Untitled

The closer they got, the louder the music became. The bass thumped right through the soles of Stack’s leather loafers, a patterned, derisive heartbeat. Smoke cut through the thick humidity and the heavy scent of charred ribs, as if he owned the air itself. Stack followed a half step behind, his shoulders locked tight, severely aware of how much he stood out. 

Smoke barely made it five steps before somebody hollered across the yard. “Smoke!”

Smoke lifted two fingers in acknowledgment, never breaking his stride. “What’s happenin’, Mr. Lewis?”

“Thought you was bringin’ Annie tonight!”

“Nah. She stayed home with the baby.”

Another voice called out from behind the grill smoke. “Smoke! You finally gonna sing tonight or you still scared?”

Smoke laughed, a low, simple sound. “Now you know damn well if I sang, everybody ‘gon leave.”

That earned a chorus of laughter. Even Stack let out a short chuckle, the tight knot in his chest loosening just a fraction. It’s good to know he wasn’t the only twin who couldn’t carry a note—a tiny, shared piece of DNA proving they belonged to the same bloodline. But the warmth faded as fast as it came. This community loved his brother; Stack could see that clear as day. Not because he owned several gyms across the south or he had money, but because he belonged here. He was woven into the fabric of the place. Stack, meanwhile, felt like Casper the friendly ghost who had accidentally materialized in a Pentecostal church during Bible study. 

An older woman carrying two baskets of crinkle-cut fries looked from Smoke to Stack…then back to Smoke. The grease-stained paper tilted dangerously in her grip. She gasped, her platform sandals skidding to a halt in the dirt. “…Jesus.”

The ripple effect was practically instantaneous. The easy hum of conversation at the nearest picnic table dropped off a cliff. A plastic cup spilled onto the seat of a wooden bench. One man stood up, leaning forward to squint through the glare of the string lights. “Y’all seein’ this?”

“I’m either too drunk or not drunk enough.” 

“What the…”

People weren’t trying to be rude. They genuinely couldn’t process the genetic impossibility walking past them. Smoke kept his eyes locked straight ahead; he’d already braced himself for the fallout, but Stack felt completely exposed.

Whispers followed behind them.

“That look just like Smoke, he just a lil taller is all…” 

“I thought Adam only had one boy.”

“…Hold on.”

“…Adam got twins?”

“Nah…”

“Since when?”

The murmurs rippled across the yard, sharp and swift, as if someone had triggered a silent alarm. 

Smoke leaned a bit closer as they finally reached the wooden steps of the entrance. “Just ignore ’em, Stack.” 

“I’m trying.”

“They need to mind their goddamn business.” 

Stack glanced at the crowd, seeing dozens of eyes reflecting the neon beer signs in the windows. “I don’t think they will, big bro.”

Smoke snorted, a harsh spark of alignment between them. “Probably not.”

They strolled through the open doors, and the heat of Club Juke hit them like a wall. It was even louder inside—a chaotic symphony of clinking glasses, roaring laughter, and vociferous, authentic blues floating from the stage. Stack’s amber eyes lifted automatically, and then, his loafers glued themselves to the floorboards.

Smoke took two more steps before realizing the weight beside him had vanished. He turned back to see that Stack hadn’t moved an inch. His eyes were locked onto the stage, wide and unblinking. 

Under the warm magenta stage lights stood two men. One older, one younger. Adam Moore. And Sammie.

Adam sat on a stool, an old acoustic guitar resting comfortably against his thigh. His seasoned fingers moved effortlessly over the perfectly tuned strings, each note bleeding into the next with the confidence of someone who’d spent decades speaking through music. Beside him, Sammie sang with an effortless, rich grace that made the cavernous room feel smaller and more intimate. The two of them fit together like matching puzzle pieces. Uncle and nephew. Teacher and student.

Stack watched Adam’s left hand slide up the fretboard. It was too clean. Too precise. Not a single wasted movement.

“…Damn,” Stack whistled, the sound barely escaping out of his dry throat. “Dad really can play, huh?”

Smoke followed his paralyzed gaze. “Yeah.”

Stack didn’t take his eyes off the stage for a moment. “I knew Sammie could sing, but…” His voice trailed off. The younger twin watched Adam nod once toward Sammie, a silent, seamless cue for the younger man to take the lead before the chorus came around again. Sammie smiled without even looking up. He’d been reading those cues his entire life. 

“…He taught him,” Stack exhaled shakily.

“Mhm,” Smoke nodded, his jaw tight. “Since Sammie was little.”

A sudden, unexpected tightness clamped down around Stack’s lungs. He looked down at his own hands, his vision blurring. He blinked rapidly, glaring at his fingers. These were the hands that signed contracts worth millions. The same hands that were firmly shaken by powerful people he once thought he’d only ever see on TV. He was a successful black man. He was a revered businessman. He started the most successful modeling agency in the north from the ground up for fuck’s sake. But staring at his fingers, he felt an agonizing, childlike regression. He wondered, just for a second…if those same hands would’ve learned guitar, too, if someone had cared enough to teach him. 

Smoke noticed the sudden slump in Stack’s shoulders. He didn’t like how his brother seemed to be shrinking in on himself. “You alright?”

Stack cleared his throat loudly, forcing his chin up as he looked back toward the stage. “I was just thinking…”

Smoke waited, his cognac brown eyes softening. 

“…I wonder if he’d have taught me.”

Smoke went quiet. The silence stretched long enough that Stack already knew the answer was burdensome. Finally, Smoke exhaled a rough sigh. “I asked him once. A couple of years before Sammie was old enough to learn.”

Stack raised an eyebrow, a spark of defensive anger cutting through his sadness. “Did he?”

“Nah,” Smoke admitted flatly. “He said I wasn’t teachable.”

Stack bit the inside of his cheek, kissing his teeth in bitter annoyance. What kind of man says that to his own kid? At least Smoke was giving it to him straight, no matter how much the truth bruised. 

“He taught Sammie, though,” Smoke added quietly. “But Sammie… he really has the gift of music.” 

Stack nodded slowly, swallowing the residual bitterness. “Guess that’s true.”

Smoke clapped a heavy, grounding hand against Stack’s shoulder, physically pulling him out of the spiral. “C’mon.”

“Where?” Stack asked, looking up at his older brother like a compass. 

“We ain’t doing this out here.” Smoke nodded toward the shadowy hallway beside the stage. “Dressing room.”

Stack glanced back toward Adam one last time. The song ended, and the room erupted into thunderous applause. Adam stood up, smiling politely, bowing his head to thank the crowd. Neither he nor Sammie had noticed them yet.

Smoke started toward the hallway, but Stack reached out, his hand gripping Smoke’s shoulder a little too tightly. “You mind if we grab a drink first? Smoke… I’m nervous as fuck.”

Smoke didn’t tease him. He just nodded. “Yeah, come on.” 

They cut through the crowd to the bar in three long strides. Stack’s heart was hammering against his ribcage like a trapped bird. Jason, the bartender, caught Smoke’s eye immediately and grinned, raising a hand. But when Stack stepped up into the light beside his twin, Jason’s hand froze mid-air. His lips twisted into a perplexed, deeply unsettled grimace. 

Before the bartender could even open his mouth to question what the hell was going on, Smoke grumbled, "Two whiskey neats, Jay." 

Jason nodded slowly, his eyes darting between their identical faces as he grabbed two glasses. As the liquor poured, Stack muttered, his voice a little tight, "Should we toast or something?"

Smoke shrugged, his eyes scanning the stage like a guard. "If you want to."

Jason slid the glasses across the sticky wood. He stood there, gawking at them in dead silence, entirely ignoring three other patrons who had been signaling for him to refill their cups for the last sixty seconds. Strangely, Smoke didn’t snap at the man to mind his business. He didn’t have the energy to police everyone in the room tonight.

Stack lifted his glass, his fingers trembling just enough to make the amber liquid swirl against the glass. He gripped it harder to mask the shake. "Here's to the truth."

Smoke tapped his glass against Stack’s with a solid clink. "To the truth."

They downed the whiskey in one synchronized gulp. The alcohol burned hot down Stack’s throat, a welcomed distraction that temporarily scorched away the panic in his stomach. He was usually a vodka man, but tonight he needed all the liquid courage he could get.

Stack reached into his pocket with a slightly unsteady hand, pulled a crisp twenty from his wallet, and slapped it on the counter. "Keep the change, man."

Smoke exhaled a sharp breath, his large hand coming down on the back of Stack’s neck, giving it a firm, protective squeeze. It was a silent, I’ve got you. "Aight. Let's do this, lil bro." 

They turned towards the back. To anyone watching, their faces were stone-cold, hiding that they were both scared shitless. 

The backstage hallway was a different world. The roar of the bar dulled into a muffled thudding through the drywall. A couple of opening-act musicians nodded respectfully as Smoke passed. Nobody stopped them; it was painfully obvious to Stack that Smoke had been back here plenty of times. He knew shortcuts. He knew the entire layout. Stack just kept his head down, staying a half-step behind Smoke’s shoulder, letting his big brother shield him from the curious eyes of the crew. 

Smoke stopped outside a worn, peeling wooden door. He turned around, blocking Stack from the rest of the hallway. “You ready?”

Stack took one slow, shaky breath, letting his shoulders drop. “Hell no.”

Smoke gave a grim, understanding nod. “Shit, me neither.”

Before either brother could reach for the brass handle, a loud, echoing laugh rang down the corridor. 

Sammie. 

He was jogging down the hall, his electric guitar still slung carelessly over one shoulder. He really doesn’t go anywhere without that thing, Stack thought, his chest tightening all over again. 

Sammie rounded the corner, his eyes glued to his phone, but as he stepped into their space, his boots skidded to a halt. The smartphone almost slipped from his slender fingers. His eyes violently bounced from Smoke… to Stack… and back to Smoke. He blinked hard, the color gradually draining from his face. “…What the hell?”

Stack gave him an awkward little wave, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Hey, lil cousin.”

Sammie’s mouth actually fell open, his chestnut brown eyes wide and tracking between them. “Cousin? Smoke, what's going on, man?”

Smoke rubbed a worn, heavy hand over his face. “Long story.”

“The hell you mean long story?” Sammie exclaimed, his voice rising. “Why is there another you?”

Smoke sighed, the sound dragging from deep inside his chest. “''Cause Daddy been lying.”

The frown deepened on Sammie’s face. “You tellin' me Uncle Adam hid a whole other son?”

Before Smoke could answer, the weathered dressing room door clicked and swung open. Adam stepped out, casually wiping his hands on a white cloth towel. He looked toward Sammie first, his brow furrowed. “What's all that goddamn noise—”

Then he saw them. The twins. His twins. 

Everything on Adam’s face instantly disappeared. The towel slipped from his benumbed fingers, sinking to the floorboards. His eyes landed on Smoke, then slowly, deliberately shifted to Stack. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime to Smoke, Adam Moore looked genuinely shaken. 

But the shock didn’t last. Adam was the first to move into action, and it wasn’t out of love. He didn’t step toward Smoke or Stack. Instead, his piercing swept past all three young men, darting past their shoulders toward the crowded club floor. He was scanning tables, checking faces, calculating who might have been watching all of this unfold.  

When he looked back at them, his voice came out low, clipped, and dangerous. "Did anybody see y'all come back here?"

Smoke's jaw tightened into a hard stone line. Stack frowned, the chilling lack of warmth hitting him like ice water.

Adam took another step forward, his shadow engulfing them. "I asked y'all a question."

"We walked through the front door," Smoke answered flatly, his voice deadpan. "Same as everybody else."

Adam muttered something under his breath, a sharp curse that sounded like a hiss. "Damn it."

Without another syllable, he lunged forward, grabbing Smoke roughly by the forearm while his other hand clamped down on Stack's shoulder, aggressively ushering both of them toward the dressing room. "Get y'alls asses in here."

The shove wasn't a brutal strike, but it was rougher than necessary. Stack caught his foot on the threshold, stumbling slightly before finding his footing inside the doorway.

Sammie looked between all three men, completely lost in the sudden hostility. "...Unc?"

Adam didn't even turn around to acknowledge his nephew. "Get in here, Sammie."

Sammie hurried after them, clutching his guitar like a shield, just as Adam stepped inside and slammed the heavy wooden door behind him. The music from the club dulled even further, reduced to a suffocating, rhythmic thump through the drywall. The dressing room wasn't large to begin with, but the sweltering tension made the walls feel like they were closing in. A faded leather couch sat against one wall. Two guitars rested in open cases near a folding table cluttered with empty cognac bottles, guitar picks, and handwritten set lists.

Adam stayed anchored by the door, guarding it like a warden. He stared at Smoke, then shifted his gaze back to Stack. He really stared, a cold, dissecting look that made the entire room uncomfortable. 

"...So," Adam finally drawled, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. "Long time no see, Elias."

Stack held his gaze, determined not to blink. "Adam."

Sammie's head whipped toward Stack, then back toward his uncle. "Hold on..."

Nobody answered the 21-year-old. Adam's expression hardened, the mild shock curdling into pure irritation. "I asked if anybody saw y'all."

"Yeah," Smoke folded his arms over his chest, stepping slightly into Adam’s line of sight. "Some people did."

Adam closed his eyes for one brief, annoyed second. When he opened them again, disappointment was clear as crystal. "You couldn't keep this between you two, huh?"

Smoke let out a tight, humorless laugh. "You serious right now?"

"You should've left me out of it."

Smoke stared at him, disgusted. "Now, why would we do that, huh? We didn't even know each other existed two days ago." 

"You know exactly what I mean."

"No," Smoke said evenly, his voice dropping an entire octave. "I don't."

Stack wanted to shout from the rooftops, but the air in the room felt too thick to breathe. 

Adam pointed a dismissive finger toward the door. "I got people out there. A reputation."

Smoke's eyebrows lifted, a dangerous spark in his eyes. "You got family in here."

The room fell dead silent. Sammie looked from one identical face to the next, his voice cracking. "Can somebody please tell me what the hell is going on?"

Adam ignored him completely. His undivided attention was now locked entirely on Stack. "So..." He crossed his arms, his posture relaxed and mocking. "What'd your mama tell you?"

Stack choked on a laugh. It wasn’t funny—it was completely unbelievable. He exhaled slowly, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. "You know it's interesting..."

Adam said nothing, his jaw flexing.

"The first thing you asked was if people saw us." Stack took one slow, deliberate step closer. "The second thing you asked was what my mother told me."

Another beat of silence. 

"You haven't asked me how I've been." Stack took another step, his corporate poise turning weaponized and razor-sharp.

Adam's eyes narrowed.

"You haven't asked where I grew up. You haven't asked what I do for work. Hell, you ain't even welcomed me!"

Smoke remained quiet, watching his brother say his piece. This version of Stack was entirely new to him. The subtle calmness was gone, replaced by a cutting, premeditated anger with each passing second. Every word was placed exactly where it needed to draw blood. 

Stack tilted his head slightly, his tone dripping with slick, derisive venom. "So lemme answer your question with one of mine." He held Adam's glare, leaning in. "What exactly were you hoping she told me? That you were a coward, or just a mistake?"

Adam’s face twisted. The cool, charismatic musician persona shattered, revealing the jagged, ugly edges of the man beneath. “You think you somebody important, boy?” Adam growled, uncrossing his arms. “You think because you got a little money and clean shoes, you can talk to me like that?”

“I’m just asking a question, Dad,” Stack mocked, the word laced with posion. 

“Nigga, you better watch your goddamn mouth!” Adam snapped, raising a massive, calloused hand, swinging it wildly in a flash of pure, explosive rage aimed directly at Stack’s face. 

But the blow never connected. 

Smoke moved instantly. With a deafening, violent smack, Smoke’s arm intercepted Adam’s wrist mid-air, shoving the older man back against the wooden door with enough force to make the frame rattle. Smoke stepped entirely in front of Stack, his giant frame creating an impenetrable wall. 

“Nigga, don’t you ever lay a hand on my brother,” Smoke roared, his voice vibrating through the floorboards. 

The sound of that violent collision—the meat of Smoke’s hand hitting Adam’s arm, the heavy thud against the wood—shook something loose in Stack’s brain. 

The dressing room dissolved.

Suddenly, Stack wasn’t a grown man in the backroom of a club. He was barely four years old. He was wearing mismatched pajamas. The muffled bass of the club turned into the terrifying, thunderous sound of clunky boots kicking a hollow door. He was on the cold, damp linoleum floor of a tiny bathroom. He remembered the smell of Pine-Sol and old copper. He remembered his mother, Eve, crumpled in the corner of the tub, sobbing, her face covered in dark, blooming bruises.

In the memory, the door had shaken violently as Adam bellowed from the other side, his fists hammering the wood until it splintered. A toddler-aged Stack had been crying, paralyzed with a primal terror that punched the air right out of his lungs. But then, two small, fiercely tight arms had wrapped around him. A slightly older, trembling voice had whispered into his hair: “I got you, El. Keep your eyes closed. Don’t look at the door. I got you.” It was Smoke. Smoke had grabbed him, dragged him into the dark bathroom behind their mom, and locked the deadbolt, putting his own tiny body between Stack and the monster on the other side of the wood. “You promise, Eli?” He remembered his younger self asking. “I promise, El.” Smoke reassured him as the banging on the door began to subside. 

“Stack! Stack, help me! Get them off each other!”

Sammie’s frantic screaming snapped Stack back to the room with a violent, gasping inhale. The bathroom vanished. The present rushed back in, chaotic and loud. Smoke hadn’t just blocked the hit—he had lunged. The two men were locked in a brutal, grappling mess, slamming against the folding table. Guitar picks and setlists scattered across the floor like autumn leaves. 

Adam managed to wrench his arm free, his face twisted into a distorted, sneering mask. He didn’t look afraid of Smoke; he looked filled with ancient, festering hatred. 

“You think you a man now, huh?” Adam barked, spitting blood onto the floor as he shoved Smoke back. “I don’t give a damn about your little gyms or whatever money you got in your pocket. You still ain’t shit, nigga! You never was!”

Smoke charged again, but Adam was older, heavier, and built from decades of backbreaking labor. He threw a brutal left hook that caught Smoke across the jaw. Sammie was frozen against the wall, clutching his guitar, crying out in absolute shock and disgust at the man he thought he knew. 

Adam wiped his mouth, his wild eyes shifting from Smoke to Stack, entirely unhinged now. “And your damn mama…weak! She wasn’t woman enough for me.” He let out a breathless, cruel laugh that made the skin on Stack’s neck crawl. “You want to know why she stopped letting me touch her, Elias? It was because of you. You got stuck in her after she pushed Elijah out. Ruined her body and her mind! She wouldn’t come near me after that, and it was all your goddamn fault.” 

The room’s air vanished instantly, mimicking an explosive decompression at sixty thousand feet. 

In that exact microsecond, both twins were blinded by pure, unadulterated fury.

The shared genetic rage exploded out of both of them at the exact same time. Smoke yelled, diving low to tackle Adam’s legs, while Stack—completely losing his corporate composure—hurled his entire body forward. They hit Adam like a freight train, the couch giving way with a loud, tearing crunch of old leather as all three men tumbled over the back of it. 

Adam was a fighter. Even with both of them on top of him, he threw blind, weighted elbows, his calloused hands clawing at Smoke’s face, holding his own through sheer, stubborn malice. But Stack had completely snapped. The years of abandonment, the childhood terror, and the vile insult to his mother culminated in a primal scream. Stack swung wildly, a sharp, wet thwack echoing in the small room as his knuckles connected squarely with Adam’s jaw. 

“Hey! Hey! What the hell is goin’ on back ‘chea?!”

The dressing room door flew open. A cascade of booming footsteps flooded the small space as three musicians barged in, shouting and pulling at the twins. 

“Get off him, now! Smoke, stop before you kill him!”

A pair of massive, iron-strong hands clamped onto Stack’s shoulders, physically ripping him away from the brawl. Stack wrestled against the grip, his vision blurred with tears of plain rage, until he looked up.

It was the tall musician he saw earlier in the hallway. The towering piano and harmonica player stood like a monolith in the center of chaos. His weary face etched with deep, sorrowful gravity. 

“Thank you, Slim,” Sammie stuttered as he stepped closer to the taller musician. Slim was still looking down at Stack. There was no confusion in the old musician’s eyes—only a quiet, tragic recognition. He knew exactly who Stack was. 

Slim then turned his attention to Sammie, who was shaking, tears streaming down his face as he stared at his uncle in utter revulsion. 

“Sammie,” Slim’s voice boomed, calm but commanding. “Get your cousins out of here. Take Stack and get Smoke back to his truck right now before somebody calls the cops. Move!” 

Smoke was still trying to break away from the other musicians, his chest heaving, his eyes wild. Stack reached out, grabbing the back of Smoke’s jacket to help pull him toward the shadowy side exit of the hallway. 

But Adam wasn’t done. Leaning heavily against the smashed folding table, his mouth bleeding and his shirt torn open, the old man wiped his face and fired one last slick, poisoning jab through the doorway.

"Yeah, run along, boys!” Adam jeered, his voice raspy and triumphant. “You niggas is no better than ya weak-ass mama!” 

Smoke lunged back toward the room with a war cry, but Stack and Sammie slammed their bodies into him. “No, Smoke! Fuck that nigga! We already got his weak ass! C’mon!” Stack shouted, his voice cracking as he channeled the exact same words Smoke had told him in the bathroom nearly three decades ago. 

Sunlights bathed Luberta’s face, stirring her up from sleep. Once awake, she tried to get up but soon realized that Stack’s strong arms were affectionately wrapped around her waist.

She turned her head and studied his face — long natural lashes, his curls tangled and moisturized, lips full and inviting.

“Eli…it’s morning.” She gently hushed. “Let me go cook us a breakfast.”

Stack grumbled, half-asleep. He pressed his fingers tighter around her hips then loosened them seconds later — skimming along her thick thigh.

A rooster crowed somewhere in the neighborhood, waking everyone up, and the morning breeze blew dust off the streets where some kids were playing.

Past the window of their bedroom, the river flowed quietly. Seaweed lapped the banks, birds perched in the trees sang at the top of their lungs, and even an old alligator had swum all the way over to bask in the sun.

“Mhmm…” He mumbled under his breath, “I don’t wanna eat anything, baby.”

“A man with empty stomach can’t work properly, sir. I’ll be very quick.” She beamed lovingly and pressed her forehead against his. “And I got to go to church this morning too…” Luberta added, fondling her nose to his, while breathing hot on his lips.

Stack grunted, opening one heavy, eye. A faint, lazy smirk drawn on the corner of his swollen lips as he tugged her back down against his chest, burying his face deep into the hollow of her collarbones.

“Church?” he repeated cockily, his voice rough with sleep. “Jesus already knows what we done up in this bed, Bertie. He ain’t in no hurry to see you sitting in dat pew.”

Luberta giggled, a melodic note that fluttered lightly over Stack’s skin. “Please, hush up dat mouth!”

Her fingers lingered in his coils, calmly untangling the knots they’d made together last night.

Stack let her go reluctantly, watching through heavy lids as she slid out from under the sheets.

The morning light caught her rich, deep brown complexion and the full, pillowing curves of her waist. She grabbed a robe and pulled it over her head then slipped out the bedroom.

In the lively kitchen, Luberta stoked the wood-burning stove with dry pine, dropping a dollop of lard into the iron skillet. She put slices of bread in plates and cracked three brown eggs directly into the spitting fat. The familiar and tasty aroma of eggs, and hot lard filled the room, but her mind was spinning. The warmth of the night was already slipping through her fingers, leaving behind a cold reality : all of these were temporary.

Stack walking into the space broke her thoughts. He’d first stopped by the basin to splash cold water over his face and neck, his elegant red shirt hanging unbuttoned over his chest, toothpick hanging from his lips.

“Smells good in here,” he cheered, stepping up behind her and resting his chin lightly against her shoulder.

Luberta kept her gaze fixed on the iron pan, her shoulders hunched.

“You best eat while it’s hot…” she murmured quietly, her tone small. “I got to wash myself first. Please start before me.”

She stepped out from his reach before he could hold her, retreating back toward the bedroom.

Standing before the washbasin, she poured fresh pump water into the porcelain bowl, then scrubbed her face with a bar of soap, her rough palms rasping against her wet skin.

Luberta cleaned the rest of her body, dried off with a clean towel and walked over the red armchair — where the bright yellow floral dress was smoothly laid.

Her fingers hovered over the cotton before she pulled it over her head, the fabric settling snug against her curves.

When she returned to the front room, Stack was waiting. He hadn’t started to eat.

Flustered, Luberta strode forward, her glowing complexion beautifying the robe.

Sensing a presence on his back, Stack turned his head, and the toothpick slipped from his parted lips, falling unnoticed on the floorboards.

He stood up carefully, the wooden chair scraping against the tiles.

Under his intense, unblinking gaze, Luberta ducked her chin to the fabric wrapping her full frame — all of sudden hyper-aware of how the dress mold tightly the roundness of her stomach and the swell of her bosom.

"It's… it’s a bit tight ‘round the arms," she grimaced. "I reckon I grew some weight recently…"

Stack hummed something inaudible and burned the short distance between them, his sugar-melt eyes tracing the gold rays on her sun-kissed complexion.

"It ain’t that skimpy, sugar," he murmured, smooching her left cheek. He reached out, his thumbs brushing over her knuckles, gently pulling her hands away from where they tried to hide her belly. "You’re perfect.”

Luberta’s throat tightened, a lump seizing in the back of her mouth.

He was looking at her like she was the only woman in the Delta, and yet, the cruel voice in her head lectured that it was just a fleeting kindness. A beautiful lie she was borrowing for the morning.

Outside the living room’s window, a lowkey big bird let out a harsh croak as it took flight over the muddy water, the sound cutting right through the palpable stillness between them.

Stack fetched up to adjust the wide collar of her yellow dress — resting his fingers over her sensitive neck where his bite marks from last night were already turning into a strong, tender brown-purple. "You look fine enough to turn every head in the parish," he narrowed his eyes playfully.

“Stack…” Bertie scoffed with a warning tone.

That man kept joking about God.

Wasn’t there no fear in that heart of him?

"Aight, I say nothin’ more. Come on, get you a fork and sit down 'fore the lard freezes on dem eggs."

Luberta nodded quietly and obliged.

They ate in a comfortable silence. Once they finished their breakfast, Stack pushed his empty plate to the middle of the table and rose up.

While heading out, he buttoned his red shirt with quick, practiced flicks of his fingers, then snatched his key off a little wooden stool by the door frame. "I gotta get on down to the juke," he announced, setting the brim of his hat low over his brow. "Smoke probably got three different headaches waitin' on me since sunrise, and I need to check the liquor count 'fore the afternoon crowds start rollin' in."

Luberta wiped her hands on a rag and hurried after him. She stepped into his space, clasping his fingers between her own before he touched the brass door latch. She bowed until her forehead nearly rested on his wrist. "Lord, keep your eye on dis man as he walk out dis door," she prayed devoutly, her thumbs pressing firm into his damped palm. "Cover his steps from evil, keep his mind clear, and bring him back safe to dis house."

Stack tilted his head back toward the rafters, letting out a long, hushed huff through his nose as his eyes cut up toward the ceiling in mild exasperation, though he didn't pull his hand from her grip.

"I'll be back 'fore the sun hits the top of dem cypress trees,sweet doll," he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss against the top of her head. "Have some greens and pork waitin' on me for dinner."

“With rice…?” She demanded, her cheeks flushed and heart beating fast.

“With rice.” He smiled amorously at her and left.

The dandy killed the rumble of the red car as the tires settled into the gravel behind the juke joint. He spent a long moment checking his slicked hair in the rearview mirror, pushing a fresh toothpick between his teeth, and smoothing down the front of his shirt before pushing off into the heat.

The morning harsh lights were already draping the trees siding of the sawmill. Nevertheless the hot weather didn't bother him at all, he felt blissful and easy, his thoughts still anchored five miles down the river road in that kitchen where he’d shared meal with Luberta.

Stack pushed through the back door, letting it slam shut behind his boots as he stepped into the dim draft of the main floor.

A handful of early-morning regulars sat scattered along the counter, their shoes hooked over the rungs of the high stools while they waited on their first pours of the day. As soon as Stack’s heels struck the floorboards, one among them — Dominic —, jerked his head aside, his wrinkled face creasing into a wide grin that showed three missing teeth.

He tapped his glass against the counter, nudging a young man sitting next to him. The younger boy lifted his head up, caught sight of Stack, and immediately looked away — afraid. As if he had seen or heard something terrible.

Stack slowed his stride, his brows drawing down severely as his gaze cut across the space. He flattened his right hand flat against the buckle of his belt and said :"Hey Dominic, you must have found something real funny in the bottom of dem glasses this morning, huh?" He raged, as he kept moving toward the stairwell. "Old bastard, you sitting up here giggling before nine in the morning while your crops are out there waiting for water."

Dominic shook his head, wiping a bead of sweat off his upper lip with the back of his hand. "Ah. Don’t mind me boy, just happy to see you there that jolly. Night must have been good."

“Yeah. Yeah.”

Stack clenched his jaw, ignoring the man’s antics. He raised his boot to take the first step toward the private quarters upstairs, eager to get through his ledger work so he could clear his head and get back down the river road before noon.

Before his feet hit the stairs, someone clamped their hand down hard around his upper arm, hauling him sideways off the step.

Stack swung his chest around, hand instinctively balling into a fist as he squared his shoulders, but the wariness disappeared when he met his twin’s face.

Smoke didn't let go of his arm. His tall, stocky frame stood rigid between the stairwell and the back hallway, his thumb digging straight through the cotton of Stack's cloth.

"Let go my shirt, Smoke," Stack growled. "What the fuck is wrong with you this morning?"

Smoke didn't loosen his grip, instead, he crowed his brother, seizing his collar then swept his own eyes toward the front counter to make sure the regulars weren't listening.

"Shut the fuck up nigga and listen to me real good right now," he muttered, irritated. "You done playing house and brought shit to my club. You better clean that mess before I do."

Stack froze, confused. The butterflies roaming his stomach faded away and his breathing went out ragged. "Don’t bush ‘round. Shit you talking about? Speak plain, Smoke."

"Tch," Smoke sucked his teeth and jerked his head toward the back hallway that led into the kitchen. "Annie is back in the kitchen, go there."

“What? You want me to make some fried catfishes too?” Stack joked, chuckling for a moment until he realized he was the only one with teeth out.

Smoke’s features were strict. He kept his jaw set, chewing on exasperation.

A sudden dryness took over Stack’s tongue as he padded down the caboose.

When he arrived at the end of the hall, he pushed the swinging door open and entered in biscuit, collards and cheese smelling’s space.

The mix of it all slapped him, however it was the suffocating drift of cold, expensive lavender perfume underneath that built a limp in his stomach. His breath caught high in his chest, locking his throat shut.

“Mary.” He whispered, almost disappointed, as if her unique presence shattered a dream he hadn’t fully embraced.

Sweat gathered at his temple, on the bridge of his nose, right below his goatee beard.

He traveled his eyes to Annie — who pinched her nose, disappointed.

“She arrived yesterday.”

“Annie—“

“Listen Mary. I know you’re tired and you certainly ain’t try to cause trouble.” The rootworker mentioned, shutting down the windows’ ragged blinds, cautious of any nosy ears. “But you can’t come back here in blunt daylight. Thanks God we barely had customers this hour.” Annie added prudently.

Smoke’d barked rough enough for the KKK crackers to leave the building and its people alone. She wasn’t sure her husband’s poor voice and guns could threatened them again if they happened to see one of their kin wandering around their establishment.

Annie sighed profoundly. For a heavily seven months pregnant woman, she sure had more fish to fry instead of making sure no blood stained the floor of her house.

“Ruby Pearl!” Annie shouted.

Pearl — who had been washing the corns and greens — instantly stopped, her spine stiff and alerted.

Even at such age, she was cruelly informed of what outcome she could face, just for sharing space with or holding the gaze of a white woman.

“Ruby! Come here sweetie. Leave dem greens to Martha.” Her foster mother hollered again.

Ruby crossed the kitchen then, head bowed down to her toes. At some point she lightly raised her eyes to greet Stack before sneaking to Annie’s side.

“Such a lovely girl.” Mary smiled coquettishly, acknowledging Ruby Pearl. “Hey, baby what’s—”

“Be careful on your way out, when y’all done with your business.” Annie cut her mid-speech, protectively holding Pearl’s shoulders, close to her enlarged pregnant hip. “Be sure to do it proper.” She addressed Stack with a blazing glare.

Mary delicately pressed the brim of her beige hat with her gloved, slender fingers — cleverly hiding all discontentment off her face.

How could anyone be so full of themselves? So self-centered that they fail to realize the damage their very presence might cause to their surrounding?

Even so, what a big hypocrite he was ! Stack definitely had a long way to go before finding redemption.

Was this the first time Mary had imposed herself on their space? No.

Was this the first time that, through her words, her pristine white complexion, and her arrogant elegance, she had undermined the peace of black folks around her? No.

He knew better than anyone else to be afraid of her purposeful, candid ignorance.

“Did anyone saw you coming there, yesterday?” He inquired, strolling further her way, his hands casually thrown inside his pocket to hide their moisture.

He barely escaped being beaten to death a mere month ago after walking her through the train station.

The Moore behind his name wouldn’t save him twice from lynching. Stack wasn’t a good devil.

If only they targeted him alone, but knowing the wickedness running in those peckerwood son of bitch, they would raid the juke, set the club on fire with everyone who lives there.

“Stack, why are you asking such menial questions…I came earlier because I missed you and—”

Ha.

He inhaled and exhaled inaudibly.

Thinking about it, Mary had always been a dove. So lost in her whiteness, she wouldn’t spare a glance to the reality in which she was living.

He’d never plan to stay in Delta. He was supposed to drop Smoke there, set the juke up and went back with her to Chicago. In the North, he could drive her around the city without lying about being her chauffeur or share a coffee with no hateful eyes plotting on how they could hang him to an oak tree.

Frankly, Stack didn’t expect the flower he’d left years ago to bloom. He hadn’t calculated the Luberta’s file at all.

Mary held the bridge of her long nose, her beautiful hat shifting a bit.

“I cleaned off my marriage for you, Stack.” She complained coldly. “And you’re not even welcoming me, embracing me….but asked if I crawled up there?” She narrowed her eyes out of increasing anger. “You changed, Elias. Is Delta this bad for you, that you treat me like nuisance?”

“Do you want me dead, Mae’?”

A deadly silence fell immediately over the kitchen.

Mary tense up so violently that her handbag nearly slipped from her grasp.

Outside, the city went about its ordinary business.

In this part of the neighborhood, one mainly heard children playing, dogs barking at the dusty heat, and a few pubs where field workers gathered to finally vent about the daily abuse and mistreatment they endured, their backs bent and faces tucked between the cotton stalks.

It certainly wasn’t an environment Mary was familiar with, that’s for sure. Truth be told, Stack never wanted to realize that loving this woman would put him in serious danger.

Lying that he was her doorman whenever the two of them went anywhere near an inn or a hostel.

Pretending to be her domestic when the town sheriff accidentally ran into them downtown.

Shelling out crazy amount of money to some dirty buckras to keep their mouths shut after they saw her and him kissing near Chow’s convenience store.

All of this had happened in a week before she decided to return to Chicago.

And today she was back.

Damn, was shit wrong with him?

Why couldn’t he take her in his arms, like he should?

Since when did he stopped bribing folks’ silence, so he could live out his romance with Mary?

Why on earth does he felt ashamed and humiliated now, having to kneel, submit and bow down for the simple freedom of holding her close?

“Stack? I need answers.”

Hm. Everything seemed more peaceful with Luberta.

He could hold her in his arms without anyone coming after his family, his life, his business. She was his alone and no harsh gaze could simply erase it.

With that southern belle, he was free.

“Damn it! It’s been over sixty years since all that ended—”

“What exactly? That your buddies enjoy killing Black men as a hobby? That they rape their wives in the fields because no one’s gonna complain?”

Tss. This was the kind of talk Smoke usually spouted. Not him.

Somehow, though, Mary’s mock candid remarks pissed him off in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Nothing’s changed since 1865, Mary. You see them poor folks up there getting wasted on booze.” He glared at her with an icy stare. “They’ve been working in the plantations for fuckin’ field coins ever since they learned to stand on their own two feet. You know Delta Slim, of course you do. The drunk you kept whining about as soon as we got here a month or so ago…” Stack laughed sarcastically. “His friend got lynched right in the train station over his own hard-earned money. And you know what excuse your people used? That he’d raped a white woman.”

Mary started crying. Her tears falling down her face, cheeks reddening, nose stuffing.

Instantly, Stack felt bad. He didn’t want to make her cry.

He sure hated himself from being dishonest. Obviously the problem wasn’t racism — even if it should’ve been.

"You're nothing but a coward. You know that, Stack? Say it, say it—if there's another woman. So what? You fucked one of those fields' bitches and she got you hooked, is that it?"

“Mary, please, not here.”

“No. No. You’re going to listen to me. I murdered Dimitri to be with you, I ruined my marriage, all because you promised me we’d find a way to be together without constantly being hunted down.” She shut her eyes for a moment, realizing the confession she’d just made.

“Repeat that again?”

Spying eyes were on Luberta when she entered the chapel.

So many things had happened these last weeks, and being back in the warm embrace of the parish made her feel much better.

She knelt before the high altar bearing the Holy Cross, brought her hands together, and began to pray.

“Fathe I reckon I ain't worthy to stand before you, all defiled by my sins”

In her back, she caught on whispers from other congregants who did not believe their eyes. How dared a woman like her set foot in such a sacred place?

“Just like David, Lord, I come to you, for I have no one else to turn to. Who else gonna understand this pain in my heart and not go judgin' me?” She carried on, her lips puckered and her heart burdened. “For my iniquities are gone over my head. Jesus, they are too heavy for me.” Snot mingled with her flowing tears, staining the pretty yellow dress she’d worn. “The man I love belongs to another woman. To covet such heart, I have committed grave offense.”

Look. Ain’t it Therese’s daughter? A middle-aged whispered.

Lord almighty, I heard the right woman of her lover is back. Another stumbled onto the first gossiper’s words.

Ain’t it a bit late for repentance, I heard she sold her body to him, that’s why…

Who knows, she’s acquaintance with that witch from Louisiana. Poor Jonas his two boys had been bewitched by wenches.

Luberta’s fingers trembled as she squeezed them even tighter.

“My great Lord. The spirit you gave us as you departed is willing but the flesh is weak. Clean me from any temptation and hold my heart, so it won’t succumb to the weight of separation.”

Eventually, the gossip mongers’ noises faded to background blurs.

Luberta stayed kneeled for hours. She sang hymn, prayed, lamented and cheered.

It was three and thirty of the afternoon when she rose up and left.

She sluggishly dragged her feet all the way to the market square near City Town Hall. There were many stores along these streets, but few of them she had access to.

One of the most beautiful was Coquette, a clothing boutique owned by Madame Marty — a personal friend of the Sheriff.

The storefront was so stunning that it caught the eye of every woman passing by. A rather frightening sign, however, deterred quite a few: WHITE ONLY. NO NEGROES.

Luberta kept walking, quickening up her pace. But just as she was about to pass it, the door swung open: two white women popped out, one of them a blonde with her hair neatly tied back, and the other…

The other…

“That dress will suit you wonderfully, Mary. Believe me, dear, Coquette is every bit as good as the boutiques in Chicago.”

Luberta’s heart twisted in her chest, knots tugged at her stomach as a bile crept up in the back of her throat.

The poor woman stood frozen, her eyes locked on the gracious brunette with the slender figure, whose hand was resting on her lips as she seemed to smile contentedly.

Her long, shimmering legs steadied her with every step.

Elias’ fair lady was back. Was her arrival, the answer God had provided to Bertie’s prayers?

As she stared deep at Mary, Luberta thought immediately of how dazzling, delicate and very refined that Northern woman was.

The way she held herself in public, had the devout wondering if she could ever had her head up just like this — having the confidence of a woman who knew her man would always choose her no matter the disturbances.

Their hearts longing for the same love should’ve made them close in a way but the gap was atrociously wide.

By Southern customs, white women's virtue was in no way less than Virgin Mary's. For white men, they were the keepers of their racial supremacy — their dove, far superior to the rutting animals that black women represented— by many compared to Jezebel.

And for men like Stack, women like Mary embodied both death and an overwhelming desire for lust and affection.

My eternal love…

A woman for whose eyes he would risk everything. A love so deep that her childhood friend was willing to pay with his blood.

“Calm down, Luberta,” she hushed to herself, then quietly backed away. “You agreed to be just a mistress anyway. Don’t cry. Even if he leaves today, you’ve experienced what your heart has always longed for…”

4:15 PM

“Mhm. Don’t you worry yerself none ‘bout dat pale thang, Bertie. If he loves ya, da man’ll stay put, rain or shine.”

“Betty, you hush now. What if somebody hears you?” Luberta clasped her palm on her friend’s mouth. “I’m happy that way. He fixed me up a mighty fine house, I get to eat three meals a day, and the water breeze is downright soothin' when I step out on the porch.”

Betty blew into the hollow of Luberta’s hand, and she released her grip.

The two of them continued strolling through the market, discussing the price of meat, vegetables, and fruits.

Once their baskets were filled, they parted ways at an intersection.

“Take care of yourself. And I can’t wait to see that house, hm…you’ll invite me over, ma chérie,” Betty waved goodbye, before kicking up dust behind her steps.

The road home cut through the swamp edge, and Luberta shifted the baskets against her hip with every step, the straps biting into her skin where sweat had already soaked clean through her yellow dress. Bullfrogs called out from the reeds, and a heron lifted off the water somewhere behind her, wings slapping against the still air before it disappeared past the tree line.

She turned onto the trail leading up to the house and spotted the cypress trees standing guard along the water’s edge, their roots twisting up out of the mud. The magnolia — one she hadn’t seen the first time — by the porch had dropped another layer of blossoms overnight, and she stepped over them without much thought, her mind still tangled up in market gossip and Elias woman’s face outside Coquette.

Luberta climbed the porch steps and set her baskets down on the boards, pressing a hand into the small of her back to work out the ache that had settled there since morning.

She pushed through the front door, kicked it shut behind her with her heel, and carried the groceries straight into the kitchen.

She got the fire going under the stove, put the pot on it while she washed the pork. After seasoning the meat and slicing vegetables, she dropped the mix into it and add some herbs.

By the time she’d gotten the rice measured and set to boil, the whole house had filled up with smoke and grease. Luberta wiped her palms down the front of her apron, glancing anxiously toward the window where the sunlight had already started turning deep orange, announcing evening.

Elias…

She stepped out onto the porch and caught sight of the road : empty still, no car driving, nothing but the water moving slow and the grass shuffling.

She looked at far away, as if her sad gaze could summon him back there.

The rice steaming on the stove pulled her back to her task, and Luberta hurried over to check it.

Dinner was ready by eight.

She laid the table with the finest plates she could dig out of the cupboards, set out Stack’s favorite liquor right in the center, and two glasses she’d taken care to wash spotless.

By nine, she’d shed her day dress, scrubbed the dust and oil off her skin at the basin, styled her curls up with the pearls Betty had lent her, and slipped into a red velvet dress that hugged her curves.

Ten o’clock came and went, and Luberta was still sitting there, staring past the window, waiting for him to walk through the door.

Alas, the food had gone cold long ago, no matter how much she cursed at it.

She kept getting up, sitting back down, getting up again — finding one excuse after another for where he might be.

Maybe Smoke needed him longer than he’d planned.

Maybe work had just swallowed him whole.

Any excuse sounded better than the truth — the truth she’d run into at the market this afternoon: Mary was back, which meant Stack had no reason left to come around her anymore.

He was probably lost between his sweetheart’s hips right now, letting the promise he’d made Luberta shrink down to nothing, forgotten in some corner of his mind.

By eleven, she covered the dishes, peeled off the velvet dress, and climbed into bed.

Glory to God for the rain — falling hard and mean, it drowned out her sobs. So she cried herself to sleep, pillow soaked through and cold.

The soft perfume of lavender drifted into Stack’s sleep, coaxing him awake. He rolled his head to the right and found a woman’s naked body tangled against his own.

Brown hair spilled glossy across the pillow, her skin pale as porcelain except where the night’s pleasures had left it flushed — the inside of her thighs, her nipples and her cheeks.

“Mary?” His voice came out rough, sleep still clinging to him. “MARY?”

He shot up out of bed, ass out, his neck covered in hickeys and love marks — then, looked at his watch : 12:00PM

“Fuck. Shit.” He gritted through his teeth.

Thanks God none of his rambling woke the brunette up.

He grabbed his pants, threw on a white top, and was practically sprinting to the car before he’d even zipped up.

“Shit, shit, shit.” He floored it, cutting through blocks and neighborhoods, racing to the bayou.

He barely locked the car once he got there — just took off through the overgrown grass, struggled with the stuck door lock for a second too long, and stumbled into the main room.

“Bertie…” He murmured guilty, as soon as his eyes fell on the dinner table and the dishes.

He walked over, skimming his fingers over the wooden surface, hovering over the cold pork and greens.

Stack’s meal portion looked bigger, the candle wax had melted down, and the bottle of liquor was still neatly sealed.

He slumped into the chair and began to eat. He wasn’t hungry. He had lost his appetite, leaving guilt and bitterness only.

He clenched his jaw, chewing on the meat, mashing the greens.

It was delicious, he could only imagine how tasty it had been freshly out the pot.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry…”

Stack scraped both plates — his and hers — clean, fork clicking against porcelain, and pushed back from the table. He carried them to the sink and washed each one.

Further the hall giving to the bedroom one window slammed hard against the wall — the winds were something terrible tonight.

He strode up there and closed it — without meeting her resting face.

Long minutes blurred into one another before he gathered the courage to turned around and looked at her.

“You are really a chef mama. The meal was delicious.”

He crouched before her and started removing the pearls twisted in her coils.

She’d made herself pretty for him, tonight but deep down he knew he didn’t deserve it.

He was so drunk he couldn’t recall taking Mary to bed, and that bomb she’d thrown with Dimitri…what if they find out she’d killed her husband for her black lover?

Would Luberta be safe?

Would Annie and her unborn child be safe?

Would his brother ever forgive him if he died for a reason so dumb as fucking a woman’s he always told him to separate from?

“I never wanted you to get involved in all this mess. I’m so sorry.” He gently stroked her head.

“Do you love her that much? Are you going back to her Eli?”