Premise: An innocent milking session turns into a freaky test of willpower between our favorite twins & Mrs. Moore.
A/N: School's finally out for the summer, so guess what that means? Your favorite fairy priestess is back to deliver that fire you all know & love. Special thanks to my boo @theegoldenchild for helping me flesh this out, as well as @nahimjustfeelingit-writes & @soufcakmistress for the idea for this filth! I love y'all real bad! 💛
Warning(s): 18+ | Modern AU | Threesome | Degradation Kink | Praise Kink | Oral Sex | Breastfeeding Kink | Masturbation | Edging | Voyeurism | Elijah "Smoke" Moore x Annie Moore x Elias "Stack" Moore
Word Count: 4K
Divider by: @saradika-graphics
Sunlight spills through the open nursery windows in thick golden ribbons, warm enough to turn the dust floating through the air into glitter. The gauzy curtains sway lazily with the breeze rolling in from the Quarter, carrying the scent of rain-damp pavement, magnolia blossoms, and the faint trace of incense burning downstairs on Annie’s altar. Wind chimes clink softly somewhere on the back gallery, mixing with the distant sound of a trumpet player serenading tourists three streets over. Outside, the city buzzes with its usual mix of music, heat, and morning chaos.
But in here, the world felt gentler.
Autumn babbles happily to herself from the patchwork quilt laid across the rug, tiny gold bangles jingling around her ankles every time she kicks her feet. Her fat cheeks puff around the big toe currently shoved in her mouth, suckling as though it were the finest delicacy in all of Louisiana. Her chocolate curls were wild from sleep and haloed by the morning light, making her look less like a baby and more like a cherub the ancestors had handcrafted for Annie and Smoke’s enjoyment alone. She was perfection.
Annie leans against the doorway with sleepy eyes, her satin robe resting loosely around her shoulder as she watches her daughter. Her hand lightly caresses the small protection sigil Smoke had discreetly painted in the threshold, the blackened symbol nearly invisible against the wood unless you knew what to look for.
“Those toes providing you enough nutrients,” Annie teases softly, “or would you like some goodness fresh from the tap?”
Autumn lets out an excited squeal at the sound of her mother’s voice, nearly choking on her own laughter as she rolls onto her belly. She kicks her legs wildly behind her, determined to army crawl across the blanket despite only managing a few pitiful inches.
“Mm-hmm,” Annie laughs under her breath. “There goes that impatience. You just like your daddy.”
Autumn answers with another delighted shriek at the mention of her father, reaching for her mother with clumsy little hands.
“Calm down,” Annie giggles, pushing herself off the doorway and crossing the nursery barefoot. The old wooden floor creaks beneath her steps. “I was going to come to you.”
She scoops her into her arms, breathing in that powdery baby scent mixed with shea butter and chamomile oil. The infant immediately tucks herself against her mother’s chest with a happy little sigh. Annie pulls down one side of her night gown and settles into the rocking chair near the window, letting Autumn latch while sunlight pours over them both in warm, honey-colored waves.
Downstairs, the coffee maker gives a soft ding, followed by the familiar sound of cabinet doors opening and closing somewhere beneath the nursery floor. Annie smiles to herself. Smoke was up.
A second later, music crackles low through the house from the old speaker he refused to replace. One of Sammie’s blues records. He’d never admit it out loud, but he was his little cousin’s biggest fan and owned every album he’d ever made on cassette, CD, and vinyl.
Before long, the scent of breakfast begins creeping upstairs. First coffee, dark and rich enough to wake the dead. Then butter hitting hot cast iron. Bacon shortly after that. Annie closes her eyes for a second when the smell of sautéed bell peppers and onions finally joins the mix, followed by the unmistakable scent of seasoned shrimp cooking in garlic and Cajun spices.
Smoke was making his famous shrimp and grits.
She could already picture him downstairs moving around the kitchen, half-dressed, tattoos peeking beneath a black tank top, while he stood over the stove with the same ridiculous amount of focus he put into everything. Probably dancing a little too, if the faint sound of cabinet tapping was anything to go by. A soft laugh leaves her throat.
Annie loved it when Smoke cooked. Not because he was good at it, though Lord knew he was. It was the care behind it that always got to her. The way he plated her food like it mattered. The way he remembered she liked extra cheese in her grits and her peaches sprinkled with sugar. The way he’d slide a cup of coffee into her hands before she even realized she needed one.
She always told him she could taste the love in his food. And every single time, Smoke would roll his eyes like she was being dramatic, even though the smug grin tugging at his mouth always gave him away.
“You wanna go say hi to daddy, babygirl? I’m sure he could use some of this good loving, too.” Autumn blinks up at her with sleepy, milk-drunk eyes, one hand still gripping Annie’s robe as she finishes feeding. A soft little sigh escapes her once she’s full, cheeks warm and round as she settles against Annie’s chest.
“Yeah,” Annie murmured, kissing the top of her curls. “That’s my spoiled girl.”
The old hardwood creaked beneath Annie’s bare feet as she carried Autumn downstairs, the smell of breakfast growing stronger with every step. Annie hums along to Sammie’s record as she crosses into the kitchen, and to her surprise, there are two Moore men waiting to greet her.
“There’s unc’s baby!” Stack grins the second he spots Autumn. His whole face lights up so fast Annie nearly laughs. “Come here, Moonbeam.”
Autumn squeals at the sound of his voice, immediately reaching for him with little grabby hands.
“Traitor,” Smoke snorts.
“Don’t be mad that I’m the favorite twin,” Stack shoots back, reaching out for his niece.
“You don’t even like kids,” Smoke mutters behind his coffee mug.
“Correction: I don’t like outside kids. Moonbeam is different.”
Annie laughs under her breath as Stack carefully scoops the chunky chocolate drop from her arms like she was made of glass. Autumn immediately tucks herself against his chest with a happy hum, tiny fingers grabbing onto the gold chain around his neck.
“Aht-aht,” Stack warns gently, untangling her fist before she could yank it hard enough to choke him. “That chain cost too much money for all that.”
Autumn only blinks at him before smacking her tiny palm against his cheek.
“That’s what your ass get,” Smoke says, barking out a laugh loud enough to echo through the kitchen.
“Abusive like her damn daddy,” Stack fusses as he rubs his cheek.
“You’ll be aight.”
Autumn yawns suddenly against Stack’s shoulder, tiny mouth stretching wide before her face buries into the crook of his neck. The fight drains out of her all at once.
“Annnd she’s out,” Smoke notes, pointing the spatula towards her.
“She’s been up since before sunrise,” Annie nods softly.
Stack glances down at the chocolate cherub curled against him, his expression softening so fast it almost didn’t look like him at all.
“Y’all eat. I got her.”
“You sure?” Annie asks.
“Please,” he scoffs. “I’m Uncle Stack. My baby knows she’s in good hands like Allstate.” Smoke rolls his eyes, but doesn’t protest further.
Annie smiles as Stack disappears upstairs with Autumn resting against his shoulder, one massive hand spread protectively across her tiny back while he hums softly under his breath. A minute later, the house falls quiet again.
Sensing a chance to seize the opportunity, Smoke stalks quietly behind Annie before snatching her up, expertly pinning her back to the counter. He’d been eyeing the growing damp spot beneath the thin fabric of her night gown for the last ten minutes, and his patience had finally run dry.
“E-Elijah,” Annie breathes, though there’s no real threat behind it. “What are you doing?”
He answers by sliding the strap of her gown from her shoulder slowly, exposing warm brown skin and the fullness of her breast beneath the kitchen light. A fresh bead of milk gathers there, and the sight alone nearly drives him insane.
“Lord have mercy,” he mutters softly, more to himself than her.
Smoke leans down without another word, mouth closing around her with a quiet groan that sends electricity through Annie’s body. Her fingers tighten against the cool marble instantly while his tongue soothes and teases in slow, deliberate strokes, savoring her like something sweet he’d been craving all morning.
“Eliijahhh,” she whimpers as she squirms, attempting to free herself from his grasp.
“Be still, woman,” he fusses. “I’m tryna take care of you.” His free hand carefully glides up her thigh and finds solace in the slick between her legs. Annie’s knees buckle as his fingers expertly work that sensitive bundle of nerves while he indulges in his daughter’s life force, desperate to increase his calcium intake for the day.
“Aye, family! Baby Autumn is down for the coun—” Stack stops short in the kitchen doorway, one brow lifting slowly. “Now what the fuck y’all got going on in here?”
Annie’s knuckles whiten from how tightly she grips the counter while Smoke nurses from her with a low hum of approval, his fingers working quickly under the hem of her dress.
“Well,” Stack drawls, dragging his gaze over the scene in front of him, “I see Autumn ain’t the only one that likes her milk from the tap.”
“Mind ya business,” Smoke mutters against Annie’s skin, though the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth ruins the threat completely. Stack only laughs, stepping farther into the kitchen.
“Hard to mind my business when my brother got his wife soundin’ like a damn late-night R&B playlist at breakfast. And in front of my shrimp and grits, no less.”
Annie lifts her head just enough to glance at him over Smoke’s shoulder, eyes heavy-lidded and amused.
“Then stop staring.”
“Nah,” Stack says easily, leaning against the island. “I’m entertained now.”
Smoke sucks his teeth while Annie fights a smile. The twins had always been dangerous together. Same crooked grin. Same wolfish confidence. But where Smoke burned low and steady, Stack carried chaos in his pockets like loose change.
“Careful, Stack,” Annie murmurs sweetly. “You keep looking at me like that, and your brother gon’ start growling.”
“He is already growling,” Stack shoots back instantly. “I heard him from the hallway.”
Smoke lifts his head just long enough to glare at him. “Get out my kitchen.”
“Make me.”
Stack watches from his spot against the island, arms folded tightly across his chest as he tries to ignore the growing tension low in his stomach every time Annie lets out another soft sound. He’d always thought she was the finest woman he’d ever seen, but watching her melt beneath Smoke’s touch nearly unraveled what little self-control he had left. The sight of her flushed and breathless had temptation crawling straight up his spine.
“Y’all nasty as hell,” he says after a beat, watching the way Annie’s eyes rolled back in her head as slick warmth slowly trails down her thigh.
“And yet you’re still watching instead of coming to do something about it,” Annie challenges.
“Don’t bite off more than you can chew, Antoinette,” Stack warns, stalking closer to her. “I’ll have you in a puddle of ya own nut before you can blink.”
“All bark and no bite,” Annie teases, caressing the back of Smoke’s head as he strokes himself through his pajama pants. And in that moment, something in Stack snapped. One of his biggest pet peeves, and secret turn-ons, was a woman who challenged his manhood. He quickly closes the short distance between the island and Annie, attaching himself to her left breast in one fluid motion. Annie almost screamed at the sensation of having both twins on her at once while Smoke’s fingers still danced in her slick.
“Oooh shiiiit,” she purrs, rolling her hips against Smoke’s rough fingers.
Though she knew it was wrong, she’d often fantasize about how it would feel to have both twins worshipping her body, and now, here she was experiencing it in 8K. Though they were identical, each brother had his own way of pleasuring her that made her feel like a goddess being worshipped. Smoke took his time, slow and steady, like he enjoyed drawing every reaction out of her piece by piece. Everything he did felt deliberate. Controlled. The gentle pull of his mouth, the lazy flick of his tongue, the slow drag of his fingers between her thighs.
Stack was the complete opposite. He kissed her like he was starving and touched her like restraint had never once crossed his mind. Every impatient movement, every rough little sound he made against her skin sent another rush of heat straight through Annie’s body until she could barely think past the sensation of both brothers surrounding her at once.
“W-Wait,” she says as she feels that familiar bloom in the pit of her stomach. “I don’t want to cum yet, I want to play a game.”
Smoke ignores her initially, glaring daggers at Stack when he notices Annie’s moans growing louder because of him. The two carry on their silent bickering until Annie grips them both by their curls, lifting their heads to meet her gaze. The pair groan in frustration at the loss of contact.
“I said I want to play a game,” Annie repeats, watching them both with lidded eyes.
“A game?” Smoke echoes.
“What kind of game?” Stack presses.
“A game of willpower, between the two of you,” she coos, wrapping a hand around each of their third legs. Their dicks felt heavy in her hands as she mentally noted the similarities between them. They were both 9 ½ inches, with Smoke curving to the right and Stack curving to the left. Her pussy throbs as she imagines how it would feel to have one twin fucking her throat while the other fucks her into oblivion.
“I’m going to stroke you both. Whoever cums first has to watch the other one fuck me.” They both stare at her blankly, blinded by the way her soft hands work them both with steady precision. Smoke weakens almost instantly, and it takes a moment for him to register the proposition.
“You must be out yo mind,” he growls through clenched teeth, eyes darting between his wife and his twin. But Annie ignores him and keeps stroking, her mouth secretly watering as both of their tips begin leaking precum. Stack remains quiet, except for the few small moans that escape his lips as Annie’s thumb swipes over the sensitive head of his dick. When he finally regains his voice, it’s to taunt his grumpy dopplegänger.
“What’s the matter, ‘Lijah? Scared you gone have to watch me bend your wife over?” he teases.
“It’ll be a cold day in hell,” Smoke barks back, already positioning himself back at Annie’s dripping right nipple. Her right hand strokes him with calculated motions, drawing curses from his lips like prayers.
“Gahdamn woman,” he moans, thrusting into her palm like he would her pussy.
“It’s just a friendly competition, ‘Lijah,” she mewls. “You can share me this one time.”
Smoke ignores his wife’s statement, opting to continue pumping his fingers in her slopping wet hole. He wasn’t in the mood to share his lover with his menace of a brother. All he wanted was to indulge in a little breastmilk and enjoy an early morning fuck. Part of him wanted to appease Annie and see where this little competition would lead, but the other side of him, the possessive, unstable side, wasn’t fully convinced.
One second, his fingers were deep in her core, thrusting in and out. The next, he was curling them to hit that sweet spot that made her toes curl.
“I don’t like sharin’,” he grumbles.
“L-Lijah…”
He uses her moans as fuel to continue working his tongue and fingers until her orgasm rips through her before she has time to process it.
“Fuuuuuck!” she screams, before reeling her voice back in, afraid of waking Autumn.
Stack doesn’t falter. He uses his tongue to guide Annie through her orgasm and work her up for another one. Annie rewards him with a firm squeeze of his shaft.
“Damn Elias,” she purrs softly. “You might be the little brother, but that dick is full-grown.” Stack groans deeply against her chest as she uses his precum to stroke him faster. As much as he loves bringing a woman to her knees and turning her into his personal free-use doll, Stack’s ultimate kink is praise. He loves being told how good a job he’s doing or how well he’s pleasing his woman.
Annie’s praises, coupled with the way her soft hands alternated between slow, deliberate strokes of his dick to fast, precise ones, had turned Stack into a leaking, moaning mess around her nipple. Shivers shoot down his spine as he tries his best to match the rhythm of her strokes with the flicks of his tongue. His orgasm was building fast.
“You’re being such a good boy for me, Elias,” Annie purrs. “I might let you fuck me just for that.”
Stack shoots Smoke a devilish grin as he suckles a mouthful of breastmilk. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back for Smoke. In one swift motion, he lifts Annie onto the island, spreading her legs as wide as they can go.
“Say that shit again and I’ll edge you every night for the next week,” Smoke warns, positioning his face right in front of her dripping center. Annie bites her lip as she looks down to meet her husband’s gaze, shivering slightly at the menacing look in his eyes.
“You still wanna try that Eiffel Tower shit you showed me the other night?” he asks, lazily licking up her thigh before placing a gentle kiss on her pussy. The sensation pulls a desperate whimper from Annie’s lips.
“Eiffel Tower? Oh you nasty nasty, Mrs. Moore,” Stack smirks, pressing a trail of kisses from her nipple, down her stomach, and right on top of her mound. “I like it.”
Annie squirms in anticipation as the twins take their places, Stack at her head and Smoke between her legs. Her mouth waters as she comes face to shaft with Stack’s dick, the weight of him resting warm against her lips while that cocky grin slowly spreads across his face.
“Say ahh, pretty girl,” he purrs, amused at how quickly she complies.
He carefully eases himself into her awaiting mouth, knees buckling as she expertly wraps her tongue around his thick tip. A soft curse slips from his throat almost instantly, one hand bracing against the counter while the other disappears into her curls.
“Fuck,” he breathes, head tipping back for a second before his eyes lock onto her again. “There she go.”
Annie looks up at him through heavy lashes, taking her time like she knows exactly what she’s doing to him. Every slow movement of her mouth pulls another strained sound from deep in his chest, his confidence cracking little by little beneath the heat of her attention.
“Shiiiit woman,” he growls through clenched teeth as he watches his dick disappear down Annie’s throat before reappearing again, completely covered in thick ropes of saliva. He rolls her nipples between his fingers, as she sucks him like her favorite popsicle on a warm, summer day.
Smoke watches the exchange from his place between her legs with dark, possessive eyes, his hand sliding along her waist while Stack struggles to keep himself together above her. Without warning, he plunges deep into her sex, pulling a strangled moan from her throat. Annie squirts unintentionally on impact, but Smoke keeps on fucking. Annie gasps softly as Smoke buries himself against her neck with a low sound that barely sounds human anymore. The friendly competition between brothers had become possessive.
Smoke had always worshipped Annie openly. Anybody with eyes could see that. The soft kisses against her forehead when she was tired. The way he fixed her coffee exactly how she liked it every morning without asking. The way his hand automatically found the small of her back whenever they walked through a crowded room.
But moments like this pulled something rougher out of him. Something territorial. He was more than willing to give Annie anything under the sun. Jewelry, time, devotion. Hell, blood if she wanted it.
But her pussy? That was his and his alone. And judging by the dark look in his eyes, Smoke intended to remind everybody in the room of that fact.
“Now what was all that shit you was talking about Elias fucking my pussy?” he mutters against her skin, voice rough enough to send heat rushing through her chest. Annie could barely form words, let alone answer him. Her thoughts had melted into scattered fragments somewhere between Stack teasing her nipples and the overwhelming sensation of Smoke filling her to the hilt.
Stack fists her curls, driving himself deeper down her throat as the coils in the pit of his stomach began to unravel.
“Anniiiieeeeee,” he moans as she wraps her hand around the base of his dick, using both her mouth and hand simultaneously to encourage his release. She pulls him out of her mouth just as cum flies out in thick ropes, covering her supple breasts in his unborns.
“Shiit!” he rasps, planting both hands beside her head as he struggles to catch his breath. Annie takes in the sight with pride before shifting her attention to her husband. She readjusts, locking her thick thighs around Smoke’s waist, winding her hips to match his thrusts.
“Cum in your pussy, Papa,” she purrs, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck. “It’s yours. Claim it.”
And with that, the little resolve Smoke had left diminished. The feeling hit him hard and sudden, ripping through his body with enough force to leave his knees weak beneath him. A broken sound tore from his chest as he buried his face against Annie’s neck, teeth sinking lightly into her skin while he tried to ride out the overwhelming rush of it. She shivers at the feeling of his mouth against her neck, immediately threading her fingers into his curls while trying to steady her own breathing. Smoke was gone now. This was Elijah again.
“Damn,” Stack laughs softly under his breath, shaking his head while Smoke stays buried against Annie’s throat. “Boy sound like he just saw God.”
Smoke blindly flips him off, keeping his position on Annie’s chest. She laughs, breathless and warm despite the exhaustion settling into her limbs.
“Y’all are ridiculous.”
“And yet, you love us,” Stack retorts, tugging his sweats back on. He pulls his shirt over his head just as a sharp cry crackles through the baby monitor sitting forgotten near the fruit bowl.
All three of them freeze before another cry follows, loud and offended.
“Oh, she up,” Annie sighs instantly, already trying to sit up, despite Smoke’s large body still pinning her to the island. He groans dramatically.
“Swear that child got the worst timing I ever seen,” he fusses as he reluctantly sits up.
“She your child,” Stack reminds him, making his way towards the stairs as Autumn’s angry little cries echo through the speaker. “Y’all stay cuddled up. Uncle Stack can take it from here.”
“Still tryna solidify your spot as her favorite twin,” Annie accuses.
“Because I am her favorite,” he yells back confidently before disappearing up the stairs. A few seconds later, the crying softens upstairs, replaced by the faint sound of Stack’s voice talking nonsense to calm her down. Smoke watches Annie with tired eyes and a crooked smile.
A gritty, Neo-noir crime drama that explores themes of morality, brotherhood, and love.
An alternate universe where twin brothers Elijah “Smoke” and Elias “Stack” Moore never return to Mississippi after World War I. Instead, they make a name for themselves during the height of the Harlem Renaissance, where number slips and jazz clubs fuel dreams. But when Smoke becomes enamored by a mysterious woman from New Orleans, he decides he wants to leave the game for good.
Contains: Explicit language, sexual content, drugs, violence, death, themes of love, loyalty, morality, and family.
Prologue
In 1917, Elijah and Elias Moore left the cotton fields of Clarksdale, Mississippi and never looked back.
With just the clothes on their backs they made their way to Manhattan, where they enlisted and shipped off with the 369th Infantry Regiment.
The Black Rattlers.
The Harlem Hellfighters.
191 days of front-line combat. Of trenches. Of gunfire and grenades. It changed them. But the Moore twins were carved by violence long before they set foot on European soil.
Their father used to beat them. Regularly. Mercilessly. From the time they were too young and weak to fight back. Then one day the pendulum swung. A sudden, bloody shift where the students finally outmastered their teacher.
So they took a train up north.
By the time they came back from the war, they swore they’d never go back to Mississippi. Not to the cotton fields, not to sharecropping, not to their father’s shadow, and not to the klan or Jim Crow breathing down their necks.
Harlem was where it was at. It was glittering, alive, musical, brilliant. It was expanding, demanding, thriving. Becoming. It was the Black Mecca of the north. Some folks called it a Negro Renaissance. A revival.
Others would say it’s what should have been all along, but it never had the soil or sunlight to survive. Literati, intelligentsia, poets, physicians, engineers, singers, musicians, librarians—thinkers. Black folks in Harlem had the space to exist and expand.
The twins hustled from Central Harlem to Hamilton Heights. They joined the numbers racket in the 1920’s— providing enforcement, protection, punishment.
They earned their nicknames in muscle, grit, and gunplay—
The SmokeStack Twins.
Smoke was the controlled violence, the calm hand. Stack was social violence with a smile.
Now more than a decade later they were flourishing. From 135th, to 155th, to the Hudson River— Hamilton Heights was their playground.
And Sugar Hill was where they called home.
Taglist: @myheartsaysyes @theethighpriestess
Soooo what y'all think so far? Is this something you'd like to see me continue? 😬 Drop an opinion in the comments.
A collection of works inspired by the COWBOY CARTER album, feat. Smoke & Stack Moore.
First chapter coming 1st January, 2026
★ AMERICAN REQUIEM
Elijah and Elias visit their Grandma June in Mississippi. June shares stories from 1926, when she learned strength and healing from her mother. She recounts how black families like theirs built America through resilience and labor. Her memories reveal how the country often forgot the people who shaped it.
★ BLACKBIRD
Elijah and Elias visit Clarene, a former Freedom Rider, who shares her struggles and Grandma June’s quiet bravery. They realize how much their generation takes for granted. Moved, they promise to carry these lessons forward.
★ SIXTEEN CARRIAGES
Elijah and Elias confront the sudden death of their childhood friend, Isaiah. They revisit childhood spots, recalling memories of laughter, mischief, and innocence lost. Attending Isaiah’s funeral, they witness a community honoring his life with song, stories, and shared grief.
★ PROTECTOR
★ MY ROSE
★ TEXAS HOLD ‘EM
★ BODYGUARD
★ JOLENE
★ DAUGHTER
★ SPAGHETTI
★ ALLIGATOR TEARS
★ JUST FOR FUN
★ TWO MOST WANTED
★ LEVI’S JEANS
★ FLAMENCO
★ YA YA
★ DESERT EAGLE
★ RIVERDANCE
★ TWO HANDS TO HEAVEN
★ TYRANT
★ SWEET ★ HONEY ★ BUCKIN’
★ AMEN
★・・・・・・★
Hi y’all. Long time no speak. I’m so excited to be writing my next anthology which will be CC x Sinners. I’ve got a little outline and plan of what the chapters will be about, I just need to start working on them. As it says above, I’m hoping to upload the first chapter on New Years Day. Thank you all so much for still supporting and waiting for more! ✍️ love y’all! 🤠
What if stack had a cat? Like one day while he was out and about doing his rounds, he found a little white kitten meowing in an alley, and he befriended it and took it home
This is freaking adorable as hell 😭
Little Rock, Arkansas, Circa 1931
Elias ‘Stack’ Moore was making his way back to The Blackline as the heat hung over the city, beating down on him something fierce. He had spent most of the day handlin’ business. A shipment needed confirming. Two men owed him money. A supplier on the east side had spent twenty minutes explaining why he was late and another ten apologizing for it. And Smoke was tied up seeing a man about hiring two new runners to travel from Mound Bayou back to Little Rock.
By the time Stack turned down an alley behind a butcher shop, he was ready for a drink and a quiet chair.
That was, until he heard it.
A sharp cry.
Stack stopped.
The sound came again
“Mrrrow”
Stack glanced around the alley.
Wooden crates. Broken barrels. A rusted tub. Flyers for the Dreamland Ballroom. Billie Holiday’s faded picture on the front cover.
Then, he spotted a flash of white beneath a stack of boxes.
Stack crouched.
“Well now.”
Two blue eyes stared back at him.
The kitten looked half-starved. Its fur was dirty. One ear had a small nick. It couldn’t have been more than a few months old.
The kitten immediately hissed.
Stack blinked. “That’s a mighty strong opinion from somebody the size of a biscuit.”
The kitten hissed again.
Stack chuckled. “Yeah. You tough.”
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the wrapped piece of smoked sausage from the butcher he’d bought earlier for a little taste until he’d gotten back to see what Aunt Pearl was cooking up.
The kitten watched every movement.
Slowly, Stack tore off a piece and set it on the ground.
The little thing hesitated.
Then, it darted forward and clamped it between its paws, pink beans dirty. It started munching, tiny sharp teeth nibbling away.
Gone in seconds.
Stack tore off another piece.
And another.
By the fourth piece, the kitten wasn’t hiding anymore.
By the sixth, it was standing beside his shoe.
By the eight, it was rubbing against his ankle.
Stack sighed. “Ah, hell.”
The kitten meowed.
“You done made up your mind already, ain’t you?”
The kitten looked up at him.
Stack pointed toward the alley entrance.
“You know I run a juke and brothel, right? Loud music. Drink fools. Women that’ll dress you in ribbons and bows.”
The kitten blinked.
“I ain’t got time for no cat.”
The kitten rubbed against his shoe again.
Five minutes later, Stack Moore was walking toward The Blackline with a white kitten tucked inside his jacket.
The first person to notice was Peaches.
Stack had barely stepped through the back entrance when she narrowed her eyes.
“What you got under there?”
“Nothin’.”
Something moved beneath his jacket.
Peaches gasped.
Cordelia appeared from nowhere.
“What is that?”
Stack groaned.
The kitten poked its head out.
“Mrrrow.”
The women erupted.
“Oh, Lord!”
“Look at that baby!”
“Where’d you find him?!”
“She hungry?”
“Can I hold it?!”
Stack immediately regretted every decision that had brought him to this moment. Within minutes, the kitten had been fed milk, wrapped in a towel, and given three different names.
Stack rejected all of them.
Smoke found them gathered in Stack’s office later that evening. He stepped through the doorway and stopped.
The kitten was asleep on Stack’s desk. Cordelia sat nearby sewing something. Peaches was scratching beneath its chin.
Stack was attempting to read paperwork.
Attempting.
Smoke stared. Then looked at his twin.
“You got a cat.”
Stack didn’t glance up.
“It got me.”
Smoke folded his arms.
The silence lasted several seconds. Smoke staring at the kitten with a peculiar expression. Then, he nodded his head once.
“That’s worse.”
Cordelia and Peaches giggled.
They would not stop hounding Stack about a damn name.
The kitten sat in the middle of Stack’s desk, licking one paw while half a dozen girls stood around staring at it. Even some of Stack’s muscle came peeking in to see.
“You gotta give it a name, daddy.” Peaches said.
“I don’t gotta do nothin’.”
Cordelia rolled her eyes. “You can’t keep callin’ it ‘cat.”
“I damn well can.”
The kitten stepped directly onto one of Stack’s money books. Stack lifted it and placed it back on the desk. The kitten immediately walked onto the book again.
Minnie pointed. “See? She got personality.”
“Or he.” Cordelia said, puffing on a cigarette.
Nobody actually knew. The kitten was too young to tell.
Peaches leaned forward. “What about Pearl!”
“No.”
“Daisy?” Another girl said.
“No.”
“Snowball?” Another girl said.
“Absolutely not.”
Cordelia laughed. “Angel?”
Stack looked at her like she’d lost her mind.
“Have you met this animal?”
As if on cue, the kitten swatted an ink pen off the desk.
It hit the floor.
Everyone watched it happen.
“See?” Stack said.
“Maybe Lily?” Peaches offered.
“No.”
“Magnolia?”
“No.”
“Sweet Pea?” Aunt Pearl called out as she walked past Stack’s office.
The look Stack gave her nearly sent Cordelia into laughter.
“What? She eaten my scraps I outta give my input, Elias.” Aunt Pearl argued.
“That cat ain’t sweet and neither are you.” Stack mumbled.
Aunt Pearl twisted her towel and swatted it at Stack. The girls giggled.
The kitten chose that moment to bite Stack’s finger.
It wasn’t hard but it was just enough.
Stack stared down at it.
The kitten stared right back.
Smoke stepped into the office. He took one look at the gathering.
“What ya’ll doin?”
“Namin’ Stack’s cat.”
Smoke looked at the kitten. The kitten looked at Smoke.
Then, for absolutely no reason, it hissed.
Smoke raised an eyebrow.
Stack pointed. “See? Mean.”
The kitten puffed itself up, all six ounces of attitude on display.
Smoke nodded once. “Mean little thing.”
Stack looked down at the kitten again.
The kitten looked up at him.
Then, it reached out and placed one tiny white paw on top of his hand.
Something about it made him grin. Not a big grin. Just enough.
“Trouble.”
Cordelia blinked. “What?”
Stack scratched beneath the kitten’s chin.
“That’s the name.”
The kitten immediately climbed onto his shoulder as if it approved.
Peaches laughed. “Trouble!”
Smoke nodded. “Fits.”
The kitten settled comfortably against Stack’s neck.
Stack shook his head. “Yeah.” Looking around the room, he added, “Besides, that what everybody call me when I walk through the door anyway.”
The kitten purred.
The name stuck.
Stack shook his head.
The kitten purred.
Trouble stayed. Nobody ever officially decided it. It simply happened.
A small cushion appeared beside Stack’s desk. Bowls for water and mashed up scraps the girls stole from the kitchen sat right outside of the office door. Smoke was talked into making a slot at the bottom of the back entrance door for the cat to come and go when it needed to relieve itself.
Trouble grew. Its fur became soft and bright. Its ribs disappeared. And despite an entire building full of people wanting its attention, it followed Stack everywhere.
It slept in his office. Sat on his desk during meetings. Occupied his bed when he was away. Curled beside him whenever he sat still longer than five minutes.
Every night after closing, Stack would lean back in his office chair while the cat occupied his lap like it owned the place.
Maybe it did.
One evening, long after the music downstairs had ended, Stack scratched beneath the cat’s chin while looking over the night’s books.
Trouble began purring.
Stack shook his head. “Everybody in this city wants somethin’ from me.”
Trouble blinked.
“You don’t even know who I am.”
Trouble stretched and settled deeper into his lap.
A smile tugged at the corner of Stack’s mouth.
For once, there was no business to handle.
No debts to collect.
No trouble waiting around the corner.
Just a small white cat asleep against him while the sounds of The Blackline drifted softly through the floorboards below.
It was the closest thing to peace Elias Moore had found in a very long time.
—
Just like every night, The Blackline was full to bursting. Folks were stacked three deep at the bar. Saturday night had filled The Blackline to the rafters. The poker tables stayed busy, the whiskey flowed without pause, and not a single chair sat empty in the house. Cigarette smoke curled toward the ceiling while laughter rolled through the crowded room.
On stage, Ruby Mae or “Big Beaver Mae” sat atop the piano in a sequined dress that caught every oil lamp in the room. Her voice slid through the Juke and Pussy Haven like warm sorghum syrup drizzled over cornbread. Speaking of, she had a hefty slice of Aunt Pearl’s sweet potato cornbread in her hand while she sung about a man with a hook for a pecker that ran off with her money. She earned whistles and applause from the crowd.
Meanwhile, Stack Moore was three hands into a poker game. He had a decent stack of chips in front of him and a man across the table sweating through his collar.
Then, Cordelia appeared.
Stack immediately knew that look.
He leaned back in his chair with a crease between his brows and a toothpick resting in the corner of his mouth.
“What?”
Cordelia folded her arms. “Don’t get mad.”
His eyes narrowed. “What happened?”
“It ain’t bad.”
“Cordelia.”
She pointed toward the stage.
Stack followed her finger.
Then froze.
There, perched on top of the piano beside the singer, sat Trouble.
The little white menace looked entirely pleased with himself.
Stack closed his eyes.
The poker players around him started laughing.
“How the hell…”
“He climbed up there.”
“Yeah but who let his little ass out my office?!”
Cordelia flicked her gaze away.
“Let me guess. Liza?”
“She said Trouble kept meowin’ wantin’ to get out—”
Stack shoved back from the table.
"That cat so little somebody could've stepped on him."
Cordelia followed as he headed across the room.
“He ain’t been stepped on.”
“Yet.”
By the time Stack reached the stage, Miss Ruby Mae had already spotted him.
A wicked smile spread across her face.
“Oh, look who’s comin’!”
The crowd turned.
Several people immediately started laughing.
Trouble stood, stretched, and sat right back down on top of the piano.
Miss Ruby Mae pointed dramatically. “Ya’ll know that cat?!”
The crowd answered at once.
“That’s Stack’s cat!”
“Hmm,” Ruby Mae laughed. “Just like Stack to surround himself with pussy, ain’t it?!”
“DAMN RIGHT!”
She laughed and slapped the piano. Then, she launched into an improvised verse.
🎶 I got a man named Stack, lord he dress so clean and fine… 🎶
The crowd cheered.
🎶 But his little white cat run that Blackline better than he run mine. 🎶
The room exploded with laughter.
Stack stopped at the edge of the stage.
Ruby Mae wasn’t finished.
🎶 That cat steal fish from the kitchen, knock whiskey on the floor… 🎶
Trouble meowed loudly.
A series of ‘aww’s’ filtered about.
Ruby Mae pointed at him.
🎶 And if Trouble don’t like your face, baby, don’t come back no mo’ 🎶
People were doubled over.
Even the piano player nearly missed a note.
Stack rubbed a hand over his face. “You encouragin’ him, woman!”
Ruby Mae laughed. “Honey, that cat don’t need encouragement.”
Trouble chose that exact moment to walk across the piano keys. A loud, awful cluster of notes rang through the room.
The crowd howled.
Stack finally stepped onto the stage and scooped the cat into his arms.
Trouble immediately started purring.
“You proud of yourself?”
The cat blinked.
Ruby Mae leaned toward the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, give a hand to Mr. Elias Moore!”
The applause started instantly.
She pointed at the cat. “And the real owner of The Blackline!”
The cheering got even louder.
Stack shook his head while Trouble sat comfortably in his arms, completely unbothered by the chaos he’d caused.
As he walked away from the stage, he could still hear people laughing.
Cordelia passed by and grinned. “Trouble suits that cat just fine.”
Stack looked down at the little fluffy menace.
Trouble looked back at him.
Then, the cat had the nerve to yawn.
Stack sighed. “Yeah.”
The cat had been at The Blackline less than a month.
Mr. Smoke’s & Mr. Stack’s Doll: A Little Bunny Rabbit
Author’s Note: It’s Gemini season! Everyone go say Happy Day Of Birth to my sister @theethighpriestess aka Bunny 🐰
Warnings: +18 | Dom!Smoke | Dom!Stack | Smoke x Stack x OC | Plus Size OC | MFM | Angst (if you squint and do a backflip) | Fluff (if you squint and do three pushups) Oral Sex | Anal Sex | Edging | Coochie Drilled To Smithereens | Overstimulation | Double Penetration | Creampie | Dollification | They… They aren’t mean in this chapter… have I found God?
The room smelled like a cheap pomade and even cheaper whiskey.
Bunny had caught the scent the moment she pushed open the door to room number seven. There was a stale and sour stench lingering in the air that clung to a drunken man that was expected to be her next client. She stood in the doorway for a half second, shoulders squared beneath the ivory negligee she had been assigned for the evening, her red painted toes just crossing the threshold, and she told herself it was nothing. Men came in here smelling like all manner of sin. Whiskey and cheap pomade was the least offensive of them.
The man waiting for her was a heavyset thing. Pale as uncooked dough, with a collar loosened down to his second button and cufflinks that didn't match. His eyes swam when they found her. This wasn’t the ordinary tipsy swim of a man who had had two drinks to get his nerves up before visiting a house like this. No, this was the kind of swim that came from the bottom of a bottle, from a man who had been drinking since before supper and hadn't stopped for reasons that had nothing to do with enjoying the taste.
His mouth curved into something that was meant to be a smile but landed somewhere closer to a sneer. "There she is," he said, his words running together at the edges like watercolors left out in the rain. "Took ya’ long enough."
Bunny let the door shut behind her with a quiet click. She pulled up the smile she had spent years perfecting, the one that reached her eyes just far enough to be convincing without costing her anything real, and she moved toward the vanity to set down her small kit. "Evenin', sir," she replied, voice sweet as honeysuckle draped over a fence post in July. "You get yourself settled alright?"
"Settled?" He laughed, the sound was disgustingly wet and blunt. "I been waitin' damn near twenty minutes."
"I apologize for that, sir." She turned subtly, sizing the client up again in the mirror's reflection while she appeared to be checking her hair. She took notice of the way his body tilted just slightly to the left when he tried to sit straighter. The way his hand reached for the bedpost to steady himself without seeming to realize he had done it. The glassy, navigating-through-fog quality of his stare. Bunny had been in this business long enough to know that a drunk man in a room with a woman he had paid for was a man operating without a leash, and a man without a leash was a dangerous creature.
She angled herself toward the door by a few degrees. Just enough to escape if needed. "Sir," she said, keeping her voice sweet and calm, "I just want to make sure you feelin' alright before we get started. You seem like you might've had yourself a full night already and I wouldn't want—"
The remainder of her sentence was cut off because the drunken man moved without warning. He lurched to his feet, knocking the small side table with his hip and sending its single glass of water spinning off the edge to shatter against the floor. His face had turned a particular shade of red that lived between embarrassment and fury, and his jaw worked like he was chewing something bitter before he could get the words out.
"Useless bitch," he spat. The syllables fell out of him ugly and hard. "Think I paid to have some whore tell me I done had too much to drink? Think I need you lookin' down at me? I'll kill you, you hear me?!? I'll put my hands ‘round ya' neck and I'll—"
His arm swung mid rant, but Bunny was already moving.
She dropped her chin to her chest and turned her body so the arc of his open palm caught nothing but air, and in the same motion her right hand went up to her hair. The blade she kept there was small, barely two inches of steel with a handle thin enough to disappear between two curling papers. It was something she had carried since she was nineteen years old and had learned in the most painful way possible that a pretty face and a small curvy frame were not assets in every room. Her fingers found it without hesitation, but with the calm surety of someone who had practiced the motion until it lived in her muscles instead of her mind.
She drew it in the same breath she stepped to his left side, and when she came back up, she sliced him across the cheekbone in one clean swipe.
The sound he made wasn’t quite a scream and not quite a word. It lived somewhere between the two, high and stunned. The moment he was sliced, his hand flew to his face as the blood welled immediately, vivid and dark, running between his fingers and dripping onto the collar he had loosened two buttons down. He staggered back into the bedpost as his eyes went wide, and suddenly he was brutally sober.
"Help!" The plea tore out of him then, ragged and furious. "HELP! She cut me! This wicked bitch cut my damn FACE!"
Bunny stood quietly like a marble statue with the blade still in her hand. Her chest moved in controlled, shallow breaths as her heartbeat threw itself against her ribs like a prisoner testing the walls, but her face… her face was completely still. Still like a woman who had survived more than enough dangerous rooms, and this was no different. She didn’t bother running or crying, instead she watched the blood run down his cheek and she waited.
Two seconds passed and the door swung open before the echo of his second shout had finished bouncing off the walls.
They filled the frame the way they always filled every frame they walked through, shoulder to shoulder, the both of them constructed from the same Mississippi clay and hardened by the same Jim Crow fire. Stack came through first, his jacket slightly disheveled as if he was in the middle of something… or someone, signature gold tooth catching the lamplight as his coffee brown eyes swept the room in three seconds flat. Smoke followed a half step behind, and his gaze went to the blood first, then to Bunny, then to the blade still loose in her fingers, and in that order he read the whole story without a single word being spoken.
The two of them looked at each other and it lasted less than a millisecond. They shared a sacred twin language, and there was no need to speak out loud when they could discuss everything necessary through a simple glance. There was no need for none of the vowels and consonants that other men required. Stack's chin lifted two degrees. Smoke's jaw shifted once to the right. That was all.
Smoke marched over to the bleeding man and grabbed him by the back of the collar with one hand. The client sputtered, grabbing at Smoke's wrist, voice rising again into something wheedling and enraged all at once, but Smoke wasn't listening. He was already moving, already dragging the man toward the door with that flat, unblinking quiet that was a hundred times more frightening than any raised voice.
Stack waited until the door swung shut behind his brother and then he turned to Bunny. He looked at her the way he looked at a ledger he needed to balance, thorough, patient, and giving nothing away in his expression. His hands found his jacket pockets and he stood with the loose posture of a man who had all the time left in the world. "Tell me what happened," he said.
Bunny's fingers curled tighter around the blade before she caught herself and lowered it. "He was drunk when I walked in," she explained, and her voice came out steadier than she had expected, considering. "Not just a couple of drinks. He was drownin’ in it. I called it out because I wasn't about to start a session with a man who could barely hold his head upright and when I did…" She nodded toward the door. "He called me out my name, said he was gonna kill me, and he swung. I moved… And I cut him."
Stack said nothing for a moment as his tongue rolled against the inside of his cheek. He looked at the blood on the floor where the man had been standing, then at the broken water glass, then at Bunny's face. "You ain't in trouble," he said finally, his Mississippi drawl coating every syllable like a second skin. "But I need you to hear me on this." He pulled one hand from his pocket and pointed a single finger at her. "Next time a client get rowdy, stupid, or liquored past the point of sense, you don't reach for that blade. You call for one of us. That's what we here for. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
He held her gaze a moment longer, making sure the instruction had gone somewhere it would stay, and then he nodded once. "Go on, wash up an get you some rest." He turned for the door, then paused with his hand on the frame, not looking back. "You did real good, not fallin' apart. Just... next time… let us handle the mess."
The door closed again, and Bunny stood alone in the room with the broken glass and the ruined sheets and the small blade still warm from her grip, and she exhaled for what felt like the first time in several minutes.
Out behind the brothel, the alley smelled of ash cans and summer.
Smoke walked the man through the rear exit with the same grip he used to drag him out of the room. He deposited him against the back wall, the man's knees finally gave out forcing him to slide down the brick and land in a graceless heap on the ground, one hand still pressed to his sliced cheek, blood threading between his fingers and dripping off his chin.
Smoke stood over him. His hands went to his jacket, straightening it once, and then settled at his sides. He looked down at the man like he was a disgruntled God figuring out what type of punishment to inflict.
The man looked up at him and found whatever he needed in Smoke's expression to start talking. "She attacked me," his drunkenness slipping out of his voice now that fear had come in to replace it. "That bitch came in there and she just… she had a knife. She cut my face. You need to do somethin’ about that. I paid good money for a civil hour and instead I get—"
"You said… you was gon' kill her."
The man blinked. "I was angry, I didn't—"
"Called her out her name twice in my presence."
The man's mouth opened and closed.
Smoke crouched down until his eyes were level with the man's, and in that position he looked less like a man and more like a demon ready to indulge in his bloodlust. His voice hadn't changed. It never changed. It held that same smooth, unshifted cadence through every conversation regardless of what the conversation was about. "Ion’ know exactly what went on in that room yet," he said. "But I want you to understand somethin'. That part don't fuckin’ matter to me. What matter to me is that you walked into my house, disrespected somethin' that belong to me, an then you done put ya' voice on her in a way that reminded her she needed a blade." He paused, letting that sit. "I don't take kindly to that."
His hand moved to his jacket, fingers parting the lapel, and the grip of his pistol caught the thin light of the alley moon.
The man's eyes went very wide. His injured hand came up, palm out, his whole body pressing back against the brick like he could dissolve into it. "Wait, wait, wait, I'll pay double, I'll pay whatever you—"
The hammer drew back with a soft, final click that cut the man's sentence clean off.
Smoke looked at him with those coal-flat eyes and the man fell silent as a stone thrown into deep water. No more words. Just the ragged labor of his own breathing and the thin, continuous sound of his blood hitting the ground.
Footsteps came down the alley behind Smoke and he didn’t bother turning around because he didn't need to. There was only one set of feet in the world that sounded like that.
Stack came up beside him, his hands loose at his sides, gold tooth catching the moon when he tilted his head down at the man on the ground. He took in the full picture. The gun. The blood. The look on Smoke's face. Then he took in a breath, slow and satisfied, and began to speak.
He told Smoke everything. The condition the man had come in. The things he had said when Bunny called it out. The swing that didn't land. The blade that did. When he finished, Stack was quiet for a moment, and then he reached into the interior pocket of his jacket and produced a knife with a blade four times the size of whatever Bunny had been carrying. He turned it once in his fingers, the steel catching and releasing the light in alternating flashes, and he smiled. It was the crooked smile, the one that reached his eyes and meant he was genuinely pleased about something.
"Lemme’ talk to him first," Stack said. "I ain't had a good conversation in a minute."
Smoke looked at his brother and then he looked at the man on the ground, who was now visibly shaking, tears cutting through the blood on his cheek without any prompting at all. Smoke stood from his crouch, straightened his jacket once more, and stepped to the side. He put his pistol back without a word, folded his hands behind his back, and watched.
Stack crouched in his place, knife resting easy between two fingers, his face open and joyful in the particular way that meant the worst thing imaginable was coming next. "How you doin', friend?" he asked, accent thick as summer mud, voice warm as a lit match. "Tell me somethin'. You ever have somebody look after you real good, put you somewhere soft an warm an safe, an you go an spit in they face for it? You ever do that?"
The man couldn’t answer.
Stack tilted his head and grinned like a Cheshire Cat. "Naw, naw, take ya' time. I got all night."
The alley didn’t hear from that man again after that. Not in any language that would've made sense to a person passing on the street.
A month passed by and it had the audacity to feel like three.
Bunny sat on the edge of her bed in the room the twins had given her and pulled a brush through her texturized hair for the fourth time that evening. She counted the strokes the way she had been taught to count them since childhood, one and two and three and four, because there was nothing else to count and the act of counting kept her hands busy and her hands being busy kept her from acknowledging a particular restlessness that had been living under her skin for the better part of two weeks.
The room she was stationed in was nice. That was the first thing she had thought when Stack walked her to it, one week after the incident, with his hand at the small of her back and a short instruction to make herself comfortable. She had expected a small, utilitarian thing, the kind of space a working doll got assigned on the upper floor with a shared bath down the hall and a window that faced the brick wall of the building next door. What she got was a room with curtains. Actual curtains, silk ones that pooled at the floor and caught the last of the day's light in a way that turned the whole space the color of a candle flame. A vanity with a proper oval mirror. A wardrobe that had been stocked before she arrived with dresses and wrappers and nightgowns of a quality that made her catch her breath the first time she opened its doors, fabrics so fine they slipped through her fingers like water. On the small table beside her bed, a covered dish of food arrived three times a day whether she asked for it or not. Things she hadn't tasted since she was a little girl sitting in her grandmother's kitchen, sweet potato pie with a crust that shattered her taste buds like stained glass, braised oxtail over white rice, pound cake soaked in lemon syrup that left a sweetness on the roof of her mouth for hours.
She was being treated like a woman of some standing… And it was driving her absolutely out of her mind.
Bunny set the hairbrush down and looked at herself in the vanity mirror with an assessing expression she reserved for private moments like these. She was thirty-four years old. She had curves that grown men wrote embarrassing letters about and women studied with something too complicated to be called jealousy and too honest to be called admiration. She had hands that knew how to work, thighs that knew how to hold, a mouth that had never once left a client feeling cheated, and a reputation in three separate cities that had always, always been built by her own effort, her own body, her own particular genius for the kind of pleasure that made a man feel like he was the most important thing in the room. She hadn’t come to this brothel to be kept like a flower in a glass case. She had come because she heard that the Moore twins ran the most lucrative operation north of the Mason Dixon and she wanted in on it. She wanted to work.
The bath she had taken earlier still clung to her skin in the form of the vanilla oil she had worked into her arms and her neck, and the nightgown the wardrobe had produced tonight was deep gold that made her brown skin glow like something lit from within. She looked breathtakingly beautiful, yet she felt like a caged thing in beautiful wrappings.
After looking herself over one more time in the mirror, she stood and made a silent decision as she made her way to the kitchen.
The brothel at midnight had a particular quality to it, a quietness that fell somewhere between a sleeping house and a thinking one. The downstairs jazz had stopped three hours ago. The girls were either asleep or occupied, and the hallways that had been warm and perfumed with commerce earlier in the evening were now cool and dim, lit by the occasional wall sconce that’s wick had been turned down low. Bunny moved through the brothel on her bare feet, the gold nightgown sighing against her legs with every step, and she told herself she was just going for a peach before confronting the twins. There was always a bowl of peaches in the kitchen. She had discovered this on her second day and found it oddly comforting that someone in this house thought fresh fruit was important enough to replenish daily.
She pushed open the kitchen door and the room was drenched in darkness. That was the first thing. The second thing was that it wasn’t empty.
As Bunny's eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room, eventually she was able to see there was a woman sitting at the long kitchen table in the dark eating cornbread.
Bunny stood in the doorway with her hand still on the door and looked at the mystery woman as she took her in piece by piece. Height first, even sitting, the woman had somewhat of a long-limbed frame that telegraphed itself. Bunny guessed that she was maybe five foot eight or nine if she stood. Her skin was deep, even brown like good molasses in a jar, paired with hair that fell straight and unadorned down past her shoulders, jet black, the color of ink before it dries. And to finish it off, she had a face that did a thing Bunny had only seen faces do in paintings, not the kind hung in houses like this one, but the kind in old churches where the artists tried to put something holy and something frightening in the same expression at the same time. The mystery woman looked young feature wise as if she hadn’t yet turned twenty-two, but her eyes… her eyes were something else entirely.
Bunny wasn’t a woman who was scared easily. She had lived too much, seen too much, and cut too many men across the face to give fear the kind of real estate it wanted in her mind. But those violet eyes made something ancient crawl up the back of her neck, not unpleasant, just… aware. Like stepping into a room and understanding that whatever was in it had been there since before the house was built.
The woman looked up from her cornbread and regarded Bunny with an expression of complete composure, as though being found eating cold food alone in a dark kitchen of a brothel in the middle of the night was exactly where she was expected to be.
"You Rosalie," the woman said. It wasn't a question.
Bunny blinked. "How'd you—"
"You look like a Rosalie." She broke off another piece of cornbread, unhurried about it. "I'm Josephine. Everybody an they mama call me Josie."
Bunny stepped into the kitchen and let the door drift shut behind her. "I go by Bunny," she said, and then, because she couldn't help herself, "why are you sittin' in the dark?"
Josie ignored the question with such thoroughness that it was almost artful. She tilted her head at Bunny and asked, "They call you Bunny 'cause you can bounce on a dick 'til a man start beggin' for his mama?"
The initial response that leaped to Bunny's lips was something ladylike and deflective. What came out instead was a flustered, sputtering exhale, as her cheeks went warm and her hand raised halfway to her mouth before she caught it. She cleared her throat. "That's… yes," she admitted. "That's… um… exactly why."
The corner of Josie's mouth moved in something that could've been a smile if it committed to itself. She pushed the plate of cornbread forward by an inch, the gesture of a woman sharing without making much of it. "Have some."
Bunny looked at the cornbread. It was ice cold and hard as a rock. She could see the waxy surface on it that cornbread got when it had been sitting awhile. She was fond of cornbread. She was not fond of that. She moved instead to the bowl on the counter and lifted a peach, testing its weight in her palm before biting into it, and she hummed as the juice ran down her chin warm and sweet.
She stood there eating the peach and watching Josie, and Josie let herself be watched for a time, eating her cold cornbread with equanimity, apparently perfectly at peace with the scrutiny. But Bunny was staring and she knew it and the reason she was staring was the thing she couldn't pin down, the thing that sat off-center about this woman the way a picture sits off-center on a wall. She wasn’t dressed like any of the other dolls Bunny had met in the past month. No lace, no slip, nothing that mirrored the nature of this house and its business. She wore a plain white blouse tucked into a flowy dark skirt with her feet bare on the kitchen floor. She looked like a woman who had stepped in from another dimension entirely and simply hadn't gotten around to leaving.
Bunny had met all the other dolls in the house during her first week. She was certain of that. This woman had not been among them.
Josie took another bite of her cornbread and looked at Bunny the way Bunny had been looking at her, with that clear, still assessment that took nothing personally and missed nothing either. "How you likin' it here?" she asked. "Smoke and Stack pretty decent owners, far as that kind of thing go."
The word owners sat in Bunny's mouth for a moment before she swallowed it. "I wouldn't know yet," she reluctantly admitted. "I had one client, one incident, and since then they've had me locked up in a room like I'm made of porcelain and they're afraid I'll chip." She took another bite of peach. "I haven't worked a single real night. I came here to make money. Instead I've been eatin' pie and watchin' the curtains move."
Josie's eyes sharpened the way a fire sharpens when you give it more air. "Which one claimed you?" she quipped.
Bunny frowned her brows in confusion. "I'm sorry?"
"Which twin? Smoke or Stack? Elijah or Elias? Which one claimed you as his doll?"
The frown deepened. "Neither of them," Bunny said slowly, like she was working out whether that was the right answer even as she gave it. "When I arrived they walked me through the rules, explained how the percentages worked, showed me the floor. Neither of them said anything about… claiming."
Now it was Josie’s turn to be confused as she stopped eating and placed her cornbread very gently on the plate in front of her. She looked at Bunny with the full force of those ancient alien lavender eyes and she was quiet for a stretched-out moment that had weight to it. Then she leaned forward and without a word of warning she took Bunny's face between both her hands and squeezed her cheeks together, compressing Bunny's lips into a surprised, rounded 'O'.
"You are thee cutest thing," Josie cooed, with the slightly awed sincerity of someone who had just found a very small, very charming animal in an unexpected location.
Bunny's eyes went wide above her squished cheeks. She made a sound that was supposed to be a protest and emerged as something closer to a muffled quack.
Josie released her with an unrushed giggle and settled back in her chair as though that had been a perfectly reasonable thing to do. "Alright," she said. "Let me explain how this house works."
Bunny smoothed her cheeks with her palms and fixed Josie with a look that she reserved for people who had just done something she didn't have the vocabulary to address properly. Then she sighed, finished the peach, and sat down.
Josie explained the rules of the house with a questionable amount of knowledge that Bunny would inquire about later. When a doll went through something the way Bunny had gone through something, they were taken off the floor. Not longer than a week, typically. No clients, no housework, just time to let the body and the mind settle back into themselves without being asked to perform. After that period, whichever twin had claimed that particular doll would take her through a retraining week. A proper retraining. Not punishment, not because she had done something wrong, but because the mind needed to be walked back through safety the same way the body needed to be walked back through strength after a sickness. The twins were a great many things, Josie explained, and some of those things weren’t things that would be listed in a church bulletin, but they weren’t complete monsters and wouldn't send a shaken woman back to work before she was ready. That wasn’t morality for morality's sake. It was also just bad business, and they were nothing if not precise businessmen.
Bunny absorbed this. Processed it. Turned it over. And then arrived at the part that had been sitting sideways in her chest since the question first got asked.
"It's been a month," she said.
Josie looked at her dumbfounded like she didn’t hear her correctly.
"It's been a month," Bunny said again. "The incident was a month ago. Nobody took me through any retraining. Nobody said anythin’ about when I'd go back to work. And you're telling me that the reason for that is…"
She could see it in Josie's expression before she said it, like she was about to deliver news that amused her to the highest degree.
"Either you one of the special ones," Josie said, the childish grin breaking through now, unconstrained, like a schoolgirl who had been holding it in for the last five minutes, "or you somehow so boring that both of them forgot you exist entirely."
Bunny straightened up in her chair. "I am not boring," she said.
"I didn't say you were."
"You implied it."
"I offered it as a possibility."
"It is not a fuckin’ possibility." Bunny's chin came up and her voice took on the tone of a woman defending something she had built with a considerable effort over many years. Before she had walked through the Moore brothers' doors she had left three separate establishments because she had outgrown them. She had a clientele that wrote letters to find out where she had gone. She had a reputation that didn’t include the word boring in any language. "I done made grown ass men cry," she said. "Not from pain… From gratitude."
Josie held up one hand in a gesture of peace, her playful grin not moving an inch. "Alright, alright. I believe you. I apologize." She folded her hands on the table. "The other explanation, then, is that they both want to claim you and neither one of them know how to go about it without steppin’ on the other's toes."
Bunny's chair scraped back half an inch. "Both of them?"
"It's rare," Josie whispered, as if she was saying too much too soon. "In the whole time this house been runnin’ there've only been two dolls that both of them claimed at once. Just two. The second one is named Buttercup. She handles their books and investments. She’s been both of theirs for many moons." A pause, thoughtful and private. "The first one…" She picked up her cornbread again and looked at it, not at Bunny. "Well..."
The silence that lingered behind that one word forced Bunny to really look at Josie's profile. She took in the serenity of it, the complete and settled comfort with which this woman occupied any space she entered, including dark kitchens in the middle of the night. The way she didn't need to finish the sentence because the sentence was already obvious to anyone paying attention.
"Hypothetically," Bunny said carefully.
Josie's mouth curved with mischief. "Hypothetically..."
"If a woman found herself in that position. Both of them. At once. How would she… manage that?"
Josie was quiet for a moment, chewing her cornbread, looking somewhere past Bunny's shoulder as though consulting a memory that lived in the middle distance. "Hypothetically," she repeated, "such a woman would need to learn how not to get frostbitten by an avalanche of coldness." A pause. "While also not burnin’ up in a lake of uncontrolled fire." Another pause, this one carrying a slightly different weight, the weight of something remembered in the body as much as the mind. "And on top of all that, she would need to learn how to take two men at the same time without tearin’ in half."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"That's… useful information," Bunny said finally.
"I thought you'd think so."
They sat for another minute, the two of them, in the warm dark kitchen with the peach bowl on the counter and the plate of cold cornbread between them, and something passed between them that couldn’t be labeled as friendship yet but was the thing that comes just before it, a recognition, a sense of shared understanding arrived at by different roads.
A few more comforting minutes passed and then Bunny stood. She pulled the gold nightgown straight across her hips and ran one hand through the freshly brushed waterfall of her hair and looked at Josie with the expression of a woman who had made up her mind about something and had no further interest in deliberating. "Hypothetically, if I wanted to speak with them tonight... you know where they are?"
"Their office," Josie said. "End of the hall. Door on the left." She reached for the last piece of frosty cornbread. "Knock four times when you get there. Even count, same rhythm. That's how they know it's a doll behind the door and not somebody they need to put a bullet in."
Bunny's eyes widened slightly. "Good to know."
"One more thing," Josie said, without looking up, the words landing easy as a stone dropped into still water, "whoever open that door? Look him dead in the eye when you tell him what you want. Don't let him take the silence from you first. They'll stand in a quiet room and wait you out 'til you forget what you came for. Don't let him." She broke off a bite of cornbread. "Now go."
The hallway to their office was dim and long as the floorboards under her bare feet held the warmth of the day's heat, soaked up and slowly releasing into the night. She walked it with her chin level and her footsteps quiet, the vanilla oil on her skin mixing with the faint residual perfume that lived in all the walls of this house. At the far end of the hall, beneath the last sconce, a door sat closed and faintly rimmed with the amber line of lamplight from beneath it.
She stopped in front of it. Pressed her palm flat against the wood for one second. Then she knocked. Four times. Even. The same rhythm. Just as Josie had instructed.
On the other side of the door, the office breathed with the quietness of two men working in a comfortable parallel. The desk was spread with ledgers and cash in organized columns, the ashtray on its corner nursed a half-finished cigarette that had gone cold, and the lamp threw a yellow circle of warmth across the arithmetic of their operations. Stack stood at the desk's far edge, jacket off, suspenders down, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, one hand moving down a column of figures with the end of a pencil. Smoke sat on the lounge couch along the near wall, his own jacket folded beside him, a glass of brown liquor balanced on the arm of the cushion, his eyes moving across a folded sheet of paper he had been reading for the third time.
Four knocks came through the door.
Even. Measured.
Both men went still.
Stack's pencil stopped and his eyes lifted from the ledger to find his brother's face across the room. Smoke had already set the paper down. His hand had already moved to the glass, lifting it, not drinking from it, just holding it in the idle way of a man whose other hand needed to be free. His eyes were steady on the door.
The four-count knock meant a doll. Both of them knew that. The problem was that only two dolls in their entire operation knew that particular code, and neither of those two women were supposed to be within three city blocks of this brothel for another three days.
Smoke set the glass down very carefully on the side table before standing and crossing the room to the door. His shoulder holster rode against his undershirt as he pulled his pistol free in one clean motion before turning the knob and pulling the office door open.
Bunny stood in the hallway nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The lamplight from inside the office hit her caramel brown skin from the side and the effect of this wasn't something Smoke had originally budgeted for. She was soft, luminous, small, and entirely the kind of woman that a man had to consciously remind himself to look away from, all of that deep-curved, warm-skinned, doe-eyed beauty arranged in the specific way that made the gold fabric laced over her body look like it had been commissioned for her personally. She blinked up at him. Her eyes were the color of good rum and they caught the light and held it, and for one unguarded half second the hardness in his face did something complicated before it arranged itself back into its usual flat composure.
Smoke held the pistol at his side. His face settled back into the expression of a man who was conducting business regardless of the hour. His eyes moved over her once, the way he surveyed any situation that required assessment before a response. "Why," he said, voice smooth and level as a road built to last, his Mississippi roots dragging slow and warm beneath every word, "is you at my door knockin' four times?"
Bunny didn’t flinch as she looked him in the eye exactly as Josie had instructed and she held the look steady. "Because," she said, "I am tired of being treated like I'm made of glass." She let a breath pass as she remembered who she was speaking to. "... Sir."
Smoke looked at her for a long minute. He ran his mind back, sorting through the preceding month like how a man sorts through a drawer looking for something he put down without thinking. The girl on the floor. The drunk client. The blade. Stack handling her, him handling the client. The decision to move her to the room across from theirs. Then the weeks had continued to happen, the operation had continued to require their attention, and somewhere in the middle of all of that, the particular task of walking her back through had gotten caught in the gap between what he assumed Stack had handled and what Stack apparently assumed he had handled.
He let the exhale come through his nose, small and contained. Then he stepped back from the door and nodded once towards the interior of the room. "Come in."
Bunny wasn’t a woman that needed to be instructed twice as she came in.
Smoke shut the door behind her and walked back to the couch, settling into it with the glass of liquor retrieved from the side table. His eyes stayed on her as she took in the office, the desk and its columns, Stack still standing at the far edge of it now with his arms folded. Smoke's gaze moved from her face to his brother's and he said, with the absolute calm of a man stating a mathematical fact, "You done forgot to recommission ya' doll."
Stack's expression moved toward as expression of confusion that was also slightly offended at the framing. "Fuck you mean my doll?" he quipped. "Thought she was yours."
"I moved her to the room 'cross the hall," Smoke said. "I was leavin' the rest to you."
"Nobody told me that."
"I ain't gotta tell you everythin’, Elias. Use ya' brain."
Stack unfolded his arms and planted both hands flat on the desk. "My brain was operatin' under the assumption that the woman sittin' over in that room with the good curtains was your doll that you was handlin' in ya' own time, Elijah. Had I known she was mine to recommission I would've had her back on the floor four weeks ago."
"She been over there four an a half weeks."
"Four an a half weeks then. My point stands, muthafucka."
"Ya' point is that you wasn't payin' attention—"
"My point is that you could've opened ya' mouth like a grown ass man an said the words 'Elias, go handle Bunny' an I would've gone an handled Bunny, but instead you sittin’ over there on that couch drinkin' ya' liquor an assumin' I was gon' read ya' mind—"
"I don't need you readin' my mind, I need you payin' attention to what's happenin' in this house—"
"Stupid bitch, I pay more attention to what happens in this house than you do, I just ain't also expected to be a fuckin' mind reader on top of everythin’ else—"
"Language, Elias.” Smoke said.
"Now I need to read ya' mind an watch my mouth?"
"We got a doll present. Tighten up." Smoke's eyes cut to Bunny for one brief moment that carried the tiniest edge of an apology.
Bunny had been watching this exchange with the expression of a woman who was simultaneously relieved that Josie was right and also annoyed that Josie was right. She looked at the ceiling for one moment, gathering something, and then she looked at Stack directly.
"I didn't come here to listen to y'all argue about whose doll I am," she cut in. The words came out clean and direct, and beneath them ran a current of something real, something stored up across four weeks in a pretty room with silk curtains and three meals a day that she hadn’t earned. "I came here because I am a woman who been working since I was old enough to understand that money you make yourself is the only kind that belongs to you in full." She let that settle for a moment.
Before she had walked through their door she had left three establishments because she outgrew them. Before that, back when she was Rosalie and not Bunny, she hadn't been permitted to own so much as the dress on her back. That life was behind her and it would stay behind her as long as she had a body to work with and the sense God gave her to use it. "I appreciate the food," she said. "I appreciate the nightgowns and the curtains and the sweetness. I do. But I am not a woman who takes without giving back, and I am not going to sit in that room one more week eating indulging in things I ain't earn. I want to work."
The office held the sound of that for a brief second.
Stack analyzed her from top to bottom. The annoyance from the argument with his twin had drained off his face entirely, replaced by something more attentive and interesting. He possessed the look of a man who had been watching something he wanted for some time and had just been reminded of it. His gaze moved down the gold nightgown with the focused assessment of a man reviewing an investment he had forgotten to manage and was now reconsidering with renewed and comprehensive interest.
He came around the desk, crossed the office floor, and closed the distance between them until his chest was close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him. His hands came up. His fingers settled first at the hollow of her throat, light and acquainting themselves with the shape of her, feeling the small flutter there she couldn't suppress, feeling the way she swallowed. Then they traveled with thorough patience across her collarbones, over the generous swell of her chest through the nightgown's thin fabric. She was built lavishly, heavy and warm everywhere in a way that made his hands slow down and pay attention, and he let them linger there, cataloguing her, until her breathing changed and she tried to hide the change but couldn't.
His hands continued their inventory, moving down the soft plush landscape of her stomach, the deep inward curve of her waist, spreading wide across the full round geography of her hips. He took his time with her hips. He spent what felt like an extended amount of time mapping them, as though committing their particular architecture to some private record he intended to revisit at a later date. Then one hand swept low and around, and he brought his palm down hard and flat across the full magnificent curve of her backside with a crack that split the quiet of the office like a starting pistol.
The sound rang off the walls, the bookcase, the glass in the lamp, everything. Bunny's gasp tore out of her before she had the opportunity to make any decisions about it, sharp and bright, her body moving without consulting her brain, tilting forward into the impact and then backward away from it, settling finally against Stack's chest in a way that was involuntary enough to be entirely honest.
Stack felt her melt against him and his exhale came out long and satisfied. His arm wrapped around her from behind, pulling her flush against the front of him, and he bent his mouth to the curve of her ear. "I'm gon’ be the one runnin' ya' retrainin' tonight." He pressed his mouth closer to her ear, words dropping to a rough near-whisper. "An dependin' on how that go… I might need to keep you locked away from everybody else for another month… Really take my time so ya' body don't ever forget who it belong to."
The sound Bunny made was small, strangled, and entirely against her will.
He reached for the thin strap at her shoulder and slid it down. The other strap followed. He peeled the gold nightgown from her slowly, letting it whisper down her curves until it pooled at her feet in a gilded ring, and what was left standing in the middle of their office was every generous, luminous, full inch of Bunny without a single layer between her skin and the lamplight. The lamp threw amber across the swell of her hips, the deep curve of her waist, the heavy softness of her breasts, the deep brown warmth of her, and the office became immediately a different kind of room.
Stack stepped back and bit down on his bottom lip as he took in her goddess figure. Then, with the easy authority of a man in his own house, he waltzed over to the couch where Smoke sat and dropped down beside his brother. He plucked the liquor glass from Smoke's hand, drained what remained, and reached for the refill trolley at the couch's edge. Smoke didn’t argue with his twin. He simply shifted his weight to accommodate Stack’s presence and locked his eyes on Bunny.
Two men on the same couch. Side by side. Undershirts and slacks, loafers, the warm lamplight running along the defined lines of their arms where the fabric ended, the undeniable press of their interest visible in the material of their trousers. Stack poured a fresh glass and settled into the cushion. Smoke took Bunny in from head to foot with that flat, complete attention that gave nothing away and missed nothing. The air in the room had changed and pressed heavily on all their shoulders.
Stack leaned forward, elbows to his knees, glass hanging loose in his fingers. "Show me," he said, "why you worth the trouble of retrainin' when you already cost me a dead white man, two dry cleaning bills, a shovel we had to replace after breakin' it diggin' that peckerwoods grave, plus four an a half weeks of room an board an meals that even my top earners don't see on a regular Tuesday." He settled back into the cushion. "All that, an you ain't brought us a single dollar. So show me what you got, Bunny."
Bunny stood naked in the center of their office and looked at both of them. She took one breath. Then she walked to Smoke.
She came to stand directly before him and held his gaze and placed one knee on the cushion beside his thigh and then the other, straddling his lap with the practiced ease of a woman who had made herself at home in more difficult situations than this. She could feel him beneath her already, the dense, insistent hardness of him through his slacks, and the discovery sent something bold climbing up her spine and into her shoulders. She rolled her hips, one slow and complete rotation, felt him twitch beneath her, and did it again. She leaned forward and put her mouth to the side of his neck, the warm brown skin above his collar, and kissed him there. Felt his jaw tighten. Kissed across his collarbone, the gap where his undershirt opened at the throat. She found his earlobe with her teeth, caught it just barely, and felt the exhale that came out of him, contained and controlled, the only version of a sound he was willing to give her yet.
She pulled back and looked at Stack over her shoulder. "I can't promise I won't cause more trouble with your clients," she said, her hips still moving against Smoke's in that slow, measured grind. "That ain’t a promise I can keep. But I am an investment." She felt Smoke's hand settle on her hip, heavy and certain, the grip of a man who was claiming something without announcing he's done it. "And you'd be foolish men to let me go."
Then she climbed off Smoke's lap and moved to Stack.
She settled herself across his thighs before he had quite finished processing the intention, and his hands came up instinctively, finding her hips, and she moved against him the way she had moved against his brother, with that same frank, unhurried competence, rolling her hips in grinding rolls that had him fully hard inside his slacks under a minute. She kissed along his jaw, the corner of his mouth, found his throat and bit softly at it and felt him grip her harder. She turned her mouth to his ear. "Well?" she said quietly.
Stack's answer was both hands sliding down to fill themselves with the full, heavy weight of her backside, squeezing with the proprietary thoroughness of a man claiming something he had decided belongs to him and only him.
From the other side of couch, Smoke reached forward and caught the back of her hair in his fist. Not rough, not gentle, just completely unambiguous, pulling her head back until she was looking up at him from Stack's lap with her neck at a stretched and exposed angle. Smoke looked down at her, his eyes never leaving her face. "Who," he said, each word its own complete and unhurried thing, "taught you that knock?"
"Josie," Bunny replied quickly.
The quality of the silence that followed was specific. She felt Stack go still beneath her. She saw something shift in Smoke's expression, not much, just a recalibration of a single degree. "Josie," he repeated. Flat.
"She was in the kitchen," Bunny continued. "Just now. I spoke with her before I came down here."
Smoke's eyes moved to Stack's face. Stack's eyes moved back. That language again, the one that needed no words. Whatever moved between them in that half second was mutual and resolved by the time it was done.
Smoke released her hair. He stood, adjusted the set of his shoulder holster with one practiced motion, and looked at Bunny. "Come," he said.
Stack stood from the couch with Bunny still in his arms, lifting her from his lap without any apparent effort, her weight absorbed into his frame as a matter of course. He carried her out of the office. Smoke walked ahead through the dim corridor, his footsteps quiet on the floorboards, and they moved as a unit through the darkness of the second floor until they reached the kitchen.
Smoke pushed the door open.
Bunny looked into the kitchen from over Stack's shoulder.
The room was empty.
The room wasn't just vacant as if someone had just stepped out, the room was suddenly empty in a way that was wrong. Profoundly, specifically wrong. The chair at the table sat at the exact angle it had been in when she first sat down across from Josie, as though no one had adjusted it at all, as though no one had ever pulled it out to sit in it. The plate of cornbread was gone without a trace, not in the washtub, not on the counter, not anywhere. Simply absent from the room as if it was never there. The peach bowl sat exactly where it always sat. The lamplight came through the window at its usual angle and landed on a kitchen that offered no evidence whatsoever that a woman with ancient eyes had been sitting in it not even twenty minutes ago.
Bunny stared. The hair on her arms rose.
"She was right there," she said, and her voice had climbed half a register before she noticed. "She was sittin' right there at that table. She had cornbread on a plate, cold cornbread, she had it on a plate right there in front that chair, she offered some to me and I took a peach instead. She squeezed my cheeks." Bunny's hand rose and touched her own face at the memory of it, the very real and physical memory of Josie's palms pressing her cheeks together. "She was a real person who was in this room. She had feet. I heard her feet on the floor when she shifted her chair. That ain't somethin' I imagined." She heard her own voice rising once more and made herself stop. Swallowed down her confusion and looked from the empty table, to the empty chair, to the empty counter where a plate had been sitting less than a few minutes ago. The wrongness of the empty kitchen pressed against her like a cold hand.
"Where'd she go," she whispered, and this time her voice came out quieter, stripped of its former certainty, with something underneath it that was very close to fear. "The hallway is one hallway. I walked the whole length of it to get to your office. I would have seen her. I would have passed her. Where'd she—"
"I believe you."
Smoke's voice arrived quietly and cut through everything else like a lamp lit in a dark room. He stepped next to Stack and reached out, taking her chin between his fingers, tilting her face toward him with a gentleness that wasn’t his usual mode and was therefore more effective than almost anything else he could’ve done. His eyes moved across her face, reading whatever he found there with that same thorough attention, and then he said it again without elaboration or apology. "I believe you. You saw her. You spoke to her. It's 'ight." He held her gaze until the climbing quality went out of her breathing, until her eyes settled from startled back to present. His thumb moved once along her jaw, the lightest possible contact, and then he released her chin and looked at Stack over her head.
The look between them lasted one second and carried something private in it, something that had history in it, some understanding of Josie that they shared between themselves and weren’t presently sharing with Bunny. "Need to put a leash on that woman," Smoke grumbled, with the flat certainty of someone adding an item to a list.
"You an me both, nigga," Stack said, quietly.
Smoke turned from the kitchen. He didn’t go back towards their office, instead he went the other direction, toward the room at the far end of the hall, and Stack followed with Bunny still in his arms, carrying her away from the empty kitchen and the empty chair and the cold and inexplicable absence of a woman who had been sitting in it minutes ago eating cold cornbread like she owned the place.
The room at the end of the hall was broad and purposeful. A wide bed sat at its center on a dark mahogany frame, the headboard tall and unadorned. White linens, clean. A single lamp burning low in the corner, its flame turned down until the light came out warm and intimate. This was a simple room designed for one thing and one thing only, retraining a doll that didn’t need to be disciplined.
Stack deposited Bunny in the center of the bed with more chivalry than intended. He straightened up and looked at her sprawled across the white linens, her moisturized brown skin drinking the lamplight the way it was built to, every curve of her catching and holding the warmth of it. He let out a small satisfied grunt before rolling his shoulders once and then bending down to kiss the inside of her knee.
The sound Bunny made started in her throat and got halfway out before she caught it, her thigh twitching under his mouth. Stack felt the twitch and registered it with the calmness of a man who had spent a considerable amount of time studying the language of women's bodies, then he returned and pressed his lips to her inner knee again.
One kiss… two kiss… three kiss… four… Stack continued his playful worship before moving lower, or rather higher towards Bunny’s inner thigh. He was greeted with the soft warm skin there as his mouth opened against it, tongue dragging along the crease where her thigh met nothing and then meeting the next crease. He was learning the deep inner geography of her, building the path inward with a patience that was intentionally designed to make her lose her mind before he arrived at his final destination.
Her scent hit him before his mouth did and he let out a low sound against her skin that was pure appreciation. "Four an a half weeks," he said, lips moving against her inner thigh, his breath warming the space he hadn't touched yet. "You been sittin' in that pretty room unfucked all this time, huh, lil’ bunny rabbit?"
Bunny responded vocally with something that was technically a word, or at least she thought she did.
Stack chuckled to himself and then his mouth immediately found her aching bundle of nerves. He worked her the way a classically trained musician works an instrument he knows intimately. He didn’t rush his performance but instead attended to the specific truth of her responses with the kind of focused and intelligent attention that made up the difference between a man who was present and a man who was going through the motions. He learned her in the first thirty seconds, learned the particular way her hips moved when he pressed the flat of his tongue against her center, the way her thighs tried to close around his head and then caught themselves and spread wider, the way the sound she made climbed an entire octave when he tended to her clit and circled it with skilled precision.
He effortlessly brought her to the edge in under four minutes.
He knew when she was there. He had been watching for it, feeling for it in the tightening of her thighs and the change in her breathing, the way her hands had found the back of his head and were pressing down with that desperate and gnawing pressure that meant she was right there, right on the rim of it, one more motion and she would go over. He could feel her gathering herself, the coil of it pulling tight in her body and her hips tilting up to meet him.
But, because Stack was Stack, he couldn’t help himself as he pulled back and denied Bunny instant relief. She wasn’t a doll that needed to be punished, but she was still a doll under control of her master. He didn’t pull away far, just enough for his mouth to leave her core and rest against the inside of her thigh instead. He looked utterly composed as he breathed against her soaked, twitching heat while she fell apart beneath him in a different way than she had intended.
"Stack," she breathlessly whined, the word arriving with a thicker desperation than she had planned.
"Mm," he said, mouth still against her thigh.
"Please… Don't do that."
"Do what? " he asked pleasantly.
She made a frustrated sound and whined again before Stack returned to his honeysuckle feast.
He took his time getting there, moving up through the wet of her with his tongue like he was reading something he found interesting, and then he was back at her clit and the sounds coming out of her rebuilt themselves immediately, climbing again, her hips rolling, her fingers curling into the sheets. He gave her forty-five seconds this time before the edge showed up again in the ragged pacing of her breathing, and he pulled back once more. Pressed his mouth to her inner thigh. Breathed. And let her curse at him out.
"You raggedy ass nigga," she managed.
His laugh came out against her skin, warm and genuinely amused. "I done been called worse, babydoll."
At the head of the bed the mattress dipped. Bunny's eyes reopened, head turning, and Smoke leaned above her, and the sight of him was enough to make every other thought in her head exit quickly. He had shedded everything. His undershirt, slacks, holster, all of it was gone, and what was left was all of him, broad and carved and rich dark brown skin. His body looked like the map of a man who had moved through the world with physical force for a long time and had the evidence of that written in muscle and old scars. He was hard, entirely and obviously, and looking at her with those flat obsidian eyes that gave nothing away.
Smoke said nothing as he reached for the small table at the bed's edge and a cigarette appeared between his fingers, a match scratched against the bedframe with a brief bright leap of flame before it found its target. He took the first pull, held it, let the clouds of tobacco climb toward the ceiling in a long and perfectly controlled column. And then he looked down at her, the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, his eyes traveling across her face with the calm, weighing assessment of a man reviewing something he may or may not be satisfied with.
"Who," he said, voice low and quiet and warm as the smoking end of something burning, "you think you talkin’ to like that in my house?"
Between her thighs, Stack's mouth had found the soft heat of her again, and the sound that tried to escape Bunny's throat was intercepted by her own determination not to give Smoke the satisfaction of an incoherent answer before she had the chance to give him a real one. "I-I didn’t mean none by it… I-I wasn’t givin’ orders," she managed.
"Mm." Smoke's eyes dropped from her face to the space just below them, where his erection jumped and throbbed directly above her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, and then his eyes came back up to hers. "You came to my office," he continued as he lazily gripped his manhood before taking another puff. "Told me what you was tired of. Told me what you wanted. Got yaself’ naked in front my brother an I, then sat in both our laps like you had the right." He exhaled smoke from the side of his mouth, away from her face. "That sound like a doll who know her place to you?"
Before she could respond, Stack's tongue distracted her by circling her clit with renewed and specific intention, as one finger pressed into her slowly, testing the heat of her… the tight grip of her. She was utterly soaked and already shaking in a finely controlled way, like how a bow shakes just before the arrow is released.
Smoke watched her face with the careful attention of a man reading a weather report. "A doll," he said, voice quieter, the edge in it sharpening enough to send shivers down her spine, "asks. She don't tell. She don't march down a hallway an knock on my door like she owed somethin'. She asks her owner. She say please. She waits." His thumb brushed her jaw, the touch light and intentional, as his eyes dropped to her mouth and then came back up. "You still ain’t proved you worth the trouble."
It didn't take much for Bunny to read between the lines as her right hand moved from the sheet and gripped Smoke’s precum dripping length. She felt the substantial weight of him against her palm and heard the slight controlled catch of his inhale as she felt him twitch against her hand. He filled her hand, dense and hot, and she stroked him from base to crown once with a grip that was firm.
She angled her head against the pillow, opened her mouth, and drew him in.
His size settled against her tongue, thick and dense, and she worked her lips around him with the exploring attention of a woman who had been told her whole career that her mouth was something extraordinary and had spent years proving it right. She hollowed her cheeks and sucked on him with an unhurried suction, her tongue mapping the underside of him on each pull, tracing the swollen vein that ran along his length, lapping at the crown when she came up before gobbling him back down again. Her free hand wrapped around his base and worked in a measured counterpoint. The combination of hand and mouth coordinated with the easy confidence of someone who had been doing this long enough that it lived in her body the way playing an instrument lives in a musician's hands had Smoke internally losing his mind.
Smoke's own hand found her hair, fingers settling among her now sweated out tresses without pressing, without directing, just resting there with a weight that communicated his full attention. The quality of his breathing changed almost immediately, each exhale coming a degree longer than it should have, each inhale a degree more controlled than usual. He brought the cigarette to his lips with his free hand and took a pull, held it, let the tobacco clouds go from the side of his mouth. The image of him above her doing that while she worked him below was the most Elijah “Smoke” Moore thing she could imagine, controlling himself with a lit cigarette while she did her damnedest to remove that control from him entirely.
For a long minute, Bunny genuinely believed she was finally in control, but then, the devious twin still situated between her thick thighs added a second finger inside her and she gasped. It only lasted a split second as her eyes almost rolled to the back of her head while she momentarily let the pleasure consume her, but that was short lived with a slight tug to her hair.
"Look at me," Smoke demanded.
She didn’t need to be told twice as she retrained her eyes back onto the owner that was in front of her.
"Mmm… good… you capable of suckin’ dick an followin’ instructions," he said softly, in a voice that had dropped below the level where it was meant to sound gentle and instead sounded much more intimate and a whole lot more dangerous. "You got somethin' to say?"
Bunny, whose mouth was still full of raw meat, slightly shook her head ‘no’ and continued servicing Smoke’s dick. Her tongue continued working the underside of him in the way that she had been complimented on in cities that were miles away from this one. She went down until the back of her throat met him and held there, breathing through her nose, feeling his fingers tighten in her hair by one degree, and then she came back up and did it again.
Smoke's exhale was long and relaxed. "Mm," he said, and it was the most honest amount of praise he had given Bunny all night.
Stack had brought her to the edge twice more in the interim, each time withdrawing with the particular cruelty of a man who is enjoying the architecture of her desperation more than he would enjoy its resolution, and she was by now a tightly wounded and thoroughly soaked little doll. Her body was operating at a level of need that had begun to make her cry a little. Not from pain or unhappiness, just from the relentless accumulation of pleasure with nowhere to go.
"Stack… Sir…" she managed, pulling off Smoke for a breath.
"Still here," Stack said, against her thigh.
"Please." The word came out stripped of all pretense. Just the word. Just the need in it, raw and uncomplicated.
Stack looked up at her along the length of her body. His mouth was wet, his eyes were bright, and he looked like a man who had been given an exceptional gift that was in no hurry to unwrap it fully. "Please what?" he asked rhetorically already knowing the answer to the question.
"Please… l-let me finish."
"Let you finish?" His voice carried genuine amusement. "Babydoll, I barley scratched the surface."
Smoke looked at the tears streaming from Bunny’s eyes. Something moved across his face, an emotion too foreign for anyone to decipher. He pulled free of her mouth with a soft sound and moved, climbing off the mattress and coming around the foot of the bed, and the sight of him moving toward Stack's position made Stack lift his head.
Smoke looked at his brother. Then he looked at the place between Bunny's thighs, the glistening, swollen, and desperately twitching evidence of the last fifteen minutes, and he looked back at Stack with an expression that was entirely final.
"Move," he said.
Stack sat up and squinted his eyes in disbelief. "S’cuse you, nigga?"
"Move," Smoke said again.
Stack's eyes narrowed. "She's my doll, Elijah."
"Yeah… well… she’s also mine," Smoke said. "I just decided."
Stack stared at him. The look on his face was the look of a mannish boy who didn’t like having to share his toys. "You can't just decide that," he complained. "That ain't how this works. You can't crawl over here in the middle of my session an claim a whole woman like you can’t go pick another damn doll—"
"Elias."
"What?!”
"I been watchin' her for a month," Smoke said, with the patience of someone explaining something obvious. "She in the room ‘cross the hall from ours. I been the one who had her moved there. I been the one who made sure her meals was right. Made sure her room was right an made sure nobody bothered her." A pause. "She mine. She also yours. Move."
Stack's jaw tightened. He looked at Bunny. Bunny looked back at him from the mattress with wide eyes, her lips still swollen, her thighs still trembling, and her expression carrying the cocky confusion of a woman who had just been claimed by two men simultaneously while lying naked in their bed and was still in the early stages of processing this information. Stack pointed at Smoke. "You owe me," he said. "You owe me big time, nigga."
"Mhm. Add it to the list," Smoke said.
Stack moved, climbing up toward the headboard with a muttered stream of commentary, and Smoke took his place between Bunny's thighs before lowering his head. He wasted no time as his mouth found her center without preamble, his tongue worked her with the focused of a man who went through life either doing something well or not at all. The sound Bunny made was enormous and immediate, her hands flying out to grip the sheets.
Smoke was vastly different from Stack in how he devoured Bunny’s pussy. Stack built her pleasure up as if he was an architect with a boundless amount of patience. Whereas Smoke treated her pleasure like a man reading a language only he knew. Every response she gave him, he immediately incorporated it into what he did next, adjusting, refining, arriving at the exact pressure and rhythm that made her thighs lock around his head and her back clear off the mattress as every coherent thought she had exited the premises.
He didn’t bother edging her since he had already clearly read what the edging had done to her. He could read the accumulated tension in every line of her body. Instead, he drove her straight to the finish line without stopping. The orgasm that finally rippled through her felt spiritual as if her soul was raptured out of her body. Her voice tore out of her open and honest, her hips grinding against his mouth as he worked her through every wave of it, his hands locked on her hips to keep her from pitching away from him.
Stack sat at the headboard watching all of this with his arms folded like a sulking child. When Smoke finally lifted his head, Stack uncrossed his arms and pointed at his brother with one finger. "My turn," he said.
"She sensitive," Smoke said, sitting back on his heels.
"I know she sensitive. That's the point."
Smoke moved aside without any urgency, and Stack replaced him between Bunny's thighs with the eagerness of a man who had been waiting for his turn at something exceptional. He looked at the convulsing center of her for a beat with something purely acquisitive in his expression, and then he put his skilled mouth back on her.
Bunny's entire body jerked backwards. The sound she made this time was considerably more desperate than the last, her hips trying to back away from the overstimulation and Stack's hands locking around them before she got anywhere.
"Stay," he murmured against her, voice vibrating right against her hypersensitive clit.
"Stack I can't, it's too much—"
"You can," he growled, and meant it, and went back to work.
Smoke let his twin have his fun as he situated himself on Bunny’s left side, and his mouth found her breast. His lips closed around her nipple and sucked on the coco nub with an intensity that sent a euphoric sensation shooting directly down her spine. His other hand flattened on her ribs, feeling the heave of her breathing, the rapid and helpless rise and fall of her chest. He worked across to her other breast with the same thorough attention, his teeth grazing just lightly enough to make her gasp, and then moan, and then grip the back of his head.
Meanwhile, Stack feasted like a starving madman. His tongue worked her pulsing and overstimulated pussy with an almost vindictive thoroughness, licking into her and circling her clit with alternating attention, building the sensation higher than it had any right to go given that she had just come apart under his brother's mouth not two minutes ago. He watched her face when he could, watched the progression of it, the way her mouth fell open, how her brows drew together, and when the tears started again fresh from the corners of her eyes, overstimulation and pleasure braided together until she couldn't separate one from the other.
When she came the second time it was different in character, wilder, less controlled, her body arching and convulsing with a force that had nothing of restraint left in it, and the flood of her against Stack's mouth was audible in the quiet room. He drank her juices down with a delighted groan while his jaw still worked her through every aftershock, refusing to stop until her thighs had gone from locked to trembling to limp and her voice had dropped from cries to the soft and utterly wrecked sound of a woman who has nothing left to give.
Thirty seconds of blissful torture occurred until Stack finally sat back. He looked at the evidence of what he had done to her with profound satisfaction, wiping his jaw with the back of his hand. He looked at Smoke. "She ready," he said.
"She definitely ready," Smoke agreed.
Smoke laid down on his back on the mattress beside Bunny, his nine inches pointing toward the ceiling. He turned his head and looked at her where she lay against the linens, trembling and thoroughly undone. His voice, when it came, was dominate and certain. "Show me," he said, "how you got ya' name, bunny rabbit. Show me why you worth the trouble."
The second Bunny heard Smoke’s request, she sat up on trembling arms. She looked at him stretched out beside her, at the full dark length of him, at the patient flatness of his expression, at the way he was simply waiting with the absolute confidence of a man who knew what was coming and secretly couldn’t wait.
She was still a little loopy from her prior orgasms but gathered up enough strength and swung her leg over him. She positioned herself above him and reached down to guide him to her entrance before sinking onto him with a long, controlled descent that pulled a sound from the back of her throat and a sound from the back of his. Both of them couldn’t help themselves responding to the stretch, the heat, and the fullness of her pussy wrapping around his length as she settled herself completely onto him. She stayed there for a second, adjusting, letting her body accommodate the considerable size of him and feeling him everywhere at once before beginning to move.
It only took three bounces for Bunny to prove to Smoke why she had earned her name. She wasn’t just a lady of the night who knew how to ride a dick until sunrise. No. She had spent years refining a specific combination of bouncing, grinding, and rolling that made men weep, beg, and reach for her like she was the only water in a desert. She worked him with her hips, rising and falling in the deep rolling motion that used every muscle she had, the sound of their bodies meeting building in the lamp-warm room, her succulent breasts moving with every stroke, her hands braced on his chest for leverage, her thighs flexing and releasing with each downward drive.
Smoke looked up at her and something happened in his face, some arrangement of his features that wasn’t quite expressionless in the way he usually was, instead something behind his eyes showed a genuine side of him that wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. His hands came to rest on her thighs, not to direct or control the pace, just to hold her, to feel what she was doing from the closest possible position.
He let her have it. He laid there beneath her and he absorbed every stroke with the stillness of a man receiving something with his full attention. His only movements were the tightening of his hands on her thighs, the slight flare of his nostrils, and the slight clenching of his jaw that betrayed how thoroughly he was feeling everything she was giving him. "That's it," he groaned, voice rough and lower than usual. "Keep goin'. Show me everythin’."
And indeed she showed him everything. She rolled her hips in her signature deep figure-eight that made her thighs burn and made men forget what city they were in. She let out a needy whine when she felt him twitch hard inside her, felt his fingers dig into her thighs and felt the sound he made rumble up from somewhere below the place where he usually kept his inner desires.
"Goddamn," Stack praised from somewhere behind her.
Bunny had nearly forgotten, in the consuming present-tense occupation of riding Smoke, that Stack was still in the room with them. She remembered now. She remembered specifically when she felt his hand press warm and flat against the small of her back, pushing her forward just slightly, changing the angle, and she felt the presence of him settling in behind her, the specific warmth of a second body entering the space, and something in her belly turned over at the knowing of what was coming next.
"Don't stop movin'," Smoke growled below her, his voice steady and laced with something that wasn’t quite command and not quite warning, something between the two that communicated that her motion was the thing keeping him from losing his composure. "Keep ya pretty eyes right here."
It was difficult, but she kept her eyes on him. She kept moving, slower now, the rhythm becoming something more rocking and less bouncing as Stack's hand remained at the small of her back and his other hand reached for something on the side table. The sound of a bottle. The sensation of something cool worked at the back entrance she hadn't been using, Stack's fingers pressed and circled with a careful, methodical preparation of a man who knew exactly how to stretch a doll without tearing her. He worked her chocolate starfish open with practiced patience, each circle and press accompanied by Smoke's hands on her hips maintaining their slow rhythm and his voice occasional and low.
"Breathe," Smoke said, one hand traveling from her hip to her stomach, palm flat and warm against her skin. "Stay with me. Just breathe."
She breathed. She kept her eyes on his and kept rolling her hips over him and breathed through Stack's fingers working behind her, opening her gradually, each moment of it accompanied by Smoke's voice and Smoke's hands and Smoke's eyes holding her in place in every sense.
After a minute of probing and preparing, Stack withdrew his fingers. The blunt pressure that replaced them was broader, and it pressed forward with the slow and inexorable patience of a man who had done this enough times to know that patience here was not optional. Bunny's motion over Smoke stuttered as the pressure built and Stack worked his way inside her. He knew better than to rush or force his way inside, instead he continued steadily forward until the stretch had gone from too much, to full, to something that rewired every nerve ending she had at the same moment and left her gripping Smoke's chest with both hands and pressing her face into his shoulder.
"There it is," Stack said from behind her, voice strained as he relished in the tightness of her asshole. "You got all of it, babydoll. You got it."
This wasn’t the first time Bunny participated in anal sex, but it was the first time she had both of her holes filled to the brim. She took both of them, fully, completely, in the most total sense of that word, and the feeling of it wasn’t something she could’ve prepared herself for no matter how plainly Josie had described it. Her body had become an instrument of pure sensation, attended to from both directions at once, filled past the point where she could distinguish between the fullness and herself.
"Move with me," Smoke ordered, and began to rock his hips upward in a slow, careful rhythm.
Stack matched it from behind, withdrawing just barely and pressing back in on the same count, the two of them falling into sync with the ease of people who have shared a frequency their entire lives. Bunny gripped Smoke's chest and held on.
Smoke's hands ran up from her hips to her waist to the curve of her sides, mapping her as she moved, grounding her with the weight and warmth of his hands when the sensation from everywhere else threatened to become too much. "Look at me," he said.
She looked at him.
"You ours," he continued. Not a question, just a statement of something that had apparently been decided and was now being confirmed. "You understand that."
"Yes," she breathed.
"Say it."
"I-I-I'm yours," she whined, and her voice cracked on the last word because Stack had adjusted behind her and found the angle that turned her thoughts entirely to static.
"Fuck," Stack hissed through his teeth. "Keep squeezin’ me like you finna cum an I'm gon' embarrass myself."
Smoke's jaw ticked. He drove his hips up sharper than he had been, once, and her forehead dropped to his chest. "Hold it," he said, one hand traveling up her spine, settling between her shoulder blades. "Don't finish yet."
Like a good little doll, Bunny obeyed even if withholding her orgasm was one of the hardest things for her to do. She held it through the next several minutes of the two of them working her from both sides with building and competing intensity. Stack's hips found a rhythm behind her that grew less restrained with each stroke, his hands gripping her waist with the force of a man holding onto something he didn’t intend to lose. Meanwhile, Smoke drove up into her pussy with a calculated and precise force that hit the same place every time and built the pressure in her body to a pitch that had no precedent in her experience.
She held back her orgasm with her fingernails deep in Smoke's bare chest and tears running freely down her face from the sheer accumulated pressure of pleasure with nowhere to go. Her body shook uncontrollably between them in continuous tremors.
"Hold it," Smoke said again, quieter this time, his hand moving from between her shoulder blades to the back of her neck, his thumb pressing at the base of her skull with a firmness that was grounding. "Hold it for me. Just a little longer."
She felt like an overfilled waterballoon on the verge of popping but she held it a little longer.
"Now," he said.
The second Smoke gave the command, Bunny let go. This orgasm made her entire body convulse between them, and the viper grip of her fluttering holes around both of them became violent and involuntary, her voice tearing out in a sound that came from a place so primal and ancient it didn’t have a name. Stack grunted hard behind her, the sound losing its edges, his rhythm breaking apart, his hips pressing deep and going still as her body worked around him without any input from her at all. Smoke's hands locked on her hips and held her through every spasm, his breath coming in controlled pulls through his nose, his jaw set, his eyes on her face.
She was still a shaking mess when they moved her.
Stack withdrew and the absence of him was its own overwhelming sensation as they repositioned her between them with fluid and efficient coordination, guiding her body into the new arrangement before she could fully process that things were changing. Her hands and knees were positioned on the mattress with Smoke now behind her. Stack was in front of her, already at the edge of the bed, his hand finding her hair, his thumb tilting her chin upward.
"Open," Stack said, his voice dragged rough by the effort of the last several minutes.
She opened. He slid into her mouth and she wrapped her thick lips around him and worked him with the full attention of a woman who had made sucking dick into an art form, her tongue pressing along his length, her cheeks hollowing with each pull. Behind her Smoke gripped her hips with both hands and pressed into her pussy from behind with a force that had nothing of restraint left in it, each thrust was deep and drove her forward into Stack so that the two of them worked her from both ends in a rhythm that had its own crude, overwhelming music.
Smoke's hand came down on the curve of her backside, a sharp slap that made Stack look over her head at his brother with raised brows.
Smoke looked back at him with an expression that communicated absolutely nothing except his full awareness of what he had just done. "She a doll. She our whore," he said casually between thrusts.
Stack's grin broke across his face, gold tooth and all. "Mm hm." His hand joined Smoke's sentiment, fisting tighter in her curls, working himself into her mouth with an authority that matched his brother's behind her. "Take it," he said, "just like that. All of it."
She took it. She took all of it, from both of them, from behind and in front. Her tears ran freely down her face again, dripped off her chin, and ran down Stack's length where he fucked into her throat. She felt another climax building from somewhere deeper than the previous ones had come from, further down, more structural, and her body told her it was coming whether she was ready or not.
Stack felt it in the change of her mouth around him. Smoke felt it in the change of her hypersensitive pussy around him. Both of them drove harder at the same time as Smoke's hand came to her hip and gripped it with the force of a man who wanted to feel the final round tightness squeeze around him. "Give it," Smoke said, rough against her.
Bunny’s body clenched and released in a rolling sequence that started at her core and moved outward, her voice was muffled around Stack’s twitching length and her thighs shook against Smoke's grip. Everything in her narrowed down to the specific and enormous fact of coming apart between these two men who had decided, right then and there, that she was theirs. Stack's hips completely lost their rhythm entirely and he groaned from deep in his chest, his hot sticky release filling her throat in long, heavy pulses, his hand in her hair tightening as he worked through every second of it. Behind her Smoke thrusted into her through the spasms of her climax with a final series of strokes that cost him the last of his control as his hips pressed flush against hers and stayed there while he finished inside her, the sound that came out of him brief and real.
The room after was silent except for breathing.
Three people in various states of collapse across the ruined white linens, the lamp still burning in the corner, the amber light still doing its only job. Bunny was laying face down in the center of the bed with no intention of moving for the foreseeable future. Stack was somewhere to her left, his hand resting on the mattress near her shoulder. Smoke stood after a moment, crossed to the washstand, and returned with a warm cloth. He cleaned her with that same focused efficiency she had heard other dolls gossip about but never experienced, his hands moved over her with the attention of a man who considered this part of the task just as important as any other.
It was Stack’s turn to move from his spot on the bed, as he waltzed over to a nearby drink cart and poured himself a fresh glass of whiskey glass, took a long sip, and exhaled with the deep satisfaction of a man at genuine peace with every decision he had made in the last several hours. He looked at Bunny where she laid against the linens, a beautiful and thoroughly claimed wreck of a woman. Then he turned to look at his brother across the room.
"She can't go back on the floor," he said.
Smoke wrung the cloth out over the basin. "Mm?"
"I'm serious, Eli. Her talent is undeniable. That thang she did with them hips is somethin' I intend to study at length for the next several weeks of my life." He took another sip. "But her control? Her control is nonexistent. She finished too many damn times in one session. You put her in a room with a payin' client who came here expectin' an hour an she gon' be done in two minutes. That man gon' feel robbed an robbed men talk… an talkin' men bad for business." He set the glass down and crossed his arms over his chest like a man presenting a logical conclusion. "Two more weeks. Minimum. We retrain her every night ‘til she can hold back a nut the way a real doll ‘posed to."
Smoke stayed quiet as he came back to the bed, sat at its edge and looked at his twin with the knowing expression he wore when Stack was making an argument he wanted to put an immediate end to. "Elias," he said.
Stack looked at him.
"Drink ya' whiskey an shut the fuck up."
Stack sucked his teeth but he kept his eyes on Bunny.
Bunny turned her face against the pillow and looked at both of them from the comfortable horizontal vantage point of a woman who had been thoroughly wrecked. Smoke, quiet at the bed's edge, let his hand come to rest at her ankle. Stack, whiskey back in hand and gold tooth gleaming was already building his next argument with the enthusiasm of a man who was looking forward to the next two weeks considerably more than he is letting on.
"Two weeks," she mumbled underneath her breath, to the ceiling.
Stack pointed at her with excitement. "See! She gets it. That’s a good lil’ bunny rabbit."
"But the food stays the same," she added.
The room went quiet for a moment.
Then Stack started laughing, full and genuine, the sound rolling through the room and finding all the corners. This time he pointed at Smoke with the glass. "Eli," he said, "I like her."
"I know," Smoke replied as he kept his hand on her ankle. “I know…”
.
.
.
.
.
Author’s Note: Wowzers! See I ammmmm capable of writing the twins as civilized deviants… *cough* So… um… how about that Josie?? 😏
Annie, an 18-year-old from New Orleans, moves to Clarksdale with dreams of building a life all her own. There she meets Smoke, a 21-year-old war veteran with a dangerous reputation. What grows between them is sweet, sticky, and Southern— a smoldering love set against a world of bootlegging, Hoodoo, and blues.
Chapter 5
Contains: Explicit language, slow-burn/build romance, church respectability politics
Word Count: 13.3k
Masterlist
The train came to a stop with a sharp, metallic squeal. The Pullman porters stepped off first, men in tailored black uniforms and matching hats, setting up steps and opening cargo latches on the sides of the train cars. Cicadas buzzed, their screeching lullaby heard all the way from the trees that loomed over the tracks at the isolated train stop, just an hour outside of the busy Y & M.V. depot in Clarksdale. There were no musicians or folks hanging around here, just a small clapboard-sided building with a segregated ticket window, a single employee, and a dilapidated outhouse.
The conductor stepped off the train to relieve himself. The comptroller made himself comfortable in the crew cabin while the station master strolled out of the ticket office, whistling and swinging his pocket watch in one hand. Watching. Waiting.
One of the porters, a 19-year-old kid from Clarksdale slipped out from the back of the freight car and spotted Stack whose truck sat idling by a small loading dock just beyond the tracks that was hidden well by the tall blades of pale green prairie grass fluttering in the autumn breeze.
Stack stood at the back of his truck like sin dressed in silk. He wore a sharp suit, a cream colored silk shirt underneath with a double chain hanging from his neck. Satin pocket square. Double holster secured just above his waist. He held a lighter in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. His cologne was strong— something clean with a hint of clove, the spice lingering in the air around him.
He stood by closely while crates were loaded into the back of his truck one by one, the dry wood creaking underneath the weight of what was inside. Black newspapers—Chicago Defender, Voice of the Negro, Indianapolis Freeman, New York Amsterdam News—publications that the sheriff didn't like distributed around Clarksdale because they told the truth. Bottles of liquor—rum, whiskey, gin—all packed tight and padded up tighter so they wouldn’t clink together on the backroads, and some ammunition and military-grade firearms from up north. All packed under and between pounds of heavy textiles.
Another porter was helping passengers off the forward cabins when he caught a glimpse of Stack and his coworker in the distance. He was younger than other porters, a bit more wide-eyed and curious. He strolled to the back, dust kicking off his boots. He leaned on the edge of the freight car flipping a coin between his fingers.
“Need somethin’?” Stack asked, lighting his cigarette. He raised a brow, taking a deep pull and letting the smoke blow towards him.
The second porter shook his head, “No.”
“Well, you can help then,” Stack shot back, holding up a crisp one dollar bill between his index and middle finger.
The second porter went to grab it but he pulled his hand back, taking another drag of his cigarette. “You know what this mean, right?” he asked, holding the bill up again.
“No, sir.”
“It means you ain’t hear nothin’ and you ain’t see nothin’ — understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You heard of the SmokeStack twins?”
“Yes, sir,” the second porter said again.
“I’m Stack.”
He put his hand on his hip to pull his suit jacket back, revealing the pistol sitting in its holster. The gesture made the kid straighten up where he stood. Stack looked him over thoroughly. He was sweating, no doubt caused by the heat and his stiff uniform and not nervousness. Stack’s gaze drifted over to the other porter who reassured him with a nod. He slowly lowered his hand, allowing the kid to take the bill from his hand.
Stack looked around while the crates were loaded. The station master lingered on the platform a moment, his gaze drifting over to Stack’s truck. He met his eyes, holding him there for just a moment. Stack didn’t flinch, in fact he flashed him a smile. A wide one at that. All golds, gums, and Southern charm. The station master turned on his heel back to his office just as the conductor walked back to the engine room none the wiser.
Stack’s smile dropped instantly once he turned around. “Y’all almost done?”
“This the last one.”
“Good,” he said, holding out a two dollar bill. “Got a tight schedule today. Got places to be.” He pulled out the handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the sweat from his forehead.
When the porters were done loading, they covered the back of his truck with a loose tarp and tied the ropes down tight. Stack straightened his suit jacket out and slinked into his car before peeling out of the train station and making the short journey back to Clarksdale.
First stop was the houses by the swamp. The ones with leaning porches and rotting clapboard siding that he had to walk on foot down muddy dirt paths to reach. Then the shacks on the plantations and the churches there. After that, he moved into the town. He stopped by the Chow’s, the cash store, the jukes, the barbershop, the drug store, the undertaker, the library, the Colored Knights of Pythias lodge and the gentleman’s supper club. The last stop was Luella’s Dressing Room to drop off the textiles.
By the time he left town and headed home he only had his and Miss Della’s crates left, but the stack of money in his coat pocket had quadrupled in size. When he got back to the house, all that was left was Miss Della’s crate and a few others for the folks who would have to come find him themselves—the farmers, the planters, and folks from the smaller, surrounding counties.
Smoke’s truck was gone when Stack pulled up to the house, the modest cottage was quiet when he stepped inside. The spice of the smothered neckbones from lunch earlier still stuck to the walls. The meal that Smoke took the time to cook earlier that day when he just so happened to drop by the house and find little Miss Annie sitting at their table.
Hmm.
After lighting some incense and propping open a few windows, he walked out through the back of the house to the still that was partially hidden by the tree line. He checked the coil, stoked the fire, made sure the lid was set, and walked back into the house. He poured himself a drink, pulled out his ledger from the bookshelf and his stacks of cash and did what he did best. He started counting.
The front windows of Miss Della’s caught what little remained of the fading sun. A small glimmer of light reflected off the thick glass windows, piercing through the windshield of Smoke’s truck, cutting right through the passenger seat cushion. He put the car in reverse, watching the same sliver of light cut through the space he left behind as he backed out of the narrow alleyway, before thinning out completely.
It wasn’t just the kiss that sat on his mind.
It was the breath before.
The hesitation.
The way her lips lingered on his skin for a moment longer. The softness against his stubble.
The single bead of sweat that trickled down between her cleavage.
The crinkle in her bottom lip when she pulled it between her teeth.
The way her eyes flicked up at him.
The way she climbed the porch stairs with that slow, hypnotizing swing of her hips that she probably didn’t even realize she was doing. He licked his bottom lip and shook his head trying to shake the thought of it. He couldn’t.
Night spread across the sky as Smoke drove the short distance to his home in the Mississippi countryside. The sound of swamp frogs and the rotting, earthy, iron-tang of the Sunflower River reached in through his open windows like overgrowth claiming something abandoned.
When he reached his house, he cut the engine, the headlights of his truck blinking off with a cooling tick. The surrounding land went dark. Not the same type of darkness that cloaked the town with its street lights and candles in the window to soften the edges of night. The light from their porch lantern was nearly swallowed by the depth of pitch blackness that laid claim to the woods after the sun set.
He kept the windows down. Reaching behind his ear, he brought the cigarette to his mouth. The lighter flickered to life. Open flame dancing in the darkness. He let the ember burn bright before he tapped the excess off on the outside of his truck door. He took a deep inhale of the tobacco blend Bo got him, then exhaled through his nose. He let his head fall back into the headrest and closed his eyes.
When Smoke stepped through the door, Stack was still up. He found him at the kitchen table, sleeves rolled, two fingers of something brown on the table next to him. A red leather-bound ledger was spread open beside a candle burning low while he counted a stack of bills, writing numbers down in between.
“Station?” Smoke asked, toeing his boots off at the door.
Stack counted each bill meticulously, wetting his thumb in between. “Clean,” he replied quickly.
“Stops?”
He stopped to write down a number in the ledger, “Smooth.”
Smoke crossed the room, sinking into the couch. “Who brought it in?”
“Same kid. Jones.”
Smoke nodded once. “Anyone watchin’?”
“Another kid looked curious,” Stack replied, nodding toward the bookshelf where stacks of crates draped in thick cloth sat on the floor. “Ain’t look stupid though.”
“Curious turn into brave real quick, when a white man start askin’ questions.”
Stack kissed his teeth, “Already handled it.” He finished his count, shuffled the money together neatly, and wrapped them in a rubber band. Then he stood, moving towards the back of the house to their stash. “Ain’t no problem.”
Smoke crossed the room to the backshelf and grabbed the newspaper on top. He flipped through the pages as he walked back to the couch, relaxing back with a sigh.
Stack walked back in the room, swiping the glass of whiskey from the kitchen table and sitting across from Smoke in a straight back chair.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, brown liquid catching the dim light in the room, a sly smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
He was ready to give his brother shit.
About Annie.
About whatever happened while she was there.
The remark was right on the tip of his tongue.
Then something made him pause, the glass of whiskey in his hand stopping mid-air.
Silence sat between them for a moment. Silence that made Stack’s eyes narrow.
He looked at his brother. Really looked at him, his eyes sweeping over him thoroughly like he was checking for injuries after a fight.
That’s when he noticed his jaw.
It wasn’t clenched.
And his shoulders.
They weren’t wound up tight with tension like they always were.
Even the permanent crease that usually sat above his brow was softened.
He looked…relaxed.
“You good?” He asked. His voice wasn’t soft, but the usual sarcasm it held wasn’t there.
“I’m straight,” he replied. He flipped the newspaper to the next page.
Stack raised an eyebrow. There was another beat of silence. This one was loud.
Smoke finally looked up, locking eyes with his twin.
A second passed. Then two. Then he looked back down at the paper, and flipped to the next page.
Stack’s smirk didn’t just return— it widened slowly like sunrise. It was a long, mischievous thing, one that showed off the gold on the side of his mouth.
He stood abruptly, the chair legs scraping against the floor, taking the rest of the whiskey to the head, and letting the liquid trickle smoothly down his throat until he could feel the burn everywhere like a fire lit deep in his chest.
Annie stood in the doorway as the warmth of the house wrapped around her. It was a cozy space. Candles and oil lamps burned openly, their light tracing the shadows of the lodgers sitting in the front room. She took her boots off at the door, immediately dropping her basket and purse.
Her lips still tingled from where she kissed him. The taste of his skin lingered on her lips longer than the time it took to do it. She didn’t even mean to. It just happened— her body reacting before her mind could reel it back in.
The smell of molasses and whiskey brought her back into the room where the low hum of conversation hung in the air, the aroma of cornbread sitting heavy, and underneath it all, something slow-cooked and personal. She walked towards the warmth emanating—in both smell and feeling—from the kitchen.
“And I told him straight up,” she heard a man say, his voice drifting easily through the air like a Sunday morning. He leaned back into his chair casually, the wood groaning under his weight. “Faith ain’t always loud. Sometimes it sit quiet, waitin’ on folks to catch up.”
Aunt Della hummed softly from across the table, hands laced around a cup of something. Deep violet in color with a ruby red undertone, the drink shimmered in the kitchen, the hint of gold from its honey infusion catching the dim light.
The man leaned back where he sat, his head tilted towards the front door. His eyes shifted sharply at her entry, landing on Annie like he’d sensed the exact moment she’d stepped through the door.
“This here’s Reverend Carter. Reverend Carter, this here’s my great-niece. Annie.”
He tipped his hat. He wore a thin silver band with a figurehead on his middle finger that he rubbed slowly with his thumb. “Call me Carter.”
“Nice to meet you, Carter.”
Something sparked there. Not romance. Not attraction. Not really.
Familiarity. A deep one. The kind that made her gut twist.
Annie walked over to the wash basin and dipped her hands. She grabbed the bar of lye soap to create a small lather, moving the suds over her knuckles and under her fingernails. She felt the warm familiar tail of Felix wrapping around her ankle, his purring a calming vibration against her ankle.
Supper was a warm mix of familiar and new faces, and light conversation. Every so often, Aunt Della’s eyes landed on Annie.
“How was your day, baby?”
Annie nodded between bites. “It was good. Lots of roots to sort through.”
“Hmm,” she hummed, passing the cornbread down the table.
“Heard a car pull off when you came in.”
“Yeah, Smoke dropped me off,” she replied quickly, forking collard greens into her mouth. She felt her aunt’s eyes on her. “He was just bein’ nice.”
“Mmmhmm,” Aunt Della replied sharply, but she couldn’t hide the grin that pulled at the corner of her lips.
Neither could Annie.
Supper ended quietly and while some of the lodgers played cards in the front room, Annie made her way to the bathtub to wash up quickly before bed.
Freshly bathed, hair oiled, and belly full, she said her good nights to Aunt Della and made her way to the staircase. It was a rugged, narrow thing, with steps that creaked loudly no matter how light you were on your feet. She shut the door to her bedroom and plopped on the bed. She quickly drifted off into a satisfied sleep, looking forward to what the next day would bring.
Sunday morning.
It arrived like it was dressed in white.
Not the actual color white—but the respectability of it all, polished to a shine and worn proudly, like spiritual armor. Complete with neatly pressed linen, fancy shoes, and gloves folded in careful hands, this part of the morning held its own ritual.
Annie stood in front of the mirror in Aunt Della’s room while she pinned the last stubborn piece of her hat in place. It was a honey-colored straw-woven hat with faded blue grosgrain ribbon circling the crown that tied into a soft bow on the right side. A singular silk flower was stitched near the ribbon, small enough to feel sweet. The brim of the hat curved gently at the edges, casting a soft shadow over her eyes. Her hair underneath it was pinned carefully in a low bun at the nape of her neck with two loose curls on each side to frame her face.
“Hold still.”
“I am,” Annie replied, although she was clearly fidgeting.
“No you ain’t,” Aunt Della said, playfully smacking the side of her arm.
Annie huffed softly through her nose but clasped her hands in front of her while Aunt Della stepped back to inspect her work.
“Just beautiful,” she breathed.
Annie wore a pale lavender Sunday dress with a lace collar, the cotton light enough for the Mississippi heat that still lingered at the edges of early October. It was clean and proper, the hem falling modestly just below her knees. Her ileke beads were pressed into the skin of her collarbone, tucked delicately under the dress. Her stockings stretched around her skin, her white gloves folded and resting beside her Bible on the bed. It was a modest one— small and leather bound. The cover was worn down to the hide that peeked through at the edges with little strings from the binding sticking out at the spine. The pages were almost see-through from time and use, with little notes scribbled in the margins like a glimpse back in time. It had belonged to her great-grandmother, a gift she gave Annie before she passed away.
“Wait,” Aunt Della said, stepping forward again to fuss with the collar of her dress once more. She exhaled, then nodded. “Okay. There. You look just darlin’.”
“Thank you,” Annie said, looking at herself fully in the mirror.
Aunt Della turned, smoothing the front of her own cream-colored dress, her church hat already perched high and proud like it had seniority over everybody in town.
“You got your letter?”
“Oh!” Annie exclaimed, already retreating to her room. “Thank you. Can’t forget that.”
“Mhmm. Get it, and I’ll meet you on the porch.”
Outside the town was already moving.
Rickety wagons, the occasional Model-T, and a sea of people moved along the streets. Church folk spilled onto the sidewalks in twos and threes, women balancing hats and children, men in suspenders and polished shoes, all of them heading in the same direction like a pilgrimage. The air held the smell of wet grass, pressed hair, and somebody’s breakfast frying three doors down.
The building sat at the edge of Fourth Street like a symbol— a mark of authority, tradition, and refuge for the Black community. First Baptist Missionary Church rose from the soil like something determined to be seen and impossible to miss. Dark red brick looked brighter against the morning light, wide front steps worn smooth by generations of Sunday shoes, and tall windows thrown open to let in the heat and the Holy Ghost. A giant steeple with a brass bell sat on the top like a punctuation mark, towering over the modest faded wood and clapboard businesses surrounding it.
Ushers in matching suits flung the doors open.
Voices, laughter, and the sound of a tambourine rattling somewhere in the back spilled outside, the low hum rising like the heat.
Aunt Della walked beside Annie with the ease of somebody who had been making this walk for most of her life. Annie kept pace, eyes forward even while she felt others burning holes through her. She held a pan of bread pudding she’d made the night before firmly in her grasp. It was snug in a glass pan, wrapped in a kitchen towel embroidered with daisies.
Women stood beneath shade trees, letting their conversations bend just slightly as they passed.
A pause too long.
A glance held a second past politeness.
One older woman leaned toward another, saying something behind the fan pressed to her mouth.
Annie kept her face forward.
This wasn’t New Orleans.
New Orleans was loud, fast, easily distracted. People there noticed, then quickly moved on.
Clarksdale noticed.
And it remembered.
“Smile,” Aunt Della murmured behind clenched teeth, without looking at her.
Annie forced a smile. It wasn’t wide, her mouth parted just enough that Aunt Della’s jaw unclenched.
At the church steps, greetings came easy.
Aunt Della answered what she wanted and ignored what she didn’t, moving with a grace that commanded respect above all.
Annie stood beside her, shaking hands that came out to greet hers, nodding politely as she let herself be looked over like produce at a market.
Eyes scanned her over, some genuine, some judgemental, all quietly judging the young woman in front of them.
Was she pretty enough?
Proper enough?
Was she a perfect puzzle piece or a square trying to fit into a circle?
“Come on now, let’s get inside,” Aunt Della said, leading her from the steps.
The back room of the church felt like a different world than the sanctuary. The sanctuary was all pressed linen and polished shoes. But this room was a space where women could laugh loudly and speak freely without too much judgment. The area was small, crowded, and smelled like perfume, powder, and wood polish.
Annie stepped in carefully with the pan of bread pudding balanced in both hands, the dish still warm through the towel wrapped around it.
“Set it there, baby,” Aunt Della said, as she moved near the long prep table arranging serving spoons like she was preparing for battle instead of Sunday service. “And if Miss Bernice asks, no, you did not use rum.”
“But I did,” Annie chimed in.
“Then lie.”
That earned a quiet laugh from somewhere close. Annie turned to her right. There, three young women stood near the side table, church gloves and hats firmly in place.
One leaned against the wall. She was pretty and looked sharp. Her dark green dress was pressed neat, her eyes bright with the kind of trouble that wore makeup.
“Well,” she said. “Is this her?”
Annie blinked. “I’m sorry?”
The girl folded her arms. “Everybody been talkin’ about Miss Della’s Louisiana niece like you descended from heaven in stockings.”
One of the other girls sighed loudly, “Gigi.”
“What?”
Annie fought back a smile. “It’s me,” she said, setting the dish down where her aunt instructed her. “In the flesh.”
Gigi grinned. “Oh, I like you already.”
Beside her stood another girl, softer in the face but no less present, adjusting the cuff of one of her white lace gloves with the careful precision of somebody raised to know exactly how women were expected to be seen. Her wedding band caught the light when she reached for a serving spoon.
“I’m Pearline,” she said warmly. “Ignore her. She think bein’ loud is her birthright.”
“I ain’t loud, I just don’t mumble like some quiet little church mouse,” Gigi fired back. “I’m Georgia—Gigi—and that there’s Nellie.”
She paused. “She real quiet,” she whispered loudly. “Like a little church mouse.”
“I heard that,” Nellie shot back.
“That was the point, dumplin’.”
Nellie stood closest to the long table, fixing church fans into a neat stack like the fate of the congregation relied on symmetry. “Very nice to meet you, Annie.”
“Nice to meet you too.”
“So,” Gigi said, stalking towards Annie with a mischievous grin. “Tell us all about New Orleans.”
The sanctuary held heat differently. It trickled down from the corners of the vaulted ceiling, stretching across the congregation like morning dew. The air inside was thick with the scent of wood polish and old hymnals. Sweat and perfume. Talcum powder and fresh flowers near the pulpit trying their best to mask it all. Sunlight spilled through the stained-glass windows in long jewel-toned slants, catching dust in the air like holy hands.
Aunt Della moved them towards the middle pews, where women with strong perfume and tight lipped smiles greeted her with warmth only reserved for a woman like her. Annie followed behind, her eyes moving about the room subtly. Once to the left, then the right, then the back. She didn’t know why she expected him to be there. Maybe because church felt like the kind of place a town would require of a man like him. Maybe because after yesterday, some foolish part of her thought she might see him anywhere now. But Smoke wasn’t there, and neither was Stack. The absence sat with her longer than it should have, louder than his presence would have been.
She lowered herself into the pew, smoothing her skirt over her knees. Her Bible rested in her lap, her purse settling to her side.
Aunt Della opened her fan with a practiced snap. “You alright?” she asked, fanning herself.
Annie blinked. “Yes, ma’am.”
Aunt Della gave her a look that said she didn’t fully believe that, but Sunday morning wasn’t the place for an interrogation.
At the front of the church, Carter stood near the pulpit speaking quietly with Deacon Lewis—the standing pastor. He wore a dark suit, pressed sharp, that same signet ring catching the light that poured in the windows whenever he lifted his hand. Even from across the sanctuary, something about him felt too familiar, and the unease from the night before crept through her like a tangible thing, making her frown where she sat.
The organist struck a chord.
Deacon Lewis raised his hands from where he stood at the pulpit, the room rising with them. The organ sounded again, the sound rising slow at first, then all at once. Voices layered over it, some young, some old, some skeptical, some certain. Aunt Della sang beside Annie in a clear alto that sounded older than the room itself, pitch perfect but haunting, like something ancient, and passed down came out without her trying.
Annie stood perfectly still with her hymnal open in her hands, though her eyes barely touched the page. Her voice joined where it needed to, soft and practiced, but her attention kept drifting. To the strange feeling sitting just beneath her ribs like a second heartbeat. It felt both new and like a memory she hadn’t asked for.
The hymn ended in a rustle of old pages and the sound of bodies settling. Fans opened again like angel wings. A baby cried once and was swiftly carried outside.
The deacon began the first prayer…
…and just kept on going.
He prayed long and loud enough to make up for every sin committed in Clarksdale that week.
Heads bowed and amens sounded when the prayer finally came to an end, shoes shifted across loose floorboards trying to shake out sleeping limbs from standing in one place too long.
Deacon Lewis used his handkerchief to dab his sweat pooling on his brow, the droplets beading in the creases of his forehead. “Please be seated.”
Linen and cotton whispered against the old wood pews that creaked under the weight of generations. Fans clacked open, their methodical flutter echoing against the walls of the sanctuary.
Deacon Lewis’s voice was like fire and brimstone, melodic and daunting all at once.
“I’ve been hearin’ about a young preacher man,” he started.
A soft Mhmm! Came from the crowd.
“Heard he brought out great crowds, white and Colored, SAINTS AND SINNERS, men and women, all stations of life, the merchant prince and sons of toil, for one of the greatest old time fire and Holy Ghost revivals ever witnessed in this country.”
“Amen!”
“Well, I found him. Brought him to the good town of Clarksdale…to lead the most MIGHTY spiritual awakening this town will ever see.”
More shouts from the crowd, a few stomps and tambourine jingles.
“Can I get an amen?”
“AMEN!”
“Please rise, for the esteemed reverend. Give him a hand.”
The congregation erupted. Stomps, shouts, and hands flew up as Reverend Carter stepped forward with unhurried ease. He set his Bible down on the pulpit and let the room settle around him first, like his silence had its own authority.
“Now tell ‘em who you are,” Deacon Lewis said, his voice booming from the side. “Where you from.”
Carter paused. “Good mornin’, church.”
“Good mornin’ Reverend!” A wave of greetings met him in response.
“My name is Reverend Dr. Thelonius Carter. Born and raised in Houston, Texas.”
Another wave of Hey Reverend Carter’s and grunts of acknowledgement filled the air.
“Got ordained at the First Missionary Baptist Church in Handsboro,” he continued.
Aunt Della’s fan slowed once.
Then resumed.
At the pulpit, Carter opened his Bible, then smoothed the crease gently with his palm.
“Now, I been told y’all feed a preacher real well in this town,” he said, adjusting his cuffs. He rolled each side twice, slowly before he continued. “So, if this sermon run a little long, just know I’m workin’ for my supper.”
Laughter moved through the room. Aunt Della smiled. So did Annie.
He rested one hand against the pulpit. “But this mornin’, I wanna talk about paths. Purpose.”
The congregation stilled.
Carter continued, voice smooth as river water. “Now, everybody in here like to talk about blessings. Everybody like to testify about what the Lord brought ‘em to. But folk get mighty quiet when it come time to speak on what He brought ‘em…through.”
He paused dramatically.
A few congregation members hummed in agreement. A sharp “that’s right” came from a church mother sitting on the stage next to Deacon Lewis.
“See, purpose ain’t always some…dramatic declaration.” He waved his hands around for emphasis.
“It ain’t always thunder and lightnin’.”
“Talk to ‘em!” Someone shouted from deep in the pews.
Sometimes it’s like a regular ol’ Tuesday mornin’, like a path you done walked a hundred times.”
“Until one day, it ain’t the same path no ‘mo.”
“Until that path…become a crossroads.”
Annie’s gloved fingers tightened around the Bible in her lap.
He held a finger to his lips, his eyes darting around the congregation. “Sometimes the Lord place a thing in your path,” Carter kept preaching. “And your spirit know it before your mind catch up.”
He grabbed the edge of the pulpit with both hands. “But we stubborn creatures, ain’t we?”
Sounds of agreement came from the crowd.
“We like proof. Permission. We like to pretend we ain’t heard what was already said.”
More scattered laughter flowed through the room, softer this time.
Annie’s eyes stayed in place. Forward. Not scanning the room. Fixed. On the pulpit. On Carter. On how he pulled the crowd in like he was bewitching them. How he used eye contact like a weapon. On how he knew exactly when to whisper and when to shout.
Carter smiled faintly, turning to a page in his Bible.
“Book of Jeremiah. Chapter six, verse sixteen.”
Pages turned instantly. The shuffle of delicate paper fluttering against leather and the sound of clearing throats and quiet coughs made its way through the church. Carter stood, patiently waiting for the sound to settle.
“Thus saith the Lord— say it with me.”
The congregation joined in.
“Thus saith the Lord, stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old paths, where is the good way, and walk therein.”
He stopped, waited for the congregation voices to die out. Then continued, emphasising each word individually, his voice booming over the sound of the crowd. “And ye shall find rest for your souls.”
His finger tapped once against the page as a round of grunts, hums, and amens filled the air.
Carter looked up, holding up a hand. The congregation went quiet.
“Oh, I ain’t done,” he teased, a slight smirk on his face.
“Folk hear that and think it mean safe. Easy.”
His eyes flicked around the room. “It don’t,” he said flatly.
“Verse sixteen goes on to say,” he started. “But they said, we will not walk therein.”
“The right path will ask somethin’ of you. Might cost you comfort. Might cost you pride. Might cost the version of you, you most committed to protectin’.”
A soft murmur moved through the church.
Carter leaned forward slightly on the pulpit. “And some of y’all,” he said, voice dropping lower. Gentler somehow. “Some of y’all already know exactly what path I’m talkin’ about.”
Silence fell over the crowd. Not an empty silence, but one that felt full. Knowing. One that felt less like preaching and more like being told something you didn’t want to admit. He let the silence sit. Let a smile spread on his face. Easy. Disarming.
“But I’m just a guest in this here church, and Miss Della already threatened me if I kept y’all too long, so I’ma leave the rest between y’all and the Lord.”
The room finally broke. Laughter, a sound that felt like relief at the moment, echoed through the rafters. Carter stood at the pulpit, smile flashing across the sea of people like a man who’d done nothing at all.
Aunt Della leaned over just enough to murmur behind her fan, “That man dangerous.”
Annie’s nose wrinkled. “How come?”
Aunt Della’s fan snapped once, the crack echoing in the laughter that had begun to settle into an earned silence. “Cuz he ain’t preachin’. He prophesyin’.”
They stood for the final hymn. This one much shorter and softer than the first, like an exhale instead of a held breath. It let the sermon settle into the congregation. Let folks turn Reverend Carter’s words over in their heads quietly while they sang, so they could decide which parts would stay with them and which parts they planned to leave in the sanctuary.
Annie stood beside Aunt Della, voice light, eyes fixed on the hymnal, her fingers toying with the edge of her glove until the seam pressed into her thumb.
The hymn ended. Benediction followed. Hands lifted. Heads bowed. And just like that, holiness settled into a regular old Sunday afternoon.
The sanctuary came alive in a rush. Children were letting out pent-up energy by weaving through pews. Women adjusted the pins that kept their hats secure. Men rolled their shoulders loose under their shirts like salvation itself weighed heavy on them.
Aunt Della was pulled into conversation before the final amen had fully landed. A small crowd of women formed around her, laughing as they traded gossip back and forth. Annie smiled politely and took a step back to relieve herself from the haze of heavy perfume and pettiness. Her eyes moved around the sanctuary. Towards the sides, the front, the back room.
No Smoke. Not that she expected him now. Service was over.
Still.
The absence still sat there anyway.
“Lookin’ for somebody?” The voice came smooth beside her.
Annie started to turn quickly, then slowed herself down. Carter stood there, hat in one hand, the other extended politely toward one of the church mothers getting up from her pew.
“No,” Annie said too fast.
One corner of his mouth moved. It wasn’t a smile, just a flicker of amusement. Or satisfaction. “Mm.” He let the silence sit between them just long enough for her to hear herself in it. Then he rescued her from it himself. “You sing pretty.”
Annie blinked, tilting her head. “You couldn’t even hear me.”
“I heard you. Loud and clear.”
Annie let out the smallest laugh despite herself.
“My aunt say you talk too much,” Annie blurted out. She folded her arms across her chest.
Carter’s eyebrows lifted. “Your aunt is a wise woman. I been tryna tell people that all day.”
“She also say you dangerous,” she added, immediately wishing she’d kept that remark to herself.
That made him smile fully, intrigued now. The silver teeth on the bottom row of his mouth gleamed in the light. “Did she now?”
He adjusted his hat beneath his arm and leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping lower, but somehow gentler. “What you think?”
“I think,” Annie said carefully. “You ask a lot of questions for somebody who already know the answers.”
Carter looked down at his hand, pressing his thumb once to the face of his ring, then he looked up at Annie again.
Aunt Della’s voice cut across the room. “Annie!”
She turned on her heel. “Excuse me.”
She crossed the room towards her aunt in a few long strides, feeling his gaze leave her slower than it should have. Aunt Della was gathering her gloves in one hand, her fan in the other. She was engaging in conversation with a woman in a butter yellow dress with a ruffled lace collar. “You got that letter?”
Annie half-jumped, reaching in her purse for the envelope. “Oh! Yes.”
“Miss Loretta works for the postal service. Her husband owns the Blackbird Cafe.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Loretta,” Annie said, eyes warm. She shook her hand before handing Loretta the letter and a coin for the postage. “Can you tell Mr. Hightower that I’d like to accept the position at the cafe? I can start tomorrow.”
Loretta received her warmly, letting her land linger on hers for a moment. “I’ll let him know. And I’ll make sure your letter gets back home.”
“Thank you,” Annie said emphatically.
Aunt Della took Annie, looping their arms through each other as she guided them to the church’s backyard.
Outside, the sun climbed higher. Brighter. More unforgiving. It pressed heat into the town’s Sunday best where it lingered, creeping into the seams of collars and where made sweat slick underneath stockings. Men loosened their ties like Jesus was no longer watching now that church had let out, and children ran wild in their Sunday shoes, shamelessly staining the polished toes with grass and Mississippi mud.
The backyard of the church was set up with tables neatly covered with lace tablecloths that had been passed down and mended neatly throughout the years. Dishes covered the tables— fried chicken and fish hot off the grease under dish towels, deviled eggs dusted with paprika, macaroni and cheese and collard greens steeping in deep bowls. Sweet tea and iced water sat sweating in glass pitchers. Annie’s bread pudding—a rich combination of dark brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg and the heavy sweetness of whiskey and rum-soaked raisins—sat at the end of the table, keeping the other desserts company.
Annie stood behind the food table with a serving utensil and an anxious smile. Her gloves had come off, her Bible tucked away in her purse. The only thing left from the sermon was a full belly and sore cheeks. Her new acquaintances stood along her, Gigi, Nellie and Pearline spread out behind the long table of food, the line in front of the serving tables stretching nearly halfway across the church yard.
Gigi slid another piece of fried catfish onto a plate while Pearline scooped greens beside it.
“You keep givin’ Brother Jenkins portions like that, we gon’ run out befo’ the deacons eat,” Gigi murmured under her breath.
Brother Jenkins, hard of hearing and entirely too closely hovering over the food, grinned despite not hearing a word Gigi said.
“What was that?”
Gigi smiled sweetly. “I said enjoy your meal.”
Nellie snorted so loudly, sweet tea always flew up her nose. “You gon’ burn in hell,” she mouthed.
Gigi passed another plate down the table calmly. “Prolly. ‘Least I won’t be hungry.”
Annie bit back a laugh as she reached for another serving spoon. The rhythm of the line settled into something easy. Scoop. Pass. Smile. Repeat. There were the occasional outliers. Church women with their judgment and heavy perfume. Children begging for an extra slice of cake. Men flirting horribly. Annie, Gigi, Nellie, and Pearline worked around all of it.
Enter Claudine Thompson. She was a viper of a woman, with a daring smile that never actually meant that she meant well. She wore a frilly peach colored dress, a powder blue Sunday hat, and matching powder blue gloves. She stepped in front of Annie, who offered her a slice of her bread pudding.
“You settlin’ in fast, ain’t you?” She asked, voice dipped with poison as Annie put a generous helping on her plate. The women around her laughed softly. Not cruel enough to challenge, but not kind enough to ignore.
“I’m tryin’.”
Claudine nodded slowly, eyes traveling over her hat, her gloves, the way she stood. “We noticed,” she hummed.
Annie tilted her chin a little higher. “Well,” she said, voice even. “I’d probably be worse off if I wasn’t.”
Claudine lips moved into a thin line, a rather reluctant smile. She looked Annie up and down again. “Cute,” she said with a slight dip of one of her shoulders.
Before Annie could decide whether that was a praise or a warning, Aunt Della appeared at her elbow like she was summoned. “Be gone, Claudine. She don’t need no supervision. Especially not from you.”
The silence that followed was brief. Then Claudine laughed like it had all been friendly banter. “Lord, Delilah,” she said, waving her hand. “Can’t say nothin’ round you.”
“And yet,” Aunt Della replied. “You keep tryin’,” she said with a head tilt and a sharp look.
The women laughed again. Claudine’s eyes snapped sharply to them before turning on her heel and stomping away.
“Never think you need to explain yourself to a woman like that,” Aunt Della said as she helped herself to a generous serving of macaroni and cheese. “They don’t be askin’ cuz they want answers. They tryna check your temperature.”
Annie exhaled through her nose. “I noticed.”
“Good,” she replied firmly. “Means you learnin’.”
“Or maybe it just means church women are miserable and need hobbies,” Gigi said from a little ways down the table.
“Georgia.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Aunt Della shot her a look before leaving to sit with the deacon. “Behave.”
“Always.”
Gigi leaned against the table while Annie cut another square of bread pudding. “So Louisiana,” she started. “Y’all really got people walkin’ around speakin’ French down there?”
Annie nodded once. “And Creole.”
“Say somethin’.”
Annie laughed softly. “Why?”
“Because church almost killed me from boredom and this heat ‘bout to finish the job.”
“Georgia Mathers,” Pearline gasped dramatically.
“What? Reverend Carter fine self already saved my soul this mornin’. I can say what I want ‘til Wednesday.”
Annie shook her head, smiling to herself before saying something low and quick in Creole.
“Well damn,” Gigi said.
Pearline sighed softly, scooping another healthy serving of greens on a plate. “That sounded pretty.”
Gigi pointed at Annie with a pair of tongs. “If I learn another language, I’m only usin’ it to insult people.”
“You already insult them in English,” Nellie muttered.
“That’s because the Lord made me honest.”
“And loud,” Pearline added.
The four of them dissolved into laughter again.
Another older church mothers drifted past the table slowly enough to make her presence known. “Well,” she said pleasantly, while Nellie poured her a glass of sweet tea. “Y’all certainly lively today.”
Gigi smiled instantly, the kind of smile that matched Sister Claudine’s a bit earlier. “Yes ma’am,” she replied sweetly. “We still young enough to enjoy life.”
Annie and Nellie gasped underneath their breath. The church mother’s lips tightened almost invisibly before she moved along the line.
“You gon’ say the wrong thing to the right person one day,” Pearline said, letting out a breath through her nose.
“One day the right person gon’ ask the wrong question.”
Annie looked between the two of them quietly.
“What?”
“You don’t get nervous talkin’ to church mothers like that?”
Gigi shrugged. “They already decided who I am to them. Might as well enjoy myself.”
The line in front of the serving tables had dwindled down now that most people were settling into the slow part of the afternoon. Behind the table the girls had switched positions, Annie refilling a glass of sweet tea, while Pearline cut a square of bread pudding with practiced care. Nellie was in charge of the fried chicken and fish which were almost gone, and Gigi dished out the sides.
Nellie leaned forward suddenly, her eyes narrowing toward the far side of the church yard.
“Oh Lord,” she muttered under her breath.
Gigi squinted, following her gaze. “What?”
Nellie nodded subtly towards a man standing near the pecan tree laughing with two deacons and a church mother, “Leroy.”
“He over there sweatin’ right through that tired ass gray suit.”
Annie and Pearline looked up, following their gaze. The man was handsome. Deep brown skin gleaming beneath the afternoon heat. His collar loosened just enough to show the thick line of his throat. His suit fit well across his shoulders. A little too well. And every time he laughed, a silver tooth flashed near the back of his mouth.
“He do got a nice laugh,” Pearline said softly.
“And a wife,” Gigi corrected.
“That don’t mean I can’t look,” Nellie chimed in. “Lord gave me eyes for a reason.”
Annie raised a brow.
“He also gave you discretion,” Pearline muttered while stacking clean plates. “And respectability.”
Nellie rolled her eyes. Gigi did, too. Annie laughed quietly to herself.
“Oh, don’t act innocent, Louisiana. I know you got your eye on somebody already.”
“I never said I didn’t.”
“Alright then. Who?”
“Never said I did either.”
“Well what’s your type?”
Annie shrugged. “Ain’t got one. I like what I like.”
“Hypothetically….”
“Here we go,” Nellie said, scratching her head.
“Hypothetically. Lookswise. Do you find any of these men attractive?”
Annie blinked. “Sure.” She could already tell where this was going.
“So pick one.”
“Pick what?”
“A man.”
Pearline groaned. “We really ‘bout to play this game,” she muttered.
Annie huffed. “You want me to pick a random man? For what?”
“Just a man you think is cute.”
Annie sucked her teeth.
“Ok hear me out. I’ll go first.” A group of young men passed nearby carrying folding chairs back towards the church building, Gigi’s eyes locked on one of them. He was tall. Dark brown skin. Slim waist beneath his suspenders, white shirt clinging damply to his back from sweat. It outlined the clean movement of muscle beneath it every time he lifted another chair onto his shoulders. “Mhmm,” she hummed approvingly. “That one right there.”
“You don’t even know him,” Nellie sighed.
“I know enough.”
“What enough?”
“Look at how he carry weight.”
“Well, if we bein’ honest,” Pearline said, pointing discreetly towards the far tables where an older man stood near the barbecue pit speaking with Reverend Carter. He was thick in the chest and shoulders, suspenders pulled low against his stomach. His hair was beginning to gray at the temples, his face carrying deep smile lines that deepened when he spoke. He looked solid. Steady. “That’s my husband.”
“See now Pearline,” Gigi said, her face twisting up like she just ate a lemon. “Every time you point him out I get sad.”
Pearline rolled her eyes. “Why?”
“‘Cause he look like he read the almanac before bed every night.”
Nellie and Annie burst into laughter so suddenly they made heads turn towards them. Annie covered her mouth quickly.
“He’s a nice man,” Pearline said, a little bit wounded.
“I’m sure he is,” Gigi replied. “I ain’t say he wasn’t.”
“He got nice hands,” Nellie said. “Big ones.”
“And big feet too,” Gigi added with a grin.
Pearline sighed and rolled her eyes again. “He take care of me.”
“I bet he do,” Gigi said, giggling under her breath and nudging Annie gently with her elbow. She laughed too.
“Your turn, Louisiana.”
Annie shook her head, trying to hide the smile tugging at her mouth as she glanced out across the way. Men stood in clusters throughout the church yard. In their dark slacks and rolled sleeves, leaning easy against trees smoking cigarettes, or arguing over baseball stats loud enough for the whole congregation to hear. Her eyes drifted until they landed on a man sitting near the edge of the folding tables.
He looked tall from where she could see him. His suspenders stretched across a white shirt that had gone soft with wear. His sleeves were rolled neatly up to his elbows, revealing long forearms darkened by the sun. He sat tipped back in his chair, balancing dangerously on its back two legs while he listened to somebody talk, one hand lazily rubbing across his broad chest. His eyes glimpsed towards Annie and she looked away quickly, but not before Gigi caught who she was looking at.
“Ohh, she like the quiet ones.”
“Do not.”
“Do too.”
Pearline leaned to the side to look. “Mmm,” she hummed. “He is handsome, though.”
“That’s Isaiah,” Nellie said, barely looking up. “Works for the railroad.”
“Look at lil’ Nellie knowin’ every man’s occupation like she work for the census.”
“What can I say? I like men with jobs.”
“And I like men who fine enough to ruin my life,” Gigi shot back. “Just a little.”
Annie barked out a laugh. “That’s how women end up cryin’ on porches.”
“Or men end up gettin’ a root put on them.”
Nellie snorted into her glass of lemonade. Annie shook her head smiling. “You always this dramatic?”
Gigi leaned in towards her. “Only in public.”
Annie found herself laughing harder than she had since she’d been in Mississippi.
After the buzz from the church, her newfound acquaintances, and Sunday dinner wore off, Annie found herself just looking for a peaceful place to sit. She padded to the porch, equipped with a few sheets of paper and her foraging basket.
Her shoulders sank when she got there. Men were out there slapping dominos, drinking, playing the harmonica. The sounds of late summer floated down the steps and onto the street that was alive with the after-church crowd.
Way too crowded. She needed quiet.
She sighed, rounding the front porch until she found a spot. She found one under the big magnolia tree whose branches scratched her bedroom window when the wind blew at night.
She spread out her blanket in the grass. From her basket she took her roots, flowers and herbs and spread them out, organizing them by types. Then she went to the backyard and pumped a small bucket of water for cleaning. She started with the roots. Trimming and peeling back bits and pieces that weren’t useful. Running a damp cloth over them to clean, then laying them out carefully.
Smoke stood on the porch of Miss Della’s boarding house with a crate full of her things and heat on his neck. He stepped into the front room, letting the screen door slap behind him. In the crate were copies of the Black publications sent down from up north and a small box that he promised Della him and Stack would pick up from Memphis. The slap of the screen door caught Della’s eye and she nodded towards the lean-to in the back. He followed her outside. Once the door was closed, she lifted up the entrance hidden in the floorboards and guided him down the stairs.
The space was expansive. Cooler than the surface. Della lit a series of oil lamps as she made her way through the underground space that was the length of the entire house. The walls and floors were lined with stone and mortar to keep the damp out, the floors smoother in the middle from constant wear.
Shelves lined the walls from top to bottom, loaded with peaches, plums, oranges soaked in sugar and rum. Vanilla beans in moonshine. Nuts dipped in chocolate. Delicacies— pickled savory treats, candied sweet ones. Preserves and jams. Jars dusted with time stacked on top of each other. A thick, deep-purple syrup dripped from honeycombs into molds. Infused with a special blend of rum, it would harden into crystallized candy sticks and small square hard candies, or melt effortlessly into a smooth liqueur to stir into drinks. Small bottles with oils and dried flowers stood throughout the space too, along with some root vegetables and dried herbs. Cases of liquor, shelves of wine with bottles so old they’re covered in dust and cobwebs.
Smoke put the crate in the corner by one of the rooms in the back. He took out the newspaper bundles and brought them to Della who instructed him to bring them upstairs with him. She looked over them for a second before patting him on the shoulder and looking him in his eyes.
“Thank you for watching out for my girl yesterday.”
Smoke’s breath hitched a bit, enough for Della to notice. She gave him a little grin, “Mhmm. She ‘round here somewhere if you wanna say hi. Try some of her bread pudding. It’s in the kitchen,” she said as she moved around him and disappeared up the stairs.
Back upstairs, Smoke enjoyed a serving of bread pudding topped with sticky rum sauce while he looked out on the porch for Annie. She wasn’t there. He finished his dessert, putting the dish in the wash basin before washing his hands and rounding the back to finish his search. He stepped out to the backyard and circled around to the side where a little patch of grass fanned into a grassy alleyway. The area was small but plush, the sun hitting it just right. A wire fence separated the boarding house and the house next to it. A magnolia tree stood in the middle, tall and proud, its branches hanging low like a veil over Annie’s head. She sat underneath it on a patchwork quilt, its colors vibrant, stitched with heat and history.
Annie was sitting with a quiet focus, tracing the edges of a plant on a piece of paper. She wrote the name at the bottom with a little detail about it on the side. She wore a sleeveless lace patterned dress— long, to her ankles—with a tan work apron overtop. A pair of brown ankle boots, scuffed at the toes, laced up her feet. A large floppy mesh hat crowned her head of coils, keeping the heat and sweat away. Her ileke beads sat tucked underneath the neckline of her dress, completing the look. Smoke approached her slowly, the grass flattened beneath his boots as he walked closer. He watched the side of her mouth curve up like she already knew he was there.
“Can’t sneak up on me today.”
“Wasn’t tryin’ to.”
“Smoke.”
“Annie.”
She dusted the dirt off her hands as he held out his hand to help her stand up. He looked put together. Effortless. Dark trousers and a faded shirt with the sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. The sunlight caught the gold-brown of his skin in soft flashes between the shadows of the magnolia tree.
“You hidin’?” he said finally, his eyes briefly drifting towards the quilt.
Annie huffed out a quiet laugh, “Maybe.”
He nodded once. He understood that completely.
“Didn’t see you at church today,” she said, crossing her arms under her chest.
“Little busy.”
“You too busy for the Lord?” She asked teasingly.
“Nah,” he said, stretching his arms. “He too busy for me.”
“He ain’t never too busy for his…children.”
“I ain’t on that list.”
“Nah, I think you right at the top. Next to Peter and Paul,” she said, turning around to drop her blade down on the quilt.
“Definitely ain’t no saint,” he said to the side.
“That don’t make you a sinner, Smoke.”
A silent beat passed between them. A breeze blew by, making the windchimes on the front porch let out a low jingle.
“That happen a lot?”
Smoke narrowed his eyes, “You got a lot of questions.”
“And you answer almost none of ‘em.”
A low hum, almost a laugh, left his chest. “Gotta keep you on your toes.”
“Can’t threaten me with a good time.”
Smoke looked down at Annie, his gaze dropping to her lips briefly, then back up to her eyes.
“Me and Stack went to my uncle’s church.”
And they did. Macedonia Missionary Baptist, their uncle Jedidiah’s church right on the edge of the Sunflower plantation. It was a small rickety building, white-washed with high wooden ceilings and low pews. They sat in the back row, in their whitest whites like they always did. After service, they helped distribute the allotment of wine their uncle got from the county every month for communion. Since prohibition started, he’d sell some off on the side for extra money to offset the quota that he wouldn’t fulfill, even with all the little ones he and his wife, Ruthie, had.
“Oh,” she said, surprised. “So your uncle’s a preacher?”
“That’s what he say, anyway.”
“Are y’all—,” Annie started to ask before noticing his jaw clench suddenly, “— nevermind.”
She tilted her head at him. “Why don’t you come to one of the services in town?”
“Habit.”
“Makes sense.”
He paused. Took a breath, his eyes drifting to the quilt again then back up. “I used to go to the services in town. Before my uncle became a pastor,” he started.
Annie watched him carefully. “When’d he become a pastor?”
“Few years back. ‘Fore the war.”
“Oh,” she said, letting the sound of her voice fade into silence while he continued.
“We went every Sunday before then. Stack liked the singin’. I liked the quiet after.”
The confession surprised her. Not because it was ground-breaking, but because he gave one. At all. “What changed?”
Smoke got quiet like he was searching for the right words, his gaze shifting towards the road beyond the fence. “People.”
Annie swallowed hard. People. Something about the way he said it made her chest ache unexpectedly. He pivoted quickly, like he could feel it too.
“Annie?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s all this?”
“Drawings,” Annie said, sitting back down on the quilt, drawings spread out evenly across the fabric. Smoke cleared his throat, then lowered himself down beside her with the same quiet heaviness that accompanied everything about him.
The sun was dipping low, throwing a veil of gold over the landscape. The sound of a guitar floated over from Fourth Street. Folks were sitting on their porches, enjoying the slight drop in temperature.
“I know that,” he tutted. “What they for?”
Annie pulled a knee to her chest, absentmindedly tracing her fingertip along one of the quilt seams. “Helps my memory. Drawin’ things. Writin’ them down.”
“So you remember what they look like?”
“Kinda. So I remember what they for,” her voice drifted off as a loud buzzing sound got closer.
A hummingbird.
Its sharp beak poked at the gardenias clustered by the fence, their petals still closed. It floated from one flower to the next, searching for sugary nectar it could feed on.Annie’s hand touched a vial of water that sat on the quilt next to her legs. She picked it up, pointing the tip at her outstretched finger.
“Watch this.”
A hummingbird hovered overhead, the flapping of its wings a dull buzz. It floated to her finger that she held up, its long beak piercing through the cap of the vial. Smoke flinched a little at the rapid movement of its wings, but quickly recovered.
“How you get them to come to you?”
Annie shrugged her shoulders slightly. “They like the sound of my voice.”
Smoke’s gaze went from the bird perched on her finger up to Annie. Her grin, her delicate finger, the way her chest moved with her breathing. The way the setting sun smiled on her skin. Smoke watched her as she watched pieces of sunlight flicker across the yard through the leaves.
A breeze moved through the magnolia branches overhead carrying the faint floral scent down with it that mixed with the smell of freshly laundered cotton from the sheets hanging in the backyard, swaying gently in the breeze.
Annie smelled sweet—like sugary vanilla, cinnamon, and rum from baking. Her sweetness wrapped around his senses, pulling him in like the song of a siren. He used to hear tales about them during the war. With their eyes and the sweet, sultry sound of their voices that were known to lure soldiers into a watery grave.
Smoke didn’t believe in any of that shit.
Not in ghosts, not in magic, and definitely not in no tall tales. But he couldn’t help but feel time slow down around her. At this very moment, right next to him, she looked—
“Smoke?”
His vision snapped back into focus. He cleared his throat, swallowing the words he really wanted to say. “Hmm?”
“You okay? Look like you were somewhere else for a second,” she remarked.
Smoke comes back to himself. “Just thinkin’ bout that bread pudding you made.”
Lie.
“You had some?”
“Mhmm. Earlier. Your aunt gave me some.”
“You liked it?”
Smoke shrugged his shoulders, “It was aight.”
“Ugh!” Annie tutted, smacking Smoke’s shoulder playfully. “That’s how I know you a damn lie.”
“I thought you not supposed to be cussin’ on a Sunday.”
“Not when you out here…insulting my cookin’.”
“I was just playin’,” Smoke teased, his lips flattened to suppress the grin that was quickly spreading across his face.
The evening heat wrapped around them, creeping slowly up their necks. Smoke picked at a loose thread near the edge of the quilt while Annie studied him quietly. The roughness of his hands resting against the quilt. The slight tremor in his right palm. The heaviness he carried in his shoulders even when he wasn’t moving. The stillness. The tension underneath the stillness. For the first time, she realized how much of him always seemed braced for something. At this very moment, spread out on a quilt under a magnolia tree.
The thought sat strangely in her chest. “You look like you always ready for somethin’,” she said softly before she could stop herself.
Smoke looked at her, immediately focusing on her face in a way that made Annie almost regret what she said. He didn’t look angry. Didn’t look defensive. The expression flashed behind his eyes before disappearing just as quickly as it had arrived.
Vulnerable?
Not quite.
Not in a dramatic way. But just enough to realize she was watching him. Had been watching him. And for Smoke? That landed hard. Because he hadn’t realized she was paying attention. Not like that. For a long moment neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. Smoke looked away first, gaze dropping towards the quilt between them then back to her.
“That so?” he asked, his voice quieter now.
Annie nodded once, “Like you never really…let yourself settle.” “Or be settled,” she said, voice just above a whisper.
The magnolia branches stirred overhead again, their shadows moving slowly across the grass beneath them.
Smoke spoke again. This time, his voice carried something new and unknown in it. “Most people don’t notice.”
“Most people don’t sit still long enough to notice a lot of things.”
Smoke paused for a beat. This time it stretched longer. The cicadas screamed louder for a moment, filling the silence neither of them seemed interested in breaking. Annie looked towards the back of the house when she sensed movement. She relaxed when she saw somebody moving past one of the kitchen windows. Then—
“And you do?” Smoke asked finally.
Annie turned to face him. She shrugged softly, “Somebody got to.”
A faint smile pulled briefly at the corner of his mouth.
The sun dipped deeper into the horizon. The sky darkened further. It was a smooth shade of black with a twinge of gold from the warmth spilling out of the neighborhood windows that caught against Smoke’s face. He leaned back on one arm, gazing up towards the sky. His hand drifted next to where hers was on the quilt. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the heat of him on her skin.
“What you got goin’ on this week?” His tone was almost hesitant, like he shouldn’t be asking this kind of question, but decided to do it anyway.
“I start at the cafe in town tomorrow.”
“Blackbird?”
“Yep.”
Smoke nodded in approval. “What time?”
“Nine.” She took a breath. “Why? You comin’ by tomorrow?”
Her eyes widened. The question slipped out before she could catch herself. Again.
Smoke watched her for a second, “Maybe.”
The kitchen window above where they were sitting slid up suddenly.
“Annie!”
Aunt Della’s voice.
Both of them looked up. “You left these dishes sittin’ on my counter like they pay rent!”
Smoke’s mouth twitched. Annie groaned softly under her breath, her head dropping back dramatically, “She soooo…” she groaned, already reaching to pack her things.
“She family. I gotta go anyway,” Smoke said. Like something came over him, his hand rose to find the small of her back, his hand moving up and down gently.
The sudden burst of fragrance from the night-blooming jasmine that laced through the fence like roots and moonflowers that hung like little white bells wafted towards them as the crickets began their rhythmic chirping and the cicadas changed rhythm.
Annie stopped what she was doing. The warmth of Smoke’s hand on her back made her turn towards him slowly, her face close enough to his that she could feel his breath on her collarbone and smell the scent of tobacco and spice that clung to his shirt. They locked eyes. Smoke held hers a second, not long enough to call it anything but long enough to feel it anyway. He licked his lips, leaned in, and kissed her cheek. His warm, wet lips lingered softly against her skin, sending shivers down her spine and warmth beneath her ribs. The silence after that stretched in a way that made it feel loud. Louder than the crickets. Louder than the heartbeat that thumped violently in her chest.
Smoke shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Annie said quickly.
Their faces were still close. He leaned in again and this time brushed his lips against hers. Just enough for Annie to feel the pressure of his mouth. Annie’s lips followed his, giving back that pressure so he knew she was feeling the same way. Their lips separated slowly, pulling away with a soft, wet smack.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” she said. Voice warm but with a hint of something else behind it.
He stood up, grabbing her things for her while she folded up her quilt.
“Goodnight, Annie,” he said, walking towards the front of the house where his truck sat parked on the street. The side gate creaked open as he walked through it.
“Goodnight,” she sighed softly as he disappeared from her view.
Aunt Della’s voice cut through the romantic haze bubble that had her staring dreamily at the street.
“Annie, get yo ass in here!”
The small, rusty shop bell above Blackbird Café didn’t really jingle. It clanked with an exasperated, dull thud like it was already over the day. It was Monday morning, the small space slightly busy with diners sipping coffee and tea and enjoying steaming breakfasts of scrambled eggs, fried meat, and fluffy biscuits. The first thing that Annie noticed was the sound. The scrape of chairs against old wood floors, the hiss of grease hitting hot cast iron, the sound of a knife moving against a cutting board in a familiar, practiced rhythm. It smelled like coffee grounds, hot grease, bleach, and lemon cleaner soaked deep into the walls over the years. Something lived-in, almost ancestral.
Annie made her way past the hostess stand to the back room. Mr. Hightower stood near the kitchen doorway, broad-shouldered and already sweating through his collar despite the early hour. His suspenders stretched over a white button-up rolled at the sleeves, a freshly laundered apron in his hands, his expression serious in a way that older men often wore when they were actually amused.
“Go change, washroom’s in the back. Then I’ll show you around.”
“Okay.”
Annie padded to the washroom. She wrapped the uniform apron around her waist and stared at herself in the mirror. Her forehead was still shiny from oil Aunt Della had anointed her with that morning. She wiped a small crumb from the curve of her mouth from the tea biscuit she had earlier, slathering vaseline balm on her lips before making her way to the kitchen for Mr. Hightower.
The kitchen was hotter than the rest of the building by at least ten degrees. Two women worked the stove already, moving around each other like it was a song and dance they’d been doing all their lives. One of them glanced up briefly at Annie before returning to the skillet.
“That’s Loretta,” he said, putting his hands on the cook’s shoulders. “She’s head chef. Loretta, this Annie.”
“Heyyy, Miss Annie,” Loretta said amusingly, tossing a skillet of onions and peppers together.
“Nice to meet you, Loretta.”
“And this,” he said, moving to the woman thinly slicing tomatoes, “this Sheila. Sheila – Annie.”
“Nice to meet you, Sheila.”
“Mm,” Mr. Hightower remarked. “Try not to scare her off before the lunch rush.”
“Aint you Della’s girl?” Loretta asked.
“Mhmm, niece.”
Sheila snorted. “She from New Orleans, she’ll be aight.”
Mr. Hightower pointed as he talked, moving quickly like he expected people to keep up. “Coffee station here. Tea there. Carry plates confidently, even if you scared. Folks tip better when you check on them often.” He pointed out towards the swinging doors that led from the kitchen to the dining area, “And don’t let them blues men flirt you into forgettin’ things.”
“Blues men?” Annie repeated.
“Musicians,” Sheila corrected. That earned a laugh from Loretta.
The dining area looked different once people started to fill in. By noon, smoke curled thickly near the ceiling fans, dominoes slapped against tabletops near the windows where men argued over cards, and the low sound of a guitar rolled through the room, soft as heat from the jukebox near the wall.
Annie moved carefully through the cafe at first. Coffee pot full of freshly brewed chicory coffee in one hand, plates balanced in the other. She listened more than she spoke and watched how the room moved before taking action, observing closely which customers wanted conversation, which wanted speed, and which wanted to be left alone with their thoughts. The work settled into her body quicker than she expected. There was a rhythm to it here, a sort of dance. Not a graceful one, but something practiced and practical. Not only with the customers, but between the other servers as well.
“Behind you!”
“Door!”
Annie learned those phrases quickly, at one point narrowly avoiding a clash with another server when she didn’t register the meaning quickly enough. By the second hour, she stopped hesitating before moving through crowded tables. By the third, she’d identified who were regulars and who were just passers-by.
“You catch on quick.”
Annie looked up from wiping down a booth. One of the younger waitresses, a girl named Felicia, stood beside her with a tray against her hip and a smile on her face.
“I got six brothers. I’m used to chaos,” Annie answered.
Felicia barked out a laugh, “Oh, you definitely gon’ fit in here.”
Over by the stage, a guitarist plucked a few lazy notes while setting up for the later crowd. The sound rolled through the cafe, settling low and heavy in the air. Outside, Fourth Street buzzed beneath the muggy Delta heat. Inside, Blackbird Cafe dishes clattered, voices did too, and the sound of the blues drifted slowly through cigarette smoke.
By three, the cafe had settled into its late afternoon lull. Annie wiped down the counter one last time before untying her apron. Mr. Hightower glanced up from his ledger near the till. “See you tomorrow, Annie.”
Annie folded the apron over her arm. “Tomorrow.” She smiled to herself, satisfied, as she headed towards the back door. Just as she reached it, Mr. Hightower’s booming voice made her pause.
“Annie?” he asked, peeking around the corner.
“Yes sir.”
“You did good today.”
Annie smiled faintly, “Thank you.”
The sky began its slow shift into gold. The evening air wrapped around her warm and damp, carrying the smell of riverwater, fried food, and dust. Annie adjusted the strap of her bag against her shoulder and started down the sidewalk.
A feeling started to hit her all at once.
Exhaustion.
She tried to wind her mind down, but her body was still acting like she was at the cafe. Moving quickly around corners and slower around blind spots, her mind counting things automatically.
But beneath all the tiredness in her limbs sat something else, too.
Pride.
She made her way down Fourth Street, past men leaning in doorways, women talking on shaded porches, and children chasing each other barefoot through red dirt near the edge of the road. One man tipped his hat as she passed by. A man right next to him catcalled something ridiculous enough to earn a laugh. She walked past both of them without breaking stride.
She turned off Fourth and onto Issaquena.
The sign hung just ahead.
Luella’s.
It was a worn, weathered sign that hung over the sidewalk from a wrought iron bracket and chains that swayed gently in the breeze. Pastel paint peeled slightly at the edges of the rectangular wooden plaque with carefully painted gold lettering in the center. A gold frame was tacked on sometime later to make the sign look more polished. Warm light glowed through the front windows, and inside were bolts of fabric, sequined accessories, and hanging garments of every color imaginable swaying faintly in the breeze that flowed through the window like they were alive.
The floorboards creaked under the weight of Annie’s feet as she stepped through the door and walked down the stairs leading into Luella’s Dressing Room, bringing with her a whirlwind of humid Mississippi air.
There were a few customers lingering, some by the spools of ribbon, some in the front where bolts of fabric were lined on shelves and piled on top of the large wooden workspace in the center of the shop. Curtains hanging in front of the store windows kept the sun from dulling their vivid coloring, along with bulbs hung from the ceiling that created a cozy, buzzing atmosphere. Glass displays with accessories—gloves, purses, stockings, shoes— lined the walls that were decorated with fashion plates and fading photographs as Annie made her way to the back of the shop.
The heels of her Mary Jane pumps clicked against the wooden floors as she crossed the room to where Luella was looking at a dress posed on a mannequin, her glasses perched at the tip of her nose. She wore a chatelaine around her waist with small measuring tools hanging from the hooks, and stood with a tape measure slung over her shoulders, her expression perking up as soon as she heard the groan of the floorboards coming her way.
“Annie,” she said, instantly wrapping her hands around Annie’s middle.
“Miss Luella,” Annie replied warmly. “I’m here to get my measurements taken.”
“Gimme a second, baby. Lemme finish up pinnin’ this dress.”
The back room was fitted with two dressing stalls, a three-way floor-to-ceiling mirror, and a few velvet chairs and a settee for guests. Annie made herself comfortable on one of the chairs, taking a peppermint twist from the jar on the table next to it.
After a few minutes, she was ushered through a narrow corridor leading to a private alcove flanked with damask velvet drapes, a small platform, and a set of mirrors. The smell of rose scented perfume hung heavily in the air, a pair of Dressmakers’ mannequin sat off to the side, displaying sequined fabric held up by pins.
Luella gave her a robe, a washcloth and towel, then pointed her to the washroom where a basin full of warm, soapy water was waiting for her. When the door finally shut behind her she sighed. She stripped naked then lathered and dragged the soapy washcloth across her body, scrubbing away the smell of grease and exhaustion from the day. Once she was done, she shrugged the robe on, the feel of satin cool against her skin.
She stepped out of the washroom freshly oiled with the scent of lavender on her skin and stood on the platform while Luella’s assistant, a quiet, young girl, took her measuring tape while Luella took the measurements down.
“Hips 46.”
“Good child-birthing hips,” Luella remarked.
“Bust 44,” her assistant continued.
“And they just gon’ get bigger once you start poppin’ out babies.”
“What kind of neckline you want, sugar?”
“Somethin’ I can tuck my beads into,” Annie replied.
“Gon’ need a little bit extra to hold these up,” she teased.
Annie laughed quietly and looked at herself in the mirror as she felt the measuring tape tighten around her ribs. The breeze from the small fan by the curtains hit her exposed skin, the sudden chill giving her goosebumps.
“Waist 33.”
“We usin’ that fabric you picked out last time?”
“Yes ma’am.”
Luella moved in front of Annie with a finger on her cheek in contemplation. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
She tapped her cheek with her finger. Once, twice. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Annie looked at her assistant through the mirror who shrugged. Luella disappeared into the store, then returned excitedly with a bolt of a lush dark green velvet fabric.
“I was thinkin’ a straight drop waist, hem just below the hips. Plunging neckline. Maybe some scalloped detailing to frame it. Have them titties sittin’ up high. Decorate it with some silver fringe at the bottom. Like one of them flapper dresses. What you think?”
“I don’t have the—”
“Don’t worry ‘bout the money. Your auntie said you can get whatever you want. Plus I been dyin’ to get someone in here so I can practice sewin’ a push-up bra.”
“Push-up bra?”
“Mhmm—supposed to push ‘em in and up,” Luella said with a sly look, gesturing with her hands.
“So, you in?”
Annie nodded once, “I’m in.”
Luella clapped her hands, “I’ll even gift you a necklace and a coin purse to wear with it.”
“A…necklace?” she asked, her hand instinctively going to her beads.
“You can’t wear this ol’ thing,” she said, her face softening when she saw Annie slowly trace a bead with her fingertips.
“It’s just for a night,” she said softly.
“Okay,” Annie replied with a smile.
“You should wear your hair down. Finger waves. I can sew a decal in the middle here a few inches above the hem. Mhmm, let the fringe hang from the bottom….”
Luella’s voice began to fade away as Annie stood in front of the mirror. Her assistant continued taking measurements and writing things down while they circled around her, narrating her entire look for the harvest party. A twinge of nervous energy fluttered in Annie’s belly. Her gaze dropped to her stomach, the few rolls on her upper torso and pudge that sat underneath her belly button. She pulled at it through the robe, sucking in her stomach a bit and smoothing a hand down her torso before just letting it be.
She’d always been taught to love her body, and she did. But this was Clarksdale, a small town with a lot more small people than she was used to, and she towered over a lot more men here than at home.
What would a dress made for a short, skinny woman even look like on a tall woman like her?
What would people say?
Would they laugh?
Would they sneer?
Luella’s gentle hand rubbing her arm soothingly pulled her out of her thoughts. She had pulled a fashion plate from the wall of her shop and brought it over for Annie to look at.
“What’s wrong, sugar?” she asked, handing Annie the sketch of the dress inspiration.
Annie looked over it carefully, then traced the edges with her fingertips. “Don’t you think I’m too…tall to be wearin’ stuff like that?”
Luella looked at Annie like she knew what she really meant to ask. “Don’t worry, sugar,” Luella whispered with a wink. She rubbed her arms from behind. “You gon’ be the prettiest one in the buildin’.”
A/N: Hey boo, hey! It's ya favorite Pre-Med Priestess fairy back again with some new hotness. A few of the girlies and I were talking about Sinners yesterday & this idea popped into my head. Thoughts & feedback are always welcomed.
Characters: Elias "Stack" Moore, Black OC (Naomi Du Bois)
Word Count: 2K
Divider by: @steddiecameraroll-graphics
Raindrops pattered against the giant stained-glass window of Ivy & Canvas, the eclectic art gallery and studio tucked in the heart of the French Quarter. Muted ribbons of color streaked across the cedarwood floor, giving it an ironic watercolor effect. Mona, the towering monstera and Naomi’s pride and joy, stood beside the easel that held a long-abandoned oil pastel piece. She’d claimed it as her own, and Naomi hadn’t bothered to redirect her.
Deep in the heart of the studio, Naomi was elbows deep in mahogany and gold paint. She was currently working on a piece that she could only describe as Black Boy Joy. It was of a black boy, around 19 or 20, with fluffy curls that covered his eyes and a wide smile decorated with gold grillz. She was placing the finishing touches on his Afro pick when the bell over the door rang out, signaling the entrance of a potential buyer.
“Be with you in a moment,” her voice sang from the distance.
“Take ya time, Tinkerbell,” the man’s deep baritone cooed. “I ain’t in no rush.”
The pet name pulled a wide smile across her face as she dropped the paintbrush back into the cup of used water. She rubbed her hands on her apron before coming out into the main gallery.
“Elias Moore. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? And in the daylight hours, no less.”
He flashed that million-dollar smile, golden fangs catching the overhead light ever so slightly.
“It’s rainin’ out, but I stayed tucked in the shadows just in case the overcast wasn’t enough. Plus, last time I tried to come see ya after dark, you had closed early on me.”
“Yeah… Mother Nature had me going through it. I’m sorry, ‘Lias.”
He blushed slightly at the shortening of his name.
“It’s all good, baby doll. I ain’t mad about it.”
“I was about to close briefly for lunch. Wanna vibe with me?”
“Always. You one of the few humans worth being around.”
Naomi nodded, walking over to flip the sign on the door. She led Stack to her studio, tossing him the crochet monstera leaf pillow he’d unofficially claimed as his own.
“I got something for you,” she said, pulling a glass bottle from the fridge.
“Oooh, new sample?” Elias asked with a wide grin.
“Mmhm, fresh from Cali. My plug calls it Vita Noctis. It’s a hybrid blend of O-Neg and AB. She said it’s real smooth.”
He took the bottle with a raised eyebrow before removing the cap. He sniffed it twice before taking a sip.
“Mmm. Best one yet. I really fucks with this.”
“Yaaay, Tinkerbell do good?”
“Tinkerbell did very good. ‘Preciate ya, lil fairy.”
“No problem. Gotta take care of my best client. This place is thriving because of you.”
“Nah, this place is thriving because of your talent.”
“And your generous donations.”
“Semantics. What’s that you working on?” He asked, gesturing to the canvas.
“I call it Black Boy Joy. I’m almost done with it.”
“It’s dope. The grillz are my favorite part.”
“Mine too,” Naomi nods, sitting back down in front of the easel. The pair settled into a comfortable silence, Naomi painting while Elias got lost in his thoughts. An hour passed before Naomi broke the silence.
“You’re mighty quiet over there,” she noted, putting the finishing touches on the canvas. Elias’s eyes met hers as he absentmindedly cuddled the pillow to his chest.
“Just thinkin’.”
“About?”
Elias twirled the bottle in his hands, watching the dark liquid coat the sides of the bottle.
“My brother. Our birthdays comin’ up, and for whatever reason, he's been on my mind heavy this year. Probably cuz my birthday is the same day our daddy was murdered.”
“You never told me your dad was murdered.”
“Yeh.. Ironically enough, my brother was the one who killed him.”
“OH!”
Stack chuckled, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes.
“He was defendin’ me. Our daddy was an abusive drunk, and I was his favorite target. I got stuck in our mom’s birth canal and, unfortunately, she died shortly after they got me out. He blamed me for it and never missed an opportunity to remind me that I took the love of his life from him. Though Elijah and I were twins, I was born at 12:07 am, November 1st. Elijah’s birthday went smooth, no hiccups, but my birthday was a different story. We had turned 17, and all I’d been talking ‘bout was a red Stella Grand guitar like Charley Patton had. I loved music growin’ up, partially cuz of our daddy. Wanted to make some of my own until that day. He got me a pair of socks instead of my guitar, an’ when my reaction wasn’t what he felt it should’ve been, he took that as an opportunity to remind me of my place. Beat me unconscious that night. By the time I came to, Elijah was halfway done burying him.”
Naomi placed a calming hand on his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, Elias.”
“It’s all good. I know he ain’t mean it.”
His voice was more somber than she had ever heard it, a clear indication that he was more troubled than he was leading on.
“You said your brother died the same night you did, right?”
“Technically, the next morning. He got into a shootout with the Klan outside our juke. Burying him was the hardest thing I think I’ve ever done. Felt like I was burying myself, and in a sense, I was. The last time I seen my brother was the last time I seen the sun. Literally and figuratively.”
“What did he look like?” she asked, grabbing her sketchpad.
“Like me,” he replied with a chuckle. “But older. More serious. He never smiled, unless he was with Annie. He loved him some Annie. He said the best thing about him was me, but I think the best thing about him was Annie. She calmed him. Made him forget about the harshness of the world, even if it was just for a little while.”
Naomi nodded, carefully outlining the piece.
“Annie was his wife?”
“Annie was his everything. Mine too, if I’m being honest. That woman was magical in every sense of the word, and at first, I hated their bond. Mostly cuz I wanted it to myself. When they got married, I felt like she took my brother from me, and I resented her for a good minute, especially after little Elizabeth was born. It was stupid and childish, but it’s how I felt. We made up, though. And she accepted me as her little brother too, even though she knew at one point I wanted more.”
Naomi let him talk as she sketched. She let her mind envision Annie and her regalness. Her smooth, chocolate skin and curvaceous build. Then she envisioned Elijah, or Smoke, as Elias often referred to him. The muscle. Strong chiseled jaw line and grey tweed suit perfectly tailored to his frame. She smiled to herself as the sketch took shape before walking over to the easel.
“Inspiration struck?” Elias inquired with a raised eyebrow.
“It sure did. And I think this might be my best piece yet. Stop by tomorrow, and I’ll show it to you.”
“Daaaamn, I thought we was vibin’, Tink. Now I gotta leave?”
“It’s nothing personal, ‘Lias. This one is just really, really special and I need to give it my undivided attention.”
“Aight, aight. I can take a hint. It’s supposed to be sunny all day tomorrow, so I’ll be back after dark. Don’t close early on me this time.”
“You have my word.”
The gallery had been closed for nearly an hour, but Naomi was still pacing.
The canvas sat in the center of the studio beneath a linen sheet, the overhead light casting it in almost a halo-like glow. Every few minutes, Naomi stopped in front of it, lifted the corner of the cloth just enough to peek, then dropped it again like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t.
“You already know what it look like,” she muttered to herself.
Still, she checked again.
Everything looked exactly the way it did when she finished. Smoke sat with his broad shoulders, Annie behind him like an ethereal guardian. Naomi exhaled slowly and let the sheet fall back into place.
The whole thing had come to her in a rush while Elias was rambling the night before. She hadn’t slept or eaten, too eager to commit the vision to canvas before it escaped her. The moment Elias started talking about them, the way his voice softened when he said Annie’s name, the way he described Smoke like a man remembering his idol; all of it had planted something deep in her chest.
The visual poured out of her like memory, which was strange considering the memories weren’t hers. She wiped a stray streak of cobalt blue from her wrist and glanced toward the gallery doors. A moment later, the bell over the door chimed. Naomi smiled before she even turned around.
“You just couldn’t wait, huh?” she giggled as Elias crossed the threshold of the gallery. The clock had just struck 7 pm, and the last streaks of sunlight had finally given way to the moon and all her quiet glory.
“You said to come back tomorrow. It’s tomorrow,” he smirked.
“It is indeed tomorrow,” Naomi nodded, leading him back to the studio. “Close your eyes,” she instructed as they got closer to the covered canvas. Elias obeyed, his smile stretching wider with each step.
“Did you paint me, lil fairy?” he asked with a sly grin.
“Kinda,” she replied, taking her position next to the easel. “Ready?”
“Show me somethin’.”
Naomi took a grounding breath before pulling the sheet from the canvas.
“Okay. Open.”
Elias opened his eyes, and time stopped. He didn’t breathe for a long while; he just stared. His eyes immediately went to Smoke’s hands. Folded the same way he used to sit when he was listening to somebody talk.
He felt his throat tighten. Then his eyes lifted.
It had been ninety-three years. Ninety-three years since he’d seen his twin and the love of their lives, yet here they were immortalized in paint.
Smoke sat in an old wooden chair. His gray tweed trousers were crossed at the knee, the fabric sharply tailored against his frame. A haint blue shirt stretched beneath a matching tweed vest, the color contrasting beautifully with his mahogany skin. His hands were folded loosely, his fingers interlocked as if he were in thought. His expression was typical Smoke: steady, yet distant. The face of a man who had seen and fought his fair share of demons and survived to tell the tale.
Behind him stood Annie, her presence commanding just as much of the piece as Smoke’s. Her hand rested gently on his shoulder in a calm, yet protective way. Her dress was a muted blue to contrast Smoke’s undershirt. Around her waist lay a dark belt that held small pouches and charms, all the tools a conjure woman needed. Beside them sat a small wooden table, bearing evidence of a ritual that had possibly taken place. Candles of varying shapes and colors burned, wax melting in uneven streaks down their sides. A few glass bottles and bowls rested nearby, their contents shadowed by the flickering candlelight. It was as if she’d been there the whole time. Like she’d been right there with them the day their lives changed forever, capturing every essence of who they were onto the canvas.
“H-How—,” Elias tried, fighting back tears. “You got it right. With no reference, no nothing. You got it right.”
Before she could react, he pulled her into the tightest hug. Instinctively, she stroked his back and allowed him to release all of what he needed to in the moment.
“Thank you, Naomi,” he choked. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“It’s not quite the sun,” she whispered against his chest. “But it’s close,” she beamed.
This one I remember asking @partylikemajima in one of the comments but would it be funny if the twins scared the fuck outta Annie and she swung on them but Smoke got turned on by that?
Smoke would look at that woman like prey and she’d end up pregnant all over again 😂😂
This one I remember asking @partylikemajima in one of the comments but would it be funny if the twins scared the fuck outta Annie and she swung on them but Smoke got turned on by that?
Smoke would look at that woman like prey and she’d end up pregnant all over again 😂😂
