?” Evelynn questioned in recognition.
“Sir?” he echoed, eyebrows furrowing as he shook his head in disapproval.
"Uh uh, Slim'll do just fine, now. We met before. Brought them flowers to the station. Thought I recognized those eyes…"
Evelynn blinked.
“You remember that?”
Slim nodded once.
“Hard to forget kindness when it ain’t tryin’ to sell you somethin’… or take a piece of you with it.”
The moment settled warm between them before the noise of work pressed back in, calling everyone to motion again. His gaze lingered on her only a moment longer before drifting past her shoulder, toward the building, toward the work still waiting. The corner of his mouth lifted faintly as he approved of what he saw. Behind them, Cornbread was already moving, his voice carrying across the yard as he directed two men struggling with a crate too heavy for pride to admit. Evelynn turned toward him, warmth settling into her chest at the familiar sight.
“How you been, Cornbread?” she called.
He looked up at once, surprise breaking into a wide, easy grin.
“Well now, if it ain’t Miss Evelynn herself,” he said, wiping his hands on his trousers before coming closer to greet her.
“We been holdin’ steady. Best we can.”
“And your wife?” Evelynn asked gently,“She holdin’ up alright?”
“Feet hurtin’, back hurtin’, sayin’ I don’t rub near long enough. But she strong. Real strong.”
He rested a hand briefly over his chest, like the truth of it lived there.
“Baby kickin’ like it already got somewhere to be.”
Evelynn smiled at that, genuine and full.
“That’s a good sign.”
He nodded, pride straightening his spine.
“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
The smile lingered on Evelynn’s face a moment longer, warmed by his pride.
Before she could continue, the low growl of an approaching engine pulled all attention toward the road. Dust rose in a soft cloud behind a familiar Ford as it rolled into the yard and came to a gentle stop. Bo stepped out first, his boots hitting the dirt. He lifted a hand in brief greeting toward the others gathered in the yard—a loose wave, easy and unhurried—before circling around to the passenger side.
His suspenders were worn over a faded work shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, trousers rough and patched at one knee, the kind of clothes meant for labor, not show. Dust already clung to the cuffs. He pulled open the door and held it steady as Grace stepped down. She wore plain clothes belted at the waist, pants pinned a little shorter for movement, sturdy shoes dulled with road dust. A scarf was tied over her hair against paint and grit, though flyaways had already begun escaping at the temples. There was purpose and confidence in her stride.
Grace spotted Evelynn immediately.
“Well, look at you,” she said warmly, “You beat us here.”
“Barely,” Evelynn replied, stepping forward.
Grace embraced her without hesitation, firm and grounded. Bo followed with an easy grin and a nod of greeting, his quiet presence filling the space beside them.
“Evenin’, Evelynn.”
“Evenin’, Bo.” She chuckled.
Behind them, Stack clapped his hands once, loud enough to gather attention without asking.
“Well, come on now,” he said, already moving toward the front entrance, “We got a night waitin’ on us.”
He pulled the key from his pocket, the metal flashing briefly in the dying sunlight before he slid it into the lock. The mechanism resisted for half a second, the built up dirt and rust resisting, before yielding with a solid, satisfying click. The front doors opened inward with a low groan, the dark interior waiting patiently to be brought back to life.
“Let’s make her breathe,” Smoke murmured.
Around the side of the building, Cornbread waved his arms broadly, guiding the wagon toward the now-open loading doors.
“Keep comin’. Keep comin’. That’s it. Easy now.”
The wagon creaked obediently under his direction, wheels grinding against dirt and stone before settling into place. The hired men gathered, already reaching to unload crates, chairs, curtains, and bottles.
Movement spread like wildfire.
Work became rhythm and purpose became shared.
No one noticed Delta Slim slip quietly toward one of the hired hands, his fingers moving with practiced ease as he lifted a single bottle of Irish beer from an unattended crate. He examined it briefly before approving. Then, with smooth discretion, he tucked it beneath his vest and wandered on, whistling low to himself like nothing at all had happened.
Inside and out, the Juke began to take shape. Not all at once, but piece by piece. Every hand added something. Every voice layered into the growing hum. And somewhere within it, without announcement or ceremony, joy began to gather.
-
The hours that followed blurred into movement and color and sound. The Aunties took over the kitchen in a flurry of clanging pots and shouted instructions, voices layering over one another in practiced chaos that somehow never lost its direction. Annie moved among them as she belonged there—correcting seasoning with a quick taste and a hum, tying aprons tighter at the waist, swatting Bo away with the edge of a dishcloth when he tried to sneak catfish before it was ready.
Outside, Evelynn painted signs alongside Grace, the smell of fresh paint sharp in her nose. Grace worked steady and sure, humming low under her breath, the tune shifting without warning. Men hauled tables across packed dirt and worn floorboards, strung lights from beam to beam, their laughter rising and falling with the rhythm of the work. The twins carried in the alcohol with care— bottles cradled and crates handled like they meant something more than glass and liquor for once.
For a little while, Evelynn forgot the ache.
Forgot the dreams.
Forgot the way dread had nestled itself between her ribs since morning.
Work had a way of doing that—of giving your hands something to hold onto so your mind didn’t have to.
It all crept back in when she finally slipped outside for a break.
The sun sat low and wide, spilling amber across the yard, catching in the dust kicked up by boots and movement until the whole place seemed to glow from the ground up. A man balanced on a metal ladder near the electric pole, his legs trembling faintly as he reached for the half-strung lights overhead. In the road, Stack’s voice cut through the rising chorus of crickets, steady and sharp.
“Hold it—nah, nah, too much. Ease it back. Yeah. Right there. Don’t fall now.”
The hum of power shifted in response, the line pulling taut. The lights flickered once, weak and uncertain, before cutting out again.
Evelynn leaned back against the cooling metal wall, letting each ridge press into her spine. She closed her eyes for half a second, just to listen to the work, the voices, and the quiet satisfaction of things being put where they belonged. It steadied something in her, if only a little.
Annie came out a moment later, wiping her hands on a towel already darkened with fish grease. She didn’t rush, didn’t call out right away—just stepped close enough that her presence settled in beside Evelynn as if it had always been there.
“You disappearin’ or just takin’ inventory?” Annie asked.
“Inventory,” Evelynn said.
“I like seein’ it mid-build. Makes it feel real.”
Annie hummed, glancing out over the yard.
“You see how it’s comin’ together?”
Evelynn followed her gaze. The movement had a shape now. Men still moved between the doors and the wagon, their arms full, less scattered, more sure. People weren’t just working anymore. They were building toward something.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “It’s… different than I thought it’d be.”
“Different how?” Annie asked.
Evelynn tilted her head a bit, pondering how to respond.
“I thought it’d feel bigger, I guess. Louder.” Evelynn exhaled lightly, “But it don’t feel outta control. It feels… held.”
Annie’s mouth curved faintly, like she had been waiting to hear that.
“That’s ’cause it is,” She tipped her chin toward the door, where Stack still moved, directing with that same steady certainty.
“Ain’t just noise in there. It’s a community buildin’ somethin’ together. That’s why it don’t fall apart.”
Evelynn watched him a moment longer before slowly letting the tension leave her shoulders.
“I just…I don’t wanna be the one that throws everything off,” she admitted, quieter now.
Annie turned then, planting herself solidly in her peripheral, he brows furrowed as she searched her face.
“Baby, you the reason things move.” Her voice didn’t get any louder.
Just firmer and certain.
“That whole room runs smoother ’cause you’re here…even when you quiet.”
Evelynn let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“Tonight ain’t askin’ you to fix nothin’,” Annie continued, gentler now, “Just to stay present while it comes together.”
The man on the ladder shifted again, metal creaking under his weight.
“Easy—To the right,” Stack called.
The line buzzed louder this time, a sharp warning humming through the air.
“A little more—”
A bright spark cracked, splitting the moment.
“Shit!”
The lights flickered again—
then held.
A low, steady current settled in, alive and waiting, threading through the building like a pulse finding its rhythm. Club Juke breathed in for the first time.
“It always feels like this moment’s the hardest,” Evelynn said, “Right before it starts.”
Annie nodded.
“That’s ’cause everybody’s holdin’ their breath.”
“And you?”
“I’m watchin’ who keeps workin’ anyway.”
Evelynn smiled faintly at that.
A breeze moved through the yard, lifting the edge of Annie’s apron and brushing loose curls against Evelynn’s cheek. The sun dipped lower, its warmth still lingering in the dirt, still warming the ladder and the space between them.
Evelynn smiled fully then, a faint chuckle escaping as she fully turned her attention to the woman beside her.
“Bein’ here with y’all… it feels like I’m flyin’ and the night ain’t even started yet.”
“Well,” she said, nudging Evelynn lightly, “don’t go floatin’ off before we open the doors.”
Evelynn laughed, a real laugh this time, unguarded enough to surprise herself.
The sound settled warm between them.
“Come on,” Annie spoke, already turning to head back inside.
“I ain’t lettin’ you miss the part where it turns warm.”
Evelynn lingered outside a little longer before she pushed off the wall, the weight in her chest quieter. It wasn’t gone, just no longer ruling the moment. She followed Annie back inside as the last edge of daylight slipped fully behind the trees.
The warmth of the main room gave way to a narrower quiet as Evelynn slipped down the side hallway toward the supply closet. The noise dulled behind her, muffled laughter, the scrape of chairs, the low hum of electricity settling into its rhythm. Inside the small room, the air was surprisingly cooler. It smelled faintly of starch, wood polish, and dried lavender tucked into corners to ward off moths. A single bulb hung overhead, casting a soft yellow glow over stacked linens, flour, and folded aprons. Her satchel rested on a crate where she’d left it earlier. For a moment, she simply stood there, hands braced against the edge of the crate, breathing.
In through the nose.
Out through the mouth.
Just as she had done earlier.
Then she opened the satchel carefully.
Her mother’s dress stared back at her from inside. Evelynn’s fingers hovered before touching the fabric. The velvet felt cool at first, then warmed quickly beneath her palm, like it remembered the brief touch of her skin. The stitched roses caught the low light from the exposed bulb and deepened in color, their shadows shifting as she moved.
She swallowed.
Changing in the narrow space required patience. She unfastened her day dress slowly, careful with each button, each hook. The cramps pulsed low and dull, yet she worked through them, jaw set and breath steady. When the lighter cotton fell away, she felt briefly unguarded, bare in more ways than one. The plum dress slid over her shoulders like a breath pf fresh air.
It fit as though it had been waiting just for her.
The velvet gathered gently at her waist, the V-neck framing her collarbones, the weight of the skirt settling against her legs with quiet authority. It was heavier than what she’d worn all day, but it steadied her, anchored her.
She reached for the jewelry next. The necklace first—flowers shaped in darkened metal, the petals worn smooth where fingers had once fidgeted with them. Then the matching earrings, cool against her skin, warmed in place. Each piece carried a softness beneath its weight, like memory pressed into metal. From the side pocket of her satchel, she withdrew the small glass vial of rose water. The cork gave with a soft pop, the scent rising immediately, clean, floral, and faintly sweet. Not overpowering, just enough to freshen the air around her. She dabbed a little at her wrists, then at the hollow of her throat; the coolness against her skin made her shiver lightly before settling.
For a brief second, she closed her eyes.
The scent carried her somewhere gentle, her grandmother’s laughter, half-remembered, a mirror catching afternoon light. Wrinkled hands smoothing fabric at her shoulders. When she opened her eyes again, the woman who had stepped into the closet felt slightly altered.
More aligned.
She smoothed her palms down the velvet once more, adjusting the fall of the skirt, lifting her chin just enough to meet her own gaze in the small, cracked mirror she remembered to stash. The cramps were still there, and the dread still lingered somewhere beneath her ribs , but neither owned her. She wouldn’t allow it.
Not tonight.
Outside the door, the music of preparation swelled louder—voices bright, chairs scraping, someone laughing too hard at something small. Evelynn corked the rose water and tucked it safely away in her bosom. Then she stepped back toward the noise, plum velvet catching the light as she moved, carrying her mother’s memory with her into the waiting night.
-
It arrived on the easy cadence of Delta Slim’s piano keys worn smooth by decades of hands and history, and the eager, uneven thumping of patrons’ best dress shoes as they crossed the threshold. The old sawmill shuddered beneath it in recognition. Warm lamplight spilled outward from the doorway, catching Cornbread’s broad grin as he stood just inside, voice steady and welcoming.
"Right this way."
The words barely cleared the doorway before Stack’s excited voice could be heard over the piano, cutting through the music with a grin you could hear even if you couldn’t see him yet.
“Come on in! Welcome to Club Juke. We ‘bout to get it poppin’ like fish grease, boy.”
Evelynn couldn't help but wander around the newly opened juke joint in awe at how lively and different the old saw mill looks. Where dust and silence once settled heavily, there’s now movement—skirts swaying, shoulders brushing, laughter blooming and bouncing off the walls. The place feels fuller than it should, like the building itself is breathing again. Behind the bar, Annie and Stack are currently serving the first few patrons their drinks, hands moving quickly and practiced despite the newness of it all. Annie's smooth voice was the first to welcome a man from behind the bar.
“We got whiskey, Irish beer, Italian wine.”
The man laughs a bit, voice tired yet friendly as he speaks.
“Y’all some classy niggas, ain’t you? Too fancy for me. Ma’am, I don’t need no ice or nothin’. Corn liquor’ll do.”
“That’ll be fifty cent.”
The older man digs around in his pockets for a bit, expression dropping when he comes up short.
“Goddamn, I just got thirty. But these is good down at the Maybell General Store.”
Smoke, standing close enough to hear it all, stiffens at the exchange. The shift in his demeanor is subtle but unmistakable: the tightening of his jaw, the furrowing of his brow, and the way his shoulders squared like he was bracing for a fight that didn’t need fists.
Stack noticed the tension immediately.
Before Smoke can say a word, Stack reaches for the bottle himself, moving smoothly and easily as if it were never a question.
“You like that cold, right?”
“I certainly do.”
“Comin’ right up.”
“I thank you kindly.”
Smoke exhales through his nose, eyes flicking between the man, Annie, and his brother, before finally speaking.
“Let me holla at y’all right quick.”
He turns before either of them can answer, already heading toward the narrow hallway leading to the supply closet. As he passes Evelynn, he catches her eye.
“Lynn,” he says, voice low but steady,“Need you and Grace to hold down the bar for a minute.”
Evelynn blinks, caught off guard, then nods quickly.
“Course.”
By the time she reaches the bar, Grace is already stepping in beside her, wiping her hands on her apron as she moves behind the counter like she’s been doing it her whole life. Smoke gives Evelynn a brief look—not quite a thank you, not quite a warning—before ushering Stack and Annie into the back room, the door closing behind them and muting their voices.
“This ain’t no house party. And it damn sure ain’t no charity. We takin’ cash, U.S. motherfuckin’ dollars.”
“This ain’t Chicago, Smoke,” Annie spoke, a knowing expression on her face.
Smoke paused, the confusion thick on his brow.
“The fuck that mean?”
“That old nigga worked his ass off for them wooden nickels,” Stack replied.
“See, these niggas been workin’ in the field all day. When they show up here, let them enjoy themselves.”
“They gotta feel wanted if you want this here to work,” Annie added.
“This place supposed to feel like it’s for them.”
Smoke huffed a bit before turning to his brother again.
“When you was sellin’ ass out in Little Rock,” Smoke said flatly, “you ever let a john pay with a goddamn promissory note?”
Stack didn’t hesitate.
“Hell nah!”
That lack of hesitation immediately garnered a deadpan look from Annie.
“But, see, I wasn't sellin' ass in the Delta,” he chuckled awkwardly.
“I don't know hoodoo, and I can't talk slick, but I know business. And this is bad for business.”
“It's opening night,” Stack wagered again.
“Besides, only a few of 'em like this.”
The sigh that came from Smoke was short and tired before he spoke again.
“I need a goddamn cigarette.”
“Comin' right up,” Stack smirked, satisfied with the outcome of the conversation, before digging into his inner pocket.
-
Back behind the bar, Evelynn had fully settled behind the counter, the awkwardness stiff on her shoulders as she grabbed an Irish beer for a patron.
“You’re alright,” Grace murmurs, barely louder than the clink of glass, “Ain’t nothin’ here you can’t handle.”
Grace reaches for a rag and wipes the bar once more, more habit than need, then glances at Evelynn.
“Majorie doin’ okay?”
The question is casual, slipped between motions, but the care behind it is unmistakable.
“She’s good,” Evelynn answers softly, “Been fussin’ with her flowers nonstop. Got Smoke holdin’ bouquets like a delivery boy.”
Grace smiles at that, small and warm.
“Sounds like her.”
She lines up a row of glasses, then adds, “Lisa’s been askin’ after her. Swears she’s gonna come by tomorrow whether Majorie wants company or not.”
Evelynn’s mouth curves.
“That don’t surprise me none.”
“No, it wouldn't,” Grace agrees, “She been helpin’ her daddy round the shop, but soon as she’s free, she’s right back talkin’ ‘bout Majorie. Says she don’t like how quiet it gets when they ain’t together.”
Evelynn nods, the knot in her chest easing just a little.
“Majorie don’t like it either. Pretends she does, but she don’t.”
Grace sets the rag down and finally looks at her properly.
“They’ll find their way back together soon enough. Girls like that always do.”
Before Evelynn can reply, a patron steps up to the bar, coins already in hand.
Grace straightens, all business now, but her voice stays kind as she gestures for Evelynn to grab the bottle.
“See? Easy as breathin’. You got this.”
Evelynn does as she’s told, and for the first time that night, the weight she’s been carrying settles—not gone, not forgotten—but shared, held in quiet pieces between women who know how to keep things standing.
Grace notices the change before Evelynn says a word.
It’s in the way Evelynn’s movements tighten, how her hand pauses mid-reach for a bottle, how her breath stutters just enough to be off-rhythm with the rest of her. A flicker crosses her face, quick and practiced, like she’s learned how to tuck discomfort away where it won’t bother anyone else.
Grace doesn’t ask.
She simply shifts.
“Lynn,” she says gently, sliding closer behind the bar, “why don’t you stay right here for a bit.”
She nudges the tray of glasses nearer to Evelynn’s side, then reaches past her to grab the heavier bottle herself, pouring without breaking her cadence. The change is seamless, no announcement or fuss, just the quiet redistribution of effort.
Evelynn exhales through her nose, grateful in a way she doesn’t quite have the words for.
Grace keeps talking, voice steady, low.
“You got a good hand for keepin’ folks settled. Let me do the liftin’.”
Another cramp rolls through Evelynn, sharper this time. She braces her hip against the counter, fingers curling briefly into the edge before smoothing back out. To anyone else, it might’ve looked like nothing.
To Grace, it was enough.
“Thank you.”
Grace only hums in response, already moving again. She takes the far end of the bar, intercepting the louder patrons, keeping the heavy flow away from Evelynn’s side. When a man leans too heavily on the counter, Grace redirects him with a practiced smile and a firmer pour.
Out front, a steady wave of patrons was still clearing the front doors. A woman in a pearly satin gown, as free-flowing and loose as the sway in her hips, approached the entryway with curiosity on her brow.
“Good evenin’.”
“Evenin’.”
“You look mighty nice.”
“Thank you.”
A little further inside, Sammie lit up at the sound of her voice, his eyes coming to rest fondly on hers as she made her way inside.
“Pearline, you made it.”
“When they turn this place into a juke?” she replied, easy stride meeting him.
“We did it today. My cousins own it. You know the Twins.”
“Heard of ’em, of course. They your cousins? Nah, y’all must be play cousins.” She murmured, the idea seeming absurd to her.
“Their daddy was my daddy big brother.”
“So y’all cousins through blood? But you seem like such a nice young man,” she said, the shock noticeable in her expression.
“I ain’t always nice. Ain’t that young, either.”
Pearline gave him a knowing look before making her way further into the juke.
The music swelled, laughter spilling over itself as the entryway filled and emptied in steady waves. Cornbread still held firm at the front, ushering folks through with an easy grin and a hand always half-raised to point them where they needed to go.
“Right this way. Uh-huh. Uh…” His voice stalled when a woman paused just outside the threshold.
Cornbread leaned back a fraction, squinting like the light had shifted wrong.
“Excuse me, ma’am. You sure you at the right place?”
She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes tired, her mouth pressed thin with something that hadn’t yet settled.
“That’s a damn good question, Cornbread.”
At once, his apprehensive posture dropped as the recognition bloomed on his face.
“Little Mary?!”
Her mouth tipped into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Not so little no more, huh?”
He didn’t give himself time to think. Cornbread crossed the space in two strides and pulled her into a hug, big and sudden and needed.
“Little Mary! Aw…”
She folded into it, just for a second.
Cornbread loosened his hold, hands settling briefly at Mary’s shoulders as he looked at her properly this time. The bustle of the room didn’t slow for grief, but it bent around her all the same.
“My condolences about your mother,” he said gently, “We’d have made the repast, but uh—me and Therise had to work.”
“It’s all right.” Mary paused, just long enough for the truth of it to rise and threaten. Her smile stayed put, practiced and careful, even as something darker flickered behind her eyes.
“Now let me get on in here and get a drink before I start tearing up.”
Cornbread stepped aside at once, sweeping an arm toward the open room like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Go on. Enjoy yourself.”
Mary moved past him, shoulders squared, disappearing into the hum and glow of Club Juke, into the noise, the warmth, and the promise of being held together by sound if not by hands.
Cornbread turned back to the door without missing a beat. The next couple had barely made it to the door before his large frame fully blocked the entrance.
“You got my two dollars?”
“Huh?”
Inside the Juke, patrons had nearly filled the dance floor. A cacophony of happy voices filled the air, bodies swinging to the rhythm of the piano with mugs of alcohol in their hands. Mary disappeared into the body of the room, swallowed gently by sound and motion. Behind the bar, Evelynn noticed her arrival by the shift in the air. The ripple of her arrival traveled inward all the same—through glances, through the way conversations bent subtly without breaking altogether. Sammie and Pearline had found themselves a comfortable corner near the seating area of the stage, uncaring of the bodies moving around them.
“You gon' play?” she asked, her voice smooth and teasing as she tilted her chin up.
“You gon' sing?” he countered, his body slowly gravitating closer to her.
“We'll see where the night takes us,” she answered, staring up at him through her lashes.
“Your husband coming?”
Pearline shook her head, ‘No’, coyly. The music curled between them, low and suggestive, filling the space where words didn’t quite need to go. And in spite of their small moment, Sammie’s attention was caught by the pale form advancing in the corner of his vision.
“Shit. Hold on.”
He stepped away from her without waiting for a reply, already moving through the crowd. As he moved, he pulled his hat from his head, fingers tightening briefly around the brim like it might steady him. Mary had nearly come to a standstill in the crowd, the tension of those around her subtly rolling further into the Juke.
“Excuse me, ma'am. I don't think you should be here. You see, I'm with the Twins…”he said, trying to be polite, though the quiet edge of urgency crept in anyway.
“With the Twins? Boy, if you don't get the fuck out of my face…” Mary huffed, the audacity of the boy in front of her astounding to her.
Sammie moved to intercept her again, politely trying to convince her to leave before his cousins saw her.
“I am with them, ma'am. We met earlier at the train station. I'm their lil' cousin.”
“Little cousin?” she questioned.
“I think you should leave before they see you.”
The recognition bloomed suddenly over her features.
“Wait, you're not little Sammie, are you? The guitar? You old enough to drink now? Come on, let me buy you a drink,” she said, expression morphing to one of familiarity.
Mary wrapped her hand firmly around his forearm to drag him along as they wove through bodies and heat, past swinging skirts and shoulders slick with sweat. The bar came into view with Grace steady and unflappable behind it, Evelynn moving beside her, hands careful on the glassware. Evelynn looked a little paler than earlier, but her smile was soft and genuine when she glanced up.
Grace noticed Mary first.
“Hey, Mary.”
Mary’s expression shifted, not brighter, not sadder, just honest.
“Grace.”
“Good to see ya,” Grace said, already reaching for the bottles.
Mary leaned her elbows against the bar, Sammie settling in beside her with a slight unease.
“Two whiskeys, please.”
“Sure,” Grace replied.
Evelynn slid the mugs forward once they were poured, her fingers lingering just long enough to make sure they were steady. Mary’s gaze flicked to her, curious and assessing, but kind.
"Nice to see ya again, Mary."
"Likewise," she replied, the sincerity returning to her voice once again.
The night pressed on around them, loud and alive, the bar becoming a small island of pause before the current carried everyone where it meant to. The conversation carried on without asking permission from the music. Mary tipped her glass slightly toward Sammie, studying him over the rim.
“So you play that guitar they left you?”
“Yeah,” he said, simple and honest.
“That’s good.” She took a sip.
“You makin’ any money with that thing?”
Sammie shrugged, one shoulder lifting.
“Not really. Not yet, at least.”
Mary scoffed.
“I’d tell ya it didn’t matter as long as you love it, but that’d be horseshit advice.”
Her words muted the smile on his face immediately. He glanced sideways at her, diverting the conversation to a question that had been plaguing his mind since he first saw her.
“Hey… what are you?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of his manners.
Mary didn’t blink.
“What am I? I’m a human being.”
He winced.
“Oh. That ain’t what I meant. I meant, more like—”
“I know what you meant,” she cut in, tone calm but firm.
“My mama’s daddy was half Black. He raised her to keep the Klan from killing her.” She paused, eyes drifting briefly past Sammie, past the bar, like she was looking through time instead of space.
“You know my mama delivered the Twins?”
Sammie’s brows shot up.
“Really?”
“She saved Stack’s life after he got stuck in their mama. And after she died, my mama nursed them like they was her own,” she reminisced.
Before Mary could get anything else out, Sammie's eyes locked onto someone advancing behind her, their daunting aura changing the tone of the conversation. Mary paused, her eyes catching the tension growing in Sammie’s face, his expression alone telling her just who had arrived behind her.
“And they had enough money to buy this whole mill… and they ain’t even send flowers to her funeral.”
The air shifted.
Smoke had come up as quietly as a shadow, yet his presence was solid at Mary’s side.
“We sent your mama flowers,” he said evenly, the smoke of his cigar pluming in the air.
“Plenty of ’em. All while she still alive to smell ’em.”
Mary's previous energy, what little was left of it anyway, turned fully sour then.
“Smoke.”
“Mary.”
He held his gaze on the back of her head, something complicated passing between them before he nodded once toward Sammie.
“Why don’t you go check in on Slim? See if he’ll need backup.”
Without a word, Sammie got up, but not before taking a large sip of his whiskey, and headed to the front of the stage, vanishing within the crowd. Smoke lingered a moment before vanishing as well, leaving a hurt Mary to nurse her pain within the bottom of her mug.
Behind the bar, Evelynn kept moving—pouring, wiping, listening—aware of everything, yet nothing at all, the hum of life continuing around her, the Juke breathing full and loud as the night stretched on.
Smoke didn’t go far after leaving Mary at the bar.
He moved through the press of bodies with purpose, eyes scanning until he found Stack folded into the crowd like he belonged nowhere else. Stack had a glass in one hand, his posture loose, but Smoke’s hand landing firm against his shoulder straightened him up instantly. Stack followed him without protest, weaving behind as Smoke cut toward the narrow stairwell tucked along the back wall. It was easy to miss if you didn’t know where to look. Just a plain door, worn at the handle, leading up to the loft space above.
Not for patrons.
Not tonight.
The music dulled as the wooden walls separated them, the piano reduced to a muffled heartbeat beneath their feet.
Smoke turned to him then.
“Take care of her or I will.”
Stack looked at his brother, confusion heavy on his brow, before turning to take a peek at the woman seated defiantly at the bar.
“No, no. I’mma handle it. I got it.”
Smoke held his gaze a moment longer, searching for something.
“All right,” he said finally, “Go on.”
“I’m goin’.” Stack nodded once, before uttering a weary ‘shit’ under his breath as he slid back into the crowd.
Mary hadn’t moved at all.
She still sat in the corner of the bar where the light softened, and the crowd thinned just enough to breathe. Her fingers rested loosely around her mug, though she hadn’t taken another sip. She saw Stack coming before he reached her. Something in her face closed off at once, semi-prepared for whatever he was about to hurl at her.
“Come on. Let’s go.”
“I’m not here for you,” she said, stiffly.
Stack stopped a few feet from her, jaw tightening.
“Then why you here, then?”
Her chin lifted slightly.
“I come to hear the blues.”
He let out a short breath through his nose, humorless.
“Oh, no,” he said, "They play the blues just fine in Arkansas.” His eyes flicked away from her, already reaching for escape.
“Come on. Cornbread! Let’s get a car.” He called as he snatched her arm.
Mary jerked away instantly.
“Get your hands off me!”
Her words cracked sharply between them.
Stack’s mouth pressed thin, frustration bleeding through the cracks in his composure.
“What’s it gon’ take? Hm? How much to get you to get the fuck on?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.
Mary stared at him like he’d struck her.
“You can’t pay me off.”
His temper flared then, ugly and defensive.
“Fine. I’ll pay one of these field bitches in here to drag your ass out, then.”
A flash of something fierce lit behind her eyes.
“Shit,” she said,“You taught me how to fight. I’ll beat up every bitch in here and you know it.”
That hit somewhere deeper than the anger.
Something almost fondly resurfaced before being brutally snuffed out.
Stack swallowed hard, forcing steel back into his voice.
“I taught you how to walk away when the money is up, too.” He gestured vaguely, like her whole life existed somewhere just over her shoulder.
“Got you a rich white husband. Got you a farm. Now go home to it.”
Mary’s expression cracked, not loud or not dramatic, just truth breaking through.
“I ain’t ask for none of that,” she said.
Her voice trembled, but she didn’t lower it.
“All that shit was your idea. I didn’t want no white man. I didn’t wanna be white.” Her eyes held his, wet now, shining.
“I wanted to be with you.”
The words hung there, fragile and heavy.
“All it’d take is the wrong person in here to see you, or word get back to them crackers and they gon’ try to kill you.”
Mary searched his face.
“What would it matter to you?” she asked, exasperated.
His response was immediate, his shoulders tensing recklessly at the thought.
“’Cause if somebody out there put their hands on you…” His jaw tightened, “If they hurt you… me and my brother gon’ come kill ’em all.”
Her heart fluttered a bit.
“So you’ll kill for me.”
Stack stared firmly at the woman in front of him. So many things crossed his mind at what he had wanted to say to her since the train station. Yet, at the moment, he could only manage to answer her with a simple-
“That’s right.”
She took a small step closer, close enough now that he couldn’t pretend distance was safety, and scoffed at his semantics.
“But you still won’t tell me the truth.”
He sucked his teeth at that, semi-annoyed at how much she knew his antics, and looked away.
“You know, I was young enough to believe you were comin’ back…. I waited. I waited a long time.” Her lips trembled despite her effort to hold them steady.
“But I’m grown now, Stack. And I know you never planned to stay.”
She searched his face, desperate for something real.
“Why can’t you just say that?”
He looked at her then, really looked at her then, and reached up, pulling his hat from his head like the weight of it had become too much of a burden to carry on his shoulders. His fingers curled tight around the brim in front of him. Suddenly, the lights, the people, the status, they all blurred together in the background. It was just the two of them in that building.
“Say what? Hm?” he asked, though they both knew.
“That I love you? That I think about you every day?” The words came out rough, dragged up from someplace buried deep where the light of day dare not touch.
His voice broke, just barely.
“I just wanted to keep you someplace safe.”
He shook his head slowly, like he was trying to undo something already done.
“And that was never gon’ be here.” His eyes dropped, then lifted again, filled with something he couldn’t afford.
“And that was never gon’ be with me.”
A beat passed before he uttered his parting words for her, no matter how harsh they were, before leaving.
“Never.”
Mary stood there, the truth settling into her bones like a morning frost, as the music swelled around them as if it were blissfully ignorant of the heartbreak between them.
Laughter rose.
Glasses clinked.
The world went on.
Mary wished silently that it didn’t.
Her facade didn’t crumble all at once. It gave way slowly, piece by piece, until the first tear slipped free despite her wishes, tracing a quiet line down her cheek.
She didn’t wipe it away.
Instead, she just stood there, holding the shape of something that had never really been hers to keep, before making her way back to the bar.
Whatever fragment of hope she had was shattered with each weighted step she took.
-
It was around eleven when Slim let the last note on the piano linger until it thinned into silence, his fingers lifting from the keys like they were reluctant to let go. For a heartbeat, the Juke stilled.
Then the room broke open.
Applause rolled across the floorboards, loud and honest, boots stomping and hands clapping in uneven rhythm. Slim tipped his head, soaking it in just long enough before getting up from the piano stool, one hand resting on the wood for stability, while the other gripped a cold beer.
“Hey…” His voice slid out smooth as aged whiskey, “I been hearin’ ’bout this one particular young man all day. ’Posed to be a bad blues man.” He peered out over the crowd, eyes sharp despite the haze.
“Preacherboy, where you at? Come on here, now.”
A somewhat shy Sammie stepped out from the crowd onto the center floor, but not before getting a few pats of encouragement from Annie and some whoops from Evelynn. A ripple of excitement moved through the room as Sammie was ushered forward, half-shy, half-electric. Stack’s laugh cracked through the noise.
“That’s my little cousin, y’all. Watch this.”
Just as Sammie had started to play, Slim held up a hand before the boy could start.
“Hold up, hold up,” he said, “Tell ’em who you are. Where you from.”
Sammie swallowed, then squared his shoulders.
“I’m Sammie Moore… I’m a sharecropper from Sunflower Plantation. They call me Preacherboy ’count of my daddy bein’ a pastor.” He glanced down once, then back up, fingers strumming a few notes as he spoke.
“I wrote this song for him.”
The first notes slipped out, tentatively, then surely. Sammie’s voice followed, raw and young, already carrying more truth than it knew what to do with.
As he sang, something in the air shifted.
Behind the bar, Evelynn felt it before she understood it. A warmth unfurled low in her chest, spreading outward with each lyric, each chord. The noise of the room softened around the edges, as though the song were pulling a veil thin instead of tearing it outright. The music took hold of her before she realized she’d started moving.
“Y’all move your feet now,” Slim urged gently, like a blessing, “Come on, now.”
The music didn’t just fill the Juke; it reached. Past the laughter, past the sweat and smoke and lamplight, past time itself. Faces flickered at the corners of her vision: women with knowing eyes, men with hands stained by blood, sweat, and tears, voices layered atop voices like harmony built across generations past and future.
Evelynn felt it first like a low pull in her spine. A quiet alignment, a loosening of her tense joints. Her feet moved again, slower now, tracing a rhythm older than the song being played. Around her, the regular patrons blurred, softening at the edges, as if the air itself had learned how to listen.
Then the others came into focus, as if they had always been there.
Men and women filled the space between bodies and beams, woven into the movement like a second, hidden current. Some wore cloth Evelynn recognized from her grandmother’s stories. Bold prints, wrapped skirts, and bare feet stamping the floor in time with drums that no longer existed in this room. Others moved in more ornate styles of dress—hands lifted, shoulders rolling, laughter bright and sharp as bells. They danced the way spirits dance when they’re happy.
Evelynn’s heart skipped a beat in awe.
She had felt presences before. In dreams, in prayer, in the quiet between heartbeats.
But this…this was different.
This was communion. Music as a doorway, rhythm as an offering…a gathering she hadn’t known she’d been invited to, but which had been waiting for her all the same.
And then she saw her.
At first, Evelynn thought the woman was simply another figure caught in the eb and flow of Sammie’s voice. How very wrong she was. The resemblance struck sideways, unwelcome and undeniable. Same cheekbones, same mouth, same eyes. The tilt of the head when listening too closely. Even the way her hands moved, palms open, fingers loose, as if feeling for something just beneath the air.
But the clothes…
The woman wore fabrics she just knew were different. A soft, lived-in cottage dress, boots thinned from use. Her hair was braided back lovingly with flowers dotted throughout. Not ashamed, not hidden. She stood among the others without standing apart, moving in time yet not bound to one rhythm alone. She even danced differently. Different from what she knew her heritage was. Not claiming one tradition over another, but holding both. Her feet traced steps that borrowed from reels and ring shouts alike, arms loose at her sides with joy, shoulders rolling with a freedom that felt… earned. Supported like someone who had learned how to live between worlds and decided to love them both.
Evelynn’s chest tightened as a chill swept across her skin, sharp and fleeting, leaving warmth in its wake.
The woman looked directly at her.
The contact lasted only a second, but in that second, Evelynn felt it: a rush of belonging so deep, it ached. A yearning she didn’t have words for. The strange, certain knowledge of being seen. Not as she was now, but as she had always been. The woman smiled, not a knowing smile, not secretive.
Just… happy.
Open…free.
Like someone delighted to see a familiar face they had nearly forgotten in a crowd.
Evelynn’s heart was racing a mile a minute. When she blinked, the woman had already turned back into the dance, laughing as she spun, folding seamlessly into the flow of bodies and memory.
The others remained, spinning and stomping, clapping and rejoicing, playing music that had belonged to each culture, but Evelynn couldn’t shake the feeling left behind. The hum inside her deepened, steady and sure, threading through muscle and marrow alike. This wasn’t a dream-state pulling her under.
This was power.
A type of strength remembered through blood and soul.
She knew, without fully grasping how, that this was what the elders meant when they spoke of listening. Of letting rhythm carry you somewhere that your physical form could not follow. Of using music as a conduit, not to escape the world, but to see and feel it more clearly.
Her gift wasn’t separate from the blues.
It moved with it.
Healed with it.
Revealed with it.
Her gift was no different from the young man with the resonator guitar whose voice pleaded for forgiveness, no different from the woman whose fingers had tangled with enough roots to rival that old willow tree outside her home, and no different from the elderly man that saw familiar faces at the bottom of his worn flask. Right then and there, they were all sinners, and music was the hearth that united them all.
Evelynn stepped back into the dance, heart full and racing, unaware of what she’d just brushed against, only that something ancient and familiar had recognized her…and been glad she came.
Someone laughed near Evelynn, soft and hopeful, and a hand appeared, offered without expectation. A nameless face with kind eyes. No future attached to the moment.
She took it.
They danced, not too close, not too distant, just two people caught in the same current. Evelynn let herself move without thinking, letting the rhythm guide her hips, her feet, her breath. The ache in her body faded into background noise, replaced by a lightness she hadn’t felt in weeks, no— years. Around them, the moment deepened. Time folded in on itself as the blues braided with something older: ritual and remembrance. Magic carried in bone and blood. The room pulsed, alive and endless. Every step forward felt like it had already happened. Every note carried the echo of something first spoken long ago. And in that echo, her body remembered the feeling. A quiet alignment beneath the noise. A hum that had nothing to do with the crowd and everything to do with what lived beneath it. It brushed against her now the same way it had earlier, gentle and certain.
Before the crowd, before the laughter swelled big enough to hide everything else, before the night grew teeth. Back when the Juke was still finding its identity.
-
It was late afternoon now, sunlight still slipping through the tall windows in long, golden beams that turned dust into something holy. Evelynn had been behind the bar, wiping down dusty tables and chairs, moving the lighter crates that didn't require too much energy. The place smelled of fresh paint, lemon oil, and wood still waking from disuse. Outside, men shouted and laughed as they hauled crates. Inside, Annie’s voice rose and fell among the aunties in the kitchen, sharp and warm all at once. The twins’ dress shoes crossed overhead on the catwalk in a steady, purposeful rhythm.
And Slim...
Slim had been at the piano.
No audience or applause waited for him; it was just his hands and the keys and whatever lived between them. Evelynn hadn’t meant to stop working, yet she did.
Each note fell carefully and deliberately, like footsteps across water. The melody moved slowly, unashamed of its own weight, curling through the air until it settled somewhere deep in her chest. Sammie stood nearby, guitar hanging loose against his body, watching Slim with the kind of focus that came from recognizing something sacred before you had words for it.
Slim let the last note linger until it thinned into silence, his fingers lifting from the keys like they were reluctant to let go. For a moment, the silence that followed brought about a stillness that felt weighted. He reached for his beer resting on the piano’s edge, the bottle already sweating in the heat. His grip was loose and easy. He didn’t look at Sammie right away when he spoke.
“Blues wasn’t forced on us like that religion,” Slim said.
He took a slow drink before continuing, his gaze looking straight through the young man in front of him.
“Nah, son. We brought this with us from home. It’s magic, what we do. It’s sacred… and it’s big.”
The words settled heavily in the space between them. Sammie shifted his weight, fingers brushing unconsciously along the strings of his guitar, not playing, just listening with his hands.
Annie had emerged from the kitchen then, drying her hands on her apron as she listened. She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush the moment. She leaned her shoulder lightly against one of the wooden support beams, watching the two of them with an expression that softened the sharpness she carried everywhere else.
“There are legends,” Annie started, glancing between Slim and Sammie, “of people born with gifts so true, they can pierce the veil.”
Her voice was calm, as if she were just telling something that had been true since the dawn of time.
The familiar words moved through Evelynn like a low bell.
Slim nodded once, slow and approving.
“...between life and death…” Annie said.
Her gaze drifted briefly across the room as she spoke, gliding past the unlit lantern and resting solely on Evelynn, where she stood listening.
“Conjurin’ spirits from the past,” Annie continued softly, “and the future.”
Both Sammie and Evelynn swallowed. She could see the way his shoulders straightened without him realizing. The way his fingers curled a little tighter around the neck of his guitar, empowered and awakened.
Slim finally looked at him then, not like he was looking at a boy, but like he was looking at a door.
“With this here ritual,” Slim said quietly, reverently, “we heal our people… and we be free.”
The words felt as if they had echoed.
Evelynn hadn’t moved, a crate of glasses and mugs still in her hands, the rag she had haphazardly thrown over her shoulder now long forgotten.
She understood something then, not in her mind, but in her blood.
In her soul.
Why the music called to her. Why her dreams came the way they did. Why the air sometimes shifted when certain notes were played just right. She hadn’t known that, standing there in the half-born Juke, that she was watching the beginning of something. That she was watching Sammie embrace his gift.
And that she was embracing hers, too.
-
Now, in the present, as Sammie’s voice filled the living, breathing Juke and the ancestors danced in the spaces between heartbeats, Evelynn fully understood what Slim and Annie had been trying to name.
Evelynn’s vision blurred.
This was how it worked: songs as a doorway, rhythm as prayer. The old ways didn’t always come with altars and candles. Sometimes they came with a piano, a voice, and a room full of people who needed to remember who they were. Sometimes it came through a dream with shadowed faces and darkened fields.
The room swelled with it. Sound, movement, and breath are layered thick enough to feel. A cacophony of laughter rose, shoes struck the floor, and hands clapped in uneven joy. The music carried everyone forward, pulling them deeper into the moment until the world outside the walls felt far away, unimportant, and forgotten.
However, just outside the lot, unseen and uncelebrated, three figures approached the glow of Club Juke.
They moved without hurry, without hesitation, their shadowed eyes fixed on the bodies moving beyond the walls. The warm amber light spilling from the windows stretched long across the dirt, bending around their feet like something trying to warn them back. Dust stirred where they stepped, lifting in thin, restless spirals before settling again, as though the earth itself held its breath in their passing. The hum of the electric lights trembled faintly against the deepening night, a fragile pulse against the vast, watching dark. From inside came the sound of life, laughter rising bright and careless, boots, dress shoes, and heels striking wood in steady rhythm, music threading itself through flesh and memory alike. It spilled out into the open air, warm, human and unguarded.
Inside, everyone danced—whole and radiant, tethered to something ancient and alive. Fully unaware that this rising joy was the last gentle breath before the night began to change. Evelynn’s laughter dissolved into the music, indistinguishable from the others. Her feet moved with easy certainty, her body light despite the lingering aches she’d carried all day. The warmth in her chest burned steady and sure, fed by rhythm, by belonging, by the quiet, unshakable feeling that she was exactly where she was meant to be.
She could not see the way the shadows gathered at the edges of the Juke.
Did not feel the subtle shift in the air, like a held note pulled just slightly out of tune.
Did not see the future, waiting just beyond the threshold, patient and hungry.
For now, there was only the music.
Only the dance.
Only the fragile, fleeting mercy of not knowing.
End of Chapter Four.
Trivia
-This chapter was a bit of a struggle for me due to the constant switches to different characters. I needed to switch and also introduce Mary and Pearline into the plot without making it awkward and seeming as if Evelynn was hyperaware of them as they entered the Juke.
-The start of the chapter feels a little loose compared to the rest to me.
-The plotline has officially started now.
-Evelynn was written with some of my mannerisms.
-I had fun fleshing out some of the convo between Mary and Stack. I hope my writing reflects that.
-One of the Ancestors seemed a little more tangible than the rest.
I need Smoke/Stack smut where the readers/OC’s coochie is so good that they start crying
The Smokestack twins are dicking down a good pussy chick. They can't even be mad about it, she got that wet and gushy that squeeze like a pair of vice grippers. Who knew two grown ass men would be crying in the pussy?
Smoke sits back against the headboard, his heavy frame sinking into the pillows while she straddles him cowgirl. Her knees plant wide on either side of his thick thighs, hands braced flat on his broad chest. She lowers herself slow, letting that right-curving dick stretch her open inch by inch until her pussy swallows every fat vein. The head nudges deep, curving right against her front wall, and she pauses there, clenching once to feel how perfectly he fits.
She starts moving with lethal control. Her hips roll in deep circles first, grinding her soaked walls down around his dick so every ridge drags against her. Then she lifts just enough for the head to catch at her entrance before she drops back down heavy, taking him to the root. The wet slap of her ass meeting his lap filling the bed room. She keeps the motion tight. No wasted motion, just a continuous bounce and grind that milks him from base to tip. Smoke’s hands lock onto her waist, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. His jaw stays tight, breath pushing out in low grunts every time she drops.
“Fuck…you feel too fuckin’ good,” he spoke with a shaky voice.
His eyes stay half-lidded, watching her the whole time, but the pressure builds fast. Her pussy squeezes on the upstroke, walls fluttering and gripping like she’s trying to pull the cum straight out of him.
She doesn’t look away. Her gaze stays locked on his, dark and focused like a siren while she works him. She bounces with perfect timing, short sharp drops followed by slow grinds that drag her clit against his pelvis. Every time she clenches around the curve of his dick, his breath stutters. A single tear slips from the corner of his left eye first, tracking down his temple. Another follows on the right.
Smoke doesn’t sob or make extra noise, just those broken grunts and the way his chest rises harder under her palms.
Her pussy is soaked, creamy from how deep she’s taking him. The stretch feels obscene every time she sinks down, tight walls hugging that fat 9.5 inch curve so good he can feel every pulse. She leans forward a little, changing the angle so the head rubs that spot inside her over and over.
Smoke’s grip tightens. His mouth parts, breath coming ragged.
“Shit…you gon’ make me bust, baby,” he growls low but the tears keep coming while she rides him like she owns every inch of that big ass dick.
She keeps the pace lethal.
Bounce…grind…clench…repeat…
His dick throbs harder inside her, veins pulsing against her walls. She feels him swell, knows he’s close, but she doesn’t speed up. She just keeps staring into his glassy eyes, rolling her hips in those deep circles that drag every sensitive spot along his length. Smoke’s head tips back against the headboard, another tear sliding free. His body locks up, muscles tight, overwhelmed by how perfectly her wet ass pussy milks him. He stays silent except for those low, broken sounds, eyes still on her even as the pleasure cracks him open and leaves him wrecked beneath her.
Smoke’s fingers slide up the back of her neck and fists her hair. He drags her down hard, plush lips crashing against hers in a deep, wet kiss that tastes like his low grunts. Their tongues slide together while she keeps rolling her hips, never breaking the ride that’s wrecking him.
He breaks the kiss just enough to growl against her lips.
“This pussy so fuckin’ good, baby, fuck it’s so damn wet.”
Smoke’s hands drop to her ass, gripping both cheeks right. Then, he starts driving up into her from below, thick muscular thighs flexing as he slams his right-curving dick straight into that soaked grip.
Her walls clenched around every inch, creamy and hot, sucking him deeper with every thrust. The head of his dick drags against her front wall on each upward stroke, stretching that pussy open and making her moan into his mouth.
“Smoke…Smoke…yes…” she gasps his name over and over, voice breaking every time he bottoms out.
Smoke’s eyes remain locked on hers, heavy-lidded and glassy. He keeps talking while he fucks up into her.
“You’re so quiet but I can feel you shaking. I can see it in your eye, smoke. You losin’ it, ain’t you? My pussy is wrecking you, daddy. Tell me it’s wrecking you.”
“You know it is…shit. You killin’ me.” Smoke released a deep groan.
“Good I want you ruined. I want you so obsessed with this coochie that you can’t even think straight,” She rolled her hips. “I’m gonna bounce on this big ass dick ‘til you cry for me. You wanna cry for me, Smoke? You wanna let it go?”
“Fuck…just leep ridin’ this fuckin’ dick, baby. Don’t stop.”
She bounced. Hands on her knees. On her feet. Ass dropping down on him like an earthquake.
CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP
“I’m gonna take every inch of you. This dick mine now. Every bit of this thick, heavy dick belongs to me. You feel me creaming? I’m soakin’ this dick, just sliding right on and off this big dick—”
Smoke starts meeting her stroke for stroke. Balls slapping that ass.
“Pussy so perfect…uuuugmh FUCK—”
“I’m your favorite addiction.” She licked her lips. “Now hold my hips and push up in me—harder—I want to feel you hittin’ the back of my throat—no, the back of my pussy. Dick so good I’m saying anything—give it to me, Smoke. Fuck me like you tryna put a baby in me—”
She stopped moving and Smoke completely took over, plowing her pussy from beneath. His vision blurred, his nostrils flared, his growls grew louder.
“I got you…I ain’t lettin’ go. You mine. This shit mine—all mine.”
“Yes, daddy…yes daddy. You’re just a big strong man getting broken by a little pussy, ain’t you?”
“Fuck…yes, just…gahdam, girl. Good pussy…so wet…grippin’ me like that…fuck.” Each word comes out rough, voice cracking when her walls flutter around him.
Tears still slip from the corners of his eyes.
She leans in and drags her tongue across one, licking the salt from his temple while he keeps pounding up into her. Another tear tracks down his cheek and she catches that too, sucking it off his skin with a soft moan.
Her back bows hard, pushing her tits against his chest. Smoke slides his arms under hers, locking his hands behind her shoulders so he can drive her down onto every thrust. The angle lets him bury that fat 9.5 inch curve all the way in, hips snapping up fast and deep. Wet sounds fill the space every time his lap meets her ass.
Her pussy starts pulsing around him. She cries out, body shaking as the orgasm crashes through her.
“Smoke—fuck—I’m cumming—oh god I’m cumming—”
Her walls clamp down tight, squeezing while she soaks his dick and thighs. Smoke keeps fucking her through it, eyes locked on hers, grunting low and broken while fresh tears slide down his face.
He doesn’t stop. He keeps driving up into that spasming pussy, holding her in place with those strong arms, voice hoarse as he keeps repeating it.
Smoke bucked upward, his hips snapping up into her with raw, primal force, trying to bury himself as deep as humanly possible. He shot thick, hot ropes of nut deep against her cervix, his entire body racking with intense, rhythmic spasms. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in like she’s oxygen and he’s been drowning. He didn’t say much, releasing one final, shaky moan.
“Fuck…you really just broke me, baby…”
————-
She swings her leg over Stack and settles reverse, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. Her back is to him, ass high, and she reaches down to line that thick left-curving dick up with her dripping hole. She sinks down slow, letting every inch stretch her open until her ass meets his lap. Stack’s hands fly to her waist, fingers digging in like he’s trying to anchor himself.
She starts moving.
Slow, deep rolls of her hips that make her cheeks spread and clap softly with each grind. Her walls grip him tight, pulsing around the curve that drags against her back wall on every downward stroke. She glances over her shoulder, eyes hazy, voice low and syrupy.
“Feel that, Stack? Feel how my pussy squeezin’ every inch of that dick? Mmm, you do deep like this…right where I want you…deep in my pussy.” She rolls her hips again, slower this time, letting him feel the way her walls flutter and suck. “That’s it…just like that…let me ride you nice and deep.”
Stack’s breathing turns ragged fast.
His head drops back against the pillows, mouth open but he can’t look away from the way her ass moves. His hands slide down to her cheeks, spreading her wide so he can watch his fat dick disappear inside her over and over. The sight makes his thighs tense under her.
“Damn…baby girl…shit,” Stack groans, voice cracking. Tears are welling in his eyes. Spilling over faster than he can blink them away. One tracks down his cheek while he bites his bottom lip hard, trying to hold in the sounds. She keeps talking, sweet and nasty at the same time.
“Look at you takin’ this pussy so good. Yo feel his wet I am? Drippin’ all down your balls. Keep those hands right there—spread me open so you can watch that dick stretch me. Yeah…just like that.” She bounced a little harder, cheeks clapping louder, then grinds down in tight circles that make her walls drain him from bass to tip.
Stack’s chest heaves. More tears slip fee, running in steady lines while his lips tremble around the table. A broken moan slips out anyway, followed by a soft so he can’t swallow. His fingers flex, spreading her wider, thumbs brushing the place wheee they’re jointed so he can feel every slick inch sliding in and out.
She looks back again, voice dropping even lower.
“You cryin’ for me, baby? That pussy makin’ you lose it? Keep watchin’. I’m finna ride you till you can’t talk no more.”
She picks up the pace, hips snapping down in deep strokes that have him gasping and shaking beneath her. His tears keep flowing, eyes glassy and half-shut, but every second of her taking every inch of him.
She leans forward more, arching her back so her ass is pushed back and high, right in his face, on her feet. That motion opens her up wide. Giving him a front-row seat to the sight of his thick, left curve disappearing into her soaking wet, pulsing folds.
She picks up the pace from the slow grind to a lethal, pound. She slams her weight down on him, the wet slap of her pussy hitting his thighs echoing in the room. Every time she drops, she makes sure to angle herself so his left curve hooks deep into her, hitting a spot that makes her toes curl into the sheets and makes Stack’s eyes damn near roll to the back of his head.
Stack’s breath hitches. He reaches up, his rings cold against her hot skin as he grips her hips, his fingers digging in.
“Look at that…look at how you just swallow me whole,” Stack moans, his voice trembling. “You a little freak, ain’t you? Just a nasty little bitch for this dick. Fuckin’ me and my brother like one dick ain’t enough for this tight pussy.”
She lols back over her shoulder with a wicked smirk on her lips, her eyes locked onto his.
“You like seeing it, Stack? You like how tight I am for you? Like this nasty bitch pussy, huh?” She whispers, her voice sultry. “Let me see if you can bust in this pussy better than your older twin. Smoke gave this pussy some work the other day. Think you can do better?”
The sheer, overwhelming sensation of her walls gripping him so tight and hot was breaking him. His face was contorted in a mix of agony and ecstasy.
Stack drives his heels into the mattress, flexes the muscles of his torso, and gives her exactly what she asked for. Dick beating her pussy in. Her breath stutters and hitches each time he drives up. She drops to her knees in reverse, stack placing one hand on her lower back to keep her steady while his hips levitate from the bed to pump her full of fat, curvy dick. It felt like a fresh wave of wetness was leaking from her. That hot rod was working her pussy so good.
“Damn, Stack!”
“Yeah, take this dick. Be a good bitch and take this dick—fuck this pussy so good—”
Her voice stays low but gets breathier. “I’m close, Stack…this dick got me right there. You feel how tight I’m gettin’?” She speeds up just enough, using the full length of him now, bouncing in short strokes that make her walls flutter and grip. Her moans started slipping out. Raw. Loud.
Stack’s hands tighten on her ass, thumbs digging in while he watches his dick disappear as he fed her pussy exactly what it needs. His voice cracks but stays steady, guiding her through it.
“That’s it, baby…ride that shit. Use every inch. Fuck, you grippin’ me so good. Don’t stop—keep bouncin’ just like that, I got you.”
Her moans climb higher, hips snapping down harder as the pleasure peaks.
“Stack—fuck, I’m finna cum—”
Her pussy clamps down hard, pulsing around him in wet grips while she rode through it, thighs shaking. She keeps moving. Moaning his name between gasps.
Stack’s breathing turns ragged, voice hoarse as he talks her through her orgasm and straight into his own.
“Yeah, cum on it…just like that. Shit, you squeezin’ the life outta me—fuck I’m right behind you.”
His hips jerk up once, twice, then he’s spilling deep inside her with that with a broken groan, tears sill streaking his face as his body locks up under her. His hands stay locked on her ass, holding her down while he emptied every drop, chest heaving, lips trembling alone a sob of pleasure.
